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

by Clare Bell

  * * *

  Keep eyes fixed on True-of-voice. Don’t look beyond. Too far down. No, don’t think about down. There is no down. Just True-of-voice, looking dead.

  No, he can’t be. Not after all this. True-of-voice, you aren’t dead, are you?

  Can’t reach him now. Have to think too hard. Where to put each foot. How hard to drive in each claw.

  Pads are sweaty. Have to stop, wipe carefully on fur. More sweat.

  Biaree, don’t get too far ahead. Know you are impatient. Don’t blame you. Want to get this over as fast as possible, but sweaty pads make it slow.

  Prrrp. Calling him, just like Bira taught me. Prrrp! Yes, he’s obeying. Good treeling. Wait for Thistle.

  Flank against the rock.... Heart banging. Feels like it is trying to beat me right off this slab of rock.

  No, don’t think about that. Just keep paws moving or they’ll freeze. True-of-voice, don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead.

  Stupid, Thistle. He is alive or he isn’t. Wishing doesn’t make any difference.

  If only it wasn’t so far to reach him....

  Slow, hard, with damp paw pads. Wish I had a tail that could curl around things the way Biaree’s does.

  Biaree, you are nearly there. Move slowly, carefully. Don’t be frightened. Prrrr. Good treeling, clever treeling. Tie the rope.

  Arrr! True-of-voice moved. Don’t skitter away, Biaree. He won’t hurt you. He’s trying to help by lifting his paw.

  Biaree’s fur is fluffed. True-of-voice moved too fast. Startled Biaree. Please, treeling, please go back.

  He looks at me. Wants me down with him. Doesn’t have the courage to touch True-of-voice again unless I’m there.

  Can’t . . . get there! Shelf narrows to nothing.

  Biaree, please.

  No good. Got scared. Doesn’t trust.

  Face-tail dung! Everything ruined because True-of-voice twitched.

  Biaree won’t go if I’m not down there to encourage him.

  Won’t give up. Won’t!

  I’m coming even if I have to find clawholds on the bare rock.

  Prrrp! I’m coming, Biaree. Banging heart, scrawny tail, and everything.

  * * *

  Ratha crouched at the top of the cliff, looking down on Thistle. Her breath came fast and felt like the Red Tongue searing her throat.

  Beside her was Thakur, and she could tell from the rigidity of his muscles and the stiffness of his neck that he was nearly as tense.

  Both of them had some bad moments when Thistle left the small shelf she was inching along and began to descend, head down, along the open rock face.

  Ratha could hardly bear to watch, knowing that at any instant her daughter might lose her hold and go plunging to a terrible death. The safety rope was too thin to stop such a fall. But Thistle had stuck to the cliff face like a tick to skin. Long enough for Biaree to tie vine cord to all four of True-of-voice’s limbs. Long enough to cajole and encourage the treeling to actually work a heavy vine rope under True-of-voice’s belly and then loop it across the leader’s chest, to make a heavier version of the harness that Thistle wore.

  She had actually been able to do more than Ratha had hoped for. There was a good chance that the Named could get him down without worsening any of his injuries.

  “There. Biaree’s coming back to her,” Ratha said, letting out a sigh of relief. “They’re done, and it looks like all the ropes will hold.”

  “That’s good, since we don’t have any more heavy vines,” Thakur said.

  Ratha glanced sideways, to where Quiet Hunter was trying to explain to his people what the Named were doing. Some of them had come to the cliff edge and peered over. They retreated again, but a more hopeful look had replaced the despair in their faces.

  I hope he can persuade a few of them to help when we start lowering True-of-voice. He’s no lightweight.

  She peered down over the cliff at her daughter. Thistle was still hanging, head down, near True-of-voice. Biaree had returned to her. Ratha waited, expecting to see Thistle turn around and climb back up. But she didn’t.

  A cold feeling started creeping along Ratha’s back. Something was going wrong.

  Thistle, your part is over. Come back up before you make me wild with worry.

  Thakur was also peering over, his eyes narrowed, his whiskers drawn back. “She’s in trouble,” he hissed. “She can’t turn around. She tried and nearly lost her hold. And her tail is shaking.”

  Ratha’s own tail was lashing. Thistle had gotten through the hard part. Why was she faltering now?

  You’ve saved True-of-voice. Now save yourself. But as Ratha watched, it became ominously clear that Thistle couldn’t.

  “It’s one of her fits,” she growled. “At the worst possible time. Thakur, we’ve got to do something. Can she get down to the ledge where True-of-voice is? Or can we lower her all the way by her harness?”

  “There’s no room left on the ledge,” Thakur answered. “And we don’t know if the harness would hold, especially if she jerked it. I’m afraid those vines will snap. And the rope isn’t long enough to lower her all the way. I gave her a shorter one, since I assumed that she would be climbing back up.”

  “Can she take one of the vines off True-of-voice?”

