In the Shadow of the Bear

by David Randall

  One of the patricians looked up, saw me, and laughed. “Look at that girl dance! Come and join us—I want a real lass for my partner, not one of this lot.”

  “I wouldn’t, little lady,” said one of the beardless youths, grinning. “He begged me to dance, and now he throws me over in a second! That one’s a rake.”

  “I promise I won’t dance with anyone else all afternoon,” the first patrician said to me, with his hand on his heart and a wink in his eye. “Come along, come along now.” He stamped his feet, clapped his hands, and beckoned to me.

  I knew my duties and I turned to go—but I could not. A surge of nausea almost overwhelmed me, and I felt that my heart would die if I went away. Instead I turned back to the patrician and stepped forward. I smiled, and my feet started to leap to the fiddle’s tune. There was a murmur in the crowd, for they knew who I was, but no one spoke. The patricians did not notice, merely welcomed me with happy grins. And then we were dancing.

  The rhythm was infectious, the pounding of feet as marvelous as the saw of the fiddle. The patricians gave me some words of instruction, but I scarcely needed them. It had been enough to watch them, and now I could melt into the dance. I kicked my legs, let the patricians whirl me in their arms, and I laughed more deeply than I had since I’d come to Chandlefort. I was careless, heedless, irresponsible, and I loved it. I surrendered to the dance, let all steel and power melt from me, and I was happy.

  How long I danced I don’t know, but there came a moment when the fiddle fell silent and the patricians shuffled to a halt. I looked up, and there was Lady Cindertallow. The crowd of Chandleforters gaped at us, expecting some great drama. She stood and looked at me—vexed, puzzled, and oddly smiling. I had expected terrible anger, not this curious expression. She did not often bestow smiles on me, and never any so warm.

  “You are late for your lessons, Lady Saraband,” she said out loud, and there was so much amusement in her voice that the crowd rustled with relieved laughter. Even the patricians grinned. “I didn’t know you were so fond of dance.”

  “I apologize, Milady,” I said, my eyes to the ground. I shuffled away from the patricians—rather, I meant to shuffle, but I half-skipped to her, still dancing, and the patricians behind me chuckled again. “I have no excuses,” I said, my cheeks flaming.

  “You certainly don’t,” Lady Cindertallow said loudly, but her eyes were gentle on me. “I must chastise you, Lady Saraband,” she said for the crowd; “Come with me,” she said more softly. We walked down the cobbles of the courtyard as the crowd scattered out of our way.

  “Let me see,” said Lady Cindertallow, once we had some privacy. “You were late for a lesson with your sovereign mistress, you were fraternizing with Low Branding prisoners, and you had a very abandoned look on your face that wasn’t at all befitting for a future Lady Cindertallow. You’ve not shown yourself at your best today.”

  “No, Milady,” I said. My heart fluttered within me, but I made my voice calm.

  “Indeed,” said Lady Cindertallow, “you shock me. I’ve never known you to act like this before. You’ve been a model of dutiful obedience.”

  “You’re kind, Milady,” I said, but already my heart was retreating from me. The music faded from my mind, and my feet forgot the dance they had so recently enjoyed.

  “You reminded me of Meadowlark,” said Lady Cindertallow. “She danced so, before you were born.”

  I could not help crying. Her words stabbed my heart. I would not acknowledge the tears by wiping them away, but let them float down my cheeks. “She taught me when I was younger,” I said, and I spoke with calm steel. As a Cindertallow.

  “It comes to me that I don’t know you at all,” said Lady Cindertallow thoughtfully. “I’ve never seen you . . . I was going to say so happy, but I don’t know that I’ve ever seen you happy at all. You’re capable of happiness—I saw that clearly today—but training to be my heir gives you no joy.”

  “How can it, Milady?” I asked. I had never thought I would speak so freely, but it was a strange day. “Yesterday I studied how to pronounce a sentence of death upon murderers. Last week I learned when it is expedient to burn peasants’ crops during a war, and when it is not. Tomorrow I’ll find out yet one more way to gut a man. I know this is all necessary, I know that my subjects will need me to do these things, but it’s inhuman. How could I possibly take joy in these things?”

