In the Shadow of the Bear

by David Randall

  “I’d like that,” said Clovermead, and they set to work.

  At first it went slowly, as they looked for the smooth, curved pieces that formed the edge of the roundel. When they had those in place, they separated the remaining shards by color, and then separated the blues into light blue, aquamarine, and dark blue. They began to work their way inward. Bit by bit the picture formed. With each piece in place the rest became easier to do.

  It was a picture of Our Lady and a Harlequin. Our Lady wore a blue cloak, which draped her from her head to her feet, and the Harlequin wore a zany rainbow patchwork. The Harlequin had emptied his pockets, and all around him were strewn his abandoned possessions—a roast goose and a bottle of wine, a bag of gold coins and a book of poems. He had come to a gallows, and had tied a rope around his neck. One arm held the loose coil of rope, prepared to swing it upward. Our Lady had caught the other arm. She pulled the Harlequin back with all her might, and her face was filled with sorrow and the offer of hope. The Harlequin looked back at her—but his face was the center of the puzzle, and it was still blank.

  “I can guess who it is,” said Snuff. It was a man’s voice again in the boy’s body. He held the last shard of glass in his hand. “But the picture’s wrong. It’s not rope that tempted me, but the sword. Not suicide, but murder. She’s come to help some other man.”

  “I know how sweet it is to kill,” said Clovermead. She stared at the roundel, and she shivered. “Ever since I let Ursus possess me. That’s my face there too. And it’s the rope as much as the sword. They’re not that different.”

  “That has the sound of pious claptrap.” Snuff felt at his neck with his free hand, and grimaced. “But I confess I do sometimes feel rope burn.” He hesitated. “What if it’s her face that’s pictured wrong here? She has her wrath. And some things even mercy can’t forgive.” The boy looked up at Clovermead with empty eyes. “Old murderer. Old torturer. Butcher. Remember?”

  “Yes,” said Clovermead. For a moment her hand turned into a paw. Her claws were long and Snuff was very near.

  The boy didn’t move.

  “Ursus possessed me, and we sent the bears to kill the Mayor of Low Branding’s mercenaries,” said Clovermead slowly. “So many of them died. I had nightmares afterward, and I was so sorry. So ashamed, so guilty. And after a while the memories began to fade. I said I was sorry, and I still am, but I don’t remember the faces of the men I killed anymore. The nightmares don’t come any longer. I’m like you there, I guess.” She frowned. “But you never were sorry. You still aren’t.”

  “I wish I were,” said Snuff. He grimaced. “I don’t even remember what sorrow feels like. I let Ursus tear it from me long ago.”

  “I don’t care,” said Clovermead angrily. She turned her paw back into a hand. She scowled at Snuff. “Finish the jigsaw. End this dream and let me go. What have you got to lose?”

  For a long moment Snuff hesitated. “Pride,” he said at last. “Honor. Loyalty. Joy. Love. Those aren’t small things.” He groaned—and tossed the shard of glass toward Clovermead. Startled, she caught it in her hand by reflex. The glass edges were sharp, and they dug into her skin. “Do it for me,” said Snuff. His eyes were pleading. “I can’t.”

  “You have no right to ask me,” said Clovermead. She held the shard back toward him. “Take it back.”

  “Please,” said Snuff. “There’s no one else I can ask.”

  “No,” said Clovermead. Yellowjackets screaming, she thought. The ones he killed so Father could steal me from the Castle Nursery. All Cyan Cross Horde wailing as soldiers cut them down, Sorrel’s whole nation butchered, and you led that slaughter. So many others. She heard the cry of the nun as the flames licked higher around her. Heard Snuff’s yelp of cruel delight. “Never,” Clovermead howled, and she flung the last shard of glass at the stained-glass picture.

  The image exploded. Slivers of glass tattooed Clovermead all along her arm, and cut a savage scar in the smooth flesh. A sharp chunk chopped into her mouth, and cut out her tooth. She screamed in pain, Snuff screamed with her, and Ursus howled with joy. Clovermead’s pain faded, and she and Snuff were adults again in the ruined chapel. Shards of glass studded the old bear-priest sitting on the floor, and he bled from every wound. He was a crystal Harlequin, with rainbow daggers for teeth and claws. Blue glass lay scattered underneath him.

