In the Shadow of the Bear

by David Randall

  Toward evening the rain finally tailed off, but clouds still swirled thickly over the Heath. Clovermead’s stomach rumbled, and she stopped by a streambank. Saraband slid off her and huddled on a tuft of grass by the stream. She looked so bedraggled and miserable that Clovermead turned human just long enough to tell her, “I’ll go get us some food.” She shifted back into a bear and bounded upstream.

  She could smell fish below her and fruit ahead of her. She pounced after minnows lurking in the stream, but they eluded her claws. Then she came to a length of wild strawberries growing by the stream. She turned human, pulled her shirt out of her trousers, and filled it high with strawberries, nibbling as she gathered. She saw a honeycomb high up in the branches of a nearby poplar tree, and all of a sudden her mouth watered. “A little honey wouldn’t hurt,” she said wistfully. Then she laughed. “Don’t be silly, Clovermead. You know what happens when bears go after honeycombs. It all ends in tears and bee-stings.” She finished filling up her stomach and her shirt with strawberries, then returned to Saraband. “Here, dancing girl,” she said gruffly, and she dumped them into Saraband’s lap.

  “Thank you, farm-girl.” Saraband began to pop strawberries into her mouth, at first with a semblance of delicacy, but then just wolfing them down. When she had gone through a respectable amount of them, she sighed happily. “That’s much better. I’d almost be comfortable if we had a fire.”

  “I don’t have any tinder with me, and I don’t know how to rub damp sticks together to make a fire,” said Clovermead. “Anyway, bear-priests might see the flames.”

  “I suppose that makes sense,” said Saraband unhappily. She went back to gobbling strawberries. After a while she looked up at Clovermead. “Do you think the bear-priests knew we were coming?”

  “A deliberate ambush?” Clovermead thought about it, then shook her head. “No. They’d have sent more bear-priests after us, to make sure they caught us all. I think that troop we saw ride past us must have caught our trail somewhere and taken the opportunity to attack us, whoever we were. It was just bad luck.”

  “Bad luck.” Saraband stared despondently out at the darkness. “That seems an awfully bland way of putting it. I know I should not complain too much—after all, I am still alive—but right now I cannot help but wish that Milady had sent more Yellowjackets to escort us. Then we would not have been vulnerable to this sort of misfortune in the first place.”

  “Milady didn’t have much choice,” said Clovermead. “Chandlefort’s awfully weak. She doesn’t have many Yellowjackets to spare.” She looked up at the dark sky. “Anyway, it should clear up tomorrow. And then—” She paused for dramatic effect.

  “Then what?”

  “Then we see the way clear to Silverfalls, or we see a whole lot of bear-priests, dancing girl,” said Clovermead.

  “Thank you so much for that cheerful thought,” Saraband grumbled. She finished eating her strawberries while Clovermead turned into a bear and fell asleep.

  In the middle of the night Clovermead woke with the smell of bears all around her in the Heath. There were dozens of them, pungent in the dampness, running westward toward the Reliquaries. Clovermead rumbled wistfully and wished she could join them—but Saraband had huddled up by her furry body again, clinging to her for warmth, and Clovermead couldn’t move without disturbing her. You really do have a positive knack for being annoying, dancing girl, thought Clovermead. But she stayed still and let Saraband sleep on. After a while she fell asleep again too.

  The next morning was overcast with gray clouds, but clear enough. Clovermead turned human and peered out over the Heath. She could see the Reliquaries closer than ever—but even nearer was a line of horsemen beading the plains. The nearest was only half a mile away. There was only one rider every mile or so, but that was enough to keep watch on that flat land. There was no way through to the Abbey.

  “Lady’s kirtle,” Clovermead swore. “I didn’t think there really would be bear-priests.” She frowned as she looked at the expanse before them. “My best idea is to wait until nightfall and then try to slip between them.”

  “Will we be safe here during the day?” Saraband looked along the low streambed. “We won’t be able to hide if a bear-priest comes for a drink.”

  “No.” Clovermead laughed unsteadily. “Just pray to Our Lady that none of them gets thirsty.”

  “I will,” said Saraband. She glanced at Clovermead. “Farm-girl, are you as scared as I am?”

