In the Shadow of the Bear

by David Randall

  Clovermead blinked, and now she could see pale and shining tendrils of light hooked into each bear’s skull. They were like the red web of the blood-net Lord Ursus used to enslave the bears who served him, but no human blood pulsed in these coils. They shone with the phosphorescence of rotting flesh. The tendrils vibrated to the sound of clanking bones, Mallow Kite’s acid laughter rasped through them, and the coils moved the bears like marionettes.

  Clovermead blinked again, the vision of the glowing tendrils was gone, and the nearest bear was ten feet away and swinging to face her. She leaped on him—but could not strike. Mallow’s laughter echoed in every movement the bear made. Clovermead looked into his helpless eyes, and she knew that he did not control his own body. She buffeted him with her paws, but not to kill.

  Foolish girl, said the bear, and Mallow Kite’s voice rustled in his growl. He leaped at Clovermead, and his claws raked down her side, while his jaws tore fur and skin from her shoulder. Clovermead shrieked and flailed at the bear with her own sharp claws; she bit and she held nothing back. She grabbed his front leg between her jaws and twisted, oh, Lady, twisted, and she felt his bones crack. He howled and fell to the earth. He could not move, and the pale tendrils flickered out of his skull and abandoned him. He was just a bear again.

  Forgive me, said Clovermead. The world whirled around her, and there were tears in her eyes and the bear’s blood in her mouth. I didn’t have a choice.

  You’re the changeling, said the bear curiously. Boulderbash said the changeling freed her for a little while. Free me, too, forever.

  I don’t know how, said Clovermead miserably.

  Then sooner or later you will have to kill me, said the bear. If my leg heals, I’ll be enslaved again, and I’ll come to hunt you once more. Slowly he got onto three legs and gave Clovermead a pleading look. I don’t want to serve Lord Ursus or Lord Kite. I want to run free in the Reliquaries. Save me, changeling.

  I can’t, said Clovermead. I wish I could.

  The bear growled in despair and began to hobble toward the trees. It would have been kinder to kill me, he said.

  I’m sorry, said Clovermead, but she didn’t know if she was sorry for striking him or for not striking him hard enough. She turned to face the other two bears—and saw that the Yellowjacket was fighting one and Waxmelt was fighting the other. Clovermead gaped to see her father wield a sword. He held it like a kitchen knife and swung it with clumsy, vigorous strokes. He fended off a grizzled brown she-bear and gave her a whack across the nose. She yipped, then whined and fled as Clovermead pounced at her tail. The last bear took a look at the odds, ducked under the Yellowjacket’s sword, and joined the other bear in flight.

  Lady Cindertallow watched the bears flee, then looked at Waxmelt with surprise. “You display unexpected talents, Lord Wickward! We’ll make a soldier of you yet.”

  “Dear Lady, I hope not.” Waxmelt’s sword shook in his hand as he slid it back into its scabbard. He looked at Clovermead and his eyes widened. “Clo!”

  Clovermead turned human. Her clothes had been rent up and down her side, she bled from four runnels across her ribs, and her bitten shoulder ached. “Don’t worry, Father. It looks worse than it feels.” She felt a wave of dizziness. “Although I could use some help getting up.” She reached out her hand, and Waxmelt pulled her back onto her pony. Then Waxmelt kicked it in the sides, and they galloped the last yards through the gates and into Chandlefort town.

  Hundreds of farmers seeking refuge milled in the square just within the town gates. Some had only their clothes; others had brought spades and rakes, chickens and goats. A few had hitched oxen to their wagons and carted all of their possessions with them. Yellowjackets with drawn swords shouted at the farmers to move on quickly and leave room for the soldiers to ride in and out of the gates. The farmers sullenly obeyed, but every now and then a panicky surge sent a farmer stumbling toward a Yellowjacket, to recoil at a waggle of the soldier’s blade.

  “Praise Our Lady,” said the Commander of the Yellowjackets. He rode up to Lady Cindertallow with a haggard look on his face. “I heard you were dead, Milady.”

  “Not yet,” said Lady Cindertallow. She lifted up her bleeding hand and grimaced. “Give it time, Commander. How many bear-priests are out there?”