  “That would lower our chances of getting him down, Ratha. And I don’t think Thistle can do anything right now. You know how the fits affect her.” He paused. “Someone is going to have to go down to her. I’ll do it, since I should have made her rope longer.”

  He started to get up, but she put a paw on his back. “There aren’t any ropes left, Thakur,” she said, trying to speak calmly despite the fear that was rushing through her. “No time to make new ones.”

  His gaze as he looked into her eyes supplied the answer. I know. I’m still willing.

  “No,” she said. “You can’t be the one. I must be.”

  “Ratha ...”

  “It has nothing to do with who is more valuable to the clan.”

  “But . . .”

  “You’ve tried to make me understand all along. Now I do. She’s my daughter, Thakur. That is what matters.”

  She could see the mixture of emotions in his eyes, but all he said as his nose leather touched hers was, “Go to her, Ratha. We will all be with you.”

  * * *

  Thought . . . it would be easy. Thought . . . that the hard part was over.

  It is. Biaree has done what he needed to do. Ropes are on True-of-voice. The Named can lower him to safe ground.

  Maybe that’s why the Dreambiter waited. But now, it is coming.

  Climb back down to True-of-voice, treeling. You’ll be safe with him. Not with me. Not with me, hanging by my claws while the Dreambiter prowls.

  Tried to do too much too fast. Strained my leg. Hurts. The Dreambiter knows that hurt. That’s why it woke. That’s why it is coming.

  Am shaking. Vision closing. Can’t see outside anymore.

  At least what I had to do is done.

  Dreambiter, you won’t endanger anyone else if you take me now.

  Shaking. Can barely feel my feet, my claws.

  Feel like I am already falling.

  Maybe I am.

  * * *

  Waves of white terror washed through Ratha as she sidled along the rock shelf, balancing herself with her long tail. She could see Thistle’s footsteps ahead of her in the fine, gritty dirt. They were damp. She knew why. Her own paw pads were slick with sweat.

  Each step was harder than the one before, since the shelf was fading back into the cliff face. Ever so carefully she eased herself along, testing every step to be sure the rocks would not crumble away beneath her weight.

  Fear came in stabs, each one driving deep, then withdrawing in a wake of sick dizziness. Yet the urge that drove her on overrode everything, and she had to fight not to launch herself in a bold but fatal scramble down the face to where her daughter was clinging.

  The ropes running down to True-of-voice were th
ere beside her, but Ratha dared not use them. A scratch or bite might start them fraying or cracking. The ropes had to stay strong—for True-of-voice and his people.

  When the moment came to leave the vanishing shelf and climb down headfirst, as Thistle had done, Ratha thought she couldn’t. Dread locked up her limbs, froze her will. She could hardly bend her neck to look down.

  You have to. Look at Thistle. Keep centered on her. You have to reach her soon or she will fall.

  Ratha forced her head down, fixed her gaze on Thistle. She fought a whirlwind that seemed to howl around her, shrieking and moaning in her ears and buffeting her dangerously back and forth. She forced her forelimbs to reach down below the shelf, groping for clawholds.

  But the vortex was nearly too much for her, threatening to spin her right off the shelf. She knew what the whirlwind was. It was her body trying to say that this was madness; common sense was trying to take over and send her scrambling back up to a part of the ledge where she would be safe.

  Every time she tried to defeat the wildly spinning wind of fear, she was overwhelmed. It was tearing Thistle from her and threatening to destroy both of them.

  She heard Thistle cry out and she heard a name she knew well. The Dreambiter had waited long for a chance to attack. Thistle would never be as vulnerable as she was now. And this time, the apparition might claim two victims.

  Ratha bared her teeth, flattened her ears. No. The Dreambiter would not win. There was one thing that could slice through the whirlwind of fear: the enemy—hatred for her enemy.

  Following the marks of Thistle’s clawholds, Ratha climbed down off the rocky shelf. The dread was still there, but it had somehow become remote. The fear-wind was still spinning, but now she had moved into the eye, the center, where the air was still.

  And in the center, although distant, as if seen from far down a tunnel, was Thistle. Ratha fixed her gaze on Thistle and let her body take her to her daughter. Her legs somehow knew where to reach, her claws knew how deep to drive, and she trusted in that wisdom.

  Suddenly she was beside Thistle, both now hanging head down on the cliff face. Thistle was losing the clawhold of one forefoot, for it was the leg that had been crippled. Under the Dreambiter’s attack, it was starting to draw up, pull back against her chest. Thistle’s trembling was giving way to twitches and jerks that she couldn’t control. Each was more violent than the one before.

  Ratha was ready to fight, but the enemy was invisible, inside. The only thing she could see was Thistle herself, eyes swirling, slender body shuddering, mouth wide in a silent, agonized cry.

  No ... enemy.

  But there is one. The Dreambiter.

  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-mo
ther. 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.