CONTENTS

Ratha’s Creature

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

TO M. COLEMAN EASTON,

Ratha leaped over a fern thicket and dug her paws into the spongy ground as she dodged sharp horns. One prong sifted through her fur and she skittered away from the beast. She turned and stood her ground with hunched shoulders and twitching tail. Her quarry advanced. A two-pronged horn on the stag’s nose joined the crown of points on the head and it lowered the entire array, charging at Ratha. She launched herself at the deer, both front paws spread. She landed on her rear paws and bounced sideways as the multi-horn pivoted heavily, trying to catch her on its spikes and pin her to the ground.

Each time the horns came near her, Ratha jumped sideways, forcing the stag to turn in a tight circle, unable to build up any speed or momentum. After several such circles, the beast’s knees were trembling and Ratha smelled the sweat that was darkening the coarse, gray-tipped coat. At last the animal stopped and lifted its head. Wary brown eyes studied Ratha from behind the forked nose horn as she planted all four feet in the mossy soil beneath the trees, still but tensed, ready to spring if the deer lunged again.

The beast danced uneasily on its slender legs, sweating and snorting, turning one eye and then the other on Ratha. She knew that it had no experience with those of the clan. Most meat-eaters the three-horn encountered would tuck their tails between their legs when that fierce spiked crown turned their way. The fanged ones would run, not bounce around in circles. The stag’s eyes were angry and the beast lowered its crown and pawed the soil, but the rage in its eyes was dulled by fear.

Ratha fixed her eyes on those of the deer. Slowly, deliberately, she walked toward it. Still tossing its head, the stag backed away from her. Ratha felt the intensity of her stare as she watched the beast retreat, and a feeling of triumph began to grow as she placed one paw after another on the multi-horn’s reversed tracks and smelled the creature’s bewilderment. She moved from one side to the other, blocking any attempts it might make to get past her. At last, she told herself, she had mastered the skill. At last the weeks of practice would yield results. Thakur’s whiskers would bristle with pride.

A dragonfly buzzed across Ratha’s nose, its iridescence stealing her attention from her quarry. The stag bellowed. Ratha jerked her head around, but she had barely time to realize she had lost control before the beast was on top of her, striking out with sharp hooves and goring the dirt with its horns.

Ratha fled, tucking her tail and squalling. The stag chased her and they ran a frantic race through the trees. Ratha glanced back as her paws slipped and skidded on pine needles and saw the points just behind her tail.

“Up a tree, yearling!” a voice yowled on her left, and with one bound, Ratha was halfway up a young pine, beyond reach of the tossing horns. She climbed higher, showering her opponent with bark and stinging wood ants. “Thakur!” she wailed.

A copper-brown head appeared through a clump of curled ferns. Thakur looked up at Ratha and down at the stag. He gathered himself and sprang onto the animal’s back. He flung his powerful forelegs around the three-horn’s neck and dug his rear claws into its back as it plunged and screamed. As Ratha watched from above, he twisted his head sideways and drove his fangs into the stag’s nape behind the head. Ratha saw his jaw muscles bunch in his cheeks and temples as blood streamed down the stag’s neck, and she heard the sound of teeth grinding on bone. His jaws strained and closed. The stag toppled over, its neck broken.

Thakur paced around his prey as it kicked and twitched. Then he stopped, his sides still heaving, and looked up at Ratha.

“Are you any better at climbing down from trees than you are at stalking three-horns?”

Ratha felt her hackles rising. “Yarrr! That buzz-fly flew in front of my nose! Didn’t you see?” She turned herself around and started to back down the tree.

“The last time, you were startled by a mud-croaker. If you can’t keep your mind on what you are doing, yearling, go back to Fessran and her dapplebacks.”

The cub dropped the rest of the way and landed beside him. She turned her head and nosed along her back. That prong had come close to her skin.

“Never mind a few tufts of fur,” Thakur said crossly.

“I don’t mind losing cub fur.” Ratha smoothed her coat, now turning fawn but still faintly spotted. She lifted her head and stared defiantly at Thakur. “I was close, wasn’t I? If I hadn’t looked away, he would have been on his way to the herd.”

“Yes, you were close,” Thakur admitted. “Your stare is good; I see you have worked on it. Now you must learn to let nothing distract you. Once you have the animal’s eye, don’t lose it. Make them fear you and make that fear paralyze them until they cannot disobey you.” He looked at the fallen stag, lying still in a patch of sunlight. His whiskers twitched with what Ratha knew was annoyance. “I didn’t want to kill that one. He would have given the does many strong young.”

“Why did you kill him? The clan has meat.”

“It wasn’t for meat.” Thakur stared at Ratha and she noticed a slight acrid tang in his smell, telling her he was irritated. “Nor was it to spare you. I could have chased him to the herd. He broke your stare, Ratha. He learned that he did not need to fear you and that you feared him. Beasts that know that kill herders.”

“Why must we have three-horns in the herd?” Ratha grumbled. “They’re hard to manage. They fight among themselves and bully the other animals.”

“They are larger and yield more meat. They have more young. And,” Thakur added, “they are harder for the raiders to kill and drag away.”

Ratha trotted over and sniffed the stag, filling her nose with its musky aroma. Her belly growled. She felt a firm paw pushing her away. “No, yearling. Meoran will be displeased enough that I killed the beast. He will be further angered if any fangs touch it before his.”

Ratha helped Thakur drag the carcass out of the sun and brushed away the flies. Her belly rumbled again. Thakur heard it and grinned at her. “Patience, yearling. You’ll eat tonight.”

“If Meoran and the others leave anything but hide and bones,” Ratha complained. “There is never enough meat at the clan kill, and I have to wait until those even younger than I have filled their bellies.”

“How do you know they are younger?” Thakur said as Ratha took one last hungry look at the kill. “Cherfan’s spots are no darker than yours.”

“Arr. Cherfan ate before I did last night and I know his litter came after mine, Thakur Torn-Claw. I am older, yet he eats first.”

Thakur soothed her. “Your spots are just taking a long time to fade. You are too impatient, yearling. Two seasons ago, I ate last and often went hungry. It was hard for me then and I know it is hard for you now, but it will change.”

Ratha twitched one ear. “Shall I try the three-horn again? Maybe a doe would be easier than a stag.”

Thakur squinted up through the trees. “The sun is starting to fall. By the time we find one, Yaran will be looking for you.”

Her whiskers went back. “Arr, the old roarer. Hasn’t he enough cubs to look after that he must worry about me?” She snorted, thinking about her lair-father. Yaran had a harsh, gravelly voice and no inhibitions about speaking his mind. She knew that had his brother Meoran not been the firstborn, Yaran would have been clan leader and, she admitted, perhaps a better one than Meoran. He was kind to her in his rough way, but he would stand no nonsense from cubs.

“We have time left for some practice, Ratha,” Thakur said, regaining her attention. “I noticed that your spring was too high and that midair twist needs improving.”

He started her practicing dodges, turns and springs. After watching and commenting on her technique, he assumed the part of a wayward herdbeast while Ratha used her training to capture him and force him to the herd.

As Thakur watched the lithe muscled form darting and turning in front of him, he remembered how hard he had argued with her lair-father about training her in the art of herding.

“She is quick, she is strong, she can outsmart most of the cubs born before her,” he’d told Yaran as the two stood together in almost the same place as he was now, watching Yaran’s small daughter chase a young dappleback. “Look how she runs that little animal and has no fear of it. Not to train her, Yaran, would be a waste and the clan can’t waste ability like hers.”

“True, three-year-old,” Yaran rumbled, swishing his gray tail. “She is strong and she is strong of mind. It is already difficult to make her obey, and I fear that training her as you suggest would make her less tractable than she is now. And less easy for me to find her a mate.”

Thakur remembered arguing until his tongue was tired and then going to old Baire, who was then leader, taking Ratha along. Baire saw the cub’s talent and overruled Yaran. Thakur was allowed to teach her his skill. He and Yaran exchanged few words these days, but that loss was small in comparison to Ratha’s gain.

The cub sprinted back and forth in the grass, the afternoon sun turning her fawn coat to gold. Soon her spots would be gone and she would no longer be a cub. Her spirit challenged him and sometimes frustrated him, but he never tried to break it as he knew Yaran had. And, although he would scarcely admit it to himself, in the back of his mind was the hope that when she grew old enough for a mate, she might take him, even though his family and age placed him low in comparison to the clan status of other males Yaran might choose for her.

Thakur raised his chin and scratched at a flea behind his ear. “Despite what I say sometimes, yearling, I have no regrets about choosing you to train. You are good, Ratha, in spite of your mistakes. When I have finished training you, you will be the best herder in the clan.” He paused. “I don’t often praise you, yearling. Perhaps I should.” He routed the flea and lay down again. “Here is something that will please you more than words. I want you to stand guard with me and the other herders tonight.”

Ratha sat up, her whiskers quivering. “Can I? Will Meoran let me? He needs the best herders of the clan.”

“I told him that you are good enough. Meoran may think little of me in other ways, but when I speak about herding, he listens. Do you want to come?”

Ratha swallowed. “Will there be fighting?”

“If there is, you will keep out of it. Do you want to come with me tonight?”

“Yes!”

“Good.” Thakur got up and stretched, spreading his pads against the ground. “Help me drag this kill to the dens and I will see that you get enough to eat this evening. The clan cannot let those who guard the herds against the Un-Named grow weak from hunger.”

“Will the raid come tonight?” Ratha asked, pacing alongside her teacher.

“Meoran thinks it will. He has scouts watching the Un-Named.”

“I’ve seen them a few times. They hide behind trees or crouch in the shadows. They watch us just as we watch them.” Ratha trotted to match Thakur’s longer stride. “I’ve often wondered who they are and why they are without names.”

“Perhaps you will learn tonight, yearling,” he answered.

They reached the stag’s carcass. Thakur pushed one stiff foreleg aside and seized the neck while Ratha grabbed the rear leg by the hock. Together they lifted the kill and carried it away through the trees.

Ratha followed the white spot bobbing in the darkness ahead of her. She smelled resin, heard needles rustle and ducked beneath a branch that overhung the trail. She had seen the moon through the trees as she left her den, but here the dense forest hid its light. The white spot grew smaller and Thakur’s footsteps fainter. She hurried to catch up. She didn’t need to follow Thakur’s tail tip; she could guide herself well enough at night even though she was used to living by day. But the white spot drew her on and she followed without thinking, as she had followed the white of her mother’s tail through the tall grass of the meadow. Ratha remembered the one time she had dared to disobey. Panic had tightened her belly and sent her scampering back to Narir. She was beyond her cubhood now, but the night to her was a very large and awesome creature and the flickering spot ahead promised protection.

She followed, looking about as she ran, and wondered at how her vision changed at night. She had run night trails before, but they were short paths from one den to another, short enough that the thoughts filling her head as her feet trod the path never let her notice what she was seeing. Now the trail was longer and she was beginning to shed her cub-thoughts with her spotted fur. Now, as if it knew she was using her mind with her eyes, night crept out of its murky den and showed itself to her. The crystal light of the moon cut through the trees and gave every knobbled root, scaled patch of bark or curled fern a harsh presence, a clarity that was too sharp. She looked at night-lit trees and stones and felt she could cut her paw pads on their edges.

Ratha smelled mossy stone and damp fur. She heard Thakur’s pads slap on mud as he paced the streambank. He hunched himself, a compact shadow against the moonlit stream, and leaped across. On the other side she saw him wave his tail.

“Cross, yearling,” he said. “You have jumped it before.”

She crouched on a flat stone at the water’s edge, trying to judge the distance to the other shore. The beating in her throat made her thirsty and she lowered her muzzle to drink. In the faint light she saw her own face. Her eyes, green in daylight, were now swallowed up in black. She had seen her own reflection many times before and, when young, had drenched herself trying to swat it. Ratha looked at her night face, the broad nose, small fangs and strange expanded eyes. She turned away from it and jumped over the stream.

Thakur’s tail was flicking back and forth and he smelled uneasy. There was another smell in his scent, one Ratha didn’t know. She trotted toward him, shaking the mud from her paws.

“Hurry, yearling. The others have gone ahead and I don’t want them to wait for us.” His eyes reflected moonlight as he turned once more to the trail.

He set a faster pace than before. Ratha had to gallop to keep up and she felt the weight of her dinner drag at her belly as she ran. She lifted her head, gulping the coolness of the night air to soothe the pulsing in her throat. Smells of the meadow were mixed with the smells of the forest, telling her they would soon be there. The forest began to open. A few stars and then the half-disk of the moon appeared through the canopy.

A branch cracked. The sound was close and sharp, making Ratha start. Thakur, ahead, glanced back but didn’t slow down. The trail ran up a small rise and veered around at the crest. Here the canopy opened and the moon lit the trail. The light silvered Thakur’s coat as he galloped around the curve toward the hollow beyond. Ratha panted up the grade after him, wishing her legs were longer and she had eaten less. As she approached the top, there was a dry scratchy sound. Bark fell from a tree trunk. She looked toward a gnarled oak near the top of the rise. One of its large lower branches paralleled the trail for some distance, making it a short alternate route. As Thakur disappeared over the crest of the little hill, a form dropped from the oak’s branches and ran along the lower limb. For an instant the stranger paused, crouched, one forepaw lifted, staring back at Ratha. Then he was gone.

She leaped off the trail, cutting through the brush. Tucking her tail between her legs, she fled down into the hollow.

Thakur was nowhere to be seen and Ratha stopped, when she regained the trail, her heart pounding. “Ssss, yearling,” came a voice close by. “Here.” Thakur lifted his head from a clump of ferns. “Has Narir taught you no better trail-running than that? I thought a shambleclaw was coming through the bushes.”

“I saw him, Thakur,” Ratha interrupted, her whiskers quivering with excitement.

“What did you see?”

“The Un-Named One. He was there on the branch after you passed. He looked back at me.”

“Yarrr. The Un-Named never allow themselves to be seen. You saw some clan litterling who imagines himself to be a night hunter.” Thakur snorted.

Ratha’s jaw dropped in dismay, then her ears flattened. “No. I saw him. He was there on the branch as if he wanted me to see him. And I have seen him before.”

“When?” Thakur asked.

“Many clan kills ago. I had a fight with Cherfan and he chased me into a thicket at the end of the meadow. He was in there asleep and I ran right over him. He snarled at me.”

Thakur left the ferns and came to her. His steps were quick, his eyes sudden and intense. Ratha smelled the same odor about him she had noticed before.

“Did you tell anyone else?”

“Only Cherfan,” Ratha said hesitantly, “and he never listens to me.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice had a harshness to it Ratha seldom heard, even when he was scolding her during training.

“I didn’t know enough then. Why, Thakur? Are you afraid of the Un-Named One?”

“No.”

Ratha turned toward the trail again, but he nudged her and she stopped.

“Wait, Ratha. The Un-Named One … did he say anything to you?”

She blinked. “You mean, did he … speak?”

The strange smell about Thakur was stronger and suddenly frightening. She sensed he wanted something that he also feared and that he wanted it very much. Ratha felt her tail creeping between her legs and her hackles rise.

“Yes, cub. Did he use words?”

She felt her eyes grow wide as she crouched and he stood over her. Was it the night’s touch that made him seem almost menacing?

“Ratha.”

She backed away from him. A hanging frond touched her back and she jumped. She whined miserably. “Thakur, I don’t understand. Everyone knows that the Un-Named Ones don’t speak. They can’t. They aren’t clever enough.”

Thakur drew back his whiskers and Ratha heard him snarl to himself, “Yes, Meoran. You believe the clanless ones are witless as well. Teach it to the cubs and see how the clan fares.”

“Thakur, the Un-Named can’t speak any more than a herdbeast can,” Ratha said hunching her shoulders stubbornly.

He sighed. His voice grew calm, changing him back into her teacher again. He paced beside her, licking her behind the ears. “I’m sorry, small one. I did not mean to frighten you. Perhaps I should take you back to Narir’s den.” He lifted his head. “This night is strange. I smell things that make me uneasy. This night is not for a cub.”

Ratha sat up and groomed some of the dried leaves out of her fur. Then they went on.

At first, Ratha could think only of the stranger whose eyes had glowed at her from the old oak. Was he one of the Un-Named? And why had Thakur asked her such strange things? There were no answers to her questions. Not yet.

Things moved abruptly at night, making Ratha turn her head and flatten her ears. She was much more aware of motion at night than during the day. Movement she seldom noticed in daylight, such as a grass blade swaying or a leaf falling, brought her head around and made her whiskers bristle. It was not fear, although night was fearsome. The pulse in her throat was excitement. She felt alive this night. All her senses were extended and her skin tingled as if the sensitive whiskers on her face were growing all over her body.

There was a rustle in the bushes ahead on the trail. Thakur skidded to a stop and Ratha nearly ran into him. Over his back, she could see a dark form fleet away.

“There he is again,” she whispered. “I did see him!”

“Arr! Fool, to show yourself!” Thakur hissed into the darkness.

“He is a bad hunter, Thakur,” Ratha said. “He is noisy, like me. He is stupid,” she added, wagging her tail arrogantly. “All of the Un-Named are stupid and I am not afraid of any of them. Ptahh.” She spat.

“Hurry then, yearling,” Thakur said dryly. “We will need your courage in the meadow tonight.”

He took up the trail again and she followed.

Ratha woke shivering. The heavy moisture on her coat was soaking through to her skin. Droplets from her brow whiskers dripped onto her nose. She blinked and shook her head. Fearing that she had dozed away the rest of the night, she peered into the mist for signs of dawn or of Thakur’s return. She saw neither. The sky was still murky overhead and the half-moon a faint wash of light above the dark mass of the trees.

Ratha drew her front paws underneath her and pushed herself up. Pain lanced across her chest and into her forelegs. She felt one of the bite-wounds on her neck pull open as she bent her head down to lick her front. She coaxed her hindquarters up and stood, hanging her head. Everything ached, from her teeth to her tail. Neither Thakur nor Fessran had returned.

The wind blew past her ears with a hollow early-morning wail. It had no effect on the mist, which only grew thicker. Ratha could barely see the grass a tail-length ahead. She tried a step and winced as the motion jarred the pain from her jaws into her head, where it sat throbbing behind her eyes. Why hadn’t she listened to Thakur and climbed a tree when the raider came?

Ratha felt something wedged in her teeth, behind one upper fang. With her tongue, she worked it loose and felt it. A scrap of skin with slimy fur on one side and bitter-tasting wax on the other. A piece of the raider’s ear. She grimaced, spat the ear-scrap out and pawed it aside, feeling a certain grim pleasure.

She tried a few more limping steps, clamping her jaws together to keep her head from ringing. As she walked, the burning knot in her chest loosened, freeing her stride. She spotted something solid in the fog and broke into a shaky trot toward it, hoping it was one of her escaped dapplebacks. She drew her whiskers back in disgust when she realized that she’d been stalking the sunning rock. Well, at least she knew where she was. She hopped on top of the stone and sniffed, knowing that the moist, still air captured and held scent-trails. There. A faint trace, but growing stronger. She inhaled the musky odor of the little horses and climbed down off the sunning rock after them.

Ratha found the dappleback stallion and his mares huddled together, the mist swirling around their legs, their stiff manes and coats flecked with sweat and dew. The faint trace of moonlight made the dapplebacks’ eyes phosphorescent as they watched her. The stallion reared and whinnied, showing his short, pointed canine teeth. Carefully she cut in behind the herd and, as the horses retreated from her, guided them to the sunning rock. She circled the flock, driving the dapplebacks together into a tight bunch. Some of the stragglers returned to the herd, but Ratha knew from the individual scents missing from the herd-smell that many more of the animals were lost or slain.

Ratha stopped her nervous pacing. She stood still and listened, but she could only hear the dapplebacks shuffling behind her. The fog muffled all sounds except those close by. She could neither see nor hear anything from the other end of the meadow. Only smells reached her and they made her fur stand on end. The tang of sweat was acrid in her nose; the odor of blood rich and metallic. The strongest smell was fear, and it seemed to spread over the meadow mixed in with the mist, paralyzing everything it touched.

Another shadow, dim, then definite. A familiar smell, then a familiar figure.

“Ratha?” Thakur’s voice was cautious.

“Here, Thakur,” she answered.

Ratha touched noses with Thakur. He was panting; she felt his warm breath and wet whiskers on her face. “Yearling, this is much worse than I thought it would be. Meoran has badly underestimated the raiders this time.”

Ratha felt fear shoot through her like the pain in her chest. “Have we lost the herd?”

“No, by our teeth and claws we’ve held the raiders back, and if we can hold them until dawn, the fight will be over, for the Un-Named Ones do not attack by day.” Thakur paused and sniffed at her ruff. “You bleed, yearling.”

“I fought, Thakur. I know you told me to climb a tree, but when he killed one of Fessran’s dapplebacks, I ran at him.”

Thakur sighed. “I have trained you too well. Your lair-mother is going to chew my ears for bringing you back wounded.”

“I chewed his ears, Thakur,” Ratha said fiercely. “He got the dappleback, but he left some skin between my teeth.”

“Huh,” Thakur grunted, circling her and nosing her. He licked the bites on her throat, rasping away the fragile clots. He squeezed the wounds with his jaws, forcing the blood to run freely. Ratha squirmed and whimpered.

“Quiet, yearling. Do you want to get an abscess? You will if these heal too quickly. There. I’m finished.”

“Thakur,” Ratha said quickly. “I know who that raider is.”

He blinked and stared at her, an odd stare that made her feel uncomfortable.

“The one on the trail.”

“Yearling, that was—” Thakur began.

“No, he wasn’t a clan whelp! Would a clan-cub have killed one of Fessran’s dapplebacks? Thakur, I saw him and I fought with him.” Ratha paused, watching him carefully. “You asked me, on the trail, if he had spoken to me when I ran over him that time in the thicket, when I was a cub. It frightened me. I saw him again tonight and I think you are going to ask me the same thing again.”

“No! I wish you would forget what I said on the trail. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“But I’m not frightened any more. I want to know why! Why did you ask me if the Un-Named One spoke?”

“Ratha, I can’t …” Thakur began. A muffled swish of grass interrupted him and Fessran limped out of the fog. She sniffed once and glared at Ratha.

“Ptah! I fight raiders and she can’t even keep a mangy herd of dapplebacks together without losing half of them. Has it been so long since I trained you, cub?”

Ratha opened her mouth to retort, but a glance from Thakur stopped her.

“I’ll help you find the rest of them, Fessran, when I’ve taken Ratha back to Narir,” he said soothingly.

“If the Un-Named will let you through,” Fessran snarled. “They are thicker in the forest tonight than the fleas on Meoran’s belly.”

“Can you take care of the horses by yourself until I get back?”

“Yes. Take the cub and go, Thakur. She’ll be safer in Narir’s den.” Fessran limped away, leaving Thakur and Ratha alone.

“I fought raiders too!” Ratha hissed angrily. “Why didn’t you let me tell her?”

“There wasn’t time. Yearling, we’ve got to hurry. I don’t want you here if the raiders break through.”

“Do I have to go back to the den?” Ratha asked, padding shakily alongside him.

“Yearling, haven’t you had enough for tonight? You’re barely able to stand up and you think you’re ready for another scrap with the Un-Named? No, I think I’d better take you back.”

She yawned. “All right, Thakur. I am tired.”

They had not gone far when several forms emerged out of the mist and jogged toward them. Ratha’s heart jumped, then she recognized them as clan herdfolk.

“Thakur Torn-Claw,” said the first one.

“Srass of Salarfang Den,” Thakur answered. “How is the trail tonight?”

Srass lowered his head and Ratha saw his whiskers twitch. “The Un-Named grow bolder. They attacked another party of herders who were trying to join us. Our people made it through, but two were badly bitten.” The herder turned his eyes on Ratha. “I would not run this trail tonight, young one.”

“She would be safer in a den,” Thakur argued.

“Then dig one here in the meadow.” Srass shrugged as Thakur glared at him. “Do as you wish, Torn-Claw, but if you take the trail before dawn, neither of you will reach clan ground.”

“I thought the Un-Named only killed herdbeasts.” Ratha’s voice was thin.

“They kill anyone who is of the clan. They hate us.”

“Yarr, Srass,” snarled one of the herder’s companions, an older male with scars and broken teeth. “You speak as if the Un-Named had wit enough to hate us. Has Meoran not said that those who are Un-Named and clanless are beasts no less so than the ones we herd?”

“Beasts can also hate,” Srass muttered, but his tail was low and Ratha smelt the sudden change in his scent. He was afraid. “All right, Tevran,” he said hastily, not looking at the other. “I am not questioning our leader’s words, so you need not listen so closely.”

“You had better stay in the meadow, Torn-Claw,” said Gare. “I hear the cub is a promising herder and the clan should not lose her.”

Thakur turned away, his whiskers quivering. Ratha cocked her head at him. “May you eat of the haunch and sleep in the driest den, clan herders,” she said politely to Srass and Tevran.

As Thakur passed her, she heard him growl under his breath, “May your tail be chewed off and all your fur fall our, Tevran.”

With one last glance at the two herders, Ratha lowered her head and padded after him.

“Are we going back?” she asked, catching up.

“No, Srass is right. The trail is too dangerous.”

“Now I want to go home. My underfur is wet.” Her voice was petulant.

“We can‘t, yearling. Not until dawn.”

“What if the raiders break through?”

“Then both of us go up the nearest tree.”

Ratha shivered and shook herself, sending dewdrops flying. She sneezed.

“Come back with me to the sunning rock,” Thakur suggested. “You can curl up beside me and Fessran. We’ll warm you up.”

“Fessran is angry with me,” Ratha grumbled.

“I’ll tell her to sharpen her claws on someone else. Come on, yearling,” he said as Ratha yawned, a gape that stretched her mouth and made her jaw muscles ache again. Thakur waved his tail imperiously, but Ratha was in no mood to follow. She flattened her ears and turned away from him.

“Ratha!”

She ignored Thakur’s call as she trotted away into the fog.

There was a drumming of feet behind her and the sound of wet grass swishing. She stopped and glared back at Thakur.

“You idiot cub, you can’t go back by yourself!” Ratha turned her head aside and trotted off in a different direction. Again Thakur blocked her.

“Go away. I don’t want you as teacher any more,” she snarled. “Fessran may be hard, but she listens to me and answers my questions. And I am not a cub. You wouldn’t have brought me here with you if you thought I was.”

“The way you are acting tells me I may have made a mistake. Yarr! Yearling, come back here!” he called as Ratha galloped away. She ran as hard as she could, twisting and turning so that Thakur would lose her trail. Soon the fog muffled his footsteps and they died away behind her. She ran on, aching and shivering, not sure where she was going and not really caring. There was a feeling in her throat as if a piece of meat were stuck there, and swallow as she might, she couldn’t get it down.

At last Ratha jogged into a patch of frosty grass and stopped to rest. The cold was pulling the fog out of the air, laying it on the ground in crystals of ice. She fluffed her fur. Running had warmed her, but as she stood, the chill began to creep back again. She lifted her nose. Some stars were showing through the mist overhead. Everything was quiet now.

Ratha peered between two white-covered stalks and ducked back. She didn’t want to be found by anyone, whether it was her teacher or the Un-Named raider. Her whiskers trembled. She whimpered softly and closed her eyes.

She was afraid of the night, of the raiders, of Thakur, but what frightened her most was the change in herself. A cub wasn’t supposed to get angry with her teacher. A cub wasn’t supposed to question, to doubt, or to sense that things were wrong. When had the awareness come?

She hung her head miserably. Had she imagined that the Un-Named One had spoken during the fight? It was easy to believe that she hadn’t heard his words and less frightening to believe so. Less frightening for her and Thakur. But why? Why should Thakur even care whether the scavenger had talked?

Because he knows they can, something in her mind answered, and, for a moment, she was startled by the realization.

Everyone thinks the clanless ones are stupid, Ratha thought. Meoran tells us to think that way. But if Thakur thinks they can talk, as we do, perhaps he thinks they aren’t stupid, either.

“The Un-Named One spoke to me,” Ratha said aloud to herself. “I know he did.”

She sat down and stared at nothing for a long time. None of it made any sense.

“Thakur is wrong,” she muttered. “I am not a cub anymore.”

She stared at the faint form on the grass beside her for a long time before she realized that it was the first trace of her shadow. As the milky light began to spread over the horizon behind the trees, Ratha blinked and shook her head, not sure whether she had been awake.

The sun rose, chasing the fog away into the trees. The hoarfrost melted back into dew and the drops hung from grassblades and the leaves glittered. Sounds reached Ratha’s ears and she turned her head.

She had run so far across the meadow that she couldn’t see the sunning rock and she wasn’t quite sure where she was. As the fog slid away, it uncovered the carnage of the night’s battle. Bodies of slain herdbeasts, both three-horns and dapplebacks, lay still and stiff. Nearby were smaller forms, the torn remains of both the herd’s defenders and attackers. From where she hid, Ratha couldn’t tell whether the slain were clan folk or raiders. The clan believed the Un-Named Ones were different, yet they all looked alike in death, Ratha thought, as she crept from her hiding place.

She shook her head, trying to get rid of such thoughts. It was day. There were tasks to be done: herdbeasts to graze and water, cubs to teach and feed. The clan would gather itself together, bury its dead and go on. There was no other way. Things didn’t change. After all, day still came. Ratha grinned sourly to herself. Thakur would probably even expect her for a lesson, once she had taken a nap and had her wounds attended to. Thakur would treat her as if this night hadn’t happened and expect her to be the same cub he had led out on the trail one evening very long ago.

But I am not the same, Ratha thought as she wandered back across the meadow. I have changed in a way I don’t understand.

Blue wings fluttered in the boughs above the trail. A volley of squawks broke lose and the two quarreling jays chased each other in and out among the branches. Startled, Ratha glanced up, catching only the flash of white tail feathers as the two combatants disappeared. She had forgotten that birds could be so noisy. The owls and nightjars she saw floating over the meadow at night were utterly silent.

The warm tongue of sunlight washed her back as she emerged from beneath the trees. She felt the heat sink through her fur to her skin and she yawned, feeling lazy. How long had it been since she had seen the full sun of day and heard birds singing? Ever since the first raid, it seemed. Other clan herdfolk had also learned to live by night, guarding their animals from sudden attacks by raiders.

Even their best efforts could only slow the loss of herdbeasts to the enemy. This season was the first time that the number of animals killed exceeded the number of young born, and the clan knew that unbalance could not continue for long. The need for more herders was so great that cubs who had only partially completed their training were taken to guard the herds. Among them was Ratha. She was eager to leave Thakur’s tutelage, for ever since the night of the first raid, she had made little progress and knew that it was because she no longer trusted him. He had refused to answer her questions about the clanless ones and denied that the Un-Named could speak. Later he said he had never hinted that they could. Ratha knew this lie was intended for Meoran’s ears and did not fault Thakur for that. Even when they were alone, he refused her the truth, even as his eyes betrayed his words.

She sensed that there was another fear keeping him silent. When she pressed him to explain, he lost his temper and mocked her. What she had heard, he said, was her own imagination or the sound of the wind in the grass. Only a cub could believe that the Un-Named One spoke. Only a cub.

She knew it was Thakur who had encouraged her, fought for her and had even stood up against her father and the clan leader so that he could train her. At times, her resentment weakened in the face of this knowledge, but she was a clan herder now, with many responsibilities and little time, and Thakur had many new cubs to train. They seldom saw or spoke to each other.

Ratha ambled along the path, her tail swinging, enjoying the morning.

She had already worked the previous night, but when one of the herders who took the day watch fell ill, she had asked to take his place for the sake of a ramble in the sunshine. And, although she wouldn’t admit it to herself, for the chance of seeing Thakur.

She hopped over the stream at the meadow’s edge. The dapplebacks grazed in the shade on the far side. Fessran was there too, showing three fat spotted cubs how to dodge kicks from the feisty little horses. Ratha waved her tail at Fessran and the other herder paused in her lesson.

“Ho, Fessran? Where’s your randy little stallion? I don’t see him.”

“In the thicket, with a mare, as usual,” Fessran answered. “If it weren’t for him, the Un-Named would have eaten all of my flock long ago.”

“What’s he doing?” one of the cubs piped up.

“Making more dapplebacks,” said Fessran.

“Oh.” The youngster looked thoughtful. “Will we see them when he comes out?”

The cub’s teacher grimaced. Ratha gave Fessran a wide-mouthed grin and lolled her tongue out.

“That isn’t the way it happens, Mondir,” said a voice next to the question-asker. Stung, Mondir shoved his muzzle against the other’s nose. “Since you know everything, Bira, you tell me how it happens.”

“I don’t know everything,” the female cub said, wrinkling her nose and sitting down on her tail. “But my lair-mother did tell me it’s something I will do when I am big. And you will too.”

“What? Make dapplebacks?” Mondir protested loudly and then wilted when he saw four tongues lolling at him.

“Yarr! Don’t the lair-mothers teach you litterlings anything?” Fessran grumbled. “Away with you, Ratha!” she growled. “I have cubs to train.”

Ratha grinned at her and jogged away. As she left, she heard Fessran soothing Mondir, who had begun to whimper.

“No, litterling. You won’t make dapplebacks when you grow up. I’ll explain it to you when the lesson is over….”

Ratha trotted toward a flock of three-horned deer and cud-chewers, her charges for the day. It was going to be a lazy morning and an even lazier afternoon. None of the raiders would show their whiskers before dusk. Perhaps she could even cajole one of Fessran’s students into watching the herd while she took a short nap in the sun.

Ratha found the group she had been assigned, circled them once and flopped down on her side, her eyes half-closed, listening to the three-horns tearing up grass. The sounds of grazing were punctuated every once in a while by a rumble or a belch from one of the cud-chewers. Ratha’s whiskers twitched. Those animals were disgusting, but they were also very tasty. One always had to make compromises.

The day’s warmth faded briefly and she opened one eye to see the sun slip behind a cloud. She waited for the cloud to pass and soon felt the warm rays on her coat again. She flicked an ear and glanced up at the shadowed cloudbank gathering on the opposite side of the sky. The rainy season had ended early and spring had been dry. The forest floor had lost its dampness and dried sticks cracked underfoot wherever one went. A little rain might be welcome, if rain was all these clouds would bring, Ratha thought, not particularly liking the look of them.

The clouds began to mass and march across the sky. The air grew still and tense. Ratha stood up. The herdbeasts smelled the oncoming storm and crowded together, jostling each other.

Across the meadow, Ratha could see other herders raising their muzzles to the sky as they stood among the beasts they guarded. Even Fessran had stopped teaching and was shooing her young students back to their mothers’ dens.

The day darkened as the low clouds scudded over the sun. Heat lightning cracked the sky. Thunder grumbled.

Ratha trotted around her charges, glancing from time to time at the other herders and their animals. The herdbeasts milled together, their trotting legs and barrel bodies eclipsing the low, slender forms of their guardians.

Several more clan herders appeared at the trail head and galloped into the meadow. With a twinge of pain, Ratha recognized a familiar coppery coat. She had little time to think about Thakur. The deer and cud-chewers broke into short, nervous runs, and Ratha galloped back and forth, trying to keep the herd together. She loped around with her tongue hanging out, flattening her ears and flinching whenever lightning flashed and thunder boomed above the animals’ bawling.

An old pine had poked its top through the forest canopy near the meadow. Ratha caught a glimpse of the tree before she was blinded by a burst of light; deafened and knocked over by the shock. Ratha rolled to her feet. Nearby, several three-horns had fallen and were staggering up, their eyes wild. Ratha’s gaze swept the meadow. Beasts were running in front of her. Above the thunder came another sound, the sharp crackle of flames. The old pine was burning.

The herders stood with raised hackles as their animals ran past them.

The old tree shot sparks and dropped burning branches, setting the forest alight. The flames rushed and roared, leaping from tree to tree until the fire reached the meadow and the grass began to burn.

“To the creek!” a voice cried, jarring Ratha out of her stupor. Thakur galloped past her, snarling and snapping at the panicked three-horns. “Keep them together, Ratha! Drive them to the creek!”

Other herders bounded to join them. With their help, Ratha and Thakur turned the flock and drove the deer toward the stream at the trail head.

“It isn’t deep enough, Thakur!” Ratha panted, alongside him as they raced after the deer.

“I know, but we can follow it to the river. String them out!” he called to the other herders as the lead animals splashed into the creek. “Keep them in the water!” Herders on both sides of the stream forced the three-horns to wade at the center. Soon there was a line of deer bounding and splashing down the creek. Thakur braked to a stop, balancing himself with his tail. “Next, the dapplebacks,” he said to Ratha. “Come on.”

Together they galloped back to Fessran. The herder was hissing at the horses. Ratha could see that she was terrified by the fire and enraged by her charges’ stupidity.

“They don’t have the sense to run away,” Fessran gasped, coughing. “They run toward it!”

The fire reached into the meadow. It swept after the fleeing creatures, driven and fed by a fitful wind. It blinded them with smoke, choked them with ash and threw cinders on their coats. Ratha joined Fessran and Thakur, helping to drive the dapplebacks into the stream after the deer. The little stallion, maddened by the flames, fought the herders for control of his mares.

Ratha leaped over a low swath of orange fire, nearly singeing her belly. The dappleback stallion broke away from the herd and raced around her. She darted after him, then skidded to a stop, afraid that the rest of the herd would scatter.

“Get him!” Fessran appeared, her eyes watering, her cheek fur smoke-blackened. “I’ll keep the rest of them moving.”

Ratha bounded after the dappleback, now visible only as a shadow in the acrid haze hanging over the grass. A gust of wind cleared the air for a moment and she sighted her quarry. The little stallion reared, squealing and striking out with its four-toed feet. Ratha saw Thakur duck and spring, catching the dappleback’s foreleg in his jaws. He hung on as the horse jerked and wiggled, raking its leg to ribbons against his teeth. Ratha saw him plant his paws in the smoldering ash and drag the crying stallion forward. Thakur’s fur was bristling and his eyes large and wild, but his jaws were locked around the dappleback’s foreleg and he wouldn’t let go. The horse jumped and bucked, pawing at him with its free foot. Behind them, the fire surged, boiling black smoke.

The wind shifted, turning Thakur and the dappleback into shadows in the smoke. Ratha grabbed a breath of clear air and plunged through the haze. The stallion backed, pulling its leg through Thakur’s teeth until its foot was in his mouth. Tongues of flame leaped out. Ratha’s sight blurred, her eyes watering. She heard a high ringing scream from the dappleback’s throat. The horse broke free and toppled backwards into the flames. Ratha saw it rear up again, its back covered with fire. It shrieked once more and fell writhing on its side. Again Thakur darted at it, seized a foreleg and dragged the burning animal through the grass.

“Thakur, leave him!” Ratha called, the hot air searing her throat so that she could barely croak out the words. She galloped after him. He had abandoned the carcass; it lay, its skin curling beneath the flames. She looked for Thakur again, but she couldn’t see anything through the haze. The fire sounded close. Dancing orange surrounded her in all directions and the roar deafened her.

“Cub! This way.”

Ratha wheeled and leaped at the voice, almost landing on top of Fessran. The other herder butted Ratha ahead. The ground dropped away beneath her paws. Water rushed against her chest and dragged at her legs as she floundered in the stream. A splash and Fessran landed beside her.

“Where’s Thakur?”

“I don’t know.”

Ratha’s feet touched the bottom as the downstream current pulled at her sides. The water reflected flame colors from the fire dancing on the shoreline. Cinders shot into the water and died with a hiss.

Ratha slid over a little fall into a pool, bruising her flank on a stone. Fessran slithered down after her and they began to swim, holding their heads above the water. Ahead was the flock of dapplebacks, their wet coats gleaming as they waded in the graveled shallows. A burning twig fell into the stream near Fessran and she veered to one side as it sputtered and sank.

Ratha swam ahead of Fessran, paddling fiercely to keep her head above the water. Her toes scraped gravel and she grounded in the shallows. She pulled herself out, caught up with the wading dapplebacks and wove her way through them. Fessran stayed with the horses and Ratha saw the other herder lift a dripping tail in farewell as she left her behind.

Past the shallows, the stream narrowed and coursed over rocks and boulders. Ratha clambered across the water-worn stones, her pads slipping on algae and moss. As she worked her way downstream, she passed other clan members who hadn’t been in the meadow when the lightning struck. Gray patriarchs, frightened yearlings and mothers with squalling cubs in their jaws swam and waded beside the grim herdfolk as the fire devoured the forest behind them. Rags of flame fluttered on the pines that lined the stream bank and crawled along branches overhead.

Soot filled the air and the fire’s wind seared throats already raw from running. Ratha drew her paws up to her body and submerged herself except for the top half of her head. She tasted muddy water running past her lips and dragging at her whiskers. She let the current carry her, only using her aching legs to pull herself over stones or to claw at the muddy bottom as the stream spilled through rapids.

The creek deepened and quickened, carrying the weary swimmers and their beasts beyond the fire. The air grew cooler above the water and Ratha sucked it into her burning lungs. She could no longer see the herd of three-horns ahead. Some of the forms that drifted past her were moving limply wherever the current pushed them. Frightened, Ratha struck out for shore, but the current was strong and the banks had become muddy cliffs.

The sun glowed red through the gray pall that hung among the trees, staining the stream with blood-color. Ratha felt herself sinking. Water filled her mouth. She strained her head upright, coughing and spitting. The current swept her over a rocky weir and plunged her into a cauldron that spun her around. A new and stronger flow snatched her away from the stream current. Dimly she felt teeth seize her tail and then her ruff, dragging her back against the river’s pull. She floated weakly on her side, her tongue trailing and river water filling her mouth. Her flank bumped something and she felt her wet coat grate on sand as she was hauled onto the beach. Paws and noses nudged her onto her stomach. Her whole body convulsed as she vomited muddy water. She sank back onto her side again, feeling her senses slip away into the darkness.

Sand grains tickled Ratha’s nose. She woke up sneezing, blowing up a small sandstorm in the den, which made her sneeze some more. She bumped her head on the low ceiling and peered up to the entrance. Framed in the opening, with a background of clear sky and hanging fronds, was a four-toed foot. A dappleback foot. The hoofed toes shifted, dislodging more sand into the hole. It landed on Ratha’s face. She blinked and grimaced. A narrow muzzle dipped into the picture and one black eye regarded Ratha. The eye blinked and its owner snorted.

Outside, Ratha heard running and yowling. Thakur’s voice rose above the others. “Fessran, get your dapplebacks off the beach! They’re walking all over the dens!” The dappleback’s muzzle disappeared, and the foot vanished with a last spray of dirt.

She crawled out of her burrow and shook her head, her ears flapping. The sand felt warm and gritty on her pads as she blinked in the morning sunlight. Birds made a cheerful racket overhead and the river sang with them as it ran past the beach. She nosed her back and licked her coat. Her tongue scraped coarse matted fur. She dug with her fangs at filth caked in her undercoat, moving her tongue quickly to avoid the sour tang of old dirt. She drew back her lips fastidiously and tried to use only the points of her fangs, but she couldn’t help tasting herself and wished that someone had dragged her out of the den and given her a bath.

She attacked the hair mats until they yielded and her tongue probed deeper into her fur, feeling the arch of each rib beneath her skin. She paused in her grooming, took a breath and coughed. Her chest still ached a little, deep inside. She decided to leave the rest of the grooming task until later. She ambled down the narrow beach, feeling the loose sand grow firm beneath her paws as she approached the water’s edge. She stood there, listening to the wavelets lapping, and watching fish dart through the shadows on the bottom.

Ratha squinted across the river to the opposite shore. Most of the trees were still standing, although shorn of their leaves and needles. The ground beneath them lay bare and ashy, stripped of brush and forest litter. At first, the scene across the river looked bare and desolate, but as Ratha stared harder, she saw that it was not. New patches of pale green showed amid the fire-scarred trunks.

Ratha’s whiskers twitched. How long, she wondered, had she lain in the burrow dug for her in the sand? Long enough for her to stink like an unwashed litterling. Long enough for the burning thing to pass and new foliage to show. The thought frightened her and she shivered despite the sun’s warmth on her back. Her stomach felt hollow and there was grit between her teeth. She peered at her rippled reflection and saw that she looked as thin and bedraggled as she felt. Her tongue ached at the thought of more grooming. She yawned and stretched: stiffly, cautiously. She crouched, curling her tail around her feet, letting the sound of the river lull her.

Her eyes were almost closed when she heard pads grinding on sand behind her.

“So this is the cub,” said a heavy voice, not Thakur’s.

Ratha turned, squinting against the glare.

“Come here, Ratha, and give proper greeting to our clan leader,” Thakur called.

She spun around, sliding in the loose sand. She gulped, blinked and stared at Thakur’s companion. What had she done, she wondered frantically, that she was being singled out for Meoran’s attention? He never spoke to any of those low in the clan unless they had displeased him or broken clan law. Her heart beat fast. Is it because I heard the clanless one speak? Did Thakur tell Meoran what happened that night?

Thakur stamped silently on the sand, warning Ratha not to delay. She loped clumsily up the beach, halted and walked up to Meoran. She lifted her chin and bared her throat to him as she stood in his shadow. Meoran lowered his heavy head and nosed her at the vulnerable point beneath her ruff, where the pulse lay just under the skin. She stood still, knowing that if he wished, he could take her life, without need or explanation. Even those high in the clan bared their throats to him, and there were whispers among the clan folk that his teeth had been bloodied in what was supposed to be only a gesture. Ratha remembered others saying that old Baire had never abused this ritual right.

Ratha felt her ears starting to flatten and pricked them forward until the ear muscles ached.

“May you eat of the haunch and sleep in the driest den, clan leader,” she said.

Meoran’s ruff slid past Ratha’s nose as he withdrew his muzzle from beneath her chin. His odor was like his voice, dull and heavy, with a threatening undertone. His ruff was coarse and thick—almost a mane. He stepped back from her, leaving large pawprints in the sand. Ratha stared at his tracks, knowing that her whole foot wouldn’t fill the imprint made by his center pad.

“Will she be able to swim the river and drive the herd tomorrow?” Meoran turned to Thakur.

“She almost drowned. When Yaran and I pulled her out of the river, he thought she was dead.”

“I lead the clan back across the river, Torn-Claw. Either she swims or she stays here.” Meoran looked at Ratha, his eyes glinting yellow in his wide face. His jaws looked massive enough to crush a three-horn’s skull with one bite. “Old Baire thought you were strong enough to be a herder, cub. I might not have made that choice, but Thakur tells me your training hasn’t been wasted.”

Ratha glanced at Thakur and saw that the muscles at the base of both ears were quivering as he tried to keep his ears erect.

“Will one day make such a difference, clan leader?”

“The longer we leave our dens and our land, the less we shall have when we return.”

“To what? Look across the river. The Red Tongue has eaten the grass and the leaves. Where will our beasts graze?”

“There is new growth.” Meoran yawned, snapping his jaws shut.

“Not enough to feed an entire herd.”

Meoran’s eyes darkened to cold amber and he showed his fangs as he spoke. “Torn-Claw, if you are wise, you will not mention this to me again. I let you speak once before the clan gathering. I even restrained myself from excusing you for your cowardice. Is that not enough?”

Thakur flinched and glared down at the ground so that Meoran couldn’t see his eyes.

“If you have no stomach to walk amid the Red Tongue’s leavings,” Meoran added, “stay here with the she-cub until the forest grows again.”

“I will swim, clan leader,” Ratha blurted, stung at being thought a weakling. “I will help drive the herd.”

“See, Torn-Claw?” Meoran grinned, showing most of his teeth. “The small one is not afraid. She shames you, herder.” Thakur kicked at a log of driftwood, half-buried in the sand. His eyes met Meoran’s. “We will both be ready.”

“Good. I want no delays.” Meoran turned and left.

Ratha sat down and began digging at her coat again as Thakur stared after Meoran and drove his front claws into the sand. Ratha stole a glance at him as he shook both feet free of sand and cleaned them, biting fiercely between the pads.

“Fessran’s dapplebacks woke you,” he said. “I may go and chew her ears.”

“You’re angry at Meoran, not Fessran,” Ratha said cautiously, her nose in her fur. Thakur gave a low growl. “Why? What did he mean, saying you weren’t brave? I saw you catch the dappleback. You would have saved him.”

His tail twitched, making snake-patterns in the sand. He lowered his head and started to pad away.

“Thakur.”

“Yearling, more words will do me no good and may do me harm. Wait here. I’ll be back soon.” He wheeled and galloped away down the beach.

When Thakur returned, he was carrying several odd objects in his jaws. He dipped his head and dropped them in front of Ratha. Their legs waved. She sniffed, wrinkled her nose. “I don’t eat bugs.”

“They aren’t bugs. Try one. I’ll show you how to bite the shell off.”

Thakur selected one of the crayfish, held it down with one paw and bit the head off. He worked it to the side of his mouth, got his jaws around the arched carapace and cracked it. He pried it open with his claws, peeled the shell away and stripped out the meat with his front teeth. He dangled the morsel in front of Ratha. The aroma teased her nose. Delicately she licked and then nibbled at it. The meat was chewy but light and sweet. She snapped, gulped and waited eagerly for another. When Thakur had fed her twice, he nosed the rest of the crayfish toward Ratha.

“I thought I’d better feed you up if you’re going to swim tomorrow,” he said, choosing another multi-legged morsel from the pile. It tried to scuttle away from him but he seized it by the tail and dragged it back. The flailing legs and antennae threw sand grains. This one was smaller and Thakur didn’t even bother to peel the shell off. He took the crayfish into his mouth, crunched it and sorted out bits of meat and shell with his tongue.

Ratha spat out a shell and eyed Thakur. “Why is Meoran so impatient to return to clan ground?”

“I don’t know, yearling. Perhaps he dislikes the thought of any other animal in his den.”

“Or the Un-Named Ones on clan territory.”

Thakur drew back his whiskers. “I doubt it. He thinks so little of them that ground squirrels in his den would bother him more. Even the recent raids haven’t taught him that they are more dangerous than he thinks.”

“You know a lot about the clanless ones, don’t you, Thakur?” Ratha said cautiously. She watched his eyes. Thakur lowered his muzzle, ostensibly searching for another crayfish.

“Yes, yearling, I do.”

“Why don’t you tell Meoran what you know?”

“He would listen to me as well as he did today. Yearling, don’t ask me any more.”

Ratha bit down on a stubborn carapace and felt it bend in her mouth.

“Forget about the Un-Named, Ratha. The Red Tongue has driven them far away. They won’t come back for a while.”

There was silence, broken only by the sound of the river flowing and Thakur’s crunching shells.

“I know why you don’t want to go back,” Ratha teased.

Thakur stared at her, eyes narrowed, whiskers back. “You do?”

“You’re so fond of these river-crawlers you can’t give them up.”

Thakur relaxed. His sigh of relief puzzled Ratha, his odor told her she wouldn’t get an answer if she asked him why.

“You are clever, yearling. I see I can’t fool you. Yes, I have grown fond of the river-crawlers and I’ll take some with me on the way back.”

Ratha watched him as he ate. His odor, his eyes and everything else about him told her that the reason he didn’t want to return to clan ground had nothing to do with river-crawlers.

When Ratha woke in her nest in the ash, morning had cleared the haze from the sky and deep blue arched over the burn. Slivers of green dotted the grounds; new shoots had come up overnight from fire-ripened seeds; each one so fragile that it bent beneath the weight of a single drop of dew.

Ratha sat up, yawned and brushed ash from her fur. She looked for Thakur before she remembered why he wasn’t there. Half the night spent tending the Red Tongue had made her peevish, and the hungry rumbles in her belly didn’t help her temper. A haunch of dappleback or some of those river-crawlers might be nice, she thought, feeling warm saliva filling her mouth. She swallowed and tried to turn her mind away from food. There was nothing to eat here. She would have to wait until she returned to clan ground.

“This place has food only for the Red Tongue.” Fessran’s voice came from behind her and the tang of smoke stung her nose. “And not enough, either. Your creature is a greedy thing; I grow weary of feeding it.”

Ratha stretched one leg at a time and arched her back to get the stiffness out of it. She groomed her belly, glancing now and then at Fessran, who was poking the last few sticks into the Red Tongue’s nest.

The morning breeze shifted, sending smoke into Fessran’s face and she shook her head, blinking, her eyes tearing. She backed away, grimacing. “Arr, you ungrateful creature!” she growled. “I feed you and feed you and then you make my eyes sting!”

“Stand on the other side.” Ratha yawned. “And you’re feeding it too much. Keep it small.”

“I will feed it no more; there is nothing left to feed it.” Fessran rubbed her face on the inside of her foreleg, leaving the fur damp and spiky. She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again. “There. I can see again.”

“I can get food for it.” Ratha pointed her nose at the tree. “Up there.”

“Unless you can knock down the whole tree, you won’t get very much,” Fessran said, eyeing the stunted saplings dubiously. “Even if you can feed your creature for a while, we can’t stay here.”

“And if we go, what happens to my creature?”

“We’ll have to leave it, Ratha.”

“No!” Ratha planted her paws in the ash. “It kept me warm last night. It kept you warm too. It is a cub; it must be looked after and fed. If we go, it will die.”

“We can’t stay here,” Fessran repeated.

“Why did you keep it alive last night if now you say it must die?” Ratha wailed.

“I was cold last night and I’m not now. I don’t want your creature to die either, Ratha, but staying here isn’t going to fill our bellies.”

Ratha circled the fire, pacing frantically. An idea struck her. “I want the clan herders to see my creature,” she said, turning to Fessran who stood waiting, flicking her tail from side to side. “I can stay here with the Red Tongue while you bring them. Can you bring them, Fessran? I can stay.”

“And be meat for the first hungry beast that comes along?” Fessran snorted. “If I left you here, I’d find only your bones when I got back, even if the clan herders would believe my words. Arr! What are you doing?” she cried in alarm as Ratha tried to snap at the flame and was driven back by heat and pain.

“I can’t catch it. There is nothing to catch. I see it, but my teeth can’t feel it.”

“Do you think you can carry the Red Tongue by the scruff?” Fessran wrinkled her nose. “I may not know much about it, but I know it is not that kind of creature.”

