They went farther into the Reliquaries on a narrow stone road. Saraband was still exhausted from her singing the day before, so she rode on Brown Barley while Clovermead and Sorrel walked. The mountains north and south of them were high and jagged, and snowcapped at the peaks, but ahead of them the hills remained short and gentle.
“How far is it to the ocean?” asked Clovermead.
“Fifty miles,” said Sorrel. “There is a hardscrabble fishing port called Stonehaven at the end of the road.”
“What’s the ocean like?” asked Saraband. “I’ve often wondered.”
“It is an endless lake, filled with enormous Sorrel-eating fish,” Sorrel said. Clovermead punched Sorrel lightly in the arm. “There is nothing but waves, rising and falling,” Sorrel continued. “It smells of salt. I went out in a boat, I could feel the boat bobble on the water, and my stomach got queasy. I would not be a fisherman for any reason.”
“For someone who travels a lot, you’re a remarkable homebody,” said Clovermead. “Sometimes I think you would be just as happy galloping round and round the walls of Chandlefort. Then you could get your fill of riding, but you wouldn’t have to go anywhere.”
“I like traveling very much,” said Sorrel. “It is just that I am particular. So long as a place closely resembles the Tansy Steppes, I am happy to visit; otherwise, I would just as soon stay home. A small quibble, I assure you.”
“He does speak the most remarkable nonsense,” Clovermead said to Saraband. “Have you noticed?”
“I prefer to look at his eyes,” said Saraband. “I trust they tell no charming stories but only the truth?”
“They charm by telling the truth, Lady,” said Sorrel. He said something more to Saraband, but Clovermead started to walk faster and strode a little ahead. She didn’t want to listen to them talking to each other.
They came at midmorning to a fork in the road and stopped to look at the two routes. The main road went left; a smaller road wound up and to the right, into the heart of the forest. Saraband pointed them onto the smaller road. Clovermead tried to peer through the thick greenery—and she heard a bear roar. Another did so soon after. She lifted up her nose and turned it into a bear’s snout. Now she could smell bears walking all through the woods. They waited patiently to see if the humans would intrude.
“What is out there?” asked Sorrel. “Many slavering jaws, I expect.”
“They smell of dust,” said Clovermead. She frowned. “Mallow controls them all.”
Another bear roared.
Their path curled higher as they ascended westward and northward into the Reliquaries. First they walked between aspens, birches, and cedars, but as they rose they entered a land of pine trees. The ground for twenty feet to either side of the road had been cleared a hundred years before, but it had grown up since then in bushes and saplings. A few branches reached out over the road, but most still had some feet to go before they would crowd travelers. In the breaks in the forest they could see the rock slopes of the Reliquaries, north and south, edging closer to them. Clovermead felt a twinge of homesickness: The land here was very like the forested slopes that rose above the green meadows of Timothy Vale.
In the evening Sorrel led them off the path and into a glade. It had been a long day and they were exhausted: The three of them tumbled to the ground, gobbled some biscuits and beef jerky from Brown Barley’s saddlebag, and sprawled out on the grass. Sorrel fell asleep without any fuss at all. Light snores began to fill the air.
Saraband sat by Sorrel’s side, looked down at his face, and laughed. “He’s a queer mixture, isn’t he? So polite, but he doesn’t stand on ceremony.” She trailed her fingers in the air by his cheek and smiled. “And so handsome, too.”
“Be careful,” hissed Clovermead. “Sometimes when he snores he’s only pretending to be asleep. He could be wide awake.” Saraband turned bright red. “You have to pinch him to be sure,” Clovermead continued softly. Saraband reached out a hand—then lifted an eyebrow at Clovermead and withdrew her fingers. Clovermead grinned. “Almost worked. You dancing girls are gullible.”
“So we are,” said Saraband. She looked at Sorrel again, smiling once more. “What do you think, Demoiselle? He’s your friend. Are his eyes to be believed?”
“Don’t ask me,” said Clovermead roughly. “I wouldn’t know. You’ll have to find out for yourself.” She watched Saraband gaze at him tenderly, and Clovermead wanted to slash at her with her claws. He doesn’t care about girls with scars, you know, she thought bitterly. He’ll ignore you. Then you’ll know what that feels like.
