“No!” cried Clovermead, and she ran away from Snuff as his laughter rose to an insane, joyful shriek. She raced over shifting sand, there was a forest ahead, and she took refuge in its shade from the terrible sun. The wind moaned oddly in the trees.
Boulderbash paced back and forth in the dark center of the forest. Her white fur was matted brown with blood. Thank you for curing me, she roared. I have hunted well since then. I could never have been so magnificent without you. She laughed. To think I spent so long enslaved to my son! Now I am freely his, forever, thanks to you.
I wanted to free you, said Clovermead. Things just turned out wrong.
They turned out right, said Boulderbash with satisfaction. She licked her lips. Her jaws were red. I have treated humans as they deserve for a long time now. The little traitors are mine forever.
How? asked Clovermead. There’s nothing living in the forest.
Look up, said Boulderbash. Against her will, Clovermead did. The trees were not trees, but crosses, extending as far as she could see. It was not the wind moaning, but people, crucified, and the forest was nothing but a giant larder for Boulderbash.
“Lady curse you, Demoiselle,” Clovermead heard the nearest piece of flesh moan. The words repeated, louder and louder, all through the forest of crucified men. “You did this. Lady’s curse upon your head!”
You abandoned me, said Boulderbash, and she cried tears of blood. You made me what I am. I will never forgive you. She leaped at Clovermead—
Clovermead was in a marshland. A ragged, hobbling figure led a troop of bear-priests in the dawn light toward a hole from which smoke rose. He was a whipped cur, and he leaped to obey every barked order the bear-priests gave him. “Here they are,” he said. “Don’t hurt me. Hurt them instead. Leave me alone.” He lifted a quavering finger to the mud hut, then stepped aside as the bear-priests leaped howling toward the door.
Lady Cindertallow came out of the hut. Her hair was white, her face lined with age, and she wore inch-thick spectacles on her nose. She still swung her sword agilely, though, and she slew two bear-priests in seconds. Then there were four bear-priests all around her, jabbing at her, and her sudden strength ebbed from her. She was an old woman fighting hopelessly. Clovermead wanted to leap forward to help her, but she could not move, could not speak, was stuck behind glass to scream silently. A bear-priest clawed her mother’s glasses from her face, and Lady Cindertallow was left to blink blindly in the marsh. She swung her sword at shadows. The bear-priests guffawed at her, and then one lunged forward and stuck his sword through Clovermead’s mother’s guts. Clovermead screamed so loudly that she couldn’t hear her mother cry, and then her mother was falling, dying, dead.
Saraband came out of the hut. She had silver in her hair, and she was still a beautiful woman. “I am the last,” she said calmly. “Do as you will. I will not fight you.” Then she turned to the lurking figure, and her face twisted in shock, in bitterness, and finally forgiveness. “Never mind,” she sighed at last. “Lady bless you.” A bear-priest screamed a curse to hear Our Lady’s name, and in a horrible instant his sword had lopped off Saraband’s head. Clovermead averted her eyes and saw the hobbling figure face on—
It was Waxmelt. Her own father. He turned from the dead bodies, and he saw Clovermead, saw her, and wretched shame filled his face. “I’m sorry, Clovermead,” he said. “I should have been stronger. Please forgive me.” Ursus’ laughter rolled through the sky like thunder, and a black cloud followed his hilarity and covered all the earth.
The marsh was gone, and Clovermead stood on a dark and moonless plain. Once the grass had stood head-high everywhere, but now it all had been burned and withered black by quicksilver. She walked amid the ashes of the Steppes. Ahead there was a lone campfire. Clovermead walked toward it, the only comforting light in the world.
Sorrel sat by the campfire—also older, with silver strands like Saraband’s lining his hair. There was a terrible sadness in him. He looked up and he saw Clovermead.
His face twisted in loathing. “You,” he said. “How dare you come to me again.”
“Please,” said Clovermead. “Don’t turn on me too. I need a friend. I need you.”
Sorrel snarled with black laughter. “You let this happen. Look at the Steppes—gone, destroyed, all because you let those monsters live. What idiocy was in you?”
“I couldn’t kill them,” said Clovermead. “Did you want me to just let them die?”
