Firebirds Soaring

by Sharyn November

  She told herself to stop reacting as if this were the mating season, but she couldn’t stop the tumble of astonishment, relief, jubilation, and disbelief in her mind. She also groaned at the nearly impossible task he had set her—to keep silent while bursting with news. She knew by listening that her task had grown suddenly harder. The approaching footsteps and wafting scents were those of Quiet Hunter, Thistle-chaser, and Thakur.

  Quickly Ratha rounded the fire and scuffed away any trace of Bonechewer’s visit. She took some twigs from the nearby woodpile and laid them in the fire-nest with her teeth. Ratharee was asleep in a nearby sapling and Ratha didn’t want to wake the treeling. Then the clan leader took a deep breath and turned to greet the new arrivals.

  She thought she had concealed all the evidence, but she hadn’t done such a good job on herself. She could tell that Thakur spotted her agitation. He, however, was polite enough not to say anything, at least while the two guests were here.

  She felt her inward turmoil ease as she looked at the pair. Quiet Hunter’s pale dun coat had thickened and darkened. Even while she watched, his hazel eyes sharpened away from their dreamy remoteness. Ratha guessed that he was making the transition from the thinking mode he used among his own tribe to the more individualistic thought of the Named.

  “This one is glad to see you, clan leader,” he said, following the formal nose-touch with an affectionate forehead rub. Thistle-chaser tumbled into the firelight after him, crowing, “Happy, happy, happy to be back, Ratha-mother.”

  Ratha waited for her daughter to stop prancing around, but she rejoiced that Thistle could. Her daughter’s once withered and crippled foreleg no longer hampered her, and Ratha rejoiced to see how well it had healed.

  Still bouncing a bit, Thistle rubbed alongside Ratha, looping her tail over Ratha’s back. “Missed you, missed you, missed you,” Thistle crooned, then stopped and sniffed. “Smell both happy and not-happy. Something happen?”

  “I had a strange dream,” Ratha said.

  “Strong smell for just a dream,” Thistle said, but she seemed to accept the explanation.

  Thakur, however, looked Ratha meaningfully in the eyes before he nose-touched. While he head-rubbed with Ratha, he hissed, “You’ve seen him again, haven’t you?”

  “Not now, Thakur,” she growled back. “I’ll tell you more later.” She butted him away gently and turned to Thistle. “That leg looks so much better.”

  “Quiet Hunter. Helping stretch it. Every day.” Thistle grimaced at her verbal clumsiness. “Sorry. Not talked too much. Face-tail hunters don’t. Mouth will get better talking with you.”

  “These two got here late,” put in Thakur smoothly, “but I thought you wouldn’t want to wait until morning.”

  Ratha thanked him and sat down, letting herself relax while Thistle and Quiet Hunter told her news of the other tribe.

  “Tooth-broke-on-a-bone has new cubs. Thought she was too old but mated with True-of-voice. Has male cub, silver and white. Cub will be leader after True-of-voice.”

  Ratha’s ears pricked. So the leader of the enigmatic face-tail hunters had sired a successor. This would be interesting.

  “Well, I hope we don’t have to fish him off a ledge, like we did his father,” she said.

  “All are grateful for the rescue,” said Quiet Hunter. “This one feels that there will be lasting peace between this one’s kind and the Named.”

  “Good,” Ratha said. She turned to Thistle. “Tell me more about True-of-voice’s son.”

  “Called New Singer. Big cub. Growing fast. Name not like clan name. Changes. Now is New Singer, later will be next True-of-voice.”

  “Then the song will call the elder ‘Once-Sung,’” added Quiet Hunter.

  Ratha shook her head in confusion, making her ears flap. She knew she still had difficulty understanding this face-tail hunting tribe. At least she had made and kept peace with them. She hoped that Quiet Hunter’s judgment of the peace being “lasting” was true.

  She also knew that Thistle and Quiet Hunter, acting as envoys, would do their best to ensure that things stayed friendly.

  “You’ve both done well,” she said, glad that her praise made Thistle’s sea-green eyes sparkle. Quiet Hunter’s hazel ones glowed with pride.

