The Princess and the Bear - Mette Ivie Harrison [37]
Now he could see that they had never been his friends. They had told him whatever made him comfortable, even when he deserved no praise. They had never pointed out missteps or shortcomings, as Chala did, that he might better himself.
During the day, he and Chala marched on, sometimes with her in the lead, sometimes with him taking it. But not side by side, and the pace was always so fast that he did not have energy to spare for talking.
What would he talk about, anyway?
Did she want to know how he worried about his weaknesses? Did she care about the trials that lay ahead for him as king?
No, she expected him to go forward and face whatever came to him with courage and strength—two things that he had always lacked.
Except as a bear.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Chala
AFTER FIVE DAYS following Richon’s fallible sense of direction through forests and fields and over streams, they had at last come in sight of the border of Elolira, the kingdom that would become Kendel, though its borders were not quite the same and there had been many parts of the journey where Chala saw no signs of human civilization at all.
Chala also noticed that animals seemed to give themselves freely to humans here. It unnerved her to see a rabbit pause in its tracks, then turn and look at her, waiting for a moment before it went on its way.
As for Richon, she watched him one morning as he killed his own breakfast. His hand trembled as he stared into the eyes of a partridge, which had gone utterly still as he approached. No hint of ruffled feathers, no attempt to escape.
Do it quickly, thought Chala.
But it was not afraid.
It waited patiently for death at Richon’s hands.
He twisted its neck and there was a snapping sound.
Chala let out her breath.
“I hate this,” said Richon, nodding to the dead bird in his hand.
“You hate eating?” asked Chala, confused.
“No, I hate it that they die so readily. I do not deserve it.”
“You do not deserve to be alive?” asked Chala patiently. She was truly trying to follow his logic.
But he only rolled his eyes. “I don’t mean that, either. You know very well that I don’t.”
Did he think she was playing a game with him? “Then what do you mean?”
“I would rather chase them, I suppose.”
“Ah. The thrill of the hunt.” That Chala could understand. That was one thing they had in common. Humans and hounds both loved the hunt.
But then Richon confused her again, shaking his head vehemently. “No, I want no thrill from them. But when they give themselves to me, they remind me of my people. So vulnerable, expecting so much, and yet I know I must disappoint them.”
“Ah,” said Chala. He felt fear, but not as a hound experiences it, in the moment. He felt fear from the past rolling larger into the future.
“I used my own subjects so abominably,” Richon said. “Taxes ever higher, so that I could live in greater style. Laws to make them honor me. Laws to suppress their magic, simply because I had none and did not wish to be shown inferior to the rest.”
“But they called for the wild man,” said Chala. “So they were not entirely helpless.”
“There is that, I suppose,” said Richon. He gave her a twisted half smile. “But the animals have no recourse at all.”
“You do not know that,” said Chala. “If you misused them, they might call for the wild man as well. Or simply stop giving themselves to you. Spread the word among the rest. That is likely why fewer and fewer animals give themselves in Prince George’s time. They do not trust the humans to care for the well-being of the whole forest and conserve for the future.”
“And that is my fault as well,” said Richon grimly. Then he set himself to pluck the bird. He had a hunting knife in the clothing the wild man had returned to him with his form, and he cut off the head. Finally he took the carcass to the stream and washed out