The Princess and the Bear

by Mette Ivie Harrison

  The first sight of the princess.

  The smell of the bear in the cave.

  The wild man’s gap in time.

  Her new body.

  Her own magic.

  And now this.

  Even this pain was life. She savored it, and pressed that feeling against the cat man.

  This was her magic, and she poured it into him until he drowned in it. It had been so long since he felt true magic, and even then it had not been magic like this.

  As she touched him, she saw also his plans for the future. To go south, to conquer animals and humans there, then to return north when he had enough unmagic to finish the destruction completely. It was not only this kingdom that he had threatened. His plan had been an ambitious one, almost like a man’s.

  The hound drained him of all memories, of all hatred, of all he had been.

  Then he was a cat again. The creature in her arms gasped and choked, but there was still some life in it.

  The hound was nearly drained herself. She knew it would take all of her magic to finish him. When she was done, she would no longer be able to change between forms. She did not think about it but simply let the magic drain out of her.

  And as she did so, she changed once more into a human woman, still in her filthy gown. She was only partly surprised that in her deepest self she was now human.

  The cat shivered once as the last of Chala’s magic was pressed into him, then sagged against her.

  Pulling away from him, damp with human sweat, constricted by the tight bands of fabric around her chest, Chala did not regret her choice.

  The wonderful new power she had shared with Richon, to change freely from animal to human, had not lasted long, after all. And now she had given it up, not for him or his kingdom, but for the future world that would have been threatened by the cat man’s continued existence.

  To no longer be a hound, that was a loss she would have to come to accept. But to never be human again, to lose Richon, to return to what she had been—she could never have come to accept that.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Richon

  FOLLOWING HER SCENT, Richon came upon Chala the next day. She was carrying water from the well to the inn, looking like a peasant girl with her bucket in hand.

  “What happened?” Richon demanded. Something had changed in her, but he was not sure what it was. He feared it had to do with the royal steward she had been chasing and the unmagic he could smell all around him.

  Chala told him the fate of the royal steward and of the cat man.

  “Then—the unmagic is gone?” he asked, astonished.

  “The cat man is gone,” said Chala. “But the unmagic will always exist. We have only staved it off. Remember what the wild man said? The battle between magic and unmagic goes on until the end of time.”

  “But we have done our part for this time,” said Richon. The cat man would not be able to spread his unmagic into the future. And for his part, Richon would make sure that the hatred against those with magic was also tempered.

  All was well.

  Richon breathed deeply, then reached for Chala. He wanted to fold her into his arms and tell her that he loved her. Now he could. He had the words for it, and he meant it truly.

  But when he touched her, he felt an emptiness in her that made him draw back. There was more to the story of the cat man’s defeat.

  “I used my magic against him,” said Chala. “All of it. That is how I defeated him. He swallowed it up. I could not battle the unmagic. I could only heal it with as much of my own power as he had of his.”

  “But you will get it back,” said Richon. “Your magic—” He thought of the joy she had in being a hound, chasing through the woods, eating fresh meat, standing at his side when he was a bear.

  Was all that lost?

  She nodded sadly.

  “Never?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “My magic is gone. I am a human like those of Prince George’s time, who had no magic of their own. Who feel nothing in the woods and have no bond with animals.”

  Richon began to understand her sacrifice. “I am sorry,” he said. He had restored his kingdom, but at what cost to himself? Had he lost her?

  “I will go away if you wish it,” she said. “I can no longer change into a hound, so I will have to live as a human. But it need not be here if it bothers you. I am strong, at least, and can make my own place in the world.” Her chin came up, and Richon could see the Chala he knew. And the hound as well, in her stubborn pride.

  “You will go nowhere,” he said.

  She shifted. “I cannot stay,” she said.

  “Because of my magic?” Richon asked. If that was so, he would give it all up. He did not know how he could do it. Spread his arms wide and let it go to the forests or the animals? Give it to his people? Or if that did not work, go back to the wild man and beg him to take it? Surely he would have some use for additional magic if he intended to protect the world against unmagic for the rest of time.

  “Because I am no longer like you,” said Chala. “I have no magic. I cannot change my form. And yet I will always have something of the hound in me.”

  Richon threw himself forward. He winced at the wrongness of her lack of magic. And then she was in his arms.

  She was rigid at first, but gradually seemed to let herself fall into him.

  “Is there unmagic?” she asked softly.

  “None,” Richon assured her.

  Chala bowed her head. “There is a scar in me, burned deep. A reminder of what I once had.”

  Richon was filled with sudden excitement. “I have enough magic for both of us. I will heal you by giving you of my own.” He heard Chala begin to protest, but he ignored her. He reached for both of her arms and held her above the elbows, throwing magic at her.

  But it would not enter her. He could feel it bounce off her and return to him, or simply spread out to the world around them—ground, field, forest—where it would be absorbed by whoever happened to walk by it.

