In the Shadow of the Bear

by David Randall

  “Are they good plans?” asked Clovermead.

  “Excellent. She has so perfect a knowledge of my resources that I can only conclude she had spies inside of Silverfalls these last dozen years, watching our farms and prying into the papers in Chancery Hall. I suppose I must acquiesce. As always.” The Abbess sighed, and waved a hand toward a dormitory at the back of the Abbey, toward the crashing sound of the waterfall. “Our guest dormitory. You may stay there for as long as you are staying—which is how long, incidentally?”

  “Not long,” said Clovermead. “I’ll take most of the Servants’ Regiment back toward Chandlefort as soon as the townsmen are settled. I’ll ask my father, Lord Wickward, to stay with the rest of the servants and help guard Silverfalls Valley. I hope you’ll consult with him.”

  “The man who stole you? Yes, I can deal with him. He made Melisande quite unhappy. Lady knows it is unworthy of me, but I feel fondly toward him for that reason. She is a daughter-stealer herself. She deserves to have suffered such pain.”

  “She did not steal me,” said Saraband. “You drove me away.”

  “You left me,” said the Abbess. Her voice trembled. She kept her eyes rigidly averted from Saraband. “You need not speak to me again, Saraband.”

  “I miss you terribly, Mother,” said Saraband. She spoke as unsteadily as the Abbess. “Haven’t you forgiven me yet?”

  “No,” said the Abbess. “Never.” But she let her eyes dart to look at her daughter, before dragging them away again. “You may stay in the guest dormitory too. If the Demoiselle needs you. But I don’t wish conversation.”

  “What of my wishes?” asked Saraband. The Abbess was silent. “As you will,” said Saraband in a low voice. “I would still be glad to talk with you.” She stood up. “Clovermead, can we go?”

  “I think our business is done, Lady Abbess?” asked Clovermead. She also stood.

  The Abbess nodded, made the sign of the crescent, and bowed her head to Clovermead. “Please dine with me this evening, Demoiselle,” she said. “I will be glad to have your company. Saraband, you may come too.” Now it was Saraband’s turn to ignore her mother. The Abbess chuckled drily. “We eat at the evening bell. Dress warmly: The refectory is always chilly.”

  “I’ll see you then, Lady Abbess,” said Clovermead. She bowed to the Abbess and leaned on Saraband’s shoulder. Carefully they hobbled away.

  “I’m sorry,” Clovermead said to Saraband. “I had hoped that would go better.”

  “I hadn’t,” said Saraband. “At least I have seen her.” She winced. “Could you move your hand to the left?”

  Clovermead shifted her weight. “Better?” Saraband nodded. “Maybe she’ll unbend at dinner.”

  “Maybe,” said Saraband.

  The dinner in the refectory began at sundown. The Abbess sat down with half a dozen nuns at the head table; another half dozen tables occupied the long hall. Clovermead sat to the Abbess’ right; Saraband sat on Clovermead’s other side. Novices brought food from the kitchens to the hall, but the senior nun at each table took the platters of food and served the other nuns. The Abbess herself served the food at Clovermead’s table. When the food was distributed, the Abbess said a prayer and the company began to eat. The meal was spiced lentils, piping hot barley bread, and honey cake with currants.

  “Very good!” said Clovermead. “I hope you’ll invite Father to join you someday. He’d admire your cookery. We didn’t have better at Ladyrest.”

  “That’s right. I’d heard you grew up on the pilgrim route to Snowchapel.” The Abbess smiled. “I suppose that’s a high compliment! Cooking as good as an inn’s. Our Lady should be proud of us.” She wiped her mouth with a napkin. “The lords of Chandlefort must be as sour as lemons to have a onetime servant girl for a Demoiselle. Old Lord Tabard would have gotten apoplexy.”

  “He does, every time he sees me,” said Clovermead. “Most of the lords go cross-eyed when they think about my disgraceful past, but Old Arrogance’s eyes go clear to the back of his head.”

  “Is he still alive? Do you know, I first met Athanor—my husband, Demoiselle. He died in your mother’s war with Low Branding.”

  “Mother has told me his name, Abbess,” said Clovermead. “So has Saraband.”

