The Named: The Complete Series

Chapter Twenty-Two

The following morning, everyone in Ratha’s group assembled at the foot of the trail up to the cliff top. To Thistle’s surprise, Quiet Hunter was there, too, even though he looked weak and shaky.

“Must tell people that you are trying to help,” he said, leaning against Thakur, who stood beside him. Thistle felt a strong surge of affection and gratitude to the herding teacher for his dedication to Quiet Hunter. Thakur had stayed beside him, trying to calm him, to heal the pain caused by the loss of the song. Even though the gentle healer and teacher knew that his caring would not save Quiet Hunter, he gave all that he could.

And now Quiet Hunter, in his own way, was trying to give something back.

Thistle was startled by something touching the nape of her neck. It was the treeling, a still-strange sensation. She wasn’t used to carrying Biaree, although he had been with her since the end of the teaching sessions of the previous day. Bira had insisted on this, though Thistle knew that the Firekeeper missed the companionship of her treeling.

One day and one night—it wasn’t nearly enough time to form the kind of partnership that the task demanded. If not ready, my fault, not Biaree’s, Thistle thought. For it was as if the treeling understood the importance of what he was being trained to do. He had accepted both an abrupt change in companions as well as an intense series of training sessions. And all without any treeling fussiness or outbursts of temper.

He had tied innumerable knots around Named paws with various different sizes of vines. Thakur, in addition to caring for Quiet Hunter, had doubled as paw donor, for his feet were probably the closest in size to True-of-voice’s. He had to put up not only with having loops tied around his feet but with having the vines yanked on, since Biaree had been taught to test knots as well as make them.

Now the Named were about to see if all their preparation was enough.

Thistle watched as Ratha arranged everyone for the climb up the trail and the first confrontation with the hunters who were still keeping vigil for True-of-voice. She felt herself fidgeting with impatience as Ratha trotted from one to the other, assigning them their roles in the rescue attempt. She had sought True-of-voice’s song and could not find it. The leader might already be dead, or close to it. Any more delay and . . .

Even so, Thistle could see that what her mother was doing made sense. Ratha had put herself, Khushi, and Bira in the lead. Bira carried fire embers, nestled in a sand-filled basket that had a carrying loop. She and her treeling had made it together. Khushi had a mouthful of dry pine branches that would light quickly, if needed. It was a compromise—Ratha had originally wanted Bira to carry a lighted torch to repel any attack. It was not Thistle’s objection that had changed the clan leader’s mind, but Quiet Hunter’s soft plea that the Red Tongue not be used against his people unless there was no other way.

Thistle herself was next, with Biaree on her shoulders. Behind her came Thakur, with loops and coils of heavy vines tied onto his back and flanks. He also had a few packets of food and chunks of melon, so that the hunger and thirst that threatened True-of-voice might be fended off long enough to get the trapped leader down. Beside Thakur walked Quiet Hunter, carrying some of the lighter coils of vine ropes.

“All right, Thistle,” Ratha announced. “We’re ready.”

Ratha and Bira set the upward pace—a ground-eating jog-trot. Even so, Thistle had to keep herself from forcing her way forward or crowding the three before her. She also fought to control her fear that True-of-voice might be beyond help. She needed to keep calm in order to avoid alarming Biaree. So far the partnership had worked out astonishingly well, but she knew how quickly it had been formed and how easily it might be destroyed.

It was hard going, especially the last section of the trail, which led to the top, where the hunters were still gathered. Thistle felt herself sweating so heavily through her pads that dust seemed to turn to slippery mud beneath her feet. Would the hunters attack? Would they rush the party as soon as she and the Named appeared? If she were attacked, what would Biaree do? Could they keep the treeling safe from the hunters?

Can’t lose Biaree. Without him, have no hope of rescuing True-of-voice.

Thistle watched Khushi, trotting ahead of her, clench his teeth on the unlit firebrands as the party emerged from the trail to the cliff top.

“Slow,” came Ratha’s voice from in front, and everyone eased to a cautious pace. Thistle could feel Biaree crouch down low on her neck. She gave a low purr to reassure him, the way Bira had taught her.

Now she could see the hunters. They were still gathered at the cliff edge. Some were sprawled out the way Quiet Hunter had been until she sang to him. Some were staggering back and forth, their bleeding paws mute witness that they had been pacing like this for days. Some were circling endlessly, their heads hanging low.

None had groomed or eaten, despite the presence of meat from the kill lying in rotting, fly-ridden piles. Their coats were dusty, matted. Some of the hunters had bare, raw patches where they had obsessively licked themselves or pulled out hair. Ribs showed and stomachs were shrunken. Drool hung from half-open mouths.

