In the Shadow of the Bear

by David Randall

  When she was done, Mallow’s sword had clattered to the floor and Lady Cindertallow’s tears flowed down her cheeks.

  “I’m sorry, Mallow,” said Lady Cindertallow. “Oh, Lady, I’m sorry. I never told you that, did I? I never have apologized for anything I did to you. How could I have been so thoughtless? I shouldn’t have led you on when I didn’t love you. I shouldn’t have cast you aside so brutally. Lady knows I never meant to hurt you so, but I did. It was cruel of me and I am so very sorry.”

  Mallow could not speak. He only howled. He put his hands over his face—then lifted up his head in anguish. “I cannot cry. I have no tears.”

  Lady Cindertallow let go of Clovermead and walked to Mallow. She kneeled by him and took her tears, and her wet hands rubbed them on Mallow’s face. “These are for you.” She was crying still. “Forgive me, Mallow,” she said. “Please forgive me.”

  “I do,” said Mallow. Lady Cindertallow’s tears glistened on his face. “I have done you great wrong, Melisande. I ask for your forgiveness too.”

  “You have it, Mallow,” said Lady Cindertallow, and Clovermead let the bear slip from her at last. She fell human to the ground, and she heard her mother shriek. All heat and light were gone from her, but she smiled, she knew she had done her best. The piper played her sweet welcome—

  She gasped as heat flooded back into her. For a moment the world was a red glow around her and she was on fire from her heart to her skin. All her blood pounded in her and the dust had vanished from her veins. She was wonderfully alive and tingling all over. She could see, and the world was full of moonlight and starlight, torchlight and color. She could feel, she could hurt, she could live, and it was the most glorious thing ever. I didn’t know how much I wanted my heart until I lost it, she thought.

  She tried to stir, but she was terribly weak and her mother held her in her arms. “Don’t move yet,” Lady Cindertallow said. Her face was more haggard than ever. “You—” She could not finish the sentence.

  “You were on death’s door,” said Mallow. He was human again, a tall, thin man with curly red hair and pale skin. “I gave you back your heart just in time, Clo—Demoiselle.”

  “Clovermead is all right,” she whispered. She could not speak any louder. “Thank you.”

  “Clovermead,” said Mallow. “You are too kind.” He turned to Lady Cindertallow. “Don’t worry, Melisande. The dead I have summoned up will return to dust, and the venom in you will vanish when I go. You will be well again, with only a scar to show I wounded you.”

  “Where are you going, Mallow?” asked Lady Cindertallow.

  “To the halls of the dead. They are my proper resting place.” Mallow smiled lopsidedly. “I will ask Our Lady for a chance to see Ambrosius. If I do, I will tell him you are as beautiful as ever. And that you love him still.”

  “Thank you,” said Lady Cindertallow. She reached out her hand and beckoned Mallow. He knelt by her side, by Clovermead, and Melisande gently stroked his cheek. “Our Lady’s blessings on your journey, Mallow.”

  “I will listen for her voice,” said Mallow. He smiled at Clovermead. “It should be easy, now that I know what it sounds like.” He stood up and stepped away from them. In the center of the room he bowed to Clovermead. “I will miss your kind heart, Clovermead.” He turned to Lady Cindertallow. “You will always have my love.”

  “Lord Ursus!” he cried out. “I renounce Your Lordship! Take back this second life you have given me and never call on me again. I will not listen to you. I swear it in Our Lady’s name.” Mallow tore the leather cord with the bear-tooth from his neck and let it fall to the floor between his feet.

  There was a howling of wind. It blew, stronger and stronger. A raging growl, hot and fetid, blew from the south. Then another growl, sorrowing and welcoming, sounded from all directions, and the first growl faded into silence. Dust whipped up around Mallow Kite. He gazed at Lady Cindertallow as the wind grew louder and tears, his own tears, fell from his cheeks. Outside Chandlefort came a sudden, grateful roar, silent no more, from a hundred dead bears as they fell apart, fell to dust. The dust grew thick and obscured Mallow from view. Then the wind died away utterly. The dust fell to the ground—and there was nothing there.