  “Hundreds,” said the Commander. “Lord Ursus must have sent all his cavalry. I haven’t seen more than a few dozen of his bears, but that’s bad enough. The bear-priests are burning farms everywhere and killing any farmers they can catch. Milady, we’re still short of men from that mauling Ursus gave us last winter. I don’t have enough Yellowjackets to bring the rest of the farmers back to Chandlefort.”

  Lady Cindertallow cursed. “How many farmers are still out there?”

  The Commander looked around the crowded square and counted quickly. “Two thousand at a guess.”

  Lady Cindertallow looked at the walls. “And those Yellowjackets up there?”

  “I need them to guard the walls, Milady. If the bear-priests attack—”

  “I understand.” Lady Cindertallow turned abruptly to Waxmelt. “Lord Wickward, if I put swords in the servants’ hands, which way will they point them?”

  Waxmelt’s eyes went large, then he forced himself to answer evenly. “They will be loyal, Milady.”

  “I trust they will,” said Lady Cindertallow grimly. For a moment her face went dead white and she clenched her teeth to keep from screaming. She could not speak again for several long moments. “Lord Wickward,” she continued at last, her voice still ragged with pain, “I am about to provide you a rare opportunity to convince me that you menials are worthy of better treatment. I need another regiment for as long as this siege lasts, and I need them on the walls within the hour. Raise me that many servants, and they’ll have my gratitude and my respect.”

  “They won’t disappoint you, Milady,” said Waxmelt. His face was pale. “Thank you for giving us a chance to prove ourselves.”

  “Thank Lord Ursus,” said Lady Cindertallow. “I wouldn’t do this if I had a choice. Hurry. Two thousand lives depend on your precious servants.”

  “We’ll be there,” said Waxmelt. He swung down off Clovermead’s pony, bowed quickly to Lady Cindertallow, then set off at a dead run toward the Castle.

  “There’s a silver lining in every cloud. How delighted that little man is!” Lady Cindertallow shivered, beads of fever-sweat trickling down her face, then turned to the Commander. “Open up the Armory. Give out swords, bows, and armor to everyone Lord Wickward brings to you, and send them to guard the walls. When they get there, take away a regiment of Yellowjackets and send them into the fields. Tell them to save as many farmers as they can.”

  Clovermead wobbled on her saddle. “Excuse me, Milady,” she interrupted, “but I think those scratches are getting to me. I feel light-headed.” She could feel blood dripping down her side. “Can we go to the doctor now?”

  “At once,” said Lady Cindertallow. “Do you understand your orders?” she asked the Commander. He nodded, and Lady Cindertallow gave him a golden ring set with a ruby bee. “You have command of the battle today. If anyone disobeys you, show them this. If you need me, the Demoiselle and I will be getting our wounds treated in my rooms.” She wheeled around, then galloped with Clovermead to the Castle stables.

  A pair of servants supported them from the stables to Lady Cindertallow’s rooms, where Clovermead and Lady Cindertallow collapsed into two chairs near the door. “Fetch Lady Saraband,” her mother said to the first servant. “Bring medicines, medical instruments, boiling water, and bandages,” she said to the second. They nodded and dashed out the door.

  “What do you want Saraband for?” Clovermead’s shoulder ached and she wanted to scream.

  “Your cousin learned medicine from the Abbess at Silverfalls. She’s not half the healer the Abbess is, but she’s the best doctor in Chandlefort,” said Lady Cindertallow impatiently. “Didn’t you know that?”

  “I should have expected it. She’s t
he best at everything.” Clovermead had more sour comments on the tip of her tongue, but she was too weak to say them. She leaned back in her chair and waited for Saraband.

  Saraband rushed in a few minutes later, and the servant with the medical supplies stumbled in after her. Saraband went quickly to the two of them—then hesitated. “Who should I treat first, Milady?”

  “I’ve just got flesh wounds,” said Clovermead quickly. “Milady’s poisoned.”

  Saraband knelt by Lady Cindertallow, unwrapped the rough bandage from her arm, and hissed in horror when she saw the wounds. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said uncertainly, and she started to treat Lady Cindertallow.

  Clovermead reached out a hand for her mother to grip, but her stomach flip-flopped and she couldn’t look. I’m not a coward, she told herself tremulously. Really I’m not. But I don’t want to look at surgery. She heard Lady Cindertallow gasp, again and again, and once she heard her mother scream. She caught a glimpse of Saraband’s silk dress out of the corner of her eye, and she shook her head in wonder. Who’d have dreamed a dainty thing like her was a doctor? I’d have thought she’d scream at the sight of blood.