Thistle felt her own belly clench at the sight. Thought I was exaggerating about them dying. But they are.

She hoped that the hunters might be too weak or crazed to offer the Named any resistance, but her hope faded as the mourning howls turned to snarls, heads were lowered, and teeth showed.

In front, she saw Ratha narrow her eyes, take an unlit firebrand from Khushi, and hold it, ready to dip the end in Bira’s embers. There was suddenly a flurry behind her as Quiet Hunter staggered forward as fast as his shaky legs would carry him. Past the Firekeeper, past the clan leader, out to his own people, even though they had expelled him, threatened to kill him . . .

Looking at the torture in their eyes, Thistle knew that loss and pain were demanding blood, and they did not care whose. And looking at her mother’s face and the jaws gripping the torch, she knew that Ratha was ready to defend her own group—and Quiet Hunter—with the equal savagery of the Red Tongue.

Hoping that Biaree would stay quiet, Thistle also left her place, moving toward her mother. She heard Quiet Hunter speaking, trying to fend off the threatened attack with gentle words. He knew their pain, he said. He, too, was dying from it. But the ones with him intended to help. They had not come to prey but to heal.

The hunters would not believe. They were too deeply in pain to believe. The sight and smell of the strangers and the hint of their weapon, even though hidden in the basket of sand and embers, was too much to accept. Thistle knew that things would break down—were already breaking down, even though Quiet Hunter was desperately trying to get through to the rest.

“Quiet Hunter offers himself,” she heard him saying. “If anger must take life, then Quiet Hunter is ready. If the pain of losing the song is eased by killing, then Quiet Hunter is willing to be killed.”

His words sent a charge of fear through Thistle, so strongly that she felt the treeling react, too—hunching and stiffening. It was all she could do not to leap to Quiet Hunter’s side with teeth bared and claws ready. But she knew that if she did, both he and she would die, and the treeling as well. Even scaring Biaree might destroy any chance of saving True-of-voice.

As she purred to quiet the treeling, she saw Ratha turn her head, the torch-stick in her mouth moving to the source that birthed the Red Tongue.

If the flame-creature took life at the end of the branch, Quiet Hunter would not die, but any chance of reaching the hunters would. Though Thistle’s whole being cried out in agony at the choice, she made it.

With a quick nudge, Thistle sent Biaree to temporary safety with Bira.

Moving more quickly and quietly than she thought she could, she reached Ratha. Her teeth met around the unlit torch in Ratha’s mouth. As her eyes met those of her mother, she felt Ratha resist, and the branch was held between them in an abrupt tugging contest.

Ratha flicked her gaze toward Quiet Hunter, who stood with head lowered, accepting the claw swipes that were already opening wounds on his sides and flanks. His refusal to defend or guard himself was making the attackers hesitate, but it wouldn’t keep them off for long.

“For him,” Thistle heard her mother hiss through her teeth.

For an instant they were locked together, braced against each other. Thistle knew that her mother was stronger. Ratha could jerk the firebrand away from her easily. Yet something seemed to be happening deep in her green eyes. Ratha’s jaws loosened on the unlit firebrand, and Thistle heard the whisper of her mother’s voice. “For you, Thistle.”

The stick was in her own mouth and her heart was pounding wildly. She threw it aside. It was not the weapon to defend Quiet Hunter. But what was?

And then she heard it—the distant, slender echo in her mind. The song. And it said, This One knows what Thistle-chaser is trying to do. If only the people would understand.

They would if they could hear you, True-of-voice.

Then let them hear. Through you. Sing to them.

My song, my voice—not the same. Cannot be the same for them. They need the center, the soul, the strength.

The strength is gone. Death is too near. From True-of-voice take the center and the soul. From you, add the strength.

Thistle couldn’t answer. She could make no reply. Only to search within herself for what he asked for.

And then, as Quiet Hunter reeled back from another vicious strike and the threatening snarls from the hunters grew deeper, Thistle lifted her voice in the song.

* * *

Ratha looked up at the sky. The sun had moved only a little, but somehow things below—in hearts, bellies, and heads—had moved an immense distance.

She glanced at Quiet Hunter, who was with his people. The one who had first struck him was now licking and soothing his wounds. Such was the power of the song, even when it came from Thistle.

I’ll never understand these hunters, she thought. I’ll probably never like them, but at least I’m willing to give them a chance.

She crouched by the cliff edge, watching Thistle send Biaree down with bits of food and thirst-quenching melon for True-of-voice. Thakur had said that hunger and thirst were probably weakening him more than any injuries he might have. The hunters lay as close as they could get, yet out of the way of the rescue effort.

