“So have we said; so let it be,” the three women said together. Rosamund scattered her dirt and herbs over the unlit pile of wood, while Blanche lifted her pannikin of water over her head. The Widow spread her arms once more and began a long recitation in a singsong voice. A puff of air swept over the hollow, ruffling the bear’s fur and bringing with it the damp, cold smells of late winter or very early spring. Blanche shivered very slightly, and a drop of water fell from the upraised pannikin onto her cheek.
The Widow finished, and Blanche lowered her arms. Rosamund knelt beside the pile of wood and carefully tipped four glowing coals out of the small stone crock in which they had been carried to the hollow. The coals fell among the smallest twigs, which caught quickly. Rosamund rose and backed away, and for a moment there was no sound or movement but the crackling of the growing fire and the hungry flicker of the flames. Then the Widow crossed her arms against her chest and began to chant again.
Hugh stood like a statue through the first half of the spell-casting. He felt nothing, no hint of change nor pull of magic, and his last faint hope began to die. His head drooped, and if it had not been for the Widow’s warning he would have walked away in the middle of the spell. But that warning, and some lingering memory of courtesy, held him where he was through the whole long process in spite of his despair.
Sparks rose snapping on the heat of the bonfire, making a scintillating column against the dark. The Widow raised her arms for the final invocation. Blanche, still holding the pannikin of water, stepped closer to the fire. On the other side of the fire, Rosamund picked up the oak leaf inscribed with the laboriously made ink. As the Widow began the final line, Rosamund dropped the leaf into the fire. For the barest instant, the leaf lay among the flames; then it curled and charred and vanished. Hugh felt a stab of pain like the cut of a sword, and Blanche flung the pannikin of water onto the blaze.
With a fierce hiss, a cloud of smoky, herb-scented steam billowed out of the fire. There was far more of it than could be accounted for by the amount of water Blanche had flung. The cloud spread quickly in all directions, hiding Hugh and the three women completely from each other’s sight. Only the light from the fire was visible, a dim, reddish glow at the center of the mist.
The Widow’s voice rang through the hollow in the final “Fiat!” The fire flared once and died. The scented cloud hung a moment longer, then broke apart and vanished, leaving the Widow and her daughters blinking at the silent darkness. A shadow moved among the other shadows in the center of the circle, and Blanche said uncertainly, “Bear?”
Hugh shook himself to rid his fur of the bits of ash and leaves that had settled on him during the spell, and without thinking said, “My name’s Hugh.” He blinked at the ragged sound of his own voice, and realized that the spell had been at least partially successful. His mind was clear, and he could talk again.
“We’ve done the thing!” Rosamund cried triumphantly.
Blanche stepped forward eagerly, then stopped short. “Nay,” she said in a flat voice. “He’s still a bear.”
“But a most uncommon bear, I do assure you,” Hugh said. His voice rasped in his bear’s throat, but the discomfort was nothing compared to the pleasure of being able to speak.
“The bear speaks?” the Widow said incredulously, coming around the remains of the bonfire.
“Aye, and you have my gratitude for‘t,” Hugh answered. “If there’s a service I may do you, you have but to ask.”
“This is a hopeful sign, though all unlocked for,” the Widow said.
“Then dost thou think we should make another attempt?” Blanche asked quickly.
“Nay, Blanche, only a fool repeats a spell that’s partly failed. We must consider what this means before we try again.”
“But not here,” Rosamund said pointedly. The Widow laughed and agreed, and the women began gathering up their belongings to carry back to the cottage, where they could discuss the effects of their spell in relative comfort.
At the instant Blanche began the spell, Hugh’s brother John sat bolt upright in bed. It took him an instant to realize what had awakened him; then he threw on his clothes and pulled on his boots as fast as he could move his hands to do so. He was out the door and halfway down the street, heading for the forest, before his conscious mind fully grasped that finally and with certainty he knew where Hugh was. As soon as he realized it, he broke into a run.
