Ratha’s Challenge (The Fourth Book of The Named) (24 page)

Who is the Dreambiter, Ratha?

Mine and hers, yet it doesn’t belong to either of us alone. Thakur said that it would take both of us to put it to rest.

He didn’t say that both of us might have to die.

“Thistle,” Ratha said softly, then nudged her daughter very gently, for fear of startling her.

The eyes turned to her. They were all swirling sea-green, like the ocean’s clashing waves. The pupils had shrunk to the size of a claw point, swallowed by the wild storm within.

A spasm seized the once-crippled foreleg, jerking it, threatening to break the fragile clawhold of the foot. Ratha slapped her paw on top of Thistle’s, drove her own, longer claws into the crumbling rock. She pushed hard, flattening Thistle’s foot and keeping it there despite the continuing spasms in the leg.

“Bites,” Thistle gasped. “Keeps biting. Won’t stop. Wants . . . wants to kill.”

The words tore into Ratha, making a wound in which pain welled up. But something else rose as well. A realization.
Yes. The Dreambiter does want to kill. And I know why. When I attacked Thistle, out of rage and frustration and fear, I wanted to kill.

Now she knew.
That is why the Dreambiter is so powerful.

Thistle was speaking again in a quavering voice. “Two Dreambiters. One inside. One outside.”

Again the word hurt. More than Ratha could bear, and again she wanted to flee. Not back up the cliff to safety, but deep into the refuge of denial.

That wasn’t me who bit you. That was something else. Someone else. That wasn’t me, Thistle. It was an evil thing that came from outside, that wore my skin, looked through my eyes.

And because it wasn’t me, it became the Dreambiter.

I said then that you made it. Even now I want to believe that you made it.

Two Dreambiters?

No, Thistle. There is only one. I am the Dreambiter, the Dreamkiller. But I am also the Dreamsaver, the Dreamcarer. The same passion that drove me close to killing you has now driven me here, down onto this cliff. To either save you or die with you.

* * *

She is here. The one who gave me birth, who nearly gave me death. She is here.

Shadow teeth drive into chest and leg. Shadow teeth, but real pain, real wounds. The leg shrinks, crippled. Or it tries to, but something holds the paw from pulling back.

Teeth take hold of the scruff. Real teeth. Brace for more pain, Thistle. The real teeth are the ones that cast the shadows.

But . . . no pain. Not a bite. A hold. A mouth that held a very small cub.

She held me that way. I remember. She carried me that way. In that mouth, in those teeth that did not bite, there was gentleness, there was caring. When she carried me, I was safe. Nothing could harm me. All my legs were strong. All things were good and promising.

The Dreambiter drove it all away.

But now she has brought it back.

I remember. I remember. I felt it then. I feel it again now. In the gentleness of the jaws that hold my scruff. In the strength of the paw that holds my leg from drawing back. In the voice that says she will stay with me now, no matter what happens.

The pain in my leg has changed. It is not less than it used to be. It is worse, because my legs can’t pull back. Bad enough so that I could scream. But it no longer has the bleakness and coldness that made me so helpless. It is a hot, wild pain, but one I can fight.

She is with me. All of her. In a way I have always wanted.

Leader of the Named. Tamer of the Red Tongue. Fighter for the clan.

Wounder and wounded. Singer and sung-to. Dreambiter and Dreambitten.

Ratha. My mother.

* * *

The fit that seized Thistle was bad enough, but Ratha, her jaws fastened in her daughter’s scruff, dreaded even more what would happen when the attack ended. When the illness released its hold, Thistle would collapse into unconsciousness.

Ratha felt the driving beat of her heart in her breast where her fur met Thistle’s. If she lets go, I won’t be able to hold her. We’ll both go down. I won’t give up my hold. Not now.