  “It seems we’re fated to scourge each other, Demoiselle,” said Snuff. He got stiffly to his feet and brushed glass splinters from his trousers. He grinned at her, and the old malice burned in his gaze. “My turn next, girlie. It will be my pleasure.”

  The bear-priest’s laughter filled Clovermead’s ears.

  Chapter Ten

  Healing

  The next day the townsmen dug a mass grave for the dead servants, bears, and bear-priests. Geill’s body was hauled to the corpse-filled trench while Clovermead slept. All that remained of him was an imprint of blood and sweat on her fingers—and that got washed away as Clovermead cleaned herself with a handkerchief dipped in a bucket of stream water. The day after, the refugees hurried on toward Silverfalls. A quarter of the servants had died in the battle, but the nuns’ men filled the places of the dead.

  Clovermead put Waxmelt in charge of the expedition before she went into surgery. “Just think of it as a movable inn,” she told him.

  “I just have to know when to smile and when to yell. I remember.” Waxmelt’s face was woebegone. “I don’t know whether to be more frightened for you or for myself.”

  “For yourself,” said Clovermead. “My wound’s not so bad, and you won’t get any rest between here and Silverfalls.”

  “I still think you ought to give the responsibility to one of the lords,” said Waxmelt. He shook his head. “I’m just a jumped-up servant!”

  “Any lord would say ‘command,’ not ‘responsibility,’ which is why I want you in charge. Don’t worry, Father. You’ll be wonderful.”

  “I’ll be tired,” said Waxmelt. He kissed his daughter on the cheek. “Our Lady keep you well.”

  “Saraband’s a good surgeon,” said Clovermead. But she clutched her father’s prayer to her heart as she was carried into Saraband’s surgery.

  The following day Clovermead lay down on the back of a wagon, her newly stitched and splinted leg sprawled out straight as it healed. Sorrel led Brown Barley as he walked alongside the wagon. “I am quite proud of my timing,” said Sorrel. “It is very important not to arrive too late to save the damsel in distress from bear-priests, but it is also important not to arrive too early. If you do, the damsel greets your arrival with a shrug—but come just at the last moment, and she will praise you no end.” He cocked his head. “I must have gone deaf. I do not hear your thunderous applause, damsel.”

  “I’m still weak,” said Clovermead. She gazed for a moment at the grassland behind her, and the dwindling scar where so many men and bears lay buried. Then she shut her eyes, took a deep breath, and turned to face Sorrel. She smiled a little. “I’d forgotten just how conceited you are. Month by month the enormity of your self-regard faded from my memory. I even thought you’d changed. You sent me all those dried flowers and polished stones and feathered headbands, and never once sent a picture of yourself, made out to look extra handsome. The Sorrel I know can’t go a day and not preen.”

  “There is a time and a place for everything,” said Sorrel tranquilly. “The time to say I am handsome—which I am—is when I am present, so you may confirm the fact with a blink of the eye.”

  Clovermead raised an eyebrow. “I should think now was the time to tell me I was pretty.” Lacebark knew enough to do that.

  “You are lovely,” said Sorrel, suddenly serious. “I have ached with your absence, and I am in bliss to be in your presence.” He reached down to Clovermead, and for a moment he stroked her cheeks with his fingers. Her skin reddened and tingled—and his fingers fluttered away. “I am under strict orders from Saraband not to overexcite you,” Sorrel said solemnly. “You are to r
est and you are to heal. As is perfectly plain, oh blushing beauty, the blood rushes to your head if I compliment you too much, and if I continue, you will overbalance and fall from the wagon. So I will say now only that you are a pleasant companion. More rapturous compliments must wait until you heal.”

  That beats anything Lacebark said, thought Clovermead dizzily. Something about the tone of voice. “Saraband’s a spoilsport,” she said out loud. She touched her skin where Sorrel’s fingers had grazed. She could still feel their impress. “And you’re a tease.” She gathered her somewhat scattered senses. I’m angry at him for being away so long, she told herself, but right now her anger was extraordinarily lessened. “Tell me what you did out on the Steppes these last three years. I mean, more than memorizing bad jokes for me. The messages you sent me were always so brief. I want to know everything.”

  “Even the boring parts?”

  “Especially the boring parts.” I miss her very much, Geill had said. Too much time apart. Clovermead wiped a sudden tear from her eye. “Every detail.”

