The Princess and the Bear (5 page)

T
HE HOUND LOOKED
at the bear. She had never seen him so curled into himself before. All because of the reminder of the wild man.

George leaned over Marit, then put a hand to her belly.

She whispered to him.

The hound thought of her own child, forever lost to her.

It was the way of the forest, a new generation rising to replace the old. Until the cold death had come.

Turning back, the hound caught sight of a flash of anger in the eyes of the blond boy. Suddenly he threw himself at George screaming, “Let the unmagic take you!” He kicked and punched at George until the bear pulled him off.

“I have protected you,” said the prince. “Taught you. Fed you. Why would you attack me now?”

The boy spat out blood, uncowed. “You think I should be grateful?” he shouted at George. “That I should bow down to you as my prince in magic as well as kingdom?

“You do what you do for your own sake. You call us to this ‘magic school’ of yours so that you can make us your servants, harness our power to yours. You think that I cannot see through your schemes? I am not as stupid as they are.” He waved behind him at the other humans, who flinched at his words.

“Why do you think there are so few of us here? A handful. That is not a hundredth of those who have the magic in a ten-mile circle around the castle, let alone in the whole kingdom. We all know what my father knew—that you will take what you can from us and leave us to die at the stake.”

George opened his mouth as if to contradict the boy, then stopped himself. “Ah, that was your father,” he said, his face going pale. “I am sorry for what happened to him. Truly I am. I wish I could have helped him.”

Marit whispered, “No,” as if she had done some evil herself.

The hound did not understand this human guilt the two felt, which stopped them from taking action against the boy.

He should be silenced, and permanently, whatever had happened to his father. He was a threat to Prince George, and his magic and kingdom.

But no one stopped his tirade. “You could have
judged him clean. You could have admitted to your animal magic then. But you turned your back on him and then listened to him cry out for help as he died in agony. And you waited to tell the truth about yourself until it was useful for you.

“I say that if this unmagic is a threat to you, well and good. Fight it alone. As my father said when he was burned, Prince George is no prince of ours. I will not be ruled by him. Not now and not ever!” He shook a fist and looked at the others.

The woman who had been burned spoke hoarsely. “Prince—” she began, then stopped. She looked back at the boy. “What do you say?” she demanded harshly.

“I…was a child,” said George, eyes wet with tears. “I have regretted it all my life. I thought I would make up for it now.”

The woman turned away from him.

The hound bristled at the disloyalty of what she had thought of as the prince’s pack. They could fight him to show their anger. But to turn away was not houndlike at all.

Then the man with the tattoos came closer to George and the hound waited a moment too long, thinking that this was the way it should be done. A nip, a growl, and then all would be right again.

George held out a hand.

And was stabbed in the stomach with a knife that flickered out faster than the hound could follow. She
thought as George stifled a cry how unfair it was that his own had used a weapon against him that he could not defend against—and without warning!

Humans!

The bear, stunned, stumbled forward and let loose the boy, who scrambled to his feet and laughed aloud. “To war!” he called. “We will bring down his kingdom and all those who hate magic in it. We are few, but we are strong!”

The hound leaped at the tattooed man, but he was already out of her immediate range.

She would have followed, but George called out, “Stop! They are my subjects. If anyone has failed, it is I who have not done enough to save—” He clutched at his stomach and his mouth made the last word soundlessly.

The hound could smell the flow of deep blood. Marit wept at his side, tore off her own jacket, and pressed it into the wound.

“You must get home, to the palace physician,” she said urgently.

“If he doesn’t also wish me dead,” said George, a hint of a bitter smile on his lips.

“You idiot! Sometimes I could wish you dead myself,” said Marit. She looked up at the bear and the hound as she helped George back toward the castle.

“I wish you well fighting the unmagic,” she said. “But I cannot pledge any help to you now.”

The hound barked her understanding. Prince George would defend magic on another front.

The bear and the hound would have to find the wild man, to see if he could help.

She looked at the bear, thinking how difficult it must be for him to face the man who had taken his human life from him.

Nonetheless, he found a branch and scratched in the ground with it.

