So too were the perpetual reminders that Lord Ursus once had possessed Clovermead—her missing tooth and the scar that ran the length of her arm. Clovermead glanced southward for a moment. Far away, beyond the horizon, Lord Ursus’ armies of bear-priests waited. In the last few years they had nearly finished subduing the Thirty Towns: South of Chandlefort scarcely an altar to Lady Moon survived unbroken, a Scrying Pool unsullied, or a nun alive. Soon the bear-priests would be free to strike north.
Clovermead shuddered, put that thought out of her mind, and turned east again.
“Sorrel, love, I miss you awfully,” said Clovermead. A cold desert wind whipped against her face. “I know the Cyan Cross Horde needed you to lead it for a few years, but I’ve begun to forget what you look like. Though I do remember some of you. I miss your brown eyes and I miss those downy cheeks. I miss your strong hands, and I miss your grin.” Clovermead smiled wistfully. “I really miss kissing you.”
The wind blew harder still, umber dust bit into Clovermead’s cheeks, and she growled unhappily. The growl turned loud and low as golden fur sprouted from her skin. She grew larger, with jaws as big as a man’s face and claws as long as human fingers. Now she was a bear, twelve feet long and four feet wide. She had reached her full size in bear-shape, too.
Thank you, Lady, thought Clovermead. I’m so glad you gave me the ability to turn into a bear. I don’t care if the Chandleforters are still afraid of me. I don’t care if they think Lord Ursus still has his claws in me. When I’m a bear, the world is alive with sound! When I’m a bear, I can smell a thousand wonderful scents. Clovermead crouched at the cliff edge and sniffed at the east wind. Are you riding this way, Sorrel? I want to smell you as much as I want to see you. It’s been so long. Faraway greenery tickled her nose, a verdant perfume that had wafted from the Chandle Palisades over the Salt Heath to Chandlefort, but no Sorrel odor came with it.
I don’t remember exactly how you smell. The sight of your face, the sound of your voice, the touch of your hand on mine—they fade day by day. I love you, but I don’t quite remember you. Clovermead snarled, in loneliness and anger. Why have you taken so long to come back to me?
Her roar bellied out into the desert air. No echo returned from the Heath’s emptiness.
Clovermead’s nose twitched. Who’s that? Not Sorrel, but—oh, yes. Clovermead turned human again and walked back to Auroche.
Lady Saraband Sconce sat on a brown palfrey by Auroche’s side. Clovermead’s cousin was pale and raven-haired, and her lovely face peeped out of her thick riding cape. “Hello, Clovermead,” said Saraband. “I heard a bear roar and I thought it might be you.” She shivered. “Who else would come out on a day like this without a coat? I know the calendar says winter’s over, but there’s an icicle on the end of my nose.”
“You southerners are delicate,” said Clovermead. “Back in Timothy Vale, we threw snowballs on Midsummer’s Day. On days like this we sunbathed in the meadows.”
“Of course.” Saraband raised a disbelieving eyebrow—then pointed a gloved finger at the cliff edge. “Looking for Sorrel?”
“Does everybody in Chandlefort think I’m moping over him? Don’t answer that,” Clovermead added hastily. “I hadn’t realized it was so obvious. Yes, I do miss him! He’s been away too long. I suppose it’s funny to everybody else, and you can laugh if you want to, but I want so much to see him again. He said he’d come back this spring.”
“I wouldn’t laugh,” said Saraband. She pointed to the west, to the far side of Chandlefort. “Normally I ride there, by the Silverfalls Road. I look for the messenger from the Abbey, come to tell me that Mother has forgiven me for my treachery and recalled me to her side at last. I know the messenger will never come, but still I ride, still I look.” She reached out her hand and squeezed Clovermead’s. “He will come.”
