“Look at your loyal subjects bow, Milady!” cried Snuff. “Look at their humble deference! See all the bunting on the houses!” He pulled Clovermead up from the street. “Welcome, Milady! Be gracious; give us a smile!” The bear-priests howled. One hurled a clod of muck that smacked into Clovermead’s cheek.
“I’ll show them how a Lady Cindertallow behaves, Mother,” Clovermead whispered. She straightened herself up. Her back creaked, her forehead throbbed as blood spurted down, and her hands were numb beneath the bonds on her wrists, but she assumed as best she could the posture she had seen so often in her mother. “I am Cerelune Cindertallow,” Clovermead said to herself, and she gazed scornfully through a black eye at the nearest bear-priest. “I am the twenty-first Lady of Chandlefort. I am the mistress of this town.” A cobblestone bounced off her calf. “I am Clovermead Wickward. I never had sense enough to be scared.” A bear-priest on a Phoenixian horse lashed her with his whip. As jeering bear-priests battered at her with the hilts of their scimitars, she hobbled up the street in tatters of dignity. “I love Our Lady, and I can stand anything. I won’t break.”
The Castle gates had fallen to the ground. The last Yellowjackets had fought there; now their bodies lay strewn thickly around the shattered metal. The entire Castle was in flames. The wood charred, the stones blackened, and the floors smashed and fell as Clovermead watched. On the roof, fire scorched and consumed the Cindertallow flag and the bestiary of statues. The marble Ladies Cindertallow gaped through swirling smoke as their home turned to ash. As the blaze ate through the roof, one by one the statues crashed into the conflagration below.
In the square in front of the broken Castle gates, Ursus waited. The old black bear was fifty feet long, but now he was just flesh—save for the dark hollows where his eyes had been. He paced back and forth in front of the Castle, his jaws red with fresh blood. Boulderbash crouched by his side. His white-furred mother was less than half his size. She watched her giant son with loathing and helpless love.
Here you are, little cub, Ursus roared out when Clovermead came into view. His enormous head and foot-long teeth twisted toward her. His roar echoed through the city, louder than the crackling flames of the Castle. Let the coronation begin!
“As you wish, Master,” said Snuff. His voice was filled with terror and love. He pushed Clovermead forward, and snapped his fingers. The bear-priest behind him brought up the battered remnants of Lady Cindertallow, tied her to a pole, and hoisted the shaft. Her mother’s body swung slackly ten feet in the air. “Lady Cindertallow is dead,” Snuff cried. “Lady Cerelune Cindertallow rules in her stead.” He kicked Clovermead in the legs, and she fell to her knees. The iron circlet jerked up and down, and scraped more flesh and blood from her. “Now the prophecies are complete. You are the twenty-first and last Lady of Chandlefort, and Chandlefort falls with you. Your blood will consecrate our victory.” He drew his sword, and turned to Ursus. “Master, shall I?”
Not so quickly, Snuff, Ursus growled. We have time. Chain her to the ground. Leave her here without drink, without food. Let her die slowly. He laughed. Leave her crown on her head. Royalty must die with all the trimmings. He laughed again, and the bear-priests laughed with him in servile echo.
Snuff sheathed his sword, and he came to Clovermead to chain her down.
During the first day it was cold and arid. A north wind blew, to chill Clovermead through the rents in her clothes. Her tongue dried in her mouth, and thirst clamored at her, but she wasn’t too hungry. An iron circlet shackled her neck, ran to handcuffs and foot bands, and then to an iron spike pounded two feet into the cobblestones. Her iron crown still pressed down upon her head. The short chain kept Clovermead doubled up. After a while her back began to ache.
Twenty bear-priests squatted in a circle thirty feet around her. Some watched her carefully, while others spoke to one another in short, brusque bursts of bear-tongue. Some pointed at her and laughed. Others played cards, gambling for charred loot pried from the houses of Chandlefort. More bears and bear-priests wandered through the smoldering ruins of the Castle. The roof collapsed at noon: Every statue smashed to smithereens.
Lady Cindertallow’s body hung from its pole, not twenty feet away. Clovermead averted her eyes. I won’t see you like this, she swore fiercely. I’ll remember you as you were alive—proud and loving, always fighting, never giving up. This isn’t you. You are your spirit, not this dead flesh. Tears trickled down her face.
