In the Shadow of the Bear

by David Randall

  Clovermead walked back to the center of the circle, by the firelight. She let down her sleeve, so that it covered her scar. “I made the right choice the second time. I plucked out his tooth and now I fight for Our Lady. I don’t know if we’ll win. All I have is hope, and faith in Our Lady. But win or lose, at least we’re fighting for a better world than the one Ursus will make, with something more than blood and killing. I liked hunting with Ursus, but I like fighting against him more. I won’t die ashamed of myself. And neither will you, if you fight with us. My friend Sorrel would say, ‘Our Lady will sing of our glory by her campfire.’ Noru Mari noru pakeyu sa le zilaya bi pajarat.” Her throat was dry, and she paused to swallow. “I don’t really have anything more to say.”

  There was silence for a long moment. Then the Elders whispered to one another in Tansyard. Clovermead tried to see their faces, to see how they had reacted, but they were too far away from the firelight. She couldn’t tell.

  Fetterlock stood up. “Do any of the Elders wish to question the ambassador?”

  An Eldress with a bear-tooth stood up. “I do not wish to question her,” she said scornfully. “I do not believe her. She brings us lies from Chandlefort. Ursus has promised us great things as his allies. It is not too late to accept his offer. At the worst, we should not make him angry. Let us stay neutral in this war.” She spat at the ground. “Do not be swayed by this Chandlefort farmer-girl’s stories.”

  “Not stories,” said Mullein. She spoke suddenly, loudly, so all the Elders could hear her high voice. She took a step forward. “I know. I see bear-priests, in mines. All blood, all killing.” She gulped and she looked around. “Why you leave us in mines?”

  Fetterlock cast his head down, and Clovermead knew he was crying.

  “You are Cyan Cross,” said the Eldress with the bear-tooth. “We are White Star. Let Cyan Cross suffer. Let Cyan Cross die. They are no brothers of ours.”

  It took Mullein a moment to understand the Eldress. When she did, she retreated back to Clovermead. “Clovermead my sister,” she said. “She care for me.”

  “She die with you,” said the Eldress. She turned to the Elders around her. “But we should not. It is not in our interest to be destroyed as Cyan Cross was destroyed. Is that not true?” She was answered by silence, and she turned to Fetterlock. “What say you, Horde Chief? What is the interest of the Horde?”

  “I cannot say,” said Fetterlock. He touched his white-gold star uncertainly, and lifted his head. “Before tonight, I would have counseled you to vote against the Demoiselle’s proposals. Now I do not know. My heart, my mind, my soul, whisper contrary things, and I am afraid I will deliver the Horde to destruction, no matter what I advise. Does anyone else have anything to say?” The Elders were silent. “Then vote, Elders. Shall we accept the alliance with Chandlefort against Lord Ursus? I will lead the Horde as you direct, no matter what course you choose.”

  Then all the Elders rose, some quickly, others shuffling slowly to their feet. They came forward one by one toward the campfire, where each shouted out “Yes” or “No.” Those who wore silver crescents or obsidian teeth came to the campfire first, eager to make their votes. A few Elders who had worn bear-teeth cast them off, came to the campfire, and voted “Yes.” They were crying as they came, and their former fellows scowled at them when they returned to their seats. Those without emblems of Our Lady or Ursus waited and said “Yes” or “No” unhappily, visibly uncertain as to whether they had made the right choice.

  The very last votes were almost all “Yes.” “Yes,” “No,” “Yes,” “Yes,” “Yes,” they voted. When the last had returned to his seat, Fetterlock sighed. “Forty-nine have voted no. Fifty-six have voted yes. The Elders have spoken: We shall ally with Chandlefort, and we will fight against Lord Ursus. This I swear in all our names, and in the name of Our Lady. Let our honor and our souls be our pledges.”

  “This we swear,” the Elders echoed. The words came with sour difficulty from the ones who wore bear-teeth, but they swore too. Then the onlooking warriors and women began to disperse, followed by the Elders.

  Fetterlock came forward to Clovermead. “We are allies after all,” he said heavily. “And you will have more allies. You need not go to the other Hordes yourself—I will send my warriors to the other Hordes, to tell them what you have said and what we have done. They will follow our lead and come with us into battle.” He frowned. “But battle will be difficult. Barleymill’s walls are too formidable for us to assault. We might take Bryony Hill, but the Hordes would remain in danger. So long as Ursus’ army remains in Barleymill, he can always ravage the Steppes.”

