In the Shadow of the Bear

by David Randall

  The old woman climbed for hours, until she reached a ledge high up the slopes of a mountain due north of Snowchapel. Clovermead looked down one slope of the mountain and saw the nunnery and the Scrying Pool. Down the other slope she saw the pass to Scrimshaw Harbor and the ocean. North there was no mist. The moon shone clear in the night sky upon the endless ice below. The cakes and bergs were terrible and beautiful. They were a flimsy cover on the chaotic ocean and more solid and enduring than mountains.

  At the center of the ledge was a hollow sheathed in white marble. It gathered up moonlight and returned what it had gleaned to the sky. The old woman took a handful of scented twigs from her robes and put them in the center of the hollow. She lit them and their fragrance was lovely to Clovermead’s nose. As the twigs burned the woman sang a prayer. The moonlight grew brighter, and brighter still—

  And a black bear leapt onto the ledge and stood over the hollow. He was twenty feet long, that bear, strong and terrible, but also afraid. He landed on the stone as if he expected to be burned, and he was so comical that Clovermead wanted to laugh.

  The old woman did laugh. Away with you, she said in an exasperated tone. Sniffing after fish, getting mixed up in sacred rites—you’ve got to learn manners, little Ursus!

  Ursus retreated a step—and growled his rage, his humiliation, his fear, and his hunger. He snapped his teeth. The old woman gasped and skipped a little away from his jaws. She laughed again, but with a sudden catch in her throat. You have grown! You must stop that. You’ll frighten people. She turned away from Ursus and began to sing.

  Ursus bowed his head in shame. Then he looked up suddenly. Clovermead saw the realization of his strength flower in him. She saw blackness stream across his eyes, and for the first time his mouth twisted with cruel anticipation. He looked at the sky and saw nothing but the darkness inside himself.

  The old woman had reached the end of her hymn. Moonlight brighter than the noonday sun stabbed down to bathe her skin, and Ursus roared and sprang forward, claws extended. The old woman hardly had time to turn before he had snapped her neck. And the moonlight turned black, bright black, black that grew and filled the bear. The blackness kept growing and the bear grew too. He roared with newfound intelligence and power, and he crouched down and bit at the old woman’s corpse. The moonlight dimmed. He ate, and he ate more, and he sucked light from the world. The pearly mist faded, the northern ice grew dull, the moon itself turned gray. And when Ursus was done with his meal, he roared with laughter and the prospects of triumphs to come. He was fifty feet high, one hundred feet high, huge beyond all measure. He left Snowchapel behind and loped south.

  To Garum, the old woman said to Clovermead, but it was not just the old woman who stood at her side. She was a young beauty, a weathered matron, a crone as old as the hills, and all three at once. Her robes twinkled with the light of a thousand stars. Her expression could be cold and implacable, but she was never cruel. Her lips fell more naturally into smiles than into frowns. Her glowing eyes were gentle. That was a hundred years ago, and more. Before he came, it was a corrupt city and ready to serve a bloody master. He gratified its whims. There he took the name Lord Ursus.

  What happened here, Lady? asked Clovermead. She wanted to bow low, to free herself from the bear’s musty fur and killing claws, but she couldn’t. It was her own flesh.

  The Abbess of Snowchapel came up to observe the rites of the winter solstice, during a year when the full moon shone. I gave a great deal of myself to her that night. When Ursus killed her, he swallowed a large part of me, too. The old woman shook her head sadly. He has used my light so badly. Poor beast, poor thing.

  You pity him?

  He is so lonely and so scared—of course I do. An angry glint shone in the old woman’s eyes. Mind, I don’t forgive him. He’s done great wrong on the world and snuffed out a great many lights. I pity him, but he has to face justice for all the evil he’s done. He will be punished.

  How? asked Clovermead. When?

  I wish I knew, Clovermead Wickward, said the old woman. For now, I fight him one battle at a time. It isn’t easy.

  I still want blood, said Clovermead. She scratched angrily at her fur, till her claws near cut her skin. I can feel it inside me. Lady, when will you take my hunger from me?

  You must get rid of your hunger yourself, said the lady. But I will give you my strength. Her mouth crinkled and she laughed. Now, stop attacking that lovely pelt. It’s beautiful and it isn’t anything to do with Lord Ursus. It’s what’s inside you that turns dark, not the fur and claws. Slowly the moonlight began to fade. Farewell for a while, Clovermead. Your friends and family need you. Go back to them. You have more work to do.