  Saraband finished with Lady Cindertallow, then quickly cleaned and bandaged Clovermead’s wounds. Now it was Clovermead’s turn to gasp and Lady Cindertallow’s turn to give her daughter her hand. Clovermead felt tears coming to her eyes. Her cuts were shallow and clean, but Saraband’s ministrations still hurt an awful lot. Clovermead felt weak as a kitten by the time Saraband finished bandaging her up.

  “How is she?” asked Lady Cindertallow.

  “She’ll heal, Milady,” said Saraband. She sat back wearily in her chair, while her arms hung by her sides. She had rolled up her sleeves, but there were flecks of blood up and down her dress. “She should rest for a few days, while the scars set.”

  “I promise not to jump on the bed,” said Clovermead. “I don’t even want to walk to bed. I’ll just fall asleep here.”

  Lady Cindertallow chuckled. Then her fingers fumbled over the cloth of her new bandages. A red trickle had already seeped through them. “I can feel it itch,” she said to Saraband. “Can you cure the poison?”

  “I don’t even know what it is. The medicines I’ve given you will slow its spread through your body, but I have no antidote.” Saraband hesitated a moment, then leaned forward in her chair. “Milady, you should ride to Silverfalls Abbey. The Abbess knows far more about poisons than I do.”

  “Meadowlark? No, not her. It was Mallow Kite who wounded me.”

  Saraband frowned uneasily. “Milady, Mallow Kite died eleven years ago.”

  “I know he did,” said Lady Cindertallow. Her teeth chattered. “I saw his corpse myself, run through a dozen times. He’s dead and buried, but I saw him not two hours ago. He drove the sword into my arm. He would have driven it into my heart if Clovermead hadn’t prevented him. Do you think Meadowlark gave him the poison? Do you think she raised her dead brother from the grave?”

  “Milady, you’re unwell,” said Saraband. “Perhaps he only resembled Lord Kite.”

  “I know him,” said Lady Cindertallow violently. She rose from her chair and glared at Saraband. “I know his face as well as my own. He’s not one day older than the day he died.”

  “He had cool flesh,” said Clovermead. She looked up at her mother. “I’ve seen him before. I touched him. The day was broiling hot, but he was cool.” Tears came to her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Ma’am. I didn’t know who he was, and he said not to tell you about him. He said you’d kill him. I thought he was one of Ambrosius’ friends whom you exiled, and you made it sound like you would kill one of them if he came back to Chandlefort, so I kept quiet. Ma’am, please forgive me.”

  “Dear Lady,” Saraband whispered. The blood slowly drained from her face.

  Lady Cindertallow fell back in her chair. “Is that why you were asking me those questions the other day? Our Lady is just. I would have killed any of Ambrosius’ friends who broke their exile, and I am well paid for my cruelty. Oh, Clovermead, I can’t blame you for being merciful. Who could imagine a dead man walked the earth?”

  “I still don’t know who he is,” said Clovermead. “Who he was, I guess I should say. Ma’am, why does he want to kill you?” He rose from his coffin to get revenge on you. What did you do to him?

  “I once made certain choices. He died as a result of them.” Lady Cindertallow glanced at Saraband. “Ask me some other time, Clovermead.”

  “I will not intrude on your privacy any longer than I have to,” Saraband said stiffly. “But, Milady, if it truly is Mallow Kite, you must ride to the Abbess. A poison out of the grave—”

  “Meadowlark will not touch me,” snapped Lady Cindertallow. “Will I be fool enough to let the sister complete her brother’s work? Which other doctors in Linstock can cure me?”

  “None that I know of, Milady.”

  Lady Cindertallow swore. “Then I’ll send to the Thirty Towns.”

  “You might not last that long, Milady,” said Saraband. “The medicines I gave you can’t slow the poison much beyond the waning of the moon.” Clovermead looked out the window at the full moon rising in the late afternoon sky. Her mother had only two weeks. “Milady, your suspicions of the Abbess are unjust. Lady knows she doesn’t care for you, but she’s not a poisoner. And to raise the dead?—she’s no magician, either. Please go to her.”

  “She calls me a murderer, Saraband.” Lady Cindertallow lifted her bleeding arm and tried to clench her fist. She could not, and she whimpered in pain. “She’ll have me apologize for what is not my fault. She’ll make me abase myself.”

