Ratha and Thistle-Chaser (The Third Book of the Named)

by Clare Bell

  Ratha saw doubt flicker at the edge of her eyes like a snake’s tongue and seized it.

  “Fessran, this is a blind trail you run, an empty husk, a dried bone. Next birthing season, you will have your own cubs. Save your love for them.” Ratha paused. “I promise I will not kill this cub. I will take him to the same place as I took the others. At least one of those survived. Perhaps he will too.”

  “But I will never know him,” Fessran said in a dried-up, desperate voice. “Don’t you understand that? I will never know him.”

  “There is nothing there to know,” Ratha said in a low voice that started to turn into a growl.

  “How can you be so sure?” Fessran cried. “You’re not, are you? You are afraid. Afraid of something I don’t understand. You are more frightened by this than you were of Shongshar. What is it, then, that stalks you, and makes you turn and strike out, even if the one before you is only a litterling?”

  Fessran’s words struck deep, as if into the heart of a flame, and the sparks they threw coalesced into Thistle-chaser’s face. Ratha shuddered, squeezed her eyes shut, and thrust the memory aside. No, she could not face that, not even now.

  “All right. I’ll tell you what I fear. You know that there is something in our kind that sets us apart from the others around us. There are very few of us and many of the Un-Named. Why we have come to be, I don’t know. Why we have the gift that lights our eyes, I don’t know either.”

  “We are more clever than the Un-Named,” Fessran grumbled. “Is that such a big difference?”

  “No, it is not just cleverness. It is something else that we don’t have a word for. It is what makes us Named and the others not.” Ratha drew a breath. “And what frightens me is I know we can lose this gift. When I was exiled from the clan after I brought the Red Tongue before Meoran, I walked trails with the Un-Named. Some were as clever as we, others no better than herdbeasts, but many stood somewhere between. It was they who frightened me most of all, for what I saw in their eyes was that gift fading away....”

  But it was what I saw in Thistle-chaser’s that tore me most of all.

  Fessran looked away. “So those who do not have this gift taint us if they come near?” She snorted. “Sometimes I wonder if we aren’t the ones who are tainted. What has this gift you speak of really brought us? The sharper the fang, the deeper wound it can give and the worse pain.” She looked down at Mishanti. “The Un-Named do not have to judge their own and cast them aside. And when the judgment comes from fear, clan leader?”

  “Then blame me and leave the marks of blame on my coat. But I have to do what is right for our people,” Ratha said. “The cub must be taken from clan territory so that he does not mate with females of the Named. And he must go now, so that the pain of his going is less.”

  Fessran lowered her chin over the cub and raised her hackles. “Mishanti is mine.”

  “I won’t fight you, Fessran,” Ratha said quietly. “You may deny the power of Shongshar’s teeth, but the wound they gave you will tell.”

  Pain whipped the Firekeeper’s face into a mask of slitted eyes and bared teeth. The eyes were wild with the knowledge that Ratha’s words were bitterly true; that if it came to a fight, Fessran would lose.

  “Give him to me. Now.”

  Suddenly the eyes were gone from in front of her, and Fessran became a sand-colored streak that blurred the ground near the fire. The Red Tongue spit sparks as Fessran dug a torch into its heart and lifted the flame aloft. Her jaw trembled so that her teeth shuddered against the torch shaft, but she swung the flame around so that it blocked Ratha from Mishanti.

  The shock of seeing the Red Tongue raised against her in Fessran’s jaws seemed to wrench the ground from beneath Ratha’s feet. She staggered, squeezed her eyes shut. She opened them again to find the one who had been her friend standing before her with a flaming torch.

  “Will you burn me with my own creature?” she hissed. “Maybe you would be right to do so. The two gifts of the Named burn too brightly and leave only ashes.”

  A wordless, agonized howl broke from the Firekeeper. The firebrand swung, but it went past Ratha and soared free back into the fire-nest. Fessran faced Ratha, her sides heaving. “Take him then, because I can’t kill you. Because my cursed memory still lets me see the times when you and I ran the trails together, carrying the Red Tongue in our jaws.” She took a shuddering breath. “But before you go, you should know something else: You drove your own daughter away for the same reason you are tearing Mishanti from me.”

