Clovermead didn’t stop to rest until long after midnight. She flopped down on the lava and slept in bear-form. The fur on her body kept her warm in the icy desert night. She was exhausted, and she didn’t wake until midmorning. When she finally rose, her ankle ached so much that she could barely walk over the cracked surface of the Black Plain. After noon, however, her pain began to fade, and she picked up speed. Here the Fustic Hills hooked west into the Black Plain, and Clovermead climbed halfway up their slopes on a narrow track she found in the dirt. The Fustics smelled of sulfur, and from time to time foul-smelling vents of smoke erupted from cracks in the ground. Still, there was greenery up here, and even a few thin pine trees on the crest of the hill. In a mountain meadow where snow still lingered in the shady hollows, Clovermead stopped to drink water from a stream and nibble grass. As she ate, she wandered up to the crest of the Fustics. She peered over the edge—
Lord Ursus’ army stood before her. Innumerable bear-priests marched northward, in a line that stretched from the southern horizon to the northern one. Directly in front of Clovermead they had set up a small city filled with tents, food, and barrels of water. Slaves scurried to bring food and drink to the marching soldiers as they passed by. Ten miles to the north, Clovermead saw more slaves had set up another commissary. The bear-priest vanguard was already well beyond it.
They’ll have Chandlefort besieged in days, Clovermead thought as she lurched back down the grassy slope. Hurry up!
What will I do if I beat the bear-priests to the city? she asked herself as she quickened her pace. Twiddle my thumbs, hope that Sorrel finds Lacebark quickly, and pray that he doesn’t get killed? Pray again that a bear-priest doesn’t ambush him? She growled unhappily. Never mind. Get to Chandlefort first; worry later.
That night Clovermead reached the spring by the quarry of Rosemount. The mountain peak glowed a marvelous pink in the sunset, but its whole lower half had been scooped out: All that was left was a dirty pool in the old quarry, splinters of ruddy stone on the ground, and the crumbling remnants of the miners’ huts. Clovermead smelled bears up in caves above the quarry.
Poor Saraband, Clovermead thought as she curled up for the evening by the spring. She wondered if Lacebark would turn rogue again, and now he has, and I don’t think she’s ever going to see him again. He won’t stop running this side of Selcouth. She growled under her breath. He’d better run. I can forgive him for taking my purse, but not for stealing the caul. If I catch him—She clawed at the ground.
Then Clovermead sighed. Why did you do it, Lacebark? Maybe I was a fool, but I thought better of you.
The next day Clovermead’s ankle was nearly healed, and she ran more quickly along the Fustics. The Fustics curved eastward again, and Clovermead descended from their slopes back onto the black lava of the Plain. The day after, as the Fustics began to dwindle, she swerved far to the west, away from the Charbon Pike. She left the Black Plain that afternoon, and the dull Heath replaced the sheer lava. When the Fustic Hills finally disappeared, the bear-priests marching north on the Pike were tiny smudges on the horizon.
I don’t think they can make me out, thought Clovermead. Even if they did, I don’t think they could catch up with me. Still, she kept at a fast clip through the Heath.
Clovermead spent that night beneath two enormous boulders that did indeed look like cream-colored eggs, balanced precariously on the rubble of the Heath. Before she left in the morning, she drank deeply from the mud hole between them.
Clovermead ran through the stone, the rubble, and the weeds of the Heath. By the afternoon of the fifth day the green fields of Chandlefort had come into view. Clovermead saw the Cindertallow flag of the burning bee with sword upraised flapping in the breeze over a nearby meadow, and she yipped with joy. I’ve made it in time. She turned toward the meadow.
As she left the Heath, Clovermead glanced behind her. In the distance she could see the bear-priest vanguard. The dust rose from their feet and hovered in the desert air.
Servants, Tansyards, mercenaries from Low Branding, and militiamen from the Lakelands had all made their camp in the meadow. Some soldiers rested around campfires, others tended their horses, and a few scouts rode into the Heath to watch the oncoming bear-priests. A servant ran his finger along the edge of his sword as the word spread among the army that the bear-priests had come at last.
