Clovermead charged into the forest, angling away from the road back to Silverfalls. Sorrel and Saraband will be riding that way, she thought. They don’t need a lot of bears chasing them. Branches clung to her and slowed her down as she ran through pathless hills pursued by a straggling arc of bears. She heard steady roaring from one or another of the bears following her. Sometimes they lagged behind, sometimes they gained on her, but they never fell out of hearing.
Clovermead struggled through streams and over rock faces, between thickets and trailing vines, and after a while she came to a dirt trail that was scarcely a path at all, but marked with blazes on trees every now and then. Clovermead could smell human scents on it—A smuggler’s trail, I suppose, she thought. This’ll be easier. She accelerated, and finally the bears fell out of earshot. She felt her fear ease a little.
She knew she must be colder than ever, but she couldn’t feel the chill anymore. She knew that her paws struck the ground and that her whole upper body was still sore from pulling up the bucket of water, but she felt no aches. Her tongue lolled out and she wanted to drink, but she felt no thirst, either. Her heart was slow, her blood was dust, and inch by inch her body was growing numb.
Toward dawn Clovermead couldn’t keep her eyes open. I have to sleep, she told herself as she lay down underneath an overhanging boulder. I haven’t heard any roaring for hours, so I think I’ll be safe. It’s sleep now or collapse later. The moon had set long since, and even the stars were dim. She shut her eyes—
Mallow charged toward the heart of the Army of Low Branding. No! he heard Athanor cry behind him, but he didn’t care anymore. Better to die this way, he told himself. Better this than a lifetime watching them. He lowered his spear—
“No!” cried Clovermead, and she woke gasping. “Lady, I don’t want to dream of Mallow. Let me sleep in peace.” She wiped dusty tears from her cheeks. “I beg you, Lady, with all my heart.” She fell back against the twigs and closed her eyes. She felt real sleep descend on her, sweet and refreshing, and she smiled with exhausted gratitude. “Thank you, Lady,” she said, and she slipped into unconsciousness—
She dreamed that she and Waxmelt stood on the walls of Chandlefort and watched a regiment of servants in armor fight a horde of bears. “They don’t have the hang of it yet,” said Waxmelt, rather woebegone. “Look, they’re supposed to put up their shields to defend themselves, but they keep using them as trays. See? They’ve loaded them up with small sandwiches and—Dear Lady, they’re feeding them to the bears! I told them this morning, ‘Fight the bears, don’t feed the bears,’ but they don’t listen to me. Oh, dear, they’ve used the salmon sandwiches. Those were meant to be saved for the next ball.”
“It seems to be working,” said Clovermead. “The bears have stopped attacking and, goodness gracious, Father, they’ve started dancing! They’re not orthodox tactics, and I don’t suppose Sir Tourmaline would approve, but it does seem to work. You should be proud of them.”
“I commend you, Lord Wickward,” said Lady Cindertallow, who had just come down from the clouds, mounted on an enormous buzzing bee. “You will be rewarded. I dub thee Prince of Pastries; your escutcheon will be a cream-puff rampant. Clovermead, don’t forget that we’re supposed to go hunting spotted orchids after lunch. You have to watch out for orchids, they’ll rip your heart out if you’re not careful.” She waved farewell to Clovermead with her bleeding hand and flew, bee-back, off to her tower.
Clovermead shivered suddenly. The bears were dancing to the sound of a distant piper, whose music was beautiful and cold. “Spotted orchids?” she asked Waxmelt. “What are those?”
“In Timothy Vale we call them dead men’s fingers,” said her father sadly. “Clo, I wish you wouldn’t go hunting. If I’ve told Milady once, I’ve told her a thousand times, you’re too young yet to be murdered. Stay home with me in Ladyrest where it’s safe.”
“I wish I could, Father,” said Clovermead. She seized him in her arms and hugged him, but he wore cold armor that kept her away. The bears roared to the piper’s tune, the cold pipe-music blew a hail of dust at her, Ursus laughed—
And Clovermead woke to the sound of distant roars. The bears were catching up to her again. She started to her feet; the sun was barely above the horizon. I liked the sleep, Lady, she thought, but the dream at the end wasn’t so nice. Her stomach rumbled, but she didn’t feel much hunger. She started running again.