Sorrel drew his sword. “Yes, Clovermead. Most assuredly, yes. Look at what you have done.” He stood up, and Clovermead saw two bodies by the fire. One was Mullein and one was Roan. They were emaciated with hunger. Clovermead knelt by them and touched them. They were cold, and the fire would never warm them again.
“Our Lady gave me my family back, beyond all hope, and now they are dead again,” said Sorrel. “You did this. You!” He drew his sword, and there was pure and deadly hatred on his face. She could not move, and his sword lifted high—
He let it drop. The hatred drained from his face. All that was left was icy indifference, and that was far worse. He had ceased to care about her.
“I’m sorry,” said Clovermead, but the words fluttered away in the darkness.
“Say your apologies to the dead,” said Sorrel. He turned from her, left her forever, and walked into darkness.
The Steppes were gone, so was Sorrel, and so were the two bodies. There was no earth beneath her feet and no sky above her head. Clovermead stood alone in darkness.
In the emptiness, Our Lady whispered to her. Why did you let them live?
“Boulderbash was dying,” said Clovermead. “Snuff, too. And he was crying for your light, Lady. I couldn’t let him die in darkness.” She wept helplessly. “I didn’t know what would happen, Lady. How could I?”
You do not have that excuse now, said the whisper. You know what your ill-timed mercy may lead to. Do you regret it?
“May?” asked Clovermead in sudden hope. It doesn’t have to end like this?
It doesn’t have to, said Our Lady sadly. But chances are it will. There was a pause for a moment. If you want, Clovermead, I can undo some hours that have passed, and you can make another choice. Shall I grant you that wish?
“Yes!” said Clovermead instantly. She saw Snuff smiling in his garden of delight, blood-smeared Boulderbash in her final corruption, her father a traitor again, her mother and Saraband murdered, Roan’s and Mullein’s starved corpses on the wasted Steppes, and Sorrel with his back turned on her forever. She wept, and she opened her mouth to say “Yes!” again with all her heart.
But she could not quite. She saw Boulderbash lying still as death before her, saw vicious Snuff cry in wretched darkness, and she couldn’t be the person who turned away from them and let them die in the night. Sorrel turned his back, and his heart was dead to her, but she could not let Snuff weep with such terrible sorrow.
“I’ve done enough cruel things for the greater good, Lady,” said Clovermead. “I suppose I will again. Not this time. Snuff saw you, and I won’t take that away from him.” Her heart was bleak, and icy tears trickled down her cheeks.
You know what may happen, said Our Lady. Are you sure?
Clovermead sighed. “Even if I knew for certain, I wouldn’t change what I’ve done. I’m a fool, Lady, but let the world go on. I’ll fight for you as best I can.”
Very well, said Our Lady, and then Clovermead felt fingers gently stroke the cold tears from her cheeks. I am a fool too. I would choose as you have done.
Then Clovermead was weeping helplessly, and Our Lady was weeping with her. Their tears mingled. “Oh, Lady, please don’t let Sorrel stop caring. Anything but that.”
I will do what I can, said Our Lady. And you do what you can, and perhaps the world will turn out all right in the end.
“Perhaps?” asked Clovermead.
I cannot offer you certainty, Clovermead. All I can give you on earth is hope.
“I guess that will have to do,” said
Clovermead. And then she couldn’t help but ask, “Why didn’t you show yourself to Snuff when he called to you in Garum?”
I did, said Our Lady sadly. He did not see me. Then she caressed Clovermead a last time. He saw me at last tonight. You have done that for him.
“I still hate him,” Clovermead whispered, and then once more she fell asleep.
Chapter Eighteen
The Battle at Yarrow’s Bowl
Clovermead woke at dawn to the scream of silver-bears and the sound of horns. The bear-priests brayed derisively at their foes and Clovermead leaped up—
“They are not attacking yet,” said Sorrel. He sat by her side, calmly heating a pot of oatmeal over a fire. “They are merely making sure we don’t sleep in. Look, they are not assembled for an attack yet. I think they will have breakfast first, to see that they are well fed.” It was true. The bear-priests were taking rations from their packs and gulping them down. They kept their scimitars close to them, but they were not going to attack just yet. “So we have time to eat too,” Sorrel continued. He put his palm over the steaming pot, nodded with satisfaction, and ladled oatmeal into two wooden bowls. “You have spent fifteen hours or so asleep. Are you well rested?”
