In the Shadow of the Bear

by David Randall

  Not that I should complain, thought Clovermead, grinning guiltily. She waved again at the lords and ladies. Goodness gracious, I’m a princess in disguise! Not everyone can say that, young Miss Wickward, so stop your whining. It’s perfectly silly of you.

  But still they were calling out someone else’s name.

  There were festivities following the treaty signing and the formal recognition of Cerelune Cindertallow’s existence, but Clovermead was too weak to stay for them. Her doctor whisked her away from the Throne Room and back to her bedchamber in the Cindertallow Nursery. He fed her steaming honey tea and warm oatmeal, and then she fell asleep beneath soft down coverlets.

  The next morning the Mayor came to visit. He walked into the room proudly enough, but his head ducked shamefacedly. Yellowjacket Guardsmen followed him in and watched him very carefully indeed. He sat down on a chair by the bed and uncomfortably scratched his chin. His left arm was bound in a sling. His eyes darted every which way.

  “We are leaving tomorrow for Low Branding,” he said at last.

  Clovermead did not know what she could say that would be remotely mannerly.

  “We suspect we understand your perplexity,” said the Mayor. “You wish we were leaving for the far side of the earth? It is understandable.” He shrugged. “We regret what we have done to you, Demoiselle Cerelune.” His eyes focused on the bedroom window and the Heath outside. “We were advised by Snuff. We made the decision ourself, to free our city. We were wrong to trust the bear-priests, but we cannot say we chose wrongly when we ordered you kidnapped. We value Low Branding’s freedom very highly, and Lady Cindertallow’s pride and strength provided us very few alternatives. But we do wish we could have devised a less cruel stratagem.”

  “Thank you, Your Eminence. I also wish you’d been more imaginative, but I suppose there’s no curing that now,” said Clovermead. His Eminence shook his head. “I should hate you, but I can’t. I wouldn’t be Clovermead Wickward if it weren’t for you.” Her eyes glittered. “Besides, my hatred is unnecessary. I hear Your Eminence has troubles of your own.”

  The Mayor winced, his stoatish face pasty and somber. “You hear correctly, Demoiselle. Our army was terribly mauled. Perhaps one man in four survived, and many of them are wounded. We have become very weak.”

  “Poor men,” said Clovermead. “What will their families say?”

  “Most of them were mercenaries,” said the Mayor carelessly. “That sort don’t have families. As for the rest—we are free now.”

  “I still don’t understand that,” said Clovermead angrily. “Lady Cindertallow gave you everything you wanted. You won the war.”

  The Mayor smiled bleakly. “We are free because Chandlefort is dreadfully weakened after twelve years of war and because Low Branding is outright crippled. If Chandlefort and Low Branding continued to fight, neither would have strength left to defend Linstock against Lord Ursus. Even your proud mother recognizes that. So Low Branding has gained its freedom, but only in tight alliance with Chandlefort for its very survival. It is a most hollow victory, Demoiselle, in which we can take little joy.

  “Moreover, we must give up certain ambitions we had to rule over all East Linstock—in the treaty we explicitly guaranteed the independence of High Branding and the other eastern lands. Furthermore, we have forsworn certain potentially lucrative taxes on Chandlefort goods. All that is disappointingly less than victory.” The Mayor laughed. “Our Lady is just.”

  “Perhaps more of her justice waits for you,” said Clovermead.

  “Our Lady says that forgiveness is a virtue,” the Mayor said.

  “I don’t hate you, Your Eminence, but I don’t like you very much. I don’t expect that will change anytime soon.”

  “Self-knowledge is the road to wisdom,” said the Mayor. He stood up and shook Clovermead’s reluctant hand. His flesh was soft and damp. “Or so the philosophers say. Ah, well. We hope you will visit Low Branding someday and accept our hospitality. We wish to make some small recompense for the ills we have done you.”

  “You can,” Clovermead said suddenly. “Your Eminence can pay a pension to the families of your soldiers who died. And to any crippled soldiers. If Lady Cindertallow allows me any money, I’ll send it to Low Branding too, to help them out.”

  Surprise flickered on the Mayor’s face. “Why would you want this, Demoiselle?”