In the house of Master John Dee, the quartz globe flared redly in the empty study. It rocked slightly, then rolled across the table and dropped off the edge. The thump it made as it hit the floor echoed through the house with unnatural loudness, and summoned Dee and Kelly to the study in time to be half blinded by a second, more brilliant flash of light. When their eyes cleared the globe lay beneath the front window, quiescent once more.
The two men looked at each other in horrified speculation. Kelly had just time to scoop the crystal up and restore it to its accustomed place before one of the housemaids arrived, half dressed and frantic with fear of fire (that being the first explanation she thought of for the queer red light that had awakened her). It took considerable time and all Dee’s diplomacy to soothe the girl, and by that time half of the other servants and most of the family were also awake and demanding explanations. Neither Dee nor Kelly got much sleep during the remainder of the night.
Mistress Rundel’s servant girl, Joan Bowes, was also awake, though not for any arcane reason. Earlier in the day, she had complained of a putrid sore throat coming on, and been convincing enough to be excused from her duties to the relative comfort of her narrow bed in the attic at the top of the house. The mid-afternoon nap, though pleasant, had made her unusually restless that night, and she had slipped out of bed to kneel by the window and watch for the fall of a wishing star.
So it was that Joan was looking out over the dark fields and roads when Rosamund lit the bonfire for the spell. The flare of light was clearly visible from the attic window, and Joan at once lost interest in gazing at the stars. She dismissed the impulse to assign responsibility for the fire to tinkers or peddlers, and seized at once on the far more interesting idea of witches or fairies. But though she leaned forward over the sill and squinted with all her might, the distance was much too great for her to make out any figures around the fire. She was still watching when the fire went out, even more abruptly than it had begun. Joan blinked, and her lips curved in a small, satisfied smile as she stored her observations carefully in her memory against the time when they might become useful.
And in the realm of Faerie, a tremor passed through the crystalline night air, like a shimmer on a soap bubble, and was gone.
Brief though it was, it did not go unnoticed. Throughout Faerie, strange night creatures paused to raise their heads and peer about with wide, dark eyes, or sniff the air questioningly for an instant before returning to their occupations. Only two in all that unnatural realm, however, had more response than that. Madini stiffened as the invisible ripple passed her, and her dark eyes flamed. She waited, and when the strange phenomenon was not repeated she frowned, and went to call her fellow conspirators to see if she could discover what had happened and how it might affect their plans.
On the opposite side of the palace, the sleepless Faerie Queen walked through a garden made for night, where ghost-white blossoms reflected moonlight and dark leaves shed a subtle scent into the air. Like her subjects, the Queen lifted her head as the tremor in the air went past, but when she lowered it there was an infinitesimal line between her perfect eyebrows. She stood motionless for a long time amid the flowers, breathing in their perfume. Then she turned and went back to her rooms without finishing her walk.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“When spring came and the trees began to turn green, the bear said to the girls, ‘The time has come for me to leave, and I will not come back again until the end of summer. ’ ‘Where are you going, bear?’ asked Snow White. ‘Back to the forest, where I can guard my treasure from the wicked dwarfs. In
winter they cannot come up through the frozen ground, but as soon as the earth has warmed a little they come out to pry and steal. Once they have laid their hands on something and hidden it in their caves, it seldom sees daylight again. ”
DESPITE HIS RESTORED CLARITY OF MIND, HUGH WAS not immediately aware of his brother’s approach. Unlike Rosamund and Blanche, who considered their partial success to be little better than an outright failure, Hugh was pleased indeed. The restoration of his mind and voice was far more than he had expected, and the relief he felt left him no room to notice more subtle tugs at his emotions. It was not until he was back in the Widow Arden’s cottage, lying before the hearth to watch the Widow and her daughters unload their baskets, that he felt the stirring at the back of his mind that told him John was somewhere near.
Hugh stretched lazily, reveling in the knowledge that now he could tell the Widow what he knew. He searched his mind for an elegant phrase or two to convey his meaning. Before he found them, there was a knock at the door.