Ratha glared at Fessran, winced and licked smarting jowls. She turned once again to the enigmatic thing still dancing over its breakfast of twigs. Fessran had placed several small branches awkwardly, leaving broken ends sticking out. Gingerly, Ratha took one of these into her mouth and drew the branch from the fire. It was shorter than she expected and she shifted it in her jaws, fighting the urge to fling the thing away as it burned close to her face. Out of the corner of one eye she saw Fessran raise a paw to bat the branch out of her mouth. Ratha held her torch as long as she could before having to drop it back in the fire.

“There!” she panted. “I can carry my creature.”

Fessran lowered her foot. “You wouldn’t go very far before you dropped it. The sun is high, Ratha. We don’t need the Red Tongue.”

“No! You are just like Thakur, telling me to leave my creature. I found it, I fed it, and I’m going to take it back with me.” Ratha flopped on her belly and stared into the fire.

There must be a way … there must … yes, there is.

Ratha caught Fessran peering into her face. She sat up abruptly, almost bumping the other’s chin. “I know, Fessran! Look at the Red Tongue. See how the creature crawls along the branch? Do you see how the Red Tongue’s passing turns the wood gray and feathery?” Ratha leaned over Fessran’s shoulder as she snagged a charred stick with one claw and pulled it out of the fire. “Once the wood turns to feathers, the Red Tongue won’t eat it. If I pick my branch up by this end,” she said, tapping the blackened bark, impatient for it to cool, “I can carry it.”

When the wood stopped glowing and smoking, Ratha got her jaws around it and lifted the branch out of the fire. She raised her head, holding the torch triumphantly. An instant later, the charcoaled end collapsed between her teeth and the lighted end fell on the ground. It flickered out. Ratha spat out a mouthful of embers, gagged and drooled on the ground, trying to cool the burning bitterness with saliva. Through pain-blurred eyes she glared at the Red Tongue, retching as fluid ran down her chin.

She panted rapidly and stuck her sore tongue out into the morning wind.

“Arr! I thought it would work,” she said when she could speak.

“You did better the first time,” Fessran answered. “Perhaps a longer branch not yet touched by the Red Tongue would serve you. Wait. I’ll climb up and break one off.”

Ratha stared, open-mouthed, as Fessran hitched herself up the sapling’s slanted trunk. “You’re helping me?”

“I prefer that to leaving you here.” Fessran’s head appeared in a crotch between two limbs. The tree’s crown swayed as she balanced herself. She seized a nearby branch in her jaws, cracked it loose and tossed it down to Ratha. Several more followed, the dry wood snapping cleanly away from the trunk.

“My teeth weren’t made for that.” Fessran landed beside Ratha, sending up a cloud of flaky ash.

“Why did you knock down all those?” Ratha asked. “I can carry only one with the Red Tongue at the end.”

“Yes, but I can carry the others. And when the Red Tongue creeps to the end of your branch, I will coax it into one of mine and give that one to you.”

“Ah, but you are clever, Fessran,” Ratha said.

“Not clever. Just hungry. Take the large branch for your creature.” Fessran waited as Ratha lit the stick. “What about the rest of your creature?” she asked, her voice indistinct through the stick she had picked up.

“We will leave it and it will die,” Ratha said. “But my creature has given birth and its nursling dances at the end of my branch. So will it always be with the Red Tongue.” She paused. “Are you ready, Fessran?”

The other flicked her tail in answer and the two set off across the burn, Fessran in the lead, Ratha following, bearing the torch.

As the two traveled, the grass grew thicker underfoot, hiding the burn beneath a new carpet of green. Wild wheat stems stroked their bellies and flanks as they passed through, and Ratha had to hold her torch aloft to avoid setting the new growth alight. A sea of waving grasses covered what had been forest floor, swirling around the fire-blighted stands of pine and fir. Only the great red-woods still shaded the land, their heartwood still living, their fibrous bark only scarred by the Red Tongue’s passing. The wild grasses grew thin in their shadow and the torch seemed to burn brighter in the cool, still air beneath their boughs.

But the trees were few and the grass triumphant as it spread far in the open sunlight. Ratha walked behind Fessran, watching her tail swing back and forth in time to her pace, listening to the fire snap and hiss. The only other sounds were of grass swishing past legs and the muted hammer of a woodpecker from its faraway perch.

The sun reached its zenith and began to fall again. Fessran had replaced Ratha’s torch as many times as there were blackened stubs left along the trail. Ratha could hear Fessran’s stomach growl and her own, she was sure, would meet her backbone by the time they arrived on clan ground.

Ratha slowly became aware that the continuous low gurgle in the background was not coming from her stomach or Fessran’s. It was the sound of running water. She tried to scent the stream, but the acrid tang of torch smoke made her nose useless. She could only follow Fessran’s lead.

Soon they were walking along a grassy stream bank. Fessran found a ford where the stream ran shallow over gravel. They began to wade across, Fessran still leading, Ratha behind.

Fessran reached the other side and scrambled up the steep bank, shaking mud and pebbles from her feet. “Here is where we swam with the deer away from the Red Tongue,” she called back to Ratha, who still stood in midstream.

Ratha remained where she was, letting the water flow over her paws. The creek looked different in the open sun with grass instead of trees on its banks. But there, upstream, were the potholes she’d swum across and above them the waterfall she’d tumbled down. Her flank ached momentarily at the memory.

“I know your feet are weary, Ratha”—Fessran’s voice cut into her thoughts—“but we have only a little farther to go.”

Ratha’s jaws loosened in dismay and she almost dropped the torch in the water. Only at little farther to go? She wished that she was back on the burn, still traveling; the goal of her journey too far ahead to have to worry or think about. Now, suddenly, she had arrived. Ratha looked up the bank to where her companion was standing. Clan ground. And she wasn’t ready.

“Are you going to let your tail drag in the water all day?” Fessran sounded annoyed.

Ratha glanced down at her reflection. Herder of the Red Tongue, she thought wryly. A thin forlorn face stared back at her, holding the torch in its jaws. An echo of her own voice rang in her ears. Clan leader, hah! Who is he compared to….

“Ratha, hurry.” Fessran leaned down the bank. Ratha jerked her head up and sprang, dripping, onto the slope. Her paws slid on the muddy bank but Fessran seized her ruff and hauled her up.

Ratha paced back and forth on the stream bank while Fessran shook herself off. This was home ground, but very much changed. The forest no longer reached the stream and the meadow had altered shape and grown larger. The grass felt new and crisp underfoot. Ratha looked across the open land and remembered the cool dimness of the old forest.

The meadow stood empty. No beasts grazed; no herdfolk stood guard. Ratha shivered. Where are they…?

“Fessran, could the clan have gone somewhere else?” she asked, turning to her companion and speaking awkwardly around the branch.

“The meadow grass is not thick enough for beasts to graze,” Fessran said. “And the dapplebacks like to browse in thickets. Our folk may have taken the animals further away to graze, but I am sure they will return to the dens at sunfall.”

Fessran found the overgrown trail that led to the clan dens.

“The grass is bent here,” she said, nosing about, “and here are the marks of large pads. Meoran and the others came this way not long before.”

Ratha stood on the stream bank, her soggy coat still dripping. She stared across the meadow. She thought it was empty, but what had caused that patch of weeds to wave when the rest was still? The motion died out and though Ratha searched intently she could see nothing else. Her wet coat made her shiver again.

“Someone is stalking us,” she muttered in response to Fessran’s questioning look.

“Some clan cub out hunting grasshoppers.” Fessran wrinkled her nose. “Come out of the weeds, weanling, and give greeting to your betters,” she called. The meadow remained still.

“That isn’t a cub,” Ratha said.

“How do you know? I thought you couldn’t smell anything with the Red Tongue’s breath in your face.”

“My nose isn’t telling me. I just know,” she growled.

Fessran lifted her tail and waved the white spot at the end of it. No cub in the clan, Ratha knew, would disobey that signal. No one came, however, and Fessran lowered her tail. “Shake yourself dry,” she said irritably to Ratha, “and leave whoever it is to their games.”

Ratha shook her pelt and followed Fessran onto the trail. It wound among the few trees that had been spared by the Red Tongue and forest giants that had fallen across the path. Fessran seemed unsettled, even though this was a trail she had once known well.

She stopped, one paw lifted. Ratha halted behind her.

“They watch,” Fessran hissed. “All along the trail they watch and they hide themselves. If you be of the clan, come forward and give greeting!” she called, but again no one came out, although Ratha sensed motion between the trees and caught the phosphorescent gleam of eyes.

“Are they the Un-Named?” Ratha asked, shivering again although her coat was almost dry.

“No.” Fessran’s muzzle was lifted. “I smell scents I know well.”

“Then why do they not come out and offer greeting?”

“I don’t know.” Fessran walked ahead a short distance and called again. “I am Fessran of Salarfang Den, a herder of the clan. I walk by right on this ground. Do you hear me, those of you out there? Srass, that rank odor can only belong to you. And, Cherfan, I smell you along with Peshur and Mondir. Come and show yourselves!”

Her roar rang in the air, but once it died, the afternoon continued to slip into twilight in silence. Her ears and whiskers drooped. She crouched and picked up the branch she had dropped.

“Wait, Fessran,” Ratha said. “My creature grows weak. It wants food. Give it the branch you carry.”

Fessran laid her stick across Ratha’s until it caught. She held it while Ratha kicked dirt on the dying old one and then gave the new torch to Ratha. The fire snapped and roared, gaining hold in the wood. Ratha carried it high as she trotted down the trail after Fessran.

Again there were rustling sounds in the forest near the path and again sudden glimmers of eyes in the growing darkness. Faraway calls told Ratha and Fessran that the news of their coming was spreading far ahead of them. Fessran paced on, her head lowered, her tail stiff.

“I smell a kill,” she hissed back to Ratha. “The clan will meet us before we reach it; of that I am sure.”

Ratha felt her saliva dampen the wood between her teeth. The hunger had become a dull pain in her belly, drawing the strength from her limbs so that she trembled as she walked and she could see that her companion too was betraying her hunger. Only the Red Tongue was strong.

They went up the grassy rise and over the knoll, past the ancient oak with limbs low to the ground, where, Ratha remembered, she had first seen the Un-Named raider.

Fessran’s gait slowed. Her footsteps became quieter, then ceased. Ratha crept alongside her. “There. Up ahead.” Fessran’s whiskers brushed her face. “Do you see? There they are.” Ratha felt the whiskers twitch and slide away. “Stay here, Ratha,” Fessran said. “I will have words with them.”

Ratha dug her claws into the ground to anchor her shaky legs. She stared back at the eyes watching her. They had come out of hiding and were assembled together in mute challenge. Ratha smelled the scents drifting to her on the night breeze. She searched for the remembered scent of the clan, of kinfolk, of herdfolk who had taught her their skills and those she had run beside in the meadow when the Un-Named, their enemy, were attacking. The scents were there, but not as she remembered them. The smell of the clan had become the smell of the pack.

As soon as Fessran had taken a few steps downtrail, a single hoarse voice rose from the front of the group. “Come no further unless you wish to feel our teeth in your unworthy throats!”

“Are you growing blind with age, Srass?” Ratha heard Fessran yowl. “You know me and you know Ratha, who stands behind me. Let us pass and eat at the kill.”

There was only silence and burning eyes.

“The clan knows you, Fessran,” said a deeper voice, and Ratha’s hackles rose, for she knew that voice and hated it. “But the one who follows we do not know. Turn that one away and you may come and eat.”

“The one behind me, clan herder, is one you know and know well,” Fessran said. Her voice was strained and Ratha knew she was trying not to anger Meoran. “The smell that is mingled with mine is of the herder Ratha, the she-cub that Thakur and I taught.”

“She-cub? We smell no she-cub,” Srass howled, and Ratha could imagine that Meoran stood next to Srass muttering the words into the old herder’s tattered ear. “We smell no she-cub. We smell only that which burns, that which we hate.”

“Yaran!” Fessran called, startling Ratha by naming her lair-father. “If you stand among these mangy fleabags, answer me! Do you turn away your own, the she-cub that you and Narir bore?”

“I smell no she-cub,” Yaran’s gravely voice answered, and Ratha’s belly twisted in a sharper pain than hunger.

“Have you all got dung up your noses? Ratha, come forward and show yourself so we may end this nursling’s play.”

Shaking, Ratha crept forward, her torch casting orange light on the path. As the torchlight fell on the pack, they cowered. Ratha saw Meoran blink and narrow his eyes to agate slits in his broad face.

“We smell no she-cub!” Srass’s cry rose again. “We smell only the thing we hate. Drive it away! Drive it from clan ground.” He showed his broken teeth at Ratha.

She tried to speak above the pack’s howling, but the torch in her mouth kept her mute. “Let her speak!” Fessran cried, lashing her tail. “She is Named. Let her speak.”

“Fessran, take my creature,” Ratha hissed through her teeth. As soon as her jaws were free she faced the pack.

“Look! Fessran holds it. She doesn’t fear it,” Ratha said as Fessran stood beside her, the torch between her jaws. “This is my creature. I have brought it to the clan. I am Ratha, who once herded three-horn deer. Now I herd the Red Tongue.”

Ratha heard a muffled cry and Meoran shouldered Srass aside and came to the front.

Ratha felt the ground grow damp with sweat from her paw pads. Meoran’s odor surrounded her and seemed to crush her as he would with his great weight. His eyes were enough to still a challenge in any throat. If the eyes failed, the massive jaws would succeed. Ratha caught the glint of teeth like tusks behind his lips and remembered a time when the scent of freshly drawn blood mingled with his odor and those in the clan went about with lowered heads and eyes dull with fright.

“There will be no herder of the Red Tongue on ground I rule,” Meoran said, his gaze steady on Ratha.

“I have not come to offer challenge, clan leader. I bring my creature to serve you, to keep you warm while you guard the animals at night.”

“We do not know you, clanless and nameless one. Take the hateful thing and go.”

Cold seeped through Ratha and horror crawled across her skin like a flea seeking somewhere to bite. In those few words he had stripped her of her name, her kin and all that she knew and valued. Only one thing remained now and it blazed in the jaws of the one who stood beside her.

“Give me my creature,” she said to Fessran, who gave her a startled look at the change in her voice. Ratha took the torch from her companion.

She turned, playing the firelight across the front of the pack. They all squinted in pain and ducked their heads. Even Meoran lowered his jowled muzzle.

“Kill it!” someone screamed and the rest took up the cry. “Kill her and the thing she bears!” The pack glared at her with hateful eyes, but not one of them approached her as she swung the flame in a sweeping arc.

“Yes, kill it,” Ratha snarled through her teeth. “Come then. Tear out its throat. Spring and break its back. Here it is. What? You shy away?” She grinned around the branch. “You don’t know how to kill it, do you? Hah! Such sharp teeth the clan has. Surely you can kill a little creature like this? Or am I the only one who knows?”

“Sss, Ratha!” Fessran’s whiskers were in her ears. “You run too fast on a trail you don’t know. Thakur is in the pack. I smell him.”

“What do I care for …” Ratha growled back.

“You will care very much if he speaks what he knows,” Fessran hissed, stamping her foot near Ratha’s.

“Kill the Red Tongue!” Meoran roared.

“How? We don’t know how,” the pack wailed.

“None of you know!” Ratha brandished the torch, swinging it viciously. “The Red Tongue is my creature. It can’t be killed.”

The howls died down into a low moaning. Some of those in the front were lifting their chins and baring their throats. Baring their throats to her and the Red Tongue, Ratha realized with a shock. Not to Meoran. Again she met the clan leader’s eyes and saw kindling in them a rage that would never burn out as long as her blood ran warm and the Red Tongue danced on the end of her branch. There was no returning along the trail she had chosen to take.

Meoran glared at the nearest herder whose chin was lifted. He raised a heavy paw and struck the supplicant, driving the lifted muzzle into the dirt. Other heads turned in fear of him, but Ratha could see that their terror of the fire was greater and the sudden fear in his eyes told her he also knew.

Ratha lifted the torch, casting its light further across the huddled bodies, seeking Thakur. She heard his voice before she saw him.

“Hear me, you of the clan. The Red Tongue can be killed. I saw her do it.”

Beside her, Ratha felt Fessran start. She saw Meoran spring over the backs of the crouching pack and land among them again, ignoring the squalls of those crushed by his bulk. He seized Thakur by the scruff and dragged him out of the crowd. He flipped Thakur on his back and spread a massive paw on his chest.

“You would speak, herder. Tell what you know.” Meoran seized and shook him.

Thakur twisted his head to look at Ratha. “He will kill you, yearling,” he said calmly, bright blood running down his neck. “Take your creature and run away now.”

Ratha’s lower jaw was trembling so that her teeth vibrated against the torch shaft and she could barely hold it aloft.

“Speak, herder!” said Meoran between his teeth. Ratha swung the torch at him, but Thakur was closer and in the way. However much Ratha hated Thakur for betraying her, she could not use the fire against him. She knew Meoran sensed her reluctance, for as he moved, he thrust Thakur in front of him, a shield between himself and the vengeful thing that fluttered on Ratha’s branch. He clawed at Ratha from behind Thakur’s head and over Thakur’s shoulder. Fessran danced around them, trying to distract Meoran enough so that she could snatch Thakur from the clan leader’s jaws.

Ratha caught glimpses of the pack, standing together behind Meoran. None of them moved to help him. They watched and waited to see who would be the victor.

“Run, Ratha!” Thakur called as Meoran threw him from side to side.

“Let him go, Meoran!” she snarled and lunged with the torch. Meoran jerked Thakur up so that he hung like a cub from the leader’s jaws, rear legs dragging on the ground, front legs stiff and splayed apart. Ratha skittered to a stop before she drove the torch into Thakur’s chest. She recoiled and staggered back. Thakur averted his face, shut his eyes and went rigid, his body tight and trembling.

“Why, Thakur?” Ratha cried and felt her insides churning in agony. “Why did you tell them?”

“It was not hatred, Ratha,” Thakur answered as he sagged in Meoran’s jaws. He grunted in pain as the clan leader gave him another savage jerk.

“If I run, he will kill you,” Ratha said. “If I free you, will you come with me?”

Slowly Thakur opened his eyes. “I can’t go with you. He won’t kill me. He needs what I know.”

Ratha stood paralyzed, staring at him, trying to find an answer in his eyes. Once he had been a teacher, a friend—and even something more. What had he become now?

She raised her head and met Meoran’s slitted gaze. Beyond him, the pack eyed her. Her power was waning as the Red Tongue crept down its branch. There was still enough to hold them from her throat, but soon they would sweep forward and engulf her.

“Go, yearling,” Thakur said again, his voice thin.

She felt Fessran give her a quick nudge. She turned, starting in fright at the shadows that seemed to jump from the trees as the flame’s light passed across them. She broke into a trot and heard Fessran following.

Several paces down the trail she stopped, lifted the torch aloft and looked back. Meoran and the pack were still there, black forms against the night. Ratha turned and galloped away, the fire lighting the trail before her. They weren’t following … yet.

She plunged ahead, ignoring her shaking legs and the gnawing aching pain in her belly. The worst pain she could not ignore. It came from her own words that hammered in her brain as her heart hammered behind her breastbone.

Thakur … why?

Ratha sprinted uphill toward the knoll and the old oak. Orange light gleamed on its leaves and an owl, startled from its perch, hooted mournfully and floated away.

“They come, Ratha,” Fessran panted beside her. “I hear branches breaking on the trail behind us.”

Ratha glanced to the side and saw a spare fire-lit form running alongside. Her breath hissed between teeth tightly clamped on the torch shaft. “Thakur … Fessran, what will happen to Thakur?”

“What he knows about the Red Tongue may save him from Meoran’s teeth. It will not save him from mine if you are caught and killed.”

“No!” Ratha nearly stumbled. She lost ground, falling behind Fessran. “He did not do it out of hate. Take no revenge on him; promise me that.”

Fessran slowed, letting Ratha catch up. “My promise means nothing. Meoran will have my blood too, if he catches us. We will talk later, across the creek. Run!”

Ratha’s torch still flamed, but half of the wood was charred. The brand was nearly exhausted, although the wind whipped it and forced it to burn brightly, devouring the branch.

We can break branches from the trees on the far side of the creek, Ratha thought. If we reach them. If Meoran catches us before then, my creature will have no strength left to keep him from our throats.

Ratha and Fessran topped the hill and ran down the other side. Ratha gained speed from the long downslope and the Red Tongue burned fiercely near her whiskers. Somewhere ahead was the creek. Beyond that, clan ground ended.

Shadowed grass flew by beneath Ratha’s feet, and she stretched her body into the run. She saw only the swath of light the torch threw ahead of her, letting everything else slip by in a blur. She passed Fessran and left her far behind. Her speed and the rush of the Red Tongue gave her a wild exhilaration, as if she, not the clan, had been the victor.

She was too far ahead of Fessran to hear the other’s warning cry.

The grass beneath her paws changed to mud and she was skidding, unable to stop. Whirling her tail, she back-pedalled, trying to keep her hindquarters beneath her. Mud piled up between her toes. Pebbles raked her pads. The bank became steeper and dropped away. She gave one despairing kick that shot her out over the water. She lost control and tumbled. The torch sailed out into the darkness. For an instant, she saw two fires flash; one above the surface; one below. They met and died as the torch fell and sank.

Ratha hit the water and came up flailing wildly. She dug her feet into the stream bed and reared up, beating at the water with her paws. The fire was gone.

The stream rippled in cold moonlight as she searched for her creature. She splashed in the stream; sweeping her forepaw through the water; clawing at the bottom; even plunging her head beneath the water to search with her whiskers. Nothing.

She felt something bump her flank. She whirled and seized it. A familiar taste and charred smell told her it was her torch, but now, with the Red Tongue gone, worthless as any other stick. She let it drift away.

Ratha threw back her head and screamed in rage and terror. Now nothing could hold Meoran from her throat. And it had all been for nothing. The Red Tongue was gone.

She reared up again, slashing and tearing at the stream, as if it had flesh and could yield some retribution for killing her creature. She heard footsteps on the bank above her. A splash beside her nearly knocked her over. Sharp teeth fastened in her nape.

“Ratha!” Fessran’s voice hissed behind her head. Fessran’s breath was hot and moist on her skin beneath the fur.

“My creature! My creature is dead!” Ratha howled, her throat raw from her cry.

“The clan comes,” Fessran said between her fangs. “Your noise will guide them to us. Be still!”

“They seek me. Run, Fessran. If they find me, they won’t follow you.”

“Speak again and I’ll push your nose beneath the water. I too held the Red Tongue between my jaws and Meoran will not forget that.”

The teeth fastened on Ratha’s nape again and she was hauled through the water, dragged out and pushed ashore. She shook so badly she could hardly stay on her feet and the wind on her wet pelt made her feel as though she had no fur at all.

Fessran’s slick coat gleamed faintly as she passed Ratha and moved up the far bank.

“Wait.”

Fessran looked back, her eyes phosphorescent. “Clan ground ends here,” she said, “but the clan’s wrath doesn’t.”

“We can’t outrun them. It has been too long since we’ve eaten,” Ratha said.

Fessran lowered her muzzle and hunched her shoulders.

“Fessran, there is no hope they will spare me. But you may be able to turn their hatred away from you.”

“How?” The eyes narrowed.

“The Red Tongue is dead. Meoran need not know that it was my foolishness that killed it. It was you, Fessran. You killed it and drove me off. He must have heard my cry.”

“Yarr … and I hear him,” Fessran muttered. “Quickly, Ratha.”

“He’ll believe it. Here,” Ratha said, swiping at her belly and extending her fur-covered claws to Fessran. “A tuft of fur. Put it between your teeth.” She lifted a paw and smeared Fessran’s coat with the blood and dirt from her cut pads before Fessran could stop her. “There. I turned on you with the Red Tongue, but you struck it down and killed it. Can he doubt my blood on your fur? And the stick has come ashore downstream. Show him that when he arrives.”

“Enough!” Fessran hissed. “He will never…”

“You don’t have time to wash yourself off before he gets here.” Ratha pawed Fessran’s face, leaving a smear along her jaw. She jumped back at Fessran’s strike. The eyes were blazing.

“Get away from here before I make it real!” Fessran snarled.

Ratha ducked her head and scuttled away. She paused, lifted her head and looked back. “May you eat of the haunch and sleep in the driest den, Fessran,” she said softly. “You are of the clan. You cannot leave them. I am the one whose way lies apart from the rest.”

The other’s eyes cooled. The tail gave one last twitch. “May the trail you run lead you back to us.”

“See to Thakur,” Ratha said.

“I will. Go now.” Fessran’s whiskers drew back. “I don’t want you to see me fawning on Meoran.”

Ratha leaped up the bank, leaving her behind. The howls of the clan sounded not far across the creek. Ratha trotted downstream for a short distance and angled off into the brush. Making sure that she was downwind from the stream bank, Ratha crouched in a thicket, listening. Her heartbeat threatened to choke her. Would her plan work? Would the clan leader believe Fessran’s story and spare her? They needed good herders too badly to kill one needlessly.

If Fessran dies, Ratha thought, kneading the earth beneath her forepaws, I will go and bare my throat to Meoran.

The howling swelled, then fell silent. Voices spoke. Ratha was too far away to hear the words, but she caught tones. Meoran’s deep growl, Srass’s whine. Fessran’s voice, rising and falling. Then, silence. Ratha tensed, grinding her teeth together, waiting for the outcry from the pack that would signal Fessran’s death. Nothing.

She lifted her chin, swiveling her ears all the way forward, hardly daring to think that such a simple trick had saved her companion. She peered through the interwoven branches. The moon was silver on the stream bank. Forms paced up and down on the far side. Fessran was seated, speaking to Meoran. She extended a paw. Meoran leaned forward to sniff it while the clan gathered about them. Fessran got up, joined the others, and Ratha lost her among them.

She dropped down behind her thicket, dizzy with relief and weariness. She laid her chin on the damp ground and felt her heart gradually slow. The ache in her belly came back and the cuts on her pads began to throb. There was mud in the wounds, but she didn’t have time to clean them. The wind might soon shift, carrying her scent to the clan and revealing her hiding place. Exhausted and hungry as she was, she had far to run before she would be beyond the clan’s reach.

She yawned. This would be a good place to sleep, she thought, pushing herself up on her front paws. If I did, Meoran would soon be standing over me, ready to give the killing bite. She coaxed her reluctant hindquarters up and peered out of the thicket. The voices were silent. The clan folk had gone. Fessran was probably sending them on all sorts of false trails, looking for her.

She stepped out of the thicket and looked up at the stars. The trees here were fewer and she could see a greater stretch of sky. So many stars, she thought. Each seemed to burn like a tiny piece of her lost creature. The night wind touched her wet coat, making her prickle and shiver.

She was clanless; outcast and outlaw. Her training as a herder was worthless now, for she had no beasts to keep. There would be no more gatherings; no sharing of the clan kill. From now on she would have to provide for herself, and that no one had taught her.

Miserably, she crept away. She stayed in shadow beneath brush and trees, avoiding open ground where newly sprouting grass was bathed in moonlight beside the charred lengths of fallen pines. For a while, she chose stealth over speed, but at last her desperation drove her from cover. She ran from an enemy neither seen nor smelled, whose dark presence loomed up in every tree shadow, sending her fleeing from the path. She ran like a cub on her first night trail, fearful of anything that moved.

The wind grew bitter, hissing and rattling branches. The new ache in Ratha’s chest did not distract her from the old ache in her belly, and she endured them both, until the hunger pain became a weakness that seeped into her legs. She stumbled from tree to tree, resting against them until she gained breath to go on. The trail faded away, or she lost it, for now she fought her way through thorns and ropy vines. She panted harder. Her pads grew slippery with sweat, stinging the gravel cuts. She was almost grateful for the pain; it kept her alive and angry when she was tempted to fall and lie amid the brambles that snared her. It was the anger that made her tear loose from them and stagger on, leaving tufts of fur behind.

The earth itself seemed to betray her, for it grew mushy underfoot and she sank at every step. The soft ground sucked at her feet, dragging her down, while the tangle thorns chewed at her ruff and flanks. She was caught and held by spikes growing from the vines, and struggle as she would, she could not break free. For a while she was still, regaining her strength. With a final effort, she wrenched herself loose, the thorns scoring her sides.

She overbalanced, toppled and started to roll down a steep grade. Limp and exhausted, she let herself go, dragging a claw now and then to slow her descent. She landed against something, heard a soft crunch and smelled the odor of woody decay. She tried to rise, but could only lift her head; the rest of her body was too weary to obey.

Ratha let her head loll, feeling damp moss against her cheek. Was this to be her deathplace? Would the clan find her here, a rotting lump of fur beside an equally rotten log?

No! She ground her teeth; she would not lie still, not yet. If Meoran and the others came she would meet them on her feet, with fangs bared.

If only she could have a little time to rest. That would be all she needed. Just time enough for the strength to flow back into her limbs and the ache in her chest to lessen. Then she would be able to fight if she had to, or to journey on, seeking water to soothe her throat and something to fill her belly.

The ground seemed to rock beneath her when she closed her eyes, letting her rise and fall as though she were a cub crawling on her mother’s ribs. She opened one eye at the shadowed ferns hanging above her. The leaves were still, and she knew that it was not the ground that rocked her, but the depths of her own weariness. She let the imagined motion lull her into a daze, then into sleep.

Ratha woke abruptly, itching all over. Had all her fleas gone mad? They were all dancing beneath her coat, tickling her skin until the urge to be rid of them overcame her exhaustion. She twitched a paw and saw something white and wriggling fall on the ground. Whatever was crawling through her fur, it wasn’t fleas.

With one bound she was on her feet, shaking hard until she thought she would jerk her pelt loose. Some of the invaders fell on the ground beneath her, but others remained as moving lumps in her underfur. Her tail bristled with horror. Was she so close to death that worms were seeking her body? She remembered seeing the carcass of a dappleback mare felled by sickness. The clan would not touch the tainted meat and the body was left for other scavengers. She remembered the sound that welled up from the carcass; a soft humming and whispering. It was the song of the death-eaters; the sound of dissolution. It was the sound of millions of tiny jaws chewing through cold flesh. Ratha remembered the song and shuddered. She shook herself again. She saw pale carapaces and waving legs on the moonlit ground beside her paws. Some of her horror faded into curiosity. These weren’t worms, she thought, pawing at one scuttling insect.

She looked back to where she had lain against the fallen log. The leathery wood was crushed inward, revealing a channeled interior. More pale termites swarmed and milled within the hollow, spilling out like a thick liquid around the edges.

She had landed right in a nest of them. No wonder she had awakened with the creatures in her fur! She nosed her back and trapped one moving lump between her fangs. She pulled it loose from her coat, feeling the hair thread between her teeth. The flailing legs touched her tongue and made her gag. She bit down on the insect and felt the carapace break.

She spat the mangled thing out, but not before a trace of its flavor escaped onto her tongue. She had been prepared for a bitter or nauseating taste, but instead found it bland and sweet, reminding her of the river-crawlers she had eaten with Thakur. Her hunger came back in a rush. She let saliva wash over her tongue, testing the flavor again. Not as good as river-crawlers, but definitely palatable.

She licked up several termites that were crawling by her feet, crunched and swallowed them.

Ha, eaters of death, she thought. I will eat you!

She cleaned up the others that had fallen from her fur and began grooming herself, eating the ones she found in her pelt. Not satisfied with those, she pawed at the nest, breaking more of the rotten wood. A seething mass poured out on the ground. She stepped on them and then ate them.

By dawn she was almost full. Daylight chased the termites into the depths of their battered nest, but Ratha no longer cared. With the cramp in her belly eased, she was ready to journey on.

For several days, Ratha traveled through thick woods of broadleaf and pine. Here the fire’s touch had not been felt and the air beneath the trees was cool and dim, reminding her of her own forest before the Red Tongue’s coming. She thought, as she prowled on needles, that she could make a new home among these silent trees. There were plenty of rotting logs that would yield their inhabitants to her claws, at least until she found some other source of food. Even as she thought about staying, her feet carried her on until the forest thinned and gave way to scrub and tangle. Only when she was clear of the trees did she stop to look back. The forest beckoned to her from within its gray-green depths, promising her quiet and safety. The horizon also beckoned, promising her nothing except challenge.

She turned from the forest and galloped toward the horizon.

Ratha sniffed at the trail of tiny prints that ran over the flat and into the rushes. The stink of marsh mud rose to her nostrils, overwhelming the smell of her quarry. Her hindquarters trembled and she sat down. A wave of nausea swept through her, and her stomach threatened to disgorge the lake water she’d drunk early that morning, trying to still the hunger cramps in her belly.

The tracks led on further into the marsh. She coaxed herself up and followed them. The marsh shrew had run before her only a short time ago; the tracks cut sharply into the black mud. Ratha knew about tracks. Thakur had taught her to find straying three-horns and dapplebacks by their prints and how to tell if a trail was worth following.

She stopped and studied the ground. Here, the prey had been running. The tracks were deeper and farther apart. Tiny bits of caked mud, a lighter gray than the ooze, littered the trail as if flung from scurrying paws. Ratha’s excitement rose as she padded alongside the trail. Saliva filled her mouth. Soon her teeth would crunch on bone and she would suck warm salty blood. The gnawing pain in her belly would cease….

Ratha stopped. The tracks ended. One last footprint in the mud and beyond, nothing. She whined in dismay, nosing about around the trail. Could the shrew have leaped away onto a log or branch? She looked around, frantically. Nothing but mud on either side. Where had the prey vanished?

Again, she circled, trying to find the track. She stepped on something smooth and slender that bent underneath her pad. She drew back her foot and looked. Embedded in her pawprint was a feather; a long slim quill. Shrill cries overhead made her look up. Several birds wheeled high above her. From the shape of their wings she knew that they also ate flesh. Her whiskers drooped. Her prey was probably squirming in their talons or being torn apart by hooked beaks. This hunt was ended. She would have to begin again.

Ratha caught motion at the edge of her vision. She whirled around. A heavy beak clamped shut in the air where the nape of her neck had been.

For an instant, she flattened on the ground, staring up at her opponent.

The great bird cawed and raised its crest, staring at her with unblinking lizard eyes. Its weight sunk its talons deep into the ooze. Massive legs with scaled horny skin supported a body that was all bulk and neck, the tiny wings buried in hairy feathers. This one had not dropped from the skies. Atop the serpentine neck, the great head swayed and the beak gaped once again. A talon lifted. The inside of the beak was yellow; the narrow tongue a glistening pink.

For another instant, Ratha crouched, paralyzed, watching the talon and the open maw descend. Then she remembered her legs. The beak stabbed into black ooze. Terrified, she scurried away through the rushes as the hunter’s hoarse cry of rage echoed over the marshland. She fled, turning and twisting, to throw her pursuer off the trail. She ran until her legs would no longer carry her and then she fell and slept in exhaustion until her belly woke her with the reminder that it had yet to be filled.

Afternoon found her tracking again. The prey was wounded or ill; she could tell by the irregular footsteps and wandering trail. Sometimes the prints were smudged by the impression of a dragging tail. Again, she followed, but this time she did not let the intensity of her hunt make her forget that she too might be prey.

The trail grew fresher and the smell stronger. She crouched as she approached a fallen log in her path. On the far side of it she could hear soft rustling sounds, and the crack and crunch of seeds being eaten. Again she trembled and her belly grew tight. She slunk along the side of the rotting timber and looked around the edge. There it was. A little marsh-shrew with a dull striped pelt and flanks almost as shrunken as hers. One rear leg was wounded and dragging. The blunt snout turned, the nostrils twitched. Ratha ducked back. Then, as the creature turned once more to its meal, she peered past the ragged spongy ends of the fallen timber. At last something she could catch.

She gathered herself, bunched and sprang over the log. She landed short, slipped in the mud, leaped again and landed on her prey with her front paws.

Her tail swung wildly to keep her balance as the animal squirmed beneath her pads. She felt herself toppling, struck one forepaw out to catch herself and felt her prey slip out from beneath the other. Furious, she lunged and snapped, but the creature, despite its injury, was far away from her, scooting across the flat toward the reeds. Ratha flung herself after it, howling in anguish. She chased the animal up and down through the high grass, desperation keeping her only a few tail-lengths behind. The marsh grass opened into a meadow of ferns and she was gaining on her quarry when a flurry of black and brown erupted from nowhere and something charged into her, knocking her aside from her prey. There was a shrill scream from the animal, a deep growl and then silence.

Ratha scrambled out of the clump of ferns and staggered to her feet. A young male of her own kind stood a short distance away, staring back at her. Her marsh-shrew, now lifeless, dangled from his jaws. He dropped it in among the ferns and began to play with it, glancing from time to time at Ratha. Driven by hunger, she moved closer. He lashed his tail, growled, picked the carcass up and pranced a short distance through the ferns. There he laid it down, ambled a few tail-lengths away and began grooming himself.

Ratha flattened and crawled through the ferns, freezing whenever he looked her way. His smell was oddly familiar, she realized, between the waves of hunger that were sweeping over her. She slunk forward again, raising her whiskers above the fronds. He turned, yawned in her face and ducked his head among the ferns. A loud crunch of teeth on bone told her he was eating her prey.

With an outraged scream, Ratha flung herself at him but exhaustion made her fall short. She pushed herself up on wobbly legs, fluffed her tail and spat. He flicked one ear and went on eating. Only half the carcass was left.

“Scavenger!” Ratha hissed. “Un-Named dung-eater! Flea-ridden chewer of bones! Arrr, you can’t understand my words, bone-chewer, but you’ll understand my teeth!”

The other gazed at her, a scrap of fur and flesh hanging from his jowls. It disappeared into his mouth in several swift bites and his lips drew back from his teeth as he chewed, revealing a broken lower fang. Ratha looked at his ears. One had a piece bitten out of it and the ragged edge bore the marks of teeth. Hers. It was the raider who had attacked Fessran’s dapplebacks in Ratha’s first encounter with the Un-Named raiders.

“The same words again, clan cat?” he said, looking straight at her. “Do they teach you no others?”

Ratha’s nape bristled and she felt the fur rising all the way down her spine to her tail. Her nostrils flared. She was unsure of whether to attack or retreat and did neither. She could only stare at the mangled carcass between his forepaws and swallow the warm saliva flooding her mouth.

He tore another strip from the prey. The smell from the glistening flesh brought Ratha forward. Saliva slipped between her teeth and ran over her lips into her fur.

“You are far from home ground, clan cat.” He gulped the meat. “And far from the herdbeasts that keep you fed.”

Ratha took another step forward. She could see the ends of her whiskers quivering. “I chased the marsh-shrew, broken-fanged one. Let me have what is left of it.”

“Yes, you chased it,” he agreed. His tone was light, but his eyes were wary. “You didn’t catch it. I caught it.”

“I caught it. My paws were on it before yours. I drew first blood.”

“Is that a new clan law? I thought they had enough laws and leaders to bare their throats to.” He grinned, exposing the jagged edge of his fang.

“Give me my prey!” Ratha howled and flung herself at him. Her trembling legs turned her lunge into a stumble.

He snatched up the remains of the prey and trotted beyond her reach. He sat down among the ferns and gave her a mocking look. “You are a bad hunter, clan cat. Only good hunters eat,” he said between his teeth, lifting his head to let the rest of the carcass slide into his open gullet.

“Raider! Bone-chewer! I broke your fang and tore your ear. Come near me or steal my prey again and I will chew your tail off and stuff it down your gluttonous throat!”

He lolled his tongue out at her, turned, and, tail in the air, sauntered away.

Ratha went to where the shrew’s carcass had lain, hoping to find a few neglected morsels. She found only moss, stained with blood and spittle. She bent her head and licked the green carpet, but only got the faintest taste. She closed her eyes and felt her belly twist in despair.

Only good hunters eat, she thought.

She lifted her head and bared her fangs. She shredded the moss with her claws.

She had lost her world and everything in it. The herder’s knowledge that served her in the clan was worthless here. She had left her people far behind. Now, she realized, as she felt the grinding pain of hunger fade into a frightening numbness inside her, she must leave their ways behind as well.

I was raised to be a herder, part of her mind cried. That life is gone. What else is there? Nothing, the same part of her mind answered. In choosing to leave the clan, you chose to die.

Despair paralyzed Ratha. She wanted to sink down onto the moss and lie still forever. To become dry bones, scattered by the feet of those who would pass this way. Crumbling bones, crawling with insects.

Another part of her mind began speaking. She quieted the turmoil inside and listened. This part spoke in images and feelings rather than words. It told of scents followed along star-lit trails, of stalking and waiting in shadow, of branches breaking close by and the sudden fever at the smell of the prey. It told of a life far older than that of the clan, a life far deeper and, in a strange way, far wiser. The old part of her mind told Ratha she had that wisdom. She woke from the telling as she would from a dream and she trembled, for it was far stronger than the clan-taught knowledge. The way of the clan, she knew, went back many seasons and many lifetimes. She knew the names of those who led the clan, from the first ones all the way to Baire and Meoran. The way of the herder was old, but there was another way, ancient beyond memory. It went back to the time before the beginning. The way of the hunter.

Summer’s golden grass and lazy sun faded into wind and blowing leaves. The rushes beside the shore withered, turning brittle. Their crisp green odor turned dry and nutty. The mornings became cold and drizzly; the afternoons gray. Only once in a while did the sun seep through the clouds hanging above the lake. Everything smelled dank and rotten.

Ratha shed her summer coat and with it the last faint tracings of her spots. Her fur grew back thickly in gold and cream. She was pleased with her new beauty, but, to her dismay, it didn’t last. The autumn rain turned all the trails to mud and she returned from hunting soggy and spattered from nose to tail. Bonechewer also shed his copper fur for a somber brown, which looked black in the rain.

The weather kept small creatures in their burrows. Both Ratha and Bonechewer worked hard to keep their bellies full. There were times when they returned empty to their den and could only lie and listen to each other’s stomachs growl until hunger forced them to hunt again.

Ratha learned to eat lizards and earthworms and to chew on tubers she dug from the ground. She developed a taste for the noxious bare-tails, for they were often the only thing she could catch.

Autumn yielded to winter. The rain fell hard and often turned to sleet. Ratha and Bonechewer hunted by day and spent the bitter nights curled up with each other in a nest of leaves in a hollow pine. It got so cold that the one who slept closer to the entrance would wake shivering, his or her whiskers rimed with frost.

The morning was still and pale as Ratha poked her whiskers out of the den. She was alone, as Bonechewer had risen earlier to forage. She crawled out and shook herself. She felt itchy and irritable. There was a strange fragile feeling in the air, an uneasy lull between last night’s storm and the mass of heavy clouds crawling down the ridge above the lake.

Better hunt now, she thought, knowing that she and Bonechewer would spend most of the short day huddled together in their den while the new storm lashed the lake to churning froth and flattened the rushes.

She circled the old pine until she picked up Bonechewer’s scent. Soon she saw his tracks and followed them up along the lakeshore.

There she found him, up to his chest in muddy water. He was trying to drag something ashore. As Ratha came closer, she could see that his prize was the drowned carcass of a young deer. She waded in, despite the freezing water, and helped him haul it ashore.

“It hasn’t been dead long,” said Bonechewer, nosing the body. “For carrion, it is fresh. See? The eyes are still firm and clear.”

“A three-horn fawn,” Ratha said, noticing a bony swelling on the animal’s nose that matched the two horn-buds on its head. She placed a paw on the fawn’s ribs and rocked the carcass. It seemed oddly limp and the head rolled on the ground.

“Are you sure it’s fresh?” she asked Bonechewer. “Put your paw on the back. Here, between the shoulders.”

He did. “The back is broken,” he said, cocking his head. “So is the neck. And here are the marks of teeth. This beast didn’t drown. I think this is a kill.”

“Who would throw their kill into the lake?”

Bonechewer twitched his tail. “Someone may have lost it in the storm last night. He may have been dragging it along the ledges that overhang the lake on the far side. We may find the hunter’s body washed up further along the shore.”

Ratha sat down and stared at the carcass. The prickly sensation she had been feeling all morning had soured her temper. “Bonechewer, I haven’t seen any three-horns around the lake, or anywhere else here.”

“I haven’t either,” he answered, shaking his pelt dry. “There aren’t any. I’ve lived here long enough to know.”

“Then where did this one come from?”

He grinned. “Perhaps Meoran sent you a gift.”

“Bonechewer!” Ratha stamped, sending mud up her leg, spattering her chest. Again she stared at the carcass, feeling waves of heat wash over her. She was in no mood for mysteries. She should just eat and be done with it. Something kept her back. This animal had to belong to the clan herds. There was no other place it could have come from, for it was fat and well taken care of, not scrawny and wild.

Bonechewer yawned, “I don’t care where it came from. It’s fresh and both of us could use a good meal.”

“Yarrr,” Ratha agreed, although the sight of the slain clan animal disturbed her more than she would admit. She was sure Bonechewer was teasing, but she sensed truth behind his words, even if it was twisted. She glanced at her companion, who was already tearing at the fawn’s belly. The sound of him eating and the smell of flesh in the damp air made her stomach cramp with hunger. She joined him and ate.

When Ratha thought she couldn’t force another bite down her throat, she felt Bonechewer start and stiffen beside her. She wiped her muzzle on the inside of her foreleg and stared over the barrel of the kill. In a patch of weeds several tail lengths away, sat two intruders, one gray, one spotted. Ratha bristled and started to growl.

“Sss, no!” Bonechewer commanded and her challenge died into a puzzled whimper. She watched as he stepped, stiff-legged, in front of the carcass and faced the two.

These were the Un-Named, Ratha realized, her heart thudding in her chest. One was a half-grown cub and the other an elder, but they looked rough and wild. Their faces were wary, their eyes hunters’ eyes. Their smell, drifting to her through the drizzle, was a scent she had never smelled before. The Un-Named had a strong odor, both sour and musky at once. It was laced with a mixture of prey blood-scents, some old, some fresh. It held the stale scent of age and the smell of mud carried far between weary pawpads. And along with the scents of the Un-Named and the creatures they hunted came the wild scents of unknown valleys, plains and forests where a hunter might roam in freedom or die miserably of starvation.

Ratha stared at the Un-Named Ones and saw that what their smell told her was also written in their eyes. Would such a life allow them to learn anything more than survival ? She had been taught that the clanless ones knew nothing but the urge to fill their bellies. She knew better now. Bonechewer bore no name, yet he spoke as well as any in the clan. But she realized, as she glanced at him and then at the two Un-Named, he was as different from them as he was from those in the clan. She waited, watching Bonechewer. She saw his eyes narrow and his mouth open.

She waited for him to attack or to roar a challenge at the witless ones. He did neither. He spoke to the Un-Named cub as he would have spoken to her. “Do you travel alone with the gray, spotted-coat? Or do more follow?”

The strange cub got up and walked forward. The gray female remained seated, following the cub with eyes that seemed strangely unfocused and diffuse. Ratha thought at first that the gray was blind, but she saw the grizzled head turn and the slitted pupils move as the cub walked past.

She sought the cub’s gaze, thinking she would see the same dull stare. As his eyes met hers, she felt her fur rise. His gaze was as sharp and clear as Bonechewer’s. Yet he was Un-Named. Would he speak?

He waited, holding Ratha’s eyes as if he knew the question burning behind them. Then he turned to Bonechewer. “More follow, dweller-by-the-water. Hunting grows hard. We turn to other ways.”

The sound of his voice sent another shock through Ratha. She let out her breath slowly. She had been as wrong about the Un-Named cub as she had been about Bonechewer. The clan knows nothing about the Un-Named, she thought. Nothing.

The spotted coat spoke again. “There will be many tracks across your ground before this season is done.” The cub’s gaze strayed to the gutted carcass. “Ho, dweller-by-the-water,” he said. “The lake has brought you a good kill.”

“A good kill. Are these the marks of your teeth on its neck, little spotted-coat?” Bonechewer asked.

“No, dweller-by-the-water.”

“Then make your tracks across my ground and leave me alone.”

The cub stepped forward, head lowered, tail stiff. “You have not been long among us if you have forgotten the wanderer’s claim, dweller-by-the-water. The old one and I are far from home ground and we are hungry.”

“I had not forgotten, spotted-coat.” Bonechewer grinned, showing all of his fangs. “I hoped you were too young to know about it. Ah well. Come then, and bring the gray.”

“Bonechewer!” Ratha’s jaw dropped. “Why are you doing this? They have no right to the kill!”

Both the cub and the gray turned green eyes on her. “She speaks for you, dweller-by-the-water?” the cub asked Bonechewer, who had stepped quickly to Ratha’s side.

“Ratha,” Bonechewer hissed in her flattened ear, “if you want yourself in one piece, shut your jaws and let me speak to them.”

“You fear them? A spotted-coat and a gray half your size? They have no right to this kill,” Ratha spat back. “It was taken from clan herds. I’ll fight for it even if you won‘t!”

“The clan? Ptahh! You would fight for them? Meoran would kill you if you returned to them. Fight to fill your own belly, if you must, but speak no more of the clan.”

Ratha’s ears drooped. “If we kept the deer, we wouldn’t have to hunt tomorrow. They are only a spotted coat and a gray.”

“A spotted coat and a gray, yesss, but others follow.” Bonechewer’s whiskers poked Ratha’s cheek. “I don’t want to fight all the Un-Named. Be still, I tell you, and let them eat.” He shoved Ratha aside from the kill, opening the way for the two intruders. Hatred and outrage burned in her, and for a moment her fangs were bared against Bonechewer’s coat.

“You know better than that, clan cat,” he said very softly. “Your belly is full. Let them fill theirs.”

Ratha’s anger settled. She watched as the cub went and nudged the gray. He pointed to the carcass with one outstretched paw. The elder lifted her head, stared at the meat and licked her chops.

“Food,” Ratha heard the cub say. “Come. Eat.” The grizzled one peered past him to Ratha and Bonechewer. She whimpered, raised her hackles and showed her teeth, yellowed and worn. “No,” the cub said, pawing her. “No fight. No hurt. Gray one can eat.”

Bonechewer walked off a distance and sat down, his back turned. Ratha, however, stayed close, watching. Something about the gray female repelled yet fascinated her. The cub, slavering, trotted to the carcass and began ripping at the flank. The gray followed him and the two ate until their bellies were swollen.

At last, the two were finished. Ratha noticed, with dismay, that not much remained of the deer except the skull and shanks. The rest was eaten or scattered. The gray-coat coughed, shook off the rain pattering on her fur and swung around. Not knowing quite why she did so, Ratha set herself in front of the gray, blocking the old one’s path.

“Old one, if you eat of our kill,” Ratha said, “you must give us answers in return. Who are you? Where is your home ground? Where do you journey in such bad weather?”

The gray’s answer was a swipe at her face. Ratha ducked.

“Save your words, muddy one,” came the cub’s voice from behind her. Ratha turned to see him licking his whiskers. “The old one can’t speak. She barely understands what I say to her.”

“Why?” Ratha demanded. “Has she lost her wits to age?”

“She never had any. That’s the way she’s always been.” The cub yawned and stretched until his tail quivered.

Ratha backed away from the gray-coat. The rheumy eyes followed her and she felt imprisoned by their dull stare. Her stomach tightened with anger and revulsion. The cub lifted his brows at her.

“I’m sorry for her,” Ratha stammered, wishing she had never come near the gray.

“Why be sorry?” the cub asked. “She doesn’t care. She doesn’t know anything else. She’s a better hunter than most of the others. I like her because she doesn’t talk.”

Ratha opened her mouth again, but couldn’t think of anything to say. Despite her words, she was feeling sorrier for herself than for the gray-coat. Again she had been wrong. The answer had seemed simple and easy to catch between her teeth. Now it wiggled loose like a marsh-shrew and escaped down a hole of contradictions. She felt upset and uncomfortable, as if she had been caught doing something shameful. But all she had done was to ask a few questions. No. It was those eyes that chilled her, those ancient eyes that should have been full of life’s wisdom and instead were empty.

Thunder rumbled overhead and the rain sheeted down, stinging Ratha’s skin beneath her coat. The cub and the gray looked at her one last time. She ducked her head to avoid the old one’s gaze. The two jogged away through the weeds, lifting their feet high to avoid puddles. Ratha stood still, watching them disappear into the rain. She felt someone come up behind her. She gave a violent start before she realized it was Bonechewer.

“They bother you, don’t they,” he said.

“Not the cub. The gray … she doesn’t have anything in her eyes, Bonechewer. I don’t know how else to explain it.”

“Your clan teaches that the Un-Named are witless,” Bonechewer said, a harsh edge to his voice. ”Why should you be upset to find that some of them are?”

“I thought Meoran was wrong …” Ratha faltered. “What I was taught; it was just words. I said them, I learned them; I even questioned them, but I never knew what those words meant. Not until I looked into the gray-coat’s eyes and found nothing there.”

Bonechewer heaved a sigh. “You thought you had caught the truth, didn’t you. Again, you were wrong. Each time you try you will be wrong. The only truth is that the Un-Named are of many kinds. Some are like you and me. Some are like the gray-coat. Some are different from either. You will have to learn not to be bothered by what you see.”

“And I will see more of them?” Ratha asked.

“Yes, you will.”

“Does seeing ones like the gray-coat bother you?”

“It used to,” Bonechewer said. “It doesn’t any more.” He paused. “I learned never to look too deeply into anyone’s eyes.”

“Except mine,” Ratha said boldly, remembering his intense stare that seemed to pierce into her depths.

“True, clan cat,” he admitted, wrinkling his nose. “I do make mistakes sometimes. Is there anything left on that deer?”

Ratha inspected the stripped carcass. The other two had devoured what she and Bonechewer had left of the viscera and the meat. Rain crawled along the bare white ribs and dripped through. The fawn’s head and shanks still bore coarse fur. The rest had been torn off. The only part worth taking was the head. Ratha stared moodily at the carcass. She wanted to get rid of the deer, to forget they had found it.

“Do you want the head?” Bonechewer asked. He came up behind her and nudged her, making her flinch. His touch sent a wave of heat rushing through her body with a violence that made her gasp. The cold rushed in and she shivered hard. Unable to keep still, she began to pace back and forth. “No,” she growled. “There isn’t enough there to risk breaking a tooth cracking it.”

“Then help me drag it back into the lake. I don’t want these bones on my ground.”

Ratha made an angry turn, lost her balance and toppled.