  “I do,” said Lady Cindertallow. She looked at me quizzically. “It’s strange to hear you talk so. I don’t like killing, Lady knows, but—yes, when I sentence a murderer to death, I feel satisfaction. I’ve dealt justice for his victim, and I’ve prevented him from ever harming another soul. When I fight in battle, I know I’m fighting so my subjects will be able to live in peace later. Yes, I feel delight when I fight for Our Lady, for Chandlefort, and for my people. I do take pleasure in my power as Lady Cindertallow. I try to use it justly, to use my power to do good, but I do feel joy. I thought everyone would feel the same. Don’t you?”

  “Not at all, Milady,” I said. “I don’t care for power. Milady, my mother was right. You wouldn’t have cast my uncle aside so easily if you weren’t so accustomed to power. I know. I’m learning how to cast people aside. After a while it becomes very easy.”

  “That it does,” said Lady Cindertallow quietly. Then she suddenly smiled. “Well, Lady Saraband. You make me wonder if I was correct to appoint you my heir. Do you think I should revoke the appointment?” I could barely understand the words, but it was as if a stone had been taken off my heart, and I smiled all at once, all over my face. I felt light and giddy, and Lady Cindertallow laughed. “I’ve never seen a yes so clearly indicated.”

  I made my smile go away. “It would not be wise to relieve me of this duty, Milady,” I said. “Chandlefort still needs an heir. My wishes don’t affect the matter.”

  “I think they do,” said Lady Cindertallow. “I don’t doubt you would be quite competent as Lady Cindertallow, but more than competence is needed. Your heart must be engaged too. It’s not fair to Chandlefort to have a halfhearted Lady.” She pondered matters for a second, then spoke again. “If you’re convinced that your heart will never enjoy the duties of a Lady Cindertallow, I will disinherit you.”

  “Who will be your heir, then?”

  A shadow came over Lady Cindertallow’s face. “No one. I’ll pray to Our Lady for another solution to Chandlefort’s difficulties.”

  “I’ll pray to Our Lady too,” I said. Then I spoke to Lady Cindertallow with all the firmness I could muster. “I’m not fit to be Lady Cindertallow, Milady, and I never will be. Release me for the good of Chandlefort.”

  “For your own good,” said Lady Cindertallow. “Chandlefort can shift for itself this once.” Then she laughed with sudden jubilation. It struck me that if she had never seen me happy, neither had I ever seen such joy in her. I laughed with her, and we filled the courtyard with our merriment. Everyone heard us—the prisoners, the Chandleforters who had been watching the dance, lords and ladies in the balconies. We embraced, I cried amid my happiness, and so did she. I came to love her in that moment. She was a fearsome ogre still, she could not be Lady Cindertallow and not be one, but she had balanced her realm against my happiness and given my heart the greater weight. For that she has my love and loyalty forever.

  “Listen!” cried Lady Cindertallow, and she took my hand in hers. “I disinherit Lady Saraband Sconce! She is not my heir and never will be. She is a dancer and nothing more. Let all know!” She squeezed my hand so tight it hurt, I squeezed her hand back, and all my mind was laughter and joy. Then we went around Chandlefort, and Lady Cindertallow repeated her words until she was hoarse.

  I sent a letter with the news to Silverfalls. My mother had become the Abbess in the time I was gone, and I asked her if I could return to the Abbey. Her response came within the week: I’m glad you’re no longer Demoiselle, Saraband. Nevertheless, I will not change my mind. I will not see you again. Do not come back to Silverfalls
. But tell Milady that I am grateful for what she has done.

  I told Lady Cindertallow, and then I burned the note. And since then I have not picked up a sword or opened a law book or done anything in the way of power. Nor will I act the Cindertallow again: I am my mother’s daughter. We may never speak again, but I will not go against her wishes. I will remain true to her for the rest of my life.

  “I’m sorry,” said Clovermead quietly.

  Saraband shrugged. “The past is past.” She yawned and looked up at the star-filled sky. “I didn’t think I’d talk such a long time! Are you all right, Cousin?”

  “I’m fine,” said Clovermead. She squeezed Saraband’s hand a moment. “Thank you for coming to comfort me.”

