Ratha’s Challenge (The Fourth Book of The Named) (13 page)

Or was the ability from Ratha’s own lineage, a trait that had hidden among her parents and grandparents to emerge now in her daughter?

“Where are you now, Thistle?” Ratha asked, feeling her voice trembling.

“Swimming, but no closer. Sea is getting thick, heavy. Brightness ahead hard to see. Something... coming between.”

Ratha tensed.

Thistle’s voice rose in pitch. “Down deep. Getting cold. Swimming too hard. Have to walk. In the distance, hear footsteps.”

This was it. The long-dreaded enemy was at last making an approach. Ratha saw Thakur squirm closer to Thistle, guarding her, protecting her.

What good will it do when the enemy is inside?
Ratha thought in despair, but she also wriggled closer to Thistle.

“Can’t block the way!” Thistle cried out in sudden rage. “Fight you, fire-eyes. Tear you before you can tear me!”

She sank to a crouch, her forepaws sliding out in front of her. She was starting to shake. Ratha could feel it.

And then Thistle began to draw one foot up against her chest, as if the leg that had been healed was being crippled again, right before Ratha’s eyes.

“No, you aren’t going to take her again!” Ratha cried, as if the nightmare could hear her. “Fight it, Thistle. Drive it off!”

But Thistle only seemed to crumple under a terrible weight of pain, her leg pulled tightly against her chest. Ratha felt a storm of rage building inside her against the thing that tortured her daughter.

In her mind she flung herself at the enemy, ripped it with her claws, savaged it with her teeth, and then set it aflame with a torch. In a low, hissing voice, she spoke her battle aloud, and the depth of her hatred. She would kill the Dreambiter a thousand times if she had to, rip out its throat and its guts so that it bled.

But it was Thistle who bled. From an invisible wound. And each time Ratha screamed her rage at the Dreambiter, Thistle drew a little further into a tight ball of pain.

And at last, though Ratha was far from emptied of rage, the sight, the feel, the smell of her daughter’s suffering made her voice break as she cried, “Thistle, I am with you. I hate this thing as much as you do. Fight it ... Please fight it.”

But Thistle only huddled and shuddered. Thakur put a paw on Ratha’s nose to quiet her. She jerked her head back, baring her teeth, the wildness and the anger focusing on him, wanting to attack him.

Everything was fierce, wild, flaming. She would hurt, she would kill if she did not get away. It was out of control. She had to run or the fire inside her would destroy Thakur, Thistle, everything.

She was already on her feet, running, not caring where she went. She would charge into the midst of the hunters and go down in a last frenzied battle. She would tear her way through them until she found True-of-voice and locked her teeth in his throat.

And then something heavy landed on her back, squashing her flat. Rage, astonishment, and fear combined in a murderous frenzy and she squirmed wildly, trying to get at her assailant with claws and teeth.

But somehow he managed to pin her down and grab her scruff, pulling her head so far back that all she could do was claw the air. She spat, screeched, and struggled until her throat was raw and she was panting with exhaustion.

“Enough, Ratha?” said a muffled voice above and behind her head.

Hearing Thakur sent her into another wild flurry, but she was too spent to sustain it.

“Can I let your scruff go, or will I get shredded?”

“You’ll get shredded,” she growled, but she was too tired to make the threat real. Thakur released his grip, but stayed on her back.

“Go to Thistle,” Ratha growled.

“Bira’s looking after her. Am I too heavy?”

“Go to Thistle!” she yowled, trying to throw him off. “She’s the one who deserves you. She’s the one who’s hurt.”

“Is she the only one, Ratha?”

His soft voice, his warm weight, the very strength of his presence seemed to enfold her. Yet somehow it could not penetrate the hard center of misery deep in her chest.

“You can heal,” she gasped. “You can help. All I can do is ... hate.”

Instead of saying anything, he began licking the fur on her neck.

“Don’t, Thakur,” she said, starting to shake.