  Ratha suddenly felt a huge yawn building behind her jaw and realized that she was too tired to fight it.

  “You’re tired, Ratha,” said Thakur. “I’ll take these two to my lair, get them fed, and bed them down. The rest of this can wait until morning.”

  “Thank you, herding . . .” she mumbled, her head sinking down on her paws, asleep before she had finished speaking.

  Ratha woke with her treeling nestled in her flank fur. Nearby, someone tended the fire. She expected to see Bira or Fessran, but the sunlit coat shone copper. Thakur.

  A sideways glance at the sun told Ratha that she had slept late.

  “Where are Thistle and Quiet Hunter?” Ratha asked, stretching and spreading her forepaws.

  “Still sleeping.” Thakur paused. “I came to talk to you first.”

  Something in his voice made Ratha shake sleep away. “Thistle may be a little awkward at speaking, but she certainly picks up things.” Ratha extended and stiffened her hind legs, arching her back. “And you do too.”

  “Then you did see the stranger again last night.”

  “Not a stranger,” Ratha said with a sideways jerk of her head. “He was Bonechewer.”

  Thakur looked puzzled, then annoyed. “Why didn’t you get me?”

  “I tried. Bonechewer stopped me. He said he’s been alone so long that he isn’t ready to meet any of us.”

  Ratha could see the rising flicker of jealousy in Thakur’s eyes even before he said, “Except you.”

  Was he envious of her because he also missed his brother and wanted badly to see him? Or was he jealous of Bonechewer because he was realizing that he might have a serious rival for Ratha. Or both?

  Thakur started pacing, his scent growing sharp and salty. “I can understand why he would seek you. But why would he be afraid of me?”

  “He isn’t afraid. He’s just not ready to meet us. Can you blame him?”

  “Well, I suppose that after we burned, trampled, and killed him, he might be reluctant,” Thakur said wryly, though he couldn’t hide a sarcastic Bonechewer note in his voice.

  “Apparently we didn’t. Kill him, I mean,” Ratha added at Thakur’s narrowed eyes. “Thakur, I know. He was my mate. Thistle’s father,” she protested, hating to wake the look in his eyes that said, “I am to be your mate. Or I was.”

  His ears twitched back. “Ratha, I want to believe you, but I can’t unless I see him myself.”

  This struck sparks of anger in Ratha, but instead of letting them ignite, she mentally stamped them out. “You’re right. I could be seeing what I want to see.”

  “So I’ll come after the Firekeepers light the Red Tongue for you. Then we’ll both see him and know.”

  “Thakur, I hate to say this, but I don’t think he’ll come if we’re both there. For some reason, he needs to talk to me alone.”

  “Why? ” This time Thakur’s voice had the rawness of pain. “He never turned his back on me before. Even when my mother Reshara took him and left me in the clan as an orphan, he would find me.”

  Ratha had opened her mouth in surprise. She closed it slowly. “I didn’t know . . .”

  “I told you long ago that he was my brother.”

  Ratha felt she was stumbling. Well, she was confused too. When someone who was supposedly dead turns up again, it causes all sorts of complications. “Thakur, you’ve trusted me before. Trust me now.”

  “Trust you that he really is Bonechewer? Or . . .” Thakur bit off the last words, but Ratha heard them in her mind. Or trust you not to trample my feelings in the rush toward your dream?

  She wondered if she should tell Thakur about the second part of her dream, that Bonechewer would help her reach out in friendship to the UnNamed. No.
Thakur had enough for tonight. She also wondered if she could indeed trust herself not to destroy his dreams while chasing hers.

  Thakur lowered his head, shadowing his eyes. “What has Bonechewer, if it is him, asked you for?”

  “He just wants me to move the fire out where no one else will go. And stay there alone tonight.”

  “I think I should hide nearby, just in case.”

  “He’ll know you’re there. He’s much better at stalking and hiding than we are.”

  “Arrr.” The herding teacher grimaced. “You’re right, but I don’t like it.”

  “He might not come anyway. I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone.”

  Thakur fell silent and pawed the end of his tail, a sure sign that he felt uncomfortable. “So what will you do?”

