Fool's Quest - Страница 147

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For a wonder, the boy obeyed. He moved silently and swiftly. The tree was not an easy one to climb but the boy was inspired. One safe.

“Lant. Now you go.”

“No.” His voice was deadly calm with terror. “Two swords are better than one. I’m not going to attack him, but if he comes after you, I’ll do my best.”

I shot him a sideways glance. Chade’s son. Where had this man suddenly come from? “Very well,” I conceded. The bear was struggling with something wrapped in several layers of waxed cloth. “We’re going to move back and away.”

Spark had moved the Fool slowly toward what she perceived as their only possible escape. The dense forest behind us offered them no clear place to run. She’d followed the edge of the pavilion and the old stonework, working her way around the curve until she was now nearing the stone pillar. With a sinking heart, I realized that the bear was now between them and me. I could see the panicky rise and fall of her chest as they edged closer and closer to the portal. I saw her lips move and watched the Fool tug the glove from his silvered hand. I could not hear what she said to him but I saw his tight nod. “Don’t!” I said in a low voice. “Don’t chance it. Once he’s had all the food, he will likely leave. Stand still.”

The bear lifted his head at my words. He had attempted to eat the cheese, waxed cloth and all. It had tangled in his teeth and now he pawed irritably at his mouth, trying to dislodge it with his claws. He rumbled his displeasure and then gave an abrupt snarl of pain. Sometimes old bears have bad teeth, and the cloth was wrapped around one. He gave a sudden roar of fury and Spark gasped shrilly. He turned his head sharply toward them. His eyes, small and snapping black with anger, focused on them. In terror, she dragged the Fool toward the pillar.

“No!” I shouted.

Bears walk and bears shamble. Bears also charge swiftly, swifter than a healthy man can run. He was an old bear but the Fool was blind. I could not outrun a bear. The Fool and Spark did not have a chance. The bear ignored my shout and went after them, closing the distance, roaring as he went. There was no time to think, no time to debate which was the lesser danger. “Go!” I shouted at the Fool and Spark.

The bear would have them. His maw gaped wide and then he reared back, batting wildly at the crow as she flapped her wings in his face and stabbed at him with her beak. It was the instant that Spark needed. She pushed the Fool through the pillar and turned to flee, but the Fool gripped her wrist and dragged her in after him. She went screaming, the fluttering crow fleeing with her. The charging bear slammed into cold black stone, and then fell back from it, mystified and angry. He swiped at it, the long black claws screaming against the face of the pillar. They were gone, to safety or oblivion, I could not tell. And Lant and I had one chance to live as the bear turned and chose his fresh targets.

“Trees!” I said to Lant. He needed no other word. I followed him as he plowed through the snow toward a vast evergreen. It had no low branches. I gave him a leg up and then followed. For a city boy, he climbed well. “Higher!” I shouted to him. Up we went, stocking feet digging into rough bark, fingernails bending and breaking as we climbed a stretch of trunk bereft of branches. He reached a thick branch. “Move over!” I panted and he did.

If the bear had been younger or smaller, we’d have been in grave danger. As it was, he made several attempts to follow us, digging his claws into the bark and ripping chunks of it free, then hurling himself against the trunk so that the tree shook from his onslaught. When he could not reach us, he turned his fury on our tents. Mine presented no challenge to him. He shredded and tossed it, rooted through it for food, and then roared at the fabric still tangled in his sore tooth. He moved away from it with a festoon of canvas collaring him between his massive head and the hunch of his shoulders. I looked away as he attacked the Elderling tent, unable to bear its destruction.

“What stuff is that made of?” I heard Lant marvel and dared to look down. The bear had collapsed the tent and now battled the yielding fabric, rolling in a tangle of bear, dragons, and serpents. His wrestling bared our still-burning fire-pot, our bedding, and the rest of our supplies. He slashed at the fabric but I saw no rents in it. “We’ll have nothing left!” Perseverance cried from his tree, and I shouted back, “We’ll have our lives. Stay put, boy!”

I think the bear eventually felt he had vanquished the tent. He went back to our supplies, spilling and spoiling and eating and then roaring his fury at the pain. I hated what he was doing to us, and yet felt a pang of anguish for him. His death awaited him this season, and it would not be an easy one for the old fellow.

