The Princess and the Bear

by Mette Ivie Harrison

  The bear was moved. If he could help—in any way that did not involve taking more magic on himself, and risking the hound with magic—he would do it.

  “I would—” he began to offer. Perhaps he and the hound could come visit now and again and alleviate the loneliness. Or they could fight the unmagic here and now, by other means. The wild man had only to tell him how.

  Of course, the bear knew, looking at the wild man, that he had already tried all else. This was the last possible hope.

  And yet why should the bear be the one to save the magic? What had it ever done for him? He had seen only its worst side. He had never been able to wield it himself. Why should he help magic, and all those who had it, when he would benefit not at all?

  Because of the unmagic.

  The unmagic had destroyed his home. That was his enemy. Was that not one of the lessons he had learned as a bear? He had nothing to fear from those who wielded magic truly, for the good of humans and animals alike. He had already helped Prince George willingly, in aid of magic. He did not like to think that he simply held a grudge against the wild man for what had been done to him.

  He knew what he had been and could see little else that would have made him what he was now.

  But he did not want to go back. He realized now that what he feared was not to be transformed a second time, but to go back to the foolish, shallow boy king he had been.

  He did not want the hound to see him that way.

  He opened his mouth and touched her shoulder with his paw.

  But she would not turn to him.

  She pressed her head around his bulk and stared at the gap in time.

  The bear looked at the wild man, who wore a surprised expression, though not an unhappy one. “You must know that she will be given a choice as well,” the wild man said.

  But it was he the wild man wanted, to send back in time as a king! How could the hound—

  The wild man said only, “See how the magic calls to her.”

  Indeed, the hound leaned into the gap in time, her body taut with longing.

  “She is a hound,” said the bear, though ashamed of himself for saying it. She was not only a hound. He knew that. But it would be easier if she were.

  “She is who she is,” said the wild man.

  The bear gave up speaking to the wild man and spoke instead to the hound. “It is not for you to go there,” he said stubbornly.

  The hound spoke to him without turning back. “I will go where I wish. You do not own me. I am not a king’s hound, to be bought and sold, or bid to go here and there.”

  There was such vitriol in her speech that the bear was taken aback.

  “I will go,” she said again.

  “But…what place will there be for you there? You are a hound. I will be a man.” Had he already moved to accepting that he would go?

  The hound said, with a movement to her shoulders that seemed very much like a human shrug, “Then I will be a hound who is a companion to a man. I have been a hound who is a companion to a woman before, and did well enough.”

  The bear shook his head. “They will not see you as I do. They will think of you as an animal.” It was only part of his fear, but it was true enough.

  “Let them think whatever they wish. It is not their opinion that matters to me. It is yours. And my own,” said the hound.

  “You do not know humans as I do,” said the bear. “You do not know what they can do, how they can cut with their words, with just a look. You have not felt how it is to be excluded from their laughter or their smiles.”

  The hound turned from the gap with such a look of scorn on her face that the bear had to step back from her.

  “I do not know humans,” she echoed. “But it is I who have lived among humans most recently. Perhaps there are questions you should ask me, about how women take revenge on other women with rumors and lies and cutting words. I think I know humans as well as you.”

  She knew them too well, and at their worst. Now she would see how much he was like them.

  “And think of this,” she went on. “If you leave me behind, I will go back to the forest where the unmagic is spreading. I will fight there, on my own, for as long as I can. And when I am finished, I will go in search of the cat man myself, and not turn back until I have killed him. Or he has killed me.”

  The bear swallowed the bitterness rising in the back of his throat. If he did not wish her to see him as he had been, he would simply have to be better.

  “If I go through there, what will I find?” he asked the wild man.

  “You will find your own kingdom as it was two hundred years ago. You will enter your kingdom as a man, at the moment that you fled it as a bear. But it is up to you to make yourself king again, for the stories will have already spread about the battle with the animals. The people will know what the wild man has done to you. And they will remember what you have done to them.”

  The bear touched a paw to the hound. “We will go, then,” he said gruffly.

  Together they stepped toward the gap.

  The magic around it did not bother him as much now. He seemed to have become used to it. Or he was no longer fighting it.

  “One more choice you must make, Hound,” said the wild man, stopping her. “He goes as a man, and you may go as his hound—or you may go as a human woman at his side.”

  The hound let out a short bark in surprise.

  The bear wanted to speak, to say that he would never force her to put on a form that was not her own. He had seen how painful it was for her, and he knew how painful it was for himself.

  But she was already speaking. “Send me as a woman, for then we will be able to share far more than we do now. And in understanding him, I will be able to help him more.”

  The bear felt as though he were drowning. She offered him so much of herself, more than he had to give back to her.

  The wild man simply said, “Then go through and the magic will do the rest.”

  He opened his arms wider, and the gap enveloped the bear and the hound before they could change their minds.

  The bear howled at the roaring pain in his ears and at the numbness in his paws. He could see nothing. Then he felt the sensation of falling, as if from a great height, but it went on and on.