  “Make the Red Tongue’s nest myself, with Ratharee. I’ll keep a few unlit torches ready. Resin pine, so they’ll light quickly.”

  “All right,” Thakur said. “I’ll keep myself and the others away, but if I hear you yowl . . .”

  Again Ratha sat alone by her fire at the edge of clan ground. Again Bonechewer visited her. After she finished devouring him with her eyes, they both settled on the same side of the campfire, although he still kept a slight separation. As she had promised Thakur, she had unlit firebrands laid nearby. She hoped Bonechewer wouldn’t notice the torches, or even know what they were. He did give the firebrands a quick glance, but she was unsure if the narrowing of his eyes was her imagination.

  Bonechewer spoke again of the UnNamed, and this time he had some detailed suggestions. A group of them existed in the mountains that lay in the sunrise direction from clan ground. Winter had come early to those peaks. The UnNamed ones there were struggling. If Ratha wished, he could arrange a first meeting between them and the Named.

  “They are weakened by hunger, so they are not as great a threat,” said Bonechewer, crossing his paws.

  “Are they savages, or are they more like you?” Ratha asked. “I mean, are they clever?”

  “Not as clever, but no one else is,” he said with his familiar matter-of-fact conceit. “They vary, but none are completely mindless. I wouldn’t burden you with that. They have wit enough to be grateful.” He rolled his hindquarters out so that he lay in a half-sphinx, facing Ratha. “Have them form their own group, a sort of daughter-clan of your people.”

  Ratha agreed. Taking in a number of strangers all at once could be disruptive and possibly dangerous. She remembered all too well the adopted orange-eyed adolescent who became the tyrannical Shongshar.

  She could treat these UnNamed ones somewhat the same as True-of-voice and his tribe. She would settle the newcomers in their own area, give them meat, and then send some herders with a small mixed flock to teach the strangers clan ways. Yes, that would work, she thought, growing excited. The clan would be having its own cub, even if adopted.

  Carefully she would let the best of the new group mingle with the Named. Even more carefully chosen ones might breed with her people. The Named badly needed variety as well as numbers. The risk of mindless young remained but could be managed. Any cubs not fit to be Named might be fostered out to the face-tail hunters.

  “I can see by your eyes that the trail to your dream is clearing,” said Bonechewer. “There remains, however, one small barrier.”

  Ratha cocked her head at him in a wordless question. He laid a forepaw toward the campfire. “That.”

  “The Red Tongue? My creature?”

  “The UnNamed fear it. As long as you have it, they won’t trust you. No.” He help up a paw as Ratha tried to interrupt. “I am not asking you to abandon ‘your creature’ or whatever you call it. Keep the thing in its hole. Use it for warmth if you must, though I prefer a good heavy pelt.”

  Ratha stepped on her tail to keep it from lashing. “We need the Red Tongue against raiders,” she argued.

  “Not if you help those who raid because of starvation.”

  “The UnNamed aren’t the only ones who prey. We’ve had trouble with bristle-mane hyenas and others. Don’t ask me to risk the safety of the Named, Bonechewer. I won’t. Even for you.”

  “I understand. You are walking on a narrow branch, clan leader. You have to balance carefully between what is now and what could be. If you are careful, you can have both. You must think well in order to be careful, so I will leave you now.” He paused. “If you make the right decision, you might get everything you want. Even me.”

  When he was gone, Ratha knew she should sleep, but her mind was in a muddle. She lay with her chin on her paws, staring into the flame.

  “Bonechewer isn’t asking that much, my creature,” she murmured to the fire. “We’ll keep you safe in the fire-den, but we won’t use as many of your cubs. I know why the UnNamed fear you. Sometimes I fear you. You warm our bodies, yet you burn our minds. You entice us to dance before you, yet you twist our spirits like a green twig curling in your heart. You draw us close, then lunge, as if to kill. . . .”

  She thought of everything that had happened since she tamed the Red Tongue. She brought her creature to the clan so that the Named could survive. Well, they did.

  To wield torches against their enemies, they had to overlook or accept the ugliness and suffering that the Red Tongue could bring.

  She remembered the old clan leader, Meoran. Perhaps she had not consciously remembered all the details of his death, but they came to her now.