“Why not?”

“If you knew what I really am, you wouldn’t.”

She felt his tongue caress her nape again. “I know what you are.”

“The Dreambiter. That’s what I am,” she said bitterly. “I hate the Dreambiter. I want to kill the Dreambiter ... yet I am the Dreambiter.”

“Ratha,” Thakur began.

“I think that finding the Red Tongue poisoned me. All I can do is hurt and burn. The Red Tongue is in me. It is getting stronger. Soon it will take the whole of me. It will be all hate and biting and burning.”

“Not all, Ratha.”

“Keep sitting on me, Thakur. I want to rip everything to pieces and I will, if you let me go.” She struggled again, but was almost thankful when he kept her down. “That’s good. Keep sitting on the Dreambiter. Maybe a quick bite to the throat will get rid of her for good.”

“That is only another way to escape.”

“Let me escape, then. Why do you want me? Why would you keep something so dangerous in your midst?”

“Ratha, we are all dangerous. To ourselves and each other. Not just because we have claws and teeth. The Un-Named have those as well. Not even because we have the Red Tongue.”

“Then ... why?” Ratha whimpered.

“Because we can hurt and be hurt in new and deeper ways. We are all Dreambiters. And Dreambitten as well. ”

“If that is so, we should all be dead. Maybe the world was never meant for the Named. Or the Named for the world.”

“I don’t think so, Ratha. And you don’t either. You were the one who fought hardest of all to see us live.”

“Maybe I was wrong. If all we can do is birth cubs who have to struggle, like Thistle ...”

“And you,” Thakur added softly.

“All right, maybe me,” she said grudgingly. “What difference does it make? It doesn’t help Thistle. I can’t do anything to help Thistle. That’s what drives me so wild. I can’t go near her. I’m afraid I’ll hurt her. Thakur, maybe I’m going to have to go away....”

“No. If you choose escape, no matter what way, she will always have the Dreambiter.”

“But if all I can do is hate the Dreambiter and that doesn’t work, what else is there?”

“I think you have to remember who the Dreambiter is,” said Thakur.

Feeling the bleakness in her belly, she said, “I know who it is.”

“No, you don’t.”

She craned her head around and stared at him, lost.

“You think that it’s all of you. It is only a part of you. And not even the strongest part.”

“No,” she cried, despairing. “You say that because you think I am like you. I’m not, Thakur. You are patient and wise and good and caring. I’m not.”

“Well, I’ll admit you aren’t very patient and you are still learning. But you do care.”

“The Dreambiter doesn’t care. The Dreambiter just ... bites.”

“You are like me, Ratha. And because I know you are like me, I can say this. We all have a part that bites. Even me. You’ve seen it. You saw it just a while ago. But the other part, the part you call good and caring, is stronger.”

“In you, maybe,” Ratha muttered.

“No, in you. You have it. It won’t let the Dreambiter take over.”

Ratha was silent, taking long breaths.

“You have it,” Thakur said again. “Trust in it.”

Somehow his words made her tight knot of misery ease. “Maybe...,” she said in a low voice.

“Maybe what?”

“Maybe you can get off me now. I don’t feel so much like ripping up things.”

He eased himself off and let her groom her rumpled fur. “See? I trust your better self,” he said. “You should, too.”

“Just for that, I should give you a swipe across the nose,” Ratha said, shaking herself. “But you’re bigger than I am. Is that what you call my better part?”

“Somewhat. It’s also your common sense.”

Ratha paused. “I need to think. Hard.”

“Do you want me to leave you alone for a while?”

“No, I want you to stay. Don’t say anything. Just sit by me.”

And Thakur did.

Chapter Fifteen

“You will guide me?” Thistle stared at Ratha. The doubt in her eyes made Ratha want to squirm. Or change the decision she had made after thinking a long time. “You, not Thakur?”

“He will help,” Ratha said, “but this time it has to be me.”