Clovermead turned human and jogged through the camp. She found Waxmelt huddled with half a dozen Horde Chiefs and Chandlefort lords, and a general from Low Branding. “We retreat to Marten Lake,” he said as Clovermead came within earshot. “The Tansyards will cover our rear guard with a cavalry screen. Esteemed Horde Chiefs, please be prepared to turn and attack if the bear-priests leave their flanks exposed. General Turbot, make sure the commissary wagons are well protected. My lords, hoard our men’s lives. If Chandlefort falls, we are the last defense of Linstock.” His eyes widened as he saw Clovermead, and he broke away from the commanders around him. “Clo!” He hugged her quickly, and then took a step back. “What a time for you to come! We’re leaving for the Lakelands within the hour.”
“Just my luck. I’ve been living on second-rate grass these last few days, and I was hoping for a hot dinner.” Clovermead smiled wryly. “I suppose I’ll see if I can scare up something in Chandlefort.”
Waxmelt lowered his voice. “So you did get the caul?”
Clovermead shook her head, and she told her father what had happened. “And I said I’d meet Sorrel inside the city,” she finished.
“I wish you hadn’t,” said Waxmelt. He looked very old. “Clo, we should trade jobs. You’re the one who’s supposed to order these soldiers around, not me. You stay here as general, and I’ll go back to the city.”
“I don’t want to live without Sorrel,” said Clovermead. She laughed unsteadily. “So strange. People say that all the time in the storybooks, but I never quite knew what they meant. It’s true. When I think of him dead, I feel all empty inside. Gray and hollow. I don’t—I can’t face that. Do you know what I mean?”
“Of course,” said Waxmelt. His eyes greedily drank in the sight of his daughter. “I’ve known it for eighteen years. Ever since that day I held you in your silk swaddling clothes and first took a proper look at you.” He smiled a little. “When we lived in Timothy Vale, I dreamed that you would marry some good-hearted Valeman. I thought I’d see you running Ladyrest Inn as I grew old, and you’d let me sit back in a rocking chair in the dining room and spoil your children rotten. Sometimes I had bad dreams—of soldiers, of bear-priests—but in those dreams I always tried to step between you and danger.”
“I always knew you would,” said Clovermead. She laughed. “Do you know, I think the first memory I have is of clambering out of my crib to go look for you? I crawled down the stairs to the kitchen, and I watched as you made soup in a cauldron. You smiled as you stirred the broth. Then you saw me standing in the doorway, where any guest at the inn could have run into me without noticing, and you dropped your ladle into the cauldron and ran to pick me up. I remember I thought the ladle was a toy, and I was sad you’d lost it. I wanted to say so, but I hardly knew how to say more than ‘no’ and ‘belly button.’”
“You do keep wandering into harm’s way,” said Waxmelt. “Lady knows I’ve tried to rid you of that habit, but you’re incorrigible.” He tried to smile again, but he couldn’t. “In my worst nightmares, I couldn’t save you in time. When I couldn’t, I woke up screaming.” His face was gray. “Please, Clo. I don’t want you to die before me. Let me take your place.”
Clovermead tried to speak, but she had no words. She took her father into her arms, and she hugged him as tight as she could. His old, lined cheek pressed against hers, and Waxmelt shook in her embrace.
Clovermead let him go at last. “What would the servants do without you?” she asked gently.
“I don’t care,” said Waxmelt. “Let them die. Let the world fall into ruin. Who have I ever loved but you?”
“You know you love them, too, Father,” said Clovermead. She wiped her eyes dry. “You can’t help it. We all end up loving more than one person. I love you, and I love Mother, and I love Sorrel, too. And Mother loves Chandlefort, and she still loves Ambrosius, and there’s a thousand servants out there you’ve spent the last six years training to be proper fighting men, and all their families, and I think you’ve given them a little bit of your heart. They’re worth living for.” She looked around her. “Besides, I was right—you’re a better general than I’ll ever be. Look at all that shining armor! Don’t you see how crisply everyone marches? And no one’s bumping into anyone else. I’m not a bad fighter, but I couldn’t have gotten this motley into half as good a shape.”
