In the Shadow of the Bear

by David Randall

  Then Brookwade pulled at her tail with his teeth, and Clovermead jumped straight in the air with shock and outrage. That hurt! she cried out, and she flailed at Brookwade as she fell back to earth. Her stinging tail gave her real fury, and she was battering at him, growling and smacking, until he fell to the ground laughing and whining.

  Mercy, changeling! said Brookwade. He flailed his back legs in the air and put his forelegs over his eyes. I’ll never bite your tail again. You can have your snack and welcome to him!

  Stop calling him a snack! said Clovermead indignantly. He’s my friend!

  More of a light lunch, said an old he-bear with a torn ear and worn claws. Brookwade’s always so hungry! He’d eat a cow and call it an appetizer. You’ll get fat and start to waddle, boy. Fruits, nuts, grass, and the occasional fish are the proper diet for a self-respecting bear. Humans give you indigestion. It’s the clothes and the buttons.

  Do you really eat humans? Clovermead asked, horrified.

  Brookwade struggled out from underneath her paw, righted himself, and licked his fur. Not usually, he said. Sometimes we maul them a bit, sometimes we even kill them—but we don’t eat them unless we’re ravenous. He paused a moment. In our right minds. Ursus makes us do many things. He shivered. Never mind that, he said briskly. Time to let the snack go. Brookwade growled out a command, and he and his companions moved away from the haystack.

  Very cautiously Sorrel and Brown Barley descended from the haystack. Brown Barley took a last nibble of hay as they came to solid ground. “Thank you, Clovermead,” said Sorrel. “I will be sure to return the favor if ever you are surrounded by a herd of hungry mustangs. Your friends won’t leap at me if I head toward the road?” Clovermead shook her head. “Then I will be off!” He looked around at the bears dotting the field, gulped, and led Brown Barley as quickly as possible toward the edge of the field, where Saraband stood.

  Saraband smiled like a sunrise to see Sorrel safe, and his eyes reflected her joy. Unregarded, Clovermead struggled to contain a choking spasm of dust.

  She turned back to Brookwade. Thank you, said Clovermead. I’m grateful.

  Brookwade shrugged. It was nothing, Haybrawler.

  Clovermead! said Clovermead.

  Haybrawler Clovermead, said Brookwade affably. He grinned at her. It was a pleasant bout. We should do it again sometime. He sauntered toward her and rubbed noses. Clovermead drew back a second, then rubbed noses back. It was wonderful to have bear-touch and bear-scent all around her. She felt warm through and through.

  Can I talk with you a bit more? Clovermead asked wistfully. You’re the first bears I’ve had a chance to spend time with since I found out that I could change shape. I’d like to learn what it’s like to be a proper bear. I can’t do that by myself.

  Of course you can stay with us, said the small brown bear. And, really, you should. You’re dreadfully ignorant of etiquette. When you were fighting Brookwade just now, you leaped and snarled, when really you should have snarled and leaped. It’s these small courtesies that distinguish a well-bred bear. Now he sounded like Waxmelt had when he fussed around Ladyrest Inn, dusting furniture. As for the way you groom your fur—

  Not now! said Brookwade. The small bear whined, dropped his eyes, and shuffled away from Clovermead. Brookwade looked toward the lowering sun, and there was sudden, awful sadness in his eyes. He turned back to Clovermead. Not ever. We cannot teach you how to be a proper bear, for we are not proper bears any longer. The dead man has us in his power. This interlude is a dream of freedom, nothing more, and we will wake up soon enough. You do not want to be with us then. Clovermead began to protest, and he growled in sudden anger and despair. The day will be over soon. Go while we’re still ourselves. I’d rather you remembered us as we are now.

  All right, said Clovermead. She rubbed his nose once more, with all the gentleness and affection and regret that she could give him. I wish—

  What can’t be helped must be endured, Brookwade said quickly. Go. He dropped to his side and yawned. I’m glad you had the chance to find out just how remarkably handsome I really am. He winked at Clovermead, then closed his eyes and began to snore. Around him the pack of bears were all yawning, settling into the hay, and dropping off to sleep.

