The Princess and the Hound (22 page)

“W
E GO TO
meet the bear,” he said at last. “The bear?” whispered Beatrice behind him.

“Yes. The one who saved your life once. And whose life you saved when your father was hunting him. You are linked already. It is time now for you to be linked even more.”

“But how?” asked Beatrice.

“I do not know,” said George. He only knew that it would happen—or he knew nothing of his magic at all.

Beatrice did not ask more, for they were under the trees, and then the bear leaped toward them, roaring incoherently, claws showing, the signs of unhealed wounds on his shoulder and face. He oozed blood and pain. Yet he had been called here by a voice he could not resist.

Now it was the time to tell him why.

George was still thinking what to say and how to convey it when the raking claw hit his side. He was stunned. The bear had had chances to attack him before, but never had. Why now?

“Stop!”
George exclaimed, not using either human or bear language, but the pure, clear language of the magic.

The bear fell down on all fours and, moving away step by step, panted.

But before George could try anything more, Beatrice was between him and the bear. She stood as a human but snarled like a hound. And she showed no sign of any fear of what the bear could do to her.

“Stop!” George told her.

This was not what was supposed to happen. They should not be attacking each other. That was not love—or was it?

They were staring each other up and down, sniffing the air, sizing up. George was reminded of a wolf mating he had seen when he was nine years old. It was after his mother’s death, and he had had no one to explain to him what was happening. At first he had thought that the two animals were intent on death. It seemed unfair to him that the one was so much larger than the other, but the wolf bitch had fought fiercely to the end, until she was subdued. It was then that he had seen, and understood, the true purpose of the battle.

So George held his breath, and his commands, while the bear and Beatrice continued their silent battle of
wills. The bear began to move again, in a dancing circle that inched forward and then back, around Beatrice. Beatrice moved with him, her eyes never letting him go.

Marit came to George’s side and whined quietly. He bent down so his face was next to hers. “It must be this way,” he said, and hoped it was true. If this was all for naught, then what was his second choice? He had no backup plan. There was no other bear in the woods that had been a man, and he and Marit would be forced to live with her current form forever.

Somehow the horror he had felt at this before left him. Whatever her form, she was the woman he loved.

Perhaps the kingdom of Kendel could not accept Marit as queen. But he had lived for duty all his years. If Kendel demanded he choose between Marit and his place as prince—or king—he knew what he would choose. He would not disguise himself any longer to fit another’s mold.

The bear moved closer, and Beatrice howled.

What was it that had led to the mating of the two wolves he had seen before? Was it merely a matter of the strongest female and the strongest male coming together? But Beatrice had had that once, and it had given her no satisfaction. She had been a woman now and had seen what a woman looked for in a man. She might not agree with it entirely, but she had been changed.

This dance of power and love would be unlike any
other. As the bear leaped forward and tumbled Beatrice to the ground, George realized there was no way for him to know what would happen. This was not his choice. It was the bear’s and Beatrice’s, and while he could force them to do as he wished, he could not force them to love each other.

Now, when he had discovered the extent of his power, he could use it least. “Stay,” he said to Marit, and pulled on the nape of her neck.

She dug in her feet, but when the bear and Beatrice emerged from their tumble and began to touch each other, Marit moved and hid her head in George’s side.

So soon? Could this be the end?

Yet George did not breathe relief.

He sat beside Marit, let the hound put her head in his lap, and stroked her. And now and again, he looked up to see Beatrice and the bear, slowly moving closer together.

A man who had been a bear might never be a man fully again. But he would also never be an animal, content with an animal’s life. There was something human in the way the bear touched her, but without the full gentleness of human love. Perhaps Beatrice would not want that.

George got to his feet, and Marit followed him to a discreet distance from the bear and Beatrice. He did not know when he was sure that it was the right time or if it ever had anything to do with him, but suddenly there
was a difference in the air, a waving in its fabric.

A change was coming.

He reached for Marit, took hold of one of her front paws, then the other. He stared her in the face. “Ready?” he asked hoarsely. Or perhaps he only thought he made a sound with his mouth at that point.

In any case, she nodded at him. Her eyes in his eyes, her paws in his hands, her life in his power.

And it began.

The whole world seemed very far away. He could see nothing but Marit. He felt nauseated and could not stop himself from vomiting on his boots. She looked up at him in concern. Then she began to change.

There was a blur around her, and an aura of bright red that he dared not penetrate. Suddenly all was clear, and he could see her as she began the transformation.

A paw lengthened, grew fingers. Then ears retracted, the snout shortened. Fur disappeared into pale human skin.