  Ratha felt a shock go through her body, almost paralyzing her. “How do you know this? I never told anyone. You’re good at lying, Firekeeper. I almost believed you.”

  “Thakur told me some of the truth, and the rest I found myself,” Fessran said. “She has nightmares about you, falls into fits when she catches your smell. She calls you the Dreambiter and would kill you if she could. Newt is yours, Ratha. Half-witted, crippled—she is your daughter.”

  “No,” Ratha growled.

  “And I’ll tell you something else. I think she’s out there, watching, listening to your words.”

  Again Thistle-chaser’s spotted face was before Ratha, distorted, crying out in pain. Then Newt’s face overlaid it, but the eyes were still the same. They swirled, taunting her. Could Fessran be right? Was the one who had been Thistle-chaser out there listening?

  Ratha shook herself. She could not be distracted. Not now.

  She lunged at Fessran, driving her back from the bewildered Mishanti.

  “Take him!” the Firekeeper howled. “Take him and then, maybe, I will be able to hate you enough to feed you your own creature and make you live by your own law. ”

  Another cry broke from her, a cry that seemed to tear Ratha from inside. She shook with the pain of it and ached to offer the Firekeeper some scraps of comfort, but all she could do was take the cub by the scruff and go.

  Thakur had heard Fessran howl before, but rarely had there been such raw grief and rage in the Firekeeper’s voice. The sound drew him to the vale behind Newt’s lagoon, and he went quickly, with Aree crouching on his shoulder. As he was starting up the path, Fessran appeared, galloping past an outcropping. She nearly ran into him.

  He dodged to the side while she skidded, raising a plume of fine dust and sand that set her coughing. Her ribs lifted in sobbing breaths.

  “Did you see Ratha?” she managed to ask.

  “No. What happened?”

  “She came and took Mishanti. The cub I kept and wanted to adopt.”

  “That’s what set you off running and yowling? Fessran, I can’t stop Ratha from doing what she thinks is best for the clan,” he argued.

  “Then why are you here?”

  “I need help. Something’s happened to Newt. She went wild, ran off a cliff. She wasn’t killed, but she went into one of her fits, and she can’t or won’t come out of it.”

  Fessran stared at him. “What, by the Red Tongue’s ashes, did you do to set that off?”

  “I lost my temper and I called Newt by her name. Her real name. Thistle-chaser. I think hearing it brought back all sorts of things.”

  “So that proves it. She is Ratha’s daughter. I told Ratha that. I told her she had no right to take Mishanti, but I couldn’t stop her. If we both go after her?”

  “I can’t leave Newt. Something’s really gone wrong with her. Please, Fessran,” he pleaded as he saw the Firekeeper stare angrily down the trail in the direction that Ratha had probably gone. “Come with me. At least help me find Bira or someone.”

  “If I help, will you come with me to talk some sense into Ratha?”

  Wearily Thakur agreed, then led the way back to the cave where he’d left Newt. Apprehensively he approached, listening for muttering or other sounds. He heard only silence and his own footsteps. Crouching down, he peered into the cave, feeling a lump come into his throat when he found everything quiet and still. But when his eyes grew used to the darkness, he saw Newt had gone.

&
nbsp; For an instant he stayed there, feeling numb and puzzled. Where could she have gone? Why would she have left? And then the answer came, for he remembered her last words as he’d left the cave: She had gone to hunt the Dreambiter.

  He scrambled out, ruffling his fur backward in his haste. Nearby he saw Fessran nosing a set of pawprints in the wet sand.

  “These certainly aren’t yours,” the Firekeeper said. “Well, Newt can’t be dying if she’s up and wandering around.” She stared at Thakur. “What’s the matter now?”

  He tried to halt the fear racing through him. “Fessran, she was raving about killing the Dreambiter. I think she’s gone after Ratha.”

  “Newt?” Fessran howled derisively, but her voice shook. “She couldn’t take a newborn herdbeast! If she tries to fight Ratha, she’ll get ripped in so many pieces we’ll never find them all.”

  Thakur heard her fall silent under his stare. She looked away from him, then back again.