  So Sorrel told her how he had led and rebuilt the devastated Cyan Cross Horde. Cyan Cross had traveled with the White Star Horde the first two years, and had depended on them at all times for protection. They had struck out on their own the third summer, and they had grazed and defended their horse-herd all through the central and northern Steppes. Still, they had rejoined White Star in the southern Steppes for the winter. It would be years before Cyan Cross could survive on its own all year round.

  Sorrel’s sister, Mullein, had remained with the White Star Horde. She was quick to learn the arts of divination and healing, but White Star’s Shaman-Mother still had much to teach her. Young men had come to Cyan Cross from every Horde to woo the survivors of the Barleymill mines. The women had chosen from their suitors as pleased their fancy, and the bridegrooms had been adopted into the Cyan Cross Horde. The first of their children had been born last spring: Already there were five new infants.

  “If Our Lady continues to smile on us, the Horde will come back to life,” said Sorrel. “But we are still few: A bare handful of Cyan Cross warriors came with me to the defense of Chandlefort, and our Horde more than tithed its strength. Still, we are not dead. The old women remember the lore of the Horde, and they begin to teach it to the young ones. Some rituals of men are gone forever—I had only learned the first rites before I fled from Cyan Cross’ destruction, and there are no other surviving warriors of Cyan Cross to make good my ignorance. But I have consulted with my new adopted brothers, and we have begun to create new rituals. They are quite dignified, and they do proper honor to Our Lady. Already they seem quite ancient.”

  “I’m glad,” said Clovermead, and then she told Sorrel about what she had done in Chandlefort while he was on the Steppes. She had studied and trained in the winters, and patrolled in northern Linstock during the summers, pursuing bandits and getting acquainted with the different corners of her mother’s realm. She and Waxmelt had gone last fall to Timothy Vale, to look in on Ladyrest Inn and Goody Weft and Sweetroot Miller. Sweetroot and Card Merrin were married, their baby would be born by now, and there were even more sheep up in the Vale than when she had left. Clovermead had looked into Ladyrest’s bedrooms, and Goody Weft’s niece hid just as much dust under the beds as Clovermead ever had. The pilgrim trade was booming: Men and women from all over Linstock were traveling to Snowchapel now that there was peace in the land. Clovermead had read every book of adventure in her mother’s library, had reread them, and out of desperation had even started to read her mother’s conduct manuals.

  “It seems I’ve done everything wrong—no snippy remarks from you!” said Clovermead. Sorrel shut his mouth, but his eyes twinkled. “When I stand up straight, I should meditate on the eighth Lady Cindertallow, whose posture and decorum were something frightful. When I speak softly and politely, I should remember the consort of the sixth Lady Cindertallow, who managed to prevent a war between High Branding and Low Branding by saying ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ in every sentence he spoke for a solid month. I’m not just supposed to behave properly, but to contemplate the virtues of famous Cindertallows who have come before me. And I am, under no circumstances, ever to model my behavior on the fifteenth Lady Cindertallow, who belched at meals and snored in music concerts—don’t you dare say that I resemble her—until she decided to resign, which upset the lords on the Council of Chandlefort not at all, since they’d been driven to the absolute brink of a tizzy by her gaucherie. She gave up the throne to her sister and went off as a mercenary general to Selcouth. There’s a book about her called The Rhyme of Selcouth, which doesn’t mention the belching and snoring at all, though it does say she ‘by her manners did astonish,’ which I think is a hint for those in the know. And there’s so many other things I wanted to tell you, and now I’ve forgotten half of them.” Clovermead sighed. “Never mind. Tell me, did you meet the Abbess at last? Last time we were there, all I saw was her head at the top of the battlements.”

  “I did indeed,” said Sorrel. “She looks very much like Saraband, although shorter and more delicate. She is fiercer, too. You can tell she was also a dancer—she moves lithely, and even through her robes you can tell that there is very little flesh on her frame. She was not happy to hear that she was about to receive most of the population of Chandlefort as refugees. Indeed, I can say without exaggeration that I never dreamed an abbess knew such language, much less how to use it so fluently. ‘Melisande didn’t even ask me for permission,’ was the politest thing she said. ‘I presume she knew that you would say no,’ was the only reply I could give. ‘Nevertheless, they are coming here. I ask you in the name of Chandlefort, and in Our Lady’s name, to give them refuge.’ She did finally agree to this request, albeit after a further display of broad and versatile vocabulary. It was a mere nothing after that to ask her to send some nuns’ men with me out into the Heath, to escort you the rest of the way to Silverfalls. Which brings us back to my uncanny ability to arrive in the nick of time.”

