Orson Card - Maps in a Mirror - The Short Fiction of Orson Scott Card

The queen had the servants—who had all stayed on, by the way—clean his wounds and bind them and tend to his wants. And because he was a strong man, he lived, though the wounds might have killed a smaller, weaker man. Even so, he never got back the use of his right hand, and had to learn to write with his left; and he limped ever after. But he often said he was lucky to be alive and wasn’t ashamed of his infirmities, though he sometimes said that something ought to be done about the robbers who run loose in the hills.

As soon as he was able, the queen had him attend court, where he listened to the ambassadors from other lands and to the cases she heard and judged.

Then at night she had him come to King Ethelred’s study, and there she asked him about the questions of that day and what he would have done differently, and he told her what he thought she did well, too. And so she learned from him as her father had learned.

One day she even said to him, “I have never asked forgiveness of any many in my life. But I ask for yours.”

“For what?” he said, surprised.

“For hating you, and thinking you served me and my father badly, and driving you from this kingdom. If we had listened to you,” she said, “none of this would have happened.”

“Oh,” he said, “all that’s past. You were young, and in love, and that’s as inevitable as fate itself.”

“I know,” she said, “and for love I’d probably do it again, but now that I’m wiser I can still ask for forgiveness for my youth.”

The Bear smiled at her. “You were forgiven before you asked. But since you ask I gladly forgive you again.”

“Is there any reward I can give you for your service so many years ago, when you left unthanked?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered. “If you could let me stay and serve you as I served your father, that would be reward enough.”

“How can that be a reward?” she asked. “I was going to ask you to do that for me. And now you ask it for yourself.”

“Let us say,” said the Bear, “that I loved your father like my brother, and you like my niece, and I long to stay with the only family that I have.”

Then the queen took the pitcher and poured him a mug of ale, and they sat by the fire and talked far into the night.

Because the queen was a widow, because despite the problems of the past the kingdom was large and rich, many suitors came asking for her hand. Some were dukes, some were earls, and some were kings or sons of kings. And she was as beautiful as ever, only in her thirties, a prize herself even if there had been no kingdom to covet.

But though she considered long and hard over some of them, and even liked several men who came, she turned them all down and sent them all away.

And she reigned alone, as queen, with the Bear to advise her.

And she also did what her husband had told her a queen should do—she raised her son to be king and her daughters to be worthy to be queens. And the Bear helped her with that, too, teaching her son to hunt, and teaching him how to see beyond men’s words into their hearts, and teaching him to love peace and serve the people.

And the boy grew up as beautiful as his father and as wise as the Bear, and the people knew he would be a great king, perhaps even greater than King Ethelred had been.

The queen grew old, and turned much of the matter of the kingdom over to her son, who was now a man. The prince married the daughter of a neighboring king. She was a good woman, and the queen saw her grandchildren growing up.

She knew perfectly well that she was old, because she was sagging and no longer beautiful as she had been in her youth—though there were many who said that she was far more lovely as an old lady than any mere girl could hope to be.

But somehow it never occurred to her that the Bear, too, was growing old. Didn’t he still stride through the garden with one of her grandchildren on each shoulder? Didn’t he still come into the study with her and her son and teach them statecraft and tell them, yes, that’s good, yes, that’s right, yes, you’ll make a great queen yet, yes, you’ll be a fine king, worthy of your grandfather’s kingdom—didn’t he?

Yet one day he didn’t get up from his bed, and a servant came to her with a whispered message, “Please come.”

She went to him and found him gray-faced and shaking in his bed.

“Thirty years ago,” he said, “I would have said it’s nothing but a fever and I would have ignored it and gone riding. But now, my lady, I know I’m going to die.”

“Nonsense,” she said, “you’ll never die,” knowing as well as he did that he was dying, and knowing that he knew that she knew it.

“I have a confession to make,” he said to her.

“I know it already,” she said.

“Do you?”

“Yes,” she said softly, “and much to my surprise, I find that I love you too. Even an old lady like me,” she said, laughing.

“Oh,” he said, “that was not my confession. I already knew that you knew I loved you. Why else would I have come back when you called?”

And then she felt a chill in the room and remembered the only time she had ever called for help.

“Yes,” he said, “you remember. How I laughed when they named me. If they only knew, I thought at the time.”

She shook her head. “How could it be?”

“I wondered myself,” he said. “But it is. I met a wise old man in the woods when I was but a lad. An orphan, too, so that there was no one to ask about me when I stayed with him. I stayed until he died five years later, and I learned all his magic.”

“There’s no magic,” she said as if by rote, and he laughed.

“If you mean brews and spells and curses, then you’re right,” he said. “But there is magic of another sort. The magic of becoming what most you are. My old man in the woods, his magic was to be an owl, and to fly by night seeing the world and coming to understand it. The owlness was in him, and the magic was letting that part of himself that was most himself come forward. And he taught me.”

The Bear had stopped shaking because his body had given up trying to overcome the illness.

“So I looked inside me and wondered who I was. And then I found it out. Your nurse found it, too. One glance and she knew I was a bear.”

“You killed my husband,” she said to him.

“No,” he said. “I fought your husband and carried him from the palace, but as he stared death in the face he discovered, too, what he was and who he was, and his real self came out.”

The Bear shook his head.

“I killed a wolf at the palace gate, and left a wolf with a broken neck behind when I went away into the hills.”

“A wolf both times,” she said. “But he was such a beautiful boy.”

“A puppy is cute enough whatever he plans to grow up to be,” said the Bear.

“And what am I?” asked the queen.

“You?” asked the Bear. “Don’t you know?”

“No,” she answered. “Am I a swan? A porcupine? These days I walk like a crippled, old biddy hen. Who am I, after all these years? What animal should I turn into by night?”

“You’re laughing,” said the Bear, “and I would laugh too, but I have to be stingy with my breath. I don’t know what animal you are, if you don’t know yourself, but I think—”

And he stopped talking and his body shook in a great heave.

“No!” cried the queen.

“All right,” said the Bear. “I’m not dead yet. I think that deep down inside you, you are a woman, and so you have been wearing your real self out in the open all your life. And you are beautiful.”

“What an old fool you are after all,” said the queen. “Why didn’t I ever marry you?”

“Your judgment was too good,” said the Bear.