Clovermead scrambled away from the two of them to the other side of an old pine tree. She peered into the night and she saw the glowing eyes of bears creeping in the darkness among the distant trees. Are you going to attack us? Clovermead called out in her head. Or are you just going to pad around out there and make us nervous?
Pad, pad, said the nearest bear, and she chuckled. You’re safe for the night.
Give me some warning if the dead man changes his mind, said Clovermead irritably. Good night!
Pleasant dreams, changeling, said the bear, and she chuffed with laughter.
Clovermead woke in the early morning with sunlight streaming onto her face. She stretched, looked around the trunk of the pine tree—and saw Sorrel and Saraband kissing at the other end of the glade. Clovermead turned away as if her eyes had been scalded, and she ducked back behind the pine tree, so all its thick wood stood between her and them. She couldn’t look, but she felt a horrible curiosity. Her ears poked up, large and furry, and she couldn’t help listening.
“Have I been too forward, Lady?” asked Sorrel. “I would not wish to ruin my reputation for tact and discretion.” It was the same teasing voice he used toward Clovermead, but with a sort of affection in it he had never directed to her. Clovermead shivered with longing. She wished he had.
“Call me Saraband, Cadet,” said Saraband. “Sorrel.” She lingered over the name. “No, you haven’t been too forward—but you haven’t been too backward, either,” she added hastily. “I admire you very much for your tact, Sorrel. It’s rarer than I would wish among the lords of Chandlefort.”
“Then I will be as tactful as ever, Saraband. Though I would give you a token of my affection every now and then.” There was a sound that could be nothing but another kiss, and Clovermead’s fist leaped to her mouth to stifle a scream. She could feel her claws digging into her palms. “I trust that is properly discreet?” he inquired after a moment, quite roguishly.
“Eminently,” said Saraband, sounding rather dizzy. “I do appreciate your discretion,” she said, and there was another kiss. Clovermead felt tears running down her cheeks, but she couldn’t draw in her ears. She had to keep listening.
“I was not certain I would ever dare speak to you openly,” Sorrel said after a while. “You are very noble and I am a commoner, a Tansyard, and I thought I must confine myself to discreet flirtations. But then the bear-priests ambushed us, I thought you were dead, and I told myself I was a fool to have kept quiet. I swore that if I saw you alive again, I would speak to you of the stirrings of my heart.” Clovermead heard him laugh with delight. “I am so very glad I did.”
“I’m also glad you spoke,” said Saraband. “I grieved terribly when I thought you were dead. I was hard put not to weep in front of Clovermead. A lady of Chandlefort isn’t supposed to speak first to a young gentleman, but I swore that I would if ever I saw you alive again. I care for you more than I care for decorum.” Saraband spoke with such passion, and it was just like the way Queen Aurette spoke to Sir Tourmaline in The Astrantiad, but Clovermead had always imagined herself as the Queen, and here she was like the Reiver Prince, listening behind the door while the Queen and the knight told each other of their love—
A dozen lords and ladies were in an orchard picking apples. There were Yellowjackets standing guard all around them. Mallow stood on a short stool underneath a high branch and held a basket full of ripe, red fruit
, just plucked from the stem. Lady Cindertallow stood at the next tree and jumped at a high round apple, perfectly formed and just out of reach. She laughed. “How provoking. Mallow, what will I do?”
“Give me a second and I’ll get it for you,” said Mallow. He started to get down from the stool.
“No, no, don’t move. Your job’s to get all the apples on that branch. Beechsplitter!” Lady Cindertallow called out, and the honey-blond Yellowjacket stepped forward from where he stood guard. “Fetch me that apple,” she said to him.
“Certainly, Milady,” said Ambrosius. His sword flashed out of his scabbard, the white birchwood medallions flashed in Mallow’s eyes, and then the apple had fallen into Ambrosius’ hand, the stem sliced cleanly off. “May I serve you in anything else?” He held out the apple, and if only Mallow had had his sword with him, he could have killed Ambrosius. The look on Ambrosius’ face—and on Melisande’s—
Saraband giggled, and Clovermead was back in the forest again. With one hand she had drawn her sword half out of its scabbard. She fumbled at the hilt, but her fingers were cold and clumsy. Her other hand had turned into a paw, and her claws scratched against the tree-trunk’s bark. She had opened four wounds in the wood, and they were bleeding sap.