  “Mother won’t abandon you,” said Clovermead. “We’ll be sure to help you, no matter what happens. Speaking of Mother, where and when should she send her army to meet you? Should it go straight to Bryony Hill?”

  “I do not think so,” said Fetterlock. “They would go slowly through the Moors, and then some Harrowman spy in bear-priest pay could send warning to Bryony Hill. No, let them sail south of the Moors on the Whetstone River to Yarrow’s Landing. It is only a day’s march over the Farry Heights from there to Yarrow’s Bowl, and we will meet them there, let us say in seven weeks, on Midsummer’s Eve. That will give us time to gather the Hordes. We will march north from there to Bryony Hill. It is a little out of the way, but we will not lose much time. We will also be between Bryony Hill and Barleymill, and we will be able to keep bear-priest reinforcements from coming to Bryony Hill.”

  “What if Lord Ursus’ army shows up?” asked Clovermead. “Won’t we be awfully exposed down there?”

  Fetterlock smiled. “If all the Hordes and the Yellowjackets are together, it is the bear-priests who will need to worry. We can only hope they will stumble across us.”

  “Then I’ll send some Yellowjackets back to Low Branding,” said Clovermead. “I’ll have them tell Mother everything—not least the fact that you were the Horde Chief in disguise! She knew there was something not quite right in your story, but she couldn’t tell what. But the important thing is that she’s to be at Yarrow’s Bowl at Midsummer’s Eve.”

  Fetterlock unlooped his white-gold pendant, hesitated a moment, then put it in Clovermead’s hand. “Have your messengers give that to Lady Cindertallow. It is my pledge that the Hordes will meet her there.”

  Clovermead’s eyes went wide. “You don’t need to do this. I trust you.”

  “I have already played your mother false in the small matter of my true rank. She will be happy to have this token.” He sighed. “Will you come with the Horde, Demoiselle? I would be glad to have your company the next few weeks.”

  “I’m free to do what I like? You don’t need me for high politicking or anything?” Fetterlock shook his head. “I’d be glad to spend the time with you and Bardelle—”

  Sorrel was riding south to Barleymill, alone. But he didn’t have to be alone. I can join him now, Clovermead realized. I’ve done what Mother wanted. Sudden possibility swept over her. Now I can make up for abandoning him, and I can help him save Roan after all. Maybe I can track down Boulderbash while I’m at it, and free her, too.

  Maybe Sorrel won’t forgive me, she thought, and Clovermead’s heart yawed inside her. Maybe I’ve broken our friendship and it’s too late to mend it. Oh, Lady, I’ve hurt him so badly, and I’m afraid to see him again. He’ll look at me like I was the lowest thing on earth, I’ll burst out crying, and he’ll say I ought to cry. He’ll say I’m trying to buy his friendship by making him grateful to me, and I’m not sure he’d be all wrong. I don’t want to go join him, not really. He can’t hurt me while I’m with the White Star Horde, and I can’t disappoint him. I’d rather stay here.

  Of course you would, she thought she heard Boulderbash say. Cowardly girl.

  Cowardly girl, she heard again, and now it was her own voice ringing in her ears.

  Clovermead sighed. “Horde Chief, I’m afraid I’m going to decline your kind offer,” she said out loud. “There’s something el
se I have to do instead.”

  Fetterlock raised an eyebrow. “What, Demoiselle?”

  “I need to go find Sorrel,” said Clovermead. “He was riding toward Barleymill, to free his mother. He’ll need my help.”

  Fetterlock whistled, long and low. “That sounds most imprudent, Demoiselle,” he said. “Many go into Barleymill; few come out.”

  “It’s the most foolish thing in the world,” said Clovermead. “Really, I’d much rather remain with the White Star Horde. But Sorrel needs me, and I owe him—everything, really. I have to go. I’m not at all happy about riding after him, but I know this is right. If I’m still alive, I’ll be at Yarrow’s Bowl in seven weeks. And if I’m not—tell Mother this was my duty.” Fetterlock nodded reluctantly. Clovermead grimaced. “I’d be grateful if you pointed out the quickest way to Barleymill for me tomorrow. If I’m going to be putting my head into the bear’s mouth, I’d like to do it in time to be of some use.”