  I had a lot of fun, too, said Clovermead, and she turned human. “Blast Ursus!” she said to herself as she retraced her steps to the roadside where Sorrel and Saraband were waiting. “And blast Mallow Kite, too! How can he be so cruel?” Her heart had warmed as she fought with Brookwade, but now its heat began to fade. She was cold and sluggish, and she was starting to feel bruised exhaustion from her bout.

  The three of them tiptoed several hundred yards farther down the country lane, out of sight of the bears, and then Clovermead flopped down under a pear tree by the side of the road. “Can we sit for a while?” she asked. “I’ve had a good hard fight just now and I’m tired.”

  “Hurt?” asked Saraband.

  “Just winded,” said Clovermead. She touched the scars over her wounds. The scabs were still whole, though now they did feel more tender. “Maybe a little strained.” She also felt an ache in what had been her tail, but she didn’t think she’d mention that while Sorrel was around.

  “I feel a certain amount of strain myself,” said Sorrel. He stayed on his feet and looked nervously back toward the hayfield. “Clovermead, what exactly did they intend? Sometimes I thought they were being playful. Other times—” He shivered. “It was very difficult to tell.”

  “Mostly playing, little snack,” said Clovermead.

  Sorrel turned red. “I am not a snack! And please don’t start calling me one. It is undignified.”

  “One of the other bears called you a light lunch,” said Clovermead, and Saraband snickered. “Never mind that. You’re alive!” She wanted to seize him and hug him—but that might give Saraband an excuse to hug him too. Jealousy conquered joy and she kept herself still. “How did you get away from the bear-priests? Did anybody else survive?”

  “I think I saw three Yellowjackets ride for Chandlefort,” said Sorrel. “I could not look closely. First I fought one bear-priest, and then when I had thrown him off his horse, I had to flee two others. They chased me for miles before I could outrun them. The next morning there was so much rain that I could not find my way back to the shanty. Instead I rode toward Silverfalls Abbey, thinking to alert the Abbess and bring out her soldiers to find you, to liberate you, to avenge you at the worst. Yesterday I saw bear-priests on the Heath and I could not ride very far, for fear of alerting them to my presence. When I woke this morning, I found that this pack of bears had surrounded me in the night. I could not find a tree, so I went up the haystack with Brown Barley instead. Once I was up, the bears would not let me down. So I stayed there all day, until you came walking along. But how did you get free? Or rather, how did the Lady Saraband survive? I know Clovermead is irrepressible, indestructible, and dangerous to her foes—but, Lady, you are no fighter like Clovermead. I do not know how to express my joy that you are alive.”

  “I feared you were dead too, Cadet,” said Saraband quietly. “I am very happy to see you well.” She blushed a little, then hurried on. Clovermead felt a little colder and turned to stare at the grass. “The Demoiselle saved my life,” Saraband continued. She recounted quickly what had happened that night and since then.

  “And here you are!” said Sorrel. “Clovermead, you do not cease to amaze.”

  Clovermead shrugged uncomfortably. “It wasn’t much.” Just a third of my heart, she thought. Then she sat bolt upright. “If those Yellowjackets make it back to Chandlefort, Milady will think we’re dead!”

  “Yellowjackets are trained to say precisely what they saw and no more,” said Sorrel. “They will say we were attacked, but they will not say they saw us die. Perhaps one even saw you escape.” He sighed. “But, yes, she will fear the worst. We must hurry to bring you safe to Silverfalls, so a messenger may be sent to prevent such misconceptions from lingering. Are you re
ady to go, Clovermead? You do look pale.”

  Clovermead felt at her cool cheeks, then at the scab on her side. The ache there had dulled. “I’ll be all right,” she said as she got to her feet. Her heart beat lazily. “Let’s go.”

  And she froze. A line of bears had come into view. They trampled through the fields by the roadside. There was the old she-bear, there the bear with spectacle-pattern fur. The sun was setting, and golden streaks lit every furred back. They padded forth regularly, all in the same rhythm. Their steadiness was terrifying.

  Clovermead saw Brookwade in the middle of the line. He looked neither right nor left, and his tongue lolled out to pant every five seconds. Like clockwork.

  What’s wrong with you? Clovermead called out to him. What’s happened?

  Every single one of the bears paused for a moment. Their heads all turned to her in unison and they stared at her silently. Mallow summons us, she heard Brookwade say at last. We must go.

