In the Shadow of the Bear

by David Randall

  The next day the remnants of the allied army left for Bryony Hill. There were too few of them left to attempt an assault on Barleymill, but there were enough of them left to tear down the fortress’ half-built walls, raze Ursus’ temple, and reconsecrate Bryony Hill to Our Lady, and so ensure that Ursus could never again make a silver-bear. Fetterlock had already sent a screen of horsemen out into the Steppes, to make sure that in the meantime no more quicksilver passed from Barleymill to Bryony Hill.

  “How long will you be staying here?” Lady Cindertallow asked Clovermead just before they parted.

  “Some weeks more,” said Clovermead. “Sorrel will be helping the Cyan Cross Horde set up again. Fetterlock gave the Horde fifty horses, but they want him to do some of the heavy lifting to start out with.” Clovermead smiled. “When they saw me carry three folded-up tents on my back in bear-shape, they wanted to make me a member of the Horde too. I said I couldn’t do that, but I do want to help them. Some of the freed slaves will be heading off to the Whetstone River, and back to their homes, but we need to take the Tansyard slaves back to their Hordes. And we’ll be taking Mullein to the White Star Horde. She’s going to stay there for a while. I think she’ll take lessons from the White Star Shaman-Mother, to learn more about her profession.”

  “Your friend Sorrel,” Lady Cindertallow began. She stopped and cleared her throat. “I’ve commuted all charges against him since he saved your life in the battle, but I can’t let him back into the Yellowjackets. I know you say you gave him permission to leave you in the Moors, but every soldier in Chandlefort knows the truth: He disobeyed orders and he deserted. No officer would be willing to have him as a trooper.”

  “I don’t suppose that’s a problem,” said Clovermead. “Sorrel doesn’t much want to serve in the Yellowjackets as a trooper anymore.”

  “I’m glad,” said Lady Cindertallow. She sounded relieved. “Of course he is free to return to Chandlefort.”

  “I’ll tell him,” said Clovermead. “I don’t know if he wants to come back.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Lady Cindertallow. “I know you’ll miss him—and with good reason.” She smiled. “I gather he has the proper attitude toward mothers—that we are wonderful creatures, beloved by their children, who ought always to be rescued by them from great danger. I’m glad you’ve chosen a man of such excellent judgment and character to be your friend.”

  “I’m glad he chose me to be his friend,” said Clovermead. She smiled wryly. “Though I’m not sure it shows such good judgment on his part.”

  “Too much modesty, Clo! I’m sure you deserve each other.” Lady Cindertallow gathered Clovermead into a hug, kissed her, then leaped onto her horse. “Come back soon, Daughter. I will miss you.”

  “I’ll be back before you know it—oh, Mother, please say hello to Saraband and Father for me as soon as you get back to Chandlefort! Let them know I’m alive, and that I won’t be out here too long, and let them know I’ve been thinking of them.” For a moment Clovermead saw Saraband’s head lopped off again, saw Waxmelt weeping for his treachery. I won’t let that happen, Clovermead swore to herself. It was a vision of what might have been. Not of what will be. “Give them my love,” she said.

  “I will,” said Lady Cindertallow. She smiled at her daughter a last time, and then she rode off. Soon the Tansyard warriors and Linstock soldiers rode after her, off to the north.

  Late that afternoon Sorrel and Clovermead finally had a chance to walk by themselves, in the clean grass of the hills overlooking Yarrow’s Bowl. Sorrel had finally replaced his Yellowjacket uniform. He was dressed in a russet deerskin shirt and leggings, dark-brown moccasins, and his red fox-fur hat. Around his neck he wore a necklace of sapphire beads. All in all, he was quite the handsome Tansyard warrior.

  “You always manage to get dolled up,” said Clovermead. “Where did you get those sapphires?”

