In the Shadow of the Bear

by David Randall

  I thank you for your gift, said Mallow. Don’t worry, Demoiselle. It will be safe with me. He chuckled. Now for my side of the bargain. I will play some music to call away Ursus’ dogs. Farewell, Demoiselle.

  Clovermead heard a distant horn sound. It rang with the roar of bears, the clash of swords, and the clatter of marching skeletons. The bear-priest paused, only ten yards away. He lifted his head, then turned his horse around and galloped toward the distant hornsman. Elsewhere on the Heath, Clovermead saw more bear-priests abandon their patrol.

  “Praise Our Lady,” whispered Saraband. Feverishly she made the crescent sign over and over again. “Bless her and thank her. I was sure we were doomed.”

  “She had nothing to do with it,” whispered Clovermead. She felt at her chest. It was still cool, and her heart beat strangely slow. “Let’s go,” she said more loudly to Saraband. “Don’t waste the opportunity.” It was dearly bought, she thought. She wanted to cry, but only a single tear came from her eyes. It was sticky with dust.

  As the bear-priests galloped away, Clovermead and Saraband crawled forward through the Heath.

  Chapter Nine

  Among Bears

  At dawn Clovermead and Saraband found themselves between two fallow fields. Behind them herds of cattle munched on the Heath. To the north little mountain streams ran into a broad, black lake, where boats creaked on the surface and fishermen cast their nets deep into its waters. The nearby foothills were dense with trees, but here on the plains there was only the odd shade tree over a farmhouse or a gnarled old oak overhanging a stream. Sturdy wooden frame farmhouses dotted the landscape.

  “I don’t care if we’re safe yet or not,” said Saraband. She collapsed onto the ground. “I want to sleep.”

  “I guess we can,” said Clovermead. A cowherd lassoed a wandering calf and dragged him back to his mother. An otter stalked a fishing boat, hoping to seize a sturgeon from its timbers. A chaffinch cheeped from a nearby meadow. There were no bear-priests in sight, and the world was astonishingly, marvelously normal.

  Her heart was still light. Her chest was still cool. She gulped for breath, but she wasn’t short of air. Blood and dust mixed in her chest, and the joy she felt to see the Heath clear of bear-priests was thin and desiccated. She looked numbly at the world.

  I didn’t let Saraband die, Clovermead told herself. She’ll be around to annoy me for a good long time. That’s what matters. She flung herself down by Saraband’s side and fell asleep.

  They woke toward noon with the sun beating down on them. “Now I am starving,” said Saraband. She stood up and stretched her limbs, then sighed as she looked at her muddy, ragged clothes. “At least we can walk upright today.”

  “See, you should wear trousers all the time,” said Clovermead. “They’re comfortable. They’re useful. They don’t get in the way when you crawl through muck.”

  “Silly me, I didn’t expect I would spend much of my life crawling.” Saraband picked her trousers from her skin. “I’ll grant you useful, but not comfortable. The mud’s glued the cloth to my legs.”

  Clovermead pulled her own trousers from her legs and groaned. “You’re right. I feel like I’m walking in bricks. Let’s go—the sooner we get to Silverfalls, the sooner we can get new clothes to wear.”

  The blazing sun warmed most of the chill out of Clovermead’s bones as they walked westward between the farms. Her wounds were nearly healed and only twinged occasionally. She began to feel cheerful as the fields grew thicker, the grassland of the Heath fell behind them, and the farmhouses clustered closer together. They found a country lane and started to walk along its packed hard earth. Saraband’s clothes had become tattered, but her posture was elegant as she walked along the path, and she still looked beautiful beneath her grime.

  “Tell me, Saraband,” said Clovermead, mopping sweat from her forehead, “did you ever have a crooked tooth?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Saraband felt at her mouth. “No, I don’t believe I have. Why do you ask?”

  “Just wondering,” said Clovermead. Her own missing tooth ached in her. “Do you know that you still look just perfect? Your face is covered in mud, but you haven’t gotten a scratch. I’m sweating so much that I’m breaking out in pimples, but you look like you’ve never gotten hot in your life. How do you do it?”