  The Abbess glanced at Saraband a moment. Saraband returned her look with a steady gaze, and the Abbess averted her eyes. “Athanor cut in to a dance and rescued me from Lord Tabard,” the Abbess continued. “The old fop looked as if he wanted to challenge Athanor to a duel, though he’d have looked a right fool for stooping to swordplay for so trivial an affront. Athanor scowled at him ferociously, and Tabard just backed away. Then Athanor winked at me, and began to dance with twice the skill of anyone else I’d ever met.” The Abbess laughed merrily, her eyes focused somewhere in the past—then, with a start, she came back to Silverfalls. “And Athanor is long gone, but Tabard lives. Is he among the refugees?”

  “We have that honor,” said Clovermead. “A great honor, I should say. He’s told me so himself twice since we left Chandlefort.” The Abbess snorted. “The Abbey’s beautiful,” Clovermead continued, looking around. “I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to look at it the last time I came this way.”

  “It was the beauty of the gardens that made me choose Silverfalls as my place of refuge, once Athanor died,” said the Abbess. “Snowchapel is more stunning, but I confess that I did not relish the thought of settling down in that perpetual snowdrift. I thought of the Abbey in Queensmart, where the weather is delightfully warm—but the gardens of Silverfalls won me in the end. Besides, Silverfalls is close to Kite Hall, where I grew up. I wanted to rear my daughter near to my native land.” Her eyes flickered again to Saraband.

  “I was happy here,” said Saraband.

  “So it seemed to me,” said the Abbess. She paused for a moment, and turned back to Clovermead. “So I came here. I’ve done good service for Our Lady.”

  “What have you done since I left, Mother?” Saraband asked. The entire table of nuns could hear her. “I hardly know.” The table didn’t fall silent, precisely, but somehow all the nuns were listening to the Abbess.

  Red dots bloomed on the Abbess’ cheeks. “Abbey business,” she said calmly. “Nothing that would interest an outsider. I built a second story for the library. I spend much of my time in the vegetable garden, and make sure the novices can tell a carrot from a weed. I doctor nuns and farmers when needed. I thickened the walls, to protect the Abbey against attack. Nothing worth speaking of.”

  “Do you still dance?” asked Saraband.

  “Not since you left,” said the Abbess. She smiled crookedly. “I hear you dance enough for two. There is no need for me to indulge in such frivolities.”

  “I remember you when I dance,” said Saraband. “The years fall away, and I am back in Silverfalls with you again, stumbling over my feet for the first time.”

  “I am touched,” said the Abbess. “Still, I no longer dance.” Now nuns cleared the dishes. Once more the Abbess turned from her daughter. “Why don’t the two of you walk with me in the gardens after dinner? We can reminisce about old times there.”

  “Where we won’t embarrass you,” said Saraband, and a ghost of laughter spread among the nuns. The Abbess ignored them. “That would be wonderful, Mother.”

  There were a few strained minutes more of conversation, and then the Abbess stood up from the table, excused herself, and led Clovermead and Saraband out of the refectory. Clovermead still leaned on Saraband. The evening air was cool, but not biting. A few raindrops fell on them as they walked through the darkness toward the temple in the back of the Abbey. The temple lay near the waterfall: Here the Abbey’s solid wall of stone scarcely dimmed the sound of churning water. As they entered the temple, Clovermead gazed admiringly at its walls lined with porphyry and silver. The Scrying Pool stood in the center of the building, cupped in a round white marble basin. The temple’s roof was open to the sky. The full moon, menaced to one side by rain clouds, shone throu
gh the open roof. The mountain winds whipped spatters of drizzle into the Pool. The clear water rippled.

  “I thought I had made myself clear,” said the Abbess to Saraband when they came to the Pool’s edge. “But it seems you wish to embarrass me and hurt yourself.” The roar of the waterfall softened her voice: No one more than a few feet away could have heard her. “You want to talk? Speak now.”

  “In a discreet location,” said Saraband. “It is marvelously well chosen.”

  “I can go,” said Clovermead. She took a step away from Saraband. She could support herself, though it took a little effort. “I’ll be just outside the temple—”

  “Please stay,” said Saraband. “I need a friend.” She cast a pleading look at Clovermead, and Clovermead jerkily nodded her head. Saraband put her hand in Clovermead’s. She turned to the Abbess. “Will you reject me forever, Mother?”