  “I’m responsible,” said Clovermead. Saying the words out loud made her angry and afraid and sad. “It wasn’t all me, but I let Lord Ursus take me over. He ordered the bears forward to kill your soldiers, but I ordered it too. And I was happy to kill them. I’ve got to do something to atone. Please, Your Eminence, I want to do what I can for them as soon as I can.”

  The Mayor shook his head in wonder. “You shame us,” he said softly. “Most deeply. We accede to your request. Please inform Lady Cindertallow that we will pay a pension of a shilling a month for ten years to all soldiers crippled in this expedition, or to their families if they are dead. Should you provide further monies to them, we will add to their pensions in equal measure.”

  “Thank you, Your Eminence,” said Clovermead. “I’ll tell her exactly what you said.”

  “We do not consider that this will cancel our debt to you,” said the Mayor. “You are still welcome to our hospitality, Demoiselle.” He bowed and left the room.

  In the afternoon Waxmelt and Lady Cindertallow came together to see her.

  Lady Cindertallow touched Clovermead’s shoulder as lightly as if she were sticking her finger into a fire. Waxmelt stood diffidently by the windowsill, shrinking from Lady Cindertallow when she looked at him. Then he smiled broadly and familiarly at Clovermead, and she returned his smile with natural joy.

  “You still have my daughter’s heart, Mr. Wickward,” said Lady Cindertallow. Her pride made her words a monotone. “She could have looked at me that way.”

  I wish I could, Lady, thought Clovermead. But then Daddy would have been a strange servant named Mr. Wickward whom I would have scorned if I’d known him at all. I couldn’t have had you both.

  “I’m sorry I took Clovermead, Milady,” said Waxmelt. “I should have known how it would hurt you. But I loved her as soon as I saw her. She was so beautiful and so gentle and so tiny that I couldn’t bear to let her stay with you or be taken by Snuff and the Mayor. I didn’t think you might have looked at her the same way. If I’d thought that, I’d have let her be in the Nursery.”

  “You say that now,” said Lady Cindertallow. “But her heart is still yours.”

  My heart is my own, thought Clovermead. Or both of yours. Or nobody’s or everybody’s or stolen away by Lord Ursus. I don’t know about my heart—what makes you so wise?

  “I’ve lied to Clo since the first day she could talk. She has more than enough reason to hate me.” Waxmelt looked hesitantly at Clovermead and tears welled up in his eyes. “Lady’s Grace, if she does still love me, that’s more good fortune than I expect or deserve. Her heart isn’t at my command to give back to you.”

  “So talk to me,” Clovermead said loudly to her mother. Lady Cindertallow turned very slowly to face her daughter. “I’m sure Father did awful things to you, but that was twelve years ago and there’s nothing to be done about them now. I’m here.”

  “I think it would be easier to fight Lord Ursus single-handedly than to make conversation with you,” Lady Cindertallow said raggedly. “What can I say?”

  “I don’t know,” said Clovermead. “Anything. Do you really think I look that much like you? Sorrel said I was your image, at the parley outside the walls, and Snuff and the Mayor saw it too.”

  “We are alike,” said Lady Cindertallow. “Still, when I look at you, I see more of Ambrosius. My husband. Your true father. The Mayor had him murdered before you were born. You very nearly weren’t born when I found out he was dead. I held on to you in my womb for dear life.” Lady Cindertallow’s fists were clenched tight. “You were all I had left of Ambrosius. And then you were born�
�I tell you frankly, you hardly seemed worth the trade. I suckled you anyway—that’s Cindertallow tradition, not to give the babes out to wet-nurse. It took me months to love you for yourself. I began to. It helped that you learned to smile. You smiled with a little bit of Ambrosius in you and a little bit of yourself. He was gentle. I thought you would be mischievous. And then Mr. Wickward stole you. I couldn’t even grieve for you, the way I had for Ambrosius. I didn’t know if you were alive or dead.”

  “I’m sorry, Milady,” said Clovermead. The title struck Lady Cindertallow like a slap. “What should I call you instead? Mother? Melisande? They both sound awfully strange. Mother is the person Father said was dead, and Melisande sounds like someone my own age. What do you think of ‘Ma’am’?”

  Lady Cindertallow’s lips twitched. “It’s against all protocol. Old Lord Germander will have a fit. Ma’am—say it to me again.”