The trees thinned after a while, but the ground grew more precipitous. Clovermead stopped at a rushing stream for a drink of water, then ran faster over the rocky slopes. Here the soil was chalky, and dry gulches alternated with pure white cliffs that heaved out of the earth. When Clovermead went into a gulch, the earth seemed quiet; when she rose to the top of a ridge, she could hear bears roaring behind her.
At noon she came to the top of a granite scarp and saw the Salt Heath just beyond a last few miles of broken ground. She could see herds of cattle and horses wandering the grassy outskirts of the Heath, and beyond them the bare rock and sand of the Heath’s heart. She could run flat out once she reached the Heath—but so can they, she thought. She bounded down the slope a little faster and wondered how far Sorrel and Saraband had gotten by now. Next time, she told herself, I will arrange matters so Saraband flees through the forest and I get to ride on Brown Barley with my arms around Sorrel. Share and share alike is fair: She’s had the fun parts of adventuring long enough, and now it’s my turn.
All through the long afternoon Clovermead made her way down the slope of the hills toward the Heath. Here the trees gave way entirely, on a slope so steep and rocky that not even grass could grow on it. She skidded down among boulders and thanked Our Lady for her thick fur, which protected her skin from abrasions. It would have been safer to turn human and use her fingers to clamber down, but that would have slowed her down too much. The roaring grew ever closer.
At dusk she came to the bottom of the hills at last, and the plain stretched out before her. She ran as quickly as she could across it, and for the first time all day the roaring dwindled. After a few hours it struck Clovermead that she had heard nothing for a while. Maybe they’re asleep at last, she thought hopefully. She was terribly tired. She came to a stream, turned, and splashed upstream for a few hundred yards before turning into a muddy bank obscured by reeds. Even if they do come after me, that should obscure my scent long enough for me to get away. Then she prayed again: Give me better dreams tonight, Lady. She fell asleep—
Mallow watched as Ambrosius carved figures into a birchwood plaque. They had just fought together in the Training Grounds for a solid hour, and Ambrosius had beaten Mallow six touches to four. It had been a good bout, and Mallow didn’t much mind that he had been beaten by a commoner. Now they sat together on a bench at the edge of the sands while figures emerged at the touch of Ambrosius’ knife. “What is that, Master Beechsplitter?” Mallow asked.
“A reminder to myself,” said Ambrosius. He dug his knife deeper into the wood and etched out the features of a captured bear. “I once freed a bear’s leg from a trap when I was a boy. I don’t precisely know why—she was a monstrous creature, and I should have been terrified. But somehow I wasn’t. All I saw was that she was hurt, and I had to help her. I felt happier going home that day than I ever had in my life.” He shook his head and laughed. “My father whipped me for ten solid minutes when I told him what had happened, and he told me never to do anything so foolish again.”
Mallow laughed. “Sage advice. Did you follow it?”
“Until the day I insisted on becoming a Yellowjacket.”
“That’s an understandable folly,” said Mallow, and for a moment the two of them looked at each other almost as friends. Then Mallow remembered how Melisande had looked at Ambrosius, and he dropped his eyes. “So this plaque is vanity? You have a swelled head, Lakelander.”
“Undoubtedly, My Lord,” said Ambrosius merrily. “I try to put cold cloths on my forehead, but it will bubble up with pride.” Mallow had to laugh, and Ambrosius laughed with him. Ambrosius put the first plaque onto the bench and pulled a second one from his pocket. He showed it to Mallow: It was a rough carving of a young man who offered up his sword to Our Lady. “Seriously, My Lord? I joined the Yellowjackets because I loved the idea of fighting, and I have enjoyed myself splendidly as a cadet and trooper these last few years. But we have not fought in any actual battles yet. I used to think I would welcome a real fight, but now—” He shook his head. “I see Milady and the Mayor drift closer to war, and I find my joy diminishes as the prospect of battle comes closer. I find myself thinking back to how happy I was when I freed that bear. I felt like I was doing something in Our Lady’s service. I like to think that when I do fight, it’ll be in her service too. I’m carving these medallions to remind myself to consecrate my sword to Our Lady.”
“You wear Melisande’s livery, not Our Lady’s,” said Mallow. “You must fight when she orders you, whether or not the cause is good. If you cannot do that, perhaps you should take off your yellow coat and become a nuns’ man.”