  “Don’t tell me you think that lame little half-wit could... ”

  “Newt is not a half-wit, Fessran. Far from it.” Thakur kept his voice and his gaze even. “I warned Ratha not to underestimate her, and she didn’t listen. It may cost the Named dearly.”

  The Firekeeper raked the ground, glared at Thakur. “I want Mishanti back. I want Ratha to see she is wrong. But I don’t want her to have to die for it!”

  “Then you and I will have to find her before Newt does,” Thakur said, his voice icy.

  “Can Newt really... ” Fessran faltered.

  “She can,” Thakur answered grimly. “I’m the one to blame for that. I helped her heal her leg.” He remembered how wildly Newt had fought when in the grip of her fit, how he had to hold her down with all his strength. And he knew how brightly her rage burned against the Dreambiter.

  “All right. I’m coming,” said Fessran. “For Mishanti’s sake, if not Ratha’s.”

  “And for your own, though you’d never admit it,” Thakur snapped back. “Hurry!”

  He heard Fessran’s feet behind him as they galloped off together down the path. Thakur had a good idea of where Ratha might be headed. If she’d taken Mishanti, she probably intended to make the journey to the same place where she’d abandoned Shongshar’s cubs several seasons ago. She would have to use the same trail back up to the coast range that he had used on his first journey to the beach. The way was a little different now. Instead of having to ford the inlet of the estuary that lay across the trail, she would cross on the floating bridge moored to the bank. It occurred to Thakur that such a crossing would be a good place for an ambush.

  He begged more speed from his paws as he headed toward the raft-bridge, planning to catch Ratha there or at least find her footprints. It wouldn’t be easy. Newt had a head start. He could only hope that her healing foreleg would not stand the strain and that she would falter despite her revenge-madness. But he knew hoping wasn’t enough to save Ratha. He ran faster.

  Chapter Thirteen

  As Ratha padded through the salt grass with Mishanti in her jaws, she eyed the floating bridge with mixed feelings. She was glad she would not have to make the trip around the inlet. Her jaws already ached from carrying the cub by the scruff, and her conscience hurt her almost as badly. The bridge would save her some travel, but she didn’t like the way it shifted and strained against the cords that anchored it to stumps on the bank. Currents riffled water against the upstream side as the retreating tide drew water from the inlet.

  The Named had crossed the floating bridge enough times to prove its worthiness. It was her own bad luck that she had to cross on an outgoing tide, but the bridge would bear her.

  Lifting her chin to hold Mishanti high, she took several steps down the bank. Was that a splash in the water upstream, she wondered, and what was that eddy? She cocked her head to one side so she could see past the cub in her jaws. A shadow seemed to cross the bottom, but it went swiftly and was chopped up by the small whitecaps. She stared hard but could see nothing.

  Clouds scudded by overhead, casting fleeting shadows along the ground and over the water. The cub sagged in Ratha’s jaws. With a toss of her head, she heaved him up again and strode onto the floating bridge.

  With the first step, the raft-bridge rocked, as she had expected it to. The next few steps were staggers; the mass of bound driftwood and rushes heaved as if it had been struck from beneath. Ratha nearly lost her hold on the cub in her mad scramble to keep on her feet on the plunging raft. But she lost her balance, flopping on her side and clawing wildly to keep atop the mass of thatch and sticks. Mishanti squealed in pain from the pressure of her teeth in his scruff, and her neck muscles strained with the effort of keeping him from tumbling off.

  Angrily she vowed never again to use this flimsy crossing during an outgoing tide. Her anger turned to alarm as she felt one end of the raft-bridge swing downstream. She snapped her head around, causing a squall from her small charge. Surely the other tether would hold. But she saw to her horror that the cord lay loose on the surface of the water. The raft surged beneath her and floated away free, carrying her with it.

  She crouched, digging her claws into the thatch and holding the cub in her mouth. Her muscles tensed for a jump to the bank, but the shore retreated. She faced the green-gray water, ready to plunge in and stroke for shore. But she knew she could not keep her head above water with Mishanti in her jaws. All she could do was cling to the raft as it headed seaward, bucking and bounding as if it were alive and rejoicing in its escape.