“Thank you,” said Clovermead. “I do need to hear that.” She squeezed Saraband’s hand in return. “You know, Our Lady sends me dreams now and then—”
Dreams of a future that Clovermead had made possible: Lucifer Snuff, greatest of Lord Ursus’ servants, strode in triumph over the ruins of Chandlefort. He laughed, and the burning sun glinted off his sharpened bronzed teeth. “Thank you, girlie,” he said, and he rubbed his hands with glee. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
Dreams of the past: Ursus’ mother, white-furred and enormous Boulderbash, howled as Clovermead left her behind in the mines of Barleymill—and the white bear gave up her struggle against Ursus’ dark chains. “Son, I will join you. I will be revenged on you, Clovermead. You have abandoned me for the last time—”
“Visions that are supposed to warn me, or toughen me, or make me wise,” Clovermead continued. “They’re some sort of awful educational device, as far as I can tell, and they never show me what I most want to see, which is Sorrel. ‘Let me share a dream with Sorrel,’ I beg Our Lady. ‘Take me out to the Steppes and let me see how he’s doing.’ But mostly what I get are nightmares. I mean, I do dream of Sorrel, but not true visions from Our Lady. Just, you know, dreams of kissing and so on.” Clovermead turned a little pink, and she hurried on before Saraband’s look of amusement turned into outright laughter. “Anyway, if Sorrel isn’t here by midsummer, I’m going to ride off to look for him, and when I’ve found him, I’m going to tie him to a tree and tickle his feet for a week, and give him a piece of my mind while I’m tickling him. Want to come with me? It should be fun to watch.”
“I’ll let you have that pleasure by yourself,” said Saraband. “Three’s a crowd, they say. Meanwhile, I’ll pray to Our Lady for his swift arrival.”
“Thank you again,” said Clovermead. “I’ve thought of asking her to bring him back to me, but I feel too embarrassed. It’s bad enough having all of Chandlefort snicker at me, without having Our Lady laugh at me too! But maybe she won’t if you do the praying.”
“There’s a painting in the chapel in Silverfalls that I loved when I lived there,” said Saraband. “It shows how Our Lady laughed in delight when a child brought her a broken doll to heal. Ever since I first saw it, I’ve thought of Our Lady as a good laugher.”
“I hope so,” said Clovermead—and she rolled her eyes. “I am a hopeless case about Sorrel! Come on, it’s getting late. Let’s go back to Chandlefort.” Saraband’s face was suddenly melancholy. “Thinking about the Abbess again?”
Her cousin nodded. “Mother and I prayed together in that chapel so often. I can’t think of it and not think of her.”
“You saved her life, and she calls it betrayal.” Clovermead’s mouth set in anger. “Sometimes I want to turn into a bear and thump your mother until she’s black and blue, sees the light of sweet reason, and agrees to let you join her in Silverfalls. Mother says I should always do something constructive when I get angry, and thumping probably doesn’t count, but that’s still what I want to do. She doesn’t deserve a daughter like you.”
“I suppose Mother thinks the same as you do,” said Saraband drily, but with a filament of aching sadness. “Except for the thumping part.” She smiled a little. “Thank you, Clovermead. That was kind, considerate, and barbaric—all your best qualities.”
“I do my best,” said Clovermead gruffly. She shook her head. “It’d break my heart if Father or Mother behaved that way to me.”
“Hearts take longer to break than you might think,” said Saraband. Her fingers fluttered to her chest, and then fell to her side. “I wish it were done with,” she said in a low voice. Her eyes were hot with pain and anger as she gazed west toward Silverfalls.
Clovermead and Saraband rode back to Chandlefort together. In the center of the green fields stood the city—the rose-granite walls, the iron gates finally repaired from Mallow Kite’s assault, the houses and mansions of the town dwellers, and the great palace of the Cindertallows in the city’s heart. A bestiary of statues lined the top of the palace—mermaids and gorgons, eagles and lions. At the front edge of the palace stood the statues of the twenty Ladies Cinder
tallow who had ruled Chandlefort. The last one bore the proud, striking features of Clovermead’s mother. An empty space remained by its side. They would put a statue of Clovermead up there when she inherited the throne.
Not for a good long time, Lady! Clovermead prayed. I spent too many years away from Mother.
They put their horses into their stalls in the palace stables. Clovermead hugged Auroche, while Saraband more gently stroked a farewell to her palfrey. “I have sword practice in the Training Grounds,” Clovermead said. “Where are you heading?”
“Anywhere but there!” Saraband said fervently, but with a smile that took any sting from her words. “Into town for new dancing shoes—my old ones are worn through!”
“I’ll bet you come back with two pairs,” said Clovermead. Saraband’s eyes twinkled, and she didn’t deny the accusation. Clovermead laughed, hugged Saraband, and gave her a kiss good-bye. “I’m glad you were out riding today. See you soon?”