  “Anytime, Cousin.” Saraband ran a finger along Clovermead’s cheeks, but the tears had long since dried. She yawned again. “Time for me to sleep. It’s been a long day.” She lay down on the rocks, still holding Clovermead’s hand in hers. She smiled at Clovermead, and then she fell asleep.

  Sleepless, Clovermead sat up through the night. But when she looked down at her sleeping cousin, her beautiful cousin whom Sorrel preferred to her, dust swirled in her. I should be grateful to you, I should like you, but I’m full of dust, and I don’t have to care tuppence what happens to you. It’s not as if I have a heart left. Dead is dead.

  She let go of Saraband’s hand.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Gates Crack

  “Shall we try to get to Chandlefort again, Clovermead?” Sorrel asked the next morning. “We did not have much luck with our first attempt, and there are a great many more bear-priests around Chandlefort. Even with you by our side I am not sure we can make it through to the town.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” said Clovermead. “I think we’ll have help.” Quickly she told them how the bears had agreed to meet her at the teardrop pillars. “Can we make it there before dusk?”

  Sorrel glanced to the west. “I think we will make good time. There should not be any rain today.”

  Clovermead looked up too. The world was black and white and gray. She turned to stare straight at the morning sun, looking for a hint of color, and she did not have to flinch. It was no brighter than a candle flame.

  Saraband and Clovermead got onto the two captured Phoenixians, Sorrel rode Brown Barley, and they cantered down from the rocky hills onto the dry plain of the Salt Heath. This time they rode cautiously and watched for bear-priests riding from the distant line of Chandlefort’s green fields. They stayed away from the road itself, took shelter behind low hills when they could, and dashed across stretches of open ground when they had to. Far ahead Clovermead could smell the moisture and life of Chandlefort, but it was well hidden in the dead husk of the Heath.

  It’s like me, thought Clovermead. Dead on the outside but alive on the inside. But there isn’t much left to either of us. Give it a little more time and we’ll both be dead through and through. She pinched her arm. She saw her abused flesh darken, but she could not feel it.

  When the sun was near the western horizon, they came to the teardrop pillars. Clovermead looked around her, and everywhere she saw bears dotting the ground—bears padding, bears growling their thirst, bears napping, bears swinging their heads as they smelled the three riders approach. There were bear cubs and ancient bears, bears with the fierce glow of exile in their eyes, bears who blinked in the light, bears haunted and terrified. She tried to count them, but there were too many. Hundreds waited for them by the pillars.

  “I don’t think we’ll have any trouble getting past the bear-priests,” said Clovermead. A flicker of joy pierced her numbness and she smiled. I’m so glad you’ve come, she called out to the bears. The bears roared back complaisant acknowledgment.

  I told you we’d be here, said Brookwade cheerfully as he ambled up from the pack toward them. He sniffed at Sorrel and chuffed laughter. You brought your snack with you, changeling!

  Sorrel shied away from him. “Is that the bear who held me captive in the hayfield?” Clovermead nodded and Sorrel grimaced. “I know the look on his face. Tell him not to think of me as edible. It is not a polite attitude toward a comrade who will fight in battle by his side.”

  Clovermead giggled. His name is Sorrel. Do try to call him that—he’s sensitive. Brookwade shrugged and Clovermead looked around at the bears. Are they all here to fight?

  All, said Brookwade. He sat back on his haunches and rumbled uncertainly. Now that we’re here, what do you suggest that we do next?

  I’m not quite sure, said Clovermead. I should have some sort of clever and complicated plan, but I’m no general.

  Just as well, said Brookwade. I don’t think we’d remember anything very complicated. Really, all we want to know is where to run and who to bite and when to start biting. There will be biting, won’t there? I’ve wanted to chomp on a bear-priest for such a long time.

  You won’t be disappointed, said Clovermead. She looked at the sky. The sun had nearly set. She calculated the remaining distance to Chandlefort, then smiled. Start running toward Chandlefort now. It’ll be dark by the time we get to the fields, and then we can surprise the bear-priests. Just bite down on any of them you find.