“I want you to look at me that way,” she whispered to herself, admitted it to herself at last. “Oh, Sorrel, I want you to kiss me, not her.” She laughed at herself, angry and forlorn. “Stupid little girl! Why would he? Saraband’s all grown up and she’s not scarred, and it turns out he likes girls who are demure and mannerly. I’m not and I won’t change. It’s just a stupid crush. You’re so nice, Sorrel, and Saraband was right, you are awfully handsome. I don’t want to be just your friend. I want you to dance with me and flirt with me and, and, I don’t even know! But you won’t wait until I’m old enough. You’ve found someone already.” She scratched deep into the tree again. “I want—I want—” She was all bile and dust inside, aching in her heart and cold in her flesh, and even if Waxmelt or Lady Cindertallow had been there, she couldn’t have gone to either of them for comfort. This wasn’t something she could talk about with her parents. She called out with her mind, Mallow! Where are you, Mallow?
His cool voice was in her head, bitter and mocking and tender all at once. Waiting for you in Kite Hall, Demoiselle. Why do you call on me?
I feel so miserable, thought Clovermead. She sent him a jumble of pictures in her mind, of Saraband and Sorrel together and dancing and kissing. I hate you, but you’re right, you’re the only one who knows how I feel. Talk with me. Tell me how I can stop feeling so stupid and angry and jealous.
I’m not the best person to come to for sensible advice, Demoiselle. I watched Melisande and Ambrosius fall in love with each other, and I could not bear to live. Death came as a relief.
I know what you mean, thought Clovermead in utter misery. Mallow, I hurt so much.
You’d hurt more if I didn’t have a part of your heart in safekeeping, Demoiselle, said Mallow softly. Let the dust flow in you. It doesn’t hurt.
No, said Clovermead, but then she could hear Saraband and Sorrel laughing in the distance. Their laughter stabbed at her, but it was true, the dust in her veins didn’t feel. It was cold and dead, and it was a relief. Yes, she said. She filled her heart with dust, let it flow in and out of her until the pain in her dulled. I do feel better. A dusty tear congealed on her cheek. I’m glad you have part of my heart.
Your heart comforts me as well, said Mallow. It’s so bright and cheerful! Even your sadness is innocent and sweet. I’ve felt less alone the last few days. I’m glad to have your companionship in a cold world.
Thank you, said Clovermead, and then she felt confused and angry. You shouldn’t speak that way to me! You’re a killer and you’re cruel and you’re, you’re—
Heartless, said Mallow, and he laughed. Then he said wistfully, I was until we made our bargain. I am no longer. He paused a moment. I begin to feel some remorse for my actions.
Then stop! Say you will. Mallow was silent, and Clovermead’s sympathy for him drained suddenly away. It doesn’t matter what you say. You’re so sympathetic, you understand me so well, but you won’t change what you do. Monster! Get out of my head. Clovermead slammed her sword back into her scabbard.
As you wish, said Mallow, and then he was gone.
Sorrel and Saraband were still laughing in the distance.
I don’t care, Clovermead told herself. My dust will keep me numb. She soothed her aching heart in cool sand.
Clovermead banged loudly on the tree-trunk and walked around the tree, scuffing leaves noisily as she went. She looked ever so casually toward Sorrel and Saraband, and now they were a very decorous distance apart. “There you are!” she said as cheerfully as she could. “I was sniffing for bears. There aren’t any around right now.” Which was true enough; they had disappeared during the night. “What should we do for breakfast? Shall I catch some fish?”
“If you can,” said Sorrel. “I will see if I can trap anything in the woods. Lady Saraband—” He looked at her puzzledly. “Can you light a fire?”
“Do I look as if I can?” asked Saraband. She showed him her delicate, soft hands.
Sorrel rolled his eyes. “What can you do for breakfast, Lady?”
Saraband shrugged. “I can gather sticks. One of you two can light them.”