Thistle looked away.

“Please, Thistle. I think I understand more now.”

“About you or me?”

“Both,” said Ratha.

“Then lie down around me,” Thistle answered, her voice trembling with a strange mixture of fear and anticipation.

Ratha could not watch her daughter withdraw into herself. Instead she fixed her gaze on Thakur. He pressed one of his forefeet against hers in silent support.

She waited, and at last it came—she heard the footsteps of the Dreambiter, echoing in Thistle’s voice. Again Ratha found herself bristling with anger against the unseen enemy, but she knew now that rage could not drive off the apparition.

She knew that for Thistle, she existed in two parts: the flesh-and-blood mother with a tawny coat and an uncertain temperament, and the fire-eyed punisher that lurked in the caverns to ambush the wandering self. She was both and neither.

As she wriggled close to her daughter, she could feel Thistle’s pounding heartbeat shaking her small frame. Thakur, on the other side, moved closer, too, helping to encase Thistle in a shield of warm fur and life. Yet the deadly thing—the deathly thing—was inside, beyond reach.

Tell Thistle to flee? To fight? Ratha suddenly didn’t know. Her decision, her plans—all somehow crumbled when faced with the small figure who trembled and whose foreleg was starting to draw up against her chest.

“Where are you, Thistle?”

“In the caves. Hearing the footsteps. Want to run.”

“No,” Ratha said. “Stay.”

“Wait for attack.” Thistle’s voice was leaden with the inevitability of pain.

Hearing it, Ratha rebelled. She would not let the drama end as it had already a hundred times before. But she had no plan. Just the feelings that twisted her belly and a stubbornness that refused to let her daughter suffer more.

“No,” Ratha said, and then added softly, “Call the Dreambiter.”

“Call ... But then it comes faster. Pain... sooner ...”

“Call it,” Ratha said again. “Call ... her.”

“Too frightened. Don’t want it.” Thistle’s voice was starting to become high and panicky.

“What happens when the Dreambiter comes?” Ratha asked gently.

“Hurts. Has to hurt.”

“What if it didn’t hurt?”

“Has to hurt. Is what Dreambiter is for. Has to hurt. If not me, then ...”

“Then what, Thistle?”

“Then ... others.”

“Who?”

“Mishanti. Thakur. Fessran.” Thistle paused. “You,” she whispered in a tight voice.

“If the Dreambiter is inside, how can it come out and hurt others?” Ratha asked.

“Takes my claws, my teeth. My ... cleverness too. Could kill,” Thistle added.

The cold flatness of her voice made Ratha shiver. The implied threat was not empty. Ratha remembered her struggle with a maddened Thistle-chaser on the wave-washed rocks. Her daughter had come frighteningly close to killing her.

Thistle moaned, and the green swirling in her eyes expanded. “It ... coming.” Her limbs started to jerk and twitch as if she were trying to run away.

“Call to the Dreambiter,” Ratha urged, following an impulse she didn’t understand.

“Coming anyway; why call?”

“Call it to you. Call ... her.”

“Might come out... try to hurt.”

Ratha suppressed a shiver. “Call her anyway.”

Thistle closed her eyes, lifted her muzzle, spoke in a quaver. “Dreambiter, come. Tired of waiting, tired of fearing.”

“Good. More,” Ratha coaxed.

“Come to me, fire-eyes. No more hiding. Biting... not the worst part.”

“What is the worst part, Thistle?”

“Knowing who you are, Dreambiter.”

The answer startled Ratha. For an instant she thought her daughter was deliberately provoking her, then she realized that she had somehow become the apparition’s voice. Again she rebelled, angered and grieved that Thistle could not get beyond that image. But this time she refused to give in to the anger.

Knowing who you are. Wandering alone in the caverns, fire blazing in my eyes. Oh, how I wanted to love you when you were young, Thistle, but I thought you would never speak, would never know me, would never be able to love in the way the Named do.