  In the sudden silence Clovermead could hear ragged, jubilant shouts coming from the bedroom window. “What is that, Mother?” she whispered. She was a little stronger now, but she still couldn’t move.

  Lady Cindertallow put her comfortably to the floor and stood up. There was bloom in her cheeks again and color in her hair. The ugly yellow had vanished from her wounds. She went to the window, looked out, and smiled.

  “The little man’s servants and my Yellowjackets have held the gates against the bear-priests. The townsmen are cheering their victory.”

  “I’m glad,” whispered Clovermead. Then she shivered with sudden cold and she was crying again. “Please hold me, Mother,” she said.

  Lady Cindertallow ran to her side and gently picked her daughter up. Clovermead could not stop shaking, and her mother held her tight, kissed her, and sang her lullabies. Her voice was hoarse and out of tune, but still she sang until late in the night. And only when the moon had set did Clovermead finally fall asleep, smiling in her mother’s arms.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Sprung Trap

  Three days later the first refugees from Queensmart came along the south road. They were the lucky ones, the cavalrymen who had cut their way through the armies of bear-priests as they broke through the Queensmart walls. They were wounded, they were exhausted, they were very few.

  “There’ll be more of us,” said the cavalry commander who had brought away with him the flag of the last legion of Queensmart. He swayed with weariness as he stood in the Throne Room. “The foot soldiers should be along in a few days. The farmers with any brains will be on the move soon enough. They know they’ll be safe from Ursus in Chandlefort for a while yet. If you’ll let us take refuge here.” He looked up at the throne, and his eyes were suddenly filled with doubt. Lady Cindertallow was still very thin, she held a cane in her hand, and her sword arm remained half-withered. The day was baking hot, but Clovermead sat next to her mother in a stuffed chair, with a goose-feather blanket wrapped around her and a hot compress on her head. “Or am I assuming too much? Are you still fighting against Lord Ursus, Milady?”

  Lady Cindertallow laughed. “We must look worse than I imagined, Clovermead.”

  “We aren’t as badly off as we look,” Clovermead said to the soldier. Her teeth chattered and she pulled the blanket more tightly around her. It was taking a long time for her body to shake off the cold of the grave. “Well, maybe I am, but I’m getting better. We won’t stop fighting.”

  Not ever, she swore silently. Do you hear me, Ursus? You can destroy me, but I won’t give in to you.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” the cavalryman said to Clovermead with grave gratitude. Then he turned hesitantly to her mother. “Does the Demoiselle speak for you, Milady?”

  “Always.” Lady Cindertallow smiled at Clovermead and then at the cavalryman. “You are all welcome in Chandlefort. We have empty lands for your farmers and places in our army for your soldiers. We’ll be in the fight against Lord Ursus until the end.”

  “Thank you, Milady,” said the cavalryman. He cleared his throat, stood up, and held up the flag of the legion. “Would you be willing to fly this from one of your towers? It’ll be a sign to the others that there’s a place here for them.”

  “Put it above the south gate,” said Lady Cindertallow.

  And when the cavalryman had left the Throne Room, Lady Cindertallow sagged with relief. “Ursus will be busy down in the Thirty Towns for at least a year mopping up the garrisons of Queensmart. Hard luck for the Queensmarters, I suppose, but at least that gives us time to rebuild the gates.”

  “I love you, Mother,” said Clovermead, “but sometimes you are awfully cold-blooded.”

  “I need to be to keep Chandlefort alive.” She
glanced at Clovermead. “So will you, when you become Lady Cindertallow.”

  “I’d like to find some other way.”

  Her mother grimaced. “I wish you success, Daughter. But I don’t think you’ll find it.” Then she strode away to give directions to the Chancellor to find rooms for the exiles from Queensmart and to the Commander of the Yellowjackets to give them new weapons from the Armory.

  The next morning Clovermead and her mother were waiting for breakfast in Lady Cindertallow’s rooms when Waxmelt came through the door with a tray of orange juice, two omelets, and fresh baked rolls and placed it with a flourish on the table. He had changed out of his soldier’s garb and back into his lordly clothing—but he wore an apron over his jacket and trousers.