  Was it the Red Tongue’s rage or her own that had rammed the flaming branch through the bottom of his jaw? She’d heard his saliva sizzling in the heat, his jowls blistering, crusting, charring. . . . He had died in horror, the oils in his fur crackling, then lighting his skin, the skin itself steaming, then blackening.

  She looked away from the fire, wondering if anyone really deserved that kind of death.

  When she looked back, she remembered the image she had dreamed while struggling against the usurper Shongshar. Of how a fire burning before her had come alive and changed shape, taking the cat-form of the Named. How the Firecat had stalked free of its prison of log and tinder, then stood over her with ember eyes and flame teeth, hissing, “I am the one who rules.”

  Ratha did not know when she slipped from thought into slumber, but the Firecat still prowled before her, seeking prey. Then the apparition’s deadly light was cast back at it in the sheen of copper fur. In Ratha’s dream, the lava-red eyes met those of clear amber.

  Flame-sharp teeth clashed against one white fang and the broken remnants of the other.

  Somehow she could not move and only watched as Bonechewer fought the Firecat. She could see from his eyes that every strike against the Firecat was as useless as slashing at a flame. Worse, it brought agony, blackening claws and searing skin.

  The Firecat’s strikes raked flame into Bonechewer’s skin, and the lines of fire deepened and extended. He screamed, rose thrashing, and then toppled. She watched him die, the Firecat above him, then on him, and then in him, turning his breath to smoke and his flesh to charcoal that cracked open, showing an evil red within.

  Then, as his shriek died in her ears along with her own scream, the Firecat turned from its victim to her. . . .

  Abruptly Ratha woke, half on her back, half on her side. All four legs were up and rigid. Her pawpads were so sweat-slicked that the sweat dripped on her chest and belly. Her claws extended so hard that her toes cramped. Even her nose-leather was wet.

  For an instant she locked in that position, still embattled by her dream. Then, realizing that the horror had been miraculously swept away, she let everything go and collapsed into a heap, unsure whether the vision was real. A rush of gratitude swept over her that it wasn’t.

  She drew a shuddering breath. No Firecat. No charred corpse. Not this time.

  She rolled on her side and nearly put her feet in the fire. No, it was the campfire, not the substance of the Firecat. But were the two all that different?

  Sudden fear sent Ratha rolling, wriggling, and scrambling back from the cam
pfire, as if she had seen the glint of the Firecat’s eye in its heart.

  Perhaps she had.

  As Ratha had once crept toward the light and warmth of her creature, now she crept away from it. She huddled and watched it flicker from a distance, chilled by wind and by fear.

  Maybe Bonechewer was right. Maybe he was more than right. This thing she called her own; could it be a deeper evil than any herd-preying raiders? Yes, it had saved her people, but at what cost? Should the clan put the Red Tongue aside, not only for the sake of the soon-to-be new members, but for the sake of the Named themselves? This creature that disguised itself as warm, protective, and benign, she thought, would it eventually consume the Named and their world as it had consumed Bonechewer?

  What have you done to us, she thought, eyeing the fire. What will you do to us?

  A sudden clear realization came.

  I must back away from the Red Tongue before it is too late. There are other ways to survive, and I must find them.

  Then a wry scrap of thought entered Ratha’s mind. Fessran will think I’m crazy.

  “No!” Thakur stamped his forefoot. “Ratha, you are not going to sit out alone on the edge of clan ground and wait for who knows what. Especially without a fire or even a torch.”

  She itched to bare her fangs at him. His scatting sensitivity had dragged it all out of her again.

  “I’ve never been fond of the Red Tongue,” he said, flattening his ears and raising his nape, “but its protection works.”

  Emotion and lack of sleep had left Ratha dizzy and exhausted. Unable to control herself, she flared back at him. “You are not clan leader and you will not tell me what to do. I told you why I can’t have the Red Tongue near me.”

  Thakur put his paw on her and withdrew it. “You’re hot. You’ve got a fever. You’re sick, Ratha. I’ll take you to my den. I’ll chew up some medicine plants for you. Then you’ll sleep and get well.”