The Named: The Complete Series

Chapter Sixteen

Thistle wrinkled her nose as she stood by Thakur in the shelter of some low brush. Her mother and the Firekeeper Bira had insisted on bringing the smoke-breathing thing they called the Red Tongue. Luckily the wind was blowing the acrid scent away from the plain where the face-tails grazed.

The hunters had taken and feasted on another animal. The meat smell was heavy in the wind.

“There,” said Thakur quietly, staring toward a lone male who was walking stiffly across the open grass. “That’s Quiet Hunter, isn’t it?”

Thistle looked eagerly in the same direction. She liked Quiet Hunter and had missed him, perhaps more than she’d realized. She wanted to bound out to meet him, but decided that a cautious approach was probably better.

Glancing back she saw Bira tending a small fire in a cleared area while Khushi laid out sticks to serve as torches if the need arose. Ratha was overseeing the preparations.

Thistle took in the scene with mixed feelings. It was good that her mother and the others wanted to protect her. But they could ruin everything if they ran out into the midst of Quiet Hunter’s people with torches.

“Make sure… fire carriers stay here,” she said to Thakur. “Don’t want them… unless fighting happens. And it shouldn’t.”

He promised that he would, and Thistle left the sheltering thicket and walked toward Quiet Hunter.

Her heart felt as though it were slamming around inside her ribs, like a trapped creature seeking a way out. Would the others accept her again? Or would they remember that she had behaved strangely the first time, falling into a fit and then fleeing. Would Quiet Hunter remember that she had cared for him, tried to heal him? Or would he sense her difference and turn on her, or worse yet, summon the others to drive her away?

As she approached the young male, she saw others take notice. Heads turned and muzzles pointed in her direction, but no one rose to challenge. Without turning his gaze toward her, Quiet Hunter seemed to know she was there. He stopped walking and stood still, as if waiting.

Almost shyly, she came up and touched noses with him. The coolness of his nose leather, the brush of his whiskers, the scent of his fur seemed to draw Thistle inward, away from her outside self. She did not have to initiate the journey into trance. It just seemed to happen.

She knew an instant of fear, for she sensed that she was back in the depths where the Dreambiter prowled. But something coming from Quiet Hunter seemed to hold the apparition away, letting her move forward on the path toward a distant voice and a haunting song.

At last he spoke to her. “There is rejoicing. One who gave care and healing has come back.”

An upsurge of affection made Thistle rub her head against his, words spilling from her. “Didn’t want to run away. Fond of Quiet Hunter. Wanted to stay and help. Got afraid. Of things inside.”

“Things inside can frighten and hurt most of all,” said Quiet Hunter. “But the song heals. Quiet Hunter likes …” He faltered, puzzled. “The words that belong. They are not known.”

“Thistle-chaser,” she said, knowing that in his strange way, he was asking for her name. “Easier to say just Thistle.”

“Quiet Hunter likes Thistle,” he answered, his eyes glowing.

“And Thistle likes Quiet Hunter,” she said, rubbing herself alongside him, her eyes closed in happiness. When she opened them again, she was startled to see that others had come up and were standing in a circle around her and Quiet Hunter.

Again she felt a flash of panic and the distant thread of the song was interrupted by the echoing roar of the Dreambiter.

“Do not be afraid,” said Quiet Hunter. “All know of the help and the healing. All wish to touch noses and share the song. Bent Whiskers wishes to be first.”

Hesitantly Thistle turned to the old female whose kinked whiskers had earned her the name. She brought her muzzle up to the other’s, breathed her scent. And as she did, she thought the song that was singing deep inside grew stronger.

Next was Tooth-broke-on-a-bone. As Thistle touched his nose and breathed his scent, the song increased again, not only in power, but in clarity and beauty.

With each greeting, each recognition, the strength of the internal melody grew, but never became unbearable. Thistle’s spirit leaped in wild joy. Quiet Hunter and his people were her brothers and sisters. These ones knew her in a way that the Named never could. And they had a gift that all of the cleverness and eloquence of the Named could not equal—a wordless acceptance that wrapped her in warmth and lifted her spirit to dizzying heights.

The song soared within her, joining her with those who also heard and were seized by its power. Fright, doubt, uncertainty were all swept away by the golden voice.

Nearly breathless with awe and joy, she turned to the last of those in the circle. Quiet Hunter did not have to say the words that belonged to this one. Thistle already knew who he was.

True-of-voice.

Trembling, she touched her nose to the leader’s and felt the song surge within her. No longer was it one voice, but many. The image of True-of-voice became overlapped by others—an even grayer male, a pure-white female, and more, who faded into the distance.

See those who came before, said the song. Those who were once True-of-voice—the grandsire, the granddam, the ones in whom the song flowed. They still sing in the one who is now True-of-voice, carrying their wisdom beyond death.

She listened to the song and learned the nature of Quiet Hunter’s people.

True-of-voice did not rule the hunters. He did not need to. There was no requirement for obedience. Every act was obedience, because nothing else was possible. The song guided, shaped, and healed. There was nothing else but the song. It filled, it soothed, it brought peace, it brought rapture. One didn’t have to want; one didn’t even have to have a self to want, for everything needed was given in abundance.

She offered herself gladly in return and rejoiced.