She pressed against Thistle’s foot more firmly than ever, making sure that her daughter kept at least one set of claws anchored. At any instant, she feared, the rigid, jerking body would either throw both of them from their precarious hold on the cliff face, or she would feel the sudden sag of Thistle’s limbs as she toppled loose from the grip of the fit.

To her astonishment, neither happened. As she was bracing to somehow take Thistle’s full weight, she realized that she no longer had to struggle to keep Thistle’s foreleg extended or her pad pressed against the rock. The jerking spasms had died away. Thistle was holding on again, by herself.

“Am all right now,” said the quiet little voice.

The wave of relief that washed over Ratha made her own limbs weak, and she had to pay attention to keep her own clawhold on the rocks.

It was not until she felt Thistle moving that she remembered that she still was holding her by the scruff. Thankfully she released her grip and opened her jaws, which were now starting to ache.

She watched as Thistle, her agility regained, turned herself around to head back up the cliff face. As Thistle brushed her, she felt a grateful nudge and heard her daughter’s voice saying softly, “Good-bye, Dreambiter. Welcome, Ratha-mother. Climb up carefully with me. True-of-voice needs both of us.”

Ratha had a few bad moments while turning around, but by following Thistle’s claw marks, she managed to get herself facing up the cliff. Her heart was still slamming inside her ribs, so hard that she thought it might shake her off, but the beat of dread and anger had been replaced by one of joy.

First Thistle and then Ratha reached the narrow, sloping ledge that led back to the top. Ratha saw Thakur reach down with a helping paw, first for Thistle and then herself.

Only when both were back on firm and stable ground did Ratha begin to feel her legs shake so hard that she sank down on her belly.

“You stay, Ratha-mother,” Thistle said, pushing her firmly with a paw when she tried to overcome the shakiness and get up. Biaree, who had scrambled up onto Thistle’s back, added a few treeling admonitions.

“My fur hasn’t started to go gray yet, Thistle,” Ratha protested, but she was grateful for the chance to take a brief rest.

“Both of you rest,” said Thakur, butting Thistle gently off her feet so that she rolled over beside her mother. Biaree chittered, scolding Thakur.

“But True-of-voice—” Ratha tried.

“Is being taken care of. While you were down getting the vines tied onto him, Quiet Hunter was persuading his people to help us. A task that in some ways,” Thakur added, “was as difficult as what you had to do.”

Ratha saw her daughter’s head turn sharply toward Quiet Hunter. The young male was well named. He was gentle and quiet in everything he said and did, but underlying the gentleness was a strong determination.

He had lined the hunters up near the cliff edge. Ratha saw that they were ready to take the heavy vine ropes in their mouths and lift True-of-voice off the ledge. Bira and Khushi were also working with Quiet Hunter. They were getting the rope holders arranged in relays so that the vine ropes could be carefully passed from one set of jaws to the next.

In some ways Quiet Hunter is the real leader of this group,
Ratha thought.
True-of-voice may have the gift of the song, but Quiet Hunter has a way of inspiring trust.

When her shakiness retreated enough so that she could creep back to the cliff edge and peer over, she saw that the rescue was already underway.

One problem immediately became apparent. The cliff edge was not an overhang that would have allowed the rescuers to raise True-of-voice by just pulling up on freely dangling ropes. There was a backward slant to the rock face, and the edge itself had been worn and broken. The ropes could not be allowed to rub against the rocks as they passed over the edge, or the vines would fray and tear.

Thakur and Quiet Hunter solved the difficulty, with more cooperation from the hunters themselves. By lying on their backs, pushing the vine ropes up off the ground with their paws, they protected the lines against damage and allowed them to slide slowly but freely. Several of True-of-voice’s people even draped themselves over the edge, their companions hanging onto their forepaws, in order to use their powerful hind legs to cantilever the lines away from the cliff.

Soon True-of-voice was suspended by the vines that had been tied by treeling hands.

Ratha felt Thistle come alongside her, with Biaree still onboard.