Bonechewer nosed her as she clambered to her feet. “You’re hot.”

“I’ve been running,” she snapped, but inwardly she was alarmed. Had she caught a fever? She felt so hot and wild that she wanted to run up the hill and howl or plunge herself in the lake.

Bonechewer was still nosing her, digging his muzzle into her flank. Her irritation flared. “Stop sniffing at me as if I was a putrid kill!”

He ducked her swipe and backed off. She saw a hungry glow rise in his eyes. Yet he had eaten. What else did he want?

She sat down and scratched herself. Besides being hot, she was itchy. Had she caught some illness? If so, it was a strange one. She had never felt anything quite like this before.

Bonechewer began to tug at the carcass. Grudgingly Ratha joined him and helped him haul the remains through the rushes to the lakeside. Try as she would, she could not help bumping against him and each touch sent another heat shock through her, starting at her middle and rippling out in both directions to her head and tail.

Ratha and Bonechewer reached the shore and threw the carcass in. She watched it sink beneath the gray water until only the faintest glimmer of white bone showed on the bottom.

Her belly was full and she wanted to curl up in the den and sleep. She wanted time to think, to try and make sense of what she had learned. Perhaps, as Bonechewer had said, she would always be wrong. Perhaps there was no sense to be made of it.

Bonechewer brushed against her as he passed. His scent and his closeness drove the questions from her mind. She shook her head, trying to throw off the fuzziness that was creeping over her thoughts. She only made herself dizzy.

Bonechewer, far down the path, lifted his tail and waved the white spot at the end. Ratha lowered her head and trotted after him, leaving only the rain pattering on the lakeshore.

The next morning, Ratha woke, nestled in brittle leaves inside the ancient pine, once hollowed by fire. Age and weather had softened the sharp smell of charred timber. Resin seeped through the cracked wood and mixed its smell with the fragrance of the dry leaves.

Ratha blinked sleepily, rolled over and rested her chin on the bark sill at the entrance. She was still lightheaded, although the sensation wasn’t as unpleasant as it had been. She snuggled into the leaves and watched the winter sun rise. Last night’s fever had fallen, leaving her comfortably warm and lazy.

Something worried at her mind, trying to catch her attention. She sensed that it was important or had been important. Odd that she couldn’t remember what it was. She sighed, feeling the cold wind on her nose in contrast to the snug heat of her body.

Bonechewer lay curled up near her, feeling warm and smelling musky. The sunlight fell on his coat, turning it from shadowed brown to burnished copper. Ratha rolled over next to him and leaned over him, fascinated by the pattern of hair on his chest and foreleg. Each hair was gleaming and haloed; so perfectly placed in the pattern that flowed down his leg until it ended in a whorl on the back of his foot.

His smell hypnotized her; drew her closer. A wild dark scent, tinged with bitterness. A scent powerful enough to send shivers down her spine to the tip of her tail.

Bonechewer stirred as the sun warmed him. Ratha retreated, frightened by the motion and astonished at her feelings. He settled and his scent drew her back. One paw flexed, showing ivory claws, and he yawned, rubbing his cheek in the leaves. One eye opened. The one-eyed golden stare made Ratha feel confused and abashed. She ducked her head.

“Hmm,” he said and yawned until the back of his tongue showed. “You’re feeling better, aren’t you.”

Ratha gave him a puzzled stare.

“You spent half the night trying to push me out of the den. I suppose you don’t remember.”

He rolled over on his back, the motion sending waves of his scent toward Ratha. They rocked her, sweeping over her and through her until she could barely stand. Bonechewer had never smelled quite like this before. Had his odor changed? No. It was her. Her nose, her eyes. Everything was so much stronger, so much more intense that she could scarcely bear it. What was wrong with her?

Bonechewer wiggled on his back, his paws open, his eyes inviting. It was too much. Ratha jumped out of the den and trotted away a short distance. The day was clear and the wind nippy. Overhead, the sky was cloudless and blue. Ratha fluffed her fur and began licking herself, letting the task calm her mind. She began to enjoy it much more than she ever had. The feeling of fur gliding beneath her tongue, the warmth and roughness of her tongue pressing the fur against her skin; all of these sensations kept her licking even though she had groomed herself thoroughly. It felt nice, especially on that itchy place at the base of her tail.

She was suddenly aware that another tongue had joined hers, licking the nape of her neck while she was grooming her belly. She snapped her head up, catching Bonechewer beneath the chin. He shook his head ruefully and backed away, leaving her swimming in his scent. She tucked her tail between her legs and scuttled away. She crouched, watching him from a distance. He cocked his head and grinned at her, then took several steps toward her.

Ratha felt her lips slide back from her teeth.

“Stay away,” she growled.

“All right,” he said good-naturedly. “You’re not ready yet. Are you hungry?”

“Go stalk your own kill,” she snapped. “I can feed myself.” The comfortable lazy feeling was gone. She felt prickly and hot. Bonechewer turned tail and sauntered off.

Wrathfully yet regretfully, she watched him go.

Ratha didn’t feel hungry, but she knew she should eat. She trotted back and forth until she found a likely looking hole and settled down beside it, waiting for the occupant to emerge. But she could not keep still. She itched and prickled and burned until she could no longer stand it. She gave up after several tries and scratched herself furiously. She began licking, dragging her tongue over her chest and belly. That was good, but it still wasn’t enough. She flopped on her back and began rolling back and forth in the grass. That still wasn’t enough. She lay and pedaled her rear paws in sheer frustration. I want something and I don’t know what it is. How can I want it if I don’t know what it is?

She stopped wriggling. Bonechewer was back, two lizards dangling from his jaws. He dropped one, went away and began eating the other. Ratha scrambled to her feet and shook off the dirt and pine needles clinging to her coat. She didn’t want to be caught acting like a cub. Soon the urge to roll and rub overwhelmed her embarrassment. She flung herself on her back and writhed and wriggled until she thought her coat would be worn off.

A shadow blocked the sky and something hit her face. The something was limp, scaly and smelled delicious. Ratha’s hunger came back in a rush and she seized the lizard Bonechewer had dropped on her face. She devoured the prey, savoring every bite and crunch of bone until the morsel was gone. She looked up, licking her whiskers.

Bonechewer’s eyes seemed to glow amber in his dark face. He nosed her and this time she did not leap away. He began licking her and, although she shivered, she stayed put, sensing that his tongue was the answer to all her itches and prickles. He was warm, and his scent so rich….

A strange cry bubbled up inside her throat, wild and plaintive. Ratha could scarcely believe that this was her own voice. She lay with her head and chest against the ground, her heart threatening to burst her ribs. Teeth seized her ruff. She cried out again and again, unable to stop calling, even though the sound of her own voice frightened her. She felt his belly fur against her back and she felt him shift, slowly, repositioning his feet. His scent washed over her, taking her, spinning her until the hunger, the fright and the astonishment all blended together. She rubbed her head against the ground, calling until her voice was raw.

His weight bore her down and she felt his paws press into her back, alternating in a deliberate rhythm. He loosened his grip on her ruff and seized her further back, between the shoulders. His tail swept hers aside. Ratha arched her back to meet him, and a new note came into her call. His voice joined hers and they were together, stiff and trembling.

With a violent motion, he pulled away. The sudden pain was so sharp and deep Ratha screamed and flung herself around to face her tormentor. Her claws dragged through his fur and the skin beneath, opening a bright wound on his shoulder. He staggered back, and Ratha could see from his eyes that he had not expected such a vicious assault. She lunged at him again. He fled, not out of sight, but beyond her reach, crouching beneath a bush and watching her, measuring her…. She turned away from those glowing amber eyes and began to smooth her coat. She licked angrily, trying to wash away the traces of his odor that remained on her, but his smell kept wafting to her from where he crouched, still watching. She flattened her ears and snarled.

“Come near me again, raider and I’ll tear you into pieces too small to be worth eating!”

“I imagine you would,” Bonechewer replied, keeping his distance. “I’ll wait. You’ll feel differently about me in a little while.”

Ratha turned her back on him, stalked back to the hollow tree and climbed inside. She was still sore and throbbing, but she felt much more like herself again. She resolved to have nothing more to do with him. She curled up and went to sleep.

To her dismay, she woke up as hot and itchy as she had the first time. This time she stayed inside the tree, licking herself, rolling on her back, wondering again what was the matter with her.

“You smell good, clan cat,” came Bonechewer’s voice from just outside. “Shall I come in?”

Ratha stuck her paw out, bared her claws, swiped back and forth several times, hoping his nose would get in the way.

She waited, listening. Nothing. He had gone. Good, she thought vehemently.

Her frustration, however, remained and grew until she could hardly endure it. She thrashed around, sending up a storm of dry leaves and needles inside the hollow tree. At last she collapsed in a disgruntled heap, letting the leaves settle on her. She lolled her head out the entrance. What am I going to do, she wondered. Am I always going to feel like this? I won’t be able to hunt. I’ll starve to death.

Ratha let her head sag, closing her eyes against the midday sun. She felt someone’s breath against her face and then a tongue, tentatively licking her cheek. Bonechewer again. She grunted, letting her head sag further. The tongue stopped.

“Are you going to claw me again?” his voice said in her ear.

Ratha growled, but she knew there was no menace in her voice. He knew too. The tongue laved her ear and went under her jaw. Defeated, she let herself slide back inside the tree. His tongue followed her. She felt him step inside and lie down beside her.

They mated several more times that day and the next. Each time Ratha’s memory of the pain that came at the end of their coupling made her vow she would never join with him again, but the fever of her heat drove her to him. Her appetite was magnified and she devoured the morsels he brought her with savage bites. The self she had once known seemed very remote and far away. Would this feeling pass or would she be forever enslaved to her body’s demands?

Bonechewer tried to comfort her in the intervals between matings. Some of his harshness and indifference seemed to fall away, revealing a gentler nature than Ratha had thought him capable of.

The sun rose and set several times before her fever finally began to cool. Bonechewer’s smell became pleasant rather than intoxicating. Her senses lost their heightened sensitivity. Other thoughts crept back into her mind as the urgency of mating faded. Her mind became clear enough to think about the future and survival. For those few days, she thought, it had been as though the future no longer existed, so strongly did her needs focus her mind on each moment as it passed.

Although Ratha rejoiced in the return of stability to her body and mind, there was a lingering regret. The few days of her heat, detached as they were from the rest of her life, had brought her new sensations, new thoughts and new feelings. Now that she had experienced it once, she knew what to expect if and when it came again. There might come a time, she thought, when she would welcome the changes in her body; she would willingly enter the waking dream that swung her between madness and delight.

Ratha thought at first that she would be exactly as she was before her heat. Some of her new feelings lingered, however, telling her that not everything was the same. Certain places on her belly remained tender. Deep in her loins was a heaviness that did not change whether she ate much or little.

During the next few days Ratha hunted with Bonechewer. They saw no more of the Un-Named. She thought less and less about them, although the encounter with the gray-coat returned to her mind. As days passed and no other intruders appeared, Ratha decided that the strange cub and the gray had indeed been traveling alone. When she said as much to Bonechewer he drew back his whiskers, took her out in the downpour and showed her tracks filling up with muddy water. The marks were neither hers nor Bonechewer’s.

Ratha stared at the tracks, then at Bonechewer.

“Why don’t I challenge them, clan cat? Is that what you are asking with your eyes?”

“There are too many of them, you said …” Ratha answered cautiously.

He grunted and said, “This is the only way the wanderers can go. On one side of my ground lies the lake. On the other lie the mountains. They must cross my ground. I can’t stop them. I do not want to.” He circled the tracks and then began to paw mud over them. “I make sure that as they pass, they catch no sight of me.”

“Why?” Ratha asked. “Do you fear them?”

He patted the mud down. “No. But I don’t want to share my prey with everyone that passes, as I did the cub and gray-coat.”

“The wanderer’s claim,” Ratha remembered. “Is that a law among the Un-Named?”

“As close as we come to a law, I suppose.” Bonechewer sounded annoyed. “But we have work enough to fill our own bellies so I let the strangers hunt for themselves.” He turned away, flicking his tail. Beneath the sharp tang of irritation in his scent, Ratha detected a trace of worry.

He turned away to hunt. Ratha gazed at the smeared pawprints. She dipped her muzzle and smelled the edge of one track, but the rain had washed its scent away. She lifted her head and jogged after Bonechewer.

The next day Ratha returned to the same spot and saw fresh tracks. Bonechewer did not come with her and she decided to say nothing to him about it. He knew and, it seemed, he didn’t particularly care. Ratha began leaving the den earlier, hoping she might see the ones who made the tracks. Once she hid before sunrise and caught a glimpse of shadows moving far away in the misty drizzle.

Where were the travelers coming from, she wondered, and where were they going? Why would Bonechewer retreat each day to the far reaches of his territory and not venture near the trail? Part of it, she knew, was selfishness, but his odor and his manner suggested something more.

Once or twice, Ratha, hunting mice on the hillside, saw him stop on the trail the Un-Named Ones had taken. He looked down the path after their tracks and there was a longing in his eyes as if he wanted to join them on their journey. Then, as Ratha watched, his expression changed to disgust. He rubbed out the remaining pawmarks and leaped away through the bushes.

She noticed that his prowling was not random. Each day he spent in a certain section of his territory, inspecting it, marking it and making sure everything was as it should be before….

Before he leaves, Ratha thought to herself and felt cold and lonely as she shadowed him in the early morning drizzle. He had said nothing to her about such a journey, yet he appeared to be making preparations, catching more than he could eat and storing the rest in the crotch of a tree or under a flat stone. Often he would break away from these activities, as if he did them against his will, but if Ratha watched long enough, she would see him renew his efforts. She should go, she thought miserably. She had learned enough from him that she might survive the rest of the winter if she worked hard. He seemed caught up in some inner struggle that she could not understand, yet she sensed that it involved her in some way, as well as the Un-Named she had seen on the trail. The deer carcass they had fished from the lake was part of it too. She had a few of the pieces, but not enough to fit together.

She slunk through the wet grass and peered between the stems. She caught a glimpse of a rain-slick copper coat. There he was. Checking the trail as he usually did. Should she follow? He never found anything except pawmarks. Why should she waste her time?

She lifted her head and saw birds wheeling and dipping beneath the gray mass of clouds. A breeze tickled her whiskers, bringing with it the smell of the marshlands and the hills. She sensed, as she stood still and let the wind ruffle her fur, that this might be the last day she spent here.

Bonechewer had come out into the opening and was pacing toward the trail. Ratha saw him stop and stare up the path. The curve of a hill cut off her view, but she knew from Bonechewer’s reaction that he had seen more than pawmarks. She scampered down the hill, keeping herself hidden. She made a wide circuit behind Bonechewer and followed him, creeping low on her belly, scuttling from one weed patch to the next until she was quite close to Bonechewer.

As she approached the trail, she saw that it wasn’t empty. There were three of the Un-Named there. She dropped down behind a rise and hid, stretching out in the long grass, her chin resting on the top of the knoll. Now she could see and hear everything.

She watched Bonechewer approach the three on the trail. Two were tawny, the other black. The tawny ones were heavy and each bore a ruff. Their scent, drifting to Ratha through the damp air, told her they were males. They had the same eyes as the witless gray female and Ratha knew they wouldn’t speak. The two males crouched and curled their tails across their feet. The black sat upright, green eyes luminous in a narrow ebony face. The eyes fixed on Bonechewer.

Ratha crawled further over the crest of the knoll, feeling her heart thump against the ground. Would the black one speak or be as dumb as the two others?

The black rose onto all four feet as the copper-coat approached.

“I wondered when you would come, nightling,” Ratha heard Bonechewer say.

“The gathering place calls, dweller-by-the-water,” the stranger replied. The black’s odor and voice were female. “I and my companions are the last.”

“They who gather will wait for you,” Bonechewer said.

The black came a few steps down the trail, keeping her eyes on him. “We need you, dweller-by-the-water. Few among us have your gifts.”

The green eyes were intense, half pleading, half-threatening. Ratha saw Bonechewer’s hackles rise.

“That I know, nightling. How I will use them is for me to decide.”

The black lowered her whiskers and walked down the trail past Bonechewer. The two tawny males followed her. She paused and looked over one silken shoulder at Bonechewer. “I could make use of their teeth, dweller-by-the-water.”

Ratha tensed, gathering herself for a possible charge up the hill to Bonechewer’s aid.

“You could, nightling,” Bonechewer answered pleasantly, but Ratha saw the muscles bunch beneath his fur.

“No, dweller-by-the-water,” the black said, showing the pointed tips of her fangs. “I am not so foolish as that. You are right, the decision is yours to make. If we are your people, then come. If not, then return to those of the clan from which you came and leave this territory to the Un-Named.”

Ratha crept closer. If the black was right, Bonechewer was not one of the Un-Named. Clan-born? Could he be? That might explain many things.

The black waved her tail and trotted down the path, followed by her two companions. Bonechewer stared at the ground until their footsteps faded. Only then did he raise his head. He swung his muzzle back and forth, flicking his tail. Then he turned and gazed downhill to where Ratha was hiding.

“Clever, clan cat,” he said loudly, “but the wind has shifted and I can smell you.”

Disgruntled, Ratha trotted uphill to the path. As she approached, he laid his ears back until he looked as if he didn’t have any.

“So, dweller-by-the-water,” she said mockingly, staying beyond reach of his claws, “do you take the trail with your people? And will you raid those who were also your people?”

“Yarr. So you know my little secret,” he said, slightly taken aback. “No matter. You would have found out fairly soon. One wouldn’t know it from your hunting ability, but you are quite clever. Too clever, I think.”

She eyed him. “You bear no love for the Un-Named. That I know from watching you rub out their tracks.”

“I have no love of growing thin, either. The weather is already harsh and growing worse. Were I to stay here alone, my land would barely feed me. It will not feed the two of us. You are eating more every day, clan cat.” He looked pointedly at her belly. Her pregnancy was becoming noticeable even as her appetite was growing more voracious.

“Then we go,” Ratha said, taking a step down the trail.

Bonechewer’s whiskers twitched and he looked uncomfortable. “The journey will not be easy and there will be things you won’t like.”

“Do I have a choice? If I am to bear your cubs, I must eat. As for the things I won’t like, I’ll deal with them as they come. When I think about what I’ve lived through, I know I can survive anything.”

At least, I hope I can, she thought as she jogged along the trail beside Bonechewer.

Ratha peered between rows of jagged stones that rose from the cavern floor. Those who had come to meet were settling, and she watched them form a circle under the phosphorescent light that shone from the roof of the cave. Bonechewer sat next to two huge gray hunters, the odd blue-green glow turning his copper coat inky and his eyes emerald. Beside him on the other side sat the black. A grizzled elder who limped on three legs, a silver-coat, and a young male barely out of his spots made up the rest of the gathering.

They spoke quietly among themselves for a while and Ratha could hear nothing but water dripping from overhead into puddles on the floor. A particularly cold drop landed on her and she jumped, shivering. Then she huddled and fluffed her fur, trying to keep warm. It was like being in the mouth of a huge beast, she thought, looking up at the stone fangs that also hung down from the ceiling. Perhaps this was the maw of some great unknown animal who lay buried in the mountain. Ratha imagined the jaws closing, the spikes overhead driving down to mesh with those rising from the floor.

No, she thought, trying to still her racing heart. Even if this is the mouth of a great beast, the jaws will never move again. It has died, she thought. I am in the mouth of a dead, cold beast.

The voices grew louder, drawing Ratha’s attention back to the Un-Named in their circle. Now she could hear what they were saying. She crept forward on her belly, laying her nose between two of the stone teeth.

One of the gray hunters was talking to the black.

“For you and your people, it is easy to wait,” the shaggy speaker was grumbling. “My people have come far and empty bellies have no patience. How am I to answer them?”

“In the language you have always used, gray hunter,” the black said, laying her tail across her delicate feet. “Claws and, if needed, teeth.” She looked at him through slitted eyes. “Do you doubt your strength?”

“It is talk I doubt. Let there be less of it. I and my people came to kill, not talk. When does the hunt begin?”

“When all are here, gray one,” interrupted the grizzled male in a scratchy voice.

“Don’t misunderstand me, gray hunter,” the black said, opening her green eyes wide. Her voice took on a silky tone. “I do understand your difficulty. I, at least, can talk to the ones I lead and many of them will listen to reason.”

“Enough!” snapped the grizzled cripple. “We have come here to plan, not to quarrel.” He turned to Bonechewer. “I see you decided to come after all, dweller-by-the-water. Your absence last season cost us, as you well know.”

“I will do what I can,” Bonechewer said.

Ratha was starting to get stiff and drops of water were soaking her ruff, but she dared not move. She had heard enough to whet her curiosity, not enough to answer her questions, although she sensed she was getting close.

“I am curious, dweller-by-the-water, why you came this time.” Scratchy-voice was speaking again. Ratha pricked her ears to catch Bonechewer’s answer.

“Old one, I hoped that you would listen to me, even though you have heard my words before.”

The gray hunter jumped to his feet. “Don’t listen to him! He would keep us hungry and save the herds of the hated ones. He is not one of us. He is clan-born filth!”

“Gray one, when you have finished howling and are ready to listen,” Bonechewer said, his voice acid, “I will tell you why I think as I do.”

The big silver-coat glared at Bonechewer and then around the circle, seeking support. Many of the eyes on Bonechewer were hostile.

“You gray idiot! Do you think I care anything for those who cast me out, who would have slain me as a cub?”

He lunged at the silver-coat as he spoke and the other shrank away. Bonechewer stood, letting his fur flatten as he turned to the others.

“Take from the herds, yes. Let the hated ones work for you. I say nothing against that. But I hear voices that speak of turning this into a vengeance hunt, of slaughtering the herds and those who keep them.” He stopped and gazed around the cavern. “You will be pulling the fur from your own tails if you do that. The clan keeps us alive. Not many of you great hunters will admit that, but it is raiding and scavenging that feeds us during this season.”

“Ptahh! We should kill the hated ones and take their ground. Game is richer there than in our territories. That will keep us. Spare them?” The silver-coat curled his lip, showing heavy fangs. “No!”

Ratha could see from the circle of eyes that Bonechewer had little sympathy in the group.

The only one who didn’t look openly hostile was the black female, but the sight of her only disgusted Ratha.

He’s right, she thought frantically as Bonechewer returned to his place. He’s right. Why won’t they listen?

“Very well,” Bonechewer said. “I see that few of you share my concern. I can say no more. If you wish to keep me on this council, I will serve as you ask. Let me say only that I have warned you.”

There was silence, broken by the echoes of water dripping in the recesses of the cavern. The group began talking among themselves again in low voices and Ratha could no longer hear what they said. She didn’t care. She had heard enough.

She eased herself up, shaking as much from fear as from cold. Her legs, stiff and numb, moved awkwardly. As she turned, she kicked a piece of broken stone. It clicked as it bounced and the echo reverberated across the cavern.

Ratha froze. She glanced back at the group. All of them were on their feet, ears pricked, hackles raised. She gave a soft moan of despair. They would find her, tear her, and fling her remains down the rockface.

“Wait, all of you,” she heard Bonechewer’s voice say. “Stay here. I know who that is.”

Ratha gave a start and felt her stomach sink even further. She could not bear to let him find her. She turned tail and fled out of the cavern, across a flooded gallery and into the tunnel she had come in by. In the tunnel she paused for a moment, the pulsebeat in her throat almost choking her. She heard the sound of splashing and leaped into a gallop. He was after her. What he would do when he caught her, she didn’t know.

Now she was running in total darkness, trusting only her whiskers to keep her away from the rock walls.

“Ratha!” Bonechewer’s voice came from behind her, hollow and hissing. “Ratha!”

Cold fresh air tickled her nose, and as she ran, she breathed great gulps of it. She was almost out, she thought, scrabbling up a graveled incline. She thrust her head out and glanced around. No one was here. She was free! Soon she would be racing down the mountainside, leaving the Un-Named far behind. She would go back to the clan and warn them. Someone there would listen even if Meoran didn’t. Her excitement almost choked her. At last, at last, she would be going home.

She was barely out of the hole when she felt jaws clamp on her tail. Something jerked her back, snapping her head and knocking the wind out of her. She struggled, but Bonechewer kept a tight grip on her tail. She pulled until it was raw, then collapsed in a heap, worn out and terrified.

She felt the jaws loosen and peered along her flank. Bonechewer’s eyes glowed back at her. She shut hers tight again, waiting for his teeth.

“Sit up, Ratha.” He cuffed her, but the blow was mild. She only went into a tighter huddle. “I’m not going to hurt you. Sit up and listen.”

Gradually Ratha uncurled and looked up at him doubtfully.

Bonechewer grinned; not a friendly expression. The moonlight gleamed on his teeth, and Ratha remembered how, long ago, she had fought him in the meadow.

“You’re no danger to us, despite your heroics,” he said. “Go and warn the clan. What good will it do them? How many of the clan are there? How many of the Un-Named? Think about that for a while.”

Ratha sat, feeling the cold seep back inside her. “They would be ready to fight,” she said, but her words sounded uncertain, even to herself.

“Do you think that would make any difference?” Bonechewer leaned over her. “The marsh-shrew is ready to fight, but it is I who eat the marsh-shrew. Your warning might prolong the fight a little and cause a few more of the Un-Named to die, but it won’t make any difference.”

“No …” Ratha faltered, feeling despair creeping back along with the cold.

“You can’t change it, Ratha. I can’t either. You heard me try.”

Ratha got up, feeling the night wind cut through her. The stars overhead were hard, with a steely glitter. “The clan has lived with Un-Named raids,” she said in a low voice, turning her back on the wind and Bonechewer. “They will survive. They always have.”

He walked around and faced her. “You must have heard enough in the cavern to know the Un-Named will no longer kill just for food.”

“Why?” Ratha asked, and hated the pleading sound of her voice. “Why have things changed?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps because Meoran grazes his flocks on territory once held by the Un-Named. Perhaps because the winter has been hard and hunger listens readily to hate. Or because there are so many of us now that our land can no longer feed us.”

Ratha shut her eyes, but blocking out sight could not block out truth. His voice went on.

“I saw this starting to happen the season before last,” he said. “That is why I stayed away. I nearly starved, but I knew that without me, they would fail in their plan to kill the herders and take the beasts. They did fail.” Bonechewer paused. “Do you remember how frequent and fierce the raids were that season? There were quite a few of the Un-Named who sought to destroy the clan. Now, most of them agree with the silver-coat.”

Ratha looked at him scornfully. “They failed because you didn’t come with them? Hah! One more set of teeth wouldn’t have helped them.”

“One more mind would have. I am clan-born, Ratha. I lived long enough among our people to know how they think and what they will do. The raiders needed that knowledge.”

Our people, Ratha thought, staring at Bonechewer. He calls them our people …

She whirled on Bonechewer, her misery turning her savage. “Why do you care?” she hissed.

“I don’t.” His gaze was cool. “I have no love for the clan. To me, they exist to feed us and that alone is my reason. If they die, we die. That is the truth, but the other Un-Named are too stupid to see it.” His eyes narrowed. “You are the one who cares, Ratha. Too bad Meoran threw away his one chance when he drove you out.”

“What do you mean?” Ratha demanded.

“I’ll let you find the answer to that.”

Ratha flattened her ears and bowed her head. Her heart jumped as she heard cries far up the slope. They’re looking for us, she thought. Bonechewer touched her, making her flinch. “Ratha,” he said and she turned fierce eyes on him. “The clan won’t survive. Nothing you can do will change that, so stop thinking about it. You will survive.”

“How? By turning raider and helping to slay herdfolk I once knew?”

Bonechewer waited for Ratha to calm herself before he went on. “You can’t afford to think about them, Ratha. Think only of yourself. Life with the Un-Named is not pleasant, but you keep your belly full.”

Bonechewer’s voice was in her ear again, soft and relentless. “The clan drove you out, as they drove me. They would have killed you. Do you remember? Were those faces any less savage than the Un-Named Ones around you?”

Ratha listened. His words brought the memories back and fanned them until they burned in her mind as the torch had in her mouth. She stood before the clan again, seeing the hate in their eyes. One voice rose from the pack to betray her and she shuddered. That one voice … Thakur.

She ground her teeth together, feeling her rage grow. The memory of Thakur’s face as he hung from Meoran’s jaws would never leave her mind. If Meoran had only killed him then…. All in the clan deserved to die and Thakur most of all.

A growl bubbled in her throat.

“Ah, you do remember,” said Bonechewer.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Where will I go now?”

“Wherever you please. If you come with me, I will hide you for the night.”

“What about the council? Didn’t you tell them you knew who was hiding in the cavern?”

“I’ll tell them something they’ll believe. You let me worry about that.”

“When I come back, I will go to the council,” Ratha said. “They need those who can speak and think. Perhaps I too will be a leader.”

“A leader? You? Ptahh! You crept among them and listened to what you should not have heard. If you go before them, I will tell them it was you who hid among the stones-with-fangs.”

Ratha waited, glaring at him. He was right; he had the power to turn the council against her. It would not be difficult, for she was a stranger among the Un-Named.

“You may hunt with us,” Bonechewer said, “but not as a leader. You will be among the lowest of the Un-Named. You will not speak of the clan. You will not speak at all so that you keep from revealing who you are and where you come from. Only then will you be safe.”

“Shall I also rub mud on my face to dull my eyes?” Ratha cried bitterly. “Or make myself believe I am one of the witless ones I walk among?”

Bonechewer looked at her steadily. “Your belly will be full. That is all I promised you.”

Ratha followed him up the slope, her steps heavy, her throat burning. She remembered again the she-cub who had brandished the Red Tongue before the clan. She wished to the depths of her being that she had her creature once again. The soft mist around her turned all things gray and formless, mocking her memory of the bright flame. She would never find her creature again. Ratha hung her head and walked on.

As the sun set many days later, the forest sent shadows creeping across the meadow. The shapes of trees elongated into talons, reaching out toward the herd and its guardians huddled together at the center.

Ratha lay hidden, along with others of the Un-Named. From the forest they watched and waited for night. The sun’s glow faded over the treetops and the light filtering through became weak and pale. Soon would come the order to attack.

She shifted, trying to move away from the bony flank that pressed too close to hers. She wrinkled her nose at the sour smell of dirty fur and decaying teeth. She glared at the gray-coat. The old mouth grinned, an ugly grin, lacking mirth or understanding. When the Un-Named left the gathering rock the gray had attached herself to Ratha, abandoning the young cub who had been her trail companion. No threats or cuffs could discourage her.

The aged one’s rheumy eyes glowed dimly with pleasure each time Ratha repressed a shudder or withdrew from her touch.

The sight and smell of her makes me miserable, Ratha thought. She knows it and she delights in it.

She turned away from the malicious old eyes and watched the herders prowling around their animals, but she could not ignore the gray, whose presence hung about her, turning the air stagnant and choking.

It isn’t age or dirt or rotting teeth that sickens me so, Ratha thought. There were aged, dirty ones in the clan. Old and smelly as they were, the wisdom in their eyes made me respect them. There is no wisdom in hers, and she has lived her life with this terrible emptiness. She knows only enough to taunt me for my fear of it.

In the meadow, a three-horn bawled. Ratha watched the clan herdfolk draw into a tighter circle about their animals. They knew the raid was coming.

Leaves brushed her nose as she peered out of the thicket. She was afraid to let her gaze linger on any one form for fear it would become someone she knew.

I am one of the Un-Named, she told herself fiercely. I am enemy.

But she could not help thinking about Fessran and Thakur … although it was not easy to think about him. She didn’t want to think about Bonechewer either. She had come with him as companion and equal. Now he was with the elite of the council while she was left among the lowest of the Un-Named, forbidden to reveal she was anything more than they. It was bitter meat for her, and it was worse to know her own foolishness had placed her here. She ground her teeth together, remembering those gold eyes and the mocking broken-fanged grin.

It would be easier to hate him, she thought, had she not heard the words he spoke in the council. What he said then was wise and right. And he believed it. He had thrown himself at the silver-coat because he believed it.

Maybe it is better to be like the Un-Named, she thought bitterly. Not to think, not to remember … would make it easier.

A hoarse scream cut through the dusk; the signal to attack. A young cub leader leaped out of the thicket. Ratha ran after him, followed by two dun-colored males and the ancient gray. Another fawn-colored female streaked by Ratha as the cub leader shouted things that were lost in the pounding of feet and the wild cries that came from every throat. Ratha found herself howling along with them and the savage joy of the pack swept her with it.

The Un-Named spilled from the forest into the meadow, rising like a great wave against the herders, who stood together in a tight determined circle about their beasts. Yet the raiders did not become an amorphous mass; instead they held together in their groups and struck at the weak points in the clan’s defenses.

Another pack led by a young silver-coat raced past Ratha’s group and clashed with the herders. It broke apart into individual fights. Out of the corner of her eye, Ratha saw old Srass rear up to meet the young silver-coat. The two went down in a writhing, slashing blur. The cub led his group through the herders’ broken line toward the three-horns, now unguarded. The animals wheeled and began to stampede across the meadow. Ratha could hear the herders shrieking orders back and forth to each other as the three-horns split apart from the dapplebacks and thundered across the grass. Both raiders and herders went down beneath those trampling feet, and the torn earth was stained with blood. Ratha, wild with the intoxication of the chase, launched herself after the biggest stag she could see. He was on the outside edge of the herd, galloping easily, his horns held high.

She forgot the Named, the clan or anything except the magnificent animal. It would take all her skill to bring this one down. This kill would show she was indeed a hunter. She sped after the three-horn stag. She dived in among the pounding legs, dodging, turning, barely escaping flashing hooves and tossing horns. She reached her quarry and cut him out of the herd, leaping up to nip at his flanks and withers. An ecstatic bound carried her right onto his back and she rode him for several wild seconds, her claws digging deep into the coarse fur. He bucked, throwing her off, but she landed running and the chase began again.

She ran the three-horn as she had never run any of the herdbeasts when she had served the clan. She ran him, reveling in her strength and her skill as a hunter and herder. She turned and twisted, countering every lunge and thrust, dancing around him, leading him in circles until at last, eyes rolling and exhausted, the stag began to slow and Ratha closed in for the kill.

She did not realize her skill had given her away until an angry cry rose from behind her.

“She is clan!” the voice bellowed. “A clan herder kills with the raiders! Tear her tail off! Trample her guts into the ground!”

Ratha looked back to see Srass chasing her, bleeding from the wounds the silver-coat had given him. She was young and still unwounded, but Srass’s rage lent him speed. Suddenly he was beside her flank and then at her shoulder. She heard his heavy panting and felt his breath behind her ears. Frightened now, she tried to pull ahead, but before she could gain any distance, his teeth locked in her ruff and the two rolled over and over in the grass.

Ratha flailed and kicked, gouging Srass’s belly as he snapped at her throat. She ripped off the rest of one ragged ear. He clawed her chest and gashed the inside of her foreleg. Then, abruptly, the fight ended. Ratha tumbled free. She leaped to her feet, completely bewildered. She shook her head and stared.

Srass was struggling beneath the two dun-colored raiders and the old gray. The silver-coat seized the old herder’s nape in his jaws. Srass tried to wrench free, but the four together overpowered him and at last he ceased fighting. He lifted his chin and bared his throat in submission. Ratha thought then that they would let him go, for he was thoroughly beaten. The silver-coat loosened his grip only to seize Srass again at the back of his head behind the ears. The old herder stiffened and fear dulled his eyes.

“Take the herdbeasts,” Ratha said. “Leave him. He isn’t worth the killing.” Her voice died in her throat as she saw that none of the four had moved away from Srass.

“He bared his throat to you. He will not fight again. Leave him!” Ratha said.

“I came to taste clan blood,” snarled the silver-coat between his teeth.

With a malicious glance at Ratha, the old gray seized the flesh of Srass’s flank and tore it open. The duns, both mute, showed their teeth at Ratha. They were going to kill, she thought with growing horror. Srass had bared his throat. All knew that sign, even the Un-Named. It was a law older than any other, and rarely disobeyed.

Ratha saw the muscles bunch in the silver’s cheeks.

“At least do him the honor of tearing out his throat!” she shrieked at them.

The silver-coat gave her one brief glance. His jaws sheared shut. Srass screamed and Ratha heard the hollow crunch of bone. The herder’s body convulsed, the spasming muscles pulling his limbs in ways they were not meant to go. The scream continued from Srass’s open mouth even after his head had been crushed. With a last shudder, the body fell limp and the terror-filled eyes went blank.

The silver-coat opened his jaws and Srass fell to the ground with a heavy thud. Blood seeped from his ruined head and neck.

“Is this how you kill?” Ratha faced the silver-coat. “You slay those of the clan as you kill prey. Ptahh!”

“To us they are prey,” the silver answered, licking his red-stained jaws. He narrowed his eyes at Ratha. “I heard this one cry out that you, female, are also of the clan even though you run with the Un-Named.” He left Srass and took a step toward her. “Your head would be easier to crush. Perhaps your feet had better take it away before my jaws open again.”

She spat, whirled around and galloped away from them. The night rang with howls and shrieks and the bawling of terrified animals. As she ran, Ratha could see the shapes of raiders dragging slain dapplebacks toward the trees. The moon had risen and the flattened grass showed black stains where the raiders had made their kills.

The sounds of fighting grew and faded as the battle raged back and forth across the meadow. The herders were losing, their circle shrinking as they bunched together to protect the remaining three-horns and dapplebacks.

Ratha stopped and licked the wound on her foreleg. It was starting to crust and stiffen, making her limp. She closed her eyes, seeing again Srass’s face as he died. He had been killed like a herdbeast and his eyes had rolled like a herdbeast’s when the silver-coat’s teeth crushed his skull. Ratha shuddered. None of the Named had died such a death until now. It seemed as though all of the laws that governed her kind, Un-Named or clan, were breaking. If one whose throat was bared could be killed like a herdbeast, then there were no laws and nothing made sense any more.

She knew that whatever was happening to her people, she was a part of it; however much she feared and hated the changes, she was helping to bring them about. Srass had died because he spotted a herder among the raiders. He had not come close enough to see her face or smell her odor, but he saw how she had run the three-horn and cut him out from the herd. Her skill and her recklessness betrayed her. Her mouth felt as bloody as the silver-coat’s, as if it had been her teeth that crushed the old herder’s skull.

No, she thought, trying to give herself some small comfort. Srass’s skull would have been too thick for my jaws. But she knew as she ran that she shared equally with the Un-Named in his death.

Again she stopped. The fighting was now distant. All she could see were raiders dragging thrashing animals across the grass, leaving black stains between their pawprints. They were still working in packs, as they had in the initial assault. One group looked familiar, and Ratha recognized the two dun-coats and the gray who had helped to kill Srass. The gray’s jaws were dark with blood. The old one raised her ugly head and stared at Ratha. The pack leader dropped the neck of the dappleback he was dragging. Ratha was suddenly afraid he might be the silver-coat, but she saw the face of the young cub who had been leading the group when the raid started. He stared at her over the body of his prey. He bounded over the animal and, before Ratha could react, clawed her across the face.

“The council is not pleased with me for failing to keep my pack together. I pass their displeasure on to you.” She fell back, shaking her head. Warm wetness seeped from the new cut on her muzzle and dripped onto her lower lip into her mouth. She was so relieved he wasn’t the silver-coat that the blow only startled her. She got up tasting the metallic tang of her own blood.

“There are more beasts to drag away,” the pack leader snarled. “The gray lags. Help her to carry her prey. Then you are to return with the others and bring the remaining kills.” He looked hard at Ratha. “If you leave the pack again, you will be killed.”

She lowered her head and walked toward the watery green eyes glinting in the dark above the indistinct bulk of the herdbeast. The gray’s smell washed over her again, surrounding her and making her feel even more of a prisoner. The old female growled and seized the beast’s neck. Ratha took the hock and followed the pull of her companion.

The packs dumped the kills in a moonlit clearing and were sent back to retrieve more. The rest of the night Ratha spent hauling the Un-Named kills from the meadow to the clearing deep in the forest. By the time the first sunlight filtered through the trees, Ratha’s teeth were aching, her neck was stiff and her pads sore. She grew to hate the taste of coarse oily fur and the limp weight of the kill in her jaws. She resented having to drag beasts that others had slain.

It was midmorning when the pack carried the last of the carcasses into the clearing. Ratha pried her teeth loose from a dappleback’s neck and let the horse’s head drop. She staggered into the shade beneath a gnarled pine and collapsed. To her disgust, the gray female came and sat beside her, but she was too tired to drive the old one away. With her head on her paws, smelling the pungent needles that littered the earth beneath the tree, Ratha watched the raiders gather to feast on their prizes. Some had already come and had begun eating when the first carcasses were dragged in. Now the rest, ravenous and still savage from the battle, swarmed over the kills, spitting and squabbling with each other over who was to get the choicest pieces. She smelled the rich flesh as the carcasses were torn open and the entrails eaten. The odor only disgusted her and destroyed what little appetite she had. After hauling the dead creatures all night, smelling and tasting them, she could hardly bear the idea of eating from them. She thought with longing of the stringy marsh-shrews she had caught on Bonechewer’s land.

A new group appeared among the gorging raiders and pushed aside a scruffy pack from a dappleback mare. These were the council leaders and the planners, Ratha realized, as she glanced at them, recognizing the black female and the old cripple she had seen in the cavern beneath the gathering rock. Among them, she saw Bonechewer.

The Un-Named council leaders began to eat. Ratha saw the black place a paw on the mare’s flank and ribs. The black’s shoulders hunched as she dived into the dappleback’s belly. All the others attacked the carcass with equal relish except for Bonechewer. He hung back until the crippled one had finished, then took his place. He ate then, but Ratha could see from his eyes that he had as little appetite as she. She remembered his words to the council in the cavern, and she knew he was disgusted by the reckless slaughter. The Un-Named could ill-afford waste, he had said, even in the midst of plenty.

She raised her head from her paws, hoping to catch his eye. Her heart beat in her throat, her feelings a violent mix of hope and anger. Once or twice he lifted his muzzle, still chewing, as if he sensed someone was watching. Each time Ratha longed to call out, but caution stilled her. And then he did raise his chin and stared at her over the mare’s flank. She leaped to her feet, panting in her excitement, but he looked away, as if ashamed. For a moment, she stood still. Then slowly she lay down again and rested her chin on her paws, staring at the dried needles tumbled together on the ground. When she looked up again, Bonechewer was gone.

For many days, the Un-Named stayed in the clearing, lazing in the pale winter sun and gorging themselves on their kills. Ratha, along with others of her pack, were posted as sentries to guard against attacks by the clan herders. None ever came, telling her that the clan was too weakened and dispirited to try for revenge.

She ate little and tried to stay far from the sounds of feasting. She felt odd sensations in her belly, vague aches, heaviness and strange rippling motions, as if something was moving inside her. She was also enlarged and her teats were tender. At first the feelings were mild and she hardly noticed. As the Un-Named alternately raided and feasted and the days grew colder, her pregnancy became obvious, earning her questioning looks from the others. This was not the season to bear cubs. If the Un-Named females were like the clan, they would mate in early spring and have their young in summer. She had done everything wrong, she thought miserably, as she stood in the rain watching for an attack that never came. She couldn’t even bear cubs at the right time of year. They would be born too soon, before she could get away from the Un-Named. And even if she did, hunting in winter would be poor. She would starve and her cubs would die.

Ratha took no part in the raids following the first one. She, along with the gray-coat, was held back to drag away beasts that others had killed. She spent many nights wrestling carcasses through the undergrowth, collapsing at dawn to watch the raiders feast until they were bloated. After each raid she saw Bonechewer eating with the council leaders as before. She caught him giving her anxious glances but this time it was she who turned away.

One rainy morning between raids, she stood guard near the edge of the meadow where the fighting had been. Her partner hissed, taking her mind from her troubles. Ratha tensed, driving her claws into the spongy ground. Had the clan reclaimed enough strength to attack? The gray lurched to her feet, growling as the bushes rustled several tail-lengths away. Her ears went back, making her look uglier than ever.

“Ho, ancient one,” came a voice from behind the bushes. “Still your noise. You know my smell.” A coppery head poked through, framed by wet leaves. It disappeared for a moment, then Bonechewer pushed his way through the undergrowth, carrying meat in his mouth.

“Not for you,” he said through his teeth as he pushed the slavering gray-coat aside. She whined and showed her teeth, but under his gaze, she backed off.

“There you are,” Bonechewer said, and without further words, he laid the meat down in front of Ratha. She stared at it dully, then at him.

“Eat. You need it. That young fool of a pack leader is letting you starve.”

She said nothing. She sniffed the aroma of the meat. It was fresh, taken from the latest kill. She still could not eat.

“Ratha,” he said, growing exasperated. “I bring you something better than the rotten leavings you pick from old bones, yet you eat nothing and stare at me like that witless gray-coat. Have you forgotten how to speak?”

For a moment, she stared at him, able to answer only with her eyes. She had not spoken for so long that the words came slowly. His words shocked her and her own awkwardness frightened her. She fought down panic; the fear that she, in pretending to be mute and stupid, had actually become so. It lasted only an instant; then the words came.

“You said I was to be among the lowest of the Un-Named,” she said, her voice hoarse from disuse.

“Even the lowest should have enough to eat,” Bonechewer answered. He nudged her. “Every rib shows. If you get any thinner, you’ll lose the cubs.”

Ratha flattened her ears. “So that is why you watch me and bring me meat. You care nothing for me; only for what I carry in my belly. Ptahh!”

“Does it matter why I am here?” Bonechewer snarled back. “I could leave you to your pack leader’s mercies; think about that.”

Ratha kicked mud on the meat and walked away. “Give it to the gray-coat.”

“I saved your ragged pelt, and believe me, it has cost me to do even that. Few on the council listen to me now, and the foolish killing goes on. I can do nothing about it, just as I can do nothing for you except bring you extra food.” Bonechewer pawed the meat. “Yes, I care about the cubs,” he said, his eyes seeming to glow even in daylight. “But I want you just as much. The others want you killed, and if you do anything that brings you to their attention, you will not live long and I may not either.”

Ratha lowered her muzzle and nosed the slab of flesh. As she took a first bite, she felt him gently licking her ears. Startled, she jumped back and stared at him in astonishment.

“All right,” he said. “Eat. I’ll leave you alone.”

Ratha devoured half of the meat, all her stomach could hold. As she ate, she could hear the gray-coat whining softly.

“If I eat it all, I’ll be sick,” she said to Bonechewer. “Take some to the gray. She works as hard as I do.”

“I thought you didn’t like her.”

“I don’t,” Ratha said, gaining back some of her spirit now that she had eaten. “I hate her, especially the look in her eyes. But you said that even the lowest should have enough to eat.”

Bonechewer grinned at her and, with a toss of his head, threw the rest of the morsel to the old gray. She caught it in midair and began demolishing it in noisy gulps.

“I will come back,” Bonechewer said, as he turned to go. “I’ll bring you food as often as I can. I wish I had come sooner; I hate to see you so thin.”

Ratha did not expect him to keep his word, but a day later, he appeared through the bushes with another piece of meat. This too, she shared with the gray, and the old one’s eyes widened in astonishment. Every few days he came, bringing something he had taken from the freshest kill. Ratha began to anticipate his visits, not only for the food, but for the conversation. To all the others, she remained dumb. They thought her witless and she encouraged them to think so, hoping to dull certain memories of her performance in the meadow during the first raid.

As the weather grew harsher, the Un-Named began to raid once more. Ratha expected to have no part of the fighting. Again, she and the others of her pack were made to carry the spoils from the meadow. Her job was easier this time, for the slain beasts were few and small. Her only contact with the fighting was through Bonechewer, when he brought her food. She also hungered for news of the clan and that, too, Bonechewer brought, although none of it was cheerful.

He told her that plans were being made for a final raid in which the Un-Named would drive the clan from their dens, slaughter them and take their land. Ratha listened in silence. There was nothing she could do to change the fate of her people. She could only look out for herself and try to survive along with her cubs. She sought refuge in the old anger. Why should she mourn for those who had made her renegade and outcast because they did not understand the new power she had brought them? Whatever death Meoran died he would have earned. The only ones who tried to defend her, she remembered, had been Thakur and Fessran. And even Thakur had turned betrayer. I will mourn for none of them except Fessran, she thought bitterly.

That evening, she watched the packs assemble for the last attack on the clan. Her group was among them, since all were needed to fight and none to drag away kills. The only carcasses this time would be those of the enemy. Even so, Ratha was held back from the fighting, along with others too old, too young or otherwise unsuitable. Her pregnancy did not make her awkward, and she suspected the real reason was distrust.

She lay with her chin on her paws, glancing from time to time at the guards who had been assigned to keep watch on her and her companions. The night was quiet except for a breeze rustling the dry leaves and a last lonely cricket chirping. Once in a while, faraway shrieks and cries broke the stillness, and Ratha lifted her head. She thought of Srass’s death in the first raid and shivered. That scene would be repeated again and again before dawn. The cries died out and she could hear only the wind and the cricket.

I hope Fessran escaped, she thought.

Toward dawn, she heard the raiders returning. They came, roaring their victory, and broke through the forest with a great crashing of branches. Many were wounded and some missing. Ratha lay and watched the Un-Named strut past in the dawn light. The clan, she guessed, had fought hard in its final battle.

An argument started between several of the pack leaders. Ratha ignored it at first, letting their angry words blend into the rest of the noise. Then she realized what the disputants were arguing about and she swivelled her ears to listen.

“What does it matter that a few of them still live?” asked the youngster who had led Ratha’s pack. “We have their dens and their herds.”

They walked beyond Ratha’s hearing, still snarling at each other. She went a few steps after them and nearly bumped into Bonechewer.

“Yarrr! Watch yourself. I hurt enough already,” he growled, dodging awkwardly to avoid her. He limped away, fresh blood oozing from his flank. His face was a nest of scratches. Both ears were torn.

“It is over,” he said flatly, looking at Ratha. He glanced at the boisterous raiders milling about. “They go to the dens. Come with me.”

The path they took across the meadow was overgrown. The bodies on both sides looked half-eaten. Some were not only slain: they looked half-eaten and the insects had not been there long enough to consume them. Ratha remembered the gray-coat stripping flesh from Srass’s flank even before he was dead. Numb as she was, she shuddered and shut her eyes, following Bonechewer by the sound of his footsteps and the grass brushing past his legs. The smell, however, she couldn’t shut out, and it was with her all the way along the path until they reached the clan dens.

Bodies had lain there too, for there were sticky stains at the entrances to many of the lairs. Ratha could see the trails in the mud where the remains had been dragged away. Had one of them been Fessran or Thakur? Or perhaps her father, Yaran, or her mother Narir? From each den came faint familiar odors, and for a moment, she was a cub again, romping by the lairs, seeing the faces framed in the entrances. One face showed a touch of annoyance for being wakened by her noise. Another’s eyes were indulgent, knowing she was only a cub and would learn soon enough. The memory left Ratha and she stared into the abandoned dens, empty except for the faint smell of those who had lived there.

Bonechewer walked back to her and together they wandered among the lairs, neither one saying anything. They watched the other Un-Named ones crawling in and out of the dens, claiming them, enlarging them and starting to dig new ones nearby. The clan’s territory was now theirs, and here they would stay for the rest of the winter. New faces grinned from entrance holes, and one new owner called out to Ratha and Bonechewer, “Find one for yourselves! These are fine lairs indeed; too fine to belong to clan filth.” The big silver-coat had taken possession of Meoran’s den. The lair Ratha knew as Fessran’s was now occupied by the young pack leader. She followed Bonechewer until he stopped at a small den in an earthen bank. He ducked and crawled inside. Ratha started to follow, then stopped. The smell wafting back to her was Bonechewer’s, yet it wasn’t. She sniffed the sill and sides of the hole, and she knew suddenly who the den had belonged to. Bonechewer, by accident or design, had found Thakur’s den. Bonechewer’s smell was oddly similar to the odor lingering on the sides of the lair.

Ratha backed away as if the smell had stung her nose. Her memories of Thakur were still too fresh, and the smell of him made them stronger.

“It isn’t large,” came Bonechewer’s voice from inside, “but it will hold the two of us. Come in and see.”

“No, I don’t like it,” Ratha snapped. “Find another.”

Bonechewer gave her a puzzled glance and crawled out of the den.

He led her to other dens, but each time she found a familiar smell and a face came up in her memory. However much she tried to wipe it away with hatred, the image persisted and seemed to haunt the cool earthen walls. She could escape it only by retreating outside into the sunshine. Only there could she stop trembling.

When Ratha had calmed herself, she wandered among the lairs, looking for Bonechewer. She spotted him standing near a den that lay apart from the rest. This lair had been deserted long before the coming of the Un-Named. Ratha remembered it being empty from her early cubhood.

She watched Bonechewer sniff the ruined entrance. He reached up and pawed more dirt down. The roof of the old den collapsed.

Ratha moved closer. What could he want with an old clan den? No one ever used it or went near it. Even cubs at play stayed away from it, not only because it was dark and crumbling, but because, the older cubs said, someone had been killed there. They claimed that the ground still smelled of old blood.

As Ratha thought about the abandoned lair, she remembered that she had once seen someone there, and with a shock, she recalled who it was.

Thakur. I saw Thakur there.

She dropped into the grass and crept downwind, trying not to disturb Bonechewer. He gazed at the old den with an expression Ratha had seen on another face, a face whose eyes were green instead of amber.

Then everything fell together and Ratha nearly jumped out of the grass. Now she knew. Reshara had birthed twin males, alike except for eye color.

Seek out old memories and bury them, Ratha thought as Bonechewer pawed more dirt into the lair. Is that the place where Reshara had her cubs?

She scuttled away so that Bonechewer would not see her. She stood up and shook the grass from her fur. Should she ask him? No. She had the truth now. Whether he would accept it or deny it made no difference.

Her pack leader found her and tried to put her in a lair with the gray and the two dun-coats, but Ratha escaped him and clambered up a tree. She sat up in the crotch, watching those down below and decided she would rather sleep out in the open or in this tree than in the dens that had once belonged to her people.

Despite harassment and threats from the others, Ratha stayed in her tree, only coming down to eat or serve as a sentry, guarding the Un-Named settlement from attacks by any of the previous owners who had survived. Some of the clan had survived, but who they were and where they were, she had no idea.