Clovermead slept awhile, and when she woke, the stars were out and Boulderbash sat near her. Her white fur glowed in the darkness. Clovermead tried to turn bearish, to grow fur—but the iron leash around her neck choked her as she grew larger. She stayed human and shivered in the cold.
Hello, changeling, said Boulderbash. She crouched by Clovermead’s side, looked at Clovermead’s chains, and growled contentedly. You are well rewarded for your treachery.
I suppose I am, said Clovermead. A gust of wind made her mother’s body sway on the pole. Clovermead wanted to cry, but there was too little water in her. Are you satisfied?
I should be, said Boulderbash. Her satisfaction faded into uncertainty. I want my son back, she whispered. He has been gone a hundred years.
I can’t help you, said Clovermead. She trembled as a colder breeze sawed through her. I’m tired. Let me sleep.
Your father rescued me from a trap once, said Boulderbash distractedly. His memory asks me to be kind to you.
I’m tired, Clovermead repeated. Talk to me tomorrow, if you must. But not now.
I would be noticed then, said Boulderbash. My son likes to keep an eye on me. She stood up, walked toward Clovermead, and stared into Clovermead’s eyes. A snarl of unendurable, irresistible hatred welled up in her. I will be glad to see you dead.
I’m glad I’ll provide you some joy in life, said Clovermead. She curled up on the ground. Go away. She closed her eyes.
After a while she felt Boulderbash lie down by her side. The white bear stretched around Clovermead, and her fur warmed Clovermead in the cold night. Clovermead let her teeth chatter, until the cold drained out of her. Boulderbash’s breath slowed into a snore like the tide of the sea. Clovermead fell asleep in Boulderbash’s embrace.
When she woke in the morning, Boulderbash was gone.
The second day was baking hot. A dusty wind came out of the south, and every minute of the day Clovermead felt herself grow drier. The sun beat down on her, and her skin burned. Her stomach rumbled with hunger. Her shackles rubbed her raw, and every move she made slid iron over bloody flesh. She kept herself as still as possible.
Lucifer Snuff came to stand near her. “I’m sorry we didn’t get that last fight, girlie,” he said after a while. “Boulderbash hogged all the fun.”
“Sorry too,” croaked Clovermead.
“Thirsty, eh?” Snuff stared at her broodingly. “You’re no different from the rest. No end of slaves. No end of sacrifices. They all died the same way.”
“Guess so,” Clovermead whispered.
Snuff crouched down. “Do you think she’d care?” he asked softly. “If I were kind to you? How would she weigh that against the rest that I’ve done?”
Clovermead shrugged.
Snuff laughed—and for once the mockery was against himself. “I guess she doesn’t share such plans with you, girlie. Don’t know what I was thinking. And Ursus—how could I betray my sweet master?” He shook his head. “He should tear my throat out.”
Clovermead swallowed, and wet her throat as much as she was able. “I’d be glad for a drink,” she said. “For pity’s sake.”
Snuff took a copper flask of water from his waist. He held it up near Clovermead’s mouth for a moment—then drew it back. “I can’t,” he said. “Master said no drink for you.” He returned the flask to his belt, hesitated a moment, and took out his knife. “I can make this quick, Milady. One slash, and that’ll be an end to the pain. It’s all the mercy I can give you.”
The offer was unbearably sweet. The
knife wavered in front of Clovermead, and now it was a bunch of sweet white lilies. Sweet perfume, thought Clovermead. Sweet sleep. An end.
Sorrel was riding toward her. Coming to Chandlefort. He had Ursus’ caul.
He can’t make it, thought Clovermead. It’s impossible. An end, a mercy.
The stained-glass Harlequin threw his rope toward the gallows. Our Lady called him back.
My face too.
Clovermead shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “Thank you. No. I’ll wait a bit more.”
“As you wish.” Snuff sheathed his knife and stood up. “I made the offer,” he said. He turned from Clovermead and strode quickly away.
On the third day rain pelted down. The bear-priests erected a tarpaulin above Clovermead and to either side of her, to make sure she got no water to drink, but the cold, damp wind whistled through her bones. She was feverish now, hot and cold at once, and thirst was an agony so sharp that she barely noticed her empty stomach. She couldn’t move.