  Please, Lady, she thought, let me get to Barleymill in time to save Roan. Please let me find Sorrel before he comes to hate me. I want Roan alive, and Boulderbash free, but I’m going off to Barleymill to get Sorrel’s friendship back again. Forgive me, Lady, but when you get down to it, that’s the truth.

  Chapter Ten

  Tangled Dreams

  Clovermead tossed in her sleep. Where are you? a voice called out. It was an old woman, very tired and very far away. I can’t find you, little one.

  I’m here, said Clovermead. She was sleeping inside her hide tent in the White Star encampment, but somehow she was above her body as well, watching herself snore in an appallingly graceless manner. Look, I’m right here.

  She could feel fingers riffling through her, as if she were a book, and somewhere eyes were peering at her. Not you, the woman sighed. Where is she? Lady, give me strength. She let go of Clovermead, but Clovermead didn’t return to her sleeping body. She was spinning through the darkness, untethered, and Clovermead was just opening her mouth to scream when—

  She was sitting in a broad green meadow next to a Tansyard boy. He was no more than eight, and Clovermead was eight too, dressed like him in a shirt and short pants. Before them was a woman of fifty, dressed in white deerskins. Her black hair, pulled tight into a bun, had turned half-silver, her face was long and angular, and she glanced at the two children with a forbidding eye. She wore silver crescents at her neck, at her wrists, and on the belt around her waist. She sat on a small stool of leather and wood, while Clovermead and the boy were seated cross-legged on the grass. It was autumn, and the woman held a yellow leaf in her hand.

  What is this leaf? she asked. She spoke in Tansyard, but Clovermead understood her. The woman stroked its surface up and down. It’s common in the Harrow Moors.

  Elm, Shaman-Mother! the boy shouted out. He grinned with pleasure at the sound of his own voice. Huge elms grow all over the Moors. Behind the Shaman-Mother a grove of elms spurted out of the earth and rocketed upward until they were a thousand feet high and scraping the fluffy white clouds overhead.

  No, Sorrel, said the Shaman-Mother severely. She waved a hand, and the elms plummeted back into the Steppes, to be swallowed once more by the grass. Clovermead gaped at the little boy. He was a tiny Sorrel, a chubby Sorrel, but unmistakably himself. Elms grow on the slopes of the Reliquary Mountains, said the Shaman-Mother. What is this? She rubbed the leaf again. Where she touched the plant, her fingers reddened. She turned to Clovermead. Do you know?

  Clovermead looked close, and she gasped. Poison sumac, she said. There’s no end of it in the swampy ground behind Ladyrest Inn. Father said never to touch it. Shaman-Mother, let it go. On either side of the meadow, the Reliquary Mountains suddenly loomed, and now they were in the narrow fields of Timothy Vale rather than the broad grasslands of the Steppes.

  Shaman-Mother, let it go, Sorrel was saying at the same time. He looked at the mountains, shook his head in puzzlement, and frowned at Clovermead. I was supposed to say that, he said, and now his voice was a man’s, the sound of the Sorrel she knew coming out of the boy. Who are you? You look familiar.

  I can stand the pain, the Shaman-Mother said to Sorrel, said to Clovermead. But it wasn’t a yellow leaf any longer, but a black viper that hissed and sank its fangs deep into the woman’s flesh. Blood welled from her finger, a stream of scarlet and shining silver, the Shaman-Mother cried out in agony—and then the world was as it had been. The Shaman-Mother smiled, let the yellow leaf fall to the ground, and whispered a prayer. The rash faded from her fingers, until they were pink and smooth once more. And I have learned healing arts from Our Lady. It is easy enough to heal myself. Sorrel reached out a finger to touch the fallen leaf, and the Shaman-Mother intercepted his finger. But harder to heal others, little Sorrel. Do you want me to itch for your sake?

  No, said Sorrel, wide-eyed. He spoke in a little boy’s voice again.

