In the Shadow of the Bear

by David Randall

  “I will not lose him,” I said in a passion. “I will not let him go.” I tore my wrist from Athanor’s grip, and I stood up at the balcony. “Ambrosius Beechsplitter,” I called out, and my voice rang through the Hall. He was at the door, and he turned slowly. His face was white and he scarcely dared meet my eyes. “You do not have my permission to go,” I said. Then I smiled at him as I had never let myself smile before, and I sparked an answering smile in him, so full of love that my skin was warmed by it from where I stood. I wanted to see him smile at me forever.

  Athanor looked at me with sorrow and reproach. Mallow stood slack and ashen, his heart and his pride hollowed out in one blow. Later I would regret what I had done to Mallow, to Athanor, to Meadowlark, but then I had no eyes for anyone but Ambrosius. Joy swept me up and I could think of no one else.

  “What happened afterward?” asked Clovermead.

  “Mallow had no will to live after that day,” said Lady Cindertallow. “He courted death in every battle after the war started, and he died at the Battle of the Cliffs two years later in a mad charge against the soldiers of Low Branding. Athanor died with him, trying to save him from the Mayor’s men. I sent their bodies back to Meadowlark to be buried. Meadowlark entered the Silverfalls Abbey soon after. She has never forgiven me for their deaths.”

  She looked at her arm. “And neither, it seems, has Mallow.”

  Chapter Seven

  Across the Salt Heath

  Clovermead ate breakfast with Lady Cindertallow at dawn. Her mother awkwardly spooned up oatmeal with her left hand. Her eyes drifted to Clovermead every few seconds. “I won’t come with you to the town gates,” she said at last. “I don’t like long good-byes.” She looked away from Clovermead. “Get to the Heath as quickly as you can, before the bear-priests realize you’re outside the walls. The rest of Lord Ursus’ army may be here soon. Don’t come back until we’ve fought them off.”

  “I’ll come back with a cure for you, and I don’t care if it’s safe or not.” Clovermead stalked around the table and seized her mother in her arms. Her side and shoulder hurt, but she didn’t care. Lady Cindertallow shrank back a moment, then let her unwounded arm go around Clovermead’s shoulders. Clovermead’s heart beat loudly: They had never hugged each other so tightly before. She kissed her mother lightly on the cheek, then let her go. “You can’t get rid of me that easily, Ma’am.”

  “I don’t want to get rid of you at all.” Now Lady Cindertallow looked at her daughter with anguish and longing. “I’ve had you so short a time.”

  “I promise I’ll be back safe and sound,” said Clovermead. She made the crescent sign. “I’ve really liked our six months together. I never dreamed I would have a mother. I’m glad it’s you.”

  Lady Cindertallow’s eyes were moist, and they hugged each other again. This time it was easier for them.

  “Don’t strain your side,” her mother said briskly as they parted. “I want you to get well soon.” Her eyes skimmed over Clovermead’s comfortable traveling clothes and lit up as they saw Ambrosius’ sword buckled around her waist. “That will serve you well. Take good care of it. Clovermead, if there’s any trouble, listen to the Yellowjackets and do what they tell you to do.”

  “Don’t you worry, Ma’am,” said Clovermead as she walked to the door. “I’ll be just as dutiful and proper as I’ve been here in Chandlefort.”

  “Why am I not reassured?” Lady Cindertallow smiled a last time at her daughter.

  Clovermead looked back quickly from the dining room door. She looks thinner already, she thought, and a new tremor of fear throbbed in her. Maybe I won’t come back in time to save her, no matter how hard I try. Maybe I won’t see her again. She did her best to memorize her mother’s face before she let the door shut.

  Waxmelt walked with her from the Castle to the town gates. He had donned a too-large helmet and a too-small shirt of chain mail and exchanged the dead Yellowjacket’s broadsword for a light rapier. Clovermead couldn’t help but laugh when she saw him.

  “It wasn’t my idea to play soldier,” he grumbled. “That dratted Commander said somebody had to lead the servants’ regiment, and there wasn’t anybody else who would.”

  “First a lord, now a general! You’re moving up in the world, Father. Next thing you know, you’ll be commanding the Yellowjackets.”

  “Don’t listen to her, Lady,” said Waxmelt, his eyes turned up to the sky. “I’d rather spend my life dipping sheep. Clo, I want to take off this ridiculous garb as soon as I can.”