Thakur crouched close to Thistle so that Biaree could take the bits of life-preserving food to the one who so desperately needed them. In his mouth Thakur held the end of the slender vine safety rope. The other end was knotted securely about the treeling’s middle. Bira and Khushi stood ready to help Thakur with the rope or get more food.

Biaree had already made several trips up and down the cliff face, carrying as much as he could, but to Ratha, the amounts seemed woefully small.

She joined the rescuers, settling beside Thakur.

“I think we’ve fed True-of-voice as much as we can,” the herding teacher was saying to Thistle. “We don’t want to tire Biaree out; he’s still got to get the vines tied onto the leader’s paws and around his chest, if possible.”

Ratha felt a growing apprehension. Soon would come the moment that she dreaded, when Thistle would descend with her borrowed treeling. She felt that she had too many things to say, yet could not say any of them. She wished deeply that she could be the one to act in Thistle’s place, but she knew that she couldn’t. All other considerations aside, there was the simple fact that Thistle was the smallest of the party and better able to sidle along the narrow shelf. She, like the treeling, would have a safety line, and her lighter weight would minimize the chances of it snapping.

Although a good jerk probably would break it, Ratha thought. We don’t know. We haven’t been able to try it out. I wouldn’t be so worried if it weren’t for those wretched fits. They attack her at the worst possible times.

She listened as Thakur and her daughter talked about the difficulties Biaree would encounter when the treeling went down with the ropes. If True-of-voice was awake, he might be able to help by lifting his limbs and other parts so that Biaree could pass the vine rope around them. Yet, if he was awake, he might accidentally scare the treeling, especially if he was in delirium or only half-conscious.

“Can you reach him?” Thakur asked.

“Difficult. Not clear. Fading in and out.” Thistle squeezed her eyes shut. “Can’t be sure. Really reached him? Don’t know. Maybe song voices were all in my own head.”

“Well, even if they were, they were the right voices.”

“So strange,” Thistle said. “Even for me.” She shook herself. “Can’t wait any longer. Treeling Biaree,” she said, gently nudging her borrowed companion, “True-of-voice won’t hurt you. Go now. Quickly.”

She looked deeply into the treeling’s sharp black eyes, making Ratha wonder if the strange gift that made Thistle able to speak to True-of-voice’s people also worked with treelings. And then with a chitter and a scamper, the treeling was down on the cliff face, finding his way to the trapped leader, holding the end of the vine rope alternately in his teeth or wound around with his tail.

Thistle wore a vine-rope harness made of two loops.

One ran under her chest behind her forelegs; the other was a breastband that anchored the first. Thakur had suggested it and Biaree had tied it, under Bira’s direction. Biaree had also tied the far end to a stout spur of rock. It would help in case of a fall, but it was no guarantee.

Ratha, wrapped up in her thoughts, was startled when Thistle’s cool nose leather touched her own.

“Be with me,” said the soft yet strong voice. “In heart, in breath. Even in guts.”

“I will be, especially the guts,” said Ratha, for she felt her own start to roll and twist with trepidation. She forced herself to watch as Thistle started to climb down, headfirst, after the treeling.

* * *

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 there 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-mother. 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.

In some ways Quiet Hunter is the real leader of this group, Ratha thought. True-of-voice may have the gift of the song, but Quiet Hunter has a way of inspiring trust.

When her shakiness retreated enough so that she could creep back to the cliff edge and peer over, she saw that the rescue was already underway.

One problem immediately became apparent. The cliff edge was not an overhang that would have allowed the rescuers to raise True-of-voice by just pulling up on freely dangling ropes. There was a backward slant to the rock face, and the edge itself had been worn and broken. The ropes could not be allowed to rub against the rocks as they passed over the edge, or the vines would fray and tear.

Thakur and Quiet Hunter solved the difficulty, with more cooperation from the hunters themselves. By lying on their backs, pushing the vine ropes up off the ground with their paws, they protected the lines against damage and allowed them to slide slowly but freely. Several of True-of-voice’s people even draped themselves over the edge, their companions hanging onto their forepaws, in order to use their powerful hind legs to cantilever the lines away from the cliff.

Soon True-of-voice was suspended by the vines that had been tied by treeling hands.

Ratha felt Thistle come alongside her, with Biaree still onboard.

“Treeling tied good knots,” Thistle said, giving her companion an affectionate nudge. “Nothing slipped.” She paused, then yowled at Thakur, who was helping Quiet Hunter. “Tell those fur-brained furballs not to bite down so hard. Will break the ropes!”