The weather grew colder. The rain turned to sleet and frost covered the ground, turning the soil hard. One morning Ratha woke in her tree with a carpet of snow on her back. Below her, everything was a soft, unbroken white. She climbed down from her tree. Nearby was a three-horn carcass that had been almost stripped. She found it and uncovered it, eating the frozen rags of meat still remaining on the bones. She thought longingly of the entrails and haunch meat the Un-Named leaders had dragged into their dens. Perhaps Bonechewer would bring her something today.

She found the old gray who always stood sentry with her. She had grown used to the ancient one with her wordless muttering and malicious eyes. She knew too that the gray served only to guard her, for the old one would be nearly useless in an attack.

Once she had resented it bitterly; now she thought no more about it and even welcomed her companion’s company, dull and surly as it was. She watched the old female mark a tree, then went and left her own mark beside it. It was almost a ritual they performed before starting each watch. The gray then took up a position several tail-lengths from Ratha and turned her face outward. Ratha did the same.

Morning passed and then midday. The crisp winter breeze brought no new smells and the forest was muffled and silent. Shadows began creeping across the snow crust. Ratha decided Bonechewer was not going to come that day. She swallowed and ate some snow to ease the tight burning feeling in her throat. He hadn’t come for several days. Perhaps he had grown tired of her, her prickliness and her swelling belly. Perhaps he had picked someone else whose coat wasn’t rough and dull and whose temper was less unpredictable.

She told herself fiercely that her burning throat was hunger rather than hurt. She was dipping her muzzle into the snow again when she heard the gray snarl. The snarl turned into a whine and there was a soft thump.

Ratha turned. The gray-coat crouched, chewing on a chunk of flesh that spread red stains on the crystalline snow. Behind the gray, Bonechewer stood. Ratha waited for her morsel, but nothing appeared and Bonechewer’s jaws were empty. Pangs of disappointment cramped her stomach.

“Do I get nothing this time?” she asked.

“I have more meat for you,” he answered. “First, come with me. I want to show you something.”

“I can’t. I have to stand guard. And the old one will raise a fuss if I leave my place. My pack leader—”

“Will answer to me for the way he has treated you.” Bonechewer showed his teeth as he spoke. “And as for the old gray, she will think of nothing but her meat. Come.” He bounded away.

With a cautious glance toward her partner, Ratha padded after him. She saw that his pawprints were stained with tiny flecks of brown and red. She frowned and tried to catch up with him to ask why. She broke into a canter, showering snow over the bushes. Again she frowned, wrinkling her brows. He hadn’t been that far ahead, had he? His prints led over a white-covered rise and down the other side. On top of a little cliff, they ended and Ratha could see no other tracks. For a moment, she felt panic. Had he tricked her? Had he enticed her away from her guard duty only to leave her? If she was found away from her post, she would be fair game for anyone, for they would assume she was escaping.

“Bonechewer!” she called, her voice sharp and raw with fear.

“In here,” came his muffled reply from somewhere beneath her feet. She craned her neck over the bank and saw the top of his head and his ears above the snow. He twisted his head around and grinned at her.

“Where are you?” she demanded, wondering if he had buried himself in the snow just to tease her.

His head disappeared again. Ratha leaned over the bank, walking her forepaws down the steep slope. She was afraid to jump into the hollow beneath, fearing jagged rocks or stumps might be concealed under the snow. Without warning, her forepaws slipped and she plunged into an unexpected hole in the bank. She lost her footing completely, flipped and came down hard on her back. She lay in the snow, her head spinning, all four paws waving in the air. Bonechewer’s face appeared upside down, framed between her own front paws. “What are you trying to do? Cave it in?”

Ratha gazed up at him. “Cave what in?”

“The den.”

She rolled over slowly, shedding snow from her pelt. “Den? Is that what you wanted to show me?” She peered past him at the bank. Now she could see the low entrance and the dirt tracked onto the snow. “I don’t want any of those clan dens. I told you that.” She heaved herself to her feet.

“This isn’t a clan lair,” he answered.

“I don’t believe you. It’s too big for any other creature. Who dug it if the clan didn’t?”

“I did,” said Bonechewer.

“When?”

“I finished last night, before the snowfall. Just in time.”

“The ground is too hard for digging,” Ratha protested. Bonechewer gave her an exasperated look and turned over a front paw. The pad was torn and ragged; the toes raw and muddy. Ratha remembered the red and brown stains in his tracks. She walked past him and sniffed the hole. It smelled of freshly dug earth.

“You dug it,” she admitted grudgingly. “Why?”

“Why do you think?” he snapped.

“For your cubs.”

“Yarrr! They won’t be born here. You’re not that big yet. No. We’ll be back on my land when they come.”

“Then why did you dig it?”

“Because I know you don’t freeze in that tree because you want to. The smells in those other lairs raise old memories you would rather keep buried. I know, Ratha,” he said, his voice and his eyes growing soft. “I could not sleep in Reshara’s den either.”

She eyed him, wondering whether this was a challenge to reveal what she knew or an offer to let her share more of his life.

“You didn’t see your lair-father die,” she said slowly.

Bonechewer showed his teeth as he answered, “You grow bold, clan cat. Thakur must have told you, for it was he who saw Meoran’s work.” His eyes narrowed. “My brother herded his animals but let his tongue run free, it seems.”

Ratha felt the fur rise on her nape. “You would speak that way of him? Ptahh! I know the Un-Named do not honor those they slay, but I thought you were different.”

She thought he would strike her, but instead he licked a paw and said. “He is not slain. I did not see him among the clan dead.”

Ratha’s hope leaped ahead of her anger. “You didn’t? Could he have escaped?”

“I’m sure he escaped, but searching for him would be useless,” he added as Ratha started to open her mouth again. “If I know my brother, he will be far away by now.”

She stared down at the trampled snow around her feet. Far away, she thought. Perhaps it is best. I will think no more of Thakur.

She peered into the new den Bonechewer had dug for her, but she did not go in. She dipped her muzzle and gently nipped the top of his forepaw.

“What are you doing now?” he demanded.

“Lift your foot.”

He grunted and presented his paw to her, balancing on three legs. She began to lick the sore pads, cleaning mud from between his toes and from beneath his claws. The claws were blunted and dull, telling her that the soil had not yielded easily. No wonder he had been gone for several days! Once the paw was clean, she gave it several soothing licks and asked for the other.

After she finished, she crawled into the lair, turned around in the friendly darkness several times and lay with her forepaws hanging out the entrance.

“It is small, but well dug,” she said critically. She could see he was waiting for more of a reaction. When she said nothing else, his whiskers drooped slightly in disappointment.

She wiggled on her belly and lolled her tongue out at him. “I like it. I couldn’t have dug a better one.”

“Good!” His whiskers sprang back to their usual exuberant bristle. “I dug it far enough away from the others so no one will try to take it. And if they are so stupid as to try, they will answer to me.”

“Did you mean what you said about the cubs being born on your ground?” Ratha asked, growing serious again.

“Yes. As soon as the weather lets us travel, we’ll go. I have had enough of the Un-Named and seen enough of their foolishness. They no longer need me, nor I them. I will run with them no more. You and I, Ratha, will run together.”

He went with her back to her sentry post. There, they saw the old gray asleep in the snow, her chin on her paws.

“She’ll wake soon. I should go, Ratha,” he said, looking into her eyes. “This has been hard for you, strong as you are. I am sorry for the part I played. Things won’t get easier; not very soon. But I promise you that when this season ends, we will leave this place and never return.” Ratha looked around at the white-covered landscape.

“Snowfall has just started.” She sighed. “It will seem like a long time. At least I don’t have to sleep in a tree.”

“I know. The days may seem endless. When things get difficult, think of spring. And me,” he added, with a glint of mischief in his eyes.

She watched him trot away over the snow. The gray-coat was starting to wake up, but despite that, Ratha was happy.

Spring was slower in coming to the heights than to the lowlands. As Ratha and Bonechewer wound their way out of the hills, the sparse grass and scrub bush gave way to new growth, green and springy underfoot. They did not take the old trail, still rutted and worn by the passage of the Un-Named. As if in unspoken agreement, neither one ventured toward it, preferring to find their own way across the endless meadow that covered the hills.

Bonechewer walked ahead of Ratha, keeping his pace slow. The long scar on his flank was only starting to fade. Clan fangs had driven deep, and he would limp for the rest of his life. Ratha followed his waving tail through the grass, feeling the new life moving inside her. She was so big now that even the low grass tips brushed her underneath and her graceful walk had become awkward, her swollen belly swinging from side to side at each step.

As she and Bonechewer left the hills and came onto the plain, tiny flowers appeared among the grasses, sending their scents up into the warm spring wind.

Ratha lifted her head and watched a bird drift in lazy circles overhead. The grief was still there in the back of her throat and the memories in the back of her mind. The clan was no more, broken and scattered by the attack of the Un-Named. She, and perhaps some other ragged band of survivors, were all that was left of those who had once followed the herder’s way. Many others had left their blood where the three-horns and dapplebacks had once grazed. The Un-Named, too, had paid. Ratha remembered how the vultures circled and the picked bones grew gray and moldy.

The sun warmed her back, reminding her that those times were past. The unborn cubs moved again, and she felt little kicks inside, as if the young ones were impatient to be born.

Bonechewer stopped and came back, “Are you tired?” he asked.

“No, hungry.”

Bonechewer grunted. “Those cubs eat more than you do. They’ll be strong and healthy.”

“I can hunt for a few more days,” Ratha said, as Bonechewer took the weight off his injured leg.

“Hunt? You can’t even crouch,” he said, but his tone was gentle rather than mocking. “No, even with my bad leg the marsh-shrews will know me. You may get sick of marsh-shrews, but I swear there will be plenty of them.”

“I will eat marsh-shrews,” Ratha said as he nuzzled her bulging flank.

“Yarrr!” Bonechewer shook his head and winced. “He kicked me! Hard enough to make my nose sting. Is that any way to treat your lair-father?” He glared at Ratha’s belly in mock anger.

“She kicked you.” Ratha grinned. “That one’s going to be a female.”

“I’m glad they’re not inside me,” Bonechewer said vehemently.

“They’ll be out soon.” Ratha began walking.

“How soon?” Bonechewer looked alarmed.

“I don’t know. They’ll tell me. Come on, Three-Legs,” she said, strutting ahead. “We still have a long way to go.”

They saw several more sunsets before they reached the marsh where Bonechewer’s territory lay. He was glad to be home, and he trotted all over it, from the lakeshore to the hillside meadow where the spring ran. Ratha tagged after him, eager for the tang of the marshland and the glitter of the morning sun on the lake. She even followed him into the water when he plunged in to wash dust from his coat. She bobbed and rolled like a sap-heavy log while Bonechewer chased fish. By sheer exuberance rather than skill, he managed to catch one. He swam back to her, holding his shiny prize aloft in his jaws. They paddled their way back to shore and feasted on the catch.

The next task was to dig a new den for the cubs. Ratha chose a site on the hillside near the spring where dirt was soft and the digging went fast. They took turns at hunting and digging and soon the excavation was finished. Ratha inspected it, cleared out the remaining loose dirt, stamped down the rest and began to line the den with dry grass, pine needles and tufts of her own fur pulled from her belly. Bonechewer helped her, trying to find the softest leaves and the most fragrant grasses with which to make the nest.

They were making their last trip with grass in their mouths when Ratha felt a sharp cramp begin high in her belly and ripple down both sides of her flank. She had felt such pangs before, but they were mild and soon ceased. This time it grew until it became painful. She moaned and dropped her mouthful of grass.

Bonechewer waited with her until the spasm had passed. Ratha leaned against him, feeling his strength and his warmth. The pain frightened her and she was grateful for his presence. Once the cramp ceased, she was able to walk on. Before they reached the den, it happened again and the contraction was stronger. Ratha felt something break deep inside and a gush of fluid which wet the fur beneath her tail.

“They’re telling me,” she gasped, her head low.

She felt Bonechewer seize her nape and pull her up. She staggered with him to the den. He pushed her inside, settled her on her bed and stood back, looking anxiously at her.

Ratha ground her teeth together as the next spasm seized her. She thrust back with her hind legs and pushed against the wall of the den. Again the pain went away, leaving her panting and shivering. She looked for Bonechewer, but he had gone.

Panic washed through Ratha as she shifted restlessly from side to side. The nest, so carefully dug and lined, seemed terribly uncomfortable, and the dark, rather than being cozy, made her feel as though she were suffocating.

I didn’t know it would be like this, she thought, laying her head on the earthen floor and feeling the frantic pulse in her throat. I thought mothers just went to sleep for a while, and when they woke, the cubs were there.

The teats on her belly began to itch and she rolled on her side and licked them. She felt a surge beneath her tongue as another contraction started and traveled in waves along her flank. She gave a muffled cry and strained, pushing her rear paws against the den wall again. The pushing helped.

Her rapid panting was making her throat dry. She thought about going to the stream for a drink, but as she raised herself on her front paws, something seemed to twist inside her, grinding through her guts. She squeezed her eyes shut, flopped on her side and shoved her feet against the earthen wall.

Again, fear shot through her. How long would it take? Was it happening as it should? She didn’t know. She was alone with her body and the strange and awesome thing that was happening to her.

She let the fear free and it hovered around her, a cold mist that chilled her no matter how deep she burrowed into the leaves or how hard she shivered. It took hold and raged through her body, making her muscles work against each other, driving her heartbeat up until she was panting with exhaustion and turning each contraction into a crushing pain. Ratha whimpered and rubbed her cheek in the dirt. She couldn’t go any farther this way. If she let the fear possess her, she would die of terror, the cubs still unborn.

Every female since the first has gone through this, she thought furiously. If they can, I can. The clan couldn’t kill me; neither could the Un-Named. I am a herder of three-horns, the bearer of the Red Tongue and I am going to have these cubs.

“Do you hear me, litterlings?” she growled at her belly. “If you give me any more trouble, I’ll nip your wretched little tails when you come out!”

Ratha was startled to feel an answering kick from inside her. She grinned to herself. That one had to be the little female; the one that had kicked Bonechewer. The contractions began again and the fear rose, but Ratha fought it away.

“All right, little marsh-shrew,” she said as she braced herself against the wall. “You’re … coming … out!”

She grunted, strained until she thought she would burst and felt the cub slip backwards. She drew a breath and pushed against the wall until she thought she would make the den cave in. The pain gave way to exhilaration as she felt the cub inch downward through her. There was pressure between her loins and below her tail. One more push, she thought, feeling the skin bulge and stretch beneath her tail. The cub was coming headfirst, butting its way out into the world. Ratha’s heart raced as she curled herself backwards to look. Something tore, something slipped and there was a wet wiggling body in the leaves beside her.

Ratha bent her head and began to wash the cub, licking fast and hard. The tiny creature squealed as she tumbled it back and forth with her tongue. Tiny claws raked her chin and the tiny tail lashed her nose. The odor of birth clung to it, warm, rich and dark; her own scent from deep inside her body. The cub had its own smell too, a smell that told Ratha that she had been right; her firstborn was the little female. She licked until her daughter was dry and fluffy and then swept the cub to a full teat. There was a tentative nuzzle and then the little mouth took the nipple and began to suck.

Ratha ate the afterbirth and lay back, waiting for the contractions that would bring the next cub. They did not come for a while and during this time she dozed, grateful for the interlude. Another cramp woke her. This time she was ready and the second cub was soon nursing beside the first. The third slid out with hardly any effort at all. The last seemed reluctant to enter the world and, after some struggling, came out tail first. Ratha licked and massaged him as she had all the others. Soon the little female and her three brothers were lying in a row, suckling and kneading her belly.

Worn and weary, but content, she stretched as she lay on her side.

A shadow blocked the sunlight at the mouth of the den. She raised her head. Bonechewer’s scent drifted into the den. It was no longer the odor of her mate and her companion, but the scent of the male, sharp and threatening. Ratha’s hackles rose.

“Ratha?” Bonechewer called. She could see his eyes glowing at the entrance to the den.

To her those eyes seemed savage and hungry. Her cubs, she thought, starting to growl. He was coming to kill and eat her cubs. She got up, shaking herself free of the clinging mouths and claws. Even as she rose to defend her litter, she was startled by her sudden rage. She knew Bonechewer only wanted to see his cubs, not to kill them. Her feelings were no longer just hers, but those of all lair-mothers before her. She trembled as the image of a dead cub dangling from bloodstained jaws seized her mind and would not let go.

“Ratha?” The voice was louder; the eyes closer.

“Stay out!” she hissed.

“I want to see them,” Bonechewer said, shouldering his way in. “What’s the matter with you?”

Ratha bared her teeth. “Get out!” She clawed at him. He flinched and backed away. He looked so lost and bewildered that Ratha wanted to go and soothe him. Yet she couldn’t leave her cubs, and if he came toward her again she knew the ancient rage would force her to attack him.

“I’m not ready,” she said, trying to take the harshness out of her voice.

“I want to see them,” he said again.

Ratha swallowed. “Bonechewer …” she said trying to see him as her mate rather than a marauding male. Behind her the cubs squealed their impatience. She circled them nervously and lay down again.

Bonechewer retreated, but she could still see his face at the entrance to the den.

“Are you hungry, Ratha?” he asked softly. “Shall I hunt for you?”

“Yes,” Ratha said gratefully. “When you come back, perhaps you can see them.”

She heard him pad away and laid her chin in the leaves, remembering the hurt and misery in his eyes. There was no way she could explain it to him. A fear with no reason … once there had been a reason. Never had a clan male attacked and eaten his young. Perhaps it still happened among the Un-Named. Ratha felt the cubs clambering over her belly, hunting for milk. They butted their heads against her, their cries shrill and demanding. She gathered them together with her forepaws and gave them her teats. How strong they were already, she thought. What fierce hunters they would be when they grew!

Again she lay back and was drifting into sleep when another idea struck her. Hunting was not the only thing she could teach her cubs. The clan is no more, she thought, lifting her head and opening her eyes in the darkness. But the way of the herder has not been lost, for I remember what I was taught and I can teach that way. Did Thakur not say that I could have been the best herder in the clan?

The memory brought pain as well as pride. She nosed the cubs. She and her children could capture beasts from the forest as clan ancestors had and graze them here on the lowland meadows. As the cubs nursed, she dreamed of founding a new clan to take the place of the old. She could also teach the Un-Named as well, so that they could keep herds of their own and no longer live by raiding. Ratha listened to the soft sucking sounds and began to purr herself. She had seen too many old things die and been a part of the dying. Was change always deaths and endings? Her memory, in a bitter voice, seemed to agree, but another voice, softer but stronger, answered no. That voice was the breathing of her young beside her.

A beginning, she thought, feeling hope rise. Perhaps this time … a beginning.

Ratha nursed her dream along with her cubs and both flourished and grew. She tried to speak of her idea to Bonechewer, but he was more interested in his young themselves than as founding members of a future clan. Once she allowed him near the cubs, he proved to be an affectionate father as well as a determined provider. At first he approached them carefully and tenderly, dispelling Ratha’s lingering fear. Soon the litter was crawling all over their father as well as their mother. They butted their heads into his belly, sucked on his fur and wrestled with his tail.

Once the cubs’ eyes opened. Ratha could leave them while she went to hunt. Bonechewer stayed in the den with his children while Ratha ran across the marshland, stretching the cramp out of her legs and refreshing herself with the feel of sun and wind. On these expeditions, she planned how she would teach the youngsters how to herd. First, she would find a lone dappleback, perhaps too old or injured to stay with the herd. She would show the cubs how to take care of the little horse; how to keep it from straying; how to graze and water it. Then, perhaps, a dappleback mare with young. Those could be the start of a small herd. Such clever cubs as hers, she thought proudly, would learn the art in no time. They would far surpass their mother and then, when they had cubs of their own….

Each day, Ratha watched the cubs, eager for signs of their abilities. She was especially attentive to her firstborn, a sturdy little female whose aggressiveness toward any moving object within a tail-length of her, including prickly ones, had earned her the name of Thistle-chaser. Bonechewer had bestowed the name upon his rambunctious daughter after repeatedly pulling out the spines that invariably embedded themselves in that tender little nose.

“She doesn’t seem to learn,” Ratha growled, watching Bonechewer soothe the crying cub.

“She will,” he answered, letting his daughter wriggle free and flicking his tail beyond her reach. Defeated, Thistle-chaser scampered off to join her brothers.

Ratha watched the cubs stalk each other and leap into the air after low-flying insects. They were strong, fierce and quick. From the first day they had ventured outside the maternal lair, they had practiced the motions of stalking and pouncing. They seemed to be born hunters. Ratha felt dismay creep in beneath the feeling of pride. Hunting was important, but there were other things equally so, and those things the cubs seemed to ignore. Ratha pushed the uncomfortable feeling away. They’re young yet. Give them time. Her inner voice echoed Bonechewer’s words. You can’t make them grow any faster. Ratha sighed. What should she expect? She didn’t know. She could only draw upon the memories of her own cubhood. Even those, hazy as they were, seemed at variance with what she saw in her children.

When did I become aware of the world? she often wondered. When did I start to speak? I talk to Thistle-chaser and the others, but not one of them has answered, or has even tried to repeat the sounds I make.

Bonechewer could only counsel patience. “Ratha, you’re too impatient. You’re looking for things that aren’t there yet,” he said, looking at her worried face.

Ratha gazed at Thistle-chaser, cuddling up to her father, licking her nose after another encounter with her namesake. “How old were you when you began to speak?” she asked Bonechewer.

“Older than she is, I’m sure.”

“Don’t you remember?”

“No.” He nuzzled his daughter and looked up at Ratha. “You’ll lose her soon enough, Ratha. Enjoy her as she is now.”

He is right, she thought, but she couldn’t rid herself of the nagging doubt. Ratha watched the two, almost envious of their happiness. Bonechewer didn’t care what Thistle-chaser would do or be. He was content to play with her, cuddle her and make no demands on her until she was older.

Ratha tried to be patient, but her dream made her anxious. Each day, as spring yielded to summer, she looked for signs that the cubs would do more than hunt. She was cheered when Thistle-chaser and the others began to imitate her words and gestures. The first flush of pride faded when Ratha realized that the cubs had no idea what they were doing or that the sounds they made could bring anything more than praise. Ratha was now sure that the cubs’ development was lagging and the knowledge festered like a tick in her skin. To her the summer wind was cold and the gold sunshine pale.

One evening Ratha and Bonechewer went to sit on the crest of the hill above the den. Bonechewer dozed between the long shadows in the last warmth from the setting sun. Ratha lay beside him and tried to sleep, but her misery kept her awake. Far down the hill she could hear lusty yowls as the cubs chased each other through the marsh grass. A piercing howl rose above the clamor. It wavered and broke into a forlorn wail. Bonechewer woke and shook his head sleepily. “I’ll go,” he said as Ratha started to heave herself to her feet. “She’s probably pounced on another thorn ball.”

“Leave her.” Ratha stared at the ground between her paws. An insect crawled up onto a swaying grass blade and clung there waving its antennae. The carapace flashed and shimmered in the rosy sunlight. There was a soft rushing sound; grass brushing past legs.

Ratha snapped her head up. “I said, leave her!”

Puzzled, Bonechewer sat down, curling his tail over his feet. The light turned his fur to burnished copper, which caught highlights as his muscles rippled beneath his coat. Shadow hid the scar on his flank. He looked almost as he had when Ratha had first seen him, but now, seeing his beauty only brought bitterness into her throat.

Thistle-chaser too is beautiful, Ratha thought. Her coat will turn copper when the spots fade … and her eyes are green like mine. Large bright green eyes … and nothing behind them.

“Ratha,” Bonechewer said.

“No! Maybe the pain will teach her to think before she jumps. Nothing else will.”

He came back and nuzzled Ratha, but she would not be comforted. The wailing continued far down the hill and there was rage as well as pain in Thistle-chaser’s cry.

“I’ll get her. Wait here.”

Ratha drove her foreclaws into the soil and watched him go. Soon he was back, the cub dangling from his mouth. Ratha could see the strain in his neck muscles; Thistle-chaser was getting too heavy to carry by the scruff. He draped her across his forepaws and turned her pads up one by one until he found the thorn and worked it loose with his teeth. The cub lay on her back, cradled between her father’s paws. She rolled her head back and stared at Ratha. Ratha looked back, trying to find something of herself in those eyes, but what was there reminded her more of the eyes of the Un-Named

Despair washed over her as she realized the full truth. The cubs she had birthed, tended and tried so hard to teach shared nothing of hers except the form of her body. Behind the pert little faces and mischievous eyes lay only the hunter’s instincts.

Ratha ground her teeth together. It was so obvious as to be painful. Couldn’t Bonechewer see?

Her mate had his nose buried in Thistle-chaser’s belly. Four paws flailed around his muzzle as the body wriggled. “Arr, you’re a wild one, cub!” he crooned, nuzzling and teasing his daughter. “You’ll be as rude as your mother when you start to talk.”

Ratha suspected his words were meant for her rather than Thistle-chaser. Bonechewer peeked up at her from between Thistle-chaser’s paws, pretending to flinch under the expected cuff. His manner wilted slightly when he met Ratha’s eyes.

“Stop lying to yourself and to me.” Ratha’s voice came from a strange place inside her, cold and remote. “She’ll never talk.” She shot out a paw, caught the back of Thistle-chaser’s head and turned the cub’s face to Bonechewer. For a moment he looked into the beautiful empty eyes. Then he squeezed his own eyes shut and laid his head against Thistle-chaser. Ratha withdrew her paw. She had seen enough.

Gently he soothed the cub, who had begun to whimper. “I was trying to make myself believe …” he said, not looking at Ratha.

“Why?” Ratha asked, barely able to speak through the misery burning her throat. “Why do our cubs have no light in their eyes? Why won’t their tongues form words? The birth was hard. Did I injure them? Or was it something in me that is not there?” She walked back and forth in front of Bonechewer. Thistle-chaser lay between her father’s paws, looking bewildered.

“No,” Bonechewer said at last. “You are clanborn, Ratha. Had you mated with a male of your own kind, your cubs would have the light in their eyes.”

“But you are of my kind,” she faltered.

“Your cubs’ eyes tell me that I am not.”

“What does it matter that Reshara took an Un-Named male? You eyes are as bright as any in the clan and you have more wit than they. Why would our cubs lack what you have?”

“Such a thing does not make sense,” Bonechewer admitted, looking down at Thistle-chaser. “Even so, I feared that it might be true. I did not listen to my fear.”

Ratha stood stiff-legged, trying to understand what he had told her. Then her rage broke.

“You knew? You knew our cubs might be like this?” she cried. “Did you sire other witless ones as well?”

He cringed, burying his muzzle in Thistle-chaser’s flank. “You were different … the other female was Un-Named.”

Ratha felt her eyes go to slits. “Well, you have your cubs. I only wish they had been born dead!”

She flung back her head and screamed at the sky. Her dream was shattered. The one she had begun to love she could now only hate with a deep, burning bitterness like the Red Tongue in her belly.

“Ratha!”

She flung herself at him, slashing with teeth and claws. “Why? Why did you do this to me?”

Bonechewer dodged her attack, trying to shield Thistle-chaser and defend himself without hurting Ratha.

She raked his face, shrieking at him, “Why didn’t you kill me in the raid that night? Give me some kindness now. Tear my throat out and leave me for the insects!”

Thistle-chaser scampered around Bonechewer’s legs, delighted with this new game.

“Fight, Un-Named One!” Ratha howled as he backed away from her. His retreat only fed her rage. Hate and bitterness poured into her, filling her until that was all she knew. She struck at Bonechewer again and again, ripping his shoulder and laying his cheek open to the bone. He cowered in the dusk, dripping blood in his tracks. Ratha could hear the breath hissing in his throat. Thistle-chaser stumbled and rolled out from between her father’s legs. Ratha pounced on the cub, biting hard and deep. Thistle-chaser shrieked, red welling onto the spotted fur beneath Ratha’s nose.

A blow knocked her loose from the cub and sent her sprawling down the hillside. Bonechewer was on top of her, eyes blazing, fangs driving toward her throat.

Then he was gone and she was alone with the coming night and her pounding heart. Still dizzy with rage, she leaped up. She shut away the horrified part of her that recoiled at the taste of Thistle-chaser’s blood in her mouth. As if from a great distance, she saw Bonechewer licking the wounded cub. She waited as he sensed her and turned around.

“Kill me,” she said very softly. “I want no more of life.”

His eyes were two coals from the fire of the setting sun, but he stood where he was. Ratha looked past him to Thistle-chaser.

“Why don’t you leave them to starve and mate with someone else,” she taunted. “Perhaps the next time …”

A sharp cuff flung her head to one side. She felt a muscle tear in her neck.

“Enough, Ratha.” Bonechewer panted.

Ratha took one step toward him, her eyes on Thistle-chaser. The wounded cub cowered, shaking, ugly black stains spreading across her shoulder and chest. Again a part of Ratha’s mind recoiled from the sight, but she forced that part away.

“Don’t try,” Bonechewer said. “You won’t earn your death that way.”

Ratha curled her lips back from her fangs as she watched Thistle-chaser.

“Do you really want her? She’s witless!” Her voice was thick with scorn.

“I want her. And the others,” Bonechewer said quietly. “You are right. They will never know themselves as you and I do. They will never share our gift of words. But they are mine and I will keep them, for I will have no others.” He lowered his head. “I will not mate again, Ratha.”

Her whiskers drooped as her rage fell, allowing her to see the terror in Thistle-chaser’s eyes. She sought her anger and used it to blur her sight. Soon enough, she knew, she would see all too clearly.

The cries of the other cubs drifted up the hill beneath the violet sky. The night wind touched Ratha’s fur. Thistle-chaser’s brothers were still at play. She turned to go downhill but Bonechewer blocked her way. “Stay away from them. I’m warning you.”

He raised one paw, claws extended. “I won’t kill you, but if you come near my cubs, you will leave blinded and limping.”

Ratha drew back, trembling. Now she had truly lost everything. Bonechewer would never accept her again, and there would only be fear and hatred in Thistle-chaser’s eyes. There was no returning along the trail she had chosen to take.

Again she fanned her anger into a blazing flame, burning away all regret or remorse.

“Take the cubs, Un-Named One,” she snarled. “Feed them well so they do not slay you and gorge themselves on your carcass. I go.”

She turned and trotted away, taking the path along the crest of the little hill above the marsh. The damp night wind brought her the many smells she had come to know. Never would she run here again.

She stopped and listened. Bonechewer was following her, making sure she was leaving his territory. Her anger failed her and despair seeped in. How she wanted to go to him, bury her head in his flank and beg his forgiveness, saying she would learn to love the cubs as they were, not as she wanted them to be.

He stopped at the edge of his territory. She ran on, leaving him behind. Her paws beat the ground as she galloped, filling her mind with the rhythm.

Now she was outcast to the Un-Named as well as the clan. All fangs would be bared against her wherever she went, for she would be known as a killer and a renegade. She ran, not looking or caring where she was going.

Behind her in the night a voice rose. Ratha tried to shut her ears to it, but the voice continued and grew louder. She stopped at a stream to drink and rinse the metallic taste of blood from her mouth. She ran on until at last Bonechewer’s farewell faded and died, leaving her alone with the night as her only companion.

For the rest of the summer Ratha wandered, drifting across the land as if she were a leaf blown by a fitful wind. She often stood atop a sharp cliff, wondering whether to throw herself down, or lay in the dark of a cave, wishing starvation would take her quickly. But she always turned away from the cliff or dragged herself out of the cave to hunt. Something forced her to survive almost against her will.

Ratha lived each day, trying not to think about the past or the future. Her eyes were always fixed on her prey or searching for those who would prey on her. When she looked at her reflection in the ponds and streams where she drank, she could barely answer the gaze of that thin face looking at her from beneath the water. Her belly twisted when she saw how the bitterness showed like the fresh scars not yet hidden beneath new fur. One who saw her in the days when Thakur called her yearling would never know her now, she thought. She walked with her head low and her fur was dull and rough.

She meant her wandering to be aimless, but she knew she was drifting back toward clan land. Something was calling her home, and she answered, even though she knew there was no home. Only gray bones remained in the meadow where the three-horns used to run and old dens filled with moldy leaves.

Why she was drawn to the old clan holdings she didn’t know. There would be nothing waiting for her at the end of this trail. She often fought the pull, turning onto a new path each time her feet carried her toward the old. Many times before she had been able to leave worn trails behind and run on fresh paths, but this time she had no will or wish to challenge the new. She felt used up and worn out; as if the wounds Bonechewer had given her would never stop bleeding. Each day she cursed her body for living when the pain inside made her want to lie down and never rise again. The taste of Thistle-chaser’s blood clung inside her mouth no matter how much water she drank trying to rinse it away.

At last, on a hot day in midsummer, Ratha stood on a stream bank, looking across. The meadow beyond spread far in every direction, the grass high and thick. Charred spikes that had once been trees stood against the sky, their trunks washed with waving grass, the space between blackened branches empty of leaves. Insects droned about Ratha’s ears as she stood with the sun on her back, wondering whether to cross.

She turned and walked along the shaded stream bank, the mud cool beneath her feet. She emerged into an open patch and narrowed her eyes at the glitter of the sun on the water. A slight thinning of the grass on the far bank was all that marked the trail that had run across the stream and the meadow. Soon it would be entirely hidden.

Ratha remembered how she had run that trail, Fessran panting at her side as the clan-pack howled behind her Those howls still seemed to echo through the hot, still air. Her ears trembled. She started, swiveling her ears forward. It hadn’t all been memory. She had heard something, although it was faint and far away. She lifted her head and listened again, wondering if the sun on her head was making her dizzy. She looked across the meadow. No one was there, yet it seemed that the sound had come from that direction. Not howls of rage, but the echo of a high ringing cry she had heard before. She plunged into the tall grass and trotted toward the sound.

It was much further than she thought. The grass, un-cropped, grew higher than she could raise her nose with all four feet on the ground. She seemed to run forever in a lush green cage whose walls moved with her as she ran. Stalks whipped her flanks and broke beneath her feet.

She froze, one paw lifted, yet the swishing sound of grass brushing past legs continued briefly and stopped. Ratha sniffed, trying to catch a scent, but she could only smell the sugary juices of the crushed grass. Hair bristled on her nape. She waited. No one appeared. The air was quiet. The cry she heard before came again, muffled by the hot, still air. It was the imperious call of a dappleback stallion gathering his flock of mares. Dappleback! Ratha’s stomach rumbled. If she killed a mare, she could gorge herself, drag the rest up a tree and not have to hunt again for days. She bounded on through the grass, the ripe seed-heads lashing her back.

She slowed to a trot. Again she froze and the other sound that was not the stallion’s cry continued on for an instant. Ratha sat up on her hind legs, peering back over the grass. There. A circle of stalks behind her was still waving. Ratha dropped down again, whirled and faced the green curtain behind her. Again, no one appeared.

Disgruntled, she made her way forward again, no longer trotting but gliding quietly between the stems, leaving as little evidence of her passage as possible.

Her tracker was staying downwind of her so the slight breeze that fanned her face bore none of the intruder’s scent. The odor of dappleback was growing rich in her nostrils, making her wild with hunger. She could see them now, their backs brown and sweat-slicked above the wild wheat. Once she had tended and guarded such a herd. Now she was the raider and there was no one to defend this herd except the little stallion. Ratha crept close to the dapplebacks, crouched in the grass and picked out her quarry. An older mare, shaggy and ridgebacked. The little horse moved stiffly and lagged behind the others.

Ratha crawled, her belly to the ground, until she was sure that one short dash would bring down the prey. There was no sign of her shadower. Perhaps the intruder had gone or had never been there at all, an illusion made by capricious breezes playing through the grass.

Ratha gathered herself, tensed and sprang. A sharp yowl tore through the air behind her, almost before her paws left the ground. Nostrils flaring, the dapplebacks threw back their heads, wheeled and scattered. Ratha lost her prey in the confusion of bodies racing past her. She broke off her charge and veered away, retreating in the direction she had come.

She bounded high and saw the grass rippling as someone streaked toward her. The sunlight flashed on a dark copper coat and Ratha’s throat went tight with fear. Had Bonechewer tracked her here? Had Thistle-chaser died of her wounds and her father come to take revenge? Ratha clamped her teeth together and dove through the grass, ignoring the knife-edged leaves that lashed her face.

However fast she ran or however she dodged and turned, her pursuer was there before her, cutting off her escape. She used all the tricks she knew from her days of herding three-horns, yet she couldn’t shake this pursuer. Even Bonechewer wasn’t as quick or agile. Every time she turned, she heard the grass break and caught a glimpse of gleaming copper. Bewildered and dizzy, she stood still, hunching her shoulders. This time he was coming. As soon as he appeared, she would leap and sink her fangs into his throat….

The grass parted. Ratha sprang, tried to stop herself and tumbled. She scrambled to her feet, her tail creeping between her legs.

The face before her was Bonechewer’s but the eyes were green, not yellow. Both fangs stood intact in his lower jaw. As he lowered his head to peer at her, she saw the puckered scars on his neck. She remembered how Meoran had seized him and thrust him forward against the fury of the Red Tongue. The memory reflected back at her from his eyes with a quality of uncertainty, as if he could not yet believe who she was.

“I was ready to track and slay a raider,” Thakur said. “Instead I find you.”

Ratha waited.

“And I have found a raider.” Thakur’s voice became hard. “You didn’t come here just to watch the herd. Do you run with the Un-Named ones who still prey on my beasts? Were you among those I chased away last night?”

“I came to kill,” Ratha answered, “but I run with no one except myself.”

“My teeth seek a raider’s throat,” Thakur growled, lashing his tail against the grass. “Our animals are few and scrawny, yet still the Un-Named Ones prey. I would rip you open and hang you from a tree to tell them to seek other hunting grounds.”

Ratha drew back her whiskers and gave him a bitter grin. “You would better please Meoran rather than the Un-Named if you hung my pelt from a tree. It would be more useful there than where it is now.”

“Run, then,” Thakur snarled at her. “I will do Meoran no service.” He paused. “You look too much like her, yet you cannot be. You have the eyes of a hunter, not of the cub I taught.”

“Then, if I am not Ratha, kill me,” she said, looking at him steadily.

Thakur flattened his ears and bared his teeth as he approached. She smelled the sweat on his coat and his breath, heavy and acrid. He stopped, panting. He hung his head.

“Thakur, I am Ratha,” she said.

“Then you know where I got these wounds on my neck,” he said between his teeth. “They took too long to heal. There is another wound, not made by Meoran’s fangs.”

Ratha glared back at him. “Whose voice lifted above the clan yowling that night? Whose voice told them that my creature could be killed? Had you not spoken, Thakur, the clan would have listened to me, not Meoran!”

“I told you then it was not hatred that made me speak.”

“Why?” Ratha cried, searching his eyes.

“I saw too many throats bared to the Red Tongue,” Thakur said softly.

“And was that worse than throats bared to Meoran?” Ratha demanded.

“Meoran may be stupid and cruel, but he is of our kind. His power is the power of teeth and claws and that we understand even as we fear it. The Red Tongue’s power we fear because we do not understand it. It is a fear that makes the strongest among us into crying cubs. Except for you, Ratha.”

He stared at her long and hard.

“You thought I would use the Red Tongue’s power to rule the clan? No! I wanted only to share my creature, to teach my people how to use it and care for it. Meoran was blind not to see.”

“He was not blind,” Thakur answered. “He saw what I saw, throats bared to the one who carried the Red Tongue. You would have ruled whether or not you chose.”

Ratha’s ears drooped in dismay as Thakur continued. “I did not want that for my people, or for you either.”

“So that is why you spoke,” Ratha said.

“It was not the Red Tongue’s touch on my fur that I feared the most, Ratha. Meoran thinks that is why I spoke, but the truth is what I have told you. Do you believe me?”

Ratha looked down at her toes. “Does it matter whether or not I believe you? The Red Tongue is gone and the people we once called ours have been slain by the Un-Named.”

“Not all of them,” Thakur said. “The beasts I guard are not only mine.”

Ratha’s eyes widened. “The clan still lives? Where? How many?”

“Fewer than I have claws on all my feet. As to where, I can’t tell you yet.”

Ratha looked up at him, long-dead hopes starting to rise again.

“Yearling,” Thakur said softly, startling her by using the old name, “I know you have run a long and bitter trail. I also know I helped set you on it. I am not sorry for what happened, for I had no other choice, but I wish I was not the cause of the pain I see behind your eyes.”

Before she could speak again, the sharp yowl of a herder’s call sounded over the meadow. Thakur sat up on his hind legs and peered through the grass.

“Cherfan’s helping me,” he said as he dropped down. “He’s wondering where I am.”

“Cherfan?” Ratha asked. “The greedy one who always ate before I did? He survived?”

Thakur looked amused. “You would remember that. He became a good herder, although he was late in learning. He fought beside me in the raids and he has fathered the two new cubs we have in our little group.” He paused, watching Ratha’s face darken. “What is it, yearling?”

She glanced at him, aware she had betrayed herself. “Something I will tell you later. Go now, if you don’t want Cherfan to find me.”

“Wait here,” Thakur said. A moment later he was gone, leaving only swaying grass to mark where he had been.

Ratha waited. Far above her a bird looped and dipped. Insects chirped monotonously and droned back and forth overhead, making her feel sleepy. The light slanted between the grass stems and a late afternoon breeze rustled the leaves. A worried tittle voice inside Ratha’s head kept asking her why she trusted Thakur. He could easily bring Meoran or a hate-filled pack that would fall upon her and tear her to pieces. Or he could circle behind her and attack her through the grass curtain, she thought, feeling very vulnerable. He trusts me to wait for him and not run away, even though I could. I think he is asking me what I choose.

She lifted her muzzle, hearing him coming through the grass. He poked his head out, saw her and looked pleased. “Good, you stayed. I told Cherfan I chased the raider away. He’s looking after the dapplebacks. I told him I was going to make sure the raider is gone.” He grinned at her. “Is the raider gone, Ratha?”

She looked back at him, feeling very empty. “I could give you a better answer if I could fill my belly.”

“There will be meat tonight,” Thakur said. “Not much, for our kills have to last many days.”

Ratha sat up. “The raider isn’t gone,” she teased, feeling some of her old spirit coming back. “The raider is Thakur. It will be good to eat from Meoran’s herd. Bring me a good piece, Thakur. Steal the liver if no one else has eaten it. I’ll wait for you by the stream.”

“No, yearling. What you want, you may take yourself. I want you to come back with me.”

“Come back to the clan?” Ratha was aghast. “If Meoran is there, he’ll rip me in half!”

“He is there, but I have reason to believe he will keep his claws sheathed. If you keep your mouth shut,” Thakur added meaningfully and continued, “You speak of us as the clan, but we are only the remains of it; scarcely enough to fill a well-dug lair. The Un-Named took many lives, Ratha.”

She swallowed. She was not yet ready to tell him that she had been there and watched her people die.

“Every one that remains is precious to us,” Thakur said. “Meoran knows that now.”

Ratha only wrinkled her nose. Thakur saw it and said, “You will find him much changed. Even I, who bear the scars of his teeth on my neck, can say that about him. It was he who saved those of us who did survive.”

“It was he whose stupidity gave you to the jaws of the Un-Named,” Ratha spat back.

“Yes. That too, he knows,” said Thakur. “It is bitter meat to him.”

“And you still keep him as leader? Ptah!”

“What has died is dead, Ratha. He is strong. We need his strength. We need yours as well. Come back to us.”

She looked at him, seeing in his eyes what he had not been able to say. It has been lonely without you, Ratha. Come back… come back to me.

She lowered her head, seeing too much of Bonechewer in the face before her. Could she put the bitterness behind? Here, again, was a new trail before her, one she never hoped she’d find. She thought she had nothing left to give anyone, but now….

“You say there are new cubs,” she said slowly. “How old are they?”

“Old enough to train as herders, but I haven’t had time to teach them.”

He looked at Ratha and she could see the hope rising in his face.

“It will be hard for me to see cubs again, knowing they are someone else’s.”

As Ratha watched him, she knew she had betrayed herself. Before she finished speaking, she wished that she could bite off her treacherous tongue and be mute for the rest of her days.

Thakur spoke. “I am wrong to call you ‘yearling.’ I see that you have grown older. You have been gone from us long enough to have birthed a family.”

“To have birthed them and lost them.”

He looked at her keenly. “I see that you have ended a trail. One too painful to set foot upon even in memory. I will not ask what happened.”

“When I can, I’ll tell you, Thakur,” she said, and she was thankful it had been he who found her in the meadow. “If I help you with the herding, will you have enough time to teach?”

His eyes brightened. He raised his head and yowled at the sky. “Arrowoo!”

“Thakur! You’ll bring the others!”

“I don’t care. Now they can see you.”

Ratha swallowed again. His happiness was starting to infect her, and she wanted to let it in, but she was still afraid.

“Are you sure Meoran will listen?” she asked.

“If he has any wits at all, he will,” Thakur said. “Just don’t say anything to anger him.”

He turned and pranced away through the grass, his tail high. Ratha followed.

Ratha climbed over water-smoothed stone, the sound of the stream below beating in her ears. Or perhaps it was her own heartbeat she heard, seeming to echo back and forth between the rocks. She looked up at the cliff face overhead, painted in streaks by the sun’s last rays. In seasons past, when she was a cub, the stream had run much higher, undercutting the cliff, sculpturing and polishing the rock that now lay far above its banks.

Thakur’s tail disappeared around a worn boulder and she hurried to catch up. She could smell the odor of a well-aged kill.

She emerged to find him standing on a sloping gray table of rock looking up into a water-carved cavern. There were shapes in the cave, and they stirred as she approached behind Thakur. Eyes fixed on her. The meat smell came from the rear of the cavern. At the front, a husky dun-colored male stood over a fragile-looking female and her two spotted cubs. The dun coat came forward as the female nudged the cubs further into the cavern.

“Hold, Thakur,” he said. “Who is that one with you?” As he finished, Ratha caught a flurry of motion inside the cavern. A face appeared between two seated forms. The dazed eyes grew wide with joy and the ears pricked up. It was Fessran. Ratha saw her give a wary glance to one side, calm herself and begin sidling toward the entrance.

“Come smell her and tell me yourself, Cherfan,” Thakur answered, nosing Ratha ahead of him. She approached Cherfan. Another movement brought her eyes back to the cavern and the large gray-coat standing beneath the center of the arch. Ratha froze. Cherfan looked back over his shoulder.

“I can tell you who she is,” said a harsh voice, and amber eyes were fixed on Ratha. “Cherfan, stay back.” The dun coat obeyed and retreated. Meoran turned to Thakur. “You know I have little patience with you these days, herder, yet you dare to push me further. Where did you find her and why do you bring her?” He sat, waiting for Thakur’s answer.

“I found her in the high grass of the meadow. I thought she was a raider stalking our dapplebacks.”

“Then do with her what is done to raiders,” Meoran snapped.

“Wait, Meoran,” Thakur’s voice was stronger and louder, rising above the muted roar of the stream below.

“Hear me. She has not returned to us as an enemy even though you stripped her of her name and made her outcast. She wants to join again with her people.”

Meoran curled back his lips, showing fangs like tusks.

“She wants to come back. Accept her. We of the Named are so few that to cast one aside is foolish. Once you would not have listened to words such as these, but I know you have changed.”

“So it is your new knowledge of me that makes you bring her drooling to my den.” Meoran sneered. “I would use that knowledge in a wiser way, herder.”

Ratha swallowed and tried to hide her hunger. Thakur’s front claws scraped on stone.

“I hear your words, Thakur,” Meoran answered at last. “The wisdom I have learned from the Un-Named makes me admit what you say is true. Every one of our people we can gather in will help us to survive.”

“Then may we accept her?” Thakur’s eyes were bright, eager. He leaned forward.

“Hold, herder,” Meoran growled, narrowing his eyes to amber slits. “There are more things to say.”

Thakur lowered his muzzle, slightly abashed.

“You, Ratha, stand before me.”

Slowly Ratha walked toward Meoran. The gray-coat seemed as massive as the stone he sat on. Cherfan and his mate came and stood beside him. More survivors from the broken clan peered out from behind him. They were sons and daughters of clanfolk Ratha had known. Here was a young male with the crooked tail of Srass, the grizzled herder. Of the older clan members, the only one that remained was Meoran. He sat upright beside Cherfan, towering over the young father.

Thakur had told her on the trail that Meoran’s rule was no less harsh than before, yet the harshness now was of necessity, not the petty tyranny it had been. His errors had cost him all of his sons and nearly all of his people; knowledge was imprinted as deeply on him as the gashes that Un-Named claws had made across his face. Cherfan looked at him as a son might look at a father and Ratha sensed he had earned that devotion.

The amber slits opened suddenly. “I do not forget the night when a cub carried the Red Tongue among us. And I see by your eyes that you have not forgotten either.”

“It is gone, Meoran,” Ratha answered. “It perished in the creek. By my foolishness.”

“And not by the claws of the herder Fessran, as I was told.” Meoran turned his head. Ratha followed his gaze to Fessran, crouching nervously in the shadow near the inside cavern wall. Meoran eyed her and yawned, showing the back of his tongue and all his teeth. “Sit up, herder, and don’t cower like a cub. Ratha’s tracks betrayed her. After I spared you I went back and saw where she slid and fell into the stream.”

Fessran shot Ratha a fierce glance that stabbed her with joy and fear.

Meoran grinned. “Did it amuse you to think you fooled me? I spared you, Fessran, because I needed you. With the Red Tongue gone and the she-cub driven out, you were no threat to me. So you lived.” He turned to Ratha. “So you wish to return. To be a herder once again. To eat at the clan kill and obey clan law.”

“Yes, Meoran.” Ratha looked down at her paws.

“You ask me to forget the night you and your creature shamed me before my people. That is asking much.”

Ratha lifted her head and stared into the glowing orange eyes as she had stared into the heart of the Red Tongue. “Most of those who remember that night are dead now,” she said softly. Everyone was still, listening. “There is no shame left in dead memories, Meoran. Now it is only between you and me.”

“Ratha, be careful!” hissed Thakur behind her.

“Quiet, herder!” Meoran roared, startling everyone. In the rear of the cavern, a cub began to wail. “You come to me asking to share my meat and my den, yet you speak to me as an equal,” Meoran said to Ratha.

“What I ask is to serve again as a herder and work for my meat.” She felt her whiskers bristling. “I will obey clan law.”

“Obeying clan law means obeying me,” Meoran said in his deep voice. “That you must do without question.”

“I will obey.” Ratha clamped her teeth together, feeling her hatred build again.

“Look at me as you speak and let me see what your words really mean.”

Ratha brought her gaze up to his.

The orange eyes semed to blaze out and devour her. She fought back, quietly, deep inside, hoping he couldn’t see.

After a long moment, he looked away.

“You will obey me in words, perhaps, and in deeds, but not in heart. Every time I look at you, I will see challenge in your eyes.”

“No!” Ratha cried miserably, knowing he saw what she could not hide. She would never forget that he too had bowed his great head before the power of the Red Tongue.

“Listen, you who were once of the clan,” he said to those assembled around him. “I will hear other words. Shall she come back among us?”

“Shall we invite a tick into our fur? Or maggots into our meat,” cried the young male with Srass’s tail and ears.

“Yet, she is young and strong and could bear cubs,” Cherfan argued, turning to Meoran. Mutterings grew and spread. Ratha listened and heard with dismay that most were against her. Fessran got up from her crouch against the wall and came toward Ratha. Her joy at seeing Ratha again was so obvious she could not hide it, and it was no further risk of Meoran’s wrath to run to Ratha’s side and welcome her openly.

Fessran sat close beside her and she felt her warmth and her fast breathing.

“Meoran!” Thakur cried. “Hate begets hate. Let old trails be covered with grass. If you turn her away, you will regret it. I need another herder. Cherfan’s cubs need a teacher. The Un-Named are enemy enough. Why make another?”

Meoran raised his paw and pointed at Ratha. “The hate is not mine. She chooses the trail she will run. Look at her!”

Ratha stood, quivering, trying to quench the rage boiling inside her, trying to be the humble herder she was asking him to believe she was. She knew that the voice that had so often lied for once spoke truth.

It was something in her, something that burned deeper than the Red Tongue. It was something she did not want, for it betrayed all her wishes; all her hopes to be united once more with her people.

“Meoran is right,” she said in a low voice. “I have chosen the path I run. He has not made me outcast, it is I who have made myself.” She raised her head. “I say it in words now so that it will not be said in blood tomorrow. Take care of your people, Meoran.”

She turned, choking on her last few words, and the hunger that twisted her belly. For a moment she saw the pain in the faces of her two friends; then she was beyond them and running down the stone slab. She heard Fessran leap up and run after her and she redoubled her speed. She heard panting just behind her and a voice. “Ratha, if you don’t stop, I’m going to pull you down like a dappleback!”

Ratha slowed, jogged to a stop.

“Go back, Fessran. He needs all of you,” she said.

“He’s wrong!” Fessran cried, her face wild with agony. “We need you. For what he has done, I swear I’ll seek his blood!”

“No!” Ratha hissed. “He’s right, Fessran. Didn’t you listen? Your people can only survive if they stay together, under one leader. The Red Tongue has tainted me, made me want something I was never meant for and should never have. You are still free of the taint, Fessran. Go back to Meoran, obey him and your people will live.”

“Ratha!”

“Go back, Fessran,” she said softly, touching the other with a paw. “And tell Thakur he is forgiven.”

Then, before Fessran could speak again, Ratha bounded down the trail, leaving her friend behind. Darkness closed about her, seeming even to block out the stars overhead, and as she ran she felt as though she were plunging down the maw of some hideous thing that had risen up to swallow her.

Ratha fled to the edge of clan ground. There, by the stream bank amid the trees, she dug a den and lived by herself. Often, as she hunted shrews and bare-tails, she heard the sound of fighting in the meadow and the shrill cries of herders and raiders. She would turn her back on the noise and hunt elsewhere, for she hated both sides equally.

