In the Shadow of the Bear

by David Randall

  Some days later Clovermead walked with Sorrel and Waxmelt in a hilltop field. From here Clovermead could see down to the ruins of Chandlefort. Townsmen and soldiers had already cleared the rubble from the main road between the town gates and the Castle, and today they had begun to cart away debris from the market square. The Cindertallow flag flew from the smashed heap that had been the Castle. Water flowed in the canals once more, and the fields of wheat and corn lay freshly sown. Chandlefort was recovering apace.

  They don’t need me, thought Clovermead. They’ve done all this without me.

  “I won’t be Lady Cindertallow,” Clovermead said abruptly to her father. “The Cindertallows ruled Chandlefort, and Chandlefort’s come to an end. Almost all the Yellowjackets have been killed. Whatever this city you’re building is, it’s something different. I don’t have to be its Lady.”

  “I don’t think you have a choice in the matter, Clo,” said Waxmelt. He grimaced. “Demoiselle becomes Lady. That’s how it works in Chandlefort.”

  “Chandlefort’s come to an end,” Clovermead repeated. She gazed down at the ruins, and shivered. “I’ve thought about this for a while now, and I’m quite sure. I’ll never be a good ruler, and it’s nothing I want to do. I’d rather—” She turned to Sorrel and smiled at him. “I don’t know. Be with you, I think. Ride in the Tansy Steppes. Go back to Timothy Vale and set up as an innkeeper. I should go to the Reliquaries and tell Brookwade how his sister died. Then we can wander in the woods, me as a bear and you on Brown Barley. But whatever we do, no more ruling and no more fighting.”

  “I would be glad to accompany you,” said Sorrel. He chuckled. “Though I have a feeling we will stumble into something more exciting. It has been a habit of yours to fall into danger, and to drag me with you.”

  “Never again,” said Clovermead vehemently. She clutched Sorrel’s hand. “I just want to wander for a while, until we find out where we want to be. And then we’ll stay there for the rest of our lives.”

  “And Chandlefort?” asked Waxmelt. He frowned. “Who will lead it?”

  “I think you’d do a good job,” said Clovermead. “Would you care to be Mayor?” She laughed as she looked at her father’s stunned face. “Who better than you? The twenty-first and last of the Ladies Cindertallow is going to resign her post, and that will be an end to the dynasty. I’ll be glad to talk to the Council, to convince them to elect you Mayor. I should think they’ll be glad to let you deal with the mess of rebuilding. Build a new city. Include the servants in the making of it, and give them the fair deal you’ve always wanted for them.” She smiled. “I say the greatest Lady Cindertallow of them all is the one who turns her subjects into free citizens. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I do,” said Waxmelt. His own smile was huge and glorious. “What will we call this new city? Not Chandlefort, I take it.”

  “No,” said Clovermead. She looked pensively at the ruins below—and her smile returned. “Build a monument where mother lies, and build your new town around that. Call the town Ladyrest—because you’re building it on her bones, and you’d never be here without her. She rests here, and you rest on her.”

  “So I’m to be the Mayor of Ladyrest?” Waxmelt’s face crinkled with joy. “That’s a lovely idea, Clo. I like it very much.”

  “And you’ll never forget Mother?” asked Clovermead anxiously. “You argued with her so much, you know. You’ve hated her, Father. But you’ll remember she fought for Our Lady, and for her people?”

  “Always,” said Waxmelt gently. “I had my reasons to hate her, but they don’t matter now. I won’t ever pretend she was a saint, but she was a good and a great woman. There’ll be parades in her memory as long as I live. Her tomb will be of granite, and I’ll have her name carved on her tomb in letters six inches deep. ‘Lady Melisande Cindertallow’ will be the first words in our history books.”

  “Thank you,” Clovermead whispered. She separated from Sorrel long enough to hug her father. She kissed him on the cheek, and it was like a farewell.

  They talked awhile longer, and then Waxmelt went back toward his farmhouse headquarters. Clovermead and Sorrel were left by themselves.

  “So here I am alone with Clovermead Wickward,” said Sorrel. “It is very strange. For almost seven years now Cerelune Cindertallow has been with us too. Tell me, what is Clovermead like? The last time I saw her she was twelve years old.”

  “She’s been scarred by being a Cindertallow,” said Clovermead. “That won’t ever go away.” She brooded for a moment—then smiled. “I suppose Clovermead still likes talking a blue streak, though she doesn’t do it quite as much as she used to. And she likes laughing. She still likes stories of adventure, though she doesn’t want to live them anymore. She’s changed some. She’s cried more than she ever wanted to, and she’s killed people. She’s even cried about some of the people she killed.” She thought of Lucifer Snuff’s body, crumpled in the rubble of the temple. “But she still loves Our Lady. And she loves her family—her parents first, but her husband, too, when she marries him.” She blushed a little. “And children, too, when they come along.”

  “Her husband would also be fond of children,” said Sorrel. “Which reminds me—I have an important question to ask you.”

  “What?”

  “If we were to have children, would they be cubs or babies?” He scratched his head. “I confess, I have been wondering about that for some years.”

  “I don’t know,” said Clovermead. She turned her hand into a paw, and back into a hand. “I still have my bear-shape. It could go either way. Does it matter?”

  “Only that Tansyard fathers are supposed to give their children gifts when they are born, and if I am father to a cub, I will definitely give a silver currycomb, as it will be by far the most useful present. But if it is a human child, I will have to think up something else.”

  “I can’t help you with that,” said Clovermead. “You’ll just have to find out by yourself.”

  “The suspense will be terrible,” said Sorrel. “But I think it will be a most splendid adventure to share with you. Marriage, and life.”

  “And death at the end,” said Clovermead quietly. “There’s no avoiding that.” She looked up. Now there were two white hairs on his head, gleaming in the sun.

  “That, too,” said Sorrel. “But how should life end but in death?” He smiled at Clovermead. “Death is not the end, you know. Our Lady taught us that long ago.”

  “It’s a hard lesson to learn,” said Clovermead. “It keeps on slipping, and you just want to scream in fear. To howl.” In her mind she saw the light fading from Ursus’ eyes. “But I think I have taken it to heart by now. And you can remind me, if ever I forget.”

  “Always, my love,” said Sorrel. “But meanwhile let us enjoy this time on earth that Our Lady has granted us.” Very gently he took Clovermead into his arms. He kissed her then, sweetly and tenderly. She kissed him back, with joy and passion.

  “I’d like that,” said Clovermead. “I’d like that very much.”

  THE END

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2012 by David Randall

  All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part in any form without permission. For information, address Writers House LLC at 21 West 26th Street, New York, NY 10010.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Art by Chynna Miller

  eISBN 9780786753109

  Distributed by Argo Navis Author Services

 

 

 
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