  “They are a gift from Fetterlock,” said Sorrel. “They are the proper regalia of the Horde Chief of the Cyan Cross Horde.” Clovermead’s eyes went wide, and she whistled. Sorrel chuckled. “Oh, yes. I know I am unsuited for the position, for the Horde Chief is supposed to be the bravest and the wisest warrior in the Horde—but after all, I am the only warrior the Horde has yet. I hope we soon may adopt some warriors from other Hordes, who will be able to take my place in time, but for the meanwhile I will serve. It will mean a great deal of hard work and botheration on my part, though it does have some advantages. I have, for example, with my unanimous consent, pardoned the cowardly warrior Sorrel who ran from the bear-priests at Bryony Hill. He has shown sufficient bravery since then, and he is an outlaw no longer.” His eyes twinkled. “I believe I outrank you, Clovermead. I am the leader of my nation, and you are only the heiress-in-waiting of yours. I want due respect for my exalted station to be shown in the future. You cannot hit me in the arm again.”

  “I’ve never been good at diplomatic protocol,” said Clovermead. “I might forget.” She looked the Horde Chief up and down. “I don’t know how I’ll stand being in Chandlefort without you, Sorrel.”

  “I will miss you terribly too,” said Sorrel. He reached to his neck, moved aside the sapphire necklace, and produced a small golden pendant. It was a flaming bee wielding a sword. “A gift from Milady. I will not wear the livery of Chandlefort any longer, but I will gladly wear this token, as a sign of my gratitude and my friendship. It will always be with me, and I will never forget that desert town while I wear it. I will never forget you.” He looked Clovermead straight in the eyes, and hesitated for a long moment. Then he smiled. “I recollect that I never told you the end of the story about the red fox. Would you like to hear it?”

  “Very much,” said Clovermead. “You and your brother were about to slaughter the poor thing, like the bloodthirsty little boys you were, and then your father smacked you on the head and told you to do no such thing. You all sat down and waited, and the fox, conveniently enough, stuck around and didn’t run away overnight.”

  “My father would never have smacked me on the head,” said Sorrel. “In other essentials, you are correct.” He paused a moment. “We waited all night. Indeed, I thought the fox would run away, but he did not. I fell asleep against my father’s side. I woke in the gray light before dawn and I saw two foxes. As soon as I saw them, I knew they were a pair, a husband and a wife. They whined and nuzzled each other like true lovers, like my father and mother did when they thought we children were not looking, and my heart almost broke to think that I had almost killed one of them, from a thoughtless whim. I saw their love for each other and I told myself, ‘I want to love like that someday.’ I thanked my father, and I thanked Our Lady for letting me know how I wanted to live my life.”

  “Oh,” said Clovermead. Then she said “Oh!” again, and she blushed a very, very deep red.

  In the twilight Sorrel held out his hand to her. “Will you take my hand, friend?” he asked.

  And it was really remarkably easy. Clovermead held out her hand, and then they were walking side by side. Clovermead’s heart had a distressing tendency to skip and lurch, but other than that everything seemed quite normal. Rather nice, Clovermead amended to herself. She interlaced her fingers with Sorrel’s. Even nicer.

  “I began to tell you that story without remembering how it ended,” said Sorrel. “Then it struck me as I was talking that it was not quite proper for me to tell it to you unless I had made some declaration of sentiment. And to tell the truth, while I wished to say something to you, I was too terrified to speak! I did not know what you would say, and I did not want to ruin our friendship.”

  “You didn’t need to worry. I’ve been—I thought I was in love with you for an awfully long time. Since we were in the Reliquary Mountains three years ago.”

  Sorrel’s eyes widened. “I had no idea! You gave me no clue.” Then he smiled. “I would not have made a declaration to you then anyway, for you were far too young. I have only begun to regard you with, ah, corporeal admiration this last year,
when it was decent to think such things of you.” He shook his head. “Truly, you are still young.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t say anything until now.” Clovermead clutched at Sorrel’s hand. “Don’t go away! I just mean—for a while I told myself that I was in love with you, and I was just miserable. Then I started wondering whether I really was in love with you, or if it was just a crush, and I was less miserable but a lot more confused. And that’s where I was when you started to tell me that story about the red fox. And if you’d kept on speaking that night—I don’t know what would have happened. But I’d have, well, I’d have wanted to kiss you.” She blushed again. “You’re awfully handsome. Did I ever tell you that?”

  “I told myself so,” said Sorrel. “But I am very glad to hear it from you. And you, Clovermead—you were a pretty girl, but now you are a lovely woman.”

  “Whoo,” said Clovermead. “That made my knees go weak.” She squeezed Sorrel’s hand even tighter.