  “You know, you don’t look nearly so bald in that helmet,” said Clovermead thoughtfully. “It’s actually rather becoming on you.”

  “Do you think so?” asked Waxmelt—then glared at his daughter as she started giggling. “Clearly Our Lady intended you to preserve me from vanity.”

  They passed a stoop where a family of farmers had curled up to sleep for the night. Clovermead looked ahead and saw more farmers lining the sidewalks down toward the town gates. Some had woken already: They looked with hollow eyes toward the walls and their abandoned farms beyond. A few bowed their heads to Clovermead as she walked by them.

  “How many farmers did the Yellowjackets rescue?” Clovermead asked quietly.

  “Another thousand came inside the walls by sundown and some hundreds during the night. Most of them are safe.” Waxmelt looked at the farmers on the sidewalks, and he smiled with bemused pride. “The farmers cheered when they saw the servants on the walls.”

  “You deserve it,” said Clovermead. “You’re all awfully brave.”

  “We’re all awfully raw, Clo. We’ll have a Yellowjacket sergeant start to drill us today, but I’m not sure if we’ll be proper soldiers by the time Ursus’ main army arrives.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be fine, Father,” said Clovermead stoutly.

  “I wish I were so sure,” said Waxmelt. “All we’ve ever been is lackeys. I hope Milady has not put too much faith in us.” He smiled wryly and clanked his ringleted sleeve against his side. “Come what may, at least I know what it’s like to wear armor! I dreamed of that when I was a boy watching the Yellowjackets ride by Lackey Lane. I feel a fool, but a part of me feels gleeful, too.”

  Clovermead laughed, and by then they had arrived at the square in front of the town gates, where Sorrel, Saraband, and a dozen Yellowjackets waited. Sleepy servants and yawning Yellowjackets lined the walls on either side of the gates. Sorrel sat on his horse, Brown Barley. The Tansyard had Clovermead’s pony by his side, and he sent him trotting over to his mistress. Clovermead gave Waxmelt a kiss and a good-bye hug as fierce as the one she had given her mother, though this time her aching ribs told her that she had given quite enough hugs for one day. Then she swung onto her pony’s back and waved farewell to her father, and the party galloped through the town gates and into the fields.

  In the strangely quiet countryside all Clovermead could hear was the pounding of horses’ hooves. There should have been farmers in every field, but Clovermead saw nothing but a few crows flapping above the corn rows. Most of the fires set the day before had burned out; only a few soggy plumes of smoke remained to mark the bear-priests’ arson.

  Clovermead heard a sudden crackling to her right. A new jet of fire rose into the air. In the distance bear-priests began to yell with savage joy.

  “Let’s go a little faster, Demoiselle,” said the Sergeant leading the Yellowjackets. He kicked his heels into his horse’s flanks, the party began to gallop along the western road, and the greenery of Chandlefort’s fields dwindled quickly behind them. In half an hour they passed into the Heath.

  They traveled on a road of gray flagstones straight west over a flat plain toward the distant line of the Reliquary Mountains. The land here was brick-hard ochre earth, pockmarked with knee-high spiky bushes and covered with a thick blanket of fine red dust that whipped back and forth in the breeze. The sun beat down hard, and the horses gasped with pleasure whenever a roadside thorn tree provided a bit of shade. Sorrel trickled w
ater from his flask onto Brown Barley’s face and rubbed the water from his ears to his nostrils while he whinnied with pleasure; Clovermead did the same for her pony. She wiped dust from her face five times before she gave up and let it cake on her. She felt cooler beneath the red grime, if unpleasantly filthy.

  Clovermead had expected Saraband to blister and burn as she rode in the desert sun, but her cousin wore a sensible cap to ward off the glare, a high-necked blouse tied tightly around her throat, comfortable riding trousers, and a stout flask of water by her side. She wore no weapon, but otherwise she seemed as well prepared for the rigors of the Heath as Clovermead was. She looked slighter and daintier than ever as she rode among the burly Yellowjackets, but she was as fit a rider as any of them.

  They rode alone through a land empty of humans, of animals, of everything but the occasional straggling bush. The emptiness was oppressive, but at the same time comforting. It would be difficult for bear-priests to sneak up on them in this desolation.