  He came back to himself slowly. He glanced up into the sky, but the wild man’s cliff and his moving tree were gone now. He saw only a few clouds and the peak of a mountain that he could sense no magic in.

  There was no way back now. The choice had been made, for both of them.

  He stretched, and only then did he start at the sight of his arms.

  Human arms. Both completely whole and long, but with hair instead of fur and the skin beneath bronze. He stood up on his two feet, and how good it felt to do so! He would gladly walk back to his palace. He tried to think how long it would take.

  He had only ever ridden far afield on a horse, and then only two or three days at the most, to observe the edges of his kingdom. On foot and from here in the mountains, it would take at least twice as long, and that was if he pushed himself past all limits.

  He turned to look for the hound.

  And gasped when he saw her, curled in a ball, gradually coming to herself on the rocks beside him.

  She was not the woman she had been before. She did not have Marit’s pale, freckled skin and red hair. She was not as tall as a man and painfully thin.

  He should have guessed that.

  After all, the wild man’s magic was not like Dr. Gharn’s. It was far more subtle, and far more powerful. And she was not exchanging a body with another creature. She was living in a body that was all her own—only human, and healed of its wounds.

  When he thought of it that way, it made sense: the black eyes, the dark, shining hair that fell down her back like sleek skin, and the way she moved, with the grace of a hound.

  In addition, she wore a fine gown in a soft red velvet. Her feet were covered in sturdy-looking black boots. She even had a bit
of gold around her neck.

  Richon looked down at himself then.

  He wore the body of the young man he had been, still ungainly and uncertain, but strong. His boots were the ones he had loved once, and the clothes, sweaty and bloodstained, were what he had worn at the end of the battle with the animals. And when he put a hand on the pouch at his side, he could feel the coins that jingled in it.

  Had he had coins in his pouch then?

  He did not remember. He had not often carried coins with him. He had had servants for such things.

  This must be a gift of the wild man.

  “Hound,” said Richon in his own human voice, not as deep as he had wanted it to be.

  He put out a hand.

  The hound—the human woman—met it with hers.

  “What shall I call you?” he asked.

  “Must I have another name, then?” Now she, too, spoke in the language of humans. Her voice was low, more like a man’s than a woman’s, and not at all smooth. Perhaps it would become smoother as she grew used to it, but the bear did not think she would ever sound like other women.

  He would not give her a name. He had imposed on her too much already. But it would be strange indeed if the king referred to the woman at his side as “Hound.”

  A small smile played across her face. “Call me Chala, for it means ‘human woman’ in the language of the hounds.”

  “Chala,” he said aloud, trying it out. She seemed to think there was irony in the word, but he thought it fit her well.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Chala

  WEARING A HUMAN body again was like having a thorn in her paw. She never entirely forgot about it, but there were also times when she could focus on something else. On moving down from the mountains, for example. A human body was not as well equipped as a hound’s, especially not a woman’s body wearing a full-length gown. But if she thought only of the next step, and the next, it was better.

  And at least she could watch Richon as he also tried to adjust to his new body. It was amusing to see how fragile he seemed. She had been so used to his enormous bear’s form, and the thickness of his fur, and the way he could run on all fours or walk upright on his hind legs. Now he seemed all unbalanced, and tottered over rocks that would not have bothered him before. His feet were covered in boots, but still he winced at the rocks underfoot, and he tired so easily that they had to stop frequently to give him rests.

  Chala was surprised at the body he had now. His chest was hairless, and so thin and without muscle she could see the line of each rib underneath his tunic. His arms and legs were wiry, but his stomach was soft with food that others had killed and brought to him to eat. Oh, he was handsome enough, she supposed—for a human. His eyes were a clear, bright blue and his nose was unbroken and well shaped. He had broad cheekbones that reminded her a little of the animal that she still saw in him. But was this the kind of man humans chose as a king?

  She had seen King Helm and he was nothing like this. Even King Davit, Prince George’s father, ill as he was, had had evidence of muscles on his wasted figure. Prince George, too, had the look of a man who did not let others do for him. He was not as good with the sword as King Helm, but he had held his own.

  Yet Chala doubted very much that this young man beside her would have lasted more than a few moments in that arena. He might be able to ride a horse well and kill an animal with a spear, but she was not overly impressed with him.

  In the world of wild hounds, the male leader of a pack was always the strongest and the biggest. If he fell ill, he was quickly overtaken by another and torn apart. But for humans, it was different. It made no sense, but there it was. The bear had been strong, but it was this weak human who had been king, and was again.

  Well, she might be human in body, but she would not go along with that. She would treat Richon as a leader of her pack, and perhaps he would see how to be strong through her.

  They spent a full day getting off that first mountain, and then, when dark came, they fell asleep in exhaustion, with no more than a rock as shelter and each other for warmth.

