With a deep breath, the bear stood tall on his hind legs. He threw himself forward so that the weight of his body would carry him into the unmagic.
It was like falling into a frozen lake, as if the ice were shattering all around him and shards of frozen unmagic were slicing into him.
But he could hear the hound howling after him.
He dragged one paw forward toward the doe, sensing the life of the fawn beneath his claws. But it was fading. It would be gone if he did not act quickly.
He poured all of his energy, all of his own life, into one movement to press his claw into the abdomen of the doe.
It was not blood that spilled out, or any fluid that he recognized. It was the gray death itself, turned into a foaming gray gas that saturated his senses and made him choke for breath.
But when it had passed, he looked down and saw a hoof, then two.
The fawn seemed to have more strength than he did now.
It climbed out of the cavity of its mother’s death and then faltered.
The hound leaped forward and tugged on the fawn’s forelegs to get it moving away from its mother, away from the cold death.
The fawn took two steps forward, almost past the worst of the unmagic.
Then the hound somehow made her way to the edge of the unmagic herself and, barking, threatening, and dragging, pulled the fawn through to where there was green showing on the forest floor.
She looked over at the bear, her eyes so fierce that he knew she would try to come for him next. He would have to move if he did not wish her to endanger herself for him.
He bared his teeth and growled at her. Not much of a growl, perhaps, but it kept her back.
Then, inch by inch, he pulled himself forward.
After that it seemed easier. He lunged past the dark gray line of the unmagic and found himself face-to-face with the fawn. It blinked at him, utterly unaware that it should be terrified and shrink away from the bear who might devour it.
He turned to the hound and thought of how often he had wished to die and had been unable to. Now he had never wished so much to live.
The hound helped the fawn on its way. It scampered deeper into the forest, away from the unmagic. Even so young a creature had the instinct to flee that if it could. But how long would the fawn last here, without a mother to protect and feed it? How soon would the unmagic spread to the whole forest?
Well, the bear would do what he could for it and for the other forest creatures, even if it meant facing the worst, the wild man.
The urgency with which the bear moved away from the forest was now hot and pressing. Night came and went, and still he kept on pushing himself, past Kendel, past Sarrey, into the north. The hound struggled to keep up with him and he thought only that it would be better for her to stay behind. He had no wish for her to meet the wild man and pay for mistakes she had not made.
Then, one evening, he could not see her or even hear her behind him. He had his first taste of what it was like to be without her. The loneliness clawed at his throat. Still, he forced himself on and told himself she would at least be safe without him.
But she caught up with him that night as he walked under the stars of a cooling summer sky. She was covered with dried sweat and her tongue fell out of her mouth as she panted. Her eyes were red and swollen and she moved as if one paw were lame.
His first feeling was a selfish pleasure at the sight of her.
And then he felt ashamed of himself. Had he not learned to care for others, to wish for what was best for them instead of for himself?
She looked at him, head to one side, and he lifted his head, turned his back to her, and kept on going.
It seemed the only way to protect her from the wild man and from magic ruining her life once more.
But the hound followed him and he could hear her struggle with her left hind leg, injured by the bears in the spring, dragging more and more.
He felt sick himself with the pace he had set, but he knew the hound must fall back before he could take any rest.
In time she would give up. He had only to keep at it.
Yet the hound did not rest. Despite her lame leg, she kept after him. At one point, as he stopped at a stream, she came up behind him and moved past him, not bothering to drink at all.
As if to prove that she could do whatever he could. And more.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Hound
IT HAD BEEN seven days of ruthless pace-setting by the bear. And still the hound kept at it, following him north to the wild man, dragging her wounded leg. She did not know why the bear was angry with her.
She was too stubborn to care. She only knew she would not let him beat her.
They had just entered a rocky forest in the foothills of mountains so large that they made the hound feel dizzy at the sight of them when the bear tottered and collapsed without a sound.
The hound slowed and approached him, sniffing. He smelled nearly as much like death as had the fawn they had rescued from her mother’s womb. His fur was matted and his eyes were crusted shut.
She could see his chest moving evenly, however. He had spent seven days without a full night’s sleep, and he had not stopped to eat more than a few berries and roots and to drink from streams. She had taken down a large rabbit twice, and a field mouse several times, but the bear was relying on the wild man’s magic to keep him going. In that sense, she supposed, it was a wonder he had lasted this long.
She was so tired. And now that she had the chance, she would not waste it with thinking. She felt all hound as she pressed her back against the bear’s, almost as if they were back in the cave, and fell into the deepest sleep of her life.
When she awoke, it was with a start. It was bright daylight.
She had fallen asleep near dusk.
She could see ants and other creatures crawling on the bear, who was still asleep. And then looked to see them on herself.