  Clovermead looked back toward the green fields and saw more fires rise.

  What good will it do to cure Milady? Clovermead wondered bleakly. Lord Ursus’ army will still be there and there still won’t be enough soldiers to drive them away. She cast about in her mind for some solution, but none came to her.

  Two more fires flared up on either side of Chandlefort.

  The party stopped for a lunch of hard cheese and oat bread at a cluster of teardrop-shaped pillars inscribed with the burning bee, duplicates of the pillars east of Chandlefort that Clovermead had seen the last winter while she marched with the army of Low Branding. The flat Heath stretched out around them. The Sergeant laid out a cloth for Saraband and Clovermead to sit on, but didn’t join them. Sorrel ate with the other Yellowjackets. Clovermead gulped down her food, while Saraband ate hers with delicate care.

  “Is it far to Silverfalls?” asked Clovermead after a while. She didn’t look at Saraband and tried to speak in a nonchalant monotone. She didn’t want Saraband to think it mattered to her if she received an answer.

  “It’s three days hard riding from Chandlefort, Demoiselle.” Saraband’s voice was flat and unhappy.

  “Is it like this all the way?” Clovermead gestured at the blasted land around them.

  “The Heath gets gentler as we get farther from Chandlefort,” said Saraband. “You should see grass tomorrow.” She took a bite of bread while Clovermead took a swallow from her water-flask. Clovermead turned to see Sorrel gazing at Saraband with a revoltingly admiring expression on his face. When Clovermead looked back at Saraband, the unhappiness had faded from her face. She wasn’t exactly smiling, but there was a certain sparkle in her eyes. Saraband adjusted herself on the cloth so as to present her profile to Sorrel.

  “You don’t look so unhappy about going to Silverfalls now,” said Clovermead. She tried to keep her voice even.

  “I would rather be in Chandlefort, Demoiselle. Yet if I must make this journey, there are certain compensations.” She glanced at Sorrel, smiled, and finished her lunch with demure little bites.

  She looks like a cat about to make mincemeat of a canary, thought Clovermead disgustedly. And the canary likes the cat! Ugh.

  The dot of bile squirmed in her again, but it had grown larger. Now it was a long string coiling in her guts.

  They rode through more thorny scrub in the afternoon, and by the end of the day the crest of the Reliquaries was perceptibly larger. Clovermead saw clouds nestle on their peaks, and she felt a breath more moisture in the air. Birds flew among the updrafts, and small animals scurried through the scrub. At evening the party came to a small oasis surrounded by a tumbledown brick wall. Inside, a score of ragtag farmer families tended to straggling fields of rye and vegetables. Near the wall stood a low fort garrisoned by a dozen slouching soldiers in rusting chain mail, who slunk away from the scornful gaze of the Yellowjackets. Their Commander bowed low to Clovermead when he heard who she was, and arranged for beds for the party.

  After dinner, in the deep twilight, Clovermead walked very slowly from the fort through a vegetable garden and to the eastern wall. Her ribs had been jostled all day as she rode, and now she ached very badly. She yawned. Oof, Lady, I need my rest! In the last glimmer of light she tried to see Chandlefort, but not even the fires were visible anymore.

  “Hello, Clovermead.” Sorrel stepped up to her side and peered eastward with her. “Do you wish company while you stare?”

  Clovermead nodded. “I wonder if I’ll ever see Father or Milady again,” she said in a low voice. “Half of me wants to turn back to Chandlefort now.”

  “I will not say that you should not be afraid. I have lost father and mother, brother and sister, and all my Horde to the jaws of bears and the swords of bear-priests. I cannot tell you that it will not happen again. But do not lose hope too soon. Do not anticipate sorrows.”

  “I try not to,” said Clovermead, “but my imagination’s awfully morbid. And Mallow—” Her eyes went wide. “You don’t know yet what’s happened, do you?”

  “I have heard rumors,” Sorrel said cautiously. “Some people said Milady was injured, others said it was you. One cadet said you had both been ambushed by bears outside the town walls and eaten up by the furry monsters—but soon afterward my Sergeant told me that Milady had ordered me to escort you to Silverfalls Abbey and remain there as your companion, so that tale did not frighten me for long. I would be glad to know what occurred yesterday, especially now that you inquire of my ignorance with tones of great forbidding. What exactly has happened, Clovermead?”