“I hope so,” said Saraband. She hugged her cape more tightly about her. “When it’s warmer!” She fled indoors.
After she changed into her fighting gear, Clovermead stopped at the edge of the Grounds to watch two Yellowjacket Cadets charge at each other. Their wooden lances wavered wildly, and their horses neighed as the Cadets jerked up and down on their backs. Each time the Cadets slewed harmlessly past each other, their drill sergeant yelled obscene commentary about their inadequacies as soldiers, sons, lovers, and human beings. Clovermead memorized some of his phrases, in case they would come in handy at any future point. The horses’ hooves drummed on the earth.
“This does my heart good,” said Waxmelt cheerfully as he stopped by Clovermead’s side. A line of uniformed servants stood at attention behind him. “Every day I watch my boys in the Servants’ Regiment drop their swords and trip over their own feet. It’s nice to know the Cadets can be clumsy too.” The two Cadets had formed up opposite each other again, and lowered their lances. They charged.
Clovermead towered a good five inches over her father. Waxmelt Wickward had grown old: He was completely bald, save for a thin fringe of hair on the back of his head and his snowy white goatee. He wore a soldier’s tunic, with the insignia TO SERVE CHANDLEFORT embroidered upon his breast. He was in good shape, after six years training as a soldier, but age had worn wrinkles into his face. Never tall, he had shrunk half an inch the last few years.
Waxmelt had been a servant of Lady Cindertallow eighteen years before, when he’d stolen the infant Cerelune Cindertallow—daughter and heir of Lady Cindertallow—taken her to Timothy Vale, and raised her as his own daughter under the name of Clovermead. When Waxmelt and Clovermead returned to Chandlefort twelve years later, Lady Cindertallow let Waxmelt stay, unpunished, for by then Clovermead could not think of him as anything but her own father. Lady Cindertallow had even made Waxmelt a lord. Still, Lady Cindertallow could never forgive him entirely for the theft of her daughter.
Clovermead chuckled. “Sorrel once told me that there’s a word in Tansyard, satu-piritu, that means ‘joy in the misery of others.’ You, Father, are satu-piritous.”
“Guilty as charged. Though I’m sorry for their poor steeds. Imagine two hundred pounds of sharp armor and clumsy Cadet weighing down on you! It must be torture.” The hoofbeats grew louder.
“I’ve carried people on my back when I’m in bear-shape. I don’t have to imagine. I’d rather have a Cadet on my back than a bear-priest, though, no matter how clumsy the Cadet. The bear-priests are awfully cruel to their steeds—”
“Clovermead, watch out!” Waxmelt cried out. The hoofbeats were very loud, and Clovermead snapped up her head to see the nearest Cadet out of control. His eyes were terrified and wide, so were his horse’s, and the Cadet galloped toward Clovermead. For once his lance was true, and it was pointed straight at her. It’s just wood, thought Clovermead numbly. Still, sharp enough to spit me. I’ll never see Sorrel again. It’ll hit me in the neck. She couldn’t move. No, in the chest. And the horse will run over me if the lance misses—
Waxmelt tackled Clovermead, and they tumbled to one side as the Cadet galloped through the space where they had just been. His lance crumpled against the wall, the horse swerved, and the Cadet shrieked as his leg scraped between the wall and the flank of his steed. There was a great deal of screaming and running, and Clovermead’s teeth were chattering when Waxmelt disentangled himself from her.
“Don’t freeze up like that, Clo,” said Waxmelt. His face was pale. His fringe of white hair glowed in the sunlight. “You’ll get yourself killed.”
“I’m sorry,” Clovermead mumbled. “I’ve had people try to kill me before, but that was in battle. I halfway expected it.” She could still see the lance head coming toward her. She gulped, and reached out a shaky hand to her father. “I guess I still need you to look out for me.”
Waxmelt squeezed her hand comfortingly. “Don’t worry. I’ll always be here for you.” He stood up, and groaned. “Oof! Try not to get in the way of lances too often. I’m not as young as I was.” He massaged his forearm, where a bruise was thickening. “Let’s get some hot tea inside of you. You look wobbly.”