  “But you are just as glad we did nothing,” said Sorrel lightly, a little sadly. “Because it was just a crush.”

  “Not just a crush. But a good deal of one. And expecting that love and romance was something really different from friendship, better somehow, and I think I was even a little impatient with just friendship. But then I hurt you so badly, and you left me, and I didn’t think we’d ever even be friends again. That hurt me so much, and I didn’t care anymore about anything but our friendship. I’m not exactly glad that happened, but I don’t think I valued our friendship properly before. Valued you properly. And you came back to me, and you’re still willing to be friends with me after all I did to you, and now I think I really know what to love about you, more than I ever did before.”

  “Now I am weak in the knees,” said Sorrel. “I can never say it so well as that, but, yes, I am also glad that I did not make any declarations until now. Until I knew you properly. No, even if I could, I would not change anything. I am much happier to have waited until now to speak to you.”

  Clovermead turned to face Sorrel head-on. Their fingers were still intertwined, he was only a foot away, and he was even more handsome than usual in the twilight. Clovermead brought her hand up to brush Sorrel’s cheek. Short stubble grew on it, and she luxuriated in its feel. And suddenly, surprisingly, but not too soon at all, he bent down and kissed her. It was a gentle kiss, a hesitant kiss, and, really, a somewhat clumsy kiss. But I’m sure I’m clumsy too, thought Clovermead. She kissed Sorrel back, with just as much hesitance and clumsiness. For a second it was really quite wonderful—and then Clovermead drew away.

  “I think that’s enough for now,” she said, a little dizzily. She looked at Sorrel shyly. “If you don’t mind? It takes a little getting used to.”

  “Do not worry, Clovermead. I know you are worth waiting for.” Then Sorrel grinned. “Besides, I am sure I will tempt you into another meeting of the lips sooner than you think.”

  “You are a vain peacock,” said Clovermead. “You always have been and you always will be.” She hit him on the shoulder.

  “Most undiplomatic,” said Sorrel. He looked down at Clovermead with affection, with good humor, oh, Lady, with love. It was frightening to see him look at her that way. It scalded her, it was wonderful, it was terribly hard not to look away. Then Sorrel dropped his gaze, and he looked suddenly sad. “There is a third part to that story of the red fox. I should tell that to you as well.”

  “You killed one of them by accident, and it became your hat after all? I knew it!”

  Sorrel chuckled. “No, little tease.” He sighed. “When the two foxes had frolicked together for half an hour, they yipped a good-bye to each other, as if to say, ‘We will see each other again when we can.’ Then one went east and one went west, looking back over their shoulders until they were out of sight. I have never wanted to tell you that part of the story at all, but now I think I must.” He gestured with his free hand down at the lights of the Cyan Cross Horde, camped in Yarrow’s Bowl. “I told you that I am their Horde Chief now. I cannot abandon them for a good while to come.”

  “And you should spend some time with your mother and Mullein,” said Clovermead. “You should get to know them again.” She sighed. “I have to go back to Chandlefort in the fall.”

  “I know,” said Sorrel. “That is why I told you the last part of the story. The two foxes said farewell only for a time. They knew they would see each other again.”

  “I’ll bet one fox wasn’t certain. I’ll bet she was afraid they would wander the Steppes forever, and never see each other again.” Clovermead frowned. “How long?”

  “I will be in Chandlefort three springs from now, without fail,” said Sorrel.

  “Three springs?” Clovermead stared at Sorrel in disbelief. “That’s forever!”

  “It is a long time,” said Sorrel, soberly. “But it is—” He smiled crookedly, bitterly. “It is my duty to stay with Cyan Cross Horde. I think you understand.”

  “Ha-ha,” said Clovermead sourly. “I do. But I don’t have to like it.” She adjusted her grip and interlaced her fingers even more tightly with Sorrel’s. Already his fingers felt comfortable around hers. “Three springs?”

  “But no more. And we have a summer together first. Besides, when we are apart, I will send you objects that cunningly tell you whole days of conversation in just a glance. For example, I will send you an egg, and you will know that I spent the day watching birds fly overhead, and that their feathers gleamed beautifully in the sunlight.”

