In the Shadow of the Bear

by David Randall

  “Understood, Demoiselle. Thank you, Demoiselle. I think you’ve answered all the questions I had.” A teasing smile stole onto Lacebark’s face. “Have you told your Sorrel how terribly I flirted with you?”

  The smile drained from Clovermead’s face. “No. And I’d be very annoyed with you if you did.”

  “Quite so.” Lacebark retreated from her a half step. His own smile had disappeared. “I’m glad we’ve had this little chat, Demoiselle.”

  “With any luck we won’t have another,” said Clovermead. Lacebark inclined his head to her, then jogged away after Saraband.

  Brookwade returned one night from a long patrol in the grasslands south of the refugees. He growled uneasily, and stared back the way he had come. Clovermead turned into bear-shape and hobbled on three legs to join him just beyond the refugees’ wagons. What’s wrong?

  A bad smell, said Brookwade. A snake twitching in the grass. His claws scraped at the grass in frustration. I can’t tell what it is, or where it is, but something is nearby. Someone. It makes me nervous.

  A bear-priest? asked Clovermead. There’s one named Lucifer Snuff who might be lurking nearby. Or he might be at the other end of Linstock. He’s bald and has hair on his chin. He usually rides a skinny white horse.

  Brookwade shrugged. My hackles prickle, Nightbrawler, that’s all. Maybe I ate some rotten hay today, and my poor little hackles can’t tell the difference between indigestion and unseen threats. He batted at Clovermead’s shoulder. How could you get yourself injured? Now we won’t have a chance to tussle before you get to the Abbey!

  Sheer carelessness, said Clovermead. I’ll get myself killed one of these days.

  A foolhardy young lady like you? Whatever gave you that idea? Clovermead swiped a paw idly at Brookwade, and he ducked to one side. I told you that lady-bears are vicious.

  So we are, said Clovermead. She chuffed with laughter—then fell silent. How many bears died in that battle?

  Seventy free bears. Perhaps one hundred of Ursus’ slaves. Brookwade growled unhappily. Too many friends. He sat back on his haunches. Sundrink saved my life. A bear-priest was about to chop my head off, and she caught his head in her jaws. She was a fury! I saw her kill a dozen two-legs that day.

  So much death. Clovermead growled unhappily. I waited so long to free more bears, Brookwade. Our Lady gave me her light so that I could, and I swore an oath that I wouldn’t stop until all the bears were free of Ursus’ blood-net, and I really thought I could do it. But now Ursus has some horrible new trick, and all Our Lady’s light does now is freeze Ursus’ slaves so I won’t get hurt as I kill them. He’s made a mockery of her gift.

  Can you find a way to counter what he’s done? asked Brookwade.

  Maybe. He changed his blood-net before, when I was out on the Tansy Steppes, and I figured out a way to cut through it. But it’s not like I get much chance to practice—I always have to figure out what I’m doing in the middle of battle, when there’s hardly time to think. I’ll kill more bears before I find a way to use Our Lady’s light properly, and if I ever do find a way, he’ll just change his blood-net again. What’s the point of having this gift, anyway? I thought it would do some good.

  I am free, thanks to you, Brookwade said quietly. I have cubs who have never known Ursus’ yoke.

  Clovermead smiled. I’m glad about that. I just—She shook her head. I thought I could do more.

  I’d hoped you could too, said Brookwade. He sighed. So we give up our silly dreams.

  And fight. And die. Clovermead looked back at the Heath. I freed you all from Ursus so you could live and be happy, but then I asked you to come back and fight for me. And now so many of you are dead—

  We said yes, said Brookwade abruptly. Because you gave us the ability to say no. For our reward we have killed many bear-priests. Besides, some of us hate humans less than Sundrink does. We look at their children and we think of our own cubs. There are worse things than to lose your life to save a human child from bear-priests. Brookwade shrugged. We don’t regret coming, Nightbrawler.

  Still. Clovermead roared with soft unease. Do bears worry much about dying? Do you?