  “Magic,” said Saraband solemnly. “I sacrifice toads at midnight. It’s excellent for the complexion.” Clovermead gaped at her, and she laughed, high and silvery. “Don’t believe everything you hear. What can I tell you, Clovermead? Our Lady gave me straight teeth, and she has preserved me from pimples so far. I suspect I spend more time in front of the mirror than you. Do you spend any at all?”

  Clovermead looked at her scarred reflection in the mirror. She lashed out with enormous paws, and the mirror shattered.

  “Not so much,” said Clovermead. “But what’s the point? I could spend all day and I’d still be a sight. You look all perfect in ten minutes.”

  “Thank you for the compliment,” said Saraband drily. “I won’t let it go to my head.” She glanced at Clovermead. “I didn’t think you cared about such things.”

  “I don’t,” said Clovermead. “Most of the time, anyway. But—” She hesitated, trying to think how best to put it. “People look at you all the time, and they don’t look at me at all. It must be nice to have people paying attention to you.”

  “By ‘people’ I take it you mean ‘young men.’ Lords and cadets and other easily impressionable sorts. Yes, it is nice. I try not to let their attentions turn my head, but I am flattered when they ask me to dance, or give me flowers, or, well, any of a thousand small courtesies. It’s exciting and it makes my heart beat faster. I like it very much.” Saraband smiled at Clovermead. “I like to flirt, too. It’s fun to look coyly at a young lord or drop a handkerchief in front of him and see his knees go wobbly. I try not to be cruel or to lead anyone on, but I do enjoy making them admire me.”

  “And you enjoy making other girls jealous of you?” Clovermead couldn’t keep all the bitterness out of her voice. Saraband’s words churned icy dust in her heart and sent it racing through her blood.

  Saraband raised an eyebrow. “Of course. Their jealousy compliments me as much as the young men’s flattery. And it’s not as if they object to the way I behave. They just wish they could allure as well themselves.” She paused a moment. “I won’t complain too much—I’m happier with straight teeth and a clear complexion. Still, I wish I knew which young men would be courteous to me if my teeth were crooked and my forehead full of pimples. It’s difficult to tell which compliments I should take to heart.”

  “Don’t you worry,” said Clovermead. “They’re all genuine.”

  “I wish they were,” said Saraband. “Take your friend Sorrel, for example.” Clovermead’s heart stumbled. “I like his sense of humor. I like the way he dances. I like the way he compliments me—he’s polite and teasing and, oh!, very flattering, all at once. There isn’t a lord in Chandlefort with a prettier way about him. But how can I tell which compliments are for my face and which are for me?” She laughed lightly. “There’s a certain hypocrisy in my worries. I scarcely know what Sorrel’s like, and I wouldn’t care for him nearly so much if he weren’t so handsome himself. When I see him again—” A shadow crossed her face. “If I see him again, my heart will leap up to see his face, though he is still a stranger to me.”

  I could tell you about him, thought Clovermead, but somehow she couldn’t say that out loud. She wasn’t that generous. “I still wish I had your troubles.”

  “I said I didn’t intend to complain overmuch.” Saraband smiled wryly. “All in all, I am happy to have my problems. They are very ordinary, and I’m told most young ladies solve them in the fullness of time.”

  “I’m sure you will,” whispered Clovermead. You should hear the way Sorrel talks about you, she thought. The two of you make a proper pair of lovebirds. I can see the two of you are falling in love already. The though
t sent more dust raging through her veins, to her arms and legs, behind her temples—

  “Silverfalls drops four hundred feet to a pool by the Abbey,” said Clovermead, but she wasn’t Clovermead, she was someone else. She rode alongside a young man with honey-blond hair and a wispy mustache among a troop of Yellowjackets in the fields outside Chandlefort. The day was cold and the fields were brown. In the distance a few thickly clad farmers had begun to sow the spring corn. “It’s three days’ ride south of Kite Hall—two if you don’t rest. It’s magnificent.”

  “I hope I get the chance to visit it, Lord Kite,” said the young man to Clovermead, and now Clovermead could feel stubble on her chin and powerful, rangy muscles in her arms and legs. She was Mallow Kite! The young man’s eyes flashed. “There’s so much of the world to see! I want to go to Queensmart and Snowchapel, to the Western Ocean and the Tansy Steppes. Can you speak to Milady about it? She sends messengers everywhere—surely I can be one of them?”