  He found his fingernails were digging into his hands, and blood was trickling out from his clenched fists.

  Chala took his hands in her own and smoothed them out. “I would have told you it was not possible, but I realized you had to see it for yourself.”

  He sighed. “Then we must both learn to live with it.”

  “No,” she said. “I must learn to live with it. You need do nothing at all.”

  What did she mean?

  Did she think that he would turn away from her now, when he had never felt closer to her? He must make himself more clear.

  He reached for her hands and looked into her eyes. “I am not a child who is crying for a sweet fallen in the dirt. I have weathered other changes, and I will weather this one. We will weather it together, you and I. And no doubt it will make us stronger and better, whether we wish to be or not.”

  There, was that enough for her?

  “I can no longer be a hound,” she said, very slowly, as if to make sure he could not misunderstand. “If you wish to be a bear and run in the forest, I cannot go with you. You will have to go alone, or find another who can share that part of you.”

  Richon held her fiercely tight. “I want no other,” he said.

  “But how can you love a woman who will never again be whole in the way that you are?” she asked. “A woman who will never share your wildness and yet will always wish for it?”

  “I love the wound as much as the woman who wears it,” said Richon. “And I love the reason she received the wound. How can I ever forget that, when I feel the change in you? You have given so much.” He still marveled at it. He had done what he had done to be redeemed, but she had had no mistake to make up for, no honor to be reclaimed.

  “And all for me,” he added, in awe of her.

  “But it was not for you,” she said.

  He loosened his grip. What did she mean? Had he lost her love somehow? Had she found another here in his kingdom? Who could it be?
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br />   “I did what I did because it had to be done,” said Chala softly.

  Richon was so relieved that he laughed. In a moment, though, the sound turned quickly to choking tears. “And that is why I love you. No selfishness in you at all. It is what I have always aspired to be, and you, Chala, have shown me the way. They should make you king.”

  “A woman is not a king,” said Chala stiffly.

  Richon smiled. “Queen, then.”

  Chala was quiet for a moment. “Are you asking me to marry you?” she said.

  Now it was Richon’s turn to be quiet. Had it not been obvious to her before? “I do not mean to pressure you,” he said at last.

  “But I was born a hound,” said Chala. “How would your kingdom—”

  Richon put a hand over her mouth. Then, when she was silent, he removed it and kissed her. “You are a more human woman than any I have ever found. And I love you.”

  Tears began to fall down her cheeks.

  Richon gathered them one at a time into a cupped palm.

  She smiled at last.

  “Marry me and make me the happiest man in the world. And my kingdom be hanged if they don’t accept you as my queen. They can take us both or send us both on our way. They will survive without us, no doubt. And we will survive without them.”

  “Truly?” asked Chala. “You would give up your kingdom for me? All these years you wanted nothing more than to be king again, to have another chance.”

  Richon kissed her again, more desperately. “I have changed,” he said.

  He convinced Chala eventually, with much kissing. Then there was more kissing and holding, just because there was nothing else he would rather do.

  When it was much later in the day, Chala reminded him that he was a king, after all, and didn’t he have kingly things to do?

  They rested that night in a small forest—hardly more than a few groves of trees next to each other. The following day they saw men from the army returning home all around them. It was difficult for Richon not to stop and greet them all personally. But if he stopped now they would swarm him, and he had no time for that now. So he kept his distance from them, and they were too interested in homecomings to seek him out.

  On the third day, Richon and Chala reached the palace. There he spent a few days working in his mother’s garden, with Chala’s help.

  After a week, men began to appear at the palace gates, those Richon remembered from the battlefield and others, asking for work to do. Women came and offered themselves as ladies-in-waiting for Chala. She would not be pampered as Richon would have been tempted to enjoy watching, but she did accept an offer for borrowed gowns. The one she had been wearing since the wild man had changed her was by now completely unsalvageable.

  That evening, she took the old gown and put it in a bonfire in the courtyard, along with the broken furniture and reminders of the past that Richon did not wish to keep.

  Richon thought she looked as perfect in the new gown as she had in the wild man’s, though he noticed both were shades of red. It was, indeed, the most flattering color to her. Had she become human enough to care about something as trivial as that?

  “Well, your court will care about it, so I must care about it if I am to be a true queen to you,” said Chala when Richon asked her about it.

  But he noticed her more than once looking at herself in a passing window, or in a stream. She did not have a mirror in her rooms, however. That much vanity was beyond her.

  Richon found that the palace expenses were much decreased from the last time he had been king. The food, prepared by an army cook, was hearty but simple. Hunting parties went out—always without Richon—and brought back meat for those who would eat it. His mother’s garden was expanded to include several acres outside the palace.

  There were not as many horses, and very little wine drinking or smoking. No balls or celebrations every other day, such as he had lived through before. Richon used the money to pay for reparations to those hurt in the past, and found himself sleeping better at night and feeling more clearheaded every day.