  Rrrm. Some. Brookwade thought for a moment. Sundrink and I were born in the same litter, and a third cub was born with us. He was small and sickly, and he died unnamed before I was a week old. I remember looking at him as Mother buried him in old leaves, and thinking how much he looked like my own reflection in a pool of water. He has been a shadow with me ever since—I play, I hunt, I bring dead rabbits home to Featherfur and my cubs, and wherever I go, he follows me. “I’m cold,” he says to me. “How can you enjoy yourself when I’m underneath the earth?” Then he says to me, “You’ll join me in time.”

  Clovermead shivered. Ugh. Why don’t you have the shakes all the time?

  The sun is warm, said Brookwade. Life is sweet, and one cannot listen to the cold shadows all the time. And we cannot put off the cold by worrying. Besides, Our Lady has promised us bears a range of fir-clad mountains on the moon, more rich and beautiful than the greatest forest in the Reliquaries. We must be cold, but only for a while. We will be warm again. He smiled. It is a cheering promise.

  I suppose it is, said Clovermead. In her memory she tore out the throat of a bear, and the creature looked at her with sad reproach as it died. Geill lay on a cart, gray and stiff. A north wind blew, through her fur and straight to her bones.

  That night Clovermead dreamed she was back in the Training Grounds—

  Once more the lance head came toward her, but this time Lucifer Snuff rode straight at her, with malice in his eyes. “Help me, Father!” Clovermead cried. “Mother, save me!” But she was alone. Snuff laughed, the sun shone on his metal teeth, and no matter how Clovermead darted from one side to the other, his lance followed her with inescapable, deadly accuracy. The lance head was enormous. Clovermead screamed in terror, and Snuff’s lance went into Clovermead’s chest and out her back.

  Clovermead touched the shaft of the lance as blood spilled out of her. “I’ve been killed,” she said in astonishment. She fell to her knees. “Lady, I hurt,” she groaned—

  And she woke up. Her heart was hammering fit to burst, and she wept with fear.

  Clovermead’s leg had healed, bar some aches and her new scar, by the time they rode into Silverfalls Valley. Steep snowcapped mountains rose on three sides around the slot of green fields; the refugees passed a line of newly built wooden stockades garrisoned by nuns’ men as they entered the open mouth of the Valley from the Heath. Half the servants, led by Waxmelt, peeled off to reinforce the nuns’ men in their stockades. Behind the forts, farmers were erecting further lines of palisades among their rich orchards. As the refugees rode through the Valley, more nuns’ men came to guide parties of refugees toward campsites in fallow fields. The Chandleforters dispersed along the five-mile stretch between the stockades and the Abbey. The population of Silverfalls Valley had more than doubled by the time they came to the Abbey itself.

  The bears stole off one by one toward the mountain forests. Your two-legs are safe, Brookwade said to Clovermead. He loped by Clovermead’s side among the remaining carts and wagons. It’s time for us to return to our homes.

  I’m grateful for what you’ve done, said Clovermead. I won’t ask you to fight again.

  To die again, she thought.

  As you will, changeling. Brookwade’s throat rumbled an invitation. If ever you want to spend time with us in the forests, you will be welcome.

  I’d love to, said Clovermead. She sighed. I’d like nothing better than to run with you, but I’m supposed to take the servants back toward Chandlefort as soon as the townsmen are settled here.

  If you have a spare night, come and visit, said Brookwade. He smiled. Meantime, Featherfur’s scent beckons me. She needs another rabbit brought to her as tribute to her beauty. Then he, too, slipped off toward the woods.

  Good-bye, called Clovermead. She turned away from the forest, and she saw Sundrink ambling in th
e grass. Are you leaving too?

  Not yet. A few of us will stay nearby, in case more bear-priests come this way. Her eyes gleamed. I have not had my fill of their blood.

  Clovermead shivered. Will you ever?

  Not until the last is dead, growled Sundrink. She nodded to Clovermead, turned from the wagons, and disappeared into a nearby orchard.

  Silverfalls Abbey was a squat stone fortress that stood at the back of the Valley, right in front of a waterfall that fell four hundred feet down a sheer rock face. The water ran underneath the walls of the Abbey, to the Scrying Pool within, out beneath the walls on the Abbey’s opposite side, and down the Valley. Within the Abbey, whose outer walls were gray granite slabs lashed together with strips of black iron, gaily colored tile roofs gave a hint of cheer to the gloomy structure. Armed nuns’ men lined its walls.