She thought that all the clan would shun her, for her friends would face Meoran’s wrath if they came to search for her. That Thakur or Fessran might find their way to her den was too dangerous a hope to allow herself. She thought often of leaving again and becoming a wanderer, without people or territory. There was much to see beyond clan ground and even beyond the land held by the Un-Named. Once she had climbed up a peak and seen a sparkling line of blue where the hazy sky met the land. Wild new smells in the wind blowing into her face made her long to journey that way.

Soon, she knew, she would be gone. There was nothing holding her to this place and its pain. She would run free across new plains and valleys; see beasts that even Bonechewer had never showed her, and if she ran far and fast enough, she might even escape her memories.

One morning Ratha returned from a night’s prowl to find someone waiting at her den. Thakur.

Ratha’s throat tightened. She had been longing to see him, but now that he was here and looking into her eyes, there was nothing for her to say.

Thakur lowered his head and nudged something on the ground near his foot. His nose had a smudge of red as he lifted his muzzle. Ratha sniffed and almost drowned in her own saliva, for her hunt had been unsuccessful. He had brought half a liver, fresh enough so that it was still dripping. Ratha dared not ask how much it cost him to take it.

“Meoran will know,” he said in response to her look. “I may pay for it later, but that is my choice, yearling.”

Ratha ate rapidly, shearing the juicy flesh between her teeth.

“I cannot stay long. Cherfan has taken my place; he does that much for me,” Thakur’s voice said beside her. “I will come and see you when I can, for as long as you stay near clan ground.”

Ratha eyed what was left of the liver, wondering whether to eat it all or save some for later. Something made her glance at Thakur. His eyes and his smell told her he was hungry. There was not much food for the clan these days, yet he shared what there was with her.

“My belly is full,” she said, nosing him toward the meat. “Eat.”

He snapped at the liver. She listened to him chew and tear the food. When he was finished, she said, “I won’t stay past this season.”

Thakur’s whiskers drooped. “I know, yearling. There is nothing for you here. I was wondering when your paws would seek a new trail now that this one is done.”

“This one is done,” said Ratha softly. She lifted her eyes to his. “And you, Thakur. Do your paws seek a new trail?”

She could see him retreat before her hopefulness.

“No, yearling. I am where I must be. If you and I were the only ones left, I would run beside you. If there were more of us to herd dapplebacks and fight off raiders, then too I would come. For our people, for Cherfan’s cubs, I must stay.”

Ratha licked him gently, above the scars on his neck where Meoran had torn him. “I will be here a little longer. Go to the ones who need you. Will you bring Fessran the next time?”

She felt him stiffen and he looked at the ground. Ratha clamped her teeth together, angry at herself for being so stupid.

“She is bitter enough toward Meoran,” Thakur said. “I am afraid for her. If she sees you again it may feed her anger.”

“And you do not want her to take the same path as I did,” Ratha finished for him.

“Yearling, it is bad enough that you must be apart from us.”

“Then hide the way to my den and scuff out my tracks in the mud so she may not find them,” Ratha said wryly. “And tell her when I go.”

“I will.”

Thakur lifted his tail and trotted away along the stream bank.

As summer passed into fall, Ratha stayed by herself, alone except for Thakur’s visits. Each time he would bring something, and she was grateful even for small rancid scraps, for her catches would not always fill her belly. He would bring news of the clan and how they were faring against the Un-Named. At first Ratha grunted and turned away when he spoke of the others, but she began to listen. She was lonely, and her hatred could not keep her as isolated as she wished.

She knew that Thakur was worried. The Un-Named pressed the herdfolk hard. Many days and nights the clan spent fighting. She also knew that winter would make the raiders hungrier and fiercer. Ratha could see in Thakur’s eyes a gnawing fear that his little group, the last of the Named, might not survive.

With fall came winds that lashed the pines and swirled dust and leaves into the air. It ruffled Ratha’s coat as if it wanted to seize her and fling her into the sky with the dust and dried leaves. Its moan in her ear made her wild, and the tug at her fur made her want to run until her paws blistered and her breath tore her throat.

She stayed still, watching the clouds build over the mountains. Everything told her it was time to go, yet she stayed, held by an old memory and a forbidden hope.

Thakur continued his visits, glad that she was staying, although puzzled as to why. The news he brought was sometimes joyful and often sad. Another female in the clan had given birth late in the year and the cubs were healthy. But one of Cherfan’s youngsters had died trying to help his father defend the herd.

Ratha listened and mourned with Thakur over the loss. But his voice turned into a drone in her ear and her gaze strayed up between the swaying branches to the sky. Why did she even dare to hope that the Red Tongue might return?

Ratha’s last hunt had worn her out. She didn’t hear the first few droplets pattering down or the thunder’s faraway rumble. She slept, nestled deep in her den.

She woke to a flash of light so brilliant she saw it through closed eyes. The noise was more a shock than a sound. The earth seemed to shiver beneath her feet and she flung herself to the rear of the den. Another flash from outside turned the brown soil white and left spots dancing in front of her eyes. There came another sound, a loud cracking and splintering, the sound of a great tree falling.

Ratha crept to the den mouth and peered out. She saw orange flame dive to earth, riding the crown of the toppling giant. The burning tree crashed among its neighbors, setting their branches afire. Smoke boiled up, meeting the rain.

She peered down. The stream below her ran black and glistening.

Ratha crouched at the mouth of her den, her heartbeat rocking her. The fire’s fury made her want to run, yet a deeper longing drew her toward it. The line of trees was soon a wall of flame. Ratha could see shadows bounding and leaping; other creatures fleeing the fire.

The Red Tongue, she thought, looking at it. The Red Tongue has come again.

She saw deer running, silhouetted against the flames. Small creatures scampered past her, almost between her legs, their fear of the wildfire so great, they took no notice of her. A small snake slithered by, the firelight jeweling its scales. The rain had stopped, and Ratha could hear the crackle and sputter of the fire.

She heard something else and jerked her head around in fright. Coming toward her along the stream bank was a slender shadow.

“Thakur?” Ratha whispered, but her voice stuck in her throat. The stranger’s gait told her it wasn’t Thakur. Ratha huddled at the entrance, her head low, her ears back. Who else had found her den?

The smoke-blurred form halted. “Ratha?” The voice was Fessran’s.

For a moment Ratha was silent, remembering why Thakur had not brought Fessran to see her.

“Ratha!” The voice came again, husky, and trembling. “I followed Thakur the last time he came. I waited until tonight.”

“Why did you come, herder?” Ratha heard her own voice say. Fessran was suddenly before her, blocking out the shadowed orange light, replacing it with two burning eyes.

She paced before Ratha, lashing her tail. “A cub has died,” she said.

“Thakur told me Cherfan’s son was killed by raiders,” Ratha said, looking up.

“By Meoran’s stupidity! To ask a cub that young to guard the herd, without training! Meoran said there was no time for training. Ptahh! I saw the young one pulled down. Meoran was too late to save him. Now Cherfan’s son lies with maggots crawling across his bones.” Fessran’s voice was low and harsh. “All of us will die, one by one. There is no hope for the Named as long as Meoran leads us.” She turned and stared at the fire.

Ratha waited, knowing and dreading what Fessran would say next.

“Meoran’s power is ended. You and the Red Tongue are all we have against the Un-Named,” Fessran hissed. “Take up your creature, Ratha. I will follow you again.”

“No. That trail is closed to me,” Ratha answered, but she too could not help staring beyond Fessran into the wall of writhing flame. Waves of heat beat in her face.

“No trail is closed to you if you bear the Red Tongue,” Fessran’s voice hissed in her ear.

“Go back to your den, herder,” Ratha said between her teeth. “Leave the Red Tongue to burn and die.”

The other’s eyes widened. “Are you afraid to take up your creature again?”

“It never was my creature. Do you understand? It never was my creature. Fessran!” she cried as the other spat and leaped away.

“I do not fear the Red Tongue!” Fessran’s howl came back.

It is not the Red Tongue I fear. Ratha stared after Fessran.

The bounding figure grew smaller and blacker against the rippling orange flame, curling around the lower branches of the trees, flowing up them like a river into the night sky.

For an instant Ratha could only watch. Then she too was running, stretching her muscles in a half-mad attempt to catch her friend. Fessran plunged toward the fire like a falling stone.

The sound of the fire grew in Ratha’s ears until it was a continuous pounding roar. The wind whipped across her back, feeding the rising flame. A cracking, groaning sound made her look up. Another tree started its majestic fall, fire streaming from its crown. It toppled forward into the meadow, igniting the dried grass. It fell across Fessran’s track and Ratha could no longer see her.

She galloped toward the fallen tree, getting as close as she could before the thick smoke drove her back. She retreated, racing along the burning length of the fallen pine. Smoke rolled over her in searing clouds, choking her. As she skirted the tip of the pine, another tree crashed down in front of her, spitting sparks into the grass.

Ratha reared up on her hind legs, trying to see across the fiery barrier. There, deep in the inferno, was a figure whose image shimmered in the waves of heat rising from the flames.

“Fessran!” Ratha screamed and thought she heard an answer. The two trees had fallen toward each other so that they lay with their tips together, their trunks still hidden in the fire that engulfed the trees still standing. The two blazing trunks formed a barrier that trapped Fessran inside. The only way in or out between the two crowns, whose interlocked branches formed a menacing lattice, would be to break them away in order to get through.

Ratha leaped into the air, trying to catch a glimpse of Fessran. She saw her friend on the other side of the barrier, crouching in a patch of grass that had not yet caught. Ratha could hear her coughing.

She flung herself at the maze of burning branches, using her rage to drive away her fear. She sank her teeth into bark, feeling hot resin sting her tongue. She bit through small branches and broke away large ones, ignoring the flames leaping around her. Her mouth was soon bleeding, her paws scorched and blistered, but she attacked the blazing mass again and again as if she had gone mad. Then, suddenly, with a final flurry, she broke through.

For a moment she stared in disbelief. Fessran was there, encircled by flames, yet she carried a burning branch in her mouth. She swung her torch at the fire, trying to drive it away.

Fool! thought Ratha. The creature does not fear itself.

“Fessran!” she called and the head bearing the torch came up. Fessran gathered herself and leaped toward Ratha. The fire licked at them from both sides, burning their fur and searing their skin.

“Fool! Mad one!” spat Ratha even before they were out of the flames. “Leave it here with the rest!”

Fessran only curled her lips back, showing Ratha her teeth clamped on the shaft of the branch. Ratha tried to swat it out of her mouth, but Fessran dodged and galloped away. She stood, looking back at Ratha. “Take one for yourself and run with me,” she said between her teeth.

Ratha stared at her. The power of the Red Tongue was rising again. There was nothing Ratha could do now to stop it. The night would only end in death, for Meoran would know by now where Fessran had gone and on what errand.

As if in defeat, Ratha lowered her head. With eyes still on Fessran, she seized a flaming branch and broke it off at the base. Despite herself, her heart beat faster. To have her creature once again was a triumph, even though a bitter one. Fessran trotted away, her torch held high. Ratha followed.

The storm moved on, leaving the trees burning. Ratha and Fessran stood together on the far side of the stream, sensing that water would check the wildfire’s advance. Ratha stuck her torch into the soft mudbank. Fessran still held hers between her jaws. The crackle of their two torches echoed the groaning roar of the wildfire. A touch of gray showed beyond the sparks shooting into the sky.

Ratha gathered a pile of branches, for she knew the torches would soon burn low. Fessran snapped her head around as the wet grass seemed to move in the firelight. Ratha nudged her friend, feeling Fessran shiver. She felt curiously calm.

“Meoran will not come,” Fessran hissed. “We will have to seek him out. I grow weary of waiting here and the Red Tongue in the trees burns too close.”

“He will be here, herder,” Ratha answered. “Once he knows you have come seeking me, he will be on your track.”

“I wish him speed,” Fessran snarled, her teeth clenched on the torch shaft.

The grass waved again and Ratha heard footsteps. Fessran lunged with the torch as a shadow streaked out of the grass. A scent, made alien by a blast of acrid fear-smell, washed back over Ratha.

“Thakur!” she cried as Fessran froze where she was standing. Thakur crouched in the shadows, glaring at both of them.

“Put that torch down or I’ll take it away from you,” Ratha snarled at Fessran. “It would have made more sense to give the Red Tongue to a dappleback. Put it down!”

Fessran obeyed, driving the splintered branch end deep into the mud beside Ratha’s. Thakur crept into the circle of torchlight, his head lifted, his belly close to the ground. His ears flattened and his teeth flashed as he spoke.

“I feared you would find your creature again,” he said to Ratha. “Meoran comes and the clan is with him. When he heard the sky-fire strike and found Fessran gone, he knew.” He stopped, panting. “Run, both of you! Throw down your torches and flee! You escaped him once, you can again. Run!”

“No, Thakur. He will not be turned away as easily as he was the last time. He will hunt us until he has our blood,” Ratha said in a low voice.

Thakur almost threw himself at Ratha, his eyes shimmering with rage and agony. “How many will die in this madness? Shall this be the death of my people; the Named killing the Named? Have they earned such a death? If so, tell me how.”

Ratha’s belly twisted as she watched him.

“Enough, Thakur,” Fessran interrupted. “You have no stomach for this. Run away so that at least one will survive as the last of the Named.”

Thakur turned from Fessran to Ratha.

“Do as she bids you. Or pick up a torch and stand with us,” Ratha said softly.

He cast a look back over his shoulder. “He comes; I hear him now,” Thakur moaned. His voice rose to a hiss. “For the sake of your people, throw the cursed thing down and run!”

Ratha’s head turned at the sound of footsteps. Smoke hung beneath the trees, boiling along the ground. There were shadows behind the haze. Amber eyes stared out from a massive shape as gray as the rolling smoke. It became large and solid as Meoran approached.

“Wise words, Thakur Torn-Claw.” Meoran thrust his massive head through the haze. One bite from those jaws could crush the skull of a three-horn stag, Ratha knew. He was not one to provoke lightly.

For an instant the three of them stood still facing Meoran and the clan. Then, with a sudden shriek of rage, Fessran snatched up her torch and flung herself at Meoran. He reared, hauling his gray bulk into the air. He struck out with slashing foreclaws as Cherfan and the other young males rushed from behind to guard his flanks. Fessran tumbled away, bleeding. Her torch fell and guttered out.

“So this is the power of the Red Tongue.” He sneered and kicked the smoldering branch away from her groping forepaws.

“Meoran, wait!” cried Thakur. “You have destroyed Fessran’s creature. There is no need to take her life. Let me talk to her.”

Fessran lay on her side, her neck and chest red and ragged. She lifted her head and glared hate at Meoran.

“Talk will do nothing,” Meoran snarled. “Her eyes are like the eyes of the other, the she-cub.”

Ratha watched Fessran quivering on the ground. She raised her head and met the gray-coat’s stare. “The she-cub speaks,” she said quietly. “Leave Fessran. She is not the one you seek. I told you before; it is between you and me, Meoran.”

The clan leader took one heavy step forward. “Stay back,” Ratha heard him growl to Cherfan and the other young males who flanked him. “This one is my meat.”

He took another step and then jerked his head back in astonishment. Thakur stood in front of him, blocking his way to Ratha.

“The Named do not bare fangs against the Named,” she heard Thakur say. “Do you forget the old laws?”

“I make the laws for the clan, Thakur Torn-Claw. Move aside!” Meoran spat at Thakur and struck him in the face. He bowed his head and Ratha saw him lick blood from his nose.

“The Named do not bare fangs against the Named,” he said again, so softly that Ratha could barely hear him.

“I don’t bother with fangs for such as you. Claws do well enough.” Again Meoran lashed out at Thakur, laying the other’s cheek open to the bone. Ratha flinched as if she had been the one struck. Something inside her began beating against the walls of its prison. She wanted to shriek at Thakur to stand aside and let her face Meoran alone. She began to tremble, fighting her rage. She knew if Meoran struck Thakur again, that her rage would win.

The two stood apart, stiff-legged and bristling, Thakur still blocking Meoran’s way. The wild thing beating inside Ratha’s chest was as angry at Thakur as Meoran. What right had he to interfere? Had he not betrayed her the night the Red Tongue died? Meoran’s power would have fallen then. And what did he think he was doing now? Did he think that seeing him bleed would calm her? No! Blood would bring blood.

Meoran raised a paw. Thakur looked at him, his face blank, expressionless. The blow came, with all of Meoran’s weight behind it. Thakur reeled and his head snapped around spraying red onto Ratha’s coat. He sank down in front of the gray coat.

Fessran shrieked and the cry tore through Ratha. She wrenched her torch from the ground. Meoran was approaching Thakur slowly, almost leisurely, his jaws opening for the killing bite. Flame barred his way. Again he reared striking out with his forelegs to knock Ratha’s torch from her jaws as he had Fessran’s but Ratha was too quick. The brand scorched his chest and he skittered back, howling.

“Ratha, no!” cried a hoarse voice and she caught a blurred glimpse of Thakur staggering to his feet, his mouth open in pain as the gleaming blood ran from his eye and cheek, dripping along his jaw.

Ratha walked toward Meoran with the torch in her teeth. All those that had clustered around the clan leader melted away. And Meoran cowered, terrified, mouth gaping, sides heaving.

“Close your jaw or your tongue shall meet the Red Tongue,” Ratha snarled. He gulped and shut his mouth.

“On your side and offer your throat,” Ratha ordered lifting her head with the torch. “Look well, you of the clan. The Law of the Named is now the Law of the Red Tongue.”

They crouched together, their bellies to the ground. Cherfan, his mate, Srass’s young son and the others all stared helplessly at the scene before them.

In her pride, Ratha answered their gaze and took her eyes from Meoran.

He exploded up at her, fangs seeking her throat. With a violent twist of her head, she swung the torch in a vicious arc and drove it down into those gaping jaws. The impact almost jarred her teeth loose from the shaft. Then, with a strange tearing sound, it gave, throwing Ratha off-balance. The shaft was torn out of her mouth and she was knocked aside.

She had lost, she thought dizzily as she fought to keep her footing. She whirled, ready to meet Meoran in a final desperate attack with teeth and claws. For a moment, she stood, stupefied.

Meoran spun in a circle like a cub chasing its tail. He was a blur of gray with a dancing patch of orange. And he was screaming.

When he paused, exhausted and spent, Ratha could see him and her rage froze into horror. The shaft of the torch protruded from his mouth, jamming it open. The blackened end, streaked with red showed beneath his chin and the Red Tongue curled up around his lower jaw on both sides. With a shock, Ratha realized she had driven the jagged end of the firebrand through the bottom of his mouth. Blood and froth bubbled up around the shaft and sizzled in the flame.

Meoran cried again, a half-choked scream. He pawed at the hated thing, now so terribly embedded in his own flesh. The Red Tongue blazed up wrathfully and Meoran flung himself back and forth as it licked at his face, blistering his jowls.

From the corner of her eye, Ratha saw Thakur lurch through the swirling haze toward Meoran.

“The stream!” he cried. “It dies in water! Seek the stream.”

Ratha stood frozen as Meoran staggered toward the creek. She did nothing to help or to hinder him. She no longer wished to be the one to decide how he would die.

Meoran shrieked and reeled back from the bank. Fessran leaped at him from the rushes, blood-spattered, vengeance-hunger hot in her eyes. She struck at the torch shaft penetrating his lower jaw, using the pain to drive him back from the water.

“Eat well, night creature,” she crooned to the flame. “He is a feast worthy of your hunger. Dance on his bones, sear his entrails and make him sing as he dies!”

Each time Meoran tried to gain the stream, Fessran was before him, singing a soft song to the flame and striking at Meoran’s face. The fur was black on his muzzle and ruff. The skin beneath was starting to swell.

Ratha leaped toward Fessran, but Thakur reached Fessran first. He caught her by the hindquarters and rolled away, dragging her with him. Meoran plunged past Ratha, the fire wreathing his head and neck. He did not reach the stream. He fell, writhing, into the grass. The wind whipped the Red Tongue.

Ratha saw Thakur approach, but the spreading fire drove him back. With a last spasm, Meoran’s body became still and started burning.

Thakur stood before the gray-coat’s pyre, Fessran’s limp form at his feet. Ratha could see him shuddering.

He turned and walked to the pile of branches she had gathered. He took one in his mouth and lit the end in the fire engulfing Meoran.

Ratha waited, trembling, as he approached her. She could see only one of his eyes and she feared the light there was the glow of madness. The fire was before her now, speaking with a savage voice. She stared into it. She would burn with Meoran.

“Ratha!” came Thakur’s voice and she looked into the ravaged face. “Are you ready?”

“To die by the Red Tongue? Yes. It is right. I am glad you will do it.” She lifted her chin, baring her throat. She closed her eyes.

“No! Not to die,” Thakur hissed. “To live as you told us. By the Law of the Red Tongue.”

Her eyes flew open. He was extending the torch shaft to her. “Take it, Giver of the New Law,” he said between his teeth.

Ratha bowed her head. “May my teeth rot if I ever take it into my mouth again! Fling it away, Thakur. The way of the Red Tongue is madness.”

“Madness it may be,” said Thakur, “but it is also life. Look to your people, Giver of the New Law.”

Ratha looked past him to the others of the Named who still crouched before her. She saw Cherfan huddling beside his mate, his eyes bright with terror. As Ratha’s gaze met his, he lifted his throat and bared it to her. His mate, crouching beside him, did the same.

“No!” Ratha whispered. “I never wished to rule. Meoran!”

“He lies burning in the grass. He will soon be ash and bones. His law is ended. The New Law must rule.”

“Then you or Fessran….” Ratha faltered.

“They do not bare their throats to me or to Fessran,” Thakur said. “Take the torch and lead your people.”

Again Ratha searched the eyes of those crouching before her. More chins were lifted. More throats bared. There were still those with eyes that waited and doubted.

Slowly she opened her jaws and felt Thakur place the branch between her teeth. His grip loosened and she felt the weight in her mouth and saw the Red Tongue dancing before her face. She watched Thakur back away, half of his face crusted and swollen. He too crouched and lifted his chin. She looked to the clan and saw that all throats were bared. She still had a choice. She could fling down the torch and throw herself into Meoran’s pyre. Or she could seek the trail that ran back to the mountains, abandoning her people to the ravages of the clanless ones.

The Red Tongue is madness. Thakur’s words came back to her again. It is also life. He had left one thing unspoken.

Now it is the only life we have.

She seized the branch, tasting the bitter bark. The wildfire still ate the trees and Meoran’s pyre was spreading through the grass.

“This is my creature,” Ratha said, holding the flame aloft. “It shall be yours as well. I will teach you to keep it and feed it, for it must never be allowed to die. You shall be called the Named no longer. Now you are the People of the Red Tongue.

She swung the torch around. “Follow me to the dens!” she cried. “Tonight we will give the raiders something new to taste. Do you hear me?”

The answer came back in a roar that deafened her. Her heart beating wildly, she sprang ahead, carrying the Red Tongue, and heard the sound of her people following.

Ratha stared into the depths of the fire, curling up from its nest of branches into the night sky. It burned loudly, crackling and spitting. The Red Tongue lived both by day and by night, but to Ratha it seemed strongest when it burned against the darkness. It was a creature of the night, yet it obeyed none of the laws of stealth and silence that governed other animals.

Her people gathered around the fire. She could see their green and yellow eyes through the shimmering air and the smoky haze. She took her gaze from the fire’s heart, looking away into cool blackness. The Red Tongue’s image still danced before her eyes in ghostly form and she shut them. She could not delay long. Her people were waiting. So were the Un-Named who hid in the forest beyond the meadow’s edge.

Ratha seized a branch from the pile beside her. It was a good one, she thought, smelling the sharp tang of pitch. She thrust one end into the flame, pulled it out and watched the Red Tongue blossom around the end.

“Fessran,” she said between her teeth. Fessran limped to her and took the torch.

“May the Red Tongue be strong tonight,” she said before her jaws closed on the shaft.

“Guard the animals well, herder,” Ratha answered when her jaws were free. “If my creature holds the Un-Named from our throats tonight, then you shall share the power I hold. I do not forget who fought with me when the Red Tongue’s light first shone in the eyes of the clan.”

Fessran dipped her torch and carried it away.

I would also have called you friend, for you have been to me like a lair-sister, Ratha thought. But I dare not do more than acknowledge your loyalty.

She said another name and lit another torch, watching as the next herder came forward from the circle. He took his brand and followed Fessran.

Again, Ratha plunged a branch into the Red Tongue and passed it to a pair of waiting jaws. One herder after another took their torches and trotted away to take up their station between the herdbeasts and the Un-Named. The orange stars of the firebrands shone up and down the meadow, sending dancing shadows across the grass into the trees. Screams broke from the forest, as if the firelight had reached in and clawed those hiding there. She had heard those screams before. They had risen from her own throat when she hid where the Un-Named were hiding now. But as each herder took his or her place, the cries changed. The screams of hate and triumph faltered as uncertainty crept in. The voices wavered, and Ratha could hear wrath fighting with fear. A new creature stalked the meadow this night and the Un-Named were afraid.

She thought of her old pack, of the young leader, the witless old gray and the others. They would be crouching together beneath the trees and turning to each other with eyes filled with bewilderment. What was this terrible blazing thing that chased the night away and stole the courage from the strongest among them? Where and why did it come? Only one among the Un-Named would know. Ratha stared beyond the fire, trying not to remember Bonechewer. He might be out there along with the cubs she had birthed with him.

She bared her fangs as if Bonechewer were standing before her, wearing that mocking grin that showed his broken fang. She grabbed a branch, biting so hard that it cracked. She threw it aside, seized another and thrust it into the fire. When she turned, the face before her was Bonechewer’s. She felt her tail flare into a brush and all the hairs along her back stiffened.

The eyes were green, not amber and the muzzle bore a long jagged wound, still swollen and crusted.

“Thakur,” she said and let all her hairs lie flat. “Are you the last?”

He approached, his eyes puzzled and wary.

No wonder, she thought. I must have looked ready to attack him.

“All the others have taken their torches, Giver of the New Law,” he said, but he did not open his mouth for the fire-brand as the others had.

“You may go without one if you wish,” Ratha said. She placed the branch back in the fire. “It must hurt you to open your mouth.”

“It will take much time to heal,” said Thakur. “Meoran did not keep his claws clean.”

“Once you feared my creature,” Ratha said softly.

“I still fear it. I fear it more now than I ever did.”

He looked steadily at Ratha, and there was something in his eyes and his smell that chilled her.

“I mocked you for your fear,” she said. “I will not mock you again.”

“I will take a torch,” Thakur answered. “I will need it when the raiders strike. But first, Giver of the New Law, I will show you your people.”

She wrinkled her brows at him, dismayed and puzzled by his words. Now was the time to prepare for the attack that might break from the forest at any instant. It was not the time to follow Thakur about the meadow to see whatever he might have to show her. She was about to refuse and send him back to the herd when the thought came almost unbidden into her mind.

He is the wisest among us. I turned his wisdom away when I should have listened. Now, perhaps, it is too late, but I will listen this time.

She let the fire burn by itself and followed Thakur. He did not lead her directly to the nearest torchbearer. Instead he walked toward a flame flickering at the far end of the meadow. He approached from behind and downwind so that the torchbearer could neither see nor smell him. He was almost within reach of the herder’s tail when the other leaped up and whirled around, swinging the firebrand. The flame roared and Thakur flattened in the grass. He rolled away, leaving Ratha facing the torchbearer. A paralyzing fear shot through her as she saw her own creature in the jaws of another. She who had tamed the Red Tongue could only cower before it in the instant before the torchbearer stopped his assault.

Beneath the fear was anger. Thakur had deliberately startled the young herder and then scuttled aside, letting her be the one to face the attack. He knew there would be no real danger once the torchbearer recognized her.

The young face was one she knew well; even too well. The torchbearer was the son of Srass, the old herder she had seen killed in the meadow. She remembered the old herder’s face at the last moment of his life; as the gray-coat ripped flesh from his quivering flank and the silver’s teeth crushed his skull. Pain and rage distorted the ugly muzzle but it was still Srass’s face until he died. Now she looked at the herder who was Srass’s son and saw nothing she knew. The red light that shone from the torchbearer’s eyes came from a fire that burned within as well as without. It was a new kind of wildness and a new kind of savagery she had never seen in those who used only teeth and claws.

She would have whimpered and backed away, but pride and anger held her where she stood. The torchbearer lowered his brand and his face became again the face of Srass’s son with all its lop-eared homeliness. But Ratha knew she would never be able to look at him again without remembering the change the fire had cast over him.

Is this how I looked when I stood before the clan with the Red Tongue in my jaws?

“Keep your guard, herder,” she said at last. “We should not have startled you.”

At the corner of her eye, she saw Thakur rise from his crouch and shake dry grass from his fur. Howls echoed across the meadow from the forest, and she saw the young herder turn to challenge the hidden enemy, the fire’s glow leaping in his eyes.

“Come, Giver of the New Law,” said a voice very near her. “I am still without a torch.”

Ratha’s fury rose and spilled over. “Thakur, I could feed you the Red Tongue as I did Meoran or have you gutted like a herdbeast!”

He looked back at her and the green of his eyes seemed to swallow her. “You could, Giver of the New Law. You may.”

The reply enraged her further, but she could do nothing except fume and bristle. She knew she could not strike him. “Why do you show me this?” she burst out at last. “You know as well as I that we must keep the Red Tongue if we are to live.”

“Look inside yourself for the answer,” he said. He paused. “I see you are angry, so I know you have found it.” He trotted back toward the fire she had left burning at the center of the meadow.

She ground her teeth together as if she were slicing meat. He knew as well as she that they could not turn aside from this new trail. What was he trying to do then?

One must know the path one runs even if the ground underfoot is not as one chooses, she thought and the answer almost came in Thakur’s voice. Her ears flattened. She was not grateful. Sometimes it was easier to take a path not knowing what lay underfoot or ahead.

The cries from the forest rose in pitch and intensity. Soon the Un-Named would begin their attack. The hair rose on Ratha’s neck, letting the cold of the night onto her skin. Would the Red Tongue save her people? They were still few and the Un-Named many. Only when morning came would she know, if she herself were still alive.

Another thought rose from beneath her anger and it too seemed to speak in Thakur’s voice. Even if the Red Tongue saved her people, they would never be the same. Once they were the Named, under Baire and then Meoran. Now they would be what she called them, a new name given without realizing what it truly meant. The People of the Red Tongue. And now she had seen the first of her new breed and now she knew.

As she returned to her fire, she passed other herdfolk. She approached them openly, letting herself be seen and smelled. Perhaps what she had seen in the young herder’s eyes was only anger at being startled. Perhaps it was only the brief intensity of fear that changed him and not the stamp of the Red Tongue. It was a new hope, but it did not live long enough to grow. Each of the torchbearers, even though unprovoked, held traces of the same look she had seen in the face of Srass’s son. Violent and gentle alike were all transformed by the blazing power they held between their jaws.

This is what we are, Ratha thought as she went from one to the other. This is what we are now.

Thakur was standing beside the fire when she returned. She lit a branch for him and gave it to him without words, feeling as though she were kicking mud into a clear pool even though she must drink from it later. He lowered his brand and trotted away, becoming one more of the flickering orange dots scattered about the meadow.

Again the raider’s cries swelled from the meadow. Ratha lifted her muzzle, her ears quivering. She saw the circle of herders about her tighten, bunching their beasts in the center. The torches swung outward.

She seized a branch of her own, lit it and left the fire to burn in its dirt clearing. As she reached the outer edge of the circle, the attack began.

She had hoped that the Red Tongue in the forest would have frightened the raiders away, but she knew that hate and hunger were as strong as fear. Her worries were confirmed when a scout reported that the Un-Named were circling around the areas that were still burning. He had spotted one group of the raiders making their way along a stream bank, making her suspect that there was at least one among the Un-Named who had some knowledge of the Red Tongue. She did not admit to herself that she knew who that one might be.

Shadows that had been as still as rocks or bushes against the trees crept swiftly into the meadow. They streamed from the forest, eyes and teeth glinting as they emerged into the open.

Ratha planted her torch and looked about her in all directions. There are too many, she thought, feeling her heartbeat shake her. Even with the Red Tongue, we are too few. The herders about her seemed to share her dismay, for she heard whimpers and saw bodies huddling together. And the raiders seemed to sense it too. They came faster, their hissing grew more vicious. And then they were no longer creeping but charging; black forms bore down on the herders from all sides. Ratha seized her torch again and thrust it outward with the rest. The attack gathered speed. The torchbearers waited.

Trembling, Ratha tried to peer beyond the circle of orange light. The raiders were still coming but the attack was faltering, its edges growing ragged as many of the Un-Named hesitated before the firelight. Ratha could hear individual voices rise above the yowling as the Un-Named leaders tried to drive their packs to fight. There was fear in those cries as well as rage. Fights began in the Un-Named ranks. Those who sought to flee the new power battled with those who forced them to attack. The mass of the enemy became a churning moonlit sea, turning in on itself.

It quieted. The howls of those who had fled faded into the forest. The torchbearer’s brands shone into fewer eyes, but in those faces hate ruled over fear. The first attack had failed. The second was about to begin.

The herders faced the Un-Named across an open swath of meadow. With a howl that rose to a shriek, a shape flew from the Un-Named ranks. Firelight flashed on a silvery pelt and Ratha recognized the jaws that had crushed Srass’s skull. The silvercoat drew the others after him and the Un-Named surged forward to meet the herders.

Torches fluttered and roared. Bared fangs were met with fire. The attackers reeled back howling from the touch of the flames and some carried the terrible creature away with them, smoldering as hot coals and ash in their fur ate into their flesh. Some went mad with fear and lay thrashing and frothing while their companions trampled them.

Ratha whirled to face the snarling silver. She dodged as he flung himself at her and dragged her torch across his face over his eye. The charred wood snapped, the end falling onto his foreleg. Blind and fear-crazed, the silver lurched away.

Ratha saw two other herders beating him across the back with their brands as he fled. She lost sight of him.

The branch in her mouth was now only glowing coals, creeping toward her whiskers. She dropped it and scuffed dirt on it. Other brands were also burning down or had broken against Un-Named ribs. She saw torchbearers slashing with fangs and claws and blood gleaming red in the firelight. She ducked a raider’s strike and ran to the bonfire. She lit a new torch and passed it to a wounded herder who carried only a broken stub, too dazed to throw the useless thing away. His eyes brightened; he snatched the new light and plunged back into the fray. As she stood panting, Fessran came alongside.

“Giver of the New Law, let me carry new torches to the ones who need them,” she said. “That is not your duty.”

“It shall be yours, Fessran. You are now the keeper of the Red Tongue and its cubs. If it still burns when dawn comes, its tending shall be your honor and your duty.”

Fessran passed her a lighted branch. “Go and drive the Un-Named back. The Red Tongue will eat their bodies when the sun rises.”

Ratha charged back into the fighting, her roar spilling from between her teeth. She leaped at the nearest enemy, raking him and searing him. Cries of rage and triumph broke from the weary herders, and they flung themselves on the raiders with renewed fury.

The Un-Named began to fall back. Slowly they gave way. They fought only to save themselves, and no longer tried to break through the herder’s circle to attack the milling herdbeasts. The mass of the enemy began to thin and Ratha saw more moonlit forms streak away into the trees.

She drove her torch into the ground beside a stiffening body and let out a mocking yowl. “They run!” she cried. “They are as cubs before the power of the Red Tongue. Let them taste it once again before the forest shelters them. To me, my people!”

The enemy’s ranks wavered and broke. The herders bore down on them and many cried their death scream before they reached the forest.

And then, all at once, it was over and the night fell quiet except for the soft screams of the wounded and dying.

Ratha stood with the torch guttering in her mouth, staring across the emptied meadow. Her heart gradually stopped its pounding. She had won. After such a beating as they had taken tonight, the Un-Named would not come again. The little flock of herdbeasts would grow large and cubs would play in the high grass, well-fed and free of fear.

She plodded back across the meadow, her feet dragging from weariness. Now there was no need to run fast. When she reached the bonfire, Fessran took the burning stick from her jaws and returned it to the flames. Others followed in Ratha’s wake and gave their brands back to Fessran. There was one more thing to be done and for that they needed their jaws free.

Among the Un-Named dead were the wounded, writhing in pain or trying to drag their shattered bodies from the meadow. Ratha watched her people walk among them. The herders vented their still-smoldering anger on the bleeding ones, clawing and slashing at them until they were torn lumps of flesh in which the breath trembled one last time and left. Ratha watched grimly. She had not given the order to mutilate the wounded, but she had not forbidden it either. She remembered how the raiders had eaten from Srass while he still lived. She watched, but took no part for the taste of blood mixed with the bitterness of charred bark was still thick in her mouth.

“Giver of the New Law,” a voice said, and she looked up into Thakur’s eyes. They were lit not by the firebrand, but by the faint glow of dawn over the forest.

“I am weary,” she said crossly. “If you wish to show me more of the change in my people, you will wait until I have slept.”

“It is not your people I wish to show you,” Thakur answered.

Ratha’s eyes narrowed. “One of the Un-Named?”

“One of the wounded raiders. He lives. He asks for you. He knows your name.”

She felt a sudden chill in her belly. It spread along her back, down the insides of her legs. Only one among the raiders knew her by her name. She had thought he was far away and safe on his own land.

“Lead me to where he lies,” she said roughly.

Thakur took her to the edge of the forest, to the long faint shadow of a small pine standing apart from the rest. The shadow grew darker and the grass lighter as the sky turned from violet to rose and then to gold. Two herders sat together, eyeing the wounded raider who lay beneath the pine. At her approach they uncurled their tails from about their feet and bared their fangs at the raider.

“No,” Ratha said sharply. “There will be no killing until I command it.”

She and Thakur approached the Un-Named one. A muscle jerked beneath the red-smeared copper pelt. Ratha heard a voice, hoarse and weak.

“Does she come, brother? I grow too weary to lift my head.”

“She comes,” Thakur answered and Ratha felt him nudge her ahead while he stayed behind. She stepped into the coolness beneath the trees. The raider’s muzzle pulled back scorched and swollen lips in a mocking grin. There was the broken lower fang.

“Come here, Ratha,” Bonechewer said, bloody froth dribbling from his mouth.” “Let me see the one who now leads the clan. Ah, yes,” he said as she neared him. ”You have grown strong and fierce. You will be a better leader than Meoran. What a fool he was to drive you out! What a fool!”

Ratha nearly pounced on him. She jumped and landed with her forepaws almost touching his face. She glared down at him. “Why did you come? Why?”

“To see you,” he answered, gazing up at her. “Perhaps to die at your fangs.”

“Bonechewer, stop mocking me, or I swear by the Red Tongue, you will have your wish! You told me you would no longer run with the Un-Named. Did your land yield too little to feed you this season?”

“No.” He coughed and his chest heaved. Ratha could see why the blood seeped from his mouth. The lower part of his chest was crushed and caved in. Blood welled there too and the flat, jagged end of a broken bone showed in the wound.

“I’m a mess, aren’t I, clan cat? That’s what I get for leading a pack of cowards. They fought me to escape the Red Tongue and when I went down, they trampled me.” He grinned again, grimacing with pain. “Then your herders came along and played with me for a while. Not the death I would have chosen.”

“Why did you come?” Ratha’s voice grew soft and trembled, despite her wish to hate him.

“After I drove you away and the cubs left, there was nothing to hold me to my land. When the Un-Named came through again, I went with them.”

“The cubs left?”

“Yes. You were right about them. I could not believe I fathered such a litter. I could scarcely keep them from each other’s throats or from mine either. They are out there, the savage little killers.”

“Did Thistle-chaser live?”

“Yes, she lives, half-mad as she is. You may see her in the packs if the Un-Named are foolish enough to venture here again.” He coughed and shuddered. “I have seen you again, Ratha. That is all I dared ask for and all I wish.”

“Is that all you want from me, Bonechewer?” she asked, trying to suppress the sudden grief that welled up inside her.

“If your fangs would help me toward the dark trail, I would not resent it,” he answered. “Or if you cannot kill me, tell another to do it.”

Ratha swallowed, barely able to speak. She looked toward Thakur. He rose and came toward Bonechewer. Her flank brushed his as the two passed.

“Away, herders!” she cried at the two still sitting and staring. “There is no need for you here.” They whirled about and dashed away. She followed at a trot then slowed to a walk, watching her people dragging the Un-Named corpses into the dirt clearing where the fire burned. Fessran and the others who helped her were piling fuel on the flames, making them bright and hot, eager to consume the bodies. At the other end of the meadow, the dapplebacks grazed peacefully, showing no sign of the night’s terrors. Ratha let her eyes rest on that scene and turned her back on the fire.

Grass rustled behind her and a familiar smell was with her. Not until Thakur was beside her did she turn her head.

“I held my brother’s throat until he was still,” he said softly.

“Did he say anything more?”

“Only that clan leaders are not forbidden to grieve.”

Ratha’s jaw dropped. “That arrogant mangy son of a scavenger! He thought I would cry for him? He thought … I would … cry … for….” Her voice broke into a keening wail as her sorrow escaped at last. She stamped, lashed her tail and flung her head back and forth. All the rage, hate and sorrow she had felt and kept hidden now took her and shook her until she was left panting and exhausted. She stumbled to Thakur and laid her head against his chest. “I am even more a fool,” she muttered, her sides still heaving. “A clan leader should not bawl like a cub.”

“No one was watching,” Thakur chided gently.

At last she lifted her head and gazed across the meadow. There the dapplebacks grazed, with the herders around them. Soon there would be three-horns and other kinds of beasts, for Thakur and others in the group were good at catching and taming them.

My people will survive, Ratha thought. They have changed, even as I have, but they will survive. That is what matters.

“I left my brother under the pine,” Thakur said. “Is that what you wished?”

“It is. His bones shall lie there and those who pass shall honor them.” Ratha drew a breath. “Once I hated him. Now there is nothing left to hate. He was my mate, Thakur, with everything that it meant. I will not soon forget him.”

“Nor I, Ratha.”

She turned to Thakur, to the green-eyed face that echoed the one whose amber eyes were closed in death. No. He was not Bonechewer, and he too evoked memories that, if anything, were more painful. She would take no mate until the raw memories were soothed and healed by time. But, she sensed, he would be a wise and comforting friend and would run beside her on the rough new trail that lay ahead of her and her people.

It would not be an easy path, and the dangers that lay there might be beyond her capability to face. Yet ragged and weary as she was, she lifted her muzzle in voiceless challenge to those things still unknown.

She was Ratha, she-cub, herder of three-horns, tamer of the Red Tongue and leader of her people.

Whatever came, she would meet it with all the strength and wit she could command. One thing she knew; as long as she and the Red Tongue lived, her people would survive.

Triumph overcame her weariness. She lifted her tail and trotted after Thakur as he walked across the meadow toward the rising sun.

The gathering was to take place in the older part of the meadow, about the flat-topped stone the herders called the sunning rock. Thakur, the herding teacher for the clan, arrived first. With a glance over the meadow to see if anyone else was coming, he bunched his hindquarters and leaped up on the gray stone, then stretched out to catch the sun’s last warmth. Insects droned about his ears and a rock lizard hissed at him for taking the best spot. He flicked his tail at the lizard once, then ignored it.

Thakur shifted himself in the slight hollow worn by the many who had lain there before him and felt the sun-gathered heat of the stone through the fur of his belly. He folded his forepaws beneath him and let a soft purr flutter in his throat as the evening breeze ruffled the fur on his back. Then the breeze died away and only the twilight stillness and the scent of the sunning rock rose up about him.

The stone he lay on had its own scent. One couldn’t smell it when there were other, stronger odors in the air or a wind blowing, but at other times, one could catch the faint scent of ancient rock baked by sun and beaten by rain.

Thakur’s purr grew softer until it faded. He felt slightly ill-at-ease sitting here where Ratha, the clan leader, would be when the clan assembled. He thought of the Firekeepers and the dance-hunt that was soon to come. The sunning rock seemed to cool beneath him and he shivered.

The dance-hunt had begun as a story, a retelling of the clan’s battle against the Un-Named Ones who preyed on the herd and drove the clan to the edge of destruction. Bearing a strange new creature called the Red Tongue, a young female led the fight, striking such fear into the raiders that they trampled their own wounded as they fled. Few of the Un-Named had been seen near clan ground since the final battle. By her courage and wit, Ratha had gained clan leadership and the tale was begun to honor her.

The herding teacher was old enough to carry the scars from that fight and to recall how the story had been first told. He also remembered how it changed in the telling. Those who told it added movements to their words and the words themselves became a chant to which the tale-tellers swayed.

In the first cycle of seasons after Ratha’s victory, anyone could be chosen to tell and act the story. Later, the Firekeepers, who had been given the duty of keeping Ratha’s creature, claimed the honor as theirs. They enlarged it, adding more individuals to play the parts of enemies and defenders. They added more motion, until it changed from an acted tale to a dance.

Much less to Thakur’s liking was the way the story changed from triumphant to vengeful and the dancer’s motions from joyous to frenzied. Somehow Ratha didn’t seem to notice, or, if she did, she thought the change was unimportant. Each season Thakur disliked the dance-hunt ritual more, for it kindled in him a strange fear, one he couldn’t put a name to.

Perhaps he felt the fear because his own ties to the Un-Named were too close. Though born of a clan female, Thakur and his brother Bonechewer were sired by an Un-Named male. Clan law forbade such matings and for good reason: they often produced young who lacked the intelligence and self-awareness necessary to a people who called themselves Named. Though Thakur’s mother had been exiled for violating that law, the old clan leader had seen the light of the Named in the cubs’ eyes and had tried to keep them within the clan. In the end, Thakur had stayed behind, while Bonechewer was taken by his mother to join the Un-Named. Because of his parentage, Thakur had never been fully accepted in the clan until Ratha’s ascendancy gave him the status to which his abilities entitled him.

The high grass parted far across the meadow and he heard the noise of other herders and the sound of herdbeast carcasses being carried and dragged. The clan would feast well before the dance-hunt. They had chosen a three-horn doe and a big stag, one almost too heavy for the jaws that held it.

He watched the herders come across the meadow, their fawn and golden brown pelts melding into the colors of the dry grasses. His own coat was a dark coppery shade not common among those of the clan.

Thakur’s task of teaching clan cubs to manage dapplebacks and three-horns didn’t include helping to cull the animals. Sometimes he did help, for the younger herders often needed skill and experience as well as raw strength. But Thakur was willing to let the others do the killing. Many herdbeasts have felt my teeth and there will be more, he thought. I have grown old enough to know each animal I take and to sorrow as much as rejoice in its death.

When the herders drew near, they waved their tails at him to come and help drag the carcasses the last distance to the sunning rock. The rich smell of meat coaxed Thakur down off his perch. He hurried to seize a dragging hock, for he knew that those who helped to carry the culled beasts would be among the first to eat. Of course Ratha came before any of them, but she always left plenty.

The order in which the clan ate would change tonight, for the Firekeepers needed to keep their bellies empty to meet the exertion of the dance-hunt. The second animal the herders had culled would be saved to feed the dancers.

By the time all the clan herders had their turn at the first kill, twilight was past and the stars shone overhead. Despite his uneasiness, Thakur had eaten well and carried a rib bone away with him to crack and lick while he waited for the dance-hunt to assemble. Hunger was not so strong in his mind now as it had been earlier, and, as he savored the salty marrow, he remembered the Un-Named raider that he and the other herders had chased away that morning. Near clan ground the Un-Named were few and widely scattered, but every once in a while one or two would come on their land, driven by drought and poor hunting.

Thakur didn’t know why this Un-Named One had come. The stranger had lacked the strength to try for even the weakest dappleback. He was so starved that he looked like a yearling, although the length of his teeth and his ragged silver-gray coat told Thakur he was older. The herding teacher remembered the stranger’s face, a face so drawn that bones of cheek and jaw showed under the sparse pelt. I hope these three-horns were slain downwind of the Un-Named One. It would be cruel of us to make him smell what he may not eat.

Several Firekeepers passed Thakur, carrying kindling in their jaws. They threaded a path through the clanfolk, leaving the scent of pitch pine on the evening breeze. He watched them arrange the wood in a pile and depart to fetch more. Thakur’s teeth ached at the thought of their task and he felt glad he taught herding.

He listened to the sound of grunting and crunching nearby as powerful jaws cracked a stag’s thighbone. He worked his own piece of rib around to the side of his mouth and chewed it absently. The herder next to him, who had broken the thighbone, sat up stiffly, his nose raised and his whiskers back.

“What’s in the wind, Cherfan?” Thakur asked, knowing his neighbor by the latter’s scent. Cherfan stiffened again and lay down. “I thought I caught a whiff of that raider we chased away.”

The herding teacher tested the breeze and found only the familiar smells of clanfolk. “Your nose must be playing tricks on you. That Un-Named One barely escaped us. He wouldn’t be able to drag himself this far. If he isn’t dead yet, he will be in a few days.”

“And I’ll be the one who has to carry him away. Phew! I get all the smelly jobs,” Cherfan grumbled and then added, “Look, there’s Ratha.”

A slim shape padded across the starlit meadow and leaped to the top of the sunning rock. At her arrival, the gathering grew quiet. Mothers hushed restless cubs and those chewing on bones put them aside. Several Firekeepers left bearing branches in their mouths, and Thakur knew they had gone to light their brands at the dens where the fire-creature was kept.

Across the dark grass, Thakur saw the flickering light of torches. Far away as they were, the approaching firebrands seemed to challenge the cold light of the stars. In the gathering circle, heads turned and eyes glowed red at their centers. A soft wail started up from many throats. It grew louder and gained rhythm as the firebearers drew nearer. The wails and howls joined into a wordless song that praised the Red Tongue. Thakur felt the cry welling in his own throat and clamped his jaws together to stop it.

Now the gathered faces were lit; shadows fled across the pale grass as if they were live creatures that dreaded the coming of the power the clan called the Red Tongue. As the shadows of tree and bush escaped into the lair of night, other forms, hidden beyond the approaching firelight, crept toward the torchbearers.

Two odors came to Thakur from two different directions. From the Firekeepers came a sharp, excited smell, an aggressive scent that stung his nose as much as the smoke from their brands. From the others, the mock enemy in the dance, came a bitter smell that brought acid into the back of his throat and dried his tongue.

The dance-hunt began. The torchbearers leaped into the center of the circle and the fire seemed to fly with them. Their faces were visible now, their muzzles outlined against the fierce light of their brands. At the opposite side of the circle, those who had no fire froze and flattened in the grass.

Thakur felt his neck fur prickle. Every time I see this, I have to remind myself it is not a real fight. I wish they didn’t do it so well.

One of the torchbearers crossed the open ground before the sunning rock and swung his brand down to light the brush pile at its base. From the “Un-Named” side came snarls and someone leaped with forepaws flung apart, mouth open and red.

The torchbearer started and shied, pulling back his brand. Another “enemy” sprang onto him, dragging him down by his hindquarters. His firebrand fell and smoked. The clan’s wail died to a hiss. The Firekeepers charged, routing the raiders, pushing them into the darkness. But soon their opponents crept back and attacked once more.

The clan’s song rose and fell, becoming a wordless chant that followed the pace of the battle. As the torchbearers stalked their night-hidden opponents, the voices hushed to a murmur. At each run and clash, they rose to a shriek.

The battle followed the chant as well, for the Firekeepers’ steps came to that rhythm and those who played the Un-Named crept and flattened to the pulse of the cry. About Thakur, tails swished and paws struck the ground together. He felt himself drawn into the rhythm with every breath he took and every movement he made. He clenched his teeth and drove his claws into the ground.

I saw no harm in this dance when it began as a joyful celebration. But season by season, it has changed into something fierce and cruel.

The fight grew wilder. Some of the Un-Named fell and rolled as if dead. Burns and scratches showed along their sides, beading blood. A new smell tainted the air and Thakur knew that some torchbearers had forgotten that this fight wasn’t real. He shifted, flattening his ears. Ratha, can’t you see what the Red Tongue has done to our people?

He sought the eyes that glowed green from the sunning rock, but she, like the others, was too mesmerized by the dance-hunt to look back at him.

Despite the smell and feel of bodies close about him, Thakur felt isolated. He watched the limp forms that he knew were living, and sweated through his pawpads. He felt as though his fear made a change in his scent that would betray him as half-clan and vulnerable to the hate being howled at the enemy. Beside him, Cherfan sniffed, turning his nose toward Thakur even though his eyes remained fixed on the scene before him. Thakur tried to calm himself, knowing that his neighbors might detect his uneasiness.

In the circle, the battle split apart into individual fights as the Firekeepers stalked the remaining enemy. The combatants whirled, lunged and struck with claws and firebrands. The song and the fight grew fiercer, until the last of the enemy was driven away into the darkness. A panting torchbearer came forward to light the brush pile and Thakur could see it was the Firekeeper leader, Fessran. She tossed her torch into the tinder and flame leaped up.

He heard her voice above the roar and crackle. “Is it well, Tamer of the Red Tongue and Giver of the New Law?”

“It is well, Firekeeper,” came Ratha’s reply from the sunning rock. “My creature is still strong. It will defend us against the Un-Named as it did when we drove them from clan ground.”

Her voice was strong, but it sounded to Thakur as though she had pulled herself from a daze. He wondered if she understood at last the dangers of the ritual that she had created. But whatever thoughts she had then were interrupted as Fessran drew back her whiskers as if smelling some new and threatening scent. She peered intently into the night, suddenly rose from her place at the front of the gathering and left the bonfire.

Ratha sprang to her feet. For an instant, she looked puzzled, then her gaze followed Fessran’s and her tail began to wag angrily, challenging the intrusion. “Hold, Firekeeper!” Ratha cried, staring into the darkness beyond the circle. “The hunt is not finished.”

Silence swept across the clan as all eyes followed her gaze. Another smell filled the air, pungent and sour. It spoke of desperation mixed with fear in the form of a stranger who still lurked outside the circle. All Thakur’s hairs stood on end, for he knew by the scent who the intruder was. Around him other herders bristled in response to the invasion.

Quietly the herding teacher left his place, circling around the outside of the group. He saw Cherfan and Shoman plunge into the night after the intruder. When Thakur had almost caught up with them, Cherfan reappeared tailfirst, his teeth fastened in a bony leg. With one heave the big herder yanked the stranger into the circle of firelight.