The hound saw that he had drawn mountains and an arrow pointing north—to the wild man.

T
HE UNMAGIC WAS
in every part of the forest. There was no way of avoiding it and its effects completely. And, in fact, the bear felt compelled to witness as much as he could of the death of his forest and its creatures. It was his last gift to them, his last farewell.

He and the hound were silent as they walked side by side through the dry section of the forest, where the unmagic was at its worst. The bear walked all the way around the area, forcing himself to get as close as he could, to measure its size. It took several hours.

The forest was shaped like a coin that had been melted on one end, and it was on this end that the unmagic was strongest, though it permeated the whole forest. As he walked the edge, the fur on the back of the bear’s neck rose and the hound whined.

The bear could see more than one mound of what had
once been an animal caught in the unmagic and unable to get out, as if pulled down into quicksand. Some of the mounds looked no more animal now than a pile of leaves, but the shape of them made the bear certain of what they were.

And then there were places where there were mounds next to mounds. Families of animals that had died together in the cold death, or perhaps one had died and then the others had died trying to save the first.

The bear had to stop then, to take a deep breath before he went on. He thought of the man he had been and the man he now was, despite the skin he wore. He gave grudging credit to the wild man for a portion of that change. He never would have suspected he could care so much for animals.

At the edge of the unmagic on one side, the bear stopped at a mound that for a moment had seemed alive. There had been movement there, he was sure. But now, when he looked again, there was nothing. He stared at it another moment, then turned away.

A sound pulled him back.

What was the mound? It was the shape and size of a deer, though the legs had been pulled into the graying ground. The outline of the head, turned too sharply to one side to be still alive, was fast fading, and the torso was long and thick.

Very thick, in fact.

Could it be two deer caught together?

Then, as he was watching, he saw the movement again, a faint beat coming through the skin at the top of the mound. The reality came clear to him in a stark moment. It had been a doe nearing her birthing time, and the fawn had been trapped inside of her. Now the unmagic that had killed the mother was burrowing deep into the tissues of her flesh to kill the babe.

The hound was suddenly at his side, whining.

It was the sound the doe herself might have made as her flesh sloughed off, knowing that she would never see her fawn’s face, nor lick it free from the fluids of birth and watch it wobble on its new legs.

With a deep breath, the bear stood tall on his hind legs. He threw himself forward so that the weight of his body would carry him into the unmagic.

It was like falling into a frozen lake, as if the ice were shattering all around him and shards of frozen unmagic were slicing into him.

But he could hear the hound howling after him.

He dragged one paw forward toward the doe, sensing the life of the fawn beneath his claws. But it was fading. It would be gone if he did not act quickly.

He poured all of his energy, all of his own life, into one movement to press his claw into the abdomen of the doe.

It was not blood that spilled out, or any fluid that he recognized. It was the gray death itself, turned into a foaming gray gas that saturated his senses and made him choke for breath.

But when it had passed, he looked down and saw a hoof, then two.

The fawn seemed to have more strength than he did now.

It climbed out of the cavity of its mother’s death and then faltered.

The hound leaped forward and tugged on the fawn’s forelegs to get it moving away from its mother, away from the cold death.

The fawn took two steps forward, almost past the worst of the unmagic.

Then the hound somehow made her way to the edge of the unmagic herself and, barking, threatening, and dragging, pulled the fawn through to where there was green showing on the forest floor.

She looked over at the bear, her eyes so fierce that he knew she would try to come for him next. He would have to move if he did not wish her to endanger herself for him.

He bared his teeth and growled at her. Not much of a growl, perhaps, but it kept her back.

Then, inch by inch, he pulled himself forward.

After that it seemed easier. He lunged past the dark gray line of the unmagic and found himself face-to-face with the fawn. It blinked at him, utterly unaware that it should be terrified and shrink away from the bear who might devour it.

He turned to the hound and thought of how often he
had wished to die and had been unable to. Now he had never wished so much to live.

The hound helped the fawn on its way. It scampered deeper into the forest, away from the unmagic. Even so young a creature had the instinct to flee that if it could. But how long would the fawn last here, without a mother to protect and feed it? How soon would the unmagic spread to the whole forest?