Clovermead yawned. “I guess so,” she said. “But you shouldn’t have let me sleep! You’ve done just as much as I have—”
“And I have slept a mere thirteen hours.” Sorrel blew on his oatmeal. “Do not worry, Clovermead. Neither of us has been needed.”
“Where’s Mother?” asked Clovermead. She shoveled a small bit of oatmeal into her mouth. It scalded her throat, but it tasted wonderful.
“Over on that little hill,” said Sorrel. He gestured to a knoll a hundred yards away, where Lady Cindertallow sat on horseback. He looked at Lady Cindertallow, then down at his yellow uniform. “I wonder if your mother has been informed yet that I am no longer a Yellowjacket in good standing?”
“Don’t worry. If she yells at you, I’ll yell back, and louder.”
“Then indeed I should have no fears,” said Sorrel. “I have faith in your lungs.” For a moment they smiled at each other.
They finished their breakfast, and then they rode over to join Lady Cindertallow and Fetterlock. “Good morning, Clovermead,” her mother greeted her. “You always seem to have trouble getting up in the morning.”
“I got up at daybreak!” Clovermead protested—and then she saw her mother was smiling. “That’s me. Late for the morning hunt at home, late for the morning battle abroad. I hope I haven’t delayed you.”
“I think you’ve showed up in time.” Lady Cindertallow’s eyes strayed to the bear-priests opposite, then returned to Clovermead. “I’m sorry we didn’t talk last night. I came to see you, but you were deep asleep. I thought it better to let you rest.”
“I’m sorry too, Mother,” said Clovermead. She swallowed, and kneed Auroche a little closer to Lady Cindertallow. “I can’t remember,” she said in a low voice. “Is the Lady Cindertallow supposed to direct her soldiers from behind, or lead them into battle?”
“Opinions vary. My advisers always suggest the former. I find the latter is essential for my self-respect.” She saw Clovermead was about to speak, and she shook her head. “I don’t think the Demoiselle’s counsel will make me change my mind.”
“Pity.”
“True. It’s the funniest coincidence, though. I was about to suggest that the Demoiselle could stay behind the lines and guard those slaves she brought out of Barleymill. By all accounts, she’s already done enough fighting these last few weeks.”
Oh, Lady, I’m tired of fighting, thought Clovermead, but somehow the thoughts had turned into words and blurted out of her mouth. She couldn’t help but laugh. “And just plain tired. Thank you, Mother, but the Demoiselle will decline your kind offer. Can’t you just imagine what I’d say back in Chandlefort? ‘Sorry, I misplaced my mother.’ ‘Where did you leave her?’ ‘Oh, I left her on the front lines at Yarrow’s Bowl.’” Clovermead shook her head. “They wouldn’t think much of me. I don’t think I’d think much of myself either.”
“This search for self-respect will be the death of all of us.” Lady Cindertallow treated her daughter to a mordant grimace. “I like the sound of that. Put that on my tombstone.” Lady Cindertallow brought her horse back a step from Clovermead, put on her spectacles, and squinted through them at the solid mass of bear-priests at the south end of Yarrow’s Bowl. The bear-priests had hoisted up their scarlet flag with the great black bear. The allied armies had formed a solid line opposite the bear-priests, along the north end of the Bowl. Behind them sat the slaves, too exhausted to do more than sit and wait for the result of the battle. The allies had scores of flags—Chandlefort’s burning bee, Low Branding’s sapphire pike, and all the different Tansyard flags. “I hear you’ve been fighting off these bear-priests for a week now,” Lady Cindertallow continued more loudly, so their companions could hear her too. “How on earth did so few of you do that?”
Gratitude, thought Clovermead. Mercy. She shrugged awkwardly. “I think they were waiting for reinforcements,” she said. “The silver-bears, those screaming monsters, had to come from Bryony Hill. The bear-priests didn’t want to attack until they had arrived.”
“That was a mistake,” said Lady Cindertallow. “We’ve given them a surprise, all right, showing up like this!”
“Be careful, Milady,” said Fetterlock. “The silver-bears are formidable.”
“We’ll still win the day,” said Lady Cindertallow.
“I hope so.” Fetterlock made the sign of the crescent. “Lady have mercy on us.”