  “I suppose now is when I go and say hello to the Abbess and beg pardon for the lack of warning,” said Clovermead. She got down from the wagon and stretched her legs by the Abbey walls. “Oof! I’m still stiff. I need someone to lean on.”

  “My shoulder is generally at your service,” said Sorrel from atop Brown Barley. His voice was easy and friendly—but nothing more. “I should caution you, however, that the Abbess specifically warned me that she would stuff me into a barrel and toss me over the falls if she ever laid eyes on me within her walls again. Also, she would do the same to anyone she saw with me. I do not think this is a proper attitude to take toward a mere messenger, and I do not think she will actually do this, but perhaps you should use someone who will aggravate her less.”

  “Maybe so,” said Clovermead. She smiled suddenly, her eyes flashed wickedly, and she called out, “Saraband!”

  Sorrel blanched. “Aggravate her less, Clovermead. Clovermead, are you mad?”

  “Indubitably,” said Clovermead. She smiled at Sorrel, he shook his head bemusedly, and for a moment they smiled at each other with all their old familiarity and affection.

  Saraband popped her head out from the back flaps of a nearby covered wagon. “What’s more important than a boy with a fever?” she asked irritably.

  “A wounded Demoiselle who needs someone to prop her up as she goes to see the Abbess.” Clovermead hobbled over to Saraband. “She can’t turn you away while you’re my crutch,” she added softly.

  All expression drained from Saraband’s face. “You’re most kind, Cousin,” she said flatly. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.” She jerked a finger at the interior of the cart. “Whatever I might prefer, the sick come first.”

  “I see,” said Clovermead. “I thought the real reason was that you were scared stiff, but I guess I was wrong.” She waited a moment. “You don’t fool me, Saraband.”

  “Pity.” The mask slipped, and for a moment Saraband’s eyes were holes of terror and loneliness. She took a ragged breath. “I do want to look at her. At least once more. Wait a moment, please.” She went back into the wagon. Clovermead heard her murmur, heard a boy’s piping voice, and Saraband came out again. “Sorrel,” she called out. The Tansyard bowed to her slightly. “I have a little boy who could use entertaining while I’m away. Can you tell him stories of the Steppes? And bathe his forehead with cool water?”

  “Certainly,” said Sorrel. “I will entertain the fortunate lad as you unimaginative Chandleforters never could, by epics stirring and thrilling and humorous, and with a proper amount of horseflesh in them.” He swung to the ground, tied Brown Barley’s reins to the cart, and extended his arm to help Saraband down. Saraband accepted his courtesy with a short nod, and then Sorrel leaped up to take her place. “Good-bye, Clovermead,” he said. “Good-bye, Lady Saraband. Come back before I run out of stories.” He winked at Clovermead and disappeared behind the wagon’s flaps. At once Clovermead could hear his soft voice as he greeted the sick boy.

  Clovermead and Saraband walked slowly to the Abbey walls. “By the way,” said Clovermead, “where’s the thief?”

  “Lacebark? Resting. He’s worn himself out nursing these last few days.” Saraband glanced at Clovermead. “Should I mistrust him? Suspect that he’s helped a dozen men back to health as part of some elaborate ploy to steal a kiss from my lips and my purse from my waist?”

  “I grant he does a fair imitation of a reformed sinner.” Clovermead smiled bemusedly. “Still, it’s hard to believe he’s changed so quickly.”

  “Indeed. I keep on waiting for him to seduce me, and yet he fails to take advantage of the most obvious opportunities.” Saraband shook her head sadly. “He was just the rogue you described when I danced with him—he flirted outrageously and eyed my earrings most professionally. He was . . . excitingly dangerous. Impossible not to kiss. But he’s been a changed man since.”

  Clovermead laughed. “You sound disappointed.”

  “I like the nurse. He is as handsome as the rogue, so I have no complaints there. And it’s a relief to spend time with Master Lacebark and not have to check my purse when we part company. Still, I miss the rogue with a gleam in his eye.”

  “I don’t think the rogue will stay away for long,” said Clovermead. She thought back to her conversation with Lacebark. I think he’d like to be an honest man with you, Saraband. But I wouldn’t make bets that he can keep to the straight and narrow.