  “You’re not my daughter anymore.” The Abbess’ voice was cold. “That ended long ago. I . . . am sorry that you can’t accept the fact. But I am the Abbess only. Your mother is dead.”

  “I see her before me. I cannot believe that she is truly dead.” The Abbess shrugged. “I know I hurt you, Mother. But that was thirteen years ago. More than half my life. Can’t we—is there anything I can say to make you forgive me? Anything I can do?”

  “No.” The Abbess had gone pale. Her fists clenched. “You left me. Athanor died, and I gave you all the love I had left in the world. Then Melisande came to say that you had to come to Chandlefort to be Demoiselle. That I had to give you up. You performed your kindly treachery, and told Melisande you would go with her. You left me behind. Alone in Silverfalls.”

  “She would have killed you if I had said no.”

  “I would rather have died.” The Abbess’ lips trembled. “Your mother did die. She could not live without you.”

  “You chose to stay here,” Saraband almost screamed. The words flew out of her like daggers. The noise from the waterfall swallowed them up. Clovermead pressed her cousin’s hand, and Saraband clung to her like a drowning woman. She took a moment to compose herself. When she spoke again, her voice was steady. “You could have come to Chandlefort. Milady would have welcomed you.”

  “My husband and brother died because of her. I could not—will not—accept her hospitality.” The Abbess’ nails had punctured the flesh in her palms. She bled. “I could not share you with her. You chose to go with her, and your mother died.”

  “Lady Cindertallow released me, Mother. I have not been Demoiselle since I was twelve.” A tear slid down Saraband’s cheek. “As you know. Oh, Lady, as you have known these last ten years.” For a moment hatred twisted her face. Clovermead gripped Saraband’s hand harder than ever. Rage like a fever swept through her cousin’s flesh. This time it took far longer for Saraband to make herself calm.

  “Old arguments,” said Saraband. “The same words volley back and forth. Mother, let them go.” She took a deep breath. She stretched out her free hand to the Abbess. “Come back to life. Please.”

  The Abbess had been looking past Saraband, but now she let herself look straight at her daughter’s face. She studied Saraband for a long minute. She turned away. “I cannot forgive you.”

  “I see.” Saraband had turned white. “I sometimes wonder if Our Lady herself could forgive you for your treatment of me. But you can’t forgive me.” Her hand fell. “I want to spit curses at you, Mother. You are—Lady, help me.” She was crying now. “You are unreasonable, Mother.”

  The Abbess’ gaze shied away from her weeping daughter. “Indeed,” she said softly. She was a statue. “I know it. I am sorry, Saraband. My unreason is twisted deep in me. I cannot change. No one can command her heart.”

  Mother and daughter were silent. Two statues stared at each other.

  “Mother did,” said Clovermead. The Abbess’ gaze shifted to her, and she frowned. Clovermead cleared her throat. “Pardon me, Lady Abbess. I know I’m interrupting.”

  “Speak, Cousin,” said Saraband. Her voice was aching and weary. “I have no more words in me.”

  “Father stole me away from Mother when I was a baby,” said Clovermead. She spoke as gently as she could to the Abbess. “He couldn’t have done a thing in the world to hurt her more. He did that, and when we showed up at her doorstep again twelve years later, Mother could have ordered him tortured to death. No one would have said that wasn’t justice. But she didn’t. Oh, Lady, she hated him, and she still does, but she knew I had come to love him, so she decided to spare him. Though it hurts her every time she sees him.” Clovermead paused for breath. “Lady Abbess, if she could do that, you can talk with your daughter.”

  “Melisande was always hard,” whispered the Abbess. She inclined her head to Clovermead. “I misspoke, Demoiselle. Some people can command their hearts. Your mother is among them. I am not.” Now her lip curled. “Please do not speak again. You have no right to take part in this conversation.”

  “She cares about me more than you do, and she has every right,” said Saraband. “I couldn’t have said it better myself. Thank you, Clovermead.” Gratefully she squeezed Clovermead’s hand. Suddenly she laughed, and she looked up at her mother with sudden tranquility. Sudden indifference. “I don’t have anything more to say, Mother. I’ve been waiting to see you for thirteen years. Imagining conversations during all those . . . cruelly silent days and nights. Now I’ve said my piece.