Ursus came that day. His eyes were dark holes. Sparkling scarlet smeared his fur. He crouched down in front of Clovermead and stared at her.
So much time wasted, he said at last. If you’d served me, we could have conquered Chandlefort six years ago. It all comes to the same in the end. Except you could have hunted with me, and now you are prey.
Better this way, said Clovermead. Happier.
Ursus laughed softly. Really? His eyes glanced at Lady Cindertallow’s swinging body, and then he laughed louder as some uncontrollable tears worked their way to Clovermead’s eyes. Happy in your weakness—there’s a worshiper of the sky-crone for you! Be happy, while I conquer the world. Much may your joy profit you. His great claws moved over Clovermead, and lightly ran along the scar on her arm.
I know the way to the moon, said Clovermead. Through black water. I have the better end of the bargain.
I’ll find my own way, said Ursus. I’ll find my caul someday. And when I do, I’ll come to the moon as I am and begin to hunt. When I catch you, we’ll see who has made the better bargain.
I’m not afraid, said Clovermead.
Ursus growled with rage. His teeth bent low over Clovermead and—he turned away. He whimpered deep in his throat, and almost ran away from his prisoner.
The third night came, and Clovermead was dying. The water still dripped on the tarpaulin above her. The smoldering ruins of Chandlefort, unquenched by the rain, illumined the darkness with flickering orange light. She could not feel her toes anymore, or the tips of her fingers. She had forgotten what water tasted like. She drifted in and out of sleep; dreams and nightmares alternated in her for brief seconds. I’ll be with you soon, Mother, she said to the body on the pole. You won’t have to wait much longer.
Somewhere far away horns blew, and the bear-priests near her stirred. There was a faint cry of voices, and the clash of metal. A bear-priest on a white Phoenixian raced toward the bear-priests guarding Clovermead and barked out an order. Half of them scrambled onto their horses, and the troop galloped toward the shell of Chandlefort’s walls. For a moment Clovermead heard the fighting tune of the Yellowjackets drift to her on the breeze. Soon the sound of fighting men grew louder—and then faded away, with bear-priests howling triumph and pursuit.
They lost, whoever they were, thought Clovermead. She would have cried if any tears had been left inside her. She slept, and wandered through broken shards of dreams.
When she woke again, a bear-priest stood in front of her, wrapped in greasy furs. “Hello, Milady,” he said with a sneer. He snapped some words in bear-tongue at the guarding bear-priests to either side. They laughed, and sidled away from Clovermead. Now all Clovermead could see was the tarpaulin above her and the bear-priest in the guttering square of light in front of her. “Your would-be rescuers have been defeated. Ursus sends you news that they were scattered to the winds. And to reward you for their presumption, Ursus has sent me to give you his regards.” He waved a rusty pitchfork in the air, and the retreating bear-priests laughed.
The bear-priest’s voice was familiar.
“It doesn’t matter,” Clovermead whispered through her dry throat. Her head spun, and fear couldn’t penetrate her weariness and pain. “Do your worst.” She smiled, and cracked her swollen lips. “It’s funny. You sound like Sorrel.”
“I am Sorrel,” the bear-priest whispered, and the world swam before Clovermead as he came closer to her with the pitchfork. He stood in front of her, his familiar, wonderful face visible beneath the bear-priest furs as he blocked the view of the bear-priests nearest to the tarpaulin’s open front. He held a leather bottle in his hand. “Drink,” he said in a low voice, and then lovely, cool water trickled down her throat. “You might scream,” he said. “It would help the performance.”
“I can’t,” choked Clovermead. “No strength.”
“Then I will,” said Sorrel. He jabbed at the ground by Clovermead with his pitchfork, and shrieked, high and loud and horrible. The bear-priests beyond the rough cloth laughed, and called out encouragement. Sorrel’s mouth twisted in disgust. “They are swine. Here, Clovermead, take this quickly.” He pressed the locket, fastened on its chain, into Clovermead’s trembling hands.
Black lightning flickered, and Clovermead’s wounds faded. Her chills and fevers disappeared and her hunger vanished. She felt death recede.