  “That thought has occurred to me, too.” Saraband was silent for a moment. “I miss the rogue, but I don’t know if I will welcome his return,” she said in a low voice.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Abbess

  A nuns’ man led Clovermead and Saraband into the Abbey. Clovermead’s leg yowled as she walked, and she leaned more and more heavily on Saraband as they proceeded. Inside the thick walls the Abbey was astonishingly graceful. Buildings crowded the grounds within—dormitories for the nuns, a refectory and a choir hall, the central offices of the Abbey, and a temple built around the clear pool of water the Silverfalls nuns used for a Scrying Pool—but each structure alternated with a gardened cloister, and the ensemble gave an astonishing impression of space and greenery. Nuns in white robes and covered heads, with silver crescents on their chests, glided from hall to hall, on their individual errands. They glanced at Clovermead with curiosity, and at Saraband with glad recognition, but they did not pry, or do more than whisper to one another the news of Clovermead’s arrival.

  Soon Clovermead and Saraband came to the Abbess’ private quarters. These were on the lower floor of a red brick dormitory, semidetached from the nuns’ rooms, and almost surrounded by gardens. Protected from the winds of the Reliquaries, the gardens were already thick with crocuses and early daffodils. In the middle of the flowers was a tile patio that displayed in iridescent colors an image of Our Lady at rest in the rose beds of Templeweir.

  The Abbess read a book as she sat on a simple pinewood chair on the patio. A matching pine table sat by her side, with two more pine chairs beyond the table. Clovermead saw illustrations of anatomy on the pages of the book. That’s right, she thought. Saraband learned to doctor from her mother. The Abbess was a short, slight woman, with wisps of black and silver hair barely visible at the sides of her wimple. She had something of Saraband’s beauty, and something of a hummingbird’s size and energy. Delicate hands with neatly trimmed fingernails emerged from her white robes.

  The Abbess turned the page of her book, looked up, and saw them standing there. She looked again at Saraband, and her eyes widened. She scowled, started to speak—and looked at how Clovermead leaned on Saraband. The Abbess shut her mouth, and turned from her daughter to Clovermead. She closed her book and put it down on the table, and her eyes raked Clovermead up and down.

  “You are the Demoiselle?” Her voice was clear and ringing, high-pitched but surprisingly loud from such a small frame. Clovermead nodded. “I am not happy with this little surprise your mother has given me.”

  “I’m not happy that Ursus is barging toward Chandlefort with twenty thousand soldiers,” said Clovermead. “Lady Abbess, I know this is a shock, but we do need your he
lp. Where else can our people go—that’s safe?” she added hastily. Her leg ached, and she massaged it for a moment. “Lady Abbess, I know you’re not fond of my mother, but I think you’d be glad to do a deed of charity if she weren’t involved. If I’m right, could we pretend that she wasn’t the one who had this bright idea? Say it was me who plunked ten thousand people down in your Valley.”

  The Abbess glared at Clovermead—and then allowed a wintry smile onto her face. “You think remarkably like your mother. But you have a brand of impudence all your own.” She extended a hand toward the chairs. “Sit, Demoiselle. Your leg evidently pains you.” She hesitated a moment. Then she spoke without looking at her daughter. “Sit, Saraband.”

  “Thank you, Mother,” said Saraband quietly. She helped Clovermead to her chair and sat down by her side.

  The Abbess waited until they were settled. “Whoever had the idea, Demoiselle,” she continued, “I am not happy. I gather that your Chandleforters will be here indefinitely, and that Melisande wants me to send any nuns’ men I can spare to Chandlefort with you, to fight in a hopeless battle against Ursus. Is that correct?” Clovermead nodded. “At least that’s clear. I suppose it could be worse. Our granaries are bumper-full, and we can feed your refugees through to next spring. I’ll have your farmers grow crops on our upper pastures, and I can use your townsmen as laborers to improve our defenses against the Bear. But I suppose all hope of quiet is gone for a long time to come.” She opened her book, fingered through it, and pulled out a sheaf of papers tucked into the back pages. “Melisande was kind enough to send me extensive plans, by way of that Tansyard messenger, on how to get her townsmen settled quickly—not that she provided any money to help. But she’s most generous with her advice.”