  “I’ve got gooseflesh from my forehead to my toes. Even when I’m a bear and I’m big and furry and strong, I just want to whine and run. I’d let my teeth chatter when I’m a bear, but my fangs would cut my lips.”

  Saraband smiled. “I’m glad to know I have company.” Her hand pressed lightly on Clovermead’s for a moment. “Thank you for protecting me, Cousin.”

  Clovermead felt suddenly ashamed, and her cheeks flared red. “I wouldn’t really leave you to the bear-priests.” Then she laughed abruptly. “I don’t mind dance class that much!”

  Saraband almost laughed too. “I’m glad you don’t. I would hate to have my tombstone read, ‘She corrected her students once too often.’”

  “Just remember I got you strawberries the next time I elbow my dance partner in the stomach. I want you to tell young Lord Whoever-It-Is that he needs to be a bit more agile when he dances with me, that’s all.”

  “I will,” said Saraband fervently. “You have my word on that.”

  Saraband took off Clovermead’s bandages and cleaned her scabs with stream-water. She shook her head with amazement as she saw the new flesh knitting together. “I wish I knew how you did that,” she said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say your wounds were two weeks old.” Then she tied Clovermead’s bandages back on, making sure they fit comfortably over her scabs.

  They lay in the streambed all day and grew hungrier as they waited. Clovermead stayed small and human, for fear her bear-bulk would be too conspicuous. She tried to rest, but she couldn’t fall asleep. She let her thoughts drift.

  Hello, Clovermead heard someone say amiably in her mind. She could tell that he was a young bear not much older than she was. His name was Brookwade. She saw the way he looked in his own eyes—sleek and handsome, with long black fur and elegant fangs. He was entirely satisfied with himself.

  With good reason, Brookwade thought comfortably. There isn’t a better-looking bear in all Linstock, if I say so myself. Who are you and how did you get into my mind?

  Clovermead, she thought. She sent images of herself as a human and as a bear.

  The changeling? The one who turns furless?

  That’s me, said Clovermead. I’ll show you if I see you. Where are you, anyway?

  In the Heath. Brookwade sent Clovermead a confused image. There were mountains to the west, but his bear’s vision was so dim that they were scarcely more than a blur of gray and green. He looked to be a few miles north of Clovermead and Saraband, but Clovermead couldn’t tell for sure. Have you been caught, too?

  Caught? What do you mean?

  Caught, exchanged, given, said Brookwade. Lord Ursus let us go, and for a moment we thought we were free. Then new coils came down upon us. For an instant Clovermead could see Mallow Kite’s white netting slither around Brookwade. It was slack now, but ready to command him whenever the dead man chose. He summons us to meet him in the Reliquaries. Don’t you feel his call?

  Clovermead tried hard to sense it, but she couldn’t. No, she said. I suppose I’m lucky. She wrinkled her forehead. He’s in the mountains?

  In Kite Hall, said Brookwade. By his grave. Lord Ursus gave Mallow only a little of his power when he raised him from the dead. Mallow can summon bears only when he is by his tombstone. He needs more bears for his second assault on Chandlefort, so he has returned to Kite Hall and calls us to join him. Brookwade sighed. It will be a wonderful thing to see so many other bears, but it will be sad and terrible to know we all are slaves to a dead man.

  I wish I could help
you, said Clovermead. She remembered how she had crouched by the prison-carts in the Army of Low Branding and used Sorrel’s blood to break the bonds Lord Ursus had clamped upon his bears. It had felt wonderful to drain Sorrel’s blood, and she had almost killed him. She shuddered. I won’t use a bear-tooth again. I don’t know anything else that can free you. She frowned. How does Mallow control you? It doesn’t feel as if he uses blood.

  Mallow calls us with his misery, changeling, said Brookwade. He calls us with the ache of his dead heart. Clovermead gasped. She could see the white coils again, and now she could feel Mallow’s jealousy and loneliness course through them. From the coils came a blurry image of her mother, the memory of blood dripped from his heart, and she felt a howl of pain and a punch of hatred—

  Clovermead severed her connection to Brookwade. She was crouched with her knees to her chest and her hands to her ears. Her mouth had stretched wide in a silent scream. I’m sorry, Brookwade, she thought, tears leaking from her eyes. I can’t take any more of that. You poor thing, how can you stand to feel that all the time?