  Seeing the tether from the front end streaming alongside her, Ratha extended a claw and snagged the twisted bark-cord. It looked stout, but it must have frayed. Then she looked more closely at the soggy end draped across her paw. Yes, the fiber looked worn, but the final cut was clean, as if someone had chewed on the rope to weaken it and then, at the final moment, bitten through.

  She guessed that the other tether would look the same. Crouching, she ground her back teeth while her fangs held Mishanti’s scruff. He was a mute, wet little ball of fur by now, hanging limp in her jaws, too terrified to struggle or mewl.

  The raft gave an odd lurch that wasn’t part of the rhythm of the water bearing it. Ratha loosed her mouth-grip on Mishanti, pressing him down with her chest and hoping he would have enough sense to dig in his claws. She risked a glance over her shoulder at the back of the raft.

  Two paws stuck up out of the frothing water, with claws driven deep into sodden thatch and driftwood. One paw was smaller than the other, the leg shrunken. Soaked fur revealed the bony outlines of the leg and the corded tendons in each foot.

  From the instant she had recognized that the raft’s tethers had been bitten through, Ratha had known her opponent was Newt. Now the knowledge hit her again, this time with such bitter force that it threatened to jolt her off the raft. To Newt, she was a nightmare, a tormentor. And Newt was Thistle-chaser, the daughter she had bitten, then deserted. She could no longer deny to herself that this vengeful enemy was her own flesh and Bonechewer’s legacy. How could there be anything between them except hate?

  Ratha felt ice freeze in her belly. She was no stranger to hate. Many had opposed her and tried to thwart her rise to clan leader or topple her from leadership. She had faced Meoran, the old clan leader, and then Shongshar, but neither could claw as deeply to her heart as this water-soaked, green-eyed revenge that fought to hang on to the raft.

  She will give her own life if she thinks she can take mine, Ratha thought, and knowing that sent the ice creeping out along her limbs. Thakur and Fessran, why did you meddle? You did her no favor by finding a mother who should have stayed lost.

  The raft slid with the tidewater toward the sea. Ratha stared numbly at the white surf line ahead and flattened her ears against the increasing rumble and crash of the waves. A roller crested ahead of the raft then broke, drenching her. The sea’s churning whitecaps took the raft and spun it around so rapidly that Ratha closed her eyes from dizziness. One whirl took the craft so close to shore that s
he tensed to jump, but before she could get her feet beneath her, a strong seaward current swept the raft away again.

  Though Newt might be smaller and lame, she had maneuvered Ratha into alien and treacherous surroundings, where she held the advantage. Ratha, the proud bearer of fire on land, was but a ragged wretch clinging to a few sticks in the sea.

  The current weakened, giving the raft less forward motion, but the chop and roll tossed it about more than ever. Ratha clung to the slithering mass of thatch and driftwood. Drenched and cold to the point of numbness, she nestled Mishanti between her forelegs, holding his nape in her jaws and trying to shield him from the spray. Even now she was wondering if she could manage to swim ashore without drowning him.

  The fierceness of the attack told Ratha that Newt was ruthless and remorseless enough to kill her. Was her daughter mad, like one taken with the foaming sickness? No, Newt’s illness was not the foaming sickness, for that killed rapidly. It was something slower, more subtle, and even more destructive. Newt’s attack was more than purposeless madness. It had been planned with a cold cunning that had outdone the best of the Named.

  Knowing that there was a deep and painful reason for Newt’s hatred drew Ratha’s strength from her. She closed her eyes again, not from dizziness but from despair. I sought the light in Thistle-chaser’s eyes. I have found it now, but it is a light that sears me more than the touch of the Red Tongue.

  Her fear hardened despair into harsh resolution. This ex-cub might have good reason to vent revenge on her. That didn’t matter anymore. If Newt attacked, she must fight back, not only for her sake but for the sake of the Named, who would be left without a leader. Perhaps, she thought, she might be able to somehow talk to Newt, and if the chance came, she would take it. But if it came down to teeth and claws, the fact that Newt was Thistle-chaser, her own daughter, would no longer matter.

  It was that decision that made her sidle backward, trying to gauge whether she could lash out with her rear claws and break Newt’s grip on the raft. If she could do it without wounding her, then Newt could swim to shore. That might make managing the runaway raft and Fessran’s adopted cub a little easier.