  One of the first of those to return to the palace was Jonner, the merchant, who returned a wagonful of books in thanks for the king’s saving a cousin’s life in the battle. It was such a precious gift that Richon was speechless. He did not know how to express his gratitude. This was a replacement of one of the things that he had missed most.

  Then Jonner suggested that Richon allow him to remain in the palace. He had long wished to stop traveling. He was getting older and it did not do his health good to be moving about, never knowing where his next meal or his next bed would come from.

  “If you wish to, I suppose we can find a room for you,” said Richon.

  “A room for me? There is the entire library!” said Jonner, gesturing to it, above the royal suite, a vaste warren of halls and cubbyholes that Richon had let go.

  “It is in terrible shape,” said Richon. He did not know if the shelves were intact or if any of the other furniture from his parents’ library remained in the palace.

  “I will rebuild it,” said Jonner. “And after that I will sit in it and read all the books I have been meaning to read. Those who wish for knowledge will have only to come to me, and I will direct them to the proper book. I cannot wish for a better life for myself. If it suits you, Your Majesty.”

  Richon embraced the man heartily. A librarian! Yes, of course. Now his kingdom was complete.

  “And I will have a special section for books on magic,” said Jonner.

  Richon thought of Prince George and his search for any knowledge about the magic. Perhaps that, too, would change in the future.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Chala

  THE WEDDING COULD not be escaped. It wasn’t the finality of marriage with Richon that bothered Chala. Even the ceremony itself, however tedious and incomprehensible, could be borne. But the preparations made her irritable enough to wish for her hound’s teeth, if only to snap at those who bothered her every moment with some triviality.

  Already there were rumors swirling that she was a she-bear that Richon had brought back with him from his enchantment. She must do what she could to show her human side as much as possible. And yet there was a part of her that would always be different.

  There were three women who became Chala’s particular burdens. She refused to call them ladies-in-waiting, for she had no more wish of women fluttering around her now than she had when she had been Princess Beatrice. They were kind enough, but they tended to chatter about topics of no particular interest to Chala. When she spoke of sword fighting, hunting, or running races, they gave her strange looks and seemed to have nothing to add to the conversation.

  The three insisted on attending each of Chala’s fittings for her wedding gown, for they said that she would not be able to see herself clearly and that they would be better able to tell her what flattered her figure best.

  The seamstress came with her best work, but Chala rejected gown after gown. One in particular Chala remembered with a shudder: lace everywhere, with a feathered hat and silver threads that a beautiful white wild bird had died to make.

  “You would look like a dainty thing,” the seamstress promised as she held it out. “A woman made to adorn the arm of the king.”

  “It is lovely,” said one of the not-ladies-in-waiting.

  “Magnificent,” said another.

  But Chala ignored them. She had not been a human woman long, but she knew what suited her and what did not.

  Besides, she did not think that Richon cared a whit about whether or not she looked ornamental on his arm. He had loved her first as a hound, and as a woman he had loved her for what she could do, not for how she looked.

  “Bring me something simple,” said Chala. She could wear a gown that was striking in color, she had found, but simply designed. Yet she knew that a wedding gown had to be white.

  And at last the seamstress returned with a gown that was made of one piece of fabric, from the bodic
e to the skirt.

  “It is from three seasons past,” she said, her mouth twisted. “And I never sold it then, for it was too plain for any of the noblewomen who could afford it.”

  But Chala liked it immediately. It had strong lines and the fabric shimmered when it moved.

  She only pulled out the ribbons at the neckline and then raised the gown over her head. She even liked the feel of it as it touched her skin and warmed to her. She smoothed out the fine fabric over her hips.

  She looked up and saw the seamstress and the three not-ladies-in-waiting gaping at her.

  “It suits her,” said the most thoughtful of the three. “With the starkness of the pattern, it is her face you see. The strength in it. And the love.”

  “She will start a new style entirely,” said the seamstress. And she began sketching intently some new gowns that were similar.

  So in the end they were not displeased with her choice.

  The seamstress brought in a shoemaker later that day. He offered her dainty jeweled slippers and pinched dancing boots with heels too high to be comfortable.

  In the end Chala sent him away and decided to wear instead the boots the wild man’s magic had given her when she was first transformed into a woman. They were worn, but she sent them to be cleaned, and they came back shiny and with new laces. They did not show much under the gown, but they did not shame her. And she had the added comfort of knowing that she could run in them.

  Not that she expected to need to. But it was nice to know she could all the same.

  The morning of the wedding she dressed herself, but allowed one of the ladies to pull her hair back from her face.

  Then the music started.

  The doors opened.

  Chala had to force her legs to move forward.

  She had no flowers in her hands. She thought it an abomination to pick living things purely for the sake of decoration.

  But now her hands were clenched at her sides.

  She was dry-mouthed, staring at Richon, far to the front of the palace chapel. And between the two of them, at least a thousand gaping faces.