  “The prune jelly is delightful, Ma’am, but I fear the cherry preserves are not what they should be, Ma’am, and I fear I must elope at once with young Lord Prettyeyes, the Rake who writes me such nice poems, Ma’am, I hope Ma’am will not be displeased.” For a second mother and daughter grinned at each other.

  “‘Ma’am’ will do,” said Lady Cindertallow. “And I will call you Clovermead, save on formal occasions, when you must be Cerelune. That seems simpler.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Clovermead hesitated. “You won’t punish Father, will you? Or send him away?”

  “I was sorely tempted to play the ogre,” said Lady Cindertallow, “but I won’t. You love him and he may stay. Mr. Wickward, I don’t much care for your presence here, but then, I gather you don’t much care for me or Chandlefort. Shall we agree to live in mutual discomfort for our daughter’s sake?”

  Our daughter. That sounded so easy. Clovermead wanted to hear her mother say that again. Her father, too.

  “Milady is kinder than I could have dreamed.” Waxmelt frowned suddenly. “I trust Milady does not expect me to enter her service again? I had quite enough of serving the Cindertallows twelve years ago.”

  Lady Cindertallow laughed short and hard. “I don’t hire thieves. Mr. Wickward, I think you will become a useless lord of some sort. I’ll have to figure out a title to bestow on you. Lord Wickward of the Vale, perhaps? That shouldn’t arouse too many hackles among the nobility. You will be easy for life, Lord Wickward, you will order servants around to your heart’s delight, and what you felt for me your servants will feel for you.”

  “I hope I never give them cause, Milady,” said Waxmelt. “Someday we must talk about the treatment of servants here at Chandlefort.”

  “Someday,” said Lady Cindertallow. “Later. Lord Wickward, will you leave me alone to talk to my daughter?”

  “As Milady wishes,” said Waxmelt. He strode quickly to Clovermead’s side and squeezed her hand in his. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Clo? With Sister Rowan and Sorrel? They both would love to speak with you and see how you’re doing.”

  “Of course, Daddy,” said Clovermead. She squeezed his hand with all the love in her heart. Waxmelt was her father and would always be her father. She would not, could not, tear him from her. Waxmelt nodded and then slipped out of the room.

  “I envy him so much,” said Lady Cindertallow.

  Clovermead reached out to grip her mother’s hand. Lady Cindertallow’s pale flesh was cool and dry and lined with tiny wrinkles. Clovermead massaged the alien fingers and stroked the unfamiliar palm. Convulsively Lady Cindertallow gripped her hand in return. Clovermead sat up in bed and Lady Cindertallow leaned forward. They embraced each other—and rapidly parted.

  “It’s very strange,” said Clovermead. “I—I would like to know you better.”

  “I’d like that too,” said Lady Cindertallow. She smiled at Clovermead, then stood up. “You must be tired. I’ll come back tomorrow.”

  “Please do. Oh, I forgot to ask you about helping all those poor crippled and dead soldiers, and what the Mayor said he’d do, but we can talk about that tomorrow. And, ma’am?” Clovermead leaned forward and kissed Lady Cindertallow on the cheek. Lady Cindertallow started but returned the buss on Clovermead’s forehead. “I’m glad to know you.”

  “Then, Our Lady blesses me,” said Lady Cindertallow. Gently she pushed Clovermead back. “Lie down now. Obey the doctor and rest.”

  And in the evening Clovermead sat all alone in bed, luxuriating in her thick covers as the steady heat emanating from the hearth sank into her bones. She wondered at the upheaval in her life since the last winter, when she had read tales of adventure by the dining-room hearth at Ladyrest and dreamed of the day she would leave Timothy Vale and become someone different, someone greater. Someone more powerful.

  “A silly dream,” Clovermead whispered. “Power’s not what I dreamed it would be, and I’ve managed to become Demoiselle Cerelune Cindertallow and Clovermead Wickward all at the same time. It’s a jumble. Oh dear, I wish I were back at Ladyrest and that none of this had happened.”

  But she didn’t really wish it. There was no going back to Timothy Vale. She would have to make the best of the jumble that was her and Waxmelt and Lady Cindertallow.

  “At least everyone’s talking to everyone else,” she observed. “That helps.”

  Now that all her adventures were done with, Clovermead thought back over them, back to the day Sorrel had found her in his room and she had first seen Boulderbash. Funny, Clovermead had known her name even then.