“Treeling tied good knots,” Thistle said, giving her companion an affectionate nudge. “Nothing slipped.” She paused, then yowled at Thakur, who was helping Quiet Hunter. “Tell those fur-brained furballs not to bite down so hard. Will break the ropes!”

Ratha grinned to herself. Talk about leadership. She had a good idea who would probably be leading the clan when her fur did go gray and her muzzle turned white.
Thistle’s even bossier than I am.

Slowly, carefully, True-of-voice was lifted, then lowered past the ledge where he’d been trapped. The teams of rope holders kept the lines securely anchored, yet allowed them to slip.

“Easier if we had treeling paws,” Thistle said, watching. “But using teeth works too. Wouldn’t want to be where True-of-voice is now, though. Had enough of hanging off rocks.”

Ratha narrowed her eyes, wondering if True-of-voice was alert enough to be aware of what was going on. She thought she had seen his eyes flutter open briefly. But he was either aware enough or unconscious enough not to struggle.

Just don’t die before we get you to the bottom. And don’t die then either.

As the vine-roped form descended, the hunters who had been moping at the foot of the cliff gathered and waited, their heads lifted, their eyes filled with wonder and hope.

And then came the moment when the ropes went slack because their burden had reached the ground. A weary team of rescuers, Named and hunters alike, turned to one another with relieved expressions. Below, at the foot of the cliff, the ones who had been keeping vigil now crowded in around their leader.

Thakur came to Ratha with Quiet Hunter. They crouched beside Ratha as Thakur said, “I’m going down there with him. Have you recovered enough to go with us?”

In answer, Ratha sprang to her feet. “We’d better hurry before they kill him with happiness. Thistle, you come, too. But watch your treeling.”

She saw a look of pleased surprise come over her daughter’s face.

Yes, I’m going to treat you as an equal now, so get used to it.

* * *

Once all the tumultuous greetings had died down, the hunters stood aside so that the Named and their healer could get to True-of-voice. At the bottom of the cliff,Ratha watched, wondering if all the effort had been for nothing or whether True-of-voice would survive.

Thakur worked devotedly over the hunting clan’s leader while others of the Named ran back and forth, gathering the herbs he asked for.

“He’s pretty battered, Ratha,” Thakur said when he paused briefly in his efforts, “but there are no severe wounds. What nearly killed him was lack of water.”

He spent the rest of the day and most of the night tending True-of-voice, while both the Named and the hunters kept a quiet but hopeful vigil.

Their patience was rewarded when a weary Thakur at last came to Ratha and said that True-of-voice would take several days to recover his strength, but he was out of danger. When Ratha had Quiet Hunter announce it to his people, there were yowls of joy.

Her gaze went to Thistle and Quiet Hunter, standing on each side of Thakur and helping to keep the herding teacher from falling over out of sheer exhaustion.

The two did not join in the outburst of celebration, but Ratha could tell by the looks they exchanged that they were the happiest of all.

* * *

Thistle is not the only one who can cross over between the two peoples. Quiet Hunter, who can swim in the bright and bubbling flow of the song, can also walk the trails of the Named.

The gift the Named have given to the hunters is the words that they have taught.

Understanding. Acceptance. Wisdom.

In both clans.

The song is heard.

* * *

There had never been such a meeting between the Named and outsiders before, Ratha thought. The same was true for the hunters, or so True-of-voice said. Ratha had received the information through Thistle and Quiet Hunter. She had not yet spoken directly to True-of-voice at any length, although she had exchanged brief words with him while he lay under Thakur’s care.

The meeting took place on the open grassy plain. Each of the two tribes sat in a semicircle around its leader. Both leaders had someone special at their sides. Beside Ratha sat Thistle, her eyes clear, her ears up, and a treeling perched on her shoulder. Across from Ratha was True-of-voice, the massive gray male who was more than just a leader to those who clustered about him. Beside True-of-voice sat Quiet Hunter.