She brushed them off, then carefully plucked them from the bear. She did not want him forced to awake before he was ready. His breathing was still very deep and regular, and he felt warm enough.
But when she pulled her body away from his, he stirred, then blinked at her, and shuddered.
The bear moved stiffly and slowly at first, making his way to a nearby pool of water. It was dark-colored, crusted over with moss, and it smelled ripe. But he drank it, and so did she. Her mouth was dry and her tongue thick after a night’s rest—and more—without drink. Especially after the week that had preceded that night.
She thought she could sleep another day and night through if she were given the chance. But when she turned to look at the bear, she did not dare try to speak of it with him, even in her wordless way. He had that faraway look in his eyes again, and then he put his head down and began to move forward.
They walked until late afternoon, when the bear seemed to stumble with every step. The hound barked at the sight of some berries.
He tottered toward them. The bush was low enough that he had to lean to one side to reach them.
When he had finished eating, he looked a little better.
That was when the hound’s eyes grazed over a rocky outcropping and saw a small pack of wild hounds, all gray except around their eyes, where their skin was white.
There were five of them, two larger than the others. Her mind instantly categorized them as lead male and lead female, but if that were so, why only three others? That was not nearly enough for a healthy pack.
Had they been attacked?
She saw no injuries on them.
She turned to look at the bear.
He saw the hounds as well. And was as curious about them as she was. Even in his current state, his eyes narrowed and took in every detail.
If there was an attack, thought the hound, it would be five against two—not good odds.
But the hounds did not attack.
They simply stared back at the bear and the hound. The largest, the lead male, even seemed to nod at the bear
, as if they had met somewhere before.
The hound knew that the bear had traveled many places before he had settled in the forest near Prince George’s castle. But that would have been long ago, before this hound could have been born.
So what was this?
The lead male turned back to the others and nodded at them in a way that seemed not at all houndlike. A lead male would bark and tell the others what to do in a commanding tone. Not guide them to do what he asked in a way that was considered polite only by humans.
Humans indeed. The hound looked again at the five. Two and three. This was not a pack, not even a small one.
This was a family.
And since there were no families of hounds that she had ever heard of, she could only draw one conclusion: they were not hounds.
They wore the bodies of hounds, but that was all.
As they came closer, the hound became more certain of her suspicion.
They did not smell like hounds. They did not move or speak like hounds.
And they did not look at the hound or the bear as one animal looks at another.
Suddenly all her questions seemed answered as the animals transformed before her very eyes. The five hounds became humans, one after another.
A man and a woman, and three children: two girls and a boy, the youngest of all, perhaps five years old.
“We show ourselves to you. Then you show yourselves to us,” said the man. He had an old, puckered scar that ran the length of his face.
The bear shook his head in a clear negative.
The scarred man set his jaw and took a step forward. “How shall I know that you are not sent to destroy us unless you also show me your magic?” he said in a dark tone.
The hound made a whining sound.
The man stepped closer, and when the bear went down on all fours in a show of submission he put a hand on the bear’s shoulder. The man closed his eyes, then nodded.
“Ah, I see.”
What did he see? He certainly did not speak to the bear as he would to another animal. Nor did he look at the hound that way.
“Come, then. I am Frant and my woman is Sharla. We will welcome you with such as we have.” His gesture included the hound as well.
The hound found herself warmed by the family’s ease in the presence of animals. She would never have suspected that she could be with humans again and not feel discomfort.
But these humans did not live in a castle and wear foolishly uncomfortable clothing. They did not seem to have ridiculous rules and lists of names and polite words to offer as they stabbed one another in the back.
It was almost like being in a pack again.
And yet she would not say that they acted like hounds would, either. No hounds would accept two strange animals into their pack, even if they were not afraid of the damage they might do.
The hound wondered if perhaps she had changed a little as well.
All of them moved together back toward the rocky outcropping.
After a few steps, the hound noticed that the boy changed back into a hound.
Then the female, Sharla, shook her head at him sternly and he took the shape of a boy once more. The boy was more comfortable in his hound form than his human one, it seemed. The girls were more obedient, but the hound suspected they felt as the boy did—that they belonged in the forest, with the animals, more than in a village with other humans.
They found a copse ahead, and there Sharla prepared a varied meal. There were roots and berries to satisfy the bear, but also plenty of meat for the hound.
The hound thought that the animal was fresh killed, but she noticed that it was an old one, and that one of its legs was withered. A mercy killing?
It was tough, but better than nothing at all. At least the taste of the blood was fresh, and the meat was not cooked.
She noticed that one of the girls and the boy ate more of the meat than either of the parents and the other girl. And the bear, of course, ate only the roots and berries.
For her part, the hound ate meat, but not as much as she would have liked. She was used to gorging on a feast, and then going without for days on end. But such were the compromises to be made with humans.