  “I’ll see what I can do, um, what’s your name again, Trooper?”

  “Ambrosius Beechsplitter, My Lord,” said the young man.

  “I know that name,” said Mallow. He snapped his fingers. “Ah! I remember. Melisande mentioned you. Didn’t you win the hurdles race last week?”

  “I had that honor, My Lord,” said Ambrosius. Then he smiled. “Does Milady really know my name?”

  There was something in the way he said “Milady” and smiled that made Mallow’s heart seethe. Impudent coxcomb, he thought, but he tried to keep the frown off his face. “She does indeed, Trooper. Melisande always recognizes talent. So you want to be a messenger? I’ll give you a good word.” He kicked his horse and rode ahead, but his blood still boiled. I’ll have her send you to the Jaifal Archipelago, he thought angrily. How dare you smile that way at her?—

  Clovermead was walking on the country lane as herself again. She had traveled a few-score yards, and Saraband was looking worriedly at Clovermead and talking to her, but Clovermead couldn’t hear the words she said. Cold dust swirled behind her eyes, her heart was pounding, and her hand was on her sword hilt.

  “Are you all right, Cousin?” asked Saraband. Now her words came through to Clovermead faintly, as if through cotton padding. “You look pale. Are your wounds worse?”

  “I had a daydream,” Clovermead began, but then she couldn’t say another word. She looked at Saraband, and she was choking on bile. It flooded through her strong and pure, and flowed silkily smooth on a bed of dust. All the dislike she had ever felt for Saraband was back and more violent than ever. How dare you smile at Sorrel that way? Clovermead asked angrily. Her hand tightened on her hilt.

  She jerked her fingers away and made them fall by her side. That’s not me, she told herself. That was how Mallow felt toward Ambrosius. That was just the dream. She looked away from Saraband, so as to let the bile drain from her. “I had a nightmare,” she said thickly to Saraband, and it was on the tip of her tongue to tell what she had seen.

  How can she help you? Mallow whispered. No sickness ails you, Demoiselle.

  What are you doing inside my head, Mallow? Clovermead asked in panic. Why am I seeing your past? I didn’t trade my heart for your eyes.

  My memories are graven in my heart, said Mallow. My dust bears their imprint and sends them coursing through me. Now they flow through you, too. Love, and you rouse my memories of love. Hate, and you rouse my memories of hate. He laughed bitterly. Despair as you watch others fall in love, and you must see your parents through my eyes.

  Get out of my head! thought Clovermead angrily. I didn’t agree to this.

  Have pity on me, Demoiselle, said Mallow. Take my memories from me a minute longer. It’s been so long since I’ve been free of them.

  I don’t care, said Clovermead. Take them away.

  Our hearts beat as one, said Mallow. I cannot. I will not. Then he said softly, his voice fading into darkness, What can your cousin say to comfort you? She doesn’t know how you feel.

  Clovermead was alone in her mind again.

  “Cousin?” asked Saraband anxiously. “Are you dreaming again?”

  You don’t care, thought Clovermead. The sun beat down. Clovermead was sweaty, but she was cold. She looked at Saraband’s raven hair, and she saw a shadow of Ambrosius’ honey-blond locks. You like making other girls jealous, and Sorrel smiled when he said your name, and I’m on the outside, like Mallow. Just like him.

  “I’m awfully tired,” said Clovermead. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Saraband. Clovermead nodded. Saraband looked at her intently another moment, then reluctantly turned away. They walked on in silence now. Every so often Saraband gave Clovermead another worried look.

  Clovermead brought her hand up to her heart. It beat cold and slow. Her fingers grew chill, and she let them fall.

  The sun rose high into the sky, then began to descend. They passed an orchard with ripe plums hanging over the path, and they plucked a handful apiece for lunch. In the sweltering afternoon, as they walked between two broad hayfields, Clovermead heard a long, low whistle from her right. At first she thought it was a bird, but then it repeated, longer and more urgently. Then she heard what sounded very much like “Clovermead! Saraband!” She turned to see who was calling them.