  And then she thought, Poor Mallow. It must be worse for you. She wanted to just hate him for deceiving her, for trying to kill her mother, but she couldn’t. He hurt so much that she had to pity him.

  The clouds swept away by nightfall and left the Heath sparkling clear. The stars shimmered above her in their thousands, and a shooting star arced over the southern sky. The waning moon was not much more than half-full: In a little more than a week it would be gone.

  The medicines I gave you can’t slow the poison much beyond the waning of the moon, Saraband had said.

  Clovermead growled with helpless anger and tried to think about anything else. She could see the bear-priests’ silhouettes on the horizon. “If we can see them, they might see us,” she said to Saraband. “Maybe we should wait for the next rainfall.”

  “It doesn’t rain often on the Heath in summer,” said Saraband. Her stomach rumbled. “And I’m getting hungry. I’d rather make the effort while I’ve still got some strength left.”

  Clovermead’s stomach growled too. “I guess I’m also hungry,” said Clovermead. “I wish Father were here. He’d gather up half a dozen herbs, find a potato growing in a hillside, and make us a wonderful stew. Then he’d tell a story or sing a lullaby, until we’d fallen asleep without any worries at all.”

  “I’d like that,” said Saraband wistfully. “I haven’t had a lullaby sung to me in ages. My mother used to—” She stopped abruptly, then started again. “I haven’t had a chance to talk with Lord Wickward. I’ve seen him around the Castle, though. He speaks to a scullery maid as politely as he speaks to Milady, and he wipes dust from the furniture when he thinks no one is looking. He’s a curious man. I don’t know him at all, but I think I might like him.”

  “Ask me extra politely and I’ll introduce you when we get back to Chandlefort,” said Clovermead. “If you’re lucky, he might like you, too.” Ahead of them a horse neighed, and Clovermead turned to peer into the darkness. “If we get back to Chandlefort. I think the bear-priests would see me if I went as a bear, so I’m going to keep my head down and crawl on the grass in human shape. How are you at slithering?”

  “Sssimply sssplendid.” Saraband smiled wanly at Clovermead, then ruefully stroked her damp sleeves. “Oh, my poor blouse. I’ll never get the grass stains out of it now.”

  “If we make it back to Chandlefort,” said Clovermead, “I will wear nothing but green outfits. Green will become the Demoiselle’s color and very fashionable, and then everyone will envy you your elegant grass stains. Does that reassure you, Cousin?”

  “You’re too kind.” Saraband’s eyes flicked over Clovermead. “You wouldn’t look bad in a green dress,” she said thoughtfully. “Not grass, but emerald, to show off your golden hair. Once the mud’s been cleared out of it.”

  “Come with me to the seamstress when we’re back home. You can tell her how to dress me up.”

  “Or I could just get a new blouse.” Saraband shivered. “Shall we go? It’s getting colder by the minute.” Clovermead nodded agreement and they began to crawl.

  The grass here was sometimes waist-high and sometimes nibbled down to the Heath. Where it was higher, they trotted forward on their hands and knees; where it was lower, they scuttled on their stomachs. Clovermead felt her scars stretch once or twice as she wriggled forward, but this time they didn’t open. Then she led Saraband toward a gully that lay between the two nearest patrolling bear-priests, so steep that neither one brought his steed down into it, but only looked down into it from horseback. Clovermead could hear the rustling of small birds and field mice in the clear night air. She and Saraband moved ever more slowly and quietly as they came nearer the bear-priests.

  They were only a hundred yards away from the bear-priests when Clovermead felt a sneeze coming on. It tickled at her nose, then loitered down into her throat. She felt herself convulse and she suppressed it with a desperate struggle. She moved forward another foot—and it was coming on again. Clovermead put her hand over her mouth. Dear Lady, help me! cried Clovermead in her mind, but this time she couldn’t stop the sneezes entirely. Three muffled, snuffly chuf-chuf-chufs forced themselves through her clenched teeth into the Heath, and Saraband whimpered with fear.

  For a moment there was silence. Then the clip-clop of the nearest bear-priest’s horse started up again. He was coming closer.