Ratha grinned to herself. Talk about leadership. She had a good idea who would probably be leading the clan when her fur did go gray and her muzzle turned white. Thistle’s even bossier than I am.

Slowly, carefully, True-of-voice was lifted, then lowered past the ledge where he’d been trapped. The teams of rope holders kept the lines securely anchored, yet allowed them to slip.

“Easier if we had treeling paws,” Thistle said, watching. “But using teeth works too. Wouldn’t want to be where True-of-voice is now, though. Had enough of hanging off rocks.”

Ratha narrowed her eyes, wondering if True-of-voice was alert enough to be aware of what was going on. She thought she had seen his eyes flutter open briefly. But he was either aware enough or unconscious enough not to struggle.

Just don’t die before we get you to the bottom. And don’t die then either.

As the vine-roped form descended, the hunters who had been moping at the foot of the cliff gathered and waited, their heads lifted, their eyes filled with wonder and hope.

And then came the moment when the ropes went slack because their burden had reached the ground. A weary team of rescuers, Named and hunters alike, turned to one another with relieved expressions. Below, at the foot of the cliff, the ones who had been keeping vigil now crowded in around their leader.

Thakur came to Ratha with Quiet Hunter. They crouched beside Ratha as Thakur said, “I’m going down there with him. Have you recovered enough to go with us?”

In answer, Ratha sprang to her feet. “We’d better hurry before they kill him with happiness. Thistle, you come, too. But watch your treeling.”

She saw a look of pleased surprise come over her daughter’s face.

Yes, I’m going to treat you as an equal now, so get used to it.

* * *

Once all the tumultuous greetings had died down, the hunters stood aside so that the Named and their healer could get to True-of-voice. At the bottom of the cliff,Ratha watched, wondering if all the effort had been for nothing or whether True-of-voice would survive.

Thakur worked devotedly over the hunting clan’s leader while others of the Named ran back and forth, gathering the herbs he asked for.

“He’s pretty battered, Ratha,” Thakur said when he paused briefly in his efforts, “but there are no severe wounds. What nearly killed him was lack of water.”

He spent the rest of the day and most of the night tending True-of-voice, while both the Named and the hunters kept a quiet but hopeful vigil.

Their patience was rewarded when a weary Thakur at last came to Ratha and said that True-of-voice would take several days to recover his strength, but he was out of danger. When Ratha had Quiet Hunter announce it to his people, there were yowls of joy.

Her gaze went to Thistle and Quiet Hunter, standing on each side of Thakur and helping to keep the herding teacher from falling over out of sheer exhaustion.

The two did not join in the outburst of celebration, but Ratha could tell by the looks they exchanged that they were the happiest of all.

* * *

Thistle is not the only one who can cross over between the two peoples. Quiet Hunter, who can swim in the bright and bubbling flow of the song, can also walk the trails of the Named.

The gift the Named have given to the hunters is the words that they have taught.

Understanding. Acceptance. Wisdom.

In both clans.

The song is heard.

* * *

There had never been such a meeting between the Named and outsiders before, Ratha thought. The same was true for the hunters, or so True-of-voice said. Ratha had received the information through Thistle and Quiet Hunter. She had not yet spoken directly to True-of-voice at any length, although she had exchanged brief words with him while he lay under Thakur’s care.

The meeting took place on the open grassy plain. Each of the two tribes sat in a semicircle around its leader. Both leaders had someone special at their sides. Beside Ratha sat Thistle, her eyes clear, her ears up, and a treeling perched on her shoulder. Across from Ratha was True-of-voice, the massive gray male who was more than just a leader to those who clustered about him. Beside True-of-voice sat Quiet Hunter.

The two who can cross over to the others’ trails. The messengers. The sinews that bind our tribes together.

Among the Named were those who had not been on the initial search for face-tails. Beside Thakur in the half circle of the Named sat Fessran and others who had been summoned to be present.

The excited buzz that was running through both sides of the circle died down. As if it were a signal, both Thistle and Quiet Hunter rose, their gazes fixed on each other. Ratha knew that for these two, little else existed right now. The bond between her daughter and the shy son of the hunting group was far more than the mating of male and female. Thistle and Quiet Hunter shared experiences that none of their people had known. Each had had to break out of a familiar way of being and risk those things that they valued most. Now both were being rewarded.

As Thistle and Quiet Hunter came together and touched noses, Ratha felt that something new had been born—a feeling deeper than any that could be felt by members of either tribe alone. When she looked across to True-of-voice, she knew that he realized the same thing, for his gaze was also fixed on the young pair.