  Clovermead blinked and she could see the white net in the air again. It was a lasso made of bones that hummed with Mallow’s voice and played around every bear. Disobey him, Clovermead called out frantically. Slip his knots!

  No, Demoiselle, they roared in chorus, but it was Mallow’s dry whistle speaking through their throats. Then all fifty of the bears began to pad toward the Reliquaries. They left behind a hayfield pockmarked by the trampling impress of their enormous feet.

  I enjoyed the bout, Haybrawler, Clovermead heard Brookwade say in her mind. Then there was only the rattling of bones.

  “What was that, Demoiselle?” asked Saraband softly. “I’ve never seen bears act that way before.”

  “Mallow makes them march as his puppets,” said Clovermead. She felt her heart would break.

  “I find myself feeling pity for them,” said Sorrel. He grimaced. “They terrify me, and I do not like being called a snack by such overgrown rodents, but they do not deserve this horrible fate.”

  “They were so happy and alive!” said Clovermead. “I could tell what each of them was like.” She growled with indignation. “I wish I could—” But what could she do? I enjoyed our fight too, she called out to Brookwade. There was only the slightest growl in response beneath the clacking bones of Mallow’s net.

  Chapter Ten

  Song at the Abbey

  Sorrel brought out some biscuits from Brown Barley’s saddlebag and shared them with Clovermead and Saraband for a late lunch. Then Sorrel put Saraband onto Brown Barley and walked alongside Clovermead into Silverfalls Valley. The Reliquaries loomed over the Valley on three sides; it was planted solidly in vegetable gardens and fruit orchards beneath the forested slopes. From far away Clovermead could see a waterfall spill over a rocky scarp at the end of the Valley and down to a foaming pool. When she squinted, she could see beside the pool the stone walls of Silverfalls Abbey itself.

  Sorrel frowned as he walked. “I have not said yet how sorry I am that I abandoned you,” he said to Clovermead at last, in a low voice. “I said I would fight at your side against the dead man, but when the moment came to fight mere bear-priests, somehow I found a good reason to flee. I am ashamed.”

  “I don’t expect you to kill a dozen bear-priests before breakfast. You behaved sensibly, and I’m not blaming you for anything. Besides, Saraband and I fled too.”

  “I am a Yellowjacket cadet, Clovermead. I think Milady expected more swordplay from me when she gave me her livery.” Sorrel paused a moment. “Did I ever tell you why I decided to stop being a messenger for Lady Cindertallow and instead to enlist as a cadet in her Yellowjackets?”

  “I thought it was because you liked the uniform.”

  “That, too.” Sorrel smiled a little, but then his smile faded. “You know that I killed a bear-priest during the battle outside Chandlefort last winter?”

  “I was unconscious by then,” said Clovermead. “You’ve never said much about what you did the rest of that day.”

  “He is the only person I have ever killed. I raised my sword against him, and all my sorrow for my dead family was in my blow. So too was my shame for my cowardice when I ran from the bear-priests’ assault upon my Horde. When I killed him, I thought to myself, I am a grown warrior at last. I am blooded and revenged. Then I knelt in the snow and I began to cry. When dusk came, and Yellowjackets began to comb the ground to gather up the wounded and the dead, I asked myself, Well, Sorrel, what will you do now?

  “I looked at the spires of Chandlefort and I thought, I wish to have a home again, to have comrades who will search for me when I am wounded, and to live for something more than bloody memories. I looked at the Yellowjackets weeping as they recognized their dead comrades, as Tansyards would, and I said to myself, I want to be more than just a foreign messenger riding in Milady’s service. I want to be a Chandleforter myself. Their lords are arrogant and cruel, and lords and servants alike can be callous and selfish in their worst moments, but Lady knows they are still as kindhearted a people as I have seen in my travels. I wish to be one of them and not only to serve them from convenience.

  “I felt my tattoos, and I remembered that there is not much trust for horse-thieving Tansyards among townsmen and farmers. First I thought, I will scrape off my tattoos to prove my love of Chandlefort. But then my love for my family and my Horde revolted in me, and I thought, That will make me a traitor to the people who bore me. I will become a Chandleforter, but I will not give up being a Tansyard. I must earn their trust another way. I must do good service for them. So I stood up and went to help the Yellowjackets bury their dead. The next day I enlisted in the cadets. I told myself as I put on my uniform that it was an oath in the eyes of Our Lady that I would not flee again when danger threatened.” He picked disconsolately at his yellow sleeves. “But still I run. I left behind a friend, which is bad enough, but also I left behind Chandlefort’s Demoiselle, which I think is dereliction of duty. I have not made a promising start of my new life.”