There was a flash of blue, and George could see the hint of fabric on her body, a gown like the one Beatrice had worn that very morning. How the magic worked with clothing George did not know, but all magic was a mystery to him, so why not this one bit as well?

Marit’s eyes turned from black to blue, almost finished, and so it must be for Beatrice too, but George could not see her clearly through the magic mist. The bear stood guard next to her, like George, and not
enveloped in the mist. But George trusted the bear more than he would have trusted any man he knew to keep Beatrice safe.

And so George was free to watch the rest of Marit’s miraculous change. She seemed dazed, as if dreaming and unaware of the magnitude of this event.

Her hands were held at waist level and she did not notice how the hair disappeared from their backs, or how the fingernails, pink and new, grew in perfect moon shapes above the tips of her fingers. She did not see how her feet shrank into the delicate skin that was then covered in the black, poorly shined boots that Beatrice had worn that morning.

Eyelashes.

Wrists.

Ankles.

Toes.

George marveled in all of them.

The tip of her nose.

The curve of her hips.

The dimple in her cheek.

The length of her thigh.

The turn of her knee.

All was as it should have been. And it was perfect.

The sensation of nausea in George’s stomach turned to one of empty terror. What could this woman want with him?

“George” was the first word she spoke. She looked
at Beatrice, who was now a hound, tucked close to the bear.

The bear had not been changed, thought George dizzily. Had that not been part of the magic’s promise—that King Richon would be returned to his former shape?

Then—“George,” Marit said again. “What have you done? You’ve taken her from me forever.” And she wept.

I
T WAS TRUE
. George had not thought it through carefully enough when he began this magical transformation. Had he expected Beatrice to remain a woman? Of course not. She was a hound. But if she loved a bear who became a man once more, where could they go?

No, the magic was right to leave them like this. They must remain in the words now. Apart from Marit. Yet how wrenching that loss must be to her.

“We could come visit,” said George. Even as he said it, he could hear how human the word was and how it belittled what had been between Marit and Beatrice, a love that he could not supplant or step between.

“Visit,” echoed Marit blankly.

George had thought it would be a triumphant moment when he succeeded in finding a way to make Marit human again and to transform Beatrice as well.
Now it seemed cruel.

“What day is it?” Marit asked suddenly.

George had to think to answer. “The thirtieth day of summer,” he said.

“It has been a year, then. It was the twenty-ninth day of summer that we were changed. I remember the summer sky and the smell of cherries and peaches in the air.”

George looked back to Beatrice and the bear, King Richon who once was. They seemed more comfortable with each other now, in some ways, than George and Marit were.

So perhaps the bear was not disappointed in the magic after all. He was loved now, as he had not been in his man-form.

“We should let them alone,” said King Richon. It was more a question than a statement, but truly George did not know what to do next, and he had the feeling that the longer they stayed, the more difficult it would be for Marit to leave.

Marit flashed George a look of pure dislike. “Do you feel nothing for her anymore?” she demanded in a low voice. “She was the one you were to marry. She was the one you thought you loved.”

George felt a wave of heat cover his face and neck. “No. It was not that way. The dreams—”

Marit waved them away. “It was her words you heard, always, never mine. She was the fierce, strong one. Of course you would love her. How could you not?
How could you ever love me?”

“I—I always felt more at ease with you,” George said. “Always.” Would she believe him? It was Marit who had been the comforting one. Beatrice had been strong, it was true, but in a way that had seemed strange even at the time. Not human, somehow. Not quite in keeping with the hurt child he had seen in the dreams.

“I wish…” Marit said.

“It is as it must be,” said George.

He looked at Marit, waiting for her to slap him or spit at him. Instead, she simply sighed and turned away.

“I cannot stay here,” she muttered. Then she began to walk away from Beatrice and the bear, out of the forest, toward the castle.

George hurried to follow her. Halfway back to the castle, Marit still had not turned to look at him or speak to him. The bear and the hound had fallen together so easily. Why could it not be the same with Marit and him?

Or was that fair? Perhaps Beatrice and the bear would have their difficulties. Certainly they would in time. A bear and a hound, a difficult combination to sustain. But were Marit and he any easier?

No.

Love was a terrible, messy thing. And yet George could not go back, could not even want to go back to the man he had been. It would have been like wishing to be a shadow again, like asking the night to stay forever so that he never had to see the brilliant color of summer
green in the full light of the noon sun.

He had been starving and had never tasted food. Now he had.

“Marit,” he said, reaching for her.

She stopped and turned to him, a hint of hope on her face.

But the thought he had been holding to desperately went suddenly out of his head, and he did not know what to say.

Her face faded.

George sighed. “Wait a moment. Let us rest for a bit,” he said, his tone polite, distant, cool, as if he were speaking to an utter stranger.