True-of-voice. I have wondered about him. I have hated him. Now I am about to know him.

Thistle and Quiet Hunter came first to Ratha, one flanking her on each side.

“I am still a little afraid,” Ratha said in a low voice to her daughter.

“Everyone here is also. That is where the bravery is,” Thistle answered. “You are brave enough, Ratha-mother.”

The daughter of the Named and the son of the hunters brushed close to Ratha on either side as they escorted her to the center point of the full circle made up by the two tribes. The pair then went to True-of-voice, took up positions to either side of him, and brought the leader forward.

Ratha watched him approach, her heart beating hard with a mixture of trepidation and hope. He and she were so different. His people and the Named were so alien to each other. How could it possibly work?

Yet, looking at Thistle and Quiet Hunter, she knew that it could. With enough wisdom . . . and bravery . . . on both sides.

She extended her head for the nose-touch, breathed in True-of-voice’s breath, and gave hers to be breathed in by him.

What is it like to walk in a dream with your people? To be center and soul to them? To be the wellspring of the song?

He’s probably asking himself what it is like to be me, how I can be leader to a bunch of stubborn characters who not only know their own names but think for themselves whether I want them to or not!

True-of-voice, I don’t think we are that different after all.

Finding her voice, Ratha said, “We of the Named are here to join your people in friendship. We have talents that we will share, abilities that we will teach, if your tribe wishes.”

“The value of those things has been shown,” answered True-of-voice. “The Named saved this life, this song, this people. Named gifts will be accepted with joy and things given in return.”

She listened as he proposed the kinds of exchanges that would help both tribes. The Named would be allowed to take face-tails and add them to their herds if they so wished. If they needed help, the hunters would provide it. In return, the hunters might wish to adopt Named herding skills and learn about some of the other herdbeasts, such as the three-horn deer and dapplebacked horses.

There was also interest in treelings. The continued presence of Biaree on Thistle’s shoulder, as she went among the members of the hunting tribe, had sparked curiosity. Ratha noticed that True-of-voice’s people went to great lengths to make sure that the treeling was never alarmed or threatened.

Biaree was now Thistle’s. Ratha had not intended it to happen, but somehow the bond that had formed between her daughter and the treeling during the rescue of True-of-voice was deeper and stronger than the one that Bira, Biaree’s original companion, had built.

Ratha glanced over at Bira. The little ruddy-coated Firekeeper looked proud, yet there was a sadness in her eyes. She had been with Biaree since the treeling’s birth, carefully training him in the skills that she and he both needed to carry out the duties demanded by the Red Tongue. And then, in only a few days, she had lost him to Thistle.

It was a measure of Bira’s clear-sightedness that she had been the one to suggest that the temporary arrangement be made permanent. Biaree could have come back to her, for he had kept his affection for his first companion. But what had been created between Thistle and the treeling had a seriousness and a depth that went beyond the usual treeling-Named bond. Perhaps having a life at stake had increased the two partners’ devotion to each other.

I will make sure that Bira gets the first choice of the next treeling litter. As Thistle said, everyone is showing bravery, and Bira is not the least.

As Ratha gazed at her daughter, she realized that the change inside Thistle was starting to change her outside.

She’s not so scruffy anymore. She’s filling out a bit. And when she grooms her coat, she’s really quite pretty.

The meeting was starting to wind down. True-of-voice was making one last suggestion, one he was sure that the Named would agree to.

Thistle and Quiet Hunter would be allowed to move freely from one tribe to the other, staying together and using their combined skills to aid the members of both tribes to understand one another. There would be disagreements, perhaps even open conflicts. That was inevitable between peoples as different as theirs. But with two who could walk both sets of trails, there would be a better chance that matters could be settled without fighting.

We are setting out on another journey—one I never thought we’d ever take. But it feels right.

It happened because of you, Thistle. I never knew that daughters could help their mothers grow up. You yourself may be a mother some day. You already are, in a sense. A mother to two tribes of quarreling cubs that are also learning.

You have more than I ever hoped. A place. A purpose. A treeling companion to comfort you. And another companion, if I am any judge of what Quiet Hunter wants. He will be a gentle, devoted mate, I think. He is what you need.

And there is also . . .

One who is still struggling to find the best ways. Not only for myself and the Named, but for others as well.

A clan leader, a Dreambiter, a Dreamhealer. Impatient, reckless, carrier of fire, bearer of cubs. Jumping into unknown abysses, scrambling up dangerous cliffs. Facing challenges—and the greatest one is you.

You have a new name for me now.

Ratha-mother.