When Ysabet broke through the willow brush, her breath caught in her throat.
Before her lay a circular basin twenty feet across, filled with pale gray mineral mud that steamed faintly under the driving sleet. Around the edges, mats of bright green marsh-feather grew over the liquid silt, mimicking firm pasture so closely that Rethi’s boot tracks led straight out across the false crust before vanishing into a churned black hole.
Three paces out from the bank, a crooked hummock of drowned willow roots jutted six inches above the gray slime. Rethi was clinging to the wet roots on his knees, his brown coat plastered to his ribs and his face smeared with gray mud. Immediately beside the root island, the yearling deer was sinking in the mimic pool. Only the animal’s head, neck, and thrashing forelegs remained above the bubbling silt; every time it kicked, the suction dragged its hindquarters deeper into the warm, acidic clay.
“Hold still, Sorrel!” Rethi sobbed, trying to keep both hands twisted in the deer’s wet leather halter while the frantic animal’s hooves slashed inches from his chest. “Don’t kick! Please don’t kick!”
The wet willow root beneath the boy’s left knee cracked under the strain.