“I could have done worse,” said Waxmelt, with a glimmer of pride. “I’ve gotten some skill at giving orders, after all these years of getting lunkhead stable boys to stand in straight lines. And by Our Lady, I’m proud of my boys! They’ve turned into proper soldiers!”
“They still need you,” said Clovermead.
“And you don’t?” Waxmelt shivered. “I’m afraid to leave you on your own.”
The lance head came toward me, thought Clovermead. Father leaped and he pushed me out of harm’s way.
“I’ll have to take my chances, Father,” said Clovermead.
“Lord Wickward!” someone shouted. A black-haired courier boy came toward them at a dead run. “Lord Wickward, there’s bear-priests riding toward the fields!”
“I have to go,” said Waxmelt. He gripped Clovermead’s hand in his. “Last chance to trade places, Clo.”
Last chance to escape, thought Clovermead. Last chance to hope I can be clever and outwit Ursus somehow. Last chance to let Sorrel come to Chandlefort and find me gone. Last chance to live. She shivered. I don’t think that’s what you want me to do, Lady. I ran toward Snuff’s sword. That’s the only way out.
“I’m a Cindertallow of Chandlefort,” Clovermead said as lightly as she could. “I have a reputation for boneheadedness to live up to.”
“Twenty-first Lady Cindertallow,” said Waxmelt bitterly. “Most boneheaded of them all.” He took a ragged breath. “Oh, Lady, I love you so,” he whispered. Then he turned abruptly to the courier. “Which way are the bear-priests coming from?” he asked.
“Good-bye, Father,” said Clovermead as he strode away from her. She wanted to sob, to howl, to roar with grief. “Good-bye,” she said again as he disappeared from sight. She turned away from him, and her stomach was tight-clenched and aching. She turned back to bear-shape, and she raced toward Chandlefort.
The half-sown fields had turned dry from lack of water, though the deep-rooted vines and olive trees were still green. The irrigation ditches held only the last remnants of water in their muddy bottoms. The fields were empty of animals: The cows, sheep, and chickens had been driven to within the city walls. There would be little food for the besieging bear-priests.
Clovermead stopped on a little hill and looked back through the new green buds of an apple orchard as Waxmelt’s army began to march. There were Tansyards out front, to make sure the bear-priests kept their distance, and a rainbow of different uniforms followed them. The servants held pride of place in the center of the line, and they flew a new regimental flag: It was the Cindertallow burning bee, but it brandished a serving platter, not a sword. Clovermead smiled to see it wave so jauntily in the wind. Bravo, Father! she thought. There’s a flag to fight for.
A detachment of bear-priest cavalry raced toward the fields. Behind them, Ursus’ army stretched for miles across the Heath.
Don’t lollygag, Father, thought Clovermead. They’ll catch up with you. She chuffed laughter. And don’t you be a slowpoke either, Clovermead! Less watching; more running. She turned and sped from the orchard. Now she could see the walls of Chandlefort ahead of her.
It was late afternoon when Clovermead finally came to the town gates—and Yellowjackets had begun to draw shut the great doors. Clovermead roared, and the soldiers at the winch stopped their labors until she had run through the gates and into the town. When she was through, the doors slammed shut behind her, with a crash of iron.
Chandlefort had a ghostly, abandoned air. There was no smoke in the chimneys, no chatter on the streets, not even the stink of people in close quarters. There were only Yellowjackets working feverishly to make the town ready for a long siege—soldiers on the walls, soldiers stockpiling barrels of pitch, soldiers building barricades in every street.
Clovermead went looking for her mother. She found her in the back courtyard of the Castle, in charge of a score of Yellowjackets who were dragging an oak beam toward the town gates. Lady Cindertallow wore steel armor, embossed with a golden burning bee, and a tunic and leggings of stout leather.
“Heave!” cried her mother. “Heave again! I want that beam to brace the gates by nightfall. Heave!” The Yellowjackets grunted, and then Lady Cindertallow saw Clovermead.