The stricken expressions on the faces of the Widow and her daughters brought Hugh to his feet with a low growl. Blanche turned frightened eyes to him and whispered, “Hush! They must not find thee here, dear bear.”
“The blanket!” Rose said in an equally low voice. “Lie down, bear, and we’ll drape it over thee.”
“Hurry, girls,” the Widow said. She whisked the baskets out of sight behind the table and cast a quick eye around the room in search of other signs of their unorthodox excursion. Finding none, she started toward the door, just as the knock was repeated with polite insistence.
John had run nearly all the way from Mortlak, and he was still panting when the Widow opened her door. “Good evening, Mistress,” he said between puffs. He paused, unsure of how to phrase his questions. “May I come in?”
“No,” the Widow said firmly. “If you have business with me, tell it to me here; if not, be off with you. The hour’s a late one for an honest man to call.”
“True,” John said. “But my need’s urgent.” Over the Widow’s shoulder he caught a glimpse of the white faces of the girls, standing in front of the hearth, and he gave them his most charming smile. “I’m no rogue, I do assure you.”
His voice carried clearly into the room, and Hugh recognized it at once. He surged to his feet and shook off the blanket Rosamund and Blanche had hidden him under. “John!” he shouted, and was immediately stricken with a fit of coughing.
Afraid that Hugh was somehow being held prisoner, John shoved hard at the door. The frightened Widow tried to shut it in his face; Rosamund ran to help her mother, and Blanche stood in front of the bear and spread her skirts in a futile attempt to hide him.
“ ‘Tis my brother John!” Hugh said hastily. “Let him in, I pray you.”
As soon as she understood, the Widow stepped back and let John enter, though not without misgivings. John went straight across the room and knelt at the bear’s side. “Hugh?” he said uncertainly, and then, “Oh, Hugh!”
“ ‘Tis not so bad as it seems,” the bear told him. “Though that’s ill enough, I warrant thee.”
“I’ve been seeking thee these three months past,” John said, his voice muflled against the thick fur of the bear’s neck. “Where hast thou been?”
“Here,” Hugh replied. “And in the forest. No more than that, I think, though before tonight my memory’s less than clear.”
John raised his head and eyed the bear narrowly. “How’s that?”
“The tale’s a long one, and talking irks my throat,” Hugh said. “Sit down and speak with these my benefactors, and I’ll add what things I must.”
Reminded of his audience, John rose and turned. “Forgive my lack of courtesy, Mistresses,” he said, bowing extravagantly. The joy of having found Hugh at last, and the relief of finding him unharmed, was making John feel as light-headed as if he’d been drinking Faerie wine.
“‘Tis excusable, I think,” the Widow said. “It seems we were at cross-purposes when you arrived; for that, I beg your pardon.”
“‘Tis freely given,” John replied. “But will you tell your story? I would know how it happens that my brother’s welcomed here in such unlikely guise.”
“We’ll tell you, an you’ll do the same,” Rosamund said, coming forward to stand beside her mother.
“Why, Rosamund, well met!” John said, recognizing her at once. “I’ll tell you whate‘er you will.”
“Knowest thou this man, Rose?” the Widow said in surprise.
“I do not think so,” Rosamund said doubtfully.
“I well believe you have forgot a common peddler,” John said, “but how has Rose forgot my most uncommon rose?”
Rosamund stared for a moment, then blushed a fiery red. Blanche looked from her sister to John and asked, “Then ‘twas you who plucked a rose for her in late October?”
“It was,” John said. “And were a rosebush near, I’d give you one as well, though I know not your name.”
“My daughter’s name is Blanche,” the Widow said in a tone of mild censure. “And I am Widow Arden. I can see that we have much to talk on; sit down, and let’s begin.”