  “Your breakfast, Milady,” he said. “Your breakfast, Clo.”

  Lady Cindertallow looked at him bemusedly. “Am I that short of cooks?”

  “I have sent some to the hospice to help feed the wounded,” said Waxmelt. “But I did ask for the privilege of cooking for you. You’ve employed me in ways I’m not at all suited for. I thought you should see what I’m best at.”

  “He’s a really good cook, Mother,” said Clovermead. She grabbed her plate and a fork from the tray and took a bite. “A tomato omelet! With, um, chives and something sweet thrown in. Right, Father?”

  “A spoonful of honey,” said Waxmelt. He took Lady Cindertallow’s plate and put it in front of her. “Will you try it, Milady?”

  Lady Cindertallow hesitated, looked at Waxmelt warily, and took a forkful of the omelet. She chewed it thoughtfully, then nodded approvingly. “Very good. I would ask you to cook for us more often if it were not below your station.”

  “Maybe he could have breakfast with us sometimes,” said Clovermead, very casually. “He could come in with three omelets. Can a lord cook for pleasure?”

  “It has been known.” Lady Cindertallow looked at Waxmelt, sighed, and gestured to a third chair at the table. “Sit down, Lord Wickward. Shall I offer you half of this rather fine omelet?”

  “I’ve already eaten.” Waxmelt sat down gingerly. “If it’s Milady’s pleasure, I’d be glad to join the two of you for breakfast from time to time.”

  “I will need to consult with my new General,” said Lady Cindertallow. “Why not make it a friendly matter?” She took a sip of orange juice, then another forkful of omelet. She smiled. “This really is quite good.”

  “I’m glad you like it, Milady.” Waxmelt smiled in turn as he watched her eat. “I fear I’ll make far more errors as a general than as a cook. You’ll know I need your forgiveness when I bring you in a particularly fine meal.”

  “I’ll try to be understanding.” Lady Cindertallow looked out the window at the shattered gate of Chandlefort, which masons and blacksmiths were already struggling to rebuild. Her eyes went along the walls. There were some Yellowjackets left but not many. A motley assortment of servants, townsmen, and farmers were most of her army now. They had a somewhat more military bearing than they had had a few weeks ago, but they still had something of the air of a rabble in arms. “You have a victory to your credit, General—you and your servants have kept Chandlefort free from the bear-priests. I trust you’ll do well enough.”

  “We held up against a few hundred cavalrymen,” said Waxmelt. “I don’t know how we’ll manage when Lord Ursus’ infantry comes north. We aren’t real soldiers.”

  “You will be,” said Clovermead. “And if anyone isn’t shaping up, I’ll come down and turn into a bear and growl at them. There won’t be any slackers after that! I’ll make a great drill sergeant.”

  “You see, Lord Wickward? You have no choice.” Lady Cindertallow smiled at Waxmelt—then snapped her fingers. “I’ve been meaning to tell you: I had a talk with the Seneschal and the Chancellor. There’ll be a pension for the wounded servants and for the widows and children of the ones who died. They even think we can find some more money for the servants’ wages.”

  “And their hours?” asked Waxmelt.

  Lady Cindertallow grimaced. “We’re shorthanded as it is. That can’t be fixed until the war is over.” She laughed as she saw Waxmelt begin to protest. “Go talk with the Seneschal and the Chancellor! They can show you Chandlefort’s accounts. If the three of you can find more blood to squeeze from my revenues, come back and talk to me. Go talk with them anyway. You’ll need to haggle about the servants’ wages. A lordly job indeed!” She shook her head in amusement, exasperation, and repulsion.

  “It will be my pleasure, Milady,” said Waxmelt. “I—we are grateful, Milady.”

  “I am too, Mother,” said Clovermead. She put her hand in her mother’s and squeezed it. “It’s good of you.”