  Not again, thought Clovermead. It was my fault Mallow struck down Milady, it’s my fault again, and now Saraband will die because I couldn’t control myself. I can’t let this happen. She put her hand on her sword, but she had a dreadful feeling in her stomach that it wouldn’t do any good. More bear-priests would come the moment they heard the sound of battle. Maybe Clovermead could protect herself, but she didn’t think she could protect Saraband as well. If only she’d fight! thought Clovermead with dread and anger. Maybe we’d have a decent chance then. Why am I trying to keep someone alive who won’t fight, and who’ll take Sorrel away from me if he’s still alive, and—

  She felt a twinge of jealousy and hatred in her heart. It was familiar. She had felt the same misery in the cords Mallow Kite used to bind Brookwade. He calls us with the ache of his dead heart.

  Maybe I can do the same, Clovermead thought desperately. A bear would be awfully useful right now. She opened her mind and her heart. Living heart, dead heart, what’s the difference? Anyway, I don’t have any better ideas. She could feel jealousy and loneliness pulse in her, grief for her mother who was dying and grief for Sorrel who might be dead, and she flung her aching heart into the night. She felt a tug inside her, as if she had cast a line into a stream and caught a fish. The fish wriggled on the hook and she pulled back with all her heart.

  What do you think you’re trying to do? asked a voice like dried bones. Mallow spoke inside of her. Clovermead tried to break away from him, but white coils lashed out of the darkness and held her mind. She felt him rummage through her mind, like a bony hand turning the pages of a book. Ah! Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. But you are naïve, Demoiselle. My agony survived my death; do you think your little griefs are stronger than the grave? You cannot hope to wrest my bears from me.

  Let me go, said Clovermead. She struggled, but she could not move. She could hear the bear-priest coming closer still, clip-clop. Let me fight before I die.

  Another minute, if you please, thought Mallow. He picked up strands of her memory—her anger and shame, her misery and uncertainty, her pity. Pity? “Poor Mallow”? Why, Demoiselle, whatever gave you that curious notion?

  I don’t want to think that way, said Clovermead unhappily. You used my father’s name to make me help you, and you tried to kill Mother, and I hate you! But you hurt so much that I can’t help feeling sorry for you.

  I wish I hadn’t needed to deceive you, sighed Mallow. I must have my revenge against your mother, but I don’t hate you, Demoiselle.

  Clovermead could hear the bear-priest’s horse
neigh. Terror had transfixed Saraband. I don’t care what you think about me, moaned Clovermead. The bear-priests will kill us in a minute if you don’t let me go. She tried to move her arms, but they were frozen stiff.

  You should not die like this, said Mallow. Then he cried out with queer good humor, and longing, selfishness, and kindness mixed strangely in his laugh. You will not die. I shall make you a bargain, little Demoiselle. Give me the heart’s blood you would have thrown away on my bears, and I will send these bear-priests on their way.

  No! cried Clovermead. But now she could see the bear-priest. He was twenty yards away. His teeth gleamed in the darkness, and Saraband moaned with fear. What do you want it for?

  A little bit to moisten my dry veins. The rest to cherish. Oh, Demoiselle, you do not know how sweet your pity is. Your mother never could feel pity for me. She destroyed me, and when I looked into her eyes, I knew she only felt a pale regret. He whispered wistfully, yearningly to Clovermead. Let me take some of your pity to warm me. I am always so cold.

  How much? asked Clovermead. She could hear the bear-priest’s breath. She saw his scimitar. You can’t have it all.

  Just a third, Demoiselle, said Mallow. He paused a moment. And in return I will give you some of the dust that flows through my veins. Will you take my bargain?

  She thought of Waxmelt and Lady Cindertallow, and her father and mother both seemed to be yelling at her not to do anything so foolish, but she didn’t have time to think of another way to save Saraband. It’s not that I like her, she told herself. Most of the time she’s the most aggravating person I ever met. But like it or not, I’m responsible for Saraband now. It doesn’t matter what I think of her: I’d have nightmares for the rest of my life if I just let her die out here. Clovermead didn’t have a choice.

  I will, said Clovermead frantically to Mallow. Do it quickly. Hurry!

  Dust for blood and blood for dust, said Mallow. A hand of bone reached into Clovermead’s heart, ice spread through her chest—and then the hand was gone. So was part of Clovermead. She felt light-headed, lighthearted, and something cold and dry ran in her veins.