The captive made a frantic series of jerks as if he could tear the leg off and leave it between Cherfan’s jaws. Then with a hoarse cry, the silvercoat twisted and lunged, his fangs seeking the herder’s cheek. Thakur leaped, seized the silver’s scruff and pulled his head back. The teeth clicked together in front of Cherfan’s face.

Thakur wrinkled his nose at the pungent taste of an ill-kept pelt. He could see Cherfan grimace as fleas jumped from the captive’s hindquarters onto the herder’s nose. More of the Named sprang on the stranger and a howl went up. The Firekeepers ran to help and were halfway across open ground when Ratha’s snarl halted them. “Stop the fight,” she ordered. “Bring this stranger to me.”

The clan was so fevered from the dance-hunt that the scuffle continued for a few more moments before it finally stopped. Thakur lost his hold on the stranger’s ruff and backed out of the fight. The herders Shoman and Cherfan emerged from the fray dragging the tattered form of the Un-Named One. There was more red than gray on his fur now. Shoman wrenched him back and forth, tearing his ruff. With an angry grunt, Cherfan pulled the Un-Named One from Shoman’s jaws and dragged him to the sunning rock. The torchbearers surrounded him with their brands so that Ratha could see him. The captive squinted and shut his eyes against the fierce light.

Thakur shook his head and smoothed the fur ruffled by the fight. This morning he was too weak to be a danger to the herdbeasts. Now he has asked for death by coming here.

The torchbearers pulled back their brands and the captive’s eyes opened. Thakur looked into them, expecting to see a dull green or yellow stare clouded by panic, and the inability to understand. He had seen it before: the gaze of animals who resembled the Named in every way except for the lack of light in their eyes.

The herding teacher flinched in surprise at what he saw. The Un-Named One’s eyes shone orange. Not amber, but a deep, glowing orange, the color at the center of the Red Tongue. In the depths of those eyes, almost masked by rage and fear, was a clarity and intensity Thakur hadn’t expected.

Others of the Named had seen it too. Suddenly the invader had become more than a scavenging animal.

Thakur saw Ratha lean so far down from the rock he thought she might tumble off. Slowly the Un-Named One lifted his muzzle to meet her stare. The silvercoat opened his mouth and Thakur tensed, ready to spring to Ratha’s aid if the Un-Named One attacked her.

What came from the stranger’s jaws was not a roar of challenge nor a whimper of fear, but words in clan speech.

“Not bite. Not claw,” he said in a hoarse voice. “Came to clan. Not to kill.”

The words were awkward and ill-spoken, but understandable. This time Ratha did slip and had to scramble to regain her seat. The other clanfolk stared at each other in disbelief.

“No kills.” The silvercoat put out a stiff forefoot. “Sniff paw. No deer-smell. No horse-smell. No blood.” He kept the leg extended, although it trembled from weariness.

No one else moved. Thakur saw Ratha look toward him. “Herding teacher, you know the scents of our animals better than anyone else. Tell me if what he says is so.”

As Thakur approached the crouching silvercoat, she added, “If there is even a trace of a herdbeast’s scent on him, he will die now by my fangs.”

The herding teacher circled the Un-Named One, smelling him carefully from all sides and trying to ignore the stench from filth and festering sores. He pawed dirt away from between the toes so he could smell the soil without the other’s odor intruding. When he finished, he stood back and said, “He has eaten only roots and grubs. There is no herdbeast smell on him.”

Ratha peered down at the orange-eyed silvercoat. “So Thakur says you have made no kills on clan ground. Why have you come here?”

“Clan is fierce and strong. Clan eats while Un-Named grow thin and die. This one, Orange-Eyes, not ready to die.”

The hostile muttering faded. The Un-Named One glanced about. “Orange-Eyes is clever, like clan. Not afraid. Should be with clan.” Boldly he added, “Clan needs Orange-Eyes.”

Ratha recoiled and spat. “We have no need for a mange-ridden scavenger who thinks too much of himself.”

“Orange-eyes has sores because no food. Eating will make better.”

“I told you we don’t want you. Now go.”

The Firekeepers drew their brands aside to let the Un-Named One slink away, but he turned instead to Ratha. “Now this one wants only to die by clan fangs. Let ugly herder with kinked tail come forward and kill Orange-Eyes.”

“Gladly,” Shoman growled from the back. Thakur felt Shoman push past him roughly, leaving his fur rumpled.

“Shoman, keep your place!” Ratha narrowed her eyes at him, then at the Un-Named One. “So you think you are clever and brave enough to join us.” She raised her head. “Fessran, the dance-hunt is unfinished. Let the Firekeepers take their place.”

Again the ritual started, the quarry now a single enemy. At Ratha’s order, not a claw touched Orange-Eyes, but the torchbearers’ steps took them close to him, and they thrust their brands at him, flaunting the Red Tongue’s power. Each time a flaming torch came near the Un-Named One, he jumped and shuddered, but he held his ground. The Firekeepers’ lunges came closer until fire licked silver fur. Orange-Eyes fell on his side, no longer able to keep his balance, but he refused to either flee or cower.

Fessran, sitting next to Thakur, never took her eyes from the stranger. Her tail curled and twitched with suppressed excitement.

“Enough!” Ratha cried.

The torchbearers fell back. The silvercoat crept to the base of the sunning rock. Thakur heard the murmurs around him and knew that the stranger’s courage had impressed even those who bore the greatest hatred for the Un-Named.

The silver lifted his streaked and smeared muzzle to Ratha and stared directly into her eyes. “Orange-Eyes is worthy. Orange-Eyes stays.”

She crouched on the edge of the rock, her lips drawn back to show the tips of her fangs. For a moment Thakur thought she would pounce on the Un-Named One and shred the rest of his face for his impudence. As green and fire-colored eyes met, Thakur saw in Ratha’s gaze a reluctant and surprised admission of respect. There was a further moment of tension between them; then she wrinkled her nose at the stranger and relaxed.

“All right, Orange-Eyes is worthy,” she said. “He stays, at least for now.” She got to her feet, cutting off the mutters and growls of astonishment and outrage. “The gathering is ended. The Firekeepers may eat now. To your dens, the rest of you. There are still beasts to herd and day will come soon.”

She waited until the group had begun to disperse before calling, “Thakur, come to the sunning rock.”

His tail curled in surprise. Ratha jumped down and stood beside Orange-Eyes. The Un-Named One had regained his feet, but only by leaning heavily against the base of the rock.

“Clan teacher,” Ratha began, “since you have the most patience of any of us, I ask you to take charge of him for the night. Give him some meat from the Firekeepers’ kill and show him the stream where he may wash the blood away. If he is still alive tomorrow, bring him to my den.”

Ratha drifted up out of deep slumber. She became aware of the damp, chilly ground under her chin. She squirmed further back into her den, into the warmth still held by dry leaves and grass, leaving only her nose poking out into the early morning wind. When the breeze died, the sun bathed her muzzle and dried the dew on her whiskers. She was slipping back into sleep again when a cold shadow fell across her face.

She came awake instantly, jerking her head up and pulling her paws beneath her. She squinted at the two figures who stood against the sunrise. One she recognized as Thakur, but the other she couldn’t place. Who was this skeleton with such a ragged pelt and strange long fangs? Then she caught the stranger’s pungent stink and winced.

“Last night,” said Thakur’s voice softly. Ratha didn’t need his words to remember.

“You’re early,” she grumbled, crawling from the den and trying to smooth her rumpled fur with her tongue. She was further disconcerted when neither of her visitors said anything. They waited while she stretched and groomed. She found herself taking longer than she usually did, for the stranger’s direct gaze irritated her.

“I see he survived the night despite the Firekeepers’ games,” she said to Thakur, allowing her tail one irritable wag. She saw his ears swivel back slightly and she imagined what he must be thinking. The Firekeepers’ game? No, Ratha, the dance-hunt is yours and you gave the order for it to continue.

At least he had the tact not to speak the thought aloud. She shook her head, making her ears flap. Had she really turned her victory celebration into a test of courage for the Un-Named One? And had she promised him he could stay with the clan as a reward for enduring the Red Tongue’s terror? She groaned softly to herself. I was half-mad last night. I think we all were.

She sat up, curling her tail over her feet. “Bring him here and let me look at him.” She immediately regretted her request when Thakur led his charge in front of her. The full sunlight did nothing to disguise his appearance and seemed to intensify his smell. New blisters overlay old mange and along his ridged back and sunken flanks ulcers showed from festering fly bites. Where parasites and fire hadn’t ravaged him, there were the bites and scratches from the frenzied Firekeepers.

Ratha felt sick and ashamed. Driving him away or giving him an honorable death would have been better than unleashing the torchbearers on him. He would have died last night had I not seen the light in his eyes. Why didn’t you die, she thought at him sulkily. Then I wouldn’t have to bother with you.

She caught the scent of medicinal herbs and knew that Thakur had applied a chewed-leaf poultice to the Un-Named One’s burns. They probably looked and smelled better than they would have otherwise. Thank you for showing him some kindness, Thakur. She looked at the herding teacher and felt her gaze soften.

“Lie down if you want,” she said to the Un-Named One. He dropped his hindquarters, but the rest of him remained upright. Ratha felt irritation creeping up on her again. She pressed her tail under one hind foot to keep it from wagging. Every look and move the stranger made seemed softly defiant. Inside that starvation-ravaged carcass, she could see the build of a powerful young male, and she found herself wondering what sort of opponent he would be at his full strength.

“Do you still wish to join us?” she asked.

“Orange-Eyes came to join clan. Is all Orange-Eyes wants, leader.”

“Here in the clan we use names when we speak to each other. You know Thakur. I am Ratha. You will also be given a clan name if you stay with us.”

“Will take clan name and learn clan ways, Ratha-leader.” The silvercoat flinched at his mistake and added, “Is not ‘Ratha-leader’ but ‘Ratha,’ yes?”

She relaxed. He was trying to please. Perhaps his defiance was all in her own mind.

“Yes.” She took her foot off her tail.

“I’ll take him to the meadow with me and he can watch while I teach the cubs,” Thakur offered. He turned to the Un-Named One. “Do you feel strong enough?”

“Legs still …,” the other said, groping for a word. He raised a paw and flailed it, giving Ratha a rueful grin.

“Shaky,” Thakur supplied.

“Legs still shaky, but belly much better. Not learning bad for Un-Named One, yes?”

“Yes, you do seem to be learning quickly,” Ratha agreed. “All right, Thakur. Take him with you. If you want more leaves for his burns, I found a new patch by the stream near the meadow trail.”

“Good. I’ve nearly stripped my old one bare.”

Something small and active jumped from the Un-Named One’s pelt and landed near Ratha’s foot. She hopped away as he scratched himself.

“I suggest, Thakur, that you make him roll in the fleabane before you do anything else, or we’ll all be scratching.”

A fitful wind blew against Thakur’s whiskers. He caught a scent he hadn’t smelled all summer: the scent of rain. It was only midday, but the sky above the meadow had started to darken. Thakur lifted his muzzle to the clouds and saw other herders raising their heads.

The herders circled the restless deer and dapplebacks. Thakur joined them in driving the animals together. Dust rose from beneath many trotting hooves and caught in his throat. There was dust in his eyes, between his toes and on his whiskers. His pelt felt dirty and gritty right down to the roots of his hairs. He had given up trying to lick all of it out, for the taste of it on his tongue made him gag and the next day’s work would only add more. Everyone in the clan was beginning to look the same dusty color. Even the Un-Named One’s silver fur had turned mousy, giving his fire-colored eyes a startling brightness.

The dapplebacks whinnied and bucked as the herders drove them under the old oak, but Thakur knew that, if the storm brought thunder, they would be less likely to bolt if they were sheltered. The three-horns spread out under other scattered trees, whose few dried leaves offered them little of either food or shelter.

Pale sunlight faded as clouds massed overhead. The herders and their animals lost their shadows and the sky’s gray deepened. More torchbearers appeared at the trailhead, carrying the Red Tongue and wood to feed it. Thakur saw the Un-Named One trailing behind them, carrying a small bundle of twigs in his jaws. Although Ratha hadn’t yet assigned him a task, he had chosen to help the Firekeepers.

The Un-Named One, who was still called Orange-Eyes for lack of a clan name, delivered his mouthful of wood to the nearest Firekeeper who needed it and joined Thakur near the oak.

“They bring the Red Tongue today early,” Orange-Eyes said in answer to Thakur’s glance. “Fessran said the herders see bristlemanes and there may be attack before dark.” He still spoke awkwardly, but his mastery of clan speech had improved in a surprisingly short time.

They watched the Firekeepers build small piles of kindling at equal intervals around the edge of the herd and set them alight. The torchbearers tried to locate the guard-fires beneath overhanging pine boughs or thorn-bushes that were high enough not to catch and would give some shelter, but several had to be built out in the open.

Soon a wide ring of small flames, each guarded by a Firekeeper, surrounded the deer and dapplebacks. The sharp scent of woodsmoke mixed with the blowing dust and the smell of the coming storm.

Something struck the ground at Thakur’s feet, kicking up a puff of dust. A drop hit his nose. Thunder grumbled and the three-horns bleated. A gust of wind came, tearing at the grass and whipping the guard-fires. Firekeepers pawed at the ground around each flame, scraping away the dried weeds and litter so the fire-creature couldn’t escape. They know how hungry the Red Tongue can be, he thought.

Again he lifted his nose to the sky. It was a smoky gray, with streaks and ripples that moved like the water in a wide, slow river. Rain would be a welcome gift after the parching heat that had lasted past the summer season, but a downpour might kill some of the fire-creatures, opening up a vulnerable place in the ring of defense around the herd. Thakur felt more heavy drops on his head and his ears. This would be no light shower.

The rain fell faster, beating on his pelt. He didn’t usually enjoy getting wet but the rain was warm enough to be pleasant and he was dirty enough to welcome a bath. He stretched himself and fluffed his fur letting the rain trickle through to his skin.

Thakur found himself watching the streaks made by the rain on his companion’s dusty flank. Orange-Eyes had recovered rapidly from his bout with starvation. His wounds had healed and his mange was receding, leaving a few sparse areas that already bore the fuzz of new fur.

Thakur noticed other things about him as well. The silvercoat’s chest was deeper and his forelegs longer than those of the clan, giving his back a slight slope downwards to his tail. His forequarters looked more powerful than those of the Named; his shoulders and neck more heavily muscled. Even the shape of his head was subtly different. He had an odd arch in his skull that began at the crown of his head and flowed down through his broad nose to meet and blend with the backward curve of his fangs.

It was clear to Thakur that part of the stranger’s parentage was neither that of the clan nor that of the Un-Named, but a line unknown. Yet, at least one of his parents had given him the gift of self-knowledge that lit his eyes. Would he be able to pass it on to his young?

The rain grew heavier, soaking their coats and turning the dust to mud. Thakur saw several Firekeepers gathered about one of the guard-fires in the open. Some ducked beneath the sheltering pine bough and breathed on the Red Tongue while others piled kindling.

“Have to go bring more wood,” the silvercoat said and loped away. He had barely gone when Thakur heard a strange howl. He turned his whiskers outward from the herd in the direction of the sound. At first the cry was faint and lost in the constant beat of the rain, but it continued rising, gaining strength until it filled the meadow. The eerie, wavering howl broke into barks and yips that seemed to taunt the herders and the Firekeepers as they worked to protect their animals.

The howl faded, leaving only the hiss of the rain. Thakur retreated beneath the boughs of the old oak, water streaming from his tail and ears. The air under the tree was dank and heavy with the noise and smell of wet dapplebacks. In a while Orange-Eyes reappeared at the trailhead into the meadow, delivered his mouthful of sticks and joined Thakur. Many of the other herders also sought shelter from the downpour, although some aided the Firekeepers in trying to protect the guard-fires.

“Dung-eating bristlemanes!” growled the herder Cherfan, spraying his companions as he shook his heavy pelt. “It’s not the rain that makes me shiver; it’s those howls.”

“How many of them did you see?” asked Thakur.

“A pair, but I smelled more. There may be a whole pack. How I hate the stink of those belly-biters!”

As if the enemy had heard Cherfan’s words, the howls started again. They were louder this time and wilder, breaking into bursts of short, frantic cries that were unlike any other sound made by animals the Named knew. To Thakur, they had the sound of madness. He felt as though he could no longer stand and listen. “I’m going to help the Firekeepers,” he told Orange-Eyes, and dashed out from beneath the oak.

He narrowed his eyes against the sheeting rain and headed for the farthest guard-fire, which had begun to gutter and smoke beneath the canopy of branches held over it by the Firekeepers. He saw Fessran there, fighting to keep the flame alight. She started and shivered as another burst of wild howling broke across the meadow.

“No!” she snarled, slapping a branch from the mouth of a Firekeeper. “That won’t do. It’s much too green and too wet.” She turned to another Firekeeper, a young female with a red-brown coat. “Bira, get a pinewood torch from the nearest fire-lair.” She glanced over her shoulder at Thakur. He heard Orange-Eyes canter up behind him as Fessran said, “Herding teacher, you could help by bringing more dry kindling. Take Orange-Eyes with you; he knows where the woodpiles are.”

Bira dashed off toward the den where the master fire was kept, and Thakur turned to Orange-Eyes. Before he could repeat Fessran’s request, the silvercoat said, “I know what she needs. Follow me, herding teacher.”

As Orange-Eyes sprang away, Thakur saw Fessran lay back her ears at another luckless Firekeeper. “Can’t you hold that branch so that it doesn’t drip right on the Red Tongue? No wonder the creature is dying!”

Thakur peered through the rain, made out the form of Orange-Eyes, ducked his head and galloped after him. When they reached the woodpile, a heap of broken branches thrown against the base of a large fir, Orange-Eyes began to pull the top ones off.

“The sticks underneath are dry,” he said quickly. Thakur forced his muzzle in among the piled branches, ignoring thorns that raked his face. He smelled the warm resinous aroma of wood that had been drying all summer. He fastened his jaws on a branch sticking out from the bottom of the pile and pulled until he thought his fangs would break.

With a sudden snap, the branch came free and he tumbled backwards into a puddle. He felt the clammy ooze soak through his fur to his skin as he scrambled to his feet, but he managed to keep the wood from getting soaked.

To keep the rest of the wood covered, Orange-Eyes replaced the sticks he had taken from the top of the pile. He wrapped his bundle of sticks in a large dock leaf before taking it into his mouth, and showed Thakur how to do the same. When the herding teacher was ready, they galloped back through the rain toward the dying guard-fire.

Thakur saw the blurred forms of Bira and another Firekeeper pacing alongside her with a pine bough held above the torch she carried. But it was already too late. He heard a despairing yowl above the rain and caught sight of Fessran deserting her fire-creature’s nest. For an instant he was puzzled; then he knew that the guard-fire had died and they were trying to save the next one.

He and Orange-Eyes changed direction and galloped to Fessran with their loads of thornwood. Ratha was there, helping the Firekeepers, but despite the new torch Bira had brought the guard-fire began to smoke and faded quickly to embers. They retreated to another blaze that was still alive.

Thakur passed the wood he had brought to the jaws of a Firekeeper and rubbed his muzzle against his foreleg to ease the sting of a scratch on his jowls.

“Go tell Cherfan to drive the three-horns under the oak with the other animals,” Ratha said to him. The rain ran down her face, streaking the soot on her muzzle. Behind him he heard Fessran roar in alarm, “The dapplebacks! They’re attacking the dapplebacks!”

As Thakur backed out of the choking haze, he saw a line of hunched forms lope from beneath the trees at the meadow’s far side. They galloped past the ashes of the dead guard-fires and toward the herd of horses. He could hear their shrill, excited yips.

Ratha bunched her hindquarters and sprang away, followed by Fessran and several Firekeepers. Thakur wheeled and sprinted after them. He felt mud spray his legs and found Orange-Eyes running alongside of him. Ahead were the bristlemanes, a full pack of them. He caught the flicker of Ratha’s fawn coat through the rain as she dashed to cut them off.

Her attack split the pack of marauders. Half of them ran past her, heading for the dappleback herd. She and the Firekeepers gave chase and disappeared into the rain. Fessran plunged after her, only to slide to a sudden stop. There were shadows in front of her, shadows turned gray by the rain. Thakur saw the Firekeeper lunge and slash with her foreclaws. The bristlemanes retreated, but not far. They started to close about her again with hungry whines.

Together Thakur and Orange-Eyes charged them. The animals loped away, their tongues hanging and their short, ragged tails tucked between their legs. Instead of scattering, the bristlemanes circled back. Thakur spun to seek a retreat only to find himself blocked in every direction. He, Fessran and Orange-Eyes were completely surrounded.

He backed up against the two others, smelling their fear and feeling them shake. The downpour grew heavier, until he could barely see a tail-length ahead or hear the faraway cries of the other herders. He felt the fur on his neck rise in fright. The three of them would get no help from the other herders, who must be busy chasing the other raiders from the herd.

The bristlemanes closed in. Now he could see the black and yellow mottling on their pelts and the stiff, coarse manes along their necks. Their eyes shone cold and eager. The flesh of the Named could fill those bellies as well as herdbeast meat, Thakur knew. Their nostrils widened and their large ears trembled, swiveling forward.

The bristlemanes approached cautiously, their black muzzles lowered, their heavy jaws slavering. Their smell reached him, making him think of flies crawling over white bones. The Un-Named One’s growl sounded on one side of him, Fessran’s snarl on the other. Her snarl turned to a screech as a bristlemane dived for her flank. Thakur saw her twist away and fasten her teeth in the thick mane, but the fur was so stiff and heavy that, however she worked her jaws, she couldn’t bite deeply enough. Blood began to run, but the creature stayed on its feet, dragging Fessran with it.

Thakur had to guard himself as another bristlemane rushed him and snapped at his belly. He sprang onto the creature’s back, sinking his teeth into its neck. The bristlemane strained its head back, shoving against his jaws until they ached. Teeth clamped on his tail and a savage jerk nearly dragged him off.

He fell to the side, his forelegs wrapped around the creature’s neck as he sought frantically for a throat hold. The pull on his tail dragged his hindquarters loose and he heard the shrill cries of the other bristlemanes as they danced around him. He lost his grip and fell heavily on his side. Paws stepped on his flank and noses snuffled at him.

For a moment he could see only legs and bellies. The nearest set of legs shuddered and then staggered. The bristlemane went down with Orange-Eyes on top of it.

Thakur was near enough to see every detail. The silvercoat flung his head back and his lower jaw dropped close to the underside of his throat freeing the full length of his fangs. His head drove down, the teeth descending with the full weight of the Un-Named One’s forequarters behind them.

There was a tearing and grinding as teeth sheared through fur and hide to meet bone. The bristlemane screamed once.

Orange-Eyes lifted his muzzle from the ruin of the animal’s nape. Thakur stared at him, caught in a sudden cold fright stronger than his fear of the bristlemanes. He knew that the stabbing bite he’d seen was like nothing the Named had ever used.

He pulled himself from his daze as he regained his feet, becoming aware that the other bristlemanes had retreated, whimpering uneasily. A short distance away, Fessran worried the limp body of another. She gave it one last shake and left it. Thakur did not have to approach to see the mark of Orange-Eyes’s bite.

Fessran rubbed against Thakur, still shivering with rage. She spat and showed her fangs at the marauders. She turned to Orange-Eyes, who was wiping his muzzle on the soaked pelt of his kill, and said, “Thanks, youngster. Those teeth of yours are good in a fight.”

The Un-Named One looked at Fessran. His eyes were oddly wary. She didn’t seem to notice.

She knows he killed the bristlemanes, Thakur thought to himself. She didn’t see how he killed them.

“Are you injured, herding teacher?”

It took Thakur an instant to respond to Orange-Eyes’s question. “They chewed my tail, but nothing else.”

Hoarse brays and shrill barks came through the sound of the rain. “There are more of those belly-biters after the dapplebacks,” Fessran growled. “Come on!”

Together, the three of them bounded toward the noise.

The rain lightened, and Thakur could see further ahead. The rest of the bristlemanes had cut into the dappleback herd, trying to separate out an old mare and her late-birthed colt. Her coat was grizzled and her feet worn. Thakur knew the herders had marked the pair for culling, for the colt was sickly. So had the bristlemanes.

They ringed the mare and her offspring, forcing them away from the flock. She fought fiercely to regain it, lashing out with her hind feet. One marauder staggered away with its jaw broken and flopping loose. The others dodged her kicks and began to drive the colt down the meadow, nipping at its hocks. They broke into a fast lope, forcing the young dappleback to canter.

From the opposite direction came Ratha and the Firekeepers with newly lit torches in their jaws, but they were too far away and the pack was gathering speed.

Thakur lengthened his stride until he was alongside the bristlemanes. He saw Orange-Eyes and Fessran pacing him on the other side, across the backs of the bristlemanes. Encircled by the pack, the dappleback mare and her colt veered from side to side, trying to break through the ring of their captors. The mare’s sides heaved and her breath came in heavy grunts. Lather flew from her neck and her eyes rolled.

Thakur felt the breath burn in his chest as he panted. He knew he could outrun the bristlemanes over short distances, but they could travel far keeping this pace. They had already settled into a ground-eating lope that would soon weary the pursuing Firekeepers. If the pack got away with these dapplebacks, they would run the pair until they were exhausted, then harass and nip at the horses until they pulled them down.

He clamped his teeth together and put all his remaining strength into one last sprint. He glanced back to see an ugly muzzle open its jaws behind his tail. He raced ahead, lengthening his lead, knowing he would need every bit of the distance.

He bounced to a stop, kicked himself into the air, spun around and hurled himself broadside into the chest of the pack leader. The impact drove the breath from his lungs. With a choked howl, the bristlemane tumbled, and Thakur felt the animal shudder repeatedly as more of the pack piled into it. He clawed his way up through a confused mass of thrashing bodies and snapping muzzles. He heard shrill cries as the rest of the animals scattered in confusion.

With a triumphant whinny, the old mare sailed over his head and galloped away from the writhing heap of bristlemanes. The colt followed. From the corner of his eye Thakur saw the Un-Named One yank a bristlemane away by its tail and seize another. He didn’t bother to kill them but just thrust them aside as he and Fessran opened a path for Thakur. The herding teacher dragged his forepaw loose and thrust it at Fessran. He yelped in pain as she fastened her jaws on his leg and hauled him out of the fray.

Thakur caught the gleam of fire on wet pelts and knew the Firekeepers had encircled the bristlemane pack. Now that the rain was stopping, the torches remained lit. The bristlemanes huddled together in the center, their ears flattened, their howls turning to whines. Several Firekeepers brought unlit sticks that had been chewed to a point and sharpened in the flame.

The bristlemanes climbed over and around each other to escape the vengeful creature that surrounded them. A Firekeeper thrust a brand at a trapped animal and it retreated until it backed into the others and could go no further. Its cries became faster and shriller until they became a terrified wail. It crouched and shuddered, trying to bury its face in its flank.

Something made Thakur glance at Orange-Eyes, who stood just outside the circle of torchbearers. The silvercoat’s eyes narrowed and his lips drew back in a half-snarl. It was not the same expression as the Firekeepers wore. Their eyes blazed with vengeance-hunger and a sudden, eager cruelty. Orange-Eyes was looking, not at the frightened bristlemanes, but at those of the clan who brandished fire at them.

Thakur remembered that the Un-Named One had also faced the Red Tongue’s wrath. He came alongside the silvercoat and softly said, “The mare and colt are still loose. We should help the herders find them.”

Orange-Eyes’s gaze remained fixed on the scene. A change came over his eyes. Their color grew more intense, and it was not just the firelight on his face.

“The Red Tongue is powerful creature,” he said softly to himself.

“The mare,” said Thakur, nudging the Un-Named One’s shoulder.

“Yes, herding teacher.” Orange-Eyes blinked, lowered his head and followed.

They found the mare’s scent trail, still strong in the wet grass. Thakur looked back once to see the flames rise and fall. Firekeepers lunged with pointed sticks in their jaws. Yapping and snarling, the frenzied animals charged the ring of torchbearers. One Firekeeper lost his brand and fell back. The cornered bristlemanes attacked again. Yowls mingled with shrill yelps as they broke through the circle, throwing their tormentors aside.

Before either Thakur or Orange-Eyes could whirl around, the pack had fled away into the night. Recovering themselves, the torchbearers gave chase, the flames tossing on their brands. Orange-Eyes leaped to join them, but they had gone and their cries had already begun to fade.

Thakur let his muscles relax. “Come back,” he called to the silvercoat. “Let the Firekeepers chase them.”

Orange-Eyes hesitated, looking after the disappearing glow of the torches. He muttered something to himself that the herding teacher couldn’t hear.

“Are you going to help me track those dapplebacks or not?” Thakur felt his patience going. Orange-Eyes started and swung around, the strange expression still in his eyes. It was half resentment and half something else … Thakur didn’t know what. A hunger, perhaps. A hunger that would not be sated by meat.

Ratha halted the pursuit at the far end of the meadow. She slowed, panting, the cries of the escaping bristlemanes still in her ears. Behind her, the torchbearers’ growls mingled with the angry snap of the Red Tongue. She shared their fever; the urge to hunt the enemy down with fang and fire.

Terror had given the bristlemanes the speed to outrun the Firekeepers. Their pack-mates lay dead in the meadow and Ratha knew that those who lived bore scars on their memories as well as their hides that would forbid them from again setting foot on clan ground.

She heard a muffled snarl and the sound of a body being dragged and shaken. She turned to see one of the Firekeepers mauling another dead bristlemane. The long tongue hung out of the stiff black jaws and flopped around with each angry jerk he gave the body.

Ratha watched, letting the sight feed her hunger for vengeance. “Enough!” she cried suddenly. The Firekeeper released the corpse and backed away. She waited, studying the eyes that shone back at her with reflected torchlight, their glow softened only by a fine mist of rain. “Enough,” she said again in a low voice. “The herd is safe and the enemy gone. Firekeepers, return with me and rekindle the dead fires.”

The torchbearers did as she bid them and soon new flames were burning in the ashes of the old. But they too were small and uncertain. Ratha knew that if the rain fell harder it would quench them as easily as it had the others.

“Give the creature more wood,” she told the fire-tenders as she paced from one outlying guard-flame to the next. “Make it strong and fierce.”

She stopped, watching two Firekeepers struggling to comply. One brought more wood while the other fed the flame. He crouched a safe distance away from the fire’s nest, tossing in twigs with a quick turn of his head. The fire flared briefly as it consumed each twig and then died down.

“No,” Ratha said impatiently. “Use larger pieces and place them; don’t throw them.”

With an uneasy glance at her, the Firekeeper seized a thick branch in his jaws, approached the flame as close as he dared and flipped the wood in. It crashed into the fire, destroying the nest of carefully laid kindling and sending up a shower of sparks.

Ratha shouldered the Firekeeper aside and dragged the branch out. Carefully she coaxed the flattened remains of her creature back to life and, once it was burning steadily on fresh kindling, she gave it thicker wood.

Each time she placed a branch in its nest, the fire-creature’s breath blasted her face and stung her eyes with heat and cinders. It roared its rage in her ears, licked at her jowls and threatened to consume her whiskers. She had to force herself to lay the wood in position, however much her jowls hurt or her instincts screamed at her to leap away.

When she finished, she backed away thankfully and rubbed her sooty muzzle against her foreleg. The two torchbearers were watching her with mingled awe and resentment. “That is how it must be done,” she said. “If you are quick and sure, you will keep your whiskers.”

The Firekeeper who had nearly destroyed the Red Tongue’s nest stalked over to the leaping flame with more wood in his jaws. He faced the fire-creature, hesitated and lunged forward. He dropped the branch in and scrambled back, his belly white with wet ash, his eyes frightened and defiant.

“Feeding your creature is not easy when it grows so large and wild,” he said with a shudder.

“If you seek to tame the Red Tongue by keeping it small, it will die in the rain,” Ratha said, trying to be patient.

“When it is fierce, it eats my whiskers,” retorted the Firekeeper. “Look how short they are. I can no longer find my way in the dark.”

“If you are thinking only of your whiskers and not of your duty, you will burn yourself. Try doing it the way I have showed you.”

“I will, clan leader,” he said, but Ratha could see in his eyes and his barely controlled trembling that his wish to obey had to fight his terror of the fire. This fear was not an easy thing to put aside as Ratha knew well.

“The more you practice, the better you will become and then you need not be afraid,” she said, trying to smooth the harshness from her voice. The Firekeeper looked back at her as if he knew her words were half a lie, but he said only, “Yes, clan leader.”

Ratha jogged away from his guard-fire and went past others, stopping to see how other torchbearers were faring. What she saw was nothing new, but it still filled her with dismay. Despite their training and experience, many of the fire-tenders were timid, approaching their fire with tightly shut eyes and flattened ears. They poked wood into the flame with tentative thrusts and snatched their paws back. The torchbearers’ smells told Ratha, in a way that their appearance could not, how little they trusted the capricious creature they had to guard.

The moon shone through a break in the clouds, glimmering on the wet grass in front of Ratha. Ahead, under the oak, the Red Tongue danced and crackled, offering its warmth to several of the Named who had gathered around it. She crept in under the tree, shook herself and found a place near the fire. The lop-eared herder Shoman was there, along with Cherfan and some other weary clan members. Fessran basked on the far side of the fire. Ratha looked for Thakur and Orange-Eyes, but found neither. She settled herself and listened to the conversation between Fessran and Shoman.

“Killing those bristlemanes may save us from having to cull a dappleback,” Shoman was saying.

Fessran drew back her whiskers. “You may be able to eat bristlemane meat. If so, you may have it.”

“You’re too fussy. Meat is meat,” Cherfan said and yawned, showing the ribbed roof of his mouth and the back of his tongue.

“To you, perhaps.” Fessran lolled her tongue at him. “You can eat anything, you big shambleclaw.”

Ratha stretched out her pads to the fire’s warmth and let the banter flow over her. This wasn’t the first time Fessran had teased Cherfan about his indiscriminate appetite. He seemed to take her teasing with patient humor, as he did everything else.

“Have you seen Thakur and Orange-Eyes?” Ratha asked.

“They’re on their way,” Cherfan answered. “Thakur said he’d find the mare so I could go and get warm.”

“He may be awhile. That old mare has more spirit than I thought. Maybe you shouldn’t cull her, Cherfan,” Fessran remarked and began washing a muddy paw.

“Ptahh! You only want younger meat, Firekeeper,” Cherfan teased in return. “She’d be as tough as a bristlemane and you know it.”

Shoman looked sourly at Fessran. “You think you deserve better meat than bristlemane, don’t you, torchbearer. Well, I don’t. You and the other singed-whiskers let too many of the guard-fires die. That’s why the bristlemanes got through.”

“Bury it, Shoman,” Cherfan growled as the Firekeeper stiffened and glared. “You’re about as helpful as a tick in the skin. Don’t pay any attention to him, Fessran. His tail’s been in a kink ever since Orange-Eyes came.”

Ratha twitched her ears at the mention of the Un-Named One. She lifted her muzzle from her forepaws and said, “You seem to think well of him now, herder.”

“I’ll admit I had my doubts about him, but he’s a hard worker and not easily frightened. He chewed up several of those belly-biters. I wish I’d seen that!” Cherfan looked at Ratha directly. “I think you made a good decision when you decided not to kill him at the dance-hunt, clan leader.”

“I don’t—” Shoman began, but he was interrupted by a swat from Cherfan that knocked him over. “Oh, go fill your belly, flop-ears. Maybe your temper will improve.”

Shoman retreated, his fur and his dignity visibly ruffled. Ratha heard him pad away and felt herself relaxing. Fessran, however, was sitting up, looking solemn. Presently Cherfan got up and stretched. “One last look at the herdbeasts and I’m off to my den. Too wet a night to sleep out. Remind flop-ears that he has the next watch.”

Some of the herders left with him; others went back out to the meadow. One by one the Firekeepers also left until Ratha and Fessran were alone by the fire.

“Firekeeper, if Shoman’s words are troubling you, don’t worry,” Ratha said. “I never listen to him.”

“Maybe you should.” Fessran’s voice was flat.

Ratha looked at her sharply. “What else could you have taught the fire-tenders? The Red Tongue is not an easy creature to care for. I don’t want to punish any Firekeeper for failing.”

“Punishment would be useless,” said Fessran. “I scold them if they forget their training, but punishment is no cure for fear.”

“I can see how difficult it is for them. The Red Tongue is often a vengeful creature.”

“There is a difference between being careful and being timid. Your creature demands much from us who tend it.” Fessran gazed at the flame. “Sometimes I think it has senses, like ours, and it knows when someone is afraid of it. That is when it jumps out and burns our whiskers.”

In the flickering light, Ratha could see the white scars on Fessran’s muzzle. There were more on the Firekeeper’s front pads. She bore a few scars herself and she knew that the Red Tongue’s lessons were taught harshly.

“Clan leader,” Fessran said and Ratha lifted her gaze from the Firekeeper’s scarred forepaws to her face. “I know you have given me as many as can be spared from the duties of herding to train as torchbearers. But the fires died in the rain tonight and they will continue to die if they are kept by those who treat them timidly. I can teach knowledge, but courage is something a cub is born with.”

“So you want more of the stronger cubs to train as Firekeepers.”

“Yes, and not just cubs. There are those who are grown who have the strength of will the Red Tongue demands,” said Fessran softly.

The tone of her voice made Ratha’s eyes narrow slightly, although she wasn’t sure why.

“Who among the Named would you choose?” she asked.

“Besides you and me, there are few. Thakur is one, but he has chosen not to serve the Red Tongue and I understand his reasons.” Fessran paused, and Ratha felt herself being studied. “I would choose the young orange-eyed one whose strength and bravery have shown me that he is well fit for the task. He proved himself a worthy opponent when he stood his ground in the dance-hunt. He has proved it again tonight by the bodies of two bristlemanes that lie in the meadow.”

Ratha paused. “He is not of the Named, Fessran.”

The Firekeeper’s amber eyes widened. “I thought you were going to accept him.”

“Not before I call a clan gathering. I want to hear from others before I decide.”

“Everyone knows who killed those bristlemanes,” said Fessran. “If you called us all together tomorrow, you’d have any agreement you need.”

And I haven’t forgotten that it was he who stopped a charging three-horn to save a clan cub’s life, Ratha thought, but she didn’t want to say anything that would encourage Fessran to press her further.

The Firekeeper eyed her. “You know that he has already begun to carry wood for us.”

“I don’t mind that; it keeps him busy. But I don’t want you to teach him anything more until I have made my decision. And tomorrow is too early to call another gathering,” she added pointedly.

“The mating season will be here soon,” said Fessran. “If you wait too long, I won’t be good for doing anything except waving my tail at him. And you won’t be in much better shape.”

Ratha had to grin at Fessran’s succinct appraisal of her own behavior during the period of heat. Her tension eased a little as she retorted, “He’s probably too young for courting, you randy queen! All the same, you’re right. I will make my decision soon.”

Fessran curled a paw up to her muzzle and began washing it. She halted, swiveled her ears forward and got up to feed more wood to the fire. Ratha turned her face outward into the cool of the night to catch the scents of whoever was approaching.

Thakur and Orange-Eyes padded under the oak and settled themselves wearily in the Red Tongue’s glow. “That mare must have led you a chase,” said Fessran as Thakur licked his paw and scrubbed at the mud on his face. “Cherfan could have gone after her. You both have done your work for tonight.”

“And you have too, Fessran,” Thakur said, with a brief glance at Orange-Eyes. Ratha detected a faint trace of anxiety in his smell and wondered if it were only the mare that had delayed him. “You dug me out of that pile of bristlemanes.”

“And Orange-Eyes!” Fessran burst out. “Ratha, you should have seen what he did to those belly-biters. They thought they had me, and I thought so too, but when he charged in and sank his teeth into that one …”

Orange-Eyes shifted, looking uncomfortable. “Firekeeper, Thakur was with me ”

“Both of you have earned my praise and more,” Ratha answered. “When we cull a herdbeast tomorrow, you, Thakur, will eat after me and then Orange-Eyes will fill his belly. Fessran, you will follow.”

Thakur gave Fessran a questioning look.

“You’ve earned it, herding teacher,” she said. “And so has he.” She got up and stretched. “I suppose I have too.”

“Fessran, get some sleep. And Orange-Eyes,” Ratha said. “Thakur, please stay.”

After the Firekeeper and the silvercoat had gone, Thakur leaned toward Ratha and asked softly, “Will you tell me what troubles you?”

Ratha turned her head and stared at Thakur, wrinkling the fur on her brow.

“Fessran was asking you to accept Orange-Eyes and make him a Firekeeper, wasn’t she?”

In spite of herself, her jaw dropped. “How did you know? Your ears must be keener than I thought. Or I spoke louder than I meant to.”

“No, I didn’t hear you. I’ve been around Fessran long enough to know that when she wants something, she chases after it.”

“I told her that I haven’t decided. If he does stay with us, I don’t know whether he should be trained as a Firekeeper. It’s true, Fessran does need some more torchbearers.”

“And you are willing to give her what she wants?” said Thakur with surprise and more than a trace of annoyance. “I thought that if he stayed, he would be trained as a herder.”

Ratha fought the feeling of guilt that crept over her at the sound of disappointment in his voice. She felt drained by the bristlemane attack and knew she had not chosen her words as carefully as she should have. She hoped Thakur could sense her weariness and not press her further, but this time, his usual selflessness had been pushed aside by anger. He waited, a subdued glitter in his eyes.

Ratha looked at her toes, the ground, the fire; anything but the questioning green eyes. “Thakur, what else can I do?” she burst out at last. “Fessran says she must have torchbearers who have the strength of will to master the fire they guard. If the fires die, then we of the clan have no hope against the Un-Named or the bristlemanes.”

“Has Fessran persuaded you that Orange-Eyes alone would make such a difference?”

“He would teach; he would inspire others to try harder. If any torchbearer would make a difference, I agree with Fessran that he would be the one.”

“I have no doubt that he would,” said Thakur. “I also have no doubt that Fessran is thinking not only of him but of the cubs he might sire. Perhaps he might father a whole family of cubs strong and brave enough to guard the Red Tongue, if they have wit enough to remember which end of a torch to take in their jaws!”

Ratha couldn’t help ducking her head and drawing back her whiskers. She felt lost and uncertain. Where was the patient teacher and friend she thought she knew?

“Thakur, why are you so upset about this?”

Thakur took a long breath. “Before tonight, I would have said it was only because I feared his young would be witless. That is worry enough, but now I have seen something else. I find this hard to explain, but I have seen him looking at the fire and I don’t like what I see. Ratha, he is not one of the Named, even though he has enough light in his eyes for a whole litter of cubs.”

“I thought you liked him.” Ratha was puzzled.

“I can like him and still fear him.”

“Fear him! A half-grown cub!”

“One who can rip the nape out of a full-sized bristlemane?” Thakur said, spacing his words. “No, Orange-Eyes is not a cub. I have seen him looking at the fire, and I sense that in some way he may understand it better than we do.”

“Well, then, if he does, maybe he can help us find other ways to manage it.” She lifted her chin, trying to recapture her confidence.

“No, Ratha. It’s not that kind of understanding. He knows what the Red Tongue has done and can do to us. I have a feeling in my belly that his sort of knowledge may be dangerous.”

Ratha felt hot and cold. She wondered whether it was just the fire’s breath on one side of her and the night’s chill on the other or whether Thakur’s words angered and frightened her.

“How? Are you afraid he would seize my creature and use it against me?”

“No. I’m not saying he would do that, or even want to. I am only saying that my belly tells me there is risk in making him a Firekeeper. What the risk is, I don’t know.”

“That’s all you can tell me?” Ratha stared at him in dismay.

“Yes.”

“And what if I choose to take the dangerous trail?”

He looked at her for a long time. “Then nothing I can do or say can help you bear the load you may carry along that trail. I do not envy you the journey.”

“You can’t even offer a little comfort?” she said as he turned away.

“No. I don’t seem to be able to do the things I used to,” he said bitterly. “The coming of the Red Tongue has changed all of us, even me.”

She was silent until he had gone a few paces away from the fire. Swallowing hard, she said, “You still may eat after me at the kill tomorrow.”

“If you wish me to,” he answered and was gone.

It wasn’t just the night’s cold that made Ratha creep closer to the fire.

At the clan gathering, Ratha looked down from her place atop the sunning rock to the Named settling themselves below. Again they had fed and again they had come together, but this time there would be talk rather than celebration.

She smelled the rich odor of three-horn flesh. It lingered on the twilight breeze even though the herdbeast was now bones and rags of hide. She had eaten half the liver and left the rest to the others. Usually she gorged herself, but too much meat made her sleepy and muddled her thoughts. She went away from the carcass with her belly half-filled; she knew she needed to think clearly tonight.

She watched Fessran lead in the torchbearers. They looked black against the setting sun. The flame that leaped and danced on their brands seemed born of the sky’s red and orange light. The Firekeepers who bore no torches carried wood in their mouths. Under Fessran’s direction, they arranged the kindling to the side of the sunning rock and lit the meeting fire.

The firelight grew as the sun’s glow faded. Wavering shadows stretched out behind the clanfolk. The eyes that turned up to Ratha held their own fires of green and amber. One color was missing among them; the hue closest to that of the flame itself.

The Firekeepers lay together near the blaze. Fessran remained on her feet, searching the gathering. Ratha saw the Firekeeper leader sit down again with a puzzled expression in her eyes. From Fessran, Ratha looked across to Thakur, who was sitting on the opposite side with the herders. The closed, remote look on his face told her why the Un-Named One wasn’t there.

The group quieted, leaving the evening to the snap and hiss of the Red Tongue. Ratha stood up, waving her tail to indicate the meeting was to begin. She sat and curled her tail about her feet.

“We of the Named,” she said, “have seen many changes. Once we were ruled by the Law of the Named and the power of teeth and claws. Now we follow a new law and a new way.” She turned her head toward the meeting fire and the Firekeepers beside it. “Change begets change as do cubs that grow up and have their own young. Now another change has come upon us, and again we must choose whether to accept it or turn it back.

“We have always grown from within,” she continued. “In Baire’s day and Meoran’s too, that was the law. There was no mingling with the clanless ones. But we were different then. We are fewer now. The number of cubs born each season is less. We never dared to seek outside the clan for others, but now one of them has come seeking us. He is Un-Named, but he has the same light in his eyes that we do. The question I must decide is this: shall the Un-Named One be taken among us?”

Fessran raised her soot-stained muzzle. “Tamer of the Red Tongue, I would speak in support of the Un-Named One. I would like him to hear my words. Why is he not here?”

Ratha’s gaze darted to Thakur. He seemed to wilt a bit as other stares followed hers. He sighed and sat up. “He is not here, Fessran, because I told him to stay with the yearlings. I thought it best that we make our decision without him.” Thakur paused. “Remember what happened during the dance-hunt.”

Fessran walked to the base of the sunning rock and looked up at Ratha. “Giver of the New Law, I do recall what happened then and that is why I speak in praise of him. Never have I seen such courage, even among my own torchbearers.”

“Firekeeper leader,” said Thakur, “you forget that he is neither Named nor of the clan. Our own yearlings may not come to this meeting until they have proven themselves worthy.”

But the Un-Named One has proven himself, Ratha thought suddenly. When he turned back the herdbeast so I could save Bundi, he showed his worth.

“He can’t be treated as a yearling, Thakur,” said Fessran. “He isn’t one. Ratha said his coming is something new to the clan. It can’t be dealt with in old ways.”

The Firekeeper leader turned again to the sunning rock. “Clan leader, I and the Firekeepers ask that he be allowed into this gathering so he may hear our words.”

A surprised murmur rippled through the group and Ratha caught an undercurrent of growls from the herders. Shoman leaped to his feet, his tail lashing.

“I have no praise for the Un-Named One,” the lop-eared herder sneered, glaring at Thakur. “But I join with the Firekeepers and ask that he be brought before us.”

Thakur’s jaw dropped. His eyes narrowed at Shoman. He looked to Ratha. “Is it the will of the Named?” he asked, his voice sounding harsh.

“Yes, Thakur,” she said and saw his eyes frost. “The meeting will wait while you fetch him.”

Clanfolk parted to let the herding teacher through. When he was gone, Ratha studied the two others who had spoken: Shoman, with his lip curled and his whiskers drawn back in a malicious grin, and Fessran, with her eyes eager, but not entirely innocent.

Ratha suddenly wished she could be down among them, waiting for someone else on the sunning rock to make the decisions and find the answers.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Thakur returning with Orange-Eyes. The Un-Named One looked guarded and wary as he followed Thakur to a place among the herders. He sought to catch Thakur’s gaze, but the herding teacher, who had led him in without looking at him, turned his face away. The silvercoat lowered his head and whisked his tail away from Thakur’s.

On the other side of the meeting circle, the Firekeepers stirred. Fessran rose again. “Now that the Un-Named One is among us, as he deserves to be, I may speak. I am not one to praise the clanless ones. I have seen too many of us fall to them. But, as Ratha has said, some of them hold the same light in their eyes as we do and want more than the lives of raiders and scavengers.”

A hard voice broke from the growls of the herders. “Ptahh! What he wants is to fill his belly with the flesh of our herdbeasts!”

Heads turned to Shoman. Fessran tried to answer, but her words were drowned in the sudden uproar. Ratha slapped the sunning rock with her paw to quiet the gathering. “Let Fessran speak.” She directed a meaningful glance at Shoman.

Fessran also eyed Shoman and said, “If that’s all you think he wants, why did you ask that he be brought to the meeting?”

“So that all of you may see him for what he is.” Shoman’s gaze darted over the group. “You, Cherfan,” he said to a herder in the back, “you, who lost a lair-son to the Un-Named. You, Mondir, who buried the body of your littermate after a raid. All of you who bear scars on your coats. Look at him. Those eyes. Are they like ours? Those teeth. They could easily slash our throats.” He turned back to Fessran. “You don’t think of that, Firekeeper.”

Fessran only yawned. “You bear no scars on your pelt,” she said dryly. Some of the Firekeepers lolled their tongues in derisive grins.

Shoman’s eyes blazed. “Wounds may be deep but unseen. I know my lair-father died at the jaws of the Un-Named. That is enough.”

Several of the herders who were Shoman’s friends flattened their ears at the Un-Named One. The silvercoat ignored them, drawing himself in and sitting stiffly.

“No, it is not enough,” Fessran snapped. “What you want, Shoman, is revenge, not what is best for the rest of us. As for teeth, we all have them and we could all bite each other’s throats if we were savage enough.” She stamped impatiently. “You of the clan, don’t you know what you saw that night of the dance-hunt? You saw someone with the strength of will to fight his fear of the Red Tongue, someone who stood his ground against my Firekeepers even when he was sick and starving.”

Fessran began to circle, twitching her tail. “Yes, he wants to fill his belly. All of us do. And he will earn that right by using his courage to defend our herds.”

She reared up on her hind legs, her belly fur showing golden-white in the flame’s glow.

“Cherfan!” she called to him. “You lost a litterling in the Un-Named raids. What was his name?”

Cherfan reacted slowly, blinking in surprise. “He was called Shongshar.”

“Good. What the Un-Named have taken, they will give back. Had Cherfan’s cub lived, he would have been a brave herder and sired strong young. I have seen that this one”—she wagged her whiskers toward the silvercoat—“shows much courage in guarding the animals. As for young, we will have to wait a little while, but not too long, I think.” Fessran cast a sly glance at the young females among the Firekeepers.

Trust Fessran to provide a little humor, Ratha thought, but the Firekeeper’s words made her uneasy and the shadow of an old memory fell across her mind. She looked for Thakur and found him sitting stiffly. She had never seen him look so solemn.

“Shongshar is a good name,” Fessran was saying. “It shouldn’t be lost. Let the newcomer join and give him that name. Let the clan have a new Shongshar!”

Again there was an uproar. Ratha noticed that the silvercoat was saying the name to himself; trying it to see how it fit. Fessran, obviously enjoying the attention she was getting, swaggered over to Thakur. For an instant he didn’t seem to know she was there, then he jerked his head around and faced her.

The Firekeeper’s intent wasn’t malicious as Shoman’s had been. She did have a tendency to poke fun at those who took themselves too seriously. Ratha herself had received a few sharp digs from the claws of Fessran’s wit.

“Herder, you spoke against the Un-Named One at the start of this meeting,” Fessran said, still looking amused. “Why are you quiet now?” The sudden misery on his face made the Firekeeper lose her grin. Her brows drew together and she said something to Thakur in a softer tone that Ratha couldn’t hear.

She caught Thakur’s reply as he got to his feet.

“No, Fessran. The clan needs to hear this.” He surveyed the group, looking into the eyes of all who were assembled… except those of the newcomer. “I wish to cast no doubt on the truth of Fessran’s words. I only remind you that there are many trails to one place and each one shows us different sights. Fessran has taken you along one trail; I must show another.” Thakur paused. “First I must tell you that the one who sits beside me is worthy to bear the dead cub’s name. He saved a yearling from death on a herdbeast’s horns. Ratha can tell you that story better than I.”

“If you mean to support him,” Fessran interrupted, her eyes wide, “why did you want to leave him out of the meeting?”

“I have other words besides those of praise,” Thakur snapped back. “Firekeeper leader, like everyone else here, I try to make things easy for myself. What I have to say would be easier if he weren’t listening to it.”

Ratha caught the silvercoat peering at Thakur with complete bewilderment in his orange eyes. One ear was cocked forward, the other back, as though he didn’t know whether to be jubilant or outraged. Other clan members exchanged puzzled looks. Shoman looked completely taken aback and Ratha didn’t blame him.

“We have made many mistakes about the clanless ones,” said Thakur. “We thought them all witless and we found a few were not. We thought them too scattered and incapable of a major attack on the clan. We were wrong. Now we think we know enough about them to accept them into the clan. I warn you that we may be wrong again.” Thakur took a breath. “Ratha, you said there have been many changes. That is so, but not all things can or should change. The old law that forbade Named from mingling with Un-Named had a reason for being. It kept the light in the cubs’ eyes. If we forget it now, we risk losing what we have struggled to be.”