  “Milady’s terribly hurt.” Clovermead quickly told Sorrel about Mallow Kite’s attack on her mother, who Mallow was, and how Saraband had suggested going to the Abbess of Silverfalls for a cure.

  “A dead man?” Sorrel’s voice squeaked. “Do you know any particular reason how he comes to be up and walking? Or if any other of Milady’s deceased acquaintances will be joining him in this peculiar revival?” Clovermead shook her head, and Sorrel groaned. “These sorts of things did not happen in the Tansy Steppes. There were no bear-teeth trying to eat people and no dead men rising out of their graves. We led a quiet everyday life of raiding and thievery, with nothing stranger than the odd four-leafed clover to disturb our routines. I disapprove of these goings-on.”

  “It’s not like I raised Mallow Kite up from the dead. You needn’t give me that reproachful look as if it’s all my fault.”

  “I assure you that the look I give Mallow Kite when I meet him will be far more dire.” Sorrel shivered. “What exactly does this ambulating corpse look like?”

  “He looks like anybody else. He’s just a little pale, and his flesh is cool.” She looked at Sorrel’s own remarkably pale face, and she asked him uncertainly, “You won’t leave me alone if he comes after me?”

  Sorrel swallowed hard. “No, no. I will face him at your side completely terrified, and together we will sing the Dirge of Two Knives at him.”

  “Thank you,” said Clovermead. “That makes going on easier.” She heard a sound behind her and saw Saraband stroll into the vegetable garden, to walk idly between rows of tomatoes. Sorrel would have to pass her by to get back to the fort. “She sure must have liked that dance,” Clovermead muttered.

  “I flatter myself that I am not unskillful at dancing,” said Sorrel, and Clovermead blushed to realize that she had spoken loud enough to be heard. He smiled. “She is much more pleasant than you told me, Clovermead. How ever did you come to have so poor an opinion of such a sweet lady?”

  “Sweet lady, fiddlesticks,” said Clovermead. “She could eat babies for breakfast and you’d still say she was a nice young girl. I’m not fooled by the way she looks.”

  “By the moon’s sweet light! Do you mean that I have been ensorceled by a pair of pretty eyes?”

  “Yes,” said Clovermead concisely. “And you’d better watch out. She has her claws out for you.”

  “Such pretty claws,” said Sorrel dreamily. “I think you are too late,
Clovermead. I am enchanted beyond hope of salvation.”

  “Do you really like her?” Clovermead’s stomach felt queasy. “I know she’s pretty and all, but she’s hoity-toity and sugary and refined and how can you stand to talk with her?”

  “I am no enemy to refinement, Clovermead. I admire Lady Saraband’s manners greatly.” Sorrel looked at Clovermead seriously. “I have only spent the one evening of the Ball talking with her, but I like her very much. She is reserved about many matters, which some might take for stiffness, but I would not care for a lady who spills her heart to every gallant she meets. And it is something we have in common. On many matters I am reserved too.”

  Clovermead laughed. “I’m sure that’s because everyone’s reserved in the Cyan Cross Horde and no one ever knows anything about anyone else. Days go by without anyone exchanging a word, and when they do say something, it’s to say, ‘Pass the salt, the horse steak’s a bit dull today.’”

  “Actually, we were quite talkative in the Cyan Cross Horde,” said Sorrel. “If I were still among them, I would sing a loud song of admiration to the Lady Saraband, so publicly that she would blush a most-furious-and-yet-becoming red.” He paused a moment. “I have not talked much of matters of the heart since the Horde was destroyed, Clovermead. I prefer to say little of what I feel and to make jokes. You are my only companion to whom I would speak of my admiration for the Lady Saraband.” He glanced at Clovermead. “I ask you as my cherished friend to think more kindly of her.”

  His cherished friend, thought Clovermead. I should be so happy to hear him call me that, but I’m not. It means he already likes Saraband more than he likes me. Her face was hot and her eyes felt like they were being rubbed by rough wool.

  “I’ll try,” said Clovermead, but she knew she didn’t sound very eager. She made herself smile and say briskly, “Anyway, don’t ever step on Saraband’s toes when you dance with her. She got very cross with me when I did that, and she wasn’t the least bit reserved about it.”