  “You’d better tell me what the messages mean in advance. I don’t think I’d have guessed what an egg meant.”

  “The first thing I will send you will be a codebook,” said Sorrel. He tried to smile at Clovermead. “I do not like the thought of being separated from you any more than you do. But when this time apart is done, we will have all our lives to spend together.”

  Sorrel turned from her, left her forever, and he walked into darkness.

  “I had a nightmare a little while ago,” Clovermead began. She looked at Sorrel and opened her mouth. But then she could not bear to tell him her dream. I healed Snuff and Boulderbash. And maybe thanks to me they still will conquer everything for Ursus. You won’t be able to love me then, and you will leave me. I can’t tell you. I just can’t.

  Don’t let it happen, she prayed to Our Lady. I know I said I’d accept any consequence for what I did, but please keep me from the worst. Let us live. Let us learn to love each other properly. I won’t give up. I’ll keep my hope. I’ll keep my faith in you. But, please, save us from the darkness. I need you now, more than ever.

  The moon was rising over the horizon. It shone its light over the dark world, and Clovermead took some comfort from its light. But the darkness was so large, and the light so very small and far away.

  “I’ll feel so cold without your hand in mine,” said Clovermead. “Oh, Sorrel, never let me go.”

  “Never, Clovermead,” said Sorrel. “I swear it by Our Lady.” He put both his hands around Clovermead’s one hand. “We shall walk hand in hand forever.”

  Clovermead let her head rest on Sorrel’s shoulder.

  “Forever,” she said dreamily. “I like the sound of that.”

  THE END

  Book Four: Ursus

  Dedication

  To my sister,

  Ariane Randall,

  with love

  Title Page

  URSUS

  IN THE SHADOW OF THE BEAR

  by David Randall

  Acknowledgments

  For friendship, support, and love while writing this book, I am especially grateful to Simon Lipskar, David Rosen, Chynna Miller, Ariane Randall, Francis Randall, Laura Randall, my baby boy Joshua, and, always and especially, my wife, Laura Congleton. This book is dedicated to my sister Ariane, who has read the manuscripts of all four books in the series, and commented extensively and helpfully on each of them. Much love, Blue Mouse, from Red Mouse.

  Chapter One

 
The Bear Dance

  “Sorrel and I didn’t spend nearly enough time together as boyfriend and girlfriend,” Clovermead told Auroche. Auroche nickered, swerved as the dusty path came to a canal, and cantered between the conduit’s glistening water and a muddy field just turned green with the onset of spring. Clovermead bent low over his neck and whispered in her pony’s long left ear. “We just had that one summer out on the Tansy Steppes, you know. When you find out that you love someone, and that he loves you, you ought to get years together with each other. It’s deeply unfair that we have to be apart for three years, right at the beginning. Especially since he doesn’t know how to write! I know he still loves me, but I would be glad to get word on the matter. Little gifts of beadwork and feather hats and hearts embroidered on horsehide are all well and fine, but oh, I miss the sound of his voice. You know how that goes, Auroche—you get all lonesome without another horse to whinny at. I have been deprived of whinnies.”

  Auroche whinnied comfortingly.

  “It’s sweet of you,” said Clovermead, “but it isn’t the same.” She fed him a sugar cube. Auroche snorted his thanks, and his canter turned into a gallop. Clovermead let him run free and kept her arms tight around his neck. Soon the canal came to a halt, and with it the fields and vineyards of Chandlefort. The path disappeared too as Clovermead and Auroche rode out to the surrounding desert of the Salt Heath. They raced for a few minutes in the Heath’s wasteland of rubble and gullies, flat dust and sheer cliffs, until Clovermead pulled gently on her pony’s reins. Auroche came to a halt, Clovermead slid to the ground, and she left him to nibble scraggly weeds.

  Clovermead strode over to the top of a cliff and gazed eastward, toward the far Tansy Steppes. She had on the comfortable sky-blue wool sweater and trousers that she far preferred to the confining silk dresses worn by the ladies of the court. Now that she was eighteen, Clovermead had reached her full height: She was taller than most women, and as tall as a good many men. Her hair was bright yellow, as her mother’s once had been, and the vigor of the Cindertallows flowed from her body, but her terrible posture, her freckles, and her smile were all her own.