“You will not die,” Sorrel whispered urgently. “No matter what happens. I have come here, and I have saved you. Praise Our Lady. Another drink.” He helped Clovermead put the bottle to her mouth again. She guzzled the water, still greedy for the taste even though the caul had satisfied her thirst.
“How?” Clovermead whispered. Water trickled down her cheeks from the side of her mouth.
“How did I come into the heart of Ursus’ army? By riding too slowly to get to Chandlefort before the bear-priests conquered it. By meeting up with your esteemed father, Lord Wickward, and arranging with him to make a diversion while I got myself and this object of prophecy into the city. Ah, Lady, a diversion? More men dead, sacrificed in desperate hope that we may somehow escape Ursus’ claws this way. By abandoning Brown Barley in a far field, and skulking to the city. By killing a sleeping bear-priest and stealing his clothes.” Sorrel grimaced. “He did not shriek as he died, just looked at me with hurt, surprised eyes. And now I have come here through the rubble of Chandlefort, past too many dead Yellowjackets whose faces I recognize, and used the few words of bear-tongue I have picked up over the years to get past this last guard. You have your locket; the locket is in Chandlefort. Wait a second.” He stabbed at the ground with his pitchfork again, and shrieked another time. Once more the bear-priests behind the canvas laughed. Clovermead took another drink. “I have fulfilled the prophecy as best I can. Clovermead, what do we do?”
“I don’t know,” said Clovermead. Now she could speak without her throat hurting too badly. She gave the bottle back to Sorrel and shook the chains that tied her down. “I don’t suppose you have a key?”
“I am afraid not,” said Sorrel. There was a sob in his voice. “I have gotten here, and that was all of my plan.”
“Then stay with me a few minutes,” said Clovermead. She tried to smile at him. “It’s so good to see your face. Maybe we’ll think of something. But stay.”
Sorrel took her hand in his and squeezed it gently. “Gladly, Clovermead. Ah, Clovermead, I wish I had come back sooner from the Steppes.”
“Me too,” said Clovermead. “No regrets. No recriminations.”
The wind blew, and Clovermead heard her mother’s body sway.
“I wonder if the caul could bring Mother back to life,” said Clovermead softly.
“Perhaps it could,” said Sorrel. He shivered. “I would not be surprised.”
“If I asked you, would you cut her body down?” Now Clovermead clung even more tightly to Sorrel’s hand. “So we could try.”
Sorrel hesitated, but then nodded. “I do not think you should do this, Clovermead. I do not think this
is what the prophecy intended. But, yes, I will do that if you want.”
“I want her back so badly, Sorrel,” Clovermead whispered. “I miss her so. And, and, she shouldn’t have died this way. She should have another chance, so she can die peacefully. Not like this. Not so horribly. Oh, Sorrel, it was terrible.” A sob ripped up from her chest.
Sorrel took a step back from Clovermead, and now she could see past him. Clovermead steeled herself, and she looked directly at her mother. Her mother’s body—Clovermead’s stomach heaved at what had been done to it. Lady Cindertallow’s face was barely recognizable. And worst of all, death had robbed her features of her soul. Even asleep, her mother had always been recognizably Lady Cindertallow, Melisande, that formidable, sharp, loving person. Now she was only dead flesh.
Ursus wrought a special chain from his darkness and tied it tight between us, Boulderbash had said. Now not even death can steal me from him. My little cub has such power.
Clovermead glanced at Sorrel. Most of your Horde was slaughtered, she thought. Your father, your brother—you don’t miss them any less than I do. Would you give them life again if you could?
So many people, Lady. I want to bring them all back.
Clovermead looked once more at Lady Cindertallow, then let her eyes fall. “You died well, Mother. With dignity. I won’t take that from you,” she said aloud. Now she couldn’t help smiling. “And how can I drag you away from Ambrosius? That would be the cruelest fate of all.” She turned away from her mother’s body.
“Well,” said Sorrel after a while, “I don’t have any food with me. Shall I look for some?”
Clovermead’s stomach rumbled. “I’m not starving since you gave me the caul, but I am hungry,” she admitted. “We’re not far from the Castle kitchens—” She heard a clicking sound, and she stiffened. “Sorrel, someone’s coming.”
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