  “And your uncanny self-regard.” Clovermead looked at the wagon behind them. Saraband, exhausted from a day of surgery, lay asleep under a blanket. Lacebark rode next to her wagon on a roan stallion. He dozed in his saddle. “Did you tell the Abbess that Saraband was coming with us?”

  “Ah, no. I took a leaf from Milady’s book and decided that it was better not to ask permission in advance. I do not think she will turn away her own daughter once Saraband is inside Silverfalls, but I do not know what she would do if she had warning.” He glanced at Lacebark and lowered his voice. “Who is the gentleman who accompanies Saraband everywhere?”

  “Lacebark Eddish.” Clovermead’s voice skipped a little. I don’t care about him anymore. I’m just nervous talking about him in front of you. “He’s a thief. Back in Chandlefort he took my purse.”

  “And he’s still alive?”

  “Saraband stole it back from him.”

  “I think I will want to hear that story sometime.” Sorrel smiled. “I trust the Lady Saraband does not object to him? He is very handsome.”

  “I suppose he is,” said Clovermead. “If you like red hair.” She tried to sound indifferent, uninterested, but she knew she was failing. Her face was red. She glanced sideways at Sorrel—and he was looking straight at her. His lips were tight, his eyes veiled in a cold, hurt shadow.

  Yes, he’s extraordinarily handsome, Clovermead couldn’t say out loud. I almost kissed him, but I wouldn’t now. You’re the one I love. Deep in her throat Clovermead groaned. I don’t think that will reassure you. I shouldn’t say anything at all.

  Resentment surged in her. And what right do you have to be hurt? You’re the one who left me for three years. It would serve you right if I had kissed him!

  Sorrel turned away from Clovermead. “I did not tell you about the lost moose,” he said after a while. “It wandered down from the Reliquaries last summer and bumbled into our herd of horses. It became romantic and fell in love with our largest filly.
I had quite a time separating them.”

  “Tell me,” said Clovermead, and Sorrel began to spin his yarn. He spoke easily, but he had become distant.

  Clovermead’s leg healed quickly over the next few days, though a scar remained on her thigh to match the one Ursus had left on her arm. She barely saw Waxmelt: He worked from dawn to midnight, and he barely had time to gobble down a late-night supper before he collapsed onto his straw pallet. While Clovermead recovered, the refugees drew close to the mountains, and the Heath turned from grassland into a region of fertile granges. Farmers, shepherds, and cowboys came up to the townsmen to press food and water on them. Some old men and children were too tired to go any farther, and they found temporary shelter in the huts of the Silverfalls farmers. The bears, servants, and nuns’ men kept up a thick defensive line to the rear of the refugees, but no more bear-priests appeared.

  Sorrel was friendly to Clovermead, but now he spoke no loving words. Clovermead didn’t want to say any herself. You’re the one who left me.

  One day Saraband came to change Clovermead’s bandages, and Lacebark came with her. Lacebark was silent while Saraband was there, but stayed behind when she left. He cleared his throat uneasily and couldn’t look Clovermead in the eyes.

  “Cat got your tongue?” she asked.

  Lacebark chuckled, and now he met her gaze. “I’m having trouble coming up with the right words.”

  “Let me see if I can say them for you,” said Clovermead. “You’re following Saraband around like a little lost puppy, and you’ve utterly fallen for her. You flirted something terrible with me, and you’re afraid I might still be interested in you, which would be very awkward if you started to romance my cousin. You don’t have to worry—I don’t care tuppence for you. You also wonder just how much I said to Saraband, because you might seem like a shallow, heartless rogue if you said loving words to her so soon after you had said them to me. I didn’t tell her everything, Mr. Eddish, but I told her enough. You’ll just have to figure out how to make her believe that you’re not a shallow, heartless rogue any longer. Also, it crossed your mind that once I got well, I might turn into a bear, catch you by the scruff of your neck, and shake you well and good for being a worthless thief who stole my purse while he was kissing my hand, and shake you another time for being a barefaced liar who said he’d already spent my money when I asked for my purse back. Well, Saraband says you did good work as a nurse, and I think she might like you. Lady knows why. I suppose I shouldn’t shake someone she likes, so all is forgiven.” Clovermead smiled sweetly at Lacebark. “But I’d advise you not to annoy me again.”