  “Not if you are dying,” Saraband said quietly. “She’s not that cruel.”

  “She will!” Lady Cindertallow’s cheeks were red and flushed. “I won’t humble myself before her. I’d rather die.”

  “No!” cried out Clovermead. She jerked to her feet. “You can’t! Not when I’ve just started to get to know you.”

  Lady Cindertallow looked in anguish at her daughter, but wrapped her pride more closely around her. “I’m sorry, Clovermead. I won’t go.”

  “Then I’ll go,” Clovermead blurted out. “Send me to Silverfalls. I’ll be as humble as can be to this Abbess of yours, I’ll apologize for everything in the world, and I’ll ask her on my knees to come back with me to Chandlefort to cure you. Won’t it mean something to her if the Demoiselle comes to her? I’ll say you were too ill to come yourself, and that’s true enough, Ma’am, you shouldn’t be going anywhere. But I won’t just let you die.” She wiped more tears from her eyes. “Please, Ma’am, don’t let my mistake kill you.”

  “Perhaps you could go,” Lady Cindertallow began—but then she shook her head. “It’s too dangerous for you to leave while the bear-priests besiege the city.”

  “I’ll run away,” said Clovermead. “I’ll slip out the gates and run through the Salt Heath to Silverfalls, wherever that is, and I’ll apologize for you and fetch back your blessed Abbess. You can’t keep me here!”

  Lady Cindertallow chuckled. “Actually, I can. There are a number of very secure dungeon cells I could order you to right now. I think that would keep you out of mischief! I wonder I didn’t think of that before now.” She smiled sadly. “It’s a kind offer, Clovermead, but I won’t let you risk being killed.”

  “If Chandlefort is under siege, perhaps it is too dangerous for the Demoiselle to stay here,” said Saraband slowly. “We may fall to the bear-priests, Milady.” There was a long silence as Lady Cindertallow took in that thought. “Outside of Chandlefort there’s no safer place in Linstock than Silverfalls Abbey. Even if she doesn’t agree to help you, I’m sure she’d agree to keep the Demoiselle safe behind the Abbey walls.”

  “And once she lets me in, I’ll try my hardest to convince her to come here and cure you,” said Clovermead eagerly. “Please, Ma’am. Let me at least try.”

  Lady Cindertallow looked at her arm, then at her daughter, then sighed. “Very well. I’ll s
end you to Meadowlark for safekeeping. If you can soften her heart, well and good.” Her eyes unfocused as she calculated what to do. “You’ll go tomorrow morning, before any more bear-priests arrive. I’ll send an escort of Yellowjackets with you to Silverfalls.”

  “Can Sorrel come with me? I’d like to have a friend along.”

  “Granted,” said Lady Cindertallow. “He’s done some errands for me in that direction, and he’ll make a good guide for you. And since you want a friend, he may stay with you when the other Yellowjackets return. Send him to me as a courier in case of need. As I remember, he’s a fast rider.” Her eyes fell on Saraband. “Lady Saraband, I want you to accompany my daughter as well.”

  Saraband turned pale again. “You know how the Abbess and I parted. I have no wish to return to Silverfalls. Please allow me to decline your offer, Milady.”

  “Lady Saraband doesn’t have to come,” said Clovermead. “If she’s at loggerheads with the Abbess, I don’t see that it’ll help to have her along. Anyway, she should stay here to tend to you.” She tried to sound thoughtful and considerate, but all she could think about was the way Sorrel and Saraband had smiled at each other as they danced. Don’t let her come, Lady, she prayed. She’ll spend all her time making eyes at Sorrel. I don’t want to have to look at the two of them together. A dot of cold bile was jittering in her stomach.

  “You will go, Lady Saraband,” said Lady Cindertallow firmly. “You say you can’t do anything more for me, and Clovermead is about to have a hard journey across the Heath. I want you with her in case the ride reopens her wounds. You can tell the Abbess that you’re following my orders.”

  “That will not mollify her,” said Saraband. “But I suppose I have no choice. May I be excused, Milady? I’ll need to pack for the morning.” Lady Cindertallow nodded, and Saraband curtsied, gave Clovermead a bitter look, and left the room.

  It’s not what I want either, Clovermead thought angrily. I don’t want you along, and I hope you twist an ankle tonight. That’ll keep you in Chandlefort!