The fire was not large, as a human might make. It was just enough to cook a few roots and then Sharla kicked it over and buried it. No fire kept for light and the feeling of protection against the strange creatures of the forest, as humans would do.
After that there were only stars above for light, and the hound noticed that there were no animals anywhere near them, as far as she could see—or smell. They kept their distance, as if they could tell that they did not belong amid this magic.
But the hound, for the first time since she had been touched by the magic that made her human, felt as if she did truly belong among others.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Bear
AFTER THE SPARSE meal was eaten, the bear allowed himself to put his foreboding about the wild man out of his mind. He was glad for a chance to rest at last. The gift of long life from magic did not mean boundless energy. And he hoped to learn much from these humans.
Their magic was more powerful than anything the bear had heard of, in his own time or in Prince George’s, but in addition to that, the bear felt enormous gratitude for the way these humans treated the hound. Even George and Marit did not see her as these people did. The princess had treated the hound like a hound, a wild creature. And she was that—but she was more, too. No one but this family had seen that as the bear did.
The sun faded in the sky and the stars came up. It was a warm night with a gentle wind. The bear remembered many a night like this that he had spent in his castle, watching others dancing and drinking himself to oblivion. He had awoken only to vomit into the wind, stare at the stars once, and go back to sleep.
He was a bear now, but how much happier he was here.
With the hound.
Frant spoke then, as if he had been steeling himself to offer this much of himself. It was the first time he had seemed to struggle, and when he spoke it was of magic—and his past.
The bear was glad that he understood, though he could not speak in return. The details of the story were very different from his own, but somehow the way the man spoke of it, it seemed much the same.
“My father was always proud of his magic, and though he did not speak of it openly, he and my mother taught me well,” Frant said. “Until—”
He struggled, then went on: “They were both killed when I was nine years old. A neighbor had come to warn them of the imminent attack, but by then the mob was too close behind. To save me, they sacrificed themselves and sent me to safety with him.”
A man daring enough to save a boy with the animal magic was surely a courageous one, thought the bear.
But Frant’s expression twisted with pain. “He left me alone in the woods, and told me never to return anywhere near my home or his. He said that if I did, he would be the first to light the match to my bonfire.”
All sympathy had gone, and the bear felt a low growl rise in his throat for this man who had pretended to help, then had abandoned a small boy to his lonely fate.
Frant nodded, as if he had been asked a question. “I have thought about it in the many years since then and I believe I understand now what he did. This neighbor lived on a farm adjoining ours. I think he hoped to claim my parents’ farm for himself. When they were dead, he had to make sure I could not gainsay him.”
There was no forgiveness in Frant’s voice.
“He saved your life,” said Sharla softly. “I must be forever grateful to him for that.”
“Only because it was easier to frighten a child than to kill him,” said Frant. “I owe him nothing for that.” He stared at his wife until she looked away. “I was left to raise myself. For many years I lived with the animals. Sometimes as an animal, sometimes as a boy. But soon I became lonely and I began to seek out others like myself—with the animal magic.” He nodded at his wife.
> The bear stared at her, seeing both hound and human in her. But it was the human that stood out. What animal would have compassion for the one who threatened her mate? Not his hound, he did not think.
Sharla said, “My story is simpler. I did not discover who—and what—I was until I was nearly fourteen. My parents were horrified, and I woke one night to hear them discussing how they might kill me to prevent the stain on their reputation. I fled north as an animal, thinking I would never see another human all my life. And then I met Frant, not far from this very place.” She was finished, that quickly.
And again the bear was reminded of the hound. She found language of different sorts useful, but she did not indulge in idle chatter.
Frant said, “We have lived like this for most of our lives now. We are used to it and would not change for our own sakes. But we worry for our children. They have only each other for company and know nothing of human ways.”
“They are happy enough,” said Sharla. “And human ways are not necessarily better than animal ways.”
The bear pondered this. He respected animals, cared for them, honored them. But given a choice, he would not choose to remain as a bear. Yet this family had grown used to both forms.
“Perhaps,” said Frant. “But still, there are things that I would like to see made possible for them. They have never seen a book. Or a dance. Or a well-baked loaf of bread. And more than that—I worry for their futures.”
The bear ached at this thought. He had not known how much he wanted a child until he realized he would never have one. A bear cub would never be a substitute, for it would only remind him of all that it was not.
“We must be patient,” said Sharla confidently. “There are others like us. You see, these two are proof of it. In time we will find more. And then our children will be well matched in marriage.”
“And if not?” asked Frant, as the bear would have asked himself.
A flicker of pain crossed her face, but then Sharla spread out her hands. “They spend their lives as animals. They live with animals. They speak as animals. Perhaps it would not be so bad if they loved as animals.”
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