  More? asked Clovermead, tired and bewildered.

  Don’t be afraid, the old woman said gently. My strength is in you. The light had become very faint. Snowchapel vanished—

  And Clovermead was back in the Salt Heath. The sun shone overhead. Sister Rowan lay bleeding before her. The Mayor waited for Clovermead to leap. Snuff stood above Lady Cindertallow’s fallen body and faced Sorrel. Waxmelt began to stir. Everything was the same, except that her shadow was gone.

  Snuff jerked, moaned, and stumbled away from Sorrel and Lady Cindertallow. “Master?” he cried out, and he whirled toward Clovermead. His eyes widened. “Just the child,” he hissed—and a dark shadow blossomed out of him. “You’re back, Master!” he shouted joyfully, and his shadow raked the earth behind him and snarled at Brown Barley and Sorrel. Sorrel gibbered, his hands went slack on Brown Barley’s reins, and his horse reared up and sent him flying to the ground. Snuff ran at Clovermead, his sword upraised.

  In her mind Lord Ursus roared at Clovermead and told her that she was scared. He told her that she was small, puny, a worthless, fearful wretch, a little girl born to be killed at the hands of a stronger man. He told her to run—that she had nothing to give the world but the challenge of her death and the pain of her going. He told her that she was meat and that she would die.

  His voice grew small. His shadow was tiny. “You’ve said all that before,” said Clovermead with a growl. “I’m awfully scared, but I won’t run. I’m too much like you, but I won’t serve you. I don’t want to die, but I’d rather die. And I’d rather live!” Clovermead stood up on her hind legs and swung her arms against Snuff. His sword bit deeply into her left shoulder, but with her other arm she bashed him to the ground.

  Lord Ursus’ shadow vanished for the second time—but Snuff had bounced to his feet. “Perhaps you’ll live, missy,” he snarled, “but Lord Ursus always finds other victims. Those you love will die, girlie. Always.” His eyes blazed, he clacked his sharpened teeth together, and he ran toward Lady Cindertallow, still sprawled on the ground. His laugh was vicious and hyena loud. His sword stretched out toward Clovermead’s mother.

  The woman she had never known. The woman she had never loved. The haughty woman who had ruled Chandlefort and its servants with arrogant indifference. The woman her father hated.

  The mother she might learn to love.

  Clovermead ran after Snuff, as in a nightmare. She had to overtake him, but her bear body melted from her as she ran. Swift, furred legs shrank to naked limbs, and only two legs carried her forward. The wind whipped against her naked flesh, and she could not reach Lady Cindertallow in time. She cried out in despair—but Sorrel was there and fighting desperately against Snuff. His sword kept up a desperate play against Snuff’s assault, but Clovermead knew it could last only a few moments.

  Lady Cindertallow’s sword lay before Clovermead on the ground. She picked it up and raced faster still. Her lungs were ragged with pain and her feet were bloody. She prayed to Our Lady not to let her collapse. Snuff thrust Sorrel aside and hammered his blade down at the unconscious Lady Cindertallow—and Clovermead slipped her mother’s blade beneath his stroke. Snuff’s sword clashed uselessly against the Heath.

  Snuff howled his frustration and whirled to face Clovermead. His sword chopped down at her—
and Clovermead parried him. He struck at her again, and again she parried. She was exhausted, but her arm still moved, her blade still rose. She was on Kestrel Hill listening to Sorrel tell her to be careful when she fought, she was on the Salt Heath putting his instructions to effect. She parried wearily, she turned her strength into desperate delay, with no razzle-dazzle at all. Her eyes watched the flash of Snuff’s blade and nothing else. She kept Lucifer Snuff away from her, away from her mother, for ten seconds, for thirty seconds, for a minute.

  Then Clovermead could fend Snuff off no longer and he smashed her sword from her fingers. Her little finger was broken. Clovermead was tired to death and she fell to her knees. She was crying.

  “How brave you are,” said Snuff. He hacked out a laugh. “You’ll die all the same.”

  “First you must face me,” said Sorrel. He stood by Clovermead’s side. “You will not kill her, too. I will die first.” His sword shook in his hand. He had fallen heavily on his side when Brown Barley threw him, and he was scraped and bloody from chest to calf. He was nearly as tired as Clovermead.