  “You should talk with Father. He was just terrified the servants wouldn’t make good soldiers when we left Chandlefort, he was all gloomy and biting his nails, and the two of you would make good company for each other. You’d listen to each other, you’d say, ‘It can’t be as bad as all that,’ and then you’d realize you were both right.” Clovermead paused a moment. “I think I’d have run away from Chandlefort if you weren’t here, Sorrel. I love Milady and Father, but I’ve needed a friend. You don’t need to prove yourself to me or be a hero or anything. You were here when I was lonely, and that’s more than enough.”

  “Thank you, Clovermead.” Sorrel’s voice was thick with emotion, and he took her hand and squeezed it tightly in his. “I have never had a kinder friend.”

  “Must you fight, Cadet?” asked Saraband. Startled, Sorrel and Clovermead turned to her. Sorrel abruptly let go of Clovermead’s hand, and she could scarcely keep from crying out loud. “Forgive me,” said Saraband, pinking slightly. “I couldn’t help but overhear you. Cadet, there are more ways to serve Chandlefort than by fighting.”

  “What other skills do I have to offer, Lady?” asked Sorrel. He fell back by Saraband’s side, forgot even to say good-bye to Clovermead, and all his warm, friendly words froze in her. Dust yawed through her blood. “I was raised to ride, to steal horses, and to fight. Riding makes me a messenger boy, but nothing more, and thievery is not esteemed by you Chandleforters. I cannot read and write like a clerk. I cannot farm, forge horseshoes, or do anything Chandlefort values except fight. Take that away, and I am useless.”

  “You dance well and you are courteous,” said Saraband. “But I suppose those qualities are not usually accounted among the civic virtues, though I value them highly. Is it too late for you to learn another trade?” Her eyes dropped. “I could teach you something of medicine.”

  “That would be kind of you, Lady.” Sorrel’s eyes were suddenly alive with possibility. “That would be a quite respectable trade to take up in place of Yellowjacketing.”

  I don’t have a choice, th
ought Clovermead. I’m a Cindertallow, and I have to fight and rule. I thought you’d be fighting with me, Sorrel. She felt more alone than ever, and coldness crackled through her. I still need you to be my friend. Why are you abandoning me? But she knew why. She bats her pretty eyes at you, and you forget me. Her scar was a slash of hoarfrost on her arm; her missing tooth an icicle.

  “I would be glad to see you turn doctor, Cadet,” said Saraband. “I respect your current profession, but I confess I do not like it. I find killing distasteful.”

  For a moment Sorrel looked very tempted. Then, reluctantly, he shook his head. “I have trained since I was a boy in the Hordes to fight and to kill. When I do not run away, I flatter myself that I am a competent fighter. The warrior is the best part of me, and I should not offer Chandlefort anything less. A little bravery is all that is required to make me be of service.” Sorrel looked anxiously at Saraband. “I trust your distaste for my occupation will not prove a fatal bar to our acquaintance?”

  “You wore a soldier’s coat the first time I spoke with you. I did not care for it, but it did not prove an insurmountable obstacle.” She and Sorrel smiled at each other, and Clovermead was colder than ever.

  They had come closer to the Abbey by now, and Clovermead could see a black ring around the Abbey and the pool. She squinted at it, but it stayed stubbornly out of focus. “What’s that dark loop?” she asked Saraband.

  “I don’t know.” Saraband frowned. “I don’t remember anything like it.”

  Sorrel checked his sword. “Let us go carefully,” he said. He pulled a little ahead of Clovermead and Saraband.

  Clovermead let her nose turn a little into a snout—then hastily turned it back to human. “Ugh! There’s an awful smell. It’s like bears and rotting meat.”

  “Is it Lord Ursus?” Saraband asked fearfully.

  Reluctantly Clovermead sniffed again. “No, this is something different,” she said with relief. Then she shuddered. “The wind’s coming straight down the Valley. Whatever’s rotting is by the Abbey.” Saraband looked more unhappy than ever, and they went on in silence.