“That sounds good to me.” Clovermead rose, and looked over to the runaway horse. The Yellowjackets’ doctor had come running to the Cadet, and the regimental veterinarian knelt by the injured animal. “Is the boy all right?” she asked her father. Waxmelt craned his head, and nodded. “Better tell them I know he wasn’t really trying to kill the Demoiselle of Chandlefort. Just an accident.” She glanced at the line of servants behind Waxmelt. They no longer stood at attention, but gawked at the disaster with uninhibited wonder. “I’ll get the tea myself. You’re supposed to be turning that lot into soldiers.”
Waxmelt glanced back at the rubbernecking servants. “I am supposed to exercise them some more this afternoon,” he said uncertainly. Then he shook his head. “I’ll dismiss them if you need me, Clo.”
“Thank you, Father,” said Clovermead. She clutched hold of Waxmelt’s hand for a moment—and then let him go. “I think I can walk back to the Castle by myself. Anyway, they need you more than I do. Don’t you worry, I’ll drink buckets of tea.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite sure.” Clovermead kissed Waxmelt gratefully on the cheek and strode off quickly, before her father could stop her.
She had four cups of honeyed tea in the kitchens, and after an hour her hands stopped trembling. She had no appetite for dinner, and instead went up to her bedroom, changed into her nightgown, and settled down for a long evening reading in bed.
Her stomach rumbled some hours later. “I guess I’m hungry at last,” said Clovermead. She yawned, and put down her book by the candle at her bedside table. She was rereading The Education of Childe Harold, in Seven Fearsome Books, and she was only a third of the way through the fat tome. “Childe Harold led an interesting life, but I think four fearsome books would have done the trick. There’s such a thing as too much. Still, I suppose I won’t stop reading, now that I’ve started.” She struggled out of the blankets. “I’d best put on a robe if I’m going to the pantry. I shouldn’t scandalize the servants.” She snorted. “Not that they should be scandalized! Some young ladies sneak out for a night in a tavern, or to steal a kiss with a young man. All I want is some food.” Clovermead tied the robe around her waist, and was about to leave her room, when she heard a knock at the door. “Who is it?” she asked.
She heard a musical clatter. “A wandering minstrel,” Waxmelt called through the door. “May I come in?”
“Please!” said Clovermead. The door opened, and Waxmelt entered. In one hand he held a tambourine; in the other, a tray piled high with white bread, jam, and butter. As he shook the tambourine, Saraband sashayed after him to the jingle of its bells. She held one hand behind her back. “What is this?” Clovermead asked. “Food and entertainment? Is it my birthday?”
“Lord Wickward told me what happened today,” said Saraband. “The minute I turn my back on you,
you get yourself in trouble!” Waxmelt put the laden tray down on Clovermead’s nightstand. Saraband pirouetted, moving a hidden object from hand to hand, just out of sight. “He’s here to feed you and I’m here to distract you. Watch, Clovermead! This is a composition of my own—the Bear Dance!” Saraband revealed the hidden object at last—a papier-mâché bear’s head. She put it over her own head, Clovermead laughed in delight, and Saraband began to dance in earnest.
She leaped from the stone floor to the rug, growled at Clovermead, and cuffed the bottom posts of Clovermead’s bed with her hands, which were suddenly remarkably like paws. “Honey!” cried Saraband. She leaped into the air, cradled an imaginary honeycomb in her arms—then yelped, ran in circles, and batted at a swarm of avenging and invisible bees while Waxmelt buzzed loudly over the jingle of the tambourine. “Fish!” said Saraband. She leaned over a river and dropped long arms down toward darting fish—jumped, brought down her jaws toward the floor, and made loud chomping noises as she stuffed the feigned fish into her mouth. “Winter!” said Saraband—and she dropped to a heap on the rug. She shook in place, Waxmelt snored, and the tambourine died away.
Clovermead clapped loudly. “Bravo! Author! Again, again!” Saraband got to her feet, took off her bear’s head, and curtsied gracefully to Clovermead. Clovermead applauded Waxmelt, too, and he bowed his head. “Don’t tell me you came up with all that just in the last few hours!”
“I’ve been practicing since my birthday,” said Saraband. “You remember you came into my room in bear-shape, with a table on your back, and a cake with twenty-two candles on the table? Once I got over the shock, it struck me that you moved quite rhythmically. I’ve been working on this ever since.”
In the Shadow of the Bear Page 72