  “I can’t love a stone forever,” said Saraband. “I’m going back to my room, and I’ll go to bed at midnight. If you wish to see me, come before then. I would be glad to talk with you. Even now. But not tomorrow. When tomorrow comes, you will be a stranger to me. Thirteen years of this half life is enough.” The Abbess was motionless. Saraband let go of Clovermead’s hand and curtsied to her mother. “Good evening, Mother,” she said. She slipped away from the Pool, and into the cloister gardens.

  The Abbess stood in the temple, frozen. She scarcely blinked. Raindrops pattered on her face. She laughed harshly. “Your crutch forgot to take you with her, Demoiselle.”

  “I don’t mind,” said Clovermead. “I’ll just stroll nice and easy back to my room.” She shifted her feet, and groaned as her leg twinged. She looked at the Abbess. I don’t know whether to hate you or pity you, she thought.

  Desolation at last cracked the Abbess’ mask.

  Pity, I guess, thought Clovermead. “Abbess, don’t be a fool. Go after her.”

  “Folly is easy,” said the Abbess. “I don’t know how Melisande could have borne taking the other path.” She took a shuddering breath. “I wish you had never come, Demoiselle. You Cindertallows are petrels; storms follow you.”

  “Storms are good for clearing the air.”

  “Small comfort to the drowned fisherman,” said the Abbess. Her fists unclenched. Clovermead saw red holes in her palms. “Oh, Lady. I wish I could die.”

  “Of course you do, Abbess. Adding folly on folly is your style.” Clovermead laughed bitterly. “There are so many people dead before their time, and each of them leaves a hole in the world. My true father. Your husband.” In her mind she saw Geill lying on the cart. Out in the Heath a trench of loose earth covered the jumbled corpses of men and bears. “Even when they die in their beds, Abbess, that isn’t much better. They still leave holes behind, until the world is empty, with all the people dead and gone. And you want to give another hole in the world to Saraband as your final gift?” Clovermead almost spat on the temple floor. “Or is that just words, Abbess? An obscenity you don’t really mean?”

  Old murderer, she had said to Snuff. Old torturer. The world will be better off with you dead.

  Snuff’s an exception, thought Clovermead. No one will miss him.

  “It’s not just words,” the Abbess whispered. Tears trickled down her cheeks. “Oh, Lady, I’ve wanted to die for so many years. To join Athanor again. To see my poor brother, Mallow. The world is empty, as you say. Why should I want to stay here?”

  “Your daughter is alive
,” said Clovermead. She shook her head in amazement. “Don’t you know how blessed you are?”

  “No,” said the Abbess. “I don’t want—” She could not finish her sentence. Desperate longing swept over her face. The Abbess pushed it away. Expressionless, she stared into darkness.

  The Abbess took a shuddering breath. “What is she like?”

  “Saraband?” Clovermead smiled. “Kind. Sweet. Mischievous. She’s beautiful—you can see that—but she’s even lovelier inside. You’ve lost so much by keeping her away. Abbess, it’s not too late. You can learn what your daughter has become. Go to her room.”

  The Abbess took a step forward—and stopped. “It is beyond me, Demoiselle. I’m sorry. Truly I am. But I cannot.”

  “And you call yourself a servant of Our Lady,” Clovermead snarled in disgust. “I could slap you. Lady forgive me, I shouldn’t say such a thing in a holy place, but I could. ‘Cannot’! ‘Cannot’! It’s like you’re a parrot. And if you’d just unbend for a moment and let yourself love your daughter, you’d never say ‘cannot’ again. I wish I had words to tell you what Saraband is like. I wish I could show you.” Clovermead gazed unhappily at the Scrying Pool.

  The full moon shone in the Pool. Clovermead could see every detail of its dark seas, reflected among the drizzle and the ripples.

  Clovermead smiled suddenly, and she hobbled over to the Abbess. “I can show you. Abbess, will you dance with me?” Clovermead stood by the small woman’s side. She stretched out her hand.

  “What?” The Abbess’ laugh was brittle. “Don’t be foolish, Demoiselle.”