  In the morning she stared at her new self in a pool of clear rainwater between two rocks. Her gown was rumpled, the red velvet showing spots of water staining and dirt and one small tear on the hem of the skirt. But that was just clothing. That was not who she was.

  She looked closer.

  She liked the strength in her lean face, and the long fingernails on the tips of her fingers, like claws. Her hair was shiny black, and fell all over her face in a wild way. Her teeth seemed very white in contrast, and her eyes very black, almost as if she had no irises at all.

  She stared longest at her nose, which was long and sharp, as if it could still sniff like a hound’s. But it couldn’t. She felt the absence of that sense and could only hope it would be compensated for in other ways.

  Chala enjoyed flexing her arms, her legs, the muscles in her back and shoulders. She could feel the rush of blood, and it was almost as if she were on the hunt again. So focused was she on herself that she did not speak a word, and it was only when she tried to growl like a hound that Richon stirred.

  But he did not wake.

  Chala thought how young he was now. He did not even have a full beard, just a bit of stubble. His hair was dark brown, like the bear he had been, and it curled around his ears, damp from the morning dew.

  She let him sleep a little while longer, then grew too hungry to keep still. She made enough noise that Richon woke.

  “Good morning,” he said, rubbing his face.

  She nodded to him and then went off to find her breakfast. She found a stream full of fish nearby. She caught a small one, and ate it in one gulp, scales, head, and all. It did not taste as good as it would have to a hound, but it filled her stomach for now and that was all that mattered.

  She stopped a moment after she ate and stared out at the birds in the distance, circling the peak where the wild man had been—in the future.

  He had not come here yet, though.

  Strange thought.

  When she came back, Richon was sitting on a rock, one leg tapping out a fast, impatient rhythm.

  “I am here,” she said.

  Richon turned, startled.

  “I found fish,” said Chala. “In a stream.”

  His stomach growled, but he did not ask her to show it to him.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked. “I did not find any roots or berries. Can you eat any of the grasses here?” She waved a hand at them.

  “I suppose,” he said, and picked at one strand and put it between his teeth. He chewed it for a while, then spat it out.

  “It is not good?”

  “I’d rather have a fish,” he said.

  She stared at him.

  “Could you show me the stream? Or…I’m sure I could find it myself.” He began traipsing in exactly the wrong direction.

  Did he have no idea how to find a stream by the smell of it and the sound of the water trickling? Even without her hound’s senses, that was not difficult for her. No doubt he was used to a guide of some sort in the forest. But Chala noticed also that he was unwilling to admit that he needed help.

  Perhaps that, at least, she could understand from the viewpoint of a hound. One does not show weaknesses to those who might attack.

  That he thought she was a danger to him told her only that his life had been one of very little trust indeed. Whoever had been around him, he had had no pack to protect him. And how could one grow strong without a pack?

  She caught up with him and tried to steer him gently in the right direction, as a hound might do for a pup.

  Richon would have none of it. He seemed angry with her and would not meet her eyes.

  What foolishness!

  Perhaps a human woman would have let him act stupidly, but that would only waste time for both of them.

  She ran ahead of him, then stood directly in his path, her hands tightened firmly around his forearms. It was not until then that
she wondered what would happen if it came down to a battle between them, for he was several inches taller than she was, and, lean as he was, still must weigh significantly more.

  “The stream and the fish are the other way,” she said firmly.

  “I will go this way.”

  “That is the wrong way.”

  “I will do what I wish,” said Richon.

  Chala slapped him across the face.

  “What?” he said, startled.

  “You will not delay us with your stupidity. If you are hungry, I will show you the stream with the fish in it. Then we will be on our way.”

  He opened his mouth, then closed it. Something crossed his face, a fleeting expression of memory, and understanding. Then he said, “I am acting like a spoiled brat, aren’t I?”

  She nodded.

  “I am sorry. It is this body. I find myself doing what I would have done before, without thinking of it. It is what I was most—” He stopped.

  Chala pointed the way.

  This time Richon bowed his head and followed her.

  She did not get his fish for him, however. Let him do that himself, and grow into the man he should be.

  He walked into the stream without taking off his boots, and then proceeded to drench himself trying to grab a fish out of the water. He had no technique, no patience. He would see a fish, leap for it, and find it had slipped away, fully warned by his splashing about.

  Finally he seemed to get one, more by chance than anything else. He pulled it out of the water with a wide grin on his face that seemed to transform him from a boy into someone she could see as a king. There was power in that smile.

  Did he know it?

  He held the fish high, still flopping, and looked at Chala. “No fire to cook it on,” he said.

  “No time for a fire, either,” she said.

  He did not argue. He found a stick and pierced the fish through the head to kill it swiftly. Then he grimaced as he dropped the whole thing into his mouth.

  It was not a big fish, but it took him two bites to get it down. He struggled with the chewing, then held his stomach afterward, as his face went ashen.

  Chala thought it was his conscience bothering him, for he had sworn to give up eating the flesh of animals as his penance. But surely that was done now! The magic would not keep him living without food here, in this time.