He looked up at Ratha as he spoke, and she felt her old memory rise and wash over her like a river flood. The faces of her own cubs, with their blank animal eyes …

The seasons had covered that pain slowly; the days falling on it like leaves to the forest floor. Now it was back again and the pain as fresh as ever. Thakur’s face seemed to change in her vision; his green eyes turning amber with a hint of bitter yellow; his scarred muzzle turning to one that was unblemished except for a broken left lower fang. Even his odor changed, becoming stronger and wilder: the scent of one who had lived alone and hunted for himself until he had taken her as his mate.

She thrust the memory away and saw the face that was really before her. Why does Thakur have to look and smell so much like his dead brother?

A sense of shame rose up as Bonechewer’s memory receded. She had been so caught up in Fessran’s idea that she had nearly forgotten the harsh lesson the past had taught her. Now she wanted to bury her head between her paws and cry aloud.

Thakur spoke again and she focused once more on his voice. “I think it is better for the Un-Named One and for ourselves that we not accept him and that he leave clan ground.” For the first time since he had returned to the group, he looked the silvercoat in the face. His whiskers started to droop. “I am sorry. I wish we had thought about it sooner.”

From her perch, Ratha studied the Un-Named One. The firelight played over him, making him seem to move abruptly, even though he stayed still and gazed at the clan with unreadable eyes.

Below her, arguments flew back and forth. Anger and disappointment showed on some faces, puzzlement on others. Fessran looked especially disgruntled and Ratha guessed she would not easily forgive Thakur if he destroyed her vision of a replacement for the dead Shongshar.

She caught fragments of conversations.

“… we can let him eat from the kill, but forbid him to mate …”

“… our flock is getting too large. Another herder would be helpful …”

“… the way those female Firekeepers look at him? They won’t be thinking of anything else once the heat has come on them …”

Eyes turned to her for answers, but she had none. Either choice might wreck the clan. She felt paralyzed, lost, and wished she were running free in the night, with only herself to think about. Then, out of the confusion and despair came the beginnings of an idea. It wasn’t an easy one, but something told her it might work.

She jumped up and lashed her tail for silence. “I have listened to all who would speak. Now hear what I say. Fessran, you are right about our need. And Thakur, you speak wisely of the dangers. I also heard someone say we might accept the Un-Named One if he were forbidden to mate. That won’t work; no one thinks of that sort of thing when the time comes.

“What I suggest is this,” she continued, beginning to pace back and forth on the edge of the sunning rock. “If we allow him to take a mate from among us, he must present the cubs he sires to the rest of us so we can see whether they have the light of the Named in their eyes.”

“I will be glad if they do,” Thakur said. “What will happen if they don’t?”

Ratha took a breath and halted her pacing. “If we judge them fit to raise in the clan, he and his mate will keep them. If not, the young ones must be taken far from clan ground and abandoned.”

She crouched on the edge of the rock and stared down at the silvercoat. “You, who would be Named, do you understand?”

“Orange-eyes must show his cubs to the clan and do what the leader says.”

“Yes. If you agree to that and bare your throat to the Red Tongue, I will accept you.”

The meeting erupted again as those who favored and opposed the silvercoat both made their opinions known. Triumphant roars and angry hisses filled the air. The emotions battered at Ratha, throwing her back. She leaped up, adding her voice to the tumult. “Be silent, all of you! The decision is mine and I have made it.”

The meeting quieted, but an undercurrent of muttering continued. She leaped down and stood before the gathering. “Are you ready?” Ratha asked the Un-Named One. “Then come to the sunning rock.”

She ordered two torchbearers to stand on either side while Fessran lighted another brand and brought it to her. Before she took it between her jaws she lifted her muzzle. “Crouch and bare your throat.” A sudden fear jumped in his eyes and she knew he remembered the dance-hunt. The clan watched, waiting. If his will failed him now, both he and she would lose.

She lifted the torch high. He took his place as she bid and lifted his chin, turning his head so that she could see the pulse beat in his throat beneath the fur.

“Now to them,” she said, around the branch in her teeth. Obediently he turned and bared his throat to the clan. The sight of his submission seemed to calm the group. He prolonged his awkward crouch with his head strained up until Ratha told him to rise. She flung her torch back into the fire.

“Stand before the clan … Shongshar!” she cried. “Let the Named greet their new lair-brother.”

At first the newly named Shongshar stood alone, but gradually the clanfolk began to surround him, touching noses and exchanging cheek rubs. When Fessran and the Firekeepers joined in, things became more enthusiastic. Their friendly assault nearly knocked Shongshar over, but Ratha saw that he bore it in good humor, especially since they all left their torches behind.

The herders were less excited, but even Shoman grudgingly brushed whiskers. Thakur gave his pupil a formal nose-touch and came to sit by Ratha. Neither one of them spoke as they watched the crowd of well-wishers wash over and around Shongshar.

She couldn’t help feeling a small glow of pride. “You’re making a mistake,” said Thakur softly, his whiskers in her ear.

“Arr, don’t spoil it, Thakur.”

“All right. I am happy for him, but I hope you know the trail you’re running.”

“I have to. There is no other.”

He fell silent again. She felt deflated and couldn’t help but remember her uncertainty about the newcomer and the subtle defiance she had once sensed in him. Surely she was wrong about that … or was she?

Suddenly, she was disgusted by her own ambivalence and told herself to stop fretting. I’ve done what is best for us. I can’t ask myself for more. Only the passing days will tell me whether I was right. I won’t think about it any more. I don’t need to hunt trouble.

Thakur sat in the dry leaves underneath the oak and watched the yearlings manage the dapplebacks and three-horns by themselves. He hoped his training had prepared the young herders well enough for the work ahead of them. It was fall now, and the clan’s mating season had begun. During this time, the yearlings took charge of the animals, for the cubs had not reached the age to heed the meaning of new scents carried across the meadow on the autumn wind.

Thakur smelled the odors of females in heat. He prickled and quivered as each smell tantalized his nose. He jerked his tail restlessly, wishing the mating season hadn’t come so soon.

He would leave clan ground, he promised himself. His work preparing the youthful herders was done. Now he and the other clan adults would have to trust the skill and courage of the youngsters. Judging from the smells and the yowling courtship songs that filled the air, he doubted that any of the other clan members were thinking about the herd. Perhaps the cries of the courting males would have irritated him less if he hadn’t recognized Shongshar’s voice among them.

Thakur had hoped that the silvercoat’s youth would delay his mating for a year, postponing difficulties that might arise over the cubs he would sire. But Shongshar was older than he looked, and his rapid development into a fully mature male surprised many in the clan. A few days earlier, he had begun courting the young Firekeeper Bira, edging out Cherfan, who was also seeking her attention. The herder retreated with good grace, but admitted to Thakur that he had underestimated Shongshar as a rival. “That young rake has a louder voice than I do, if you can believe it,” Cherfan had said, lolling his tongue in a rueful grimace.

Thakur tried to tell himself that his reaction to Shongshar’s success was only jealousy, but there was a part of his mind that refused to accept such an easy answer. He had spoken to Shongshar about the possible consequences of his mating and the silvercoat’s answers had disturbed him.

“Shongshar, have you thought about Ratha’s words to you when you joined the clan?” Thakur had asked him one rainy evening not long after the ceremony that made him one of the Named. He remembered how the silvercoat turned his head, blinking as rain dripped from his eyebrow whiskers onto his nose. “She make me say when I mate and cubs are born I must bring them before her. Only if they have light in their eyes can my mate and me raise them.”

“And if your cubs don’t have the light of the Named in their eyes, they must be left to die. Have you thought about that?” Thakur persisted.

“I think it will be harder for female I mate with than for me,” Shongshar answered. “I won’t bear the cubs and nurse them. If eyes are empty, cubs will mean little to me.”

“You wouldn’t regret having to give them up?”

“No, herding teacher. Why you ask this?” Shongshar stopped, then cocked his head at Thakur.

“You seem to like being with the litterlings. I’ve seen you working with them. You almost got into a fight with Shoman when he bullied Bundi.”

“Is that bad?”

“No,” Thakur answered, “but it isn’t something I expected from you. Are you sure your fondness for the litterlings might not make you want to keep the cubs you sire?”

Shongshar looked thoughtful. “Herding teacher, not to worry. There is big difference between litterlings that are stupid as herdbeasts and those whose eyes shine bright. Even if they are mine.”

I wonder, thought Thakur.

“It won’t be hard for me. Don’t worry,” said Shongshar lightly, and he had walked away, leaving the herding teacher full of doubt.

More yowls from the forest interrupted Thakur’s thoughts. He got up and shook the leaf litter from his fur. The yearlings were busy with the herd and no one was watching him. He should go.

He left the oak and paced away as a deep roar answered one of the calls. What a fuss everybody made about the mating season! he thought crossly. Why couldn’t one choose not to be involved without being thought peculiar? He had never been very successful with the females; they drove him off in favor of stronger, louder or more odoriferous males. Even when Ratha’s leadership had raised his status from one who was barely tolerated to one who was eagerly accepted and respected, habit had still made him shy away.

Habit and something else, he admitted to himself as he jogged across the meadow. He, too, could share in the joys that this time brought if it weren’t for the uncertainty of his half Un-Named parentage. There was a small chance that cubs he sired would bear the gift of the Named, but he knew that his brother Bonechewer’s mating with Ratha had produced witless young. Any cubs that Thakur sired were likely to turn out the same.

If he went to her now, as her smell, wafting on the breeze, tempted him to do, she would accept him eagerly without thinking of the consequences. In that she would be like any Named female caught in the fever of her heat. Yet if she did, and her cubs were born as he feared, he would have wounded her in a way that might never heal.

He knew that she took a partner each season, but the male left only a lingering odor on her fur, for there were never any cubs. He had once asked Ratha if she understood why. He never asked her again, however, for the look of pain on her face had tightened his own throat as she answered. “I mated after Bonechewer and I lost the cubs. Again I took a mate, but my belly never swelled. Why, I don’t know. Somehow my body won’t let me bear another litter. Perhaps I can’t forget what happened to the first.”

“Your cubs wouldn’t be witless this time,” Thakur had said. “Not if you take a clan male. Why don’t you try again?”

“I will. I can’t help but try again. When the heat draws me I don’t think of such things, but afterward …”

There would be nothing to regret. Still, he would not risk siring empty-eyed cubs on her. It was better that he stay away and so he had done each year, wandering the forests and grasslands beyond clan territory. This self-imposed exile was a lonely and bitter time for him. Without a companion, the journey became a weary one, and his mind often strayed back to those he had left behind. Had Shongshar not reached adulthood this season, he might have joined Thakur on the trail, but now he was back there in the midst of all the growls and tail-wavings. Thakur would go alone, returning only when his belly called him, to eat of the yearling herders’ cull and slip away again before he could be drawn into the fever of courtship.

With these thoughts burdening his mind, Thakur jogged heavily toward the stream that marked the edge of clan territory. It was just beginning to swell with the first winter rains. The water buffeted his legs as he waded in the shallows. It was only deep enough to splash his belly, but if more rain came he might have to swim back across. That thought and his wet paws did nothing to ease his temper. Mournful cries in the sky made him lift his head to see birds circling high over the tree-covered hills in the direction he was going. The cries made him think of hooked beaks and quick, sharp talons; he wondered what carrion they had found.

The wind that stole the warmth from the wet fur on his belly seemed to chill his mind as well. A good run would warm him up and stretch his muscles, he decided.

On the other side of the creek, Thakur swung into a fluid canter, watching the foliage race past as a blur on either side of him. He was proud of his speed and often ran for the sheer joy of feeling the ground slip away beneath his flying paws. He was galloping down a long grade on a deer trail beneath overhanging boughs when something darted onto the path between his legs.

One of his front paws struck it. There was a sharp screech as the object flew into the air. Whirling his tail to keep his balance, Thakur bounced to a stop, then retraced his steps to see what had tripped him.

The object moved slowly and unevenly. The culprit was a small furball dragging itself crabwise through the fallen leaves. It was the same size as a nursing cub, although not at all the same shape. He cocked his head, torn between caution and curiosity. Carefully he sidled up to it and reached out with an inquisitive paw. The creature showed tiny teeth and a pink tongue. It tried to hitch itself across the trail again but soon stopped. One rear leg was limp and dragging.

Thakur circled the animal as it squatted in the trail, following him with frightened eyes. It had a short banded muzzle, paws that bore nails instead of claws and a ringed furry tail. It was one of the tree-dwellers who had often pestered him when he tried to nap in the shade of their trees.

Here was a chance for revenge, if he wanted it, or an opportunity to find out how these creatures might taste. At least it would extend his time away from the clan by sating his belly a little.

The young treeling hunched itself in the dead leaves, giving him quick nervous glances. He could see its small sides heave and the way its racing heartbeat rocked it. He smelled the fear that seeped from the small animal. Sensing that it was helpless, the creature curled its tail around itself and clung to it as if clinging to its mother. It began to stroke and pick nervously at the fur, never taking its eyes from him.

His attention was oddly drawn to the movements of the creature’s paws. As he watched the small fingers twine in the hair, he felt something like an itch in his mind, a thought that almost came forward but then disappeared.

Thakur nosed the treeling. It tried to curl up into a ball, but the injured leg got in the way. He turned the creature over with his paw, his belly still warring with the strange itch in his mind.

The treeling, after sitting rigidly for a long time, made a sudden scramble for safety. Thakur stepped firmly on its tail. It twisted back and tried to bite his foot. He fastened his jaws loosely around its neck and picked it up. The animal went limp, but Thakur could feel its heart beating against his lips. For a moment, he felt ridiculous and his instinct was to snap it up into his mouth or fling it into the bushes with a sharp toss of his head.

I’m taking it with me, he decided at last. If it dies, I’ll eat it and if it doesn’t … well, it might be amusing.

For the rest of the day he carried the treeling, grateful that no one of the clan was there to see him or to ask why. He shifted his grip from its neck to its scruff, which seemed to make it a little less frightened. When at last he let the creature down, it shook its soaked fur, spraying him with his own saliva.

He washed his face, made a comfortable nest and settled into it, then reached out a paw for the treeling. The animal tried to hitch itself away, but he swept it up, dragged it into the nest and crossed his paws over it. It made one little peep of protest and was still.

The next morning, Thakur was mildly surprised to find the treeling still alive and sleeping under his paw. As soon as he moved, it woke, hissed and nipped his pad. Despite its injured leg, the creature was quite lively, and it was all he could do to keep it from escaping through the grass, or fastening its small teeth in him. At last he managed to grab the animal by the scruff and shake it a few times to reduce it to a state of grudging acceptance.

At midday, Thakur stopped beside a little brook trickling between the gnarled roots of two fire-scarred pines. He was grateful to come into the shade, for the autumn sun on his back had warmed him during the journey and, with the treeling in his mouth, he couldn’t pant to cool himself off.

He put his soggy passenger down and dipped his muzzle in the stream, washing away the taste of treeling fur. With one paw on the animal’s tail, he surveyed the grove into which he’d come. The place felt peaceful and quiet without being gloomy. He could stay here awhile, perhaps dig a shallow den near the stream. First, though, he’d have to figure out what to do with his treeling.

Thakur found a soft spot under a young fir and, holding the treeling in his mouth, started scraping pine needles and litter away. Soon he had excavated a deep treeling refuge in the red clay beneath the tree. He lowered the animal gently into the hole, arranged branches and needles over it, then piled dirt on the covering before the creature could claw its way out. He stamped the soil down and waited to see if the creature would unbury itself. When he saw no sign that it was escaping, he turned to the task of digging himself a temporary den and forgot about the treeling.

In the morning, he slept late, enjoying his solitude. Here there were no tail-waving females or yowling males. No one of the clan was there to press him with their needs or fears. He heard only the quiet trickle of the brook and felt the pine-scented breeze teasing his whiskers. Until he remembered the treeling.

Thakur jumped up and ran to the little fir, only to find that he had packed the dirt down harder than he’d thought. It took determined digging to reopen the burrow. When at last he broke through, he almost dug the treeling up along with the dirt. The little creature made no attempt to escape, for it was nearly suffocated.

He pawed some clay from the brindled pelt. The treeling closed its eyes and made no protest. At first he felt relieved and then alarmed. Its passivity was probably due to hunger, he thought, and he decided he’d better feed it. But what would it eat? Well, if treelings lived in trees, they probably ate leaves, he concluded, and went off to find some.

He brought one type of leaf after another, without success. The treeling would eat none of them. At last, by accident he brought a branch that had several beetles on it. When he placed his offering outside the treeling’s hole, it poked its head out, spied a bug, snatched it up and crammed the morsel into its mouth. It continued to pick insects off the branch until all of them were gone. It looked up at Thakur with inquisitive eyes, cocked its head slightly and said “Aree?”

Later that morning found Thakur in a nearby stretch of grassland, hunting grasshoppers. He had been quite adept at this when he was a cub, although now he found lack of practice had robbed him of some skill. Finally he managed to catch one in his mouth and carry it back to the treeling, feeling the struggling insect kicking his tongue. He spat it out in front of the treeling’s burrow. A small arm emerged, caught the insect by the leg and dragged it inside. Thakur could hear more crunching sounds.

After the grasshopper hunt, Thakur stretched out for a nap in the autumn sun. He was almost asleep when he felt something climb up his back and nestle in the fur on his flank. Startled, he shook the treeling off and nosed it back into the burrow. He returned to his nap.

When he woke, he found that the treeling had climbed up on him again and was clinging to his pelt. He craned his head back, seized the creature by the scruff and pulled, but it had woven fingers and toes into his fur. Realizing that he would pull the treeling apart before he got it off, he sighed and let it stay.

After a while, he found he enjoyed having the treeling on his back. It murmured contentedly as he jogged along and made small wordless comments whenever anything happened. At first Thakur was afraid he might lose his new companion and he chose his way carefully, avoiding low branches, lest his passenger be swept off or scramble into the trees beyond his reach. He made wide detours and looked over his shoulder at every step to assure himself that the creature was still there. The treeling stared back at him, the expression on its short-muzzled face saying, “I’m still here. What are you so worried about?”

Soon Thakur ceased worrying about losing the animal. It seemed to like riding on him and sleeping in his fur at night. During the following days, he roamed far from the grove, carrying the treeling with him and feeding it on beetles and the big grasshoppers that lived in the nearby meadowlands.

He doubted that this was the food the creature had been accustomed to, but it seemed to be flourishing on its new diet. Thakur also ate a few of the insects himself, to ward off the hunger that threatened to drive him back to the clan. Eventually, he knew, he would have to go, and what was he going to do with the treeling then?

Well, it was the mating season. None of the adults in the clan would pay any attention to him. He would have to show himself to the yearlings who were guarding the herd and the fires; otherwise he might be attacked as an enemy by the over-eager youngsters. He would receive some curious stares from his pupils, but his previous authority over them would keep them from asking too many questions or trying to eat his new friend.

Friend? He was startled by the thought. Never had he supposed he could think about any other kind of animal as more than food, yet he had to admit that the treeling’s presence often brought him a quiet sort of contentment.

Thakur couldn’t help grinning as he ambled along with the creature on his back. “You funny little treeling-cub,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at it. “Sometimes I wonder if you know what I’m thinking. Perhaps I should give you a name if I’m going to talk to you as I talk to the ones in the clan.”

The treeling looked at him with wide solemn eyes. “Aree,” it said, as if it were agreeing with him.

“I probably shouldn’t. You don’t know what a name means. It means you know what you are. Treeling-cub, do you know what you are?”

It cocked its head at him.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter. I think you’re a ‘he’ and I have to call you something besides ‘treeling.’ What should I call you? Fur-Puller? Bug-Cruncher?”

“Aree!”

“Well, all right. Since that’s the only word you know, I’ll call you Aree.”

A little later the same day, Thakur was passing under a curtain of leaves when the treeling jumped from his back into the branches. By the time Thakur realized that Aree was gone, he had climbed beyond sight. The tree was too slight for Thakur to climb any farther than to the first crotch and there he perched, looking anxiously up into the branches and yowling helplessly, hoping Aree would come back.

Soon there was a rustle and Aree plopped down on him, making him lose his balance and topple out of the tree. A wild swing of his tail enabled him to land on his feet with the tree-ling still attached. When he peered back over his shoulder, he noticed that Aree was carrying something smooth and round. He had seen similar objects hanging on some trees, but since he never ate any part of a tree, he never paid attention to these things unless he stepped on one that was rotten.

Aree was fascinated. The treeling turned his prize over in his paws, looking at it and smelling it. The little creature had to stretch his jaws wide before he was able to bite into the skin, but once he did, he began munching away as if he had never tasted anything so delicious in his short life.

The fruit the treeling picked was overripe and the syrupy juice dribbled onto Thakur’s back. It ran down his side and matted his fur, making him itch. Irritated, he nudged Aree aside and cleaned his coat, but as fast as he licked himself, the treeling dribbled more juice on him.

The taste of the stuff was sweet and the only sweet flavor Thakur knew was the taste of spoiled meat. That was enough to make him stop licking. He tried to ignore the smears on his coat, but as the afternoon passed, the sun warmed his back, turning the dribbles into sticky patches and dry, crusty spots. Once Aree had discovered this new treat, he sought more and couldn’t be persuaded to dismount while eating. Thakur’s back and neck fur were soon stiff with dried dribbles and his skin itched unbearably.

There were a few flies still left from summer and they all began to swarm around him. The treeling, unconcerned, continued to stuff himself. Unable to stand the torment any longer, Thakur finally dislodged Aree by threatening to roll over on him. While the treeling sulked, he licked his back and sides, digging out sticky mats of hair in which entrapped flies buzzed angrily.

Sometimes the treeling picked more than he could eat and became fussy, taking one bite and throwing the rest away. Thakur often retrieved the discards, licking the juice from them. The first time he tried to eat one, he gagged on the pulpy texture. Once he had grown used to that, he tried to crack the pit as he would a bone. He found no marrow inside, only evil-tasting seeds. He spat everything out and opened his mouth wide, drooling saliva on the ground. He ran for the stream, almost leaving Aree behind, and lapped until the bitter taste was gone.

Thakur also discovered an interesting property of this new food. Many of the fruits still hanging had begun to ferment; eating those made his tongue tingle. Afterwards he felt warm and happy, often chasing his tail and bouncing around like a cub. Eating too many made him clumsy, and he couldn’t keep his paws from sliding out from under him. His head also ached a little. The treeling chirped happily and wobbled on his back.

The treeling once became so drunk that he fell out of a tree. A clump of ferns cushioned his landing, but he couldn’t ride without toppling off. Thakur had to carry Aree back to the den in his mouth. Thakur suffered also from the treeling’s overindulgence, for he had been eating Aree’s leavings. He was stricken with a severe digestive upset that made him forget the mild pain in his head. The two spent the rest of the day in the makeshift den, sleeping much of the time and ill-tempered when they were awake. As he lay groaning, Thakur swore he would never touch his tongue to the cursed stuff again.

Aree recovered first, but the illness laid Thakur low for several days. During that time Aree stayed with him, gently grooming his fur or snuggling against him, making soft reassuring sounds. At last his stomach started to behave itself again and he was able to stagger out of the den, shaky and thin.

He knew he needed meat and he would have to return to the clan for it. He guessed the mating season was almost over, judging by how long he’d been away. Of course now he must worry about what to do with his treeling, but at least he’d have some time to think about it on the trail.

Thakur felt the treeling dig his paws deeper into his fur and crouch low on his back. He peered through the gray drizzle that sifted between the trees and looked toward the meadow where the herd grazed. Smoke billowed above the grass and he saw the amber flicker of fire. The treeling shook himself and fluffed his fur. Thakur could feel how uneasy Aree was by the way he shivered and clung. A gust of wind blew the smoke toward them. The herding teacher had almost forgotten how smoke stung his nose. He sneezed and glanced at Aree as the treeling drew back his whiskers and rubbed his muzzle with the back of his paw.

Thakur circled along the edge of the meadow and approached upwind of the guard-fire, allowing his scent to drift ahead of him to announce his presence to the young Firekeeper. The yearling might be nervous, and a mistaken attack could frighten Aree away. Soon Thakur could see the ring of guard flames that surrounded the clan’s animals.

He jogged toward a point midway between the closest outlying guard-fires. A Firekeeper came out to meet him. At the sight of Thakur, the youngster’s tail went up and a look of relief came over his face. Thakur guessed that he was anxious for the clan adults to return from mating and take over their duties once again.

“Welcome back, herding teacher!” the Firekeeper called. He stopped, stared and cocked his head. Thakur knew the yearling had seen something odd about him, but he wasn’t about to stop to answer questions. He quickened his pace.

As he crossed the meadow, he glanced toward the oak where several clan members had taken shelter from the misty rain. Among them he saw the gleam of a silver pelt. He hadn’t thought of Shongshar in a while. Having Aree as a companion had distracted him from his old doubts, but now they came back in a rush. Shongshar’s head lifted and he trotted out to meet Thakur.

Thakur felt ashamed of his worries. Shongshar had already proven himself a worthy and valued member of the group, the herding teacher reminded himself. It seemed that only he, Thakur, continued to doubt him. And that doubt was not based on Shongshar’s character but on the things he couldn’t control, such as the length of his fangs, the manner of his bite and the uncertainty of his parentage. Was it really fair to hold such things against him?

As Shongshar approached, Thakur could see that he had grown heavier; the powerful muscling in his shoulders and neck was even more evident. Now he was almost full-grown, and there was an air of maturity and a new sense of assurance about him. When the silvercoat drew closer, Thakur could see why. Shongshar’s muzzle was marked with claw scratches. The herding teacher had seen those marks on other young males after the mating season. The older males had enough experience to jump away before the female could claw them, but younger ones often caught their partner’s sudden change of mood too late to prevent a strike across the face.

For many of the young males, this was a badge of maturity and they wore their wounds proudly, as Shongshar did now. He slowed from a jog into an easy walk, his tail swinging. Again Thakur felt Aree tense as Shongshar’s scent reached them. The silvercoat, however, seemed to know the need to keep his distance.

“Herding teacher, if you’re hungry, there is a fresh kill,” said Shongshar at last, after eyeing the treeling. “You are among the first to return, and the yearlings have left plenty.”

His words reminded Thakur that his stomach hadn’t been filled with fresh meat in many days. He was seized by a strong hunger that cramped his belly and made him weak.

“Over here, herding teacher.” Shongshar led the way under the oak. At the sight of the kill, Thakur forgot everything else and ate until the pangs in his stomach had eased. When he felt sated, he scrubbed his muzzle and washed behind his ears, bumping the treeling with his forepaw.

He yawned, feeling the satisfying weight of a full belly. “Ah, that is so much better!” he said, stretching out and not minding the damp grass.

Shongshar ate a few bites and then washed himself as Thakur had done, stopping now and then to study the tree-ling. “What does it eat?” he asked.

“Bugs. And those soft things that hang on trees.”

Shongshar wrinkled his nose. “Oh.” He sat up, his nose in the air and then listened attentively. “I think some of the others are coming.”

Unwillingly, Thakur got up. All he wanted was to lie down and digest his dinner, but he had to do something with Aree before the other clanfolk arrived.

They got there much sooner than he expected. He had only reached the path that led to the dens when a whole group of long-absent clan members spilled out of the underbrush and greeted him with enthusiastic rubs and nuzzles. With a terrified squeal, Aree dived underneath him and clung to the long fur on his belly. Everyone retreated in surprise and Thakur was able to sort them all out. He saw Shoman, Cherfan and Fessran on one side of him, Ratha and Bira on the other. They looked tired and thin, but happy. They also looked and smelled hungry.

Their voices tumbled together in his ears.

“Is that a tree-creature, Thakur?”

“Where did you get it?”

“Are you going to eat it?”

“I’ve never had one of those before. Can I have a taste?”

“It smells good. Come on, aren’t you going to share?”

Thakur looked frantically for a way out of the ring of hungry friends. He could feel Aree trembling and pulling his belly fur so hard that it hurt. They all crowded around him again, except for the clan leader, who stood back watching, with an annoying look of amusement on her face.

“Ratha!” Thakur bellowed, trying to guard Aree from inquisitive muzzles and paws.

She waded in among the group, butting, shoving and dealing out cuffs to those who didn’t get out of her way. “All right, leave Thakur alone, you greedy bunch. I smell a kill over by the oak; the yearlings are welcoming us back.”

Cherfan lifted his head and tail. His eyes brightened and he galloped away, followed by Shoman, Fessran and Bira.

“Leave enough for me!” Ratha roared after them before she turned back to Thakur.

Aree had stopped shaking, but he still clung tightly to Thakur’s underside. Ratha paced around the herding teacher, trying to peek under his belly at the treeling. He could hear her stomach growl, and he wasn’t sure whether her interest was just curiosity.

“Are you really going to keep this creature?” she asked at last.

“Shouldn’t I?”

“Well, I don’t know. No one in the clan has ever kept one. I’m not sure why anyone would want to. Are you waiting for it to grow fatter so it will make more of a mouthful?”

“The meat is over there,” Thakur said icily, flicking his whiskers in the direction of the old oak. “If you can’t think of anything except your belly, go and eat.”

Ratha reassured him that she wouldn’t eat his treeling but there was still a spark of mischief in her eyes. She admitted one could keep a creature for reasons other than eating it. After all, she had tamed and kept the Red Tongue.

“I don’t think this treeling is quite the same as the creature I brought to the clan,” she said critically as Aree grew bold enough to leave his refuge under Thakur’s belly and clamber up onto his back. With a suspicious look at her, the treeling began grooming himself again; once he had finished, he started to part Thakur’s fur, sifting through his pelt.

Ratha grimaced. “Yarr! He’s putting his paws into your coat. Doesn’t that feel terrible?”

“At first it did, but now I don’t mind,” Thakur answered. Ratha sat down and scratched herself briefly.

“What’s he doing?” She stared harder at the treeling.

“Aree is eating my ticks. He’s cleaned me off pretty well and I don’t have many fleas either. You probably have more than I do now.”

“I probably do. When the fleabane plant dies in the winter, we scratch until spring.” Ratha added the action to the word. When she stood up again, Thakur bumped up against her and tried to nudge the treeling onto her back.

“Oh no.” She sidled away. “I don’t want that thing pawing through my fur.”

“Are you afraid of a treeling after you’ve tamed the Red Tongue?” Thakur lolled his tongue at her.

“Of course not!” Ratha’s whiskers bristled.

“You want to get rid of all those itchy fleas, don’t you?”

“I don’t think he will climb on me,” Ratha said, but Thakur could see her resistance was weakening.

“He will if you don’t try to eat him.”

Still looking doubtful, Ratha edged against Thakur. He nosed the reluctant treeling off his back. Aree hissed at him and gave his whiskers a pull before he scrambled onto her and began to groom her ruff. Aree buried his muzzle in her pelt and bit at something. Alarmed, Thakur tried to take the treeling off, unsure whether he was trying to bite Ratha or something in her fur.

“No, leave him,” she said suddenly. She winced, then looked relieved. “Ooh, that hurt. Your treeling just pulled out the wretched tick I’ve been carrying around for days. I couldn’t reach it with my teeth. What a relief!”

She let the treeling clean the rest of her back. When Aree was done, he jumped back onto Thakur and nestled between his shoulders, murmuring softly.

“Well?” Thakur looked at Ratha.

“Your creature felt like all the fleas in the forest were on my back, but I am glad to be rid of that tick.” Ratha shook herself. “Keep your treeling, then. I will tell the others not to eat the creature. He isn’t like the Red Tongue, but he seems to be useful. Will he groom others in the clan besides you and me?”

“If they are gentle and don’t frighten him.”

“What are you going to do with him now?” she asked.

“Take him to my den. I think he wants to sleep.” Ratha gave the treeling one more look. “I’m going to ask the yearlings if anything happened while I was gone,” she said and jogged away, swinging her tail. Thakur gazed after her, then turned up the path that led to his den. With his full stomach, he agreed with the treeling that a nap would be a good idea.

Most of the mated females became pregnant, carrying their cubs through the winter and giving birth in early spring. When the rainy season ended, the clan mothers brought their litterlings from the birth-dens to a secluded place amid an outcropping of stone. In this sheltered nursery, guarded by one or two females, the small cubs could sleep in the sun or crawl about on unsteady legs.

The nursery would have been too hot at midday if it hadn’t been for the shade of a sapling that leaned over the rocks. A gap in the lichen-dotted scones allowed a light breeze to cool the litterlings, but the nursery’s shelter kept out the chill of the early spring wind.

Ratha lay, half-asleep, with a heap of dozing cubs warming her belly. As in previous years, she had had no cubs of her own; she took nursery duty to allow the mothers a rest. She opened one eye and watched the sapling’s new leaves flutter in the breeze.

A fuzzy, chubby body blocked her view and little paws stepped on her face. The cub was too tiny to hurt her and she let him clamber across her muzzle, only objecting when he stopped halfway to chew on her whiskers. With a grunt, she shook him off, caught him by the scruff and swung him into the pile of his fellows who were still asleep.

“Hmph. Your mother had better teach you that my whiskers aren’t blades of grass, even though they may look that way when I’m lying down,” she grumbled, giving him a nudge with her nose.

She lay back to enjoy the quiet, but soon other litterlings woke and began climbing all over her, butting her with their heads and digging in the fur of her belly to find her nipples. They would have to stay hungry until one of the mothers came to feed them, she thought, regretting she had no milk.

“Sleep until Fessran comes and she will feed you,” she said.

Ratha flicked her tail away from a cub that had started gnawing on it, surprised that such tiny teeth could be so sharp. She tried to nap again, but the litterlings wouldn’t leave her alone. She was starting to lose some of her patience when Fessran slithered through the opening in the rocks and flopped down to feed the hungry young. There were tiny squeals and growls as the small cubs fought for places at her teats. Ratha sat and watched, smelling the rich scent of flowing milk as the cubs nursed.

“Well, has our clan leader had enough of tending nurslings?” Fessran teased.

“They don’t squabble as much as the grown cubs I have to look after,” Ratha said.

Fessran grunted. “Give them time. They will. Especially mine.” She leaned over to nudge her little male and left a sooty smudge on him. “The black stuff won’t hurt,” said Fessran. “It’s just another spot. I’ll clean him up when I’m through nursing the rest.”

“Being a Firekeeper’s cub may have its problems,” Ratha teased. “If he keeps gaining spots, how will he ever lose them as he should when he grows up?”

Fessran yawned. “Speaking of Firekeepers’ cubs, has Bira brought hers out yet?”

“No. She had a late litter. They’re still too young.”

“Ptahh! She had them not long after I had mine. She’s just afraid that hers aren’t going to be the best. They’re not, of course, but I’m sure they’ll be acceptable. I think you should have a talk with her. She should be helping the rest of us mothers with the nursery.”

“She’s young; this is her first litter,” Ratha protested. “I don’t want to bother her yet. But I am curious about Shongshar. Does he take an interest in the litter?”

“Yes. He is more concerned with his cubs than any male I’ve known.”

“He seems to be good with youngsters,” Ratha said reflectively, getting up. The prospect of Shongshar having a strong attachment to his cubs made her uneasy, but she did not voice her concerns to the Firekeeper. Instead, she asked, “Is Shongshar as good a Firekeeper as you had hoped he’d be? I know the guard-fires have stayed strong and we haven’t recently lost any animals to raiders.”

Fessran’s eyes lit with pride as she answered, “Shongshar is as good as I’d hoped and even better. Not only is he brave and quick, but he sets a good example for the younger Firekeepers and encourages them to work harder.”

“Good.” Ratha let her uneasiness fade.

The cubs who hadn’t found a place to nurse crawled all over Fessran, their mewing shrill and insistent.

“Is someone coming to help you feed the litterlings?” Ratha asked.

“Drani is coming and her teats are full.” Fessran grimaced and shoved a cub away from her belly. “Ouch, you little son of a mare! You’re supposed to suck, not chew.”

With that, Ratha took her leave.

During the next few days, she found herself watching both Shongshar and Bira. Shongshar was immensely proud of his new offspring and it showed in every step he took. Bira, however, seemed subdued. She was pleased at having her first cubs. But the happiness Ratha saw in the eyes of other mothers was marred in hers by uncertainty. Bira still did not bring her litterlings to the nursery and Ratha decided, reluctantly, that it was time to speak to her about it.

It was just after sunset and she was resting in her den trying to think of the best way to approach the young mother about her secrecy. She heard the tread of someone approaching and smelled Fessran. She raised her head, catching the sharp scent of anger in the Firekeeper’s odor.

“What is it?” she asked as Fessran came to the mouth of the den, her tail wagging and her fur bristling.

“That little idiot Bira!” Fessran hissed. “She’s abandoned her cubs. Shongshar came to me when he found them cold and hungry. She must have gone mad. I’ve never heard of anyone doing such a thing.”

A prickling apprehension began to creep over Ratha. “Is Shongshar with you?”

“No. He’s with the cubs, trying to keep them warm. I’ll go to Bira’s den and nurse them if you’ll try to find her.”

Ratha hesitated. Invading a new mother’s lair was not something that clan females usually did. Each of them knew how fiercely they guarded their own privacy and the right to decide whether they would show their cubs. Only the clan leader could violate that privacy and only when there was need. Fessran hadn’t said it directly, but Ratha knew she was asking for permission to enter Bira’s den.

“All right. Go feed them.” Ratha crawled out of the den and shook herself, trying to get rid of the cold chill that seemed to crawl through her fur. It was a worry she had long suppressed and had almost forgotten about. Now it came back in Thakur’s words and his voice.

“No,” she growled to herself. Fessran gave her a puzzled look.

“Nothing. Go on. I’ll find Bira. Where did you see her last?”

“At one of the guard-fires around the meadow. Her partner left, but she may have stayed,” Fessran said and bounded away.

Ratha took the trail that led to the meadow. Bira’s scent was present, but faint, telling Ratha that the Firekeeper had gone to the meadow but had not returned. When Ratha arrived, she looked into the night, narrowing her eyes so she could see farther. At the most distant flame she made out the form of a single fire-tender.

As Ratha neared the fire, Bira charged out, her ears flattened and her teeth bared. “Go away! I told everyone I don’t need any help.”

Ratha held her ground. Bira’s pace slowed and her lashing tail went stiff. “I appreciate your diligence, Firekeeper,” Ratha said dryly. “But there are others who are waiting to serve their turn at duty.”

Bira’s eyes widened in dismay. “Clan leader! I didn’t mean …”

“I know you didn’t,” Ratha said, trying to make her voice sound kind. “Come back to the fire and tell me why you abandoned your cubs.”

Bira followed her back to the circle of warm light thrown by the guard-fire. Ratha saw that Bira’s red-brown coat was rough and her tail ungroomed and matted. The young mother’s nipples bulged with too much milk and she admitted that they hurt.

“Why don’t you go and feed your litterlings?” Ratha asked again. Bira flinched and ducked her head, saying nothing.

“Is there something the matter with them?”

Bira trembled and then gave a little jerk as if she wanted to jump up and flee. She turned her head away and gazed with longing into the night. This was not like Bira at all, Ratha thought. She had always been calm and level-headed, even as a cub. Her only fault was vanity; she was overly proud of her long bushy tail. That she had ceased to groom herself told how troubled she was.

As Ratha watched her, she grew more certain that she knew the cause of Bira’s distress.

“Bira,” she said softly. “Are you afraid your cubs have no light in their eyes?”

The young mother shuddered and suddenly the words burst out of her. “Shongshar thinks there’s nothing wrong with them, but he doesn’t know. I’m the one who sees the lack of something in their eyes. I’m the one who tries to get them to say their first word, afraid that they will never speak …”

“Bira, it’s too early to tell,” Ratha said, trying to make herself believe her own words. “Have any of the cubs in other litters begun to talk?”

“No … but they try. Fessran said that her little female is starting to imitate her and makes noises that are almost words.”

“Ptahh! Fessran brags about her young. All the mothers do,” Ratha said, trying to comfort her. “And you should know better than to listen to them.”

But Bira didn’t seem convinced. “No,” she said stubbornly, looking at the ground. “There is something wrong. Maybe I carried them too long or my milk is bad.”

“There’s nothing wrong with your milk,” Ratha insisted. Bira said nothing. She sat and shivered even in the warmth of the fire. For a long time she stared at nothing.

“Fessran asked to nurse your cubs,” Ratha said at last. “I told her to feed them. I can’t let litterlings starve just because you think there is something wrong with them. We need every cub we can raise. I want you to take them back and care for them until we know if they can be named. Will you go and nurse them?”

Bira shut her eyes. “No, clan leader.”

Ratha sighed. “Well, I can’t drag you to your den and force you to nurse. Since Fessran is willing to feed your young, would you be willing to care for hers?”

“If my milk made my litterlings sick, wouldn’t it hurt hers?” Bira asked.

“I don’t think so,” said Ratha patiently.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause all this trouble … yes, I will feed Fessran’s cubs.”

Bira gave the guard-fire some more wood and then followed Ratha back across the meadow. The clan leader waved her tail at two other Firekeepers, who promptly took Bira’s place.

The young mother wasn’t sure that Fessran’s cubs would accept her, but soon Bira was lying on her side in the maternal lair with three cubs sucking and kneading her belly. Once she had been made comfortable, Ratha went to the other den to tell Fessran that her young were being cared for. Then she returned to her own den and fell into an uneasy sleep.

The next morning Ratha came by to see how Bira’s cubs were faring. When she arrived at the den, Fessran had finished feeding them and was gone. Shongshar was taking them out of the den to play. This was the first time she had seen his young in full daylight and she studied the cubs carefully.

Even though his litterlings were slightly younger than most of the clan cubs, they seemed older. They were larger, stronger and steadier on their legs than cubs in other litters. Although their heads had the same round baby form as other cubs’, there was a subtle hint that they would develop the same arched skull as their father. The color of the fur between their spots was a fawn so light it looked ashy, with touches of silver-gray. Their infant chubbiness couldn’t quite hide the heavier forequarters and longer forelegs. Their paws were large, showing that they would someday equal their father in size. The smell on them was more Shongshar’s than Bira’s.

She watched him too and saw that, unlike most of the clan males, who wouldn’t tolerate their cubs until they reached a sensible age, Shongshar was delighted with his. He abandoned his usual reserve and played with them as if he were just another cub in the same litter. He let them attack his tail, chew on his ears and climb all over him. Ratha had never heard Shongshar purr, but the continuous rumble that came from his throat as he rubbed his cheek against the little male was the sound of absolute contentment.

Yet, the longer she watched, the more she felt a growing uneasiness about the cubs. They played much as the litterlings in the nursery did: they stalked, pounced and wrestled; but there was something strangely lacking. Their movements were quick and their eyes keen; they seemed to notice everything that moved. But once the object, such as a swaying flower or their father’s tail, had been attacked and subdued, it held no further interest unless it moved again.

The litterlings in the nursery also were attracted by things that moved, but after the first clumsy pounce, the cub’s expression would change from the excitement of the hunter to the intent curiosity of one who hungered to understand its world. The litterlings’ eyes always held questions, even if their tongues were not yet ready to ask them.

Being careful not to disturb the three, Ratha edged closer so she could see more clearly. Shongshar’s eyes were glowing with affection and happiness as he tumbled the cubs about with his big paws. Their eyes were alive with momentary excitement, but there was nothing more. Trying to fight the chill creeping over her, Ratha stared hard until her own eyes ached, but she could see nothing. No questions, no hunger … no light. As much as she desperately wished to deny it, she knew Bira’s instincts had been right.

She felt as though she were looking at cubs who had been stricken with sickness and were soon to die. The sight of them suddenly made her belly churn as it did when she smelled rotten meat; she hated herself for her feeling. Now she knew why Bira couldn’t nurse them. If she had forced the young mother to care for these cubs, she would certainly have killed them and then run from the clan in shame and despair.

“Clan leader!” Shongshar had caught sight of her. Ratha gathered her feelings together and put them away. She forced herself to approach him.

“I see that they’re thriving on Fessran’s milk,” she said, unable to think of anything else.

“I’m grateful to her for nursing them.” Shongshar stopped and looked troubled. “I don’t understand what’s wrong with Bira. How could she leave such fine cubs as these? Look how quick and strong they are.”

Ratha knew she didn’t have to answer him. As clan leader, she didn’t have to answer anyone if she didn’t want to. She could just mumble something vague and walk away. She looked up into his eyes. The happiness had gone, replaced by the shadow of the same pain she had seen in Bira’s. Inwardly she hesitated, knowing that what she must say next would only add to his hurt.

“Shongshar, do you remember the promise you made to me the night you were given your name?”

His ears twitched as if he wanted to lay them back and hiss at her. “Yes,” he said harshly. His eyes widened, becoming frightened, almost pleading. “Clan leader, isn’t it too soon to tell? I’m sure my cubs will have the light in their eyes when they are older. You can’t judge them now. Please, give them some time. I know what Bira thinks, and she’s wrong; I know she is.”

Ratha wanted to turn away from him, but she forced herself to stay where she was and show no expression. “Do you regret that promise to me?” she asked him.

“No. There was no other choice. If I hadn’t come to you, I would have died,” he said simply. “But I thought it would be easy to give up my cubs. I never knew how I would feel about them.”

Thakur knew, she thought. That was the reason he was worried.

“I won’t judge them now,” she said, looking directly at him. “You are right; it is not yet time. But the time will come when I must judge them and you must accept my decision.”

His tail drooped and he looked at the ground. “I understand, clan leader.”

He said no more and went back to playing with the cubs, but his movements seemed slower and less spirited. Ratha found it easier not to watch as she went away.

The following day, Ratha visited the nursery. The weather seemed to share her stormy mood. Spring had retreated back into winter, with gusty winds that blew her fur backward and stole the warmth from her coat. Despite the weather, the mothers had brought their cubs out; two females were looking after a large collection of active youngsters.

Most of the cubs had mastered the skill of walking and were now attempting to run. The nursery enclosure was full of spotted bodies hurtling from one side to the other. Ratha watched their antics until she heard someone coming toward her from the opposite direction. It was Fessran, carrying one of Bira’s cubs in her mouth. She had a meaningful look in her eyes that said she was not just bringing the cub out to play. Ratha had almost been expecting something like this. Although Fessran had continued to care for Bira’s cubs, she missed her own and the strain of worrying about two litters, in addition to her duties as Firekeeper leader, was making her curt and short-tempered.

Behind Fessran, Ratha saw Shongshar with the other. “Drani,” Ratha heard Fessran say to one of the two other females who were there, “you have so many litterlings that a few more shouldn’t trouble you. I’ll make sure Bira takes her turn here since these are hers.”

Fessran backed out, allowing Shongshar to slither through the narrow cleft between the rocks and deposit the second cub. Drani hissed at the unexpected entry of a male and Shongshar hastily retreated, tailfirst.

“If you see Bira,” said Fessran irritably, “tell her she can feed her own wretched cubs. I want mine back.” Then she was gone.

Ratha settled down to watch Bira’s youngsters as they made their first attempts to enter the group. Unexpectedly, Shongshar hopped up beside her. Drani looked at him and growled.

“Oh, stop it. He isn’t going to hurt them,” Ratha snapped.

Shongshar sent Ratha a grateful look as he found a seat on the boulder. The wind teased his silver fur and spread the hairs of his tail against the rock. He leaned down, picked up his little female cub by the scruff and began washing her. When he was finished, he put the litterling back in the nursery.

Another cub pattered up to her and tried to touch noses. She shook herself and walked away. The other youngster followed, trying to sniff her tail. With a silent snarl and laid-back ears, she jumped on him and seized his ear. With a squeal, the other cub backed away dragging her with him.

“No, no, no!” the clan-cub cried shrilly, using the only word he knew. Finally he managed to shake her off and retreated, looking totally bewildered.

“Come here,” Shongshar growled at his daughter. She gave him one glance and then bounced away beyond reach of his paw. Drani had to catch her and deliver her back to her father. He took her by the scruff and set her between his paws while Ratha watched. “No,” he said sternly. “No. You shouldn’t do that to the other cubs.”

She looked at him blankly and struggled to get free. When Shongshar put her back in the nursery, she promptly attacked another litterling and paid no attention to his scolding. It took a sharp cuff from Drani to free the victim, and the culprit was again delivered to her father.

“She’s not used to other cubs,” Shongshar said, with a faintly embarrassed look at Ratha. This time, he kept the cub in front of him, giving Ratha a good chance to study her closely. Her eyes were a gray-blue, with odd orange flecks. She was definitely larger and stronger than the other litterlings, but her stare was as flat and unfocused as that of a newborn whose eyes had just opened.

Ratha suspected that Shongshar couldn’t control her because she couldn’t understand his words. The only language she knew was that of growls and cuffs. She wasn’t surprised when Shongshar took his daughter by the nape and left the nursery. He reappeared a short time later and picked up the young male.

Ratha waited before she decided to go after Shongshar. He must know by now that his cubs will never bear names, she thought. Bira knows and she has cut herself off from them. He must do the same or leave clan ground.

The late afternoon sun had slipped behind a cloud and the rocks beneath her were starting to chill. Wearily she rose and left the nursery, seeking the path to Shongshar’s den, a trail her feet were coming to know too well.

He was there, lying across the entrance to the lair as if guarding the way in. Two spotted faces peered out over his back. He lifted his head, showing his profile, and his lip drew back to expose the length of his fangs. He did not look at her.

Ratha sat down, keeping her distance. She waited as the shadows of trees and bushes lengthened, spreading across the ground to the mouth of the den. Her own shadow crept with the others until it touched him.

The wind shifted, blowing his scent to her. She smelled the pungent odor of anger and the bitter acrid scent of despair. She rose and took one pace toward him. The orange glow in his eyes deepened and his nape lifted. Fear struck at her and she fought it aside.

“You have long fangs, Shongshar,” she said. “They could easily find my throat. Killing me would not change the truth about your litterlings.”

“It is not you I would kill, clan leader,” Shongshar answered in a low growl.

Ratha’s gaze hardened. “If you seek revenge on Bira, you are wrong. She is clan born. Had she taken someone other than you—”

“It is not Bira’s fault. I know that.”

Her fear eased, but she remained wary. “Bira will not return to these cubs. Now that you know what they are, you must abandon them and never think of them again.”

The little female started to climb over Shongshar’s back. He took her by the scruff, laid her down between his paws and began licking her, even though she smelled as though she had already been washed. Ratha sensed this was his answer.

At last he looked up at her and said, “I didn’t know how I would feel about my cubs when I made you the promise that gave me my name. I didn’t know how hard it would be.” His eyes added the accusation, You can’t know how hard it is, clan leader.

Her belly ached for him in his sorrow. “You think I ask you to give up your cubs without knowing the bitterness of it?” she asked. He had begun licking the female cub again, but he stopped and laid a paw over her.

“I will tell you something,” Ratha said to him. “I have told it to only one other among the Named. I bore a litter of cubs like yours. I took a male who came from outside the clan, like you. When I realized that my young were witless, I nearly went mad.” The words poured out of her as the memory came flooding back. “I attacked my mate and tried to kill one of the cubs. He drove me away. Later, he died. I don’t know what happened to the cubs; they are probably dead now.”

Shongshar lay, looking at her in silence while the shadows crept over his coat. His daughter squeaked and he hushed her. “So you know what this is like.” He nudged the cub, who gave Ratha a wide-eyed stare, then blinked and yawned.

Ratha found it difficult to keep her gaze steady. “Yes, I do,” she answered finally. “I’m … sorry.”

He looked away. “What must I do now if I choose to obey you?”

“Take the cubs far away from clan ground and leave them. Or, if you choose not to obey me, you may leave the clan tonight and take them with you.” She paused, letting him absorb her words. “I will return to your den tomorrow morning. Either way, if you stay or leave, the cubs must be gone.”

“And if I choose to go?”

Ratha swallowed. “Then we will lose the best fire-tender we have ever trained. Your name will be given to the eldest male in the next litter that is born and you will again be the orange-eyed one among the Un-Named.”

She got up. The shadows were fading with the coming twilight. “Despite everything, I wish you well, Shongshar,” she said and hoped he couldn’t see how she had begun to tremble.

She suddenly wanted to be with someone who could give her comfort, or at least some understanding and companionship. Thakur, she thought, I need you. I know we have disagreed, but don’t turn away from me now … please don’t turn away …

The desire to see the herding teacher became an overwhelming hunger that sent her flying down the darkened trail in search of him.

“Watch out, clan leader!” came a familiar voice out of the dusk; she saw a pair of green eyes ahead on the trail. Ratha stopped so fast to avoid a collision that she skidded on wet leaves and fell on her side. Her breath burning in her throat, she hauled herself to her feet.

She forgot her embarrassment and her soggy flank as Thakur’s voice and scent reached her. The green eyes blinked. Another, smaller pair glowed momentarily and Ratha made out the shape of the treeling’s face between the outline of Thakur’s ears.

The herding teacher came forward to touch noses with her. “Where were you going in such a hurry?”

“To find you,” Ratha gulped. “You were right about Shongshar. Bira’s cubs are witless. You were right and I didn’t listen,” she cried. “Oh, I wish I had!”

Thakur was quiet for a while and his silence tore at her in a way worse than angry words could. When she thought she couldn’t bear it any longer, he said, “Come with me to my den. We’ll talk there.”

Gratefully she padded after him until they reached his lair. He stood aside to let her in and then followed.

“I knew Bira had abandoned her litter,” he said as she curled up with the earthen wall of the den against her back. The rich smell of soil and leaf-mold mixed with his scent made her feel better.

“Their eyes are empty,” she said, feeling her voice growing steadier. “I know. I looked at them.”

“There is no chance that you are mistaken?”

“How could I be wrong, when my own cubs were like that? I’ll never forget my daughter’s eyes. I imagine Bira won’t forget hers either.” Her voice was heavy with self-accusation.

“She’ll get over it, in time. You did.”

Ratha laid her head on her paws. “I did until seeing Shongshar’s cubs brought it all back.”

“What have you told Shongshar?”

“I reminded him of his promise to me and gave him the choice of abandoning his cubs in order to stay, or taking them with him and leaving the clan.”

“Can he take them?” Thakur asked.

“I think so. They were still nursing, but Fessran was starting to feed them chewed meat. He can’t give them milk, but he can chew meat for them.”

She heard the soft sound of the herding teacher’s tail brushing the ground as he curled it around himself. “When does Shongshar have to make the choice?”