  “It’s necessary,” said Lady Cindertallow brusquely. Then she unbent a little. “I know what I owe your servants, Lord Wickward. When I am a little better”—she touched her healing arm—”I will go to my new soldiers and tell them that they have more than earned my gratitude and my respect.”

  “They’ll be glad to know it,” said Waxmelt. Then the conversation shifted to other matters, and Clovermead and Lady Cindertallow settled down to enjoy their breakfast properly. At the end of it Lady Cindertallow arranged that Waxmelt would breakfast with them at least twice a week.

  Later that day Clovermead went walking through the Castle. She hadn’t recovered all her strength yet, but she could walk as far as the parapets of the courtyards. She went out and sat on a bench in the sun. Happily she let the rays soak into her. I want to feel the sunlight in my bones, she thought. I never want to feel cold again.

  Sorrel came and sat down by her side. “Hello, Clovermead,” he said. “I am glad to see that you have come out of your sickbed at last.”

  “I thought I’d be up and bouncing around in no time, but I’m not healing as fast as I used to. I’m getting old.”

  “Then I am ancient.” Sorrel smiled wryly. “Certainly I must be getting white hairs. I think I spent a solid hour with the teeth of dead bears snapping at Brown Barley’s heels, before they faded into dust. I hope there will be no more of the walking dead in our immediate future!”

  “I don’t think there will be,” said Clovermead. Then she steeled herself to ask the inevitable question. “How’s Saraband? I heard she was all right, but I haven’t seen her since I left her in the chapel.”

  “She will be in good health soon,” said Sorrel. “She is still recovering from a very sore neck in the hospice in the town. She said she would like to come see you when she is well.”

  “I’d be glad to see her,” said Clovermead. Would I really? she asked herself, surprised. She thought of her cousin—thought of her kissing Sorrel. She felt a twinge of jealousy still. But I can live with that, she told herself firmly. It doesn’t matter that much. I’d like to be friends with her anyway. “Please tell her to come on by whenever she likes.”

  “I think you should send her that message yourself,” said Sorrel. His face had become very blank. “Lady Saraband and I are not on speaking terms right now.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Lady Saraband finds that now that she has seen me at my business, she does not care for my profession as a soldier. She does not wish to conduct a romance with such as me.” Sorrel’s voice was growing more bitter. “I found this an unreasonable attitude on her part. We exchanged hard words on the matter before we parted, and we agreed we would not talk to each other again.”

  A dozen emotions jumbled all through Clovermead. She was sorry for Sorrel, sorry for Saraband, but she couldn’t help feeling happy, too. It isn’t at all nice of me, she said to herself uncomfortably, but there’s some hope for me again. Sometime. She thought of her scar and her missing tooth. But I don’t faint at the thought of Sorrel going into battle. It doesn’t make me happy to think of him dying, but I wouldn’t want him any different from the way he is. We’re both fighters. She smiled to herself. Maybe he’ll realize that too, someday.

  “I hope you don’t stay too mad at Saraband,”
she said aloud. “I’d like to be friends with her, and I want the two of you at least to be civil to each other.”

  “Perhaps later,” said Sorrel. “Not now.” He gazed into the middle distance, then turned to Clovermead and shook his head. “You wish to be Lady Saraband’s friend! How very strange. But can your friendship last? You will start dancing with her again, and you will be resentful of her in no time.”

  “Then I’d better learn to dance properly before I start her class again.” Clovermead hesitated, then asked, “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to dance with me? I know I crushed your toes last spring, but I promise I won’t this time. I don’t want Saraband and me to have any reason to get mad at each other. Would you? Please?”

  Sorrel laughed. “It will be at least as much fun as exploring through cellars with you.” He extended his hand to Clovermead. “Shall we shake on it? I will be your instructor and I will far outshine Lady Saraband in that skill! When you dance in her class, you will be the most fleet-footed young lady this side of the Harrow Moors.”

  “Shake and shooken,” said Clovermead solemnly, and she squeezed his hand. And the pleasure will be all mine, she said to herself with satisfaction. I will like dancing with you, Sorrel. And who knows? Maybe someday you’ll start to think you like dancing with me.