“Perhaps I should, My Lord, but somehow I don’t wish to leave Milady’s service.” Ambrosius smiled, Mallow scowled, and Ambrosius flaked away another piece of birchwood. “Call these medallions a prayer in wood. I carve them and pray that Milady will never ask me to draw my sword in a cause which is not Our Lady’s—”
Bears roared, terribly loud. Clovermead started awake with the moon high above her, and twitched her ears. The bears were no more than a mile away and coming closer terribly fast. She was still muzzy-brained, and she stumbled in loose soil before she hit her stride. Time to run again, she thought as she dashed out onto the plain, but she wasn’t quite sure who she was as she ran. She seemed to be riding on a horse of bones somewhere else on the plain, and she felt her blood course through Mallow’s veins. It took her a minute to be sure she was Clovermead and not Mallow.
Now she could see the bears behind her. Fifty of them had spread out upon the plain. She couldn’t run any faster, and the bears were gaining on her. A little help wouldn’t hurt, Lady, thought Clovermead. The bears roared, and each growl was a message that she had no hope of escape.
Finally Clovermead could run no farther. She stopped upon the plain, heaving with exhaustion, and turned to face her pursuers. They bounded toward her, howling, and she could see Mallow’s white coils bright against the darkness. They were a cage of bones in the sky.
I’d rather die as a human, thought Clovermead. She changed shape and drew her sword from her belt. She could kill at least one bear before she died. The moonlight struck against the birchwood plaque of the boy freeing the bear.
“Shine, sword,” said Clovermead. “Keep the bears away from me.” The sword remained obstinately dark. “Isn’t there anything you can do, Lady?” asked Clovermead despairingly.
It was a white cage in the sky.
“Lady’s kirtle,” whispered Clovermead. “I’m not the one who has to get free. They are.” She lifted her father’s sword to the moonlight and she cried, “Free them, Lady. Not me, but them. In your service, Lady.”
The moon was brighter than Clovermead had ever seen it, and the worn birchwood glowed like silver fire. The bears were very near to her, but they had stopped, blinking in the glare of the light. Clovermead could no longer look at what she held in her hand. The light pressed against her eyes, into her mind, and rooted through every corner of her. How shall I free them? it seemed to ask. What shall I do?
Clovermead lifted up her sword and pointed it at the white coils. “Shatter those chains, Lady,” she cried. “Free these bears from Mallow Kite. Let them go!”
I’ll need your help, the light asked. Will you give it to me?
“So long as I have something to give, Lady,” said Clovermead. Then she gave her heart up to the light, without bargaining and without dismay, and she swung her sword wildly at the white cage of bones in the night sky.
What was left of her heart pushed out of her, and the sword flared white. Lightning blazed out along the arc in which her sword swung and pierced the white net, shattered it, and swept beyond the horizon. Clovermead heard a distant howl of rage, and the bears around her roared in sudden delight. Light came to rest on each of the bears nearby, glowed in their fur for a moment, then settled in them. For a moment Clovermead felt all their hearts beat in hers, and her chest wasn’t empty at all, but fuller than it ever had been. Then the bears’ hearts were only memories in her chest, but her own heart came back to her, as thin and dusty as before, but no weaker.
I’m free, she heard a bear roar. So am I, shouted another, and then a joyful roar rang from one to another all across the Heath as the bears abandoned their pursuit of Clovermead and turned to run, to leap, to do whatever they felt like.
Clovermead slumped onto the Heath with her sword by her side. The light faded slowly from it. She had exhausted herself. It would have been easier if I’d had all my heart to give, she thought—but there was no point worrying about might-have-beens. She sat and watched the bears enjoy their freedom, and a little joy warmed her cold weariness.
After a few minutes the bears stopped playing. One by one they came forward to sit around her. Thank you, changeling, they said, one after another. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
Brookwade stepped out in front of the others and shuffled toward her. How did you free us? he asked in wonder. I thought there was no way to break our chains.
There’s something special about this sword, said Clovermead. She touched the hilt of her father’s sword and tried to make lightning blaze again, but the metal stayed dull. I don’t know how it broke Mallow’s bonds.
Will Lord Ursus come after us again? asked another bear. Will the dead man?
I don’t know that either, said Clovermead.
You look so tired, said Brookwade. You should rest.
I will, a little, said Clovermead. But I can’t for long. I have to try to save my mother. My friends have a cure to heal her, but there’s an army between them and Milady. I have to find my friends and figure out how to get them past the bear-priests and into Chandlefort. She laughed despairingly. There’s no hope, but I have to try.