“That will do,” said Sorrel. He cast a worried eye at Clovermead, as if afraid she would make some sarcastic comment. Clovermead blinked her eyes at him innocently—Who, me?—and headed toward the nearest stream.
She returned with two trout and Sorrel with an unfortunate rabbit; then they made the fire and roasted their catch. Clovermead tore at her fish with relish, while Saraband picked at hers fastidiously. Clovermead packed their leftovers in Sorrel’s saddlebag, then washed her hands thoroughly to get the grease and scales off of them.
They climbed through ever-thicker forest. The road went up and down over the ridges of the Reliquaries. As they rose, Sorrel fell back and spoke softly with Saraband. After a while Saraband began to giggle softly. Clovermead wasn’t even trying to eavesdrop when she heard Sorrel say, “He imali ta sekawa—you resemble a white dove.”
They finished off their fish and rabbit for lunch, then continued walking in the afternoon. Sorrel strolled for a while with Clovermead while Saraband rode slowly after them. He smiled at nothing in particular and started to whistle an entirely too jaunty tune.
“He imali ta ninny,” said Clovermead crossly. “He imali ta rooster, his crest all puffed up as he stalks around the coop and thinks about hens. What do you call a rooster in Tansyard, anyway.”
“Cucuru,” said Sorrel. “I do not look like a cucuru at all.”
“You do now,” said Clovermead, chortling. “Your face is as red as one, anyway.” Sorrel turned even redder. “He imali ta cucurooster like anything.”
“Have you been listening to my private conversations, Clovermead?” asked Sorrel as sternly as he could, but his face was still extraordinarily scarlet.
“As little as I can,” Clovermead lied. “Anyway, I couldn’t miss the He imali line you were feeding her. So you think she looks like a pigeon?”
“A white dove,” said Sorrel, with what tatters of dignity he could assemble. “They are quite different birds.”
“Pshaw,” said Clovermead. “A dove is a pigeon that fell into a bucket of white paint. Everyone knows that.” Sorrel glowered at her, and there was a spark of real anger in him, so Clovermead added hastily, “I’m not saying anything against her. I’m just giving you guff.”
“Be gentle, Clovermead,” said Sorrel. “I am tender on the subject.”
“Don’t you worry,” said Clovermead. “I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you.” She turned away from him suddenly as her face flushed red.
Sorrel didn’t notice. His expression had grown thoughtful. “I wonder if I was too hasty,” he said ruminatively. “There is much to be said for the art of curing men.”
> Clovermead could not speak.
“Saraband—Lady Saraband says it does not take so long to learn the rudiments of healing,” Sorrel continued. “I could be of use to Chandlefort as a nurse even before I completed my studies in medicine.”
“She’ll be awfully busy,” said Clovermead. “Between teaching dance to me and medicine to you, she won’t have any spare time at all.”
“That is a good point,” said Sorrel, quite seriously. He frowned. “I suppose I would have to study with the nuns of the city hospice, too. It would be unfair to demand too much time of her to act as my tutor.”
“You’d stop being a Yellowjacket? Who’ll be my sparring partner when you’re gone?” Clovermead tried hard not to whine.
“Someone else,” said Sorrel. He smiled at Clovermead. “You would become a better fighter than me in months, little hellion! Does not the thought delight you?”
“No,” said Clovermead miserably. “I want to beat you fair and square.”
“And I still want to spend many years whacking you on the ribs, Clovermead,” said Sorrel with a smile. “But there are other things I want as well.”
“And she doesn’t want you to be a Yellowjacket,” said Clovermead, with an angry jerk of her thumb back at Saraband.
“Soldiering does distress her deeply.”
Then you’d better follow her apron strings, thought Clovermead, and she clamped shut her mouth. She didn’t think Sorrel would forgive her if she said that out loud.
She couldn’t think of anything else polite to say, and they hiked forward in silence for the rest of the afternoon.
Toward evening Saraband peered ahead and said, “We’ve come close. We can’t be more than an hour from Kite Hall.”
They heard a roar behind them. Clovermead whirled, and she saw a bear laze across the road.
In the Shadow of the Bear Page 37