Marit responded in the same way. She nodded her head slightly, then followed his lead. They sat on the ground some three feet apart from each other, each looking in a different direction.

“I—” He tried again.

“I—” she said at the same moment.

And both stopped.

“Please, speak,” said George.

But Marit bit at her lower lip. “I have been a hound too long,” she said. “I do not know how to act like a human woman anymore.”

“Well, I have no excuse like yours,” said George. “But I cannot see how living as a human for seventeen years would have prepared anyone for this. Certainly I was not prepared. How could I be?” He allowed himself
a small smile. If they could share a smile, surely that would be the beginning of the healing.

But she did not smile. She seemed to have lost her anger and turned to despair. “You were blinded. If you had known, if I had dared to tell you—”

“Perhaps you would have trusted me if I had been more worthy of your trust,” George interrupted.

“You did nothing but prove to me your worth every moment that we were together,” said Marit bitterly. “And I did nothing but continue to deceive you.”

“You and Beatrice,” said George. “It was not as if you could have spoken to me directly.”

“But I could have—no matter what Beatrice believed was right. We had the dreams together. I could have spoken to you then.”

“I do not know if that would have been enough.”

“If once you had suspected, you would have understood it shortly. You are not a stupid man,” said Marit.

Which was not as much of a compliment as George might have hoped for at this juncture.

“I do not blame you,” George said.

“I do not blame you either,” said Marit.

But that did not bring down the barrier now between them.

George was struck with a thought. “Let us begin again then,” he said, “as if we had never met before now, before this very moment. We shall forget everything, good and bad.” He moved closer to her.

“How can we forget?” she asked solemnly.

Too solemnly. That was the woman who had been made out of the broken girl. But was there any bit of that young girl left over, the determined child who would do whatever it took to get what she wanted? The girl who had seen her father’s game of kings and been determined to learn to play it? George had to reach that girl, somehow. He wanted to play with her again.

“Magic,” said George softly. If it was a lie, then it was one meant with kindness. “If you close your eyes, I will work it on you, and when you open them again, it will all be new.”

“And on yourself?”

“I will do the same magic on me. You will see,” he said.

“Your animal magic does not extend that far, I do not think,” said Marit flatly.

“Close your eyes,” George said. It was meant as a game. Did they not deserve that after all this?

At last Marit gave him a ghost of a smile and did it.

Now what? He tried to think of some ridiculous rhyme to say but gave it up. Instead, he brushed his fingers over her eyes briefly, then said, “Open.”

She stared at him.

“My name is Prince George of Kendel. I was passing through the woods today and found you here. Are you in any distress? May I help you?” He could not help how stilted his words sounded, as if he were in some
minstrel’s tale, the stereotypical knight offering his assistance to the maiden in the woods.

“You can help me stand,” said Marit. She gave him her hand.

It wasn’t working. He did not know what else to try.

He was ready to give up when Marit at last said, shyly, “I am from Sarrey. My father is King Helm. My name is…Marit.”

George bowed over her hand and kissed it. “Princess Marit, it is good to meet you. I have heard of you before, but you are not at all what I expected.”

“I hope it is a good surprise then,” said Marit.

“A wonderful surprise,” said George. “I knew you were beautiful—”

Marit blushed at this.

“But I did not know that you were also a lover of the woods and of animals, as I am. Perhaps we will find we have more in common.”

“Perhaps,” said Marit. Then she said, “I believe in magic of many kinds.”

“And so do I,” said George. “So do I.” He allowed himself the luxury of looking at her for a long while. It was not something that Beatrice would have allowed, but now he could see the differences in them. Marit blushed, for one. Beatrice had never done that. Marit spoke softly, with hesitation. Beatrice had always known what she thought, but there was strength in being unsure too.

“I think that I could love you,” said George earnestly.
And held his breath as he waited for Marit’s reaction. Would she turn away from him? Was it too much too soon? Damn.

“So soon to speak of love. Do you always tease women so?” asked Marit.

George shook his head. “It is not a tease.”

“Then it is flattery,” said Marit.

“No,” George insisted.

“But…we have just met.” She at least was playing the game.

“Yes,” said George, allowing himself to fall back into it. “We have. But it feels as if I have known you forever. It happens that way sometimes, don’t you agree?”

Too much, too much, George warned himself. But it was too late to stop now.

“Yes, I know what you mean,” said Marit, and, all shyness gone now, looked him in the eyes.

“Will you follow me back to my castle?” George asked, offering his arm.

She took it, and they went on their way.

The silence between them then was not the same as before. It was not a lack of something between them; it was an agreement. Why should they need words when they had the sights and sounds and feel of the woods to share?