“What are you doing here?” Lady Cindertallow strode up to Clovermead. Her face was white. “I told you not to come back.”
“Waiting for Sorrel,” said Clovermead. “He’ll be here with Ursus’ caul soon enough. And when he is, we’ll figure out how to fulfill that prophecy.”
“Why would you arrange to meet Sorrel here?” Lady Cindertallow’s hands clenched. “Never mind. I don’t want to know what idiocy got into your mind. Get out of here now.”
“It’s too late, Mother,” said Clovermead. “The bear-priests already have Chandlefort surrounded. The gates are closed.”
“Silly fool,” Lady Cindertallow spat. “Lady, I could slap you. Lady—” Her eyes looked up to the sky. “Why did you let her come back?” With an effort she collected herself. “I’m busy now,” she said. “Make yourself useful. We can talk tonight.” She turned her back on Clovermead and strode back to the Yellowjackets.
Nice to see you, too, Mother, thought Clovermead. She sighed. No reason she should be happy. Am I a silly fool? She smiled crookedly. Probably. No help for it now.
Clovermead found a squad of Yellowjackets pulling a cart laden with sacks of arrows. “Let me help,” said Clovermead. She turned into a bear and put herself in front of the wagon. The soldiers put the cart’s yoke over her shoulders, and Clovermead pulled the cart down to the walls for them. The Yellowjackets unloaded the barrels as quickly as they could, while Clovermead dragged the empty cart back to the Castle. She made three trips before evening, dragging more sacks of arrows, casks of water, and a cart full of cobblestones.
“What are those for?” she asked as she freed herself from the yoke at the end of the last trip. The sun had fallen beneath the town walls, and it was growing chill.
“To throw down at the bear-priests,” said a sergeant. “To scatter in front of their horses’ hooves, if they get through the wall. To hide behind. Useful things, cobblestones. You can never have enough of them.”
“I’ll remember that,” said Clovermead, and then she groaned, massaged her shoulders, and sat down on a sidewalk for a few minutes. When she had gotten back some energy, she went up to the parapet to look outside the walls.
Lord Ursus’ army spread all around Chandlefort. An enormous noose of men, bears, carts, and machines of war eddied around the walls. Already a thin line of bear-priests surrounded the town, and grew thicker by the minute. More and more came tramping through the fields. In the deepening dusk Clovermead saw ten thousand bobbing torches.
Lady Cindertallow stood a little way to the left of Clovermead on the parapet and gazed out at Ursus’ army. Clovermead walked to her side. Lady Cindertallow glanced at her a moment, but said nothing. Her eyes turned back to the torches in the darkness. Clovermead looked to either side. Yellowjackets lined the walls, but they were terribly few compared with the multitude below.
“I ask myself what I did wrong,” said Lady Cindertallow. Her voice was a sigh in the night. “What mistake did I make? What could I have done differently?” She was silent for a moment. “I know I should have avoided war with Low Branding. The Mayor was hateful, but Ursus is worse. If we’d kept our peace, we’d both have more soldiers to fight Lord Ursus now. Perhaps I should have sent soldiers south to aid Queensmart when Ursus attacked it. But I look at these bear-priests, and I wonder if anything I could have done would have made a difference. I think I could have delayed this moment, but I don’t think I could have prevented it.”
“I don’t think so either, Mother,” said Clovermead. “It’s not your fault.”
“No. What could I do against such overwhelming numbers? We never had a chance.” Lady Cindertallow turned from the walls. “I suppose they won’t attack tonight.”
Lady Cindertallow made herself look straight at her daughter. “Why did you come back?”
“I blame Sorrel,” said Clovermead. “If he had a better memory, I’d be sitting in the western hay field right now.” She sighed. “I was in a rush, I’m a silly fool, and maybe I do need to be here. Mother, I’m sorry, but here I am, and that can’t be changed.”
“True enough,” said Lady Cindertallow. She groaned—then smiled a little at her daughter. “I dearly wish you were in that hay field, but I’m awfully glad to have your company. I’ve missed you terribly. Come with me for dinner, and tell me what you’ve been doing since last I saw you.”