Well, the bear would do what he could for it and for the other forest creatures, even if it meant facing the worst, the wild man.

The urgency with which the bear moved away from the forest was now hot and pressing. Night came and went, and still he kept on pushing himself, past Kendel, past Sarrey, into the north. The hound struggled to keep up with him and he thought only that it would be better for her to stay behind. He had no wish for her to meet the wild man and pay for mistakes she had not made.

Then, one evening, he could not see her or even hear her behind him. He had his first taste of what it was like to be without her. The loneliness clawed at his throat. Still, he forced himself on and told himself she would at least be safe without him.

But she caught up with him that night as he walked under the stars of a cooling summer sky. She was covered with dried sweat and her tongue fell out of her mouth as she panted. Her eyes were red and swollen and she moved as if one paw were lame.

His first feeling was a selfish pleasure at the sight of her.

And then he felt ashamed of himself. Had he not learned to care for others, to wish for what was best for them instead of for himself?

She looked at him, head to one side, and he lifted his head, turned his back to her, and kept on going.

It seemed the only way to protect her from the wild man and from magic ruining her life once more.

But the hound followed him and he could hear her struggle with her left hind leg, injured by the bears in the spring, dragging more and more.

He felt sick himself with the pace he had set, but he knew the hound must fall back before he could take any rest.

In time she would give up. He had only to keep at it.

Yet the hound did not rest. Despite her lame leg, she kept after him. At one point, as he stopped at a stream, she came up behind him and moved past him, not bothering to drink at all.

As if to prove that she could do whatever he could. And more.

I
T HAD BEEN
seven days of ruthless pace-setting by the bear. And still the hound kept at it, following him north to the wild man, dragging her wounded leg. She did not know why the bear was angry with her.

She was too stubborn to care. She only knew she would not let him beat her.

They had just entered a rocky forest in the foothills of mountains so large that they made the hound feel dizzy at the sight of them when the bear tottered and collapsed without a sound.

The hound slowed and approached him, sniffing. He smelled nearly as much like death as had the fawn they had rescued from her mother’s womb. His fur was matted and his eyes were crusted shut.

She could see his chest moving evenly, however. He
had spent seven days without a full night’s sleep, and he had not stopped to eat more than a few berries and roots and to drink from streams. She had taken down a large rabbit twice, and a field mouse several times, but the bear was relying on the wild man’s magic to keep him going. In that sense, she supposed, it was a wonder he had lasted this long.

She was so tired. And now that she had the chance, she would not waste it with thinking. She felt all hound as she pressed her back against the bear’s, almost as if they were back in the cave, and fell into the deepest sleep of her life.

When she awoke, it was with a start. It was bright daylight.

She had fallen asleep near dusk.

She could see ants and other creatures crawling on the bear, who was still asleep. And then looked to see them on herself.

She brushed them off, then carefully plucked them from the bear. She did not want him forced to awake before he was ready. His breathing was still very deep and regular, and he felt warm enough.

But when she pulled her body away from his, he stirred, then blinked at her, and shuddered.

The bear moved stiffly and slowly at first, making his way to a nearby pool of water. It was dark-colored, crusted over with moss, and it smelled ripe. But he drank
it, and so did she. Her mouth was dry and her tongue thick after a night’s rest—and more—without drink. Especially after the week that had preceded that night.

She thought she could sleep another day and night through if she were given the chance. But when she turned to look at the bear, she did not dare try to speak of it with him, even in her wordless way. He had that faraway look in his eyes again, and then he put his head down and began to move forward.

They walked until late afternoon, when the bear seemed to stumble with every step. The hound barked at the sight of some berries.

He tottered toward them. The bush was low enough that he had to lean to one side to reach them.

When he had finished eating, he looked a little better.

That was when the hound’s eyes grazed over a rocky outcropping and saw a small pack of wild hounds, all gray except around their eyes, where their skin was white.

There were five of them, two larger than the others. Her mind instantly categorized them as lead male and lead female, but if that were so, why only three others? That was not nearly enough for a healthy pack.

Had they been attacked?

She saw no injuries on them.

She turned to look at the bear.

He saw the hounds as well. And was as curious about them as she was. Even in his current state, his eyes narrowed and took in every detail.

If there was an attack, thought the hound, it would be five against two—not good odds.

But the hounds did not attack.

They simply stared back at the bear and the hound. The largest, the lead male, even seemed to nod at the bear, as if they had met somewhere before.

The hound knew that the bear had traveled many places before he had settled in the forest near Prince George’s castle. But that would have been long ago, before this hound could have been born.

So what was this?

The lead male turned back to the others and nodded at them in a way that seemed not at all houndlike. A lead male would bark and tell the others what to do in a commanding tone. Not guide them to do what he asked in a way that was considered polite only by humans.

Humans indeed. The hound looked again at the five. Two and three. This was not a pack, not even a small one.

This was a family.

And since there were no families of hounds that she had ever heard of, she could only draw one conclusion: they were not hounds.

They wore the bodies of hounds, but that was all.

As they came closer, the hound became more certain of her suspicion.

They did not smell like hounds. They did not move or speak like hounds.

And they did not look at the hound or the bear as one animal looks at another.

Suddenly all her questions seemed answered as the animals transformed before her very eyes. The five hounds became humans, one after another.

A man and a woman, and three children: two girls and a boy, the youngest of all, perhaps five years old.

“We show ourselves to you. Then you show yourselves to us,” said the man. He had an old, puckered scar that ran the length of his face.

The bear shook his head in a clear negative.

The scarred man set his jaw and took a step forward. “How shall I know that you are not sent to destroy us unless you also show me your magic?” he said in a dark tone.

The hound made a whining sound.

The man stepped closer, and when the bear went down on all fours in a show of submission he put a hand on the bear’s shoulder. The man closed his eyes, then nodded.

“Ah, I see.”

What did he see? He certainly did not speak to the bear as he would to another animal. Nor did he look at the hound that way.

“Come, then. I am Frant and my woman is Sharla. We will welcome you with such as we have.” His gesture included the hound as well.

The hound found herself warmed by the family’s ease in the presence of animals. She would never have
suspected that she could be with humans again and not feel discomfort.

But these humans did not live in a castle and wear foolishly uncomfortable clothing. They did not seem to have ridiculous rules and lists of names and polite words to offer as they stabbed one another in the back.

It was almost like being in a pack again.

And yet she would not say that they acted like hounds would, either. No hounds would accept two strange animals into their pack, even if they were not afraid of the damage they might do.

The hound wondered if perhaps she had changed a little as well.

All of them moved together back toward the rocky outcropping.

After a few steps, the hound noticed that the boy changed back into a hound.

Then the female, Sharla, shook her head at him sternly and he took the shape of a boy once more. The boy was more comfortable in his hound form than his human one, it seemed. The girls were more obedient, but the hound suspected they felt as the boy did—that they belonged in the forest, with the animals, more than in a village with other humans.

They found a copse ahead, and there Sharla prepared a varied meal. There were roots and berries to satisfy the bear, but also plenty of meat for the hound.

The hound thought that the animal was fresh killed,
but she noticed that it was an old one, and that one of its legs was withered. A mercy killing?

It was tough, but better than nothing at all. At least the taste of the blood was fresh, and the meat was not cooked.

She noticed that one of the girls and the boy ate more of the meat than either of the parents and the other girl. And the bear, of course, ate only the roots and berries.

For her part, the hound ate meat, but not as much as she would have liked. She was used to gorging on a feast, and then going without for days on end. But such were the compromises to be made with humans.

The fire was not large, as a human might make. It was just enough to cook a few roots and then Sharla kicked it over and buried it. No fire kept for light and the feeling of protection against the strange creatures of the forest, as humans would do.

After that there were only stars above for light, and the hound noticed that there were no animals anywhere near them, as far as she could see—or smell. They kept their distance, as if they could tell that they did not belong amid this magic.

But the hound, for the first time since she had been touched by the magic that made her human, felt as if she did truly belong among others.