  I think I’ll like this battle, said Brookwade. He roared to the rest of the bears. Time to fight! We go to Chandlefort for our revenge. Quietly, now—give the bear-priests no warning. Only let them know we’re there when our jaws are on their throats.

  At last, said another bear, and he sprang to his feet. He roared with anticipation, and the roar passed from bear to bear. It was soft but chilling in its settled anger, and Clovermead was very glad the bears weren’t mad at her. The roar died out, the pack stood up, and they began to pad eastward toward Chandlefort.

  Clovermead explained to Sorrel and Saraband what she and Brookwade had decided. “They won’t hurt us.” Not unless Mallow seizes control of them again, she thought to herself. She looked at the bears all around her, and her heart suddenly thumped with fear. “Don’t dress as a bear-priest and you should be all right.”

  “I will try to remember that,” said Sorrel. He gulped and shuddered. “I will never get used to these bears. They are so big! It is very unnerving.”

  Clovermead rolled her eyes. “Let’s get after them, little snack,” she said.

  They raced toward Chandlefort among a sea of bears. The bears’ powerful muscles ground away the miles, and their flesh and fur rose and fell like waves driven by a gale. Brown and black, golden and russet, even pure white here and there, two hundred bears pounded along the Heath. They kept eerily silent, and a storm of dust billowed high from the hammering of their feet.

  They entered the fields, and Clovermead was shocked at how much had changed in the short time she had been away from Chandlefort. Most of the crops were still growing, but half the farms they passed were burned down. Olive trees had been necklaced by knives, and above the broken bark the trees were already starting to die. Cows and horses had been slaughtered and their corpses left to rot in the barns. Some fleet-footed goats peeked at them from behind distant trees.

  The bears fanned out onto the smaller paths through the fields. In the deepening gloom Clovermead rapidly lost sight of them. Soon she began to hear growls and the clash of swords, screams and the sudden sound of retreating hoofbeats as the bears drove their erstwhile tormentors before them. Now Clovermead, Sorrel, and Saraband rode alone, and they came swiftly to the open land between the fields and the walls of Chandlefort. Clovermead reined in her horse at the edge of the fields. Ahead of her four hundred bear-priests had retreated into a tight circle in front of the gates of Chandlefort.

  At the forefront of the mass of bear-priests Mallow Kite rode on his horse made of shadows and bones. Behind him were the dead bears Clovermead had last seen at Silverfalls. They mutely growled their terrible hunger, silently howled at the living world that mocked them with its vibrancy. They stood among the bear-priests, and even the bear-priests showed some unease at their new companions
. The bears who had been pursuing the bear-priests came to a halt. They moaned in fear as they looked at the dead bears in front of them.

  “I think they’re too many for us, Cousin,” said Saraband faintly. “What do we do now?”

  Clovermead looked up at the moon. Only the narrowest crescent was left. “Milady doesn’t have any time to spare,” said Clovermead. She drew her father’s sword and crouched forward on her horse, ready to gallop. “It doesn’t matter how many there are. We have to try to fight through them.”

  “Wait,” said Sorrel. “Perhaps I can distract them instead. I think I have told you that any Tansyard can ride faster than the wind? Well, I can ride faster than death itself.”

  “No!” said Saraband. She clutched at him. “Are you mad?”

  Sorrel scratched his head, thought for a moment, then winked at Saraband. “I think I am not. Whenever I am with Clovermead, I get into scrapes where it makes sense for me to do mad things, that is all. And I am in service to Lady Cindertallow—there was nothing in my oath to her about an exception for dead bears, much though I wish there had been. I think I must go.”

  “I could use someone to help me nurse the wounded when the battle is over,” said Saraband. Her eyes were hollow as she looked at Sorrel. “Stay with me, Sorrel. Let someone else fight.”

  For a moment Sorrel looked enormously tempted. He looked at the dead bears, and Clovermead saw how afraid he was. He looked at Saraband, and Clovermead saw how much he liked her, how little he wanted to hurt her. He looked at Clovermead—and Clovermead blushed and ducked her head when she saw the deep affection in his eyes. It was stronger than his fear of the bears, stronger even than his desire to please Saraband.