  “And me,” said Waxmelt. He came up to Clovermead’s other side, a dagger in his hands. He trembled but stood defiant. “There’ll be no more killing. Old friend.”

  “Three weaklings to one armed man. I believe I faced these odds before, at Ladyrest.” Snuff considered his opposition. He smiled. “This time I will fight.”

  “So will I,” said Clovermead. With the last of her strength she put her fingers into her mouth and pulled hard at her bear tooth. It clung to her jaw. She pulled harder, with claws and fingers, a bear’s strength and a human’s agility, until the tooth came reluctantly out of her mouth. Blood and gum came with the tooth. More blood dripped from the hole in her mouth. Her jaw shrieked with pain and Clovermead ached with the loss.

  “My tooth!” Snuff howled. He raised his sword. “Give me back my tooth!”

  Clovermead held the tooth in her hand for a long second. She could still change her mind—

  “Enough,” said Clovermead. She clenched her hand into a fist and squeezed against the tooth. It bit her flesh and drew blood. Clovermead squeezed harder and her hand flickered into a paw. With all her bear’s strength she crushed the cruel seducer she had prized for so long. The tooth crumbled, shattering into jagged fragments that ripped gouges in her palm. Snuff screamed an agony of loss as Clovermead dropped the splinters to the ground.

  Blood poured out of the fragments. A vast, welling pool streamed from the tooth and sank into the ground. The dry earth swallowed the blood cleanly and laid it to rest.

  Lord Ursus’ shadow fled a final time from the Heath. The light grew stronger and bears and bear-priests murmured their dismay. Their attack on the Army of Low Branding and on the few Yellowjackets outside the walls faltered and then halted. The soldiers let fly a ragged cheer. Clovermead thought she could hear a sob in its midst. A great many men littered the ground. And from the gate of Chandlefort an army of Yellowjackets poured forth. Their trumpets bugled to the heavens as they charged the bears and bear-priests.

  Snuff gaped and let his sword sag as he watched Lord Ursus’ army fall back. His eyes flickered nervously and he made himself grin once more. His sharp teeth gleamed in the sun. “Fortune favors you, girlie. My master needs me for later battles. He will always need his true servants.” Snuff sheathed his sword and bowed mockingly. “Until we meet again, Miss Wickward.” He whistled and Featherfall came to him. He leapt onto Featherfall’s back and kicked hard into his flank. Featherfall snorted in pain and galloped away. Soon they disappeared beyond the horizon.

  We are still enslaved, said Boulderbash to Clovermead from somewhere far away. There are still enough bear teeth to keep us prisoners.

  I did what I could, said Clovermead. I can’t do everything by myself.

  Ah, no, no one ever can. And so we remain enslaved to my poor, terrible son.

  Your son? asked Clovermead.

  Little Ursus, said Boulderbash. Her voice was growing fainter. We always grew large in my family.

  He enslaved his own mother?

  What do you think you have done to your own parents? asked Boulderbash. She laughed low and rumbling. Good-bye for now. Our Lady’s blessing upon you. And don’t forget, little one—we first talked before you found Snuff’s tooth. Her voice faded from Clovermead’s head.

  Sorrel stood guard over Lady Cindertallow until Yellowjackets came to relieve him of his duty. Then he mounted his horse, drew his sword, and went to join the armies of Low Branding and Chandlefort as they pursued the slowly retreating bear-priests. Waxmelt knelt by Clovermead’s side and tore off his cape to cover her nakedness. He folded her in the thick cloth and held the bloodied girl close to his heart as she shivered and sobbed. The innkeeper sang lullabies to his daughter until she fell asleep.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Cerelune Cindertallow

  A week later Lady Cindertallow and the Mayor of Low Branding signed a treaty of peace. Side by side they entered the Throne Room of Chandlefort and joyful cheers roared forth from all the assembled witnesses. Hundreds of lords and ladies of Chandlefort crowded upon the porphyry-and-carnelian floor, and with them some dozens of the patricians of Low Branding. Huddled in the back corners of the room, warming themselves by the burning logs merrily blazing in the Throne Room’s great marble fireplaces, were hastily commissioned and newly arrived ambassadors from High Branding, the Harrow Moors, and Ryebrew. Notables from every part of Linstock had donned their finest vests, blouses, breeches, and dresses, and their raiment drenched the room with shimmering, parti-colored hues. Their cheers grew louder still as Clovermead, carried on a litter by four servants and swaddled in bandages and wool coverlets, followed her mother and the Mayor into the room. She ducked her head and raised a weak arm from her invalid’s nightgown to acknowledge the cheers.

