Stunning the entire Bluefield clan to silence at that time, too, as Fawn vividly recalled—now that had been magic.

Dag, beaming, shot Mama a look of gratitude. “Yes, ma’am. Exactly! Well, it wasn’t the whistling that—well, close enough. That was probably the best groundwork I’d ever done.”

Second best, now, thought Fawn, remembering Raintree. But Raintree had come later, and cost more: very nearly Dag’s life. Did they understand that this wasn’t trivial trickery?

“Lakewalkers like to think that only we have groundsense, but I’ve met a lot of farmers with a trace. Sometimes more than a trace. Nattie’s one.” Dag nodded across the table at Nattie, who grinned in his general direction, though her pearl-colored eyes could not see him. Fletch and Clover and Whit looked startled; Mama, less so. “I don’t know if her blindness sharpened it, or what. But with Nattie’s helping, Fawn and I wove our grounds into our wedding cords as sound as any Lakewalker’s.”

He left out the alarming part about the blood, Fawn noted. He was picking his way through the truth as cautiously as a blindfolded man crossing a floor studded with knives.

Dag went on, “So when we got up to camp, every Lakewalker there could see that they were valid cords. Which threw everyone into a puzzle. Folks had been relying on the cord-weaving to make Lakewalker marriages to farmers impossible, d’you see. To keep bloodlines pure and our groundsense strong. They were still arguin’ about what it meant when we left.”

Papa had been staring at Nattie, but this last drew his frown back to Dag. “Then did your people throw you out for marrying Fawn, patroller?”

“Not exactly, sir.”

“So…what? Exactly?”

Dag hesitated. “I hardly know where to start.” A longer pause. “What all have you folks here in Oleana heard about the malice that emerged over in Raintree?”

Papa said, “There was supposed to have been a blight bogle pop up somewheres north of Farmer’s Flats, that killed a lot of folks, or drove them mad.”

Whit put in, “Or that it was a nerve-ague or brain-worms, that made folks there run around attacking one another. It’s bog country up that way, they say, bad for strange fevers.”

Fletch added, “Down at Millerson’s alehouse, I heard someone say it was an excuse got up by the Lakewalkers to drive farmers back south out of their hunting country. That there never was any blight bogle, and it wasn’t bogle-maddened farmers attacking Lakewalkers, but the other way around.”

Dag squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his mouth. “No,” he said into his hand, and lowered it.

Clover sat back with a sort of flounce; she didn’t voice it, but her face said it for her: Well, you’d naturally say that, wouldn’t you? Mama and Nattie said nothing, but they seemed to be listening hard.

Dag said, “There was a real malice. We first heard about it when the Raintree Lakewalkers, who were being overwhelmed, sent a courier to Hickory Lake Camp for help. My company was dispatched. We circled, managed to come up on the malice from behind while it was driving its mind-slaves and mud-men south to attack Farmer’s Flats. One of my patrol got a sharing knife into it—killed it. I saw it”—he held out his left arm—“that close. It was very advanced, very, um…advanced.” He paused, glanced around, and tried, “Strong, smart. Almost human-looking.”

Leaving out how the malice had nearly slain him, or that he’d been captain of that company and source of its successful plan…Fawn bit her lip in impatience.

“Here’s the thing, the important thing. No…back up a step, Dag.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry. There’s too much all at once, and I’m explaining this all backwards, I’m sorry. Try this. Malices have groundsense too, only very much stronger than any human’s. They’re made of ground. They consume ground, to live, to make their—their magery, their mud-men, their own bodies, everything they do. They’re quite mad, in their way.” His face looked suddenly drawn in some memory Fawn did not share and could not guess at. “But that’s what blight is. It’s where some emergent malice has drawn all the ground out of the world, leaving, well, blight. It’s very distinctive.”

“Well, what does it look like?” asked Whit reasonably.

“It doesn’t look like anything else,” said Dag, which netted him some pretty dry looks from around the table.

Fawn pitched in: “It’s not like burnt fields, or rust, or rot, or a killing frost, though it reminds you of all those things. It has a funny gray tinge, like all the color has been sucked out of things. First things die, if they’re alive, and then they fall apart at the seams, and then they dissolve all through. Once you’ve seen that drained-out gray, you can’t ever mistake it. It looks even worse to someone with groundsense, I gather.”

“Yes,” said Dag gratefully.

Mama said faintly, “You’ve seen it, then, Fawn?”

“Yes, twice. Once at that malice’s lair near Glassforge, when Dag and I first met, and once in Raintree. I rode over, after. Dag was hurt on his patrol, which part he didn’t tell you, I notice.” She glowered at him in reproof. “He’d still be on sick leave if we were back at Hickory Lake.”

“You got to go to Raintree?” said Whit, sounding indignantly envious.

Fawn tossed her head. “I saw all that country the malice had torn through. I saw where it got started.” She glanced back to Dag, to check if he was ready to go on.

He nodded at her and picked up his tangled thread again. “Here’s the thing. For the past twenty or thirty years, farmers have been breaking land in Raintree north of the old cleared line—that is, north of where the local Lakewalkers had deemed it safe. Or less unsafe, leastways. Lakewalker patrol records show malice emergences get thicker—more frequent—north toward the Dead Lake, see, and thinner south and away. South of the Grace River, they’re very rare. Although unfortunately not all gone, so we can’t stop patrolling those regions. It was at a north Raintree squatter town named Greenspring that this latest malice emerged. Practically under it.”

Fawn nodded. “It hatched out down in a ravine in the town woodlot, by the signs.”

Dag went on, “See, there was a lot of bad blood between the local Lakewalkers and the Greenspring settlers, on account of the arguments about the old cleared line. So when the malice started, none of the squatters knew how to recognize the early signs, or to pick up and run, or how or where to ride for help. Or they’d been told but didn’t believe. Not that they wouldn’t have needed to be lucky as well, because by the time a farmer can see the blight near a lair, there’s a good chance he’s just about to be ground-ripped or mind-slaved anyway. Like stumbling into a spider web. But with that many folks, if they’d all known, someone might have got out to spread the warning. Instead, the malice pretty much ate them. And grew strong way too fast. I think that a whole lot more people died in north Raintree than needed to this summer just because Lakewalkers and farmers weren’t talking to each other.”

“I hadn’t ever seen a mass grave before,” said Fawn quietly. “I don’t ever want to again.”

Papa gave her a sharp glance from under his gray brows. “I did, once, long time ago,” he said unexpectedly. “It was after a flood.”

Fawn looked at him in surprise. “I never knew that.”

“I never talked about it.”

“Hm,” said Aunt Nattie.

Papa sat back and looked at Dag. “Your people aren’t exactly forthcomin’ about these things, you know. In Raintree or Oleana.”

“I know.” Dag ducked his head. “Back when there were few farmers north of the Grace, it scarcely mattered. To the Lakewalkers in the hinterlands north of the Dead Lake—I’ve walked up that way, twice—there’s still no need to do anything differently, because there are no farmers there. Where it matters is in the border country, where things are changing out from under us—like Greenspring. And like West Blue.” He glanced around the table. The food on his plate had all gone cold, Fawn noticed.