Bear-priests? asked Brookwade. He growled angrily. I would be glad to take a bite out of some of Ursus’ jackals. He grumbled thoughtfully for a moment. Do you think this sword of yours has freed our minds forever? Or just for a while?
I wish I knew, said Clovermead. If Ursus or Mallow try to enslave you, I’ll ask the sword to free you again. I don’t know if it will, but I’ll try my hardest. I give you my word for that, Brookwade, in Our Lady’s name.
That’s good enough for me, Haybrawler, said Brookwade with a grin. He turned to the other bears. Let us fight him, he roared. We owe the changeling for her service to us. Besides, I want Lord Ursus to know just how much I dislike being enslaved. I want his servants to feel it as my jaws bite down on them. He growled low and terrible.
This moonlight can’t stand up to him, said a stout bear. We can’t resist him. Leave us alone, Brookwade. At least we can enjoy ourselves until he comes for us again.
We can defeat him if we fight together, said Brookwade.
The stout bear laughed with scorn. No one can resist Lord Ursus.
We can try, said Clovermead. She clutched at her father’s sword, and she felt hopeful again. Anyway, what have you got to lose?
My life, said the stout bear. My freedom. We’ll only attract Lord Ursus’ notice if we fight him, and then his net will come down on us again. He may overlook us if we hide. No. Now that I have my freedom, I won’t throw it away. I won’t be a fool. She turned from Clovermead and Brookwade and trotted toward the Reliquaries.
I will, said Brookwade. He roared with glee. I’m tired of running away, and he’ll come for us all in the end. I’d rather die fighting than be a slave again. I’ll take the risk. He took a step forward. And I do want to bite a bear-priest, he said hopefully, hungrily. A rumble of laughter spread among the bears.
Some bears drifted toward Clovermead and Brookwade, others toward the distant mountains. They were slow to decide. At last, twenty bears sat in front of Clovermead.
Clovermead looked at the remnant around her and sighed. There aren’t nearly enough of you to do much damage to the bear-priests. Maybe you should go off to the Reliquaries with the others.
Brookwade rumbled consideringly. There are other bears who have hidden far from sight and stayed free of Ursus and Mallow. I might be able to persuade them to come to Chandlefort.
Clovermead looked up at the waning moon. Lady Cindertallow’s life was waning with it. My friends and I need to be in Chandlefort as soon as possible. We only have a few days.
That isn’t much time to search out my friends, said Brookwade. Then he looked at the other bears around him and he grinned. But then, it won’t be just me looking for them. He turned to the bears and roared loudly. Do you know where the free bears of Linstock hunt?
In the snow-bound heights of the Reliquaries, growled a cinnamon bear.
In the muddy pools of the Harrow Moors, said a black bear with one ear.
In the wastes of the Salt Heath, sighed a grandame the color of ashes. In the hungry corners of the land, where Ursus does not think a bear can live and does not look for us. I should have joined them when I had the chance.
Go search for them, said Brookwade. Tell them a few of us are going to rise up against Ursus and bite a few of his bear-priests. We may be slaves to him the next day, but we’ll have let him know the edge of our teeth first. Ask them to join us in the fun.
Where? asked the cinnamon bear. When?
Clovermead looked up at the narrow moon again and calculated what was the most time she could spare. Her mother would be dead in days. Can you meet me four days from now at the teardrop pillars west of Chandlefort?
We’ll do what we can, changeling, said the grandame. She went over to Clovermead, rubbed her nose in a friendly manner, and growled at her comfortingly. Then she went bounding away onto the plain. The cinnamon bear left a few seconds later, then the one-eared black bear. Soon all the bears were padding off in different directions.
I’ll see if I can find my sister, said Brookwade. Two years ago she was hiding among the salt pans in the South Heath. He smiled at Clovermead. There are more of us than you might think. Then he, too, slipped away.
Clovermead let go her sword and it fell to the grass. “You’re just full of surprises,” she said to it. “I should give you a name. All great warriors have swords with names.” She smiled as she remembered what Sorrel had said when he saw the sword light up. “I think I’ll call you Firefly. You aren’t a talking sword, are you? I think I’d find that unnerving. I can handle bears chatting, but cutlery should stay silent.”
Firefly lay quietly on the grass, much as swords do.
“That’s a relief,” said Clovermead. She yawned. “I’ve never been so tired in all my life! I’m sure somebody else will be chasing me tomorrow, so I’m going to get a proper night’s rest while I have the chance.”
She sprawled onto the grass, closed her eyes, and fell asleep.