“I said I would come to his den tomorrow. If the cubs are still there, I suppose I will have to take charge of them myself.” She sighed unhappily at the thought of that possibility.

She heard an odd shuffling noise and then Thakur saying softly, “Go on, little friend. She knows you. She won’t hurt you.”

She felt the treeling’s paws on her hind foot and held still as Aree hopped up onto her leg and walked up her flank to her back, where he began grooming her fur. Aree’s touch was so gentle and careful that she wondered if the treeling knew she was upset.

“The longer I have Aree, the more I think he knows what I’m feeling,” said Thakur, and his voice was warm with affection for the treeling. “He doesn’t speak, but he seems to say things with his paws.”

“He is very gentle. I hope he doesn’t mind that I’m a bit wet.” Ratha felt her tenseness seeping away and stretched her mouth wide in a great yawn. “I just had a funny thought.”

“What?”

“Aree grooms me the way you would if you had his clever little paws. Maybe he’s got some of you in him.”

“Perhaps,” said Thakur softly. “Do you feel better?”

“A little. I wish he could groom out all my bad feelings along with the ticks and the fleas.”

“Not even a treeling can do that.”

Ratha drew in her breath and let it out in a huge sigh, lifting the treeling up on her ribs and letting him sink down again.

“Are you thinking about tomorrow?” Thakur asked, after he had been quiet awhile.

“Yes. I hope Shongshar’s cubs are gone when I reach the den. I’ll still have to face Fessran and tell her what has happened, but I’d much rather do that than have to take them out and abandon them myself.”

“I’ll come with you, if you want.”

“I thought you were angry with me,” she said, surprised.

“Not any more.” He paused. “If you do have to take the cubs, you can’t carry both of them at once.”

“Thakur, you don’t have to,” Ratha answered, ashamed and grateful at the same time. “This is my responsibility.”

“The responsibility belongs to all of us,” he said as Aree finished cleaning Ratha’s fur and climbed down from her back. She felt warmed, comforted and ready to sleep. Perhaps she would be able to face the coming day after all, she thought.

For a while after Thakur and Ratha returned to clan ground, he noticed that she was unusually subdued and did not appear among the Named any more often than she had to. She spent much time in her den, her head resting on her paws, her eyes staring ahead at nothing.

“It would have been no easier for me if Shongshar had taken his cubs out and abandoned them,” she muttered in response to Thakur’s gentle questioning. “It was I who allowed him into the clan to sire those cubs and it was I who decided he must lose them. I wish I could forget that they were ever born, but I keep seeing those little faces before me.”

“You didn’t kill the cubs,” Thakur pointed out. “We chose a place for them where there is food and they will be safe.”

“Until the next hungry beast comes along. It doesn’t really matter. Shongshar thinks they are dead and so does everyone else who knew about them. Only you and I know that they may survive, at least for a little while.”

She sighed, laid her head back on her paws and stared away again, not noticing when Aree hopped up on her and began to groom her pelt. Thakur called the treeling back again, knowing that Ratha’s distress was something she would have to come to terms with by herself; he couldn’t help her. He wondered if the faces she saw in her waking dreams were those of Shongshar’s cubs or of her own lost young.

Gradually she came out of her lassitude, but whether she had resolved her feelings or just buried them, Thakur couldn’t tell. As much as he wanted to stay with her and comfort her, he had other duties that called him. The cubs in the spring litters were now old enough so that he would soon have to begin training some of them as herders.

The night winds had blown away the smoky haze and the morning was clear. Ratha lay atop the sunning rock and watched the dawn. She thought about the previous evening and the Firekeepers’ gathering. Her ears swiveled back and the tip of her tail twitched as she remembered what Fessran had done to the cubs.

There was no need to frighten them like that, she thought, nor to build such a large fire. A smaller one would have kept everyone warm. Her tailtip twitched again. But warmth wasn’t what Fessran wanted from the Red Tongue last night, she reminded herself.

Ratha hadn’t really meant to hide and watch in secret. She had been late and by the time she arrived, the flames of the gathering fire were leaping into the night sky. The Red Tongue’s roar concealed her footsteps and its acrid smoke hid her smell. She could hear Fessran speaking, however, and the Firekeeper’s words weren’t what she expected to hear. The mood of the group was unusually grim and tense, as if they were readying themselves to fight some enemy instead of welcoming the youngsters who were to be trained as Firekeepers. Even the small cubs had serious expressions on their faces, although a few just looked miserable.

She had stopped her approach, sensing that her presence would disrupt what was happening. For a while, she stood still, listening, torn between her wish to approach openly and her need to know more about this gathering. At last, with a pang of regret for her choice, she circled downwind, through the billowing smoke, and found a place behind the sunning rock where she could watch and listen without being noticed.

The sunning rock. She had been there last night and she was here again. If she leaned over the edge and looked down, she knew she would see her own pugmarks in the dirt where she had crouched beside the base of the stone. If she looked the other way, she would see the freshly turned soil mixed with ash where the Firekeepers had buried the remains of the bonfire. This morning, she had squatted there and watered the place before climbing onto the sunning rock, taking some satisfaction in that small act of possession. She turned her back on the site, preferring to look out over the pasture to where the dapplebacks and three-horns grazed, with the herders tending them.

One thought remained in her mind, however, and it kept irritating her like a bone splinter between her teeth. The harshness of the Firekeepers’ test had startled her. Although she knew it was necessary to eliminate timid cubs from those who were to be trained, Ratha found herself disliking Fessran’s method. The idea was so uncharacteristic of her friend that she wondered if someone else, such as Shongshar, had suggested it.

“Ptahh!” Ratha spat, disgusted with herself. “You know better than that. If anyone has her own ideas about things, Fessran does.” Yet, as she thought about the Firekeeper leader, she felt uneasy. Fessran had been a staunch friend and her only ally when she had first taken the Red Tongue before the clan. She had rewarded her by giving her the keeping of this new and awesome creature. It was an honor, but it was also a burden, and Ratha had hesitated before she placed it on her friend.

Often Ratha had watched a fly land on the fresh meat of a kill, knowing that one small insect could lay enough eggs to fill the carcass with maggots and taint the meat. Last night she had admitted to herself that the Red Tongue had its own taint, and she was beginning to think that even the stubborn herder who had been made Firekeeper leader was not immune to it.

As she lay there with her thoughts, she heard a rustle in the grass. She pulled her feet underneath her, crouched and faced out in the direction of the sound. Soon she saw Thakur trotting toward the sunning rock with his treeling on his back. He didn’t look up and he kept his steady pace, as if he meant to pass by on his way to the meadow’s far side.

As he drew near, he swung away from his path and made a small detour that took him near the buried ashes of the bonfire. Again, Ratha could tell that he meant only to glance at the site and trot on, but suddenly he stopped, sniffed and wrinkled his nose. He paced across the ash-flecked soil until he smelled her mark, where she had watered the buried ashes. He grimaced and looked up at the sunning rock.

She felt uncomfortable at having given in to that earlier impulse. Now she had told Thakur, in a way that no words could, how she felt about the Firekeepers’ gathering.

“So you were there and you didn’t like it either,” he said at last.

Either? Ratha narrowed her eyes at him. She flicked her tail, indicating that he should jump up beside her. When he was there and settled, she said, “I see I wasn’t the only one who hid and watched.”

“I didn’t think a herder would be welcome in that group, and I was right,” Thakur answered. “You, clan leader?”

“I might have been welcomed, but my presence would have made Fessran think again about frightening those cubs the way she did.”

She could see that Thakur’s next words were chosen carefully. In a quiet voice, he said, “You can forbid another gathering like that.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “Forbid it? Just because Fessran built the fire too large and scared some of the cubs? They were too young for such a thing anyway.”

“Ratha, I know you well enough to tell how you feel about something. Your words may not tell me, but your mark on those buried ashes does.”

“Arr,” she said, feeling foolish. “I was in a bad mood when I did that.”

“And Fessran had nothing to do with your bad mood?”

“All right,” Ratha snapped. “She did. But let me tell you this: I may not like how she does things, but what she does works. She told me to make Shongshar a Firekeeper and she was right. We are no longer losing guard-fires because the Firekeepers are too timid. The herdbeasts are safer than they have ever been. That is what is important to me. Fessran has done well and I am not going to interfere with her, so you can dig a hole and bury that idea.”

She thought Thakur would lose patience with her, but he only twitched his ears back and then let them come forward again. His eyes held suppressed excitement, as if he had something to tell her but hadn’t found the opportunity until now. “Suppose I were to show you another way to master the Red Tongue, a way that doesn’t require that cubs have their whiskers singed in order to prove themselves.”

She looked at Thakur as he sat there with the treeling on his back. Aree added his gaze to Thakur’s and the combination of the two stares made her feel uncomfortable.

“You haven’t found such a way … or have you?”

“Just follow me, clan leader,” he said and jumped down from the sunning rock.

Ratha didn’t catch up with him until he was halfway to the farthest guard-fire. She heard him mutter, “Good. Bira hasn’t given up on me yet,” and he sprinted ahead, leaving her behind once again.

By the time she arrived, he was speaking with Bira. The young Firekeeper gave a start when she saw Ratha and looked back at Thakur as if asking for reassurance.

“You can go,” he said. “Don’t worry. It’s all right.”

Ratha watched the yawning Firekeeper trot away, her tail swinging. She noticed that Bira had left Thakur plenty of wood, although the guard-fire was starting to burn low. The wood was in two piles: a large one, carelessly stacked, and a small one that looked like kindling laid for a new fire.

“She shouldn’t leave without kicking dirt on the guard-fire and burying the ashes,” Ratha said, with a disapproving glance after Bira.

“She knows her duty. I asked her to leave the fire for me. She does that for me every morning. Fessran doesn’t know,” he added.

“Hmph,” Ratha growled. “You should have asked her.”

Thakur ignored her. “All right, Aree,” he said to his tree-ling, “let’s show Ratha what you’ve been learning.”

She heard several clicking sounds and had no idea where they had come from until she saw Thakur’s jaw move slightly. Aree hopped down from the herding teacher’s shoulder and bounded over to the large woodpile. He selected a slender branch that he could hold in one paw and returned to Thakur.

He gave Ratha a grin. She glowered back at him, unimpressed. “All right. He can get wood. That will save the Firekeepers some work.”

Thakur clicked his teeth again and gave a soft hiss. Aree held up the branch and curled his ringed tail as if asking a question. The herding teacher snapped his jaws together again and Aree, to Ratha’s horror and amazement, scampered directly toward the fire.

Her legs acted as fast as her mind did. She was halfway to the treeling when she was suddenly flattened by someone pouncing on top of her. Only the knowledge that it was Thakur kept her from flipping onto her back and raking his belly, and even so she was tempted.

She tried to get up again, but he held her down. He was looking not at her, but at the treeling. “Go on, Aree. It’s all right. She didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“What are you trying to do? Make Aree jump into the Red Tongue?” she hissed.

“No. Watch,” said Thakur’s voice in her ear. When she stayed still, he got off her and stood alongside.

Aree approached the fire carefully and laid the stick among the coals. When the branch caught, the treeling pulled it out and held it up with the Red Tongue blossoming at the end. Gripping the branch with both paws, Aree shuffled over to Thakur and placed it between his open jaws. Gently Thakur closed his mouth, being careful of the little fingers near his teeth.

Ratha watched in amazement. It was not so much the act itself that drew her attention but the ease with which Aree performed it. It was evident to her at once that the treeling’s paws were much better suited to this task than the clumsy jowls of even the bravest Firekeeper.

Thakur growled deep in his throat and opened his jaws. Aree took the lighted brand and placed it back in the fire. Ratha began to get up.

“Wait. He’s not finished yet,” said Thakur. Again he clicked his teeth and again Aree scampered away to the woodpile. This time the treeling came bounding back on all fours, his ringed tail wound around another stick. He looked up and cocked his head at Thakur with solemn black eyes on each side of his banded muzzle.

“All right, you can do it that way if you want,” said Thakur good-naturedly, as if the treeling understood him. He clicked his teeth and made the same hiss as Ratha had heard before. The treeling went to the fire, took the stick from his tail into its paws, and lit the end as he had done before. He held up the small torch to Thakur. The herding teacher left his place and sat beside the pile of kindling.

The treeling inclined his head at him again. “Come on, Aree. I showed you how to do it,” he said, leaning forward to coax his companion. After some hesitation, Aree held the torch firmly and shuffled to the pile of kindling. He seemed a little confused about what to do next and Thakur bent down, nudging the treeling’s elbow with his nose.

Aree crouched in front of the kindling and poked the lighted brand between carefully laid sticks. The treeling took care not to disturb the arrangement and soon a second small fire was crackling happily beside the first.

Thakur made a purring sound. Aree’s eyes brightened and he dashed over to his teacher to receive a reward of licks and nuzzles. He scrambled up Thakur’s back and perched there happily, winding his long ringed tail around Thakur’s neck.

Ratha’s jaw hung open until the wind began to dry her tongue. At last she recovered her voice. “How did you teach him to do that?” she asked.

“The same way I have always taught the cubs herding. When they do something right, I praise them. When they don’t, I correct them, and when they are confused, I show them what to do by doing it myself. Aree was already curious about the Red Tongue and I encouraged him.”

“And you were careful to make sure he didn’t hurt himself. Even so, I didn’t know treelings could be so clever. You know that most of the Firekeepers can’t light a pile of kindling without knocking it flat. The Red Tongue dies and then they have to set the wood up all over again.”

Thakur began kicking dirt on the guard-fire and Ratha helped him bury the ashes. The second fire they knocked apart with their paws and scattered the smoking tinder.

“Well, clan leader?” he asked when they were done.

“Yes!” Ratha said eagerly. “Keep training him. I’ll tell Fessran to make you a nest for the fire-creature near your den.”

She thought that would please him, but instead a shadow passed across his face, darkening his green eyes. “I’d rather use Bira’s guard-fire,” he said.

“You don’t want to show Fessran what Aree can do?”

“No. Not yet,” Thakur said and quickly added, “Aree needs more teaching. You saw how I had to help him. He should be able to do it all himself.”

She suspected that he had another reason for wishing to delay, but she decided not to press him. Soon he left to teach his herding pupils and she went back to the sunning rock, feeling more at ease than she had all morning.

The face of the sunning rock was lit with orange as Ratha emerged into the night meadow. Against it, she could see the forms of the assembled Firekeepers, and in front of it, someone paced back and forth. Ratha could hear the drone of a voice mixed in with the hiss and roar of the bonfire.

Irritation stung her and quickly turned to anger. The Firekeepers were meeting again without her permission and without her knowledge. Again they had built the nest for their overfed fire right at the base of her sunning rock.

Too angry to feel unwelcome, Ratha galloped across the meadow and pushed her way through the gathered torchbearers until she faced the firelit form in front. She felt the warning touch of fear when she realized that it was Shongshar, not Fessran.

She looked for the Firekeeper leader and found her sitting off to the side. Her eyes were narrowed and cold, but suddenly they opened and a false welcoming expression forced itself onto Fessran’s face. That look on the face of one who had been a friend made Ratha’s belly twist and she looked away.

She turned instead toward the others and saw Bira sitting behind Khushi, crouching as if she wanted to hide. Nyang was in front of the crowd, gazing at Shongshar with a rapt expression and adoration glowing in his eyes. Someone else also sat in front, someone she had not expected to see.

The herder Shoman turned and stared at her, his eyes filled with uncertainty. Slowly he lowered his head and began to lick his foreleg. The motion drew Ratha’s gaze to his leg. She saw an ugly red streak that oozed and glistened in the orange light.

“Clan leader.” Fessran rose to break the tension that Ratha’s arrival had brought. “I am glad you have come. I was going to send Nyang to fetch you.”

Ratha ignored her. “Why is Shoman here? What happened to his leg?”

“Ask him,” said Shongshar and looked toward Shoman.

The herder answered, “I … was warming myself by the herders’ fire. There were no Firekeepers there. I tried to give the Red Tongue more wood, but it grew angry and hurt me.”

“You have done wrong, Shoman,” said Fessran severely. “Only the Firekeepers may tend the Red Tongue. You should have gone and fetched one of us.”

“Why is he here?” Ratha demanded. “If he has done wrong, let Cherfan punish him since he is a herder, not a Firekeeper.”

“He has come to make amends,” answered Fessran. “He agreed to come and show the cubs what can happen if the fire-creature is angered by carelessness.”

Ratha looked again at Shoman. He crouched, huddled, nursing his leg and grimacing in pain. His glance was furtive and resentful. Fear flitted across his face as he caught Shongshar’s gaze; she knew he hadn’t come here by choice.

“All right!” she cried, suddenly sickened. “The cubs have seen enough. Shoman, go to Thakur and have your wound tended.”

Shoman slunk off into the darkness, limping. The look he gave Ratha was still heavy with resentment, but there was a strange tinge of relief in his eyes.

“We are glad you have come, clan leader,” said Fessran. “You have seen with your own eyes the danger the Red Tongue presents to herders, who are not trained to care for it properly.”

Ratha waited, trying not to twitch her tail. Fessran eyed her and continued, “As leader of the Firekeepers, I am asking you to forbid anyone to approach the Red Tongue unless one of us gives permission. This would prevent any of the herders from injuring themselves as Shoman did.”

“I am glad you are concerned about those who provide meat for the clan,” she answered, letting a little sarcasm creep into her voice. “However, I don’t think the herders would like it if they had to ask a Firekeeper for permission to warm themselves or see by the Red Tongue’s light.”

“Cubs do not like being forbidden to do dangerous things, but we must restrict them to keep them safe. Those who do not understand the fire-creature’s ways should not meddle with it,” said Fessran.

Ratha gathered her temper as she faced the Firekeeper leader. “Fessran, I understand your worry and I agree that there is some danger, but I wish to hear from the herders themselves before I make any decisions.”

“That is reasonable, clan leader,” Fessran answered.

Those who do not understand the fire-creature’s ways should not meddle with it. Ratha turned to the group, repeating Fessran’s words silently in her mind. Did that include Thakur and his treeling as well as ignorant herders?

She surveyed the gathering, looking briefly into each face, as if she could find an answer there. Some of the Firekeepers answered her gaze directly, some held hidden defiance and others were uncertain or afraid.

“All of you know the herding teacher Thakur and the treeling he carries on his back,” said Ratha. “Some of you were at the gathering where he showed us how Aree could tend the fire-creature.” She looked meaningfully at each one of them. “I have just spoken with Thakur. The treeling is gone. We can find no trace of him. I came here to ask if anyone has seen him or knows where he might be.”

“When did this happen?” Fessran said, and Ratha heard honest concern in her voice.

“This evening. He had to leave Aree in his den while he went to get thornwood. He says he wasn’t gone long and when he came back, Aree had vanished. Does anyone know where the treeling is?”

The Firekeepers looked at each other and muttered negatives. Ratha waited.

“Perhaps the tree-creature ran away and returned to his own kind,” said Shongshar, after a long silence.

“That is possible, but Thakur and I don’t think so.”

Fessran crossed in front of the fire and sat down beside Shongshar. “Poor Thakur. He really liked that queer little animal. I didn’t think that he should have taught the creature how to play with the Red Tongue, but I didn’t want Thakur to lose him.” She thought for a moment. “I suppose you are wondering why he disappeared this evening, since we were to see him perform again tomorrow.”

Fessran’s gaze softened and Ratha felt less irritated with her, although she could not allow her suspicion to relax. Either Fessran knew nothing about Aree’s disappearance or she was good at deceit.

“Yes, I was wondering about that,” Ratha admitted.

“I tell you honestly that I knew nothing about it until you came to this gathering. I don’t think Shongshar knew either.” She turned to her companion. “You were with me all day, so there was no way you could have known until Ratha told us.”

“I did not know, clan leader,” Shongshar said, but Ratha found it difficult to tell whether truth was hiding behind his orange gaze. Fessran had begun to pace back and forth, her tail shaking with indignant anger.

Ratha wondered if she was outraged because Thakur’s treeling had been taken or because her Firekeepers were under suspicion.

“Hear me, torchbearers!” Fessran cried. “What has been done to Thakur is a shameful thing. I have disagreed with him, but he is my friend. If any of you have had a part in this or have knowledge that you are concealing, come forward now.”

She strode up and down in front of them, glowering at them. No one moved, except Bira, who shivered.

“Then you are all innocent,” said Fessran in a low voice. “If I am wrong and someone is hiding his guilt, then may the Red Tongue burn in his throat until his tongue falls from his mouth in cinders!”

Ratha felt her breath catch in her own throat. For a moment the Firekeeper leader looked like the old Fessran, the friend who had fought beside her against the old clan leader and whose fierce love and loyalty had sustained her during the chaotic days after Meoran’s death.

I have no right to judge you, Fessran, she thought suddenly. We have both changed more than we wished.

Fessran came to Ratha and looked her directly in the face. “Neither I nor any of the Firekeepers have done such a shameful thing,” she said. “You must accept that as truth, clan leader.”

“If I can,” Ratha answered softly as she turned to go.

Ferns stroked Ratha’s side as she padded through them and along the mossy bed beside the streambank. She startled a frog and heard it plunk into the clear water. Above her, scattered trees spread their branches toward each other across the creek. When the breeze died, she could hear the soft splash of a waterfall that lay farther up the trail.

She was following the little creek up from the meadow to its source in the hills, something she often did when she wandered alone with no destination and a wish for only her own company. She thought wistfully that she would like to have taken Thakur along, but he was busy teaching this morning. His unhappiness over the loss of his treeling would have made him a poor companion anyhow. There was not much she could do to cheer him up; she had already tried. Eventually he would forget his grief, but it would take time.

She felt a little angry with him for retreating into sorrow when she was most in need of his help and support. There was no one she could talk to now. She thought briefly of unburdening herself to Fessran, but their friendship had grown too uncertain. The Firekeeper leader had found a new loyalty, one that was pulling her away from her old ties.

Since the accident, the herders had shunned Bundi, for they viewed his scars as a mark of the Red Tongue’s displeasure. The cub, whose awkwardness had made him shy, was becoming bitter and lonely, and the look in his eyes was that of someone much older. The only herder who would work with him now was Shoman, whose leg also bore marks of the Red Tongue’s wrath and who suffered the same hostility as Bundi.

There was little Ratha could do about the herders’ rejection of the injured pair except to demand that it not be shown in her presence.

The trail began to slope upward and Ratha followed it, listening to the sound of the waterfall as it echoed through the trees. Something made her stop and look upward, and she felt suddenly as if she were being watched.

She looked back down the trail and sniffed the breeze that ruffled her fur. No one was behind her. After waiting for a moment, she lowered her head and went on.

A rustle in the branches overhead stopped her again and she peered suspiciously up into the canopy. A small brown head with a banded muzzle appeared through the leaves a short distance above her head. It stared at her with round black eyes.

“Aree?” it said.

Ratha stared back. Her mouth opened and her jaw sagged until she was gaping. “Aree? Have I really found you?”

The treeling yawned at her and scratched himself. He leaned down to peer at Ratha, extending his long ringed tail for balance. Then, as if satisfied, he ambled along the branch and climbed down into the crotch of the tree.

At first Ratha thought she had made a mistake. This creature was a bit larger and considerably rounder than Thakur’s treeling. Then she saw the crooked rear leg. Unless another treeling had also managed to break its leg in exactly the same place, this one had to be Aree.

Ratha talked softly to the treeling, trying to coax him down, but Aree seemed shy and unsure. He would start to climb down, then hesitate and scramble back up to his perch.

“Come on, Aree. You know who I am. You used to groom my fur. It needs grooming now,” she said and started to purr.

Aree was never afraid of me once he got used to me. He used to jump all over me. I wonder what has made him so shy.

The treeling started to groom himself, nuzzling the bulge of his belly. His? Aree was obviously a female and had found a mate.

“Thakur will have to get used to thinking of you as a she,” Ratha said, grinning. “He’ll also have to get used to all your little cubs, when you have them.”

Aree cocked her head and curled her tail at Ratha, but wouldn’t budge from the tree no matter how loud she purred. Ratha was starting to worry when she remembered the command Thakur had used to call the treeling to him.

She drew in her breath, gave a short hiss and clicked her teeth twice. Aree’s eyes brightened. The treeling launched herself from the tree, bounced to the ground and then up onto Ratha’s back. She rubbed her cheek against Ratha and was answered with nuzzles and licks. The creature took her place on Ratha’s shoulder and wound her tail around Ratha’s neck.

When she was sure Aree would stay on her back, she turned around and trotted down the trail to the meadow, eager to find Thakur.

As she drew close and heard the sound of cubs’ voices, she hesitated. Carrying Aree out into the open sun of the meadow might not be the best idea. If Thakur’s young pupils saw her with the treeling on her back, they would crowd around her with eager curiosity and might frighten Aree. If the treeling panicked and ran away, she would never be able to get her back again.

She left the trail before it led into the meadow and circled through the brush at the edge of the grass until she reached a leafy thicket. Here she was close enough to see and hear everything. The wind blew toward her and she caught the sweaty smell of dapplebacks and the eager nervous scents of the youngsters.

The cubs were watching as Thakur chased two dapplebacks across the meadow. The horses pounded in front of him, their manes flying. He raced after them, lithe and slim, yet powerful. With a sudden burst of speed, he caught up with the dapplebacks and dashed between them. It seemed as though he drove right under those flying heels, and Ratha forgot to breathe until she saw the horses separate with Thakur running between them.

The cubs also stood transfixed and Ratha imagined they were doubting whether they would ever be able to cut and drive dapplebacks the way he did. As a herder in training, she had practiced endlessly before she could attempt what he had just done. An instant of indecision or a false step could bring the herder down to be trampled beneath those sharp-toed feet.

Ratha saw Thakur jog to a stop. Ahead of him, the two horses slowed, grunting and snorting. These dapplebacks were more lively than the old mare he had been using; she guessed the cubs had reached a stage in their training where they could work a beast with more spirit.

Aree shifted on her back, reminding her why she had come here. She looked for the nearest cub and recognized Fessran’s younger son who was standing in the sparse shade near the edge of the grass.

“Sst! Khushi!” Ratha called, leaning out of her hiding place. The cub jumped and turned his head back over his shoulder.

“Sst! Over here. Quickly.”

Khushi blinked as he caught sight of her. With a quick look to either side, he galloped over to her thicket.

“Clan leader!” he said, his eyes large with surprise. “What are you doing, hiding in the bushes?”

“Never mind that,” she said, trying to keep enough leaves over her head to conceal the treeling. “Go get your teacher. Tell him that I have something for him.”

Khushi eyed her doubtfully. “Clan leader, he’s really grumpy today. If I interrupt him, he’ll chew my ears and they’re already pretty ragged.”

“I have something for him that will help his temper,” she answered. At that instant Aree chose to poke her head through the leaves and Khushi’s eyes got bigger than ever. “Oooh!”

Ratha ducked farther back in the thicket. “I’ve got Thakur’s lost friend. Hurry up and get him, or I’ll chew your ears!”

With a gasp, Khushi took off and scampered across the grass to where Thakur was supervising the other cubs as they rounded up the two dapplebacks. Khushi had to tug at Thakur’s tail to get the herding teacher’s attention and Ratha saw him duck an irritated swipe. But the cub was persistent and at last Thakur left his pupils with the dapplebacks and crossed the grass to Ratha’s hiding place.

“Ratha?” he called crossly. “Khushi said you were here. Where …?”

She was lifting her foot over a low branch when Aree gave a joyful squeal and sprang over her head. She had forgotten to unwind her tail completely from around Ratha’s neck. Suddenly unbalanced, Ratha spilled out onto the grass and landed on her front.

She looked up, dazed and half-choked. Aree hung between the two of them, suspended by the tail, with her arms around Thakur’s neck. She was rubbing her cheek against his and cooing as if she would never stop. Thakur looked as taken aback as Ratha was. His jaw sagged open against the tree-ling’s arm and he stared at Ratha in complete bewilderment for an instant.

Then his drooping whiskers sprang up and his ears perked. His disbelief quickly gave way to delight.

“Aree!” he cried as the treeling loosed her tail from Ratha’s neck and hugged him with her legs and arms. “Aree, you’re really back! Oh how I’ve missed you, you little flea-picker! You can eat fruit on my back all day long and dribble and I’ll never complain, just as long as you stay.”

Ratha picked herself up and smoothed the rumpled fur on her breast. “And not a word of thanks to the brave clan leader who risked paws and tail to bring this unpredictable creature back to you?” she said hoarsely, adding a cough for effect.

“He didn’t hurt you badly, did he?” Thakur asked, wrinkling the fur on his brow. She sat up stiffly. “She”—Ratha paused—“nearly choked me to death. The next time you lose your treeling, the clan may need another leader.”

Thakur eyed Aree with astonishment. “You’re right. He’s a she and soon there will be more of them.”

“If Aree’s cubs prove to be as clever as she is, then we’ve solved Fessran’s problem, haven’t we?” Ratha grinned at Thakur.

“If I can train all her young ones. I don’t know how I’m going to teach herding and cope with a whole treeling family at the same time,” he added with mild dismay.

“When the time comes, I’ll help you,” Ratha offered. Then she explained how she had found the treeling, and how the creature had stayed in the tree until she hissed and clicked her teeth. “I don’t know why Aree was so afraid of me. She used to enjoy grooming my fur,” she said, puzzled.

Thakur had been nosing the treeling and licking her coat. He paused, went back over a spot he had licked before and carefully spread the treeling’s fur with his tongue and teeth.

“Look,” he said, his voice indistinct. Ratha peered at Aree’s back. On the treeling’s skin she saw two bright pink lines side by side. They were half-healed claw marks.

“Now we know that she didn’t just run off on her own,” Ratha said at last. “Someone chased her.”

“And nearly caught her,” Thakur added, his voice grim. Aree shook herself and smoothed her fur. “You were too fast for Shongshar, weren’t you, little tree-climber?”

“So you think it was Shongshar,” she said in a low voice.

“Yes. There is no one else who had as good a reason for getting rid of Aree. He’s convinced that the only way to master the Red Tongue is by strength and fierceness. My Aree proved that there is another way. If the Firekeepers listen to me, they will no longer believe Fessran and Shongshar. Fessran might be willing to change, but not Shongshar.”

“What about Bundi’s accident?” Ratha asked.

Thakur’s eyes narrowed. “That is harder to explain. Shongshar and Bundi were like lair-brothers. Even now, I find it difficult to believe that he could deliberately hurt Bundi.”

“I found his pawprints at the edge of the firebed,” Ratha told him.

“That doesn’t prove anything. Shongshar could have been there earlier, helping to light the fire. No. I think it was Nyang who pushed Bundi.”

“Fessran’s son?” Ratha was startled by this suggestion, but the more she thought about it, the more it made sense. “Yes. Nyang would do anything to please Shongshar. I have seen how that cub looks at him.”

“Yes, but we don’t have any evidence,” Thakur reminded her.

“You know me too well, herding teacher,” Ratha said, somewhat ruefully. “Until I can prove to myself that Shongshar and Nyang are guilty, I can’t punish them. If they are, they have covered their tracks well.”

“And you may not be able to unbury those tracks. I think we should look ahead on this trail, not back,” said Thakur. “Now that Aree has returned, we can continue training her with the fire.”

Ratha felt a slight twinge of uncertainty. “Do you think that’s really a good idea? I mean …” She faltered as he stared at her in surprise. “We aren’t sure what happened to Bundi, are we? It might have been the fire-creature itself that burned him.”

“Don’t tell me that you’ve been listening to that dappleback dung! It may be fit for frightening litterlings, but you have more sense.”

She hesitated, thinking about her dream. “I know, but sometimes I’m not sure. What happened to Bundi scared me.”

“It frightened others too. If Fessran had posted a Firekeeper to guard the herders’ fire before Bundi’s accident, the yowls would have set her fur on end. Now no one complains.”

“They’re glad,” said Ratha. “That also frightens me a little. I’m not sure what to do.”

“Help me work with the treelings,” Thakur suggested. “We can continue teaching Aree, and after her little ones are born, we can train them too.”

“Then Fessran won’t worry about having only one tree-ling,” said Ratha excitedly. “She may even decide to help us.”

“Maybe later, but for now we should keep this as secret as we can,” Thakur cautioned.

“Bring Aree to my den this evening, then. I’ll have a fire there. If we keep the Red Tongue small, it won’t be able to hurt her.”

“I will. I have to get back to my pupils now,” he added, glancing over to where several cubs stood watching him with their tails raised in curiosity.

Ratha stayed hidden long enough to be sure that Thakur could manage both Aree and the rambunctious cubs. When she was satisfied that he was in no danger of losing the creature again, she slipped away.

She decided to go and inspect the ground near Thakur’s den for any traces of footprints. The old ashes from the last fire Bira had built for him were still there and the site had been left alone. She might find some faint prints she had overlooked before.

On her way along the path that wound through scattered trees, she heard far-off splintering sounds and cracks. Soon a Firekeeper came hurrying along the trail, with kindling in his mouth. The sounds of breaking wood continued and another Firekeeper followed with a jagged piece of a dead log that he could barely get his jaws around.

Ratha looked after him with mild curiosity. Her interest became stronger when a third wood-carrier followed. As he disappeared, she heard the footsteps of yet another. Bira appeared with a mouthful of fragrant pine twigs. As she approached she ducked her head respectfully to Ratha, which made her drop several sticks. When she tried to retrieve them, she only lost more. She attempted to snag them with her claws and push them into her mouth with her pads, but finally she lost patience and unloaded the whole mouthfuL “I shouldn’t try to carry so many at once,” she said, spitting out pieces of gray bark, “but Fessran wanted us to hurry.”

“Where are you taking it?” asked Ratha. She gathered up some of the scattered twigs and placed them beside Bira’s pile of sticks.

“Oh, the wood isn’t for a gathering fire,” Bira said quickly. “Fessran’s found a cave beside the waterfall and we’re putting wood in there so it will stay dry during the rainy season.”

Ratha helped Bira get all the twigs secured between her teeth and the young Firekeeper trotted away with a grateful wave of her tail.

Ratha stared up the path, thinking. Fessran hadn’t told her about a cave for storing wood. It sounded sensible enough, although there was no need to hurry; the rainy season wouldn’t start for a long time. I think I’ll just follow Bira up there and look around.

She took the same trail she had taken that morning and soon passed the place where she had found Aree. She saw that her pugmarks had been wiped away under the feet of the Firekeepers who had passed this way. A stray pine twig told her that Bira hadn’t managed to hold onto all her load.

She wondered how long they had been doing this and whether they had stopped when she took the path earlier. She had noticed that the trail beside the creek looked a little more worn than usual, and there were more smells about.

The creek trail ran between great trees whose charred rough bark spoke of the Red Tongue’s passing. Farther on, the path wound around outcroppings of coarse-grained stone that had weathered and crumbled to form a white gravel that crunched beneath her pads. The grade became steep, and by the time she reached the huge granite slab that lay at the base of the waterfall, she was panting slightly.

Ratha stood, letting the wind-blown spray cool her as she studied the tumbled boulders near the foot of the cliff. She tensed as something moved in the shadows. It took form, becoming a head and forelegs. A Firekeeper emerged from a cleft between the rocks. He was so intent on his work that he did not see her, and he soon disappeared out of sight down the trail she had just climbed up.

She threaded her way through the scattered rockfalls until she reached the cleft. She was about to enter when she heard voices echoing inside. Quickly she backed off. One of the voices was Fessran’s. The other, louder one was Shongshar’s.

“I really think we should have told her before we started.” Fessran sounded querulous. “It’s obvious that this will benefit the rest of the clan, not just our Firekeepers.”

“And suppose she doesn’t see it that way,” Shongshar hissed, and the echo from the rock walls added menace to the voice that carried to Ratha. “Suppose she treats this as she has treated our gatherings, showing little respect for us and the fire-creature we serve.”

“She won’t, Shongshar. I …”

Fessran’s voice faltered and Ratha knew a stray breeze had wafted her scent into the cavern. When the Firekeeper leader came out her face had an odd, tight look as if she were angry but was afraid to lose her temper. Shongshar followed her and fixed Ratha with his strange unreadable gaze. He had changed so much in the time since he had given up his witless young that she no longer knew what to expect from him.

“I was told you were storing wood up here,” she said briskly, not looking at either one of them. “That is a good idea. I would like to see how much you have gathered.”

“Not very much. Why don’t you come back later when we have sorted and stacked it?” Fessran said, with a glance at Shongshar.

“Then show me the cave,” Ratha said flatly, making sure they knew this was no longer a request.

Silently Shongshar turned his gray bulk around and led the way in. Ratha went after him and heard Fessran following. She expected to have to use her whiskers while her eyes adapted to the gloom, but she found that the low tunnel was lit by a faint wavering light.

Her ears caught a soft, steady roar that grew louder as they traveled farther into the cavern. The light grew stronger, making Shongshar into a gray-brown shadow ahead of her and tinting Fessran’s eyes with a ruddy glow.

The sound grew louder still. Ratha, following Shongshar, found herself in a larger cave whose roof arched away into shadow. Crystal-flecked pillars reflected the fierce orange light from the fire that burned in the center of the cavern.

Ratha felt her fur rise. She had been in caves before, but they had been lighted only by the soft phosphorescence of slimy plants that grew on their walls. She had sensed the vastness and emptiness of those underground caverns only by the echoes that reached her ears or by the clammy breeze that seemed to come from the depths of the earth. Now, with the fire’s light, she could examine an entire chamber.

Pillars of rough limestone reared up until they were lost in the shadows that played on the roof of the cave. Fang-shaped stones rose from the floor to guard the entrances to other chambers deeper in the rock, whose ageless emptiness seemed to seep into the cave in which she stood.

She looked around in awe, feeling small and fearful amid the ominous majesty of the great cavern. Against the base of a pillar, the Firekeepers had begun piling kindling. The wood looked untidy and out of place against the fire-jeweled pillar. There were a few Firekeepers in the rear of the chamber; Ratha had not noticed them at first, since they blended into the moving shadows cast by the Red Tongue.

The cave itself was not the only awesome thing. Ratha felt her gaze drawn almost unwillingly to the fire. Its sound filled the chamber and its light danced on the pillars and the walls. Here, its presence was overwhelming and shadowed everything else. Here, its power was contained and strengthened. Here was a place where the Red Tongue ruled.

Again Ratha remembered her dream, and she could almost see the coal-red eyes of the dream creature forming in the fire’s heart. She fought fear with anger, turning suddenly on Fessran.

“Why have you brought the fire in here?” she demanded. “I thought this was to serve only as a place for keeping wood.”

It was not Fessran but Shongshar who answered. “Our Firekeepers find it difficult to see when they come in from daylight. We have lighted the cave so they can see where to place their wood. Surely you see the sense in doing so, clan leader.”

Despite herself, Ratha had to agree that his reason was valid. She felt frustrated at being unable to find an explanation for the sense of uneasiness that clawed at her belly. She asked more questions, but the answers all made sense, even though they didn’t satisfy her. Why had they picked such a large cavern? The smaller ones were above the falls and more difficult to reach. Why hadn’t they built the fire in the less spacious gallery that led to the cave? It was too damp and the wood must be kept dry.

At last Ratha said, “When you are finished gathering wood, you will no longer need the fire-creature in the cave. I want it taken out.”

“We will need it here when the rainy season comes,” Fessran protested.

“I will decide what to do when the rainy season comes. When you are finished stacking wood, you will take the Red Tongue out of here.”

“As you wish, clan leader,” Shongshar said in a low growl. Fessran looked as if she wanted to say something else, but remained silent.

Ratha found her way out of the cave. The bright day hurt her eyes, but she was suddenly grateful for the sunlight and blue sky. She breathed air made crisp by spray from the falls, shook herself and went back down the trail.

The task of gathering wood continued to go slowly and Ratha’s impatience grew. Each day that the fire burned in the cave seemed to add to the strength and influence of the Firekeepers. Every day that she was in the meadow, she would hear the herders talking about the cave-den of the Red Tongue. Some were bold enough to speak about visiting it, although none of them had, as far as she knew.

Midsummer passed and the green of the meadow grass turned to pale gold. The herdbeasts coughed in the dust raised by the dry wind. The little stream that flowed through the meadow shrank to a trickle and the herders began taking the animals to the river to water. The Firekeepers took great care in clearing the places where the guard-fires were lit, for a single spark could set the meadow aflame.

The Firekeepers’ task began drawing to an end at last. Even Fessran agreed with Ratha that enough dry wood had been stored to last through the longest rainy season. She was less agreeable about taking the Red Tongue out of the cave, and Ratha found, to her dismay, that not only the Firekeepers, but many of the herders wanted it kept there. Why protect only the Red Tongue’s food from the wind and rain? Did it make sense to do that while the fires that were the main source for lighting all the others were left ill-protected in shallow dens dug for them in the meadow? In a bad storm, the fire-lairs could flood. Why not keep a source-fire safe in the deep cave? Then the clan would never have to worry about losing the Red Tongue even in the fiercest of storms.

What angered Ratha most about this idea was that she had no good reason to reject it. The bristlemane attack during a rainstorm had showed her how vulnerable the herds could be if the Red Tongue failed. The argument was simple and obvious. At times she could almost convince herself to think about it that way.

But the shadow of her dream remained in her mind. She still saw the hunger of those coal-red eyes and heard the voice that was the rush of the flames. “Bare your throat to me, for I am the one who rules,” it had said and her terror had made her crouch and tremble, lifting her chin. Others of the Named would do so more willingly and knowing that frightened her in a way she could not understand.

Her belly knew the truth of her fear, but her tongue had no words to shape it. How could she hold the image of her dream-creature up before the clan as a reason to reject something that might be essential to the clan’s survival? She wondered if the danger she saw was only an illusion; that she was growing fainthearted and unwilling to take risks.

The heat of the afternoon lay heavily on her as she padded along the trail that led to Thakur’s den. She smelled the scent of summer leaves and of faded flowers whose centers were swelling into fruit. Once she would have stopped to let the smells fill her nose with the richness of the season, but now her cares pushed aside any enjoyment.

She found Thakur lying in the shade outside his lair. Aree was not perched in her usual place on his shoulder She sat huddled up against him. As Ratha approached, the treeling tried to curl herself up, but her pregnant belly kept her from doing much more than looping her long tail over her shoulder. She seemed restless and unable to get comfortable.

Ratha was so used to seeing Aree on Thakur’s back or the nape of his neck that the treeling looked odd sitting beside him.

Thakur caught her look. He raised his head and grinned at her. “Poor flea-picker is getting too bulgy to stay on my shoulder. She wobbled a lot this morning and I thought she was going to tumble off.”

“When will she have her cubs?”

“Tonight, I think. She’s been gathering fern leaves for a nest in the back of my lair and her smell has changed.”

Aree reached up on Thakur’s flank, grasped two handfuls of fur and heaved herself up onto him. She reached for his tail, which he obligingly curled across his leg where she could reach it. She began pulling out tufts of hair and bundled them together in her fingers.

“She found out I was still shedding a little and she likes the fur to line her nest,” Thakur explained.

“I hope she leaves you enough to cover your tail,” Ratha observed, as the treeling pulled out a large tuft of his fur.

“Ouch!” Thakur flicked his tail out of Aree’s reach. “All right, you’ve got plenty. You’d better go build your nest before you decide to have your cubs on top of me.”

“Aree!” agreed the treeling as she clambered off him and shuffled into the den, holding the wad of fur.

Thakur looked after her anxiously for a minute. “I’m glad you came,” he said to Ratha. “You know more about this than I do.”

“Me? I don’t know anything about treelings,” she protested.

“Yes, but you do know about having cubs.”

Ratha cocked her head at him. “I did it once. I don’t see how that is going to help.”

“Well, maybe not,” Thakur conceded. “At least you can tell me what she’s doing.”

Ratha expected that Aree would soon emerge from the den to gather more leaves or steal more fur. As the afternoon shadows lengthened and the treeling didn’t appear, Thakur began to get nervous.

“Maybe I should go and see if she’s all right,” he said, rolling to his feet. He crept inside until only his tail hung out. “She’s in the nest, on her side,” he called, his voice muffled. “She’s moving a little and making funny noises.”

Ratha poked her head in alongside his flank and listened. She could hear Aree breathing and every few breaths the treeling gave a soft grunt. Satisfied that everything sounded all right, Ratha withdrew from the lair and gave a tug on Thakur’s tail.

“Come out, herding teacher. You’re worse than a curious yearling at birthing time. The best thing you can do now is leave her alone.”

Thakur backed out of the den, his fur rumpled. “Anyone would think you had sired Aree’s cubs,” Ratha teased.

“Don’t hold it against me, clan leader,” he said wryly. “After all, this may be as close as I get to having a family of my own.”

She winced. “I’m sorry, Thakur. I didn’t mean to remind you.”

“Don’t be. I’ve become used to living with it,” he said. “I decided not to take the chance and, after seeing what happened to Shongshar’s cubs, I’m more convinced than ever.” He paused. “I don’t think you would want to have to abandon another litter, especially if I was their father.”

She stretched out with her hindquarters in the sun and the rest of her in the dappled shade. She laid her head on her paws and felt grateful to Thakur that he had the sensitivity to make himself absent during the time the females were in heat. By doing so, he freed her from having to make the painful decision: whether to exile him during the mating season or allow him to take a partner. She sighed. If only Shongshar had done the same!

“Thakur,” she said suddenly. “Do you think Shongshar’s cubs are still alive?”

It was a while before he answered. “I don’t think so. Why?”

“I wonder if I should have told him we didn’t kill them. If I had let him know where we left them, he might have been able to go and see them.” She lifted her head. “I didn’t tell him because I thought he might try to bring them back. Perhaps it would have been better had I trusted him.” She fell silent awhile and then asked softly, “Do you think it would do any good to tell him now?”

“No,” Thakur answered. “If there was a time that it would have done any good, that time is past. His grief has set him on a new trail and he has been on it too long.”

She sighed. “I wish I knew why Fessran listens to him.”

“She listens to him for the same reason you find it difficult to disbelieve his words: he understands the power of the Red Tongue and he knows how to use it.”

“I don’t know whether they are his words or Fessran’s. All I know is that they give me a feeling in my belly that I don’t like and I can’t do anything about it.”

He leaned closer, listening, and she felt her despair rising up again. “He is so clever! Everything he says or tells Fessran to say makes sense. He is right about sheltering the Red Tongue in the cave during the winter rains. He seems to think only of the safety of my people, but my belly tells me he has other reasons for what he does.”

“Your belly has been right before,” said Thakur.

“Yes, but my belly only had to persuade the rest of me that it was right. Persuading others is harder,” Ratha grumbled.

Thakur shifted so that he was farther into the sun and half-closed his eyes. Ratha was afraid he was going to drift off to sleep, but he opened his eyes and said, “The important thing is to show Fessran what treelings can do. She will see that there is another way to make use of the Red Tongue’s power. I think she listens to Shongshar because she thinks there is no way other than his.”

“Now that we will soon have more treelings, there is another way. I know we still have to train them and there may still be problems, but I think it will work.” She was about to say more when Thakur sat up and looked intently toward the lair.

“I hear Aree,” he said. “I think she wants me.”

Despite Ratha’s admonitions, he entered the den. She could only sigh and follow. When her eyes became accustomed to the dimness, she saw Thakur curled around the treeling’s nest. How he had done so without disturbing her, Ratha didn’t know, but Aree seemed to be pleased that he was there. The treeling wriggled herself close to him. He began to purr and she crooned softly to herself.

The blend of sounds soothed Ratha and made her drowsy. She laid her cheek against the hard-packed soil of the den floor and let herself drift. She was within the earth, as she had been in the Red Tongue’s cave, but here she felt sheltered and safe rather than afraid.

Daylight faded outside, but the moon rose, and she could see by the faint silvery light that filtered into the den. Aree grew restless again and Ratha heard her turning about inside her nest. Thakur’s half-closed eyes opened wide. Aree halted, crouched and seemed to shudder. She gave a deep grunt, a noise Ratha had never heard from a treeling before. She grunted again and began to pant.

“She’s pushing at me with her feet,” Thakur said. “Do you think she’s all right?”

“Yes. I made all sorts of strange noises when I was birthing my cubs. Let her push against you if she needs to.”

Ratha’s curiosity was suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of joyous excitement. This was the way she had felt when she knew that her first cub was pushing its way out from within her. Even the later knowledge that her litterlings were no more than animals couldn’t mar this first memory, and it came flooding back to her so that she began to pant eagerly along with Aree. It did not matter that these were treeling cubs rather than those of the Named; the wonder was still the same.

“Anyone would think you were birthing these litterlings,” Thakur teased gently.

Too excited to feel abashed, she peered into the nest, trying to see as much as she could. Aree gave an odd sort of heave and made a long grunt that was almost a growl.

“The first one’s coming, Thakur!” Ratha hissed. She heard Aree take a deep breath and growl again, and then there was something else in the nest, a shiny wriggling bundle that made tiny noises of its own. She saw the treeling’s eyes glint as the little mother curled around to lick her firstborn and free it from the birth-cord that still bound it to her body.

Ratha remembered the taste and feel of salty wet fur on her own tongue and the way the tiny thing mewed and writhed beneath her muzzle. She heard a surprisingly strong cry and then fast snuffling sounds as the newborn creature began to breathe.

Aree gathered her litterling to her and nursed it. She ate the afterbirth that soon followed and began to grunt again. The second treeling cub quickly followed its elder sibling and Aree lay against Thakur, cradling both little ones in her arms.

Several more arrived in the nest and Aree had to lie on her side to nurse them.

“I think she’s finished,” said Thakur after they had waited a long time for more treeling cubs to appear.

“I’m not surprised. Her litter is larger than any of ours.”

“How many are there?” asked Thakur. “I can’t see them all.”

“She has as many litterlings as you have paws,” said Ratha.

“That’s a clever way to think about it,” said Thakur, admiringly. “Whenever I want to know if I have all my herdbeasts together, I just smell them and I know which smells are missing. But we don’t know the treelings’ smells very well yet.”

“Until we do, just match them up with your paws. If you have a paw left over, then you know a little treeling is missing.”

She saw Thakur’s outline against the faintly moonlit wall of the den as he leaned over to nose his treeling. “Aree certainly doesn’t care how many there are. She’s happy.”

The sound of the treeling’s crooning filled the den. Soon Thakur joined in with a deep purr and Ratha found herself adding her own note. She wasn’t sure when his purr faded, for soon afterward, her own voice fell silent and she joined him in sleep.

It seemed that she had just closed her eyes when she was awakened by a nudge in the ribs. She rolled onto her back and blinked sleepily at Thakur. Brilliant morning sunlight lit the floor of the den near the entrance and the growing warmth promised a hot day.

“I have to go and teach my pupils, Ratha,” he said as he stepped over her, trailing his shadow. “Can you watch Aree and her litterlings until I get back?”

She yawned and shook her pelt, trying to rid herself of the sleepiness that still clung to her. She remembered the previous night’s events and came fully awake.

“How is Aree doing?” she asked.

“She just fed her litterlings again and they’re all asleep. They’re so tiny, but they already look fat.”

Ratha peered into the nest at the four balls of damp-fluffed fur curled up against the larger lump that was their mother. For a while, she lay with her chin resting on her crossed forepaws and watched the treelings sleep.

Later, she went outside to stretch her legs and keep watch. When she went in again to escape the full strength of the noon sun, she found Aree was awake and nursing two of her young while the others slept. She alternately dozed and watched the treeling family. Sometimes Aree would lie on her side and feed her little ones in the same manner as did the females of the Named. But often she nursed them in a different way, cradling them in her arms and holding them to her teats.

Ratha found this strange and endlessly fascinating. Aree seemed to know how to exchange her youngsters so that all got an equal share of milk, rather than having to fight their littermates for it as did the cubs of the Named. She became so absorbed that she didn’t notice the afternoon was passing until she smelled Thakur and heard his footsteps outside the den.

She was almost reluctant to give him back the duty of watching the treelings, but she also felt slightly guilty for hiding away where no one could find her.

Promising to return and look after the treelings the following morning, she gave Thakur a farewell nuzzle and trotted away. She took the trail leading back to the meadow and soon heard footsteps coming from the other direction. Ratha saw one of the herders approaching her. His steps were quick and purposeful, his eyes strangely intent, as if he were looking at something that always floated ahead of him.

A look of startled surprise came over his face. He ducked his head as he passed Ratha, but he did not slow his pace. She stopped and watched his hindquarters disappear around a bush.

He certainly didn’t expect to see me, thought Ratha. His astonishment had been tinged with a look of shame, as if she had caught him doing something forbidden and she knew at once he was on his way to the Red Tongue’s cave.

She wanted to race down the path after him and order him back to the meadow. That thought quickly gave way to a feeling of frustration. He knew exactly what he was doing. The look on his face told her that. Even if she caught him and scolded him, he would probably do it again.

She decided instead to follow him at a distance and watch what happened when he arrived at the cave. His scent was fresh and his trail easy to follow. She thought he might already be within the cave as she crept up the last stretch of the trail, but she heard his voice over the sound of the waterfall.

She hid herself in the scattered boulders to the side of the path and peered over, pricking her ears as far forward as they would go. The herder had his back to her so that she could see only his tail, which had begun to curl and wag. The cool breeze from the falls carried the scent of his dismay and another, less pleasant smell, the smug self-satisfaction of the two Firekeepers who barred his way.

“This is the Red Tongue’s den, not a place to amuse idle dappleback-keepers,” one of them growled.

“Just let me in for a little while. You speak so much of the strength and beauty of the fire-creature within this cave that I want to see it for myself.”

“Perhaps you think yourself worthy to serve it, young herder.” The other Firekeeper grinned. “I see you bothered to groom the manure out of your fur before you came, so the Red Tongue won’t be too displeased.”

The herder’s tail sprang upright and he took an eager step toward the cleft in the rocks. Again the Firekeepers blocked him.

“Not so quickly, dung-wearer,” the larger one snapped. “First we must tell you what you may or may not do when you are inside.”

“All right, tell me.” The herder turned his ears slightly back.

“Keep your ears up and your tail down. No scratching or licking.”

“I scratch myself near the guard-fires,” said the herder, mystified.

“Well, you shouldn’t. And this is different. This is the Red Tongue’s den and you should be respectful. Are you