  We first talked before you found Snuff’s tooth, Boulderbash had said.

  “But if I could talk with bears then . . .,” Clovermead muttered to herself—and her mouth opened wide. “Dear Lady, is it possible?”

  Clovermead stuck out her hand before her and concentrated. Slowly fur sprouted on her hand. Her claws grew longer.

  Clovermead waited for the whispered bloodlust to strike her, but the only hunger that came to mind was a distinct urge for honey. And, perhaps, some fish.

  She let her hand return to human guise. “Lord Ursus didn’t make me bebear myself,” she told herself happily. “That’s my power. All mine. What a lovely thing to know, what a wonderful, exciting, glorious ability to have! It isn’t the strength that’s the best part about it, it’s the nose. When I get out of bed, I simply must sniff around the kitchens.”

  THE END

  Book Two: Chandlefort

  Dedication

  To my uncle and aunt,

  John Herman Randall III

  and

  Lois McConnell Randall,

  with all my love

  Title Page

  CHANDLEFORT

  IN THE SHADOW OF THE BEAR

  by David Randall

  As always, my editors, friends, and family have read, commented upon, and improved this novel; I am grateful to Kathryne Alfred, Emma Dryden, Simon Lipskar, David Rosen, Sarah Sevier, Christopher Welser, Ariane Randall, Francis Randall, Laura Randall, and, always and especially, my wife, Laura Congleton. This novel changed shape more often than I had at first anticipated, so a number of my readers took the time to comment on two very different manuscripts. To them I am particularly grateful.

  Chapter One

  Fighting Practice

  “I am going to thump Lady Saraband Sconce,” said Clovermead Wickward. Her hand swiped at the air as she paced back and forth along the wooden floor of her father’s room. Her fingernails had turned into bear-claws, and small tufts of golden fur sprouted from the backs of her hands. “She is the most infuriating person I have ever met. In dance class today she said—oh, you have to hear the way she said it.” Clovermead lifted her nose into the air and gave herself the cultivated drawl of a Chandlefort lady. “‘Demoiselle, it is true that at a ball you will sometimes need to step on your partner’s toes. Nevertheless, this should only happen as a deliberate choice. Please be more careful.’” Clovermead clawed the empty air. “She didn’t lower her voice or anything. Everyone in class could hear her!”

  “She is the image of cru
elty, Clovermead,” said Sorrel solemnly. “I would have words with her, if I did not remember how heavily you landed on my toes when I attempted to teach you that Tansyard dance last winter. My toes whisper to me that perhaps your dance teacher has a point.”

  Clovermead glared at Sorrel—but then Sorrel slipped his feet from his boots and wiggled his toes accusingly at her, and she couldn’t help giggling. Her claws shrank back into her hands. Her fur faded and left bare skin behind. “Your toes don’t know what they’re talking about. I didn’t step on them that hard.”

  “My toes are quite attached to their opinion. It will be difficult to persuade them otherwise.” A late-morning sunbeam lit up the windowsill where Sorrel had curled up. He yawned, stretched, and teetered on the edge. He was smartly dressed in a canary-yellow shirt with white sleeves, which proclaimed him a new-fledged cadet of the Yellowjacket Guards, and he had even tied a yellow ribbon around his long brown hair. Still, the crisscross blue tattoos on his cheeks were unmistakable signs that he had been raised with the Hordes that roamed the Tansy Steppes. He swallowed the end of his yawn and slipped his feet back into his boots. “Lord Wickward, do you also have sympathy for the Lady Saraband?”

  Waxmelt Wickward flicked a stray speck of dust from his dresser. It was spotless already, but he cleaned it from nervous habit. “Stop making trouble, Tansyard. My sympathies are for my daughter alone.” He smiled comfortingly at Clovermead—and shook his head bemusedly as he realized that her blue eyes were nearly even with his brown ones. “Why, you’re almost as tall as me now, Clo,” said Waxmelt. “I bet you’ll be taller by the end of the summer.” In the last six months Clovermead’s cropped yellow hair had grown back to her shoulders, and she had shot up two inches. Her beige linen trousers were only a few months old, but they were short on her already. As for her short-sleeved sky-blue shirt—Clovermead’s shirt exposed a faded rope of scar tissue that ran along the inside of her arm from her shoulder to the palm of her hand.