  An aged nun met the Mayor and Lady Cindertallow at the dais. The crowd grew quiet, and the nun made the crescent sign over each of their bowed heads. She shuffled forward, stood between them, and took their hands in hers.

  “Our Lady’s blessing lies on this peace.” Her cracked voice penetrated to the farthest walls. “Our Lady has grieved for the dead on all sides of this war—for soldiers and for farmers, for men and for women, for children orphaned and killed. Our Lady has grieved especially that this war has left Linstock open to the claw of the Bear. Our Lady urges that this peace last.” The nun put the hands of Lady Cindertallow and the Mayor together. “In Our Lady’s name, let the fields be tilled, let the sheep graze, let the gates of the cities be opened. In Our Lady’s name, let us be vigilant and watch together for our mutual safety against the return of the Bear. In Our Lady’s name, let us remember the dead.” Men and women made the sign of the crescent, and a long silence filled the room. Then the nun smiled. “And now let us put sorrow behind us. This is a day of joy.” She stepped back from the dais.

  “We welcome you all to Chandlefort,” said Lady Cindertallow. She wore a simple white dress draped from her shoulders, and around her forehead a thin circlet that bore the sigil of the burning bee and blazing sword. “We have prepared a treaty with the Mayor of Low Branding. Herald, read it.”

  The herald stepped up from the side of the room, cleared his throat, and peered down at the words written on dove white vellum. “Be it known . . .” he began, and what followed was very long and very formal and it taxed Clovermead to figure out what was being said in between the wheretos and the forasmuches and the consequentlys. The gist seemed to be that Lady Cindertallow now claimed only to be Duchess of West Linstock, which was the part of Linstock west of the line of the Chandle Palisades, and that Low Branding was to be independent. There were a half dozen other agreements appended to the treaty: The Mayor of Low Branding acknowledged his responsibility for the war, but Lady Cindertallow wouldn’t claim damages against him; both Low Branding and Chandlefort acknowledged and guaranteed the independence of High Branding, the Harrow Moors, and Ryebrew; Low Branding and Chandle
fort signed a league of mutual defense against all third parties, meaning Lord Ursus and his bear-priests at Barleymill and Garum; and Low Branding agreed to put no taxes of any sort on Chandlefort goods for twenty years, as recompense for causing the war. And there would be peace in Linstock. That was the most important agreement of all.

  “Bring the paper here,” said Lady Cindertallow. The herald brought the treaty and a pot of ink to a lectern. Lady Cindertallow signed the treaty with a flourish and the mayor did likewise.

  Lady Cindertallow displayed the treaty to the assembled crowd. “We are at peace,” she proclaimed, and the crowd cheered. Lady Cindertallow lifted her hands and the crowd quieted. “There is other news, and just as joyful. As those of you present at the battle with the bear-priests know, our daughter, Cerelune, is not dead. We apologize for the deception, but it was necessary to keep her safe for the duration of the war. Cerelune is alive and she is here.” Lady Cindertallow pointed to a furiously blushing Clovermead as the room roared its approval. “We call on all our subjects to acknowledge Cerelune as our rightful heir to all the lands and titles that we hold.”

  The lords and ladies knelt down. “All hail Demoiselle Cerelune,” they cried out. A hundred of them, two hundred, everyone but the Mayor and the ambassadors of the newly independent lands, got to their knees before her. She saw Sorrel winking at her, and Sister Rowan in bandages but grinning broadly, and Waxmelt staring in wonder. All three of them had knelt too. I must be dreaming, Clovermead told herself. She pinched her arm, but still they were kneeling and still they were all-hailing her. It was exactly what she had hoped would happen to her when she read the Garum Heptameron. It was exactly the fate she had expected from her first perusal of The Song of the Siege of the Silver Knight.

  Except she had always imagined they would hail Clovermead Wickward. The cheers and the homage were for Cerelune Cindertallow. Was she really Cerelune? She listened to the cheers and she didn’t know for sure. I am Cerelune Cindertallow, daughter of Melisande Cindertallow, she told herself. I am Clovermead Wickward, daughter of Waxmelt Wickward. Neither statement sounded true.