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.
To calm him, she offered: “It is the way of the world. One creature dies to give another life. The fish did the same, killing others to preserve its life. So long as you do not waste.”
“I have never eaten a whole fish raw before,” Richon admitted, grimacing.
“It is not your guilt, then?” asked Chala.
“I will think of my guilt later,” said Richon. “For now, I will try to stay alive.”
Which seemed sensible to her. Perhaps more sensible than the bear had ever been.
But it was as if she now knew two different creatures, the bear and the boy king.
She would have done anything for the bear. But for the boy? She felt as if she were starting all over again with him. She told herself that she should feel the same for him, no matter his form. Just as she thought he should feel the same for her, woman or hound.
It was all so confusing.
It had been different before, when she had taken the body of the princess. Then she had never tried to make herself accept the human form. She had known it was not her own. It had only been a disguise.
But this—she had to learn to live with this. All of it.
“You do not think less of me for eating the fish?” asked Richon, turning back when he found that he had started the journey down the mountain and left her behind.
“No.”
“You are sure?”
“You did nothing wrong, of that I am sure. But I will have to get used to you as you are now.”
“And I you,” said Richon, his eyes taking in her figure in a way that Chala thought was not entirely objective. He had always looked at her with kindness and compassion, but now there was something of possessiveness in his face that she was not sure she liked.
“Your kingdom,” said Chala, trying to move his attention away from herself and back where it belonged. “It waits for you. Or do you not care about that anymore?”
Richon flushed. “I care about it. I care about nothing else.”
Not entirely the truth, but perhaps as much as he was willing to say aloud. That was the way it was with humans. They did not speak the full truth. They held it back always, so they could appear different than they were.
But Richon the human was also bright and exuberant as she had never seen the bear. It was infectious.
He still could not go long distances without a rest, but he told jokes along the way and laughed at himself more than anything.
Somewhere inside the bear there had always been this human boy, hidden. She could see him try to hide that even now, to put on that older, more sober self. Both sides annoyed her in their own way. But perhaps in time they would come together. That would be a thing to see indeed.
That would be a king who was worthy of the name.