Lady Cindertallow ignored him. She took off her glasses, raised her hand high, and waved her arm. Behind her a Yellowjacket herald raised an enormous golden flag with a silver crescent gleaming in the center. “There’s a flag for all of us,” she cried out to her audience of soldiers. She smiled with sudden enjoyment of her role as centerpiece of the martial spectacle. “Chandleforter, Low Brandingman, and Tansyard can fight for Our Lady together. Trumpeters, play!” She let her arm fall, and a chorus of horns burst out in glorious defiance.
The horns of the bear-priests brayed in response, and their front line opened up. Boulderbash ran through it, toward the allies, with Snuff on her back. He carried a white flag of truce, and waved it in the clear air. The sun shone brightly on them, and Clovermead gasped to see how handsome Snuff was. For a moment she saw the young noble of Queensmart riding toward her—and then a cloud crossed the sun, and his beauty faded. He was only sharp-toothed, bloody Lucifer Snuff.
Snuff brought Boulderbash to a halt fifty feet away. The Yellowjackets near Lady Cindertallow raised their swords, to warn him from getting too close. “Greetings, prey,” Snuff said cheerfully. “Are you ready to surrender?”
“You are overconfident,” said Lady Cindertallow. She looked at the bear-priests opposite them. “I grant your soldiers are formidable, Snuff, but there are more of us. Your men cannot frighten us.”
“I do not intend to frighten you with my men,” said Snuff. “That is what Lord Ursus’ other servants are for. It has taken a certain amount of time to gather them, but here they are. Look at them.” He lifted his own horn, and blew it sharply three times.
There was another stirring among the bear-priests. Their lines opened again, and silver-bears padded through the front lines, here, there, and everywhere. There were a dozen of the monsters, a score, and finally thirty of the beasts stood scrabbling in the grass. One howled, and each in turn took up the cry. The screams traveled up and down the line. Ten feet tall, misshapen, jaws snapping, they looked eagerly at the army opposite them.
“We cannot trust our bears, thanks to your brat,” said Snuff to Lady Cindertallow. “But these are still more man than bear, and she cannot affect them. Besides, they serve my lord from choice. I advise you to surrender.”
“I came here to fight, bear-priest,” said Lady Cindertallow. “Save your breath.” But she had grown more uncertain now that the
silver-bears had come to the fore.
“You came to die, Milady,” said Snuff sweetly. “And you, Horde Chief,” he said, turning to Fetterlock. “The Hordes will lament if you fight—of that I assure you.”
“I know it already,” said the Horde Chief. His voice throbbed with sorrow. “I tell you frankly, Bear-Priest, I do not want to see tomorrow.”
“I will attempt to satisfy your desire,” said Snuff. He flashed his bronzed teeth at Fetterlock, then grinned at them all. “A fight, then.” He raised his voice. “This is your last chance for quarter! Any man who fights on will be killed. You are warned.” He waited, but the allied soldiers kept in place. Snuff shrugged, and he and Boulderbash rode back toward the bear-priests. His white flag lowered and disappeared.
Run, girlie, he thought at Clovermead. You won’t be pursued.
Thank you for the offer, said Clovermead. I won’t.
No quarter for you, either, said Snuff. I am my master’s loyal servant, now and forever. He disappeared behind the bear-priests’ lines.
The bear-priests came rushing across the valley. The silver-bears loped ahead of their companions, screaming, and bear-priest horns blared. The Yellowjackets and Low Brandingmen answered with a yell, and charged at the silver-bears and bear-priests while the Tansyards came galloping in on both flanks. There was a great clash of swords against swords, and the battle began.
A silver-bear came howling at Clovermead and Auroche. She swung her sword in defense, and it was a flame of silver light. She slashed along its ribs, but its burning paws smashed against her and swiped her off Auroche. Her stirrups snapped and she went flying onto the ground. She turned bearish as she flew, so she could absorb the impact. She tried to keep her hand tight around her sword, but it flew from her hand.
She turned back human, scrabbled for her sword, but she had no time: The terrible beast was leaping at her, screaming. She rolled away and its claws sank three inches into the dirt beside her. The grass charred beneath the silver-bear. It turned at once and leaped toward her again, and its screaming rang in Clovermead’s ears and made her dizzy and confused. The world spun and she didn’t know which way to run. She darted to the left, but it was the wrong direction, and the monster was coming down on top of her—
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