  At first she thought it was a lumpy haystack. Then it was a lumpy haystack surrounded by fur carpets. Then one of the fur carpets yawned and Clovermead saw that the hayfield was full of bears. Fifty of them lay scattered through the field. At the top of the haystack, surrounded by sleepily curious bears, stood Sorrel and Brown Barley. Both of them looked as if they would very much like wings, so they could fly away without further fuss. Brown Barley didn’t let his nerves get in the way of his nibbling hay.

  Clovermead’s heart leaped with joy to see Sorrel alive, the ice in her receded, and helplessly she started laughing. Saraband let loose a not very ladylike giggle. Sorrel turned red and glared at them indignantly. “It is not so funny when you wake up to find yourself made a prisoner by a whole flock of bears. Herd of bears. Gaggle of bears—whatever you call them!” The bear nearest him stretched his paw toward the haystack, and Sorrel and Brown Barley edged away from him. “Clovermead, would you please ask them to let me out of here?”

  “Certainly, oh doughty warrior,” said Clovermead. She left Saraband at the roadside and strode up to the bear nearest the haystack—and she recognized him! His lean, black face and sleek fur were just as he had pictured them the day before. He really was a remarkably handsome bear.

  I told you so, said the bear, sleepily and comfortably.

  Brookwade! exclaimed Clovermead. What are you doing here?

  Resting. Brookwade yawned wide, and Brown Barley retreated another inch. Mallow will call us again in the evening, but for now we are free of him.

  I’m glad to meet you in person, said Clovermead. She looked at all the bears and her heart leaped. I’ve been wanting to spend time with bears for months now. Tell me—no, wait, would you first let my friend go? She pointed at Sorrel. You’re giving him an awful scare.

  The nervous little snack? Brookwade yipped at Sorrel and chuffed with laughter as the Tansyard flinched. It’s been so much fun growling at him. Are you sure?

  Please, said Clovermead.

  Brookwade got to his feet. He took a step away from the haystack—then stopped. He grinned at Clovermead. Will you fight for him, changeling? He stretched and his claws extended a good two inches from his body.

  “You’re in demand, Sorrel,” said Clovermead. “Don’t come down just yet.” She shifted into bear shape and extended her own claws. Certainly, she said. To the death, she added defiantly.

  Oh, he’s not worth that, said Brookwade, laughing. I just meant a friendly bout. He roared to the surrounding bears, Come and watch! The changeling’s come among us, and she’ll brawl for the two-legs on the haystack. Let’s see how well she can fight!

  Hush up, youngling, said one old she-bear
at the far end of the field. I’m napping. She flopped over onto her side and put a paw over her ears.

  Nip his ears, changeling, said a small brown bear nearby, who blinked, sat up, and looked at the two of them expectantly. Brookwade’s mouthy, and he ate all the fresh plums on the ground of that orchard this morning. All he left us were the rotten ones. He sounded very much the sniffy gourmet and startlingly like Waxmelt. For a moment Clovermead thought she was back home in Timothy Vale, listening to her father on market day as he complained about the second-rate garden greens the Valemen tried to fob off on him.

  Give her a hiding, Brookwade, said another black bear, with white fur around her eyes that looked like spectacles. I was dreaming that I was in the land of the Stingless Bees and gorging on honey when she woke me with her chatter. Whale her! There were more encouragements to both of them from different bears, and in a minute some twenty bears had formed a circle around the two of them. Another score, mostly older bears, continued to nap and grumble at the far end of the hayfield.

  I’m ready, said Clovermead. She stalked toward Brookwade and smiled as she walked among the other bears. She was alert, but somehow relaxed at the same time. It was nice to be just one bear among many. I love their different scents, she thought to herself. I can tell every one of them apart! Why, I can even tell what makes my own scent Clovermead and not just bear-scent.

  Brookwade yawned again—and leaped! His claws were mostly drawn in, and he hammered Clovermead’s back with paws to bruise and scratch her, but not really to hurt her. Clovermead smacked at him with her own paws and bit his ears just hard enough to make him yelp. Then they were batting, biting, and tumbling head over heels in the hay. Saraband gasped with fear by the roadside, Sorrel’s hand was on his sword hilt, but Clovermead snorted with laughter as they whirled around and got wonderfully dizzy. Her ribs mewled at her a little bit, but they scarcely slowed her down at all. Her head was spinning, she was all in a muddle, and she didn’t want to stop.