This was easier to say than do; the Widow’s tiny cottage had been overcrowded even before John’s arrival. Eventually they all found places: Rosamund and Blanche on the straw-stuffed sleeping pallet, the bear on the floor before the hearth, and the Widow on the single storage chest beside the table. John, though offered his choice of more comfortable places, preferred to sit on the rush-covered floor beside his brother, an act of affection that did him no disservice in the eyes of his hostesses.
The Widow and her daughters told their tales first, guessing that it would be easier for John to answer their questions once his own had been answered. Both John and Hugh listened without interrupting, but as soon as the Widow finished John said, “And are you certain Dee and Kelly are the two you saw in the forest?”
“We’re certain,” Rosamund said. She put up her chin and went on with a trace of belligerence, “And you should not question us further till your own tale’s told.”
“Rose, mind thy manners!” the Widow said.
“Well, but I can see that he’d not think to tell us anything if no one reminded him,” Rosamund said unrepentantly. “And our curiosity’s as great as his.”
John laughed despite himself. “I stand corrected. What would you know?”
“Who are you, you and your brother bear?” Rosamund asked promptly.
“I’m called John Rimer, and this bear’s my brother Hugh,” John replied with equal promptness. “What more?”
Rosamund’s eyes flashed angrily. “That’s no answer!”
“If you prefer not to tell us, we’ll not compel you,” Blanche said in a quiet voice. “You have no need to mock at us.”
“She’s right,” Hugh said, startling them all with the deep, rumbling rasp of his voice. “And they’ve the right to know, John.”
John hesitated. “I beg your pardons all,” he said finally. “My intent was not to mock you; ‘twas but habit. I have long been used to avoiding all such questions.”
“Our pardon waits upon your answer,” Rosamund said.
“Hugh and I are the sons of the Queen of Faerie by a mortal lover,” John said with quiet simplicity.
The Widow’s eyebrows rose. “If that be so, how is it that you two have come to such a pass as this? I’d think the Faerie Queen could do somewhat to guard her sons.”
“What she could do, she did; ‘twas precious little,” John said, and his voice was bitter. “There was no remedy for my brother’s transformation. Faerie learning doth not encompass much of mortal magic, and she would not give me leave to search outside her lands, because she said the blame was mine.”
“What?” Hugh’s voice was a muffled roar that made everyone else jump.
“Softly, softly,” John said. “I did not mean she thought the spell was mine. She said only that ‘twas my wanderings that drew it to thee, and would not lift
her ban.”
“What ban is that?” Rosamund demanded.
Briefly, John described his most recent return to Faerie and the Queen’s unexpected refusal to let him leave again. “Then when Hugh began to be ... affected, she would not heed me, nor let me go to seek a remedy. She said that ‘twas some carelessness of mine that drew the eyes of mortal wizards to Faerie, and to Hugh, and she forbade me once again to leave her lands.”
“And yet you left?” Blanche said. Her eyes were wide with wonder and sympathy.
John shrugged. “What choice had I? There was no help for Hugh in Faerie.”
Rosamund’s head moved unconsciously in the smallest of approving nods, but the Widow Arden frowned. “So you’re here in defiance of your mother and your Queen. And in another month the border of Faerie will be open and unlocked.”
“Do not trouble yourself with thinking that she’ll look for me or torment you for standing as my friends,” John said. “ ‘Tis not her way. Faerie’s done with both of us, unless I try to return.”
Blanche, who had been studying John with care throughout his narrative, leaned forward. “How is it that you have such a taste for mortal lands, and your brother has it not? Or have I mistaken the matter entirely?”
“ ‘Twas a difference in our raising,” John said. “I’ve told you that our father was a mortal man, and that’s the root of it. He was a poet from the north, near Ercildoune; his name was Thomas Learmont, sometimes called the Rhymer. He was up in the hills, alone, when he saw our mother riding by and called to her. She tricked a promise from him: seven years of service to her. Though I doubt that there was great need for trickery on either side of that bargain; he was as eager to go as she to have him. So she brought him back to Faerie, and to keep him true she laid it on him not to speak until his time of service was done.
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