  Then keep your fingers to yourself! said the Shaman-Mother. The mountains disappeared into darkness, and they were in grasslands again. She tousled Sorrel’s hair and laughed. The Horde will suffer worse hurts than sumac. I need to make sure I am strong enough to cure them when they truly need me. She looked up, and now wildflowers were bursting into bloom all around them. Ah, here’s your mother. I’ve kept you late. I’m sorry, Roan. He’s an eager student, if a mischievous one, and I like teaching him. Quick, Sorrel, what town has rose walls?

  Chandlefort! said Sorrel. He turned to Roan, and she was young and beautiful, draped in a robe of marten, with chestnut hair that swung down to her waist thickened from bearing four children. It sits in the heart of the desert, they don’t have any water, and I’ll bet they stink there because there aren’t any streams to wash in.

  You see how well he studies? asked the Shaman-Mother. Already he knows more about Chandlefort than I do. I never knew the Cindertallows don’t bathe.

  When she said “Cindertallow,” Sorrel jumped. He looked at Clovermead again, and now he knew her.

  The Shaman-Mother was an old woman bleeding silver in darkness. Roan, tired and haggard, stood in rags that dripped from her flight through the Harrow Moors.

  This hasn’t happened yet, said Sorrel. He shook his head violently, and the younger Shaman-Mother and Roan reappeared, in the flower-filled meadow. Sorrel turned his back on Clovermead and sidled away from her.

  He’s just hopeful, Shaman-Mother, said Roan. You have no idea how hard it is to get him under water. Dinner’s waiting, Sorrel, said Roan, and she gathered Sorrel’s hand in hers. Good-bye, Shaman-Mother, said Roan, and Sorrel said, Good-bye! I’ll see you tomorrow! He turned away from her smiling face, and behind him, the Shaman-Mother faded from view. The meadow swirled into blackness.

  Now they were in a tent, kind Roan and Sorrel’s stern father, Dapple, and all the children, Emlets and Clary and Sorrel and baby Mullein. The pot in the center of the tent was boiling, and Emlets was serving roast goat into their bowls. Clary was tickling Mullein with a feather, and a smile broke through Dapple’s austere features as he welcomed Roan and Sorrel.

  I miss you so, said Sorrel, and it was grown-Sorrel’s voice again. Lady, let me dream like this forever. He turned to Clovermead, and he frowned. You don’t belong here.

  Let me stay, Clovermead pleaded. I miss you too.

  And I you, said Sorrel. Hesitantly he lifted his hand toward Clovermead. Then he glanced at Roan, and he scowled. You’d let her die. Go away. He slipped out of Roan’s embrace, rushed at Clovermead, and shoved her violently. Leave me alone! He pushed again, and Clovermead was howling and stumbling backward, out of the tent and into the darkness. The tent was a flicker of light falling behind her, and then she was alone in the night. She rushed through emptiness—

  Now she walked with Waxmelt along the rose parapets of Chandlefort. In the distance she saw the cavalcade of Yellowjackets riding eastward to Low Branding. There goes Milady after you, Clo, said Waxmelt. He blinked at Clovermead in mild surprise, pinched himself, and sighed when he failed to flinch. I knew you
couldn’t be real. I suppose I’ve fallen asleep on guard duty.

  I’m asleep out on the Steppes, Father, said Clovermead. I’ve gotten unmoored somehow. I seem to be wandering into other people’s dreams.

  Then I’m glad you came into mine, said Waxmelt. They walked through a doorway, and they were in the kitchen at Ladyrest. Waxmelt’s armor was gone, and he was in his old, stained apron. Her father rolled up his sleeves, began rinsing a dirty dish in a pot of water, and smiled at Clovermead. Do you know, your mother actually laughed at a joke of mine yesterday? The one about the goat, the cobbler, and the jaguar. He handed the rinsed dish to Clovermead.

  Clovermead found a rag, began to dry the dish, and wrinkled her nose. That’s such an old chestnut!

  True, said Waxmelt. He handed her a glistening spoon, and Clovermead began to dry that, too. I expected her to just groan, but she’d never heard it before! She has quite a nice laugh. Like yours, but, um, more delicate. She doesn’t snort.

  I do not snort! said Clovermead. Waxmelt raised an eyebrow, and now they were in the barn behind Ladyrest bringing food to the trough as a half dozen pigs squealed ecstatically. Clovermead glowered at Waxmelt. Ha-ha. I snort unbelievably delicately. I didn’t know the two of you were getting along well enough to tell jokes.