It was when he tore open my pack and I saw Bee’s precious books fall into the snow that I gave a cry of loss and started down the trunk. Lant seized the back of my collar. “No,” he said.

“Let go!”

“Try to follow the advice you gave your stable boy. Don’t give up your life for a thing, no matter how precious.”

He was not well seated on the tree, and for one berserk moment I wanted to jerk him free and let him drop to the snow below. Instead I leaned my forehead against the rough bark and to my shame great tremors of loss and shame shook me. Lant kept his grip on me, fearing, I think, that I would simply let go and fall. I did not. I clung there while breakers of loss pounded me. I cursed the sorrow that would not let go of me, that ambushed me and unmanned me every time it woke. The books were things, not my child. The candles scattered like ivory bones across the snow were not Molly. But they were all I had left of my wife and my child.

From far away, I felt a plucking of Skill. Fitz? Are you alive?

Yes, I replied dully to Dutiful. I live. Not that I wish to, but I live.

Danger? His Skilling was thin as smoke.

I let down my walls, suddenly aware that I’d raised them against the whispering memories of the plaza and the Skill-road. The Skill is swift as thought. In a heartbeat, he knew all that had befallen us.

I can send help to you. I can … and whatever he was offering wafted away.

No. Send no one. We have to follow the Fool. I pushed the thought hard and wondered if he received it. The decision I had not known I was going to make was now obvious. As soon as the bear left, we’d salvage what we could and use the portal to go to Kelsingra. If the Fool and Spark had made it there, I was certain they would need help. If they hadn’t, at least I would know. I could not leave Lant and Per here and go alone, for they’d be without shelter or supplies now, and it was likely the bear would come back. So, we would go on. I hoped there would not be a red dragon waiting for us on the other side.

The old bear had probably not had a decent meal in days. He dismissed us as a nuisance he had routed and got on with his pillaging. Our supplies were not equal to his appetite, but he was thorough in his snouting and tearing. His attempting to eat the cheese would probably hasten the inevitable end of his life. Often he stopped to roar in pain and anger and paw at his mouth and the twist of fabric snagged on his bad tooth. We sat in the trees, trapped and shivering, until nearly noon. The large pack that Spark had carried, he exploded into a wild blossoming of skirts and scarves and petticoats. The Fool’s pack was filled with a tinker’s treasure trove of peculiar items. When he’d finally convinced himself there was nothing more to be found and eaten, he wandered off in a leisurely way that told me the pavilion was part of his regular territory. He would definitely be back.

Even after he was out of sight, we waited for a time. When we finally clambered down, we were all stiff and cold. “Per, see if you can wake either fire. Lant, let’s salvage what we can.”

My first thought was for Bee’s books and Molly’s candles. I found her old journal but not the dream book. The journal was in better condition than I had expected. It had snow on the cover, but the little tie that held it closed had worked. I shook the snow from it, careful not to melt any with the warmth of my hands. There was little left of my pack. Of my four candles, I could find only three. I dug barehanded in snow for a time, until my fingers were numb and I had to admit defeat. I knew I was lucky the bear had not eaten all of them. Doubtless he had been attracted to the flower-scented beeswax. I tore a piece of canvas that was not wet with bear saliva and wrapped my treasures. My heart cried after Bee’s other book. The bear had scattered things far and wide, and I held a tiny bit of hope that I’d still find it.

Which was worse? Bare feet or feet in wet socks in snow? Per had decided on bare feet and I marveled at his toughness. He was working over the fire. Embers from the fire-pot and the last coals from our fire combined to become flames. “Build it up large,” I told him, for if the old bear came back, flaming branches might be our best weapon.

Lant and I worked quickly. We shook out the bright fabric of the Elderling tent, and I was astonished to find it intact. Not all of the supports had survived, but we salvaged what we could. We left our swords thrust upright in the earth beside the fire yet we all knew how puny they would be against a bear’s attack. We spread the tent out near the fire and began to gather anything useful that remained to us. Pots and cups, clothing, coin-pouches, and knives. As soon as we found our boots and dry socks, we had them on, then our cloaks and gloves.

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