In the Shadow of the Bear

by David Randall

  “Thank you for your warning.” Sorrel turned toward the vegetable garden, where Saraband was waiting. “Shall we go in?”

  “You first,” said Clovermead. “I’ll stay out here a bit. I like the breeze.”

  “As you wish.” Sorrel walked away, and soon Clovermead heard Saraband say, “Cadet, I am curious. What are the words in Tansyard for these vegetables?”

  “I would be glad to tell you, Lady,” said Sorrel, and then their voices dwindled as they wandered farther from the fort and into the garden’s darkness.

  Clovermead shuffled slowly toward the barracks when they were safely out of the way. “Go and tell her the Tansyard word for carrot,” she muttered. “And lettuce and celery, too! Now I know you don’t need to make clever conversation with someone you like. You can just talk about garden greens.” Her stomach clenched, and she told herself furiously, “I don’t care what Sorrel says. I don’t like Saraband, and I won’t like her. She’s awful and she’s stealing Sorrel away from me so he can moon over her. Cherished friend? Ha! That doesn’t mean a thing.”

  Clovermead’s claws were long inside her clenched fists.

  A thin grass sprang up on the Heath the next day, just as Saraband had predicted, and the horses neighed with pleasure as they left the naked dust of the inner Heath behind. The flat plain began to crumple into a series of low hills and valleys. Sorrel’s eyes sparkled avariciously as a family of mustangs pounded by in the distance; with a sigh he kept himself to his duties as escort. The sun was less harsh here than in Chandlefort, and Clovermead luxuriated in its warmth. Toward noon a flock of pigeons flapped overhead, flying from the south. Clovermead marveled as they passed by in their thousands.

  “It’s lovely here,” Clovermead said to Sorrel. She felt much better after a good night’s sleep. This morning she had been able to walk at almost normal speed, despite the ache in her ribs and shoulder. “I wish I could have been here in spring to see the meadow flowers bloom.”

  “You should come to the Steppes in springtime! The bluebells and the daffodils cover the land, and you cannot see an end to them. The grass is still short, and it is as if a rainbow had come to Earth to paint the land with all its loveliness. We call the flower-fields the Sky’s Tattoo—” Sorrel stopped speaking abruptly and cocked his head. Then he whistled and the Yellowjackets came to a halt. In the silence Clovermead could hear distant hoofbeats coming after them from the east.

  Bear-priests, thought Clovermead fearfully. The hoofbeats grew louder.

  “I would advise us to leave the road, sir,” Sorrel said to the Yellowjacket Sergeant. He pointed to a copse of linden trees profuse with leaves that lined the banks of a nearby stream. “I believe we can hide there.”

  The Sergeant looked around the open grassland, then nodded agreement. He spoke soft orders, and the Yellowjackets brought their horses hoof-deep into the shallow water of the stream. The lindens obscured the view of the road. Clovermead kept a tight rein on her pony. He didn’t like water underneath his hooves, and he was nervous.

  “There’s a good pony,” Clovermead whispered, stroking his nose. “I’ll keep you safe. Don’t you worry.” He nickered uneasily.

  The hoofbeats came ever nearer. Then Clovermead heard neighing and savage yelling, a horse screamed, and ten, fifteen, twenty bear-priests galloped past the screen of leaves that hid them from the road. They wore scimitars and rode white Phoenixian horses. Dust billowed from the road, the bear-priests were ghosts in the haze, and only their bronzed teeth gleamed as bright as ever. Then they were gone, dwindling into the distance ahead of Clovermead and her companions.

  “Will they come back this way?” Clovermead’s heart was beating double-time.

  “I wouldn’t risk the road anymore,” said the Sergeant. He glanced at Sorrel. “You’ve been to Silverfalls before, Tansyard. Do you know any other paths?”

  Sorrel scratched his head, looked around, then pointed to a muddy track on the other side of the stream. “That cow-path follows the stream, and the stream departs from the road in another mile. Both stream and cow-path will eventually curve to Silverfalls. We will go more slowly than on the road, but we will get there soon enough. Also, since the path sticks to the valley bottom, I do not think we will be visible from far away.”

  “Sounds good to me,” said the Sergeant. “Demoiselle?”

  “Just so we watch out for cowpats.” Clovermead saw Saraband still staring after the bear-priests, her beautiful face pale with fear, and somehow her fear made her look more irritatingly delicate than ever. “Wear a sword if you’re so scared of them,” Clovermead called out.

  Saraband’s face went cold. “I would rather die,” she said.

  They rode on through the grasslands of the valley bottom. Galloping made Clovermead’s shoulder and ribs hurt more again, but not as badly as the day before. The Heath began to slope upward toward the Reliquaries, and Clovermead could make out bare mountaintops and dark green forests ahead of her. The mountains west of them were lower than their brethren to the north and south, and clouds from the ocean beyond lazed through the gap. Now the Heath was thick with gangs of herdsmen and lowing throngs of cattle, long-haired, shaggy, and red like the soil of the Heath underneath the grass.

  The Yellowjackets camped for the night in a shanty set up for traveling herdsmen. Before going to bed Saraband removed Clovermead’s bandages, cleaned her wounds, and tied new swaths of cloth around them. “Thank you,” said Clovermead unwillingly.

  “Milady wouldn’t want you to bleed all over the Heath. It would be untidy.” Saraband drew the last bandage tight. “You heal astonishingly quickly. Is it something bears do?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” said Clovermead. “Next time I fight one, I’ll ask.”

  Saraband looked at Clovermead with a hint of impatience. “I know you didn’t enjoy my class, Demoiselle, and I’m reasonably sure you didn’t care for me as a teacher, but can you set that aside? We’re not in dance class anymore.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Clovermead buttoned up her shirt and stalked away from Saraband. “Minx,” she muttered as she stepped outside the shanty. “Conniving vixen! You’re stealing my friend, and I won’t set it aside. I’ll be rude and I’ll be nasty and I’ll—” She growled in anger and despair. “What’s the use? It doesn’t matter if I’m sweet or horrid. He’ll still want you.”

  Clovermead fell into an uncomfortable sleep that night. She dreamed she was a Tansyard girl out on the Steppes, chasing on horseback after Sorrel. He kicked his horse to a gallop and raced away from her into the plains, faster than she could ride. He was catching up with another Tansyard, who was Saraband, and they were riding into the distance together. Clovermead growled her sorrow, and her claws pierced the flesh of her steed. He neighed with sudden pain. Then there were more growls all around her and she was sleeping in a tent of the Cyan Cross Horde. The bear-priests were coming to kill her, to set their tents afire, just as Sorrel had told her. She heard a scream—

  She was awake and she heard screaming still. A sentry cried out “Bear-priests,” swords clashed, hoofbeats hammered, and bear-priests howled all around her. A great scimitar cracked open the top of the shanty, and Clovermead saw a Phoenixian with a bear-priest rear up in the starlight. His sword came down, and Clovermead ducked under it, out the shanty door.

  “Sorrel!” Clovermead yelled, but she couldn’t see him. “Where are you?” Her heart ached with fear, but there was no reply in the clamoring night.

  Yellowjackets and bear-priests fought in the darkness in confused knots. The bear-priests had the advantage of surprise, but the Yellowjackets had gone to sleep fully armed, and they hewed with abandon at every horseman they saw. Clovermead drew her sword, parried the ferocious slash of a bear-priest, then thrust after him as he rode past. She felt a pulse of joy to be using Ambrosius’ sword for the first time. She sliced air, and another bear-priest was riding toward her, swinging his sword wildly in hopes of hitting something. Clovermead cut
into his ankle, and he yowled. His Phoenixian was nearly on top of her, and Clovermead tumbled to one side.

  She found herself in back of the shanty, where Saraband stood panting in the darkness, frozen in terror as soldiers fought all around them.

  “I have a sword,” said Clovermead. She had reopened one of the slashes down her ribs; she could feel her blood dripping down her side in the dark. She strode over to Saraband and held out her father’s blade. “Here, take it.”

  Saraband reached out a trembling hand—then jerked it back. “I don’t fight,” she said. Determination kept her fear in check.

  “Lady’s curse on you,” said Clovermead, and she was about to say a great deal more when a bear-priest came charging into the alcove behind the shanty. His sword was swinging toward Saraband’s neck, and Clovermead barely had time to think I have to save her before she was leaping forward with her sword. The birchwood medallions shone, the blade glittered, and the bear-priest cursed as moonlight reflected from the sword into his eyes. Blinded, the bear-priest stumbled, and Clovermead brought her sword down on his sword-arm. The glistening edge crunched through a steel gauntlet and halfway through the bear-priest’s wrist, and he howled in pain as his sword spun into darkness. Clovermead slapped him backhanded with an arm suddenly grown into a bear’s foreleg, and he flew unconscious to the ground as his Phoenixian bolted away.

  “We have to get out of here now,” said Clovermead, turning her foreleg back into an arm. The yelling had grown even louder, and she saw flames rising around them. She sheathed her sword and walked over to the still-frozen Saraband. “I don’t know where our horses are. Can you ride on my back if I turn into a bear?” Saraband looked at her vacantly. “Are you deaf as well as useless? Answer me!” Saraband still said nothing, and a shanty timber collapsed in flames. Clovermead growled with exasperation and fury, and she slapped Saraband on the cheek.

  Saraband reeled from Clovermead’s slap, and suddenly her eyes focused. “How dare you!” Saraband began furiously, but then there was another scream on the other side of the shanty. “Change, farm-girl,” she spat out.

  “Hold tight,” said Clovermead. “I won’t go slow to make Your Ladyship feel comfortable.” Then she was changing, growing, thickening. She was a golden bear again, and she stood before Saraband in the darkness. Hurry, she growled, though Saraband couldn’t understand her. Saraband jumped onto her back, and her hands twisted hard into Clovermead’s fur.

  Clovermead ran. She couldn’t quite go at top speed, slowed by her wounds and Saraband’s extra weight, but she barreled through the fight. There were Yellowjackets and bear-priests everywhere, and it looked like the bear-priests were winning. She looked for Sorrel, but she couldn’t see him, couldn’t hear him, couldn’t smell him. A bear-priest brought his scimitar down toward her, but Clovermead swerved, jumped over the still-lit cooking fire, and was beyond the bear-priests. Clovermead raced away into the open Heath.

  She stopped at the top of the hill. Behind them was darkness and the distant clash of swords. She looked a last time for Sorrel, for anybody, then turned and roared her grief as she fled into the Heath. After a while she heard sobbing, and Saraband buried her face in Clovermead’s fur. Clovermead’s fur grew damp as they raced away.

  Chapter Eight

  The Bargain

  Clovermead found a place to rest in a cup of earth at the top of a distant ridge. They could see for miles from there but were hidden by the crumbling lip around them. Without blankets the Heath at night was chilly, so Clovermead stayed in bear-form while she slept. Saraband began the night at the opposite side of their resting place, but her cousin had curled up next to her warm fur when Clovermead woke at dawn.

  Saraband woke a few minutes later, yawned and sat up, and looked around the empty plains. Rain clouds swept over the Heath for the first time in weeks. Lightning flickered among the storms already pounding the Reliquaries, while the curtain of rain blew eastward toward them. There were no bear-priests visible—but neither were there cattle or herdsmen. Not even birds flew.

  “Turn human, farm-girl,” said Saraband. “I should look at your wounds, and I’m not a bear-doctor.” Clovermead changed back and shivered as the damp wind cut into her skin. She touched the reopened wound on her ribs and winced: It was no longer bleeding, but it was far more tender than it had been.

  Saraband undid Clovermead’s bandages, ran her fingers along the scar tissue, and whistled low. “You twisted that wound terribly when you were running. I’d have sworn the strain would break a rib, but your bones are fine.”

  “I don’t feel consoled,” said Clovermead. “I hurt a lot.”

  “Let your middle rest today, as much as you can.” Saraband knotted Clovermead’s bandages, and Clovermead stuffed her shirttails back into her trousers. “You’ll heal. I’m worried more about how to stay clear of the bear-priests.” Saraband pointed to the lowering in the crest of the Reliquaries directly to the west. “Silverfalls is there. Should we risk going straight to it?”

  “Why ask me? You’re the one who’s been here before.”

  “You’re the fighter,” said Saraband. “I’m not. There could be another hundred bear-priests out there waiting to catch us and I wouldn’t know.”

  “I wish Sorrel were here,” said Clovermead. “He’d know what to do.”

  “I do too,” said Saraband. There was a thread of grief in her voice. “I liked him very much, Demoiselle.”

  Against her will Clovermead felt a burst of sympathy for Saraband. “He’ll turn up. He’s escaped from bear-priests before, and he can do it again.” Clovermead didn’t believe a word she said, and Saraband looked like she didn’t either, but she nodded her head and pretended to be reassured. Clovermead looked at the oncoming storm-clouds. “We’ll wait for the rain to arrive before we start walking toward Silverfalls,” she decided. “The bear-priests won’t be able to see us in that downpour.”

  “That sounds remarkably cold and uncomfortable,” said Saraband. She looked at her dirt-stained blouse and trousers, and sighed. “I wish the bear-priests had given me time to grab a change of clothing!”

  Clovermead couldn’t help but laugh. “I wish I could have grabbed some food and another sword! Clothing doesn’t matter that much.”

  “I suppose so, farm-girl.” Saraband shrugged. “But I cannot control my heart. It wants clean clothes more than food or weapons.”

  “I’m not a farm-girl,” said Clovermead, annoyed. “We raised sheep up in Timothy Vale and I worked in Ladyrest Inn. We had a garden out back, but we weren’t farmers.”

  “I don’t care, farm-girl,” said Saraband. “You’ve never acted like a Demoiselle, and I’m tired of calling you by the name. You’re a farm-girl to me.”

  “I should just leave you for the bear-priests.” Clovermead couldn’t keep her dislike for Saraband out of her voice. “They deserve you.”

  “Do what you like.” Saraband lay down on the Heath. “I presume the rain will wake me. If you’re still here when I get up, I’ll do my best to guide you to Silverfalls.” She closed her eyes and fell asleep.

  I ought to leave you here, thought Clovermead. You wouldn’t feel so high and mighty when you woke up! Then she sighed. I’m not that petty. Much though I’d like to be! Milady, why did you get it into your head to send Saraband along? My wounds aren’t that bad, and there can’t be a more annoying traveling companion in Chandlefort.

  Clovermead couldn’t get back to sleep, so she took her sword out of her scabbard, wiped away the bloodstains on the dewy grass, then dried the metal with a clean corner of her shirt. She looked at the dull metal curiously and ran her fingers along the edge. It had cut through steel armor, but it was as sharp as ever. Clovermead eyed the sword with new respect. “You’re quite something. Milady said you were an ordinary Yellowjacket’s sword, but I don’t think normal swords cut through steel like that.” She looked at the plaques her father had carved, the boy freeing the bear and the man with his sword raised to the moon, and she
remembered how light had reflected into the bear-priest’s eyes. She raised the sword high. “Shine!” she said.

  The sword stayed dark.

  “I suppose it was just coincidence,” said Clovermead. She put the sword back into her scabbard and patted the leather affectionately. “You’re still a good, sharp sword, and I’m glad to have you.” She settled herself into the earth, away from the wind, and waited for the rain to arrive.

  When it finally came, Clovermead turned into a bear once more and Saraband got onto her back. Then Clovermead began to walk westward amid the spattering droplets. She trod cautiously over the hills: The mist had reduced their visibility to a few hundred feet, and the rain dug gullies in the earth. Clovermead tried to keep going in a straight line westward, but in the featureless, gray plain she quickly lost all sense of direction.

  Soon the rain came down in determined, endless gray sheets. Sometimes it rained harder, sometimes softer, but it never stopped. Saraband shivered on her back. Clovermead felt wet enough, but she was sure Saraband felt worse. Serves you right, thought Clovermead vindictively. Suffer! Sneeze!

  Despite the chilling rain and the constant ache from her wounds, Clovermead was enjoying herself. I do like being a bear! she thought. It’s like there’s a pane of glass around me when I’m human, but when I turn into a bear, the glass is gone and it’s just me in the world. Everything’s so vivid and I can hear my heart pump my blood as loud as thunder. Oh, it’s so wonderful to stretch my legs, to just run and be free! She ignored her complaining ribs and bounded faster—until she slid down a muddy slope while Saraband yelped in sudden alarm. She kept her balance and trotted a little slower after that.

  Once she saw a mounted figure in the grayness ahead. She stopped and crouched low while he rode by. She could hear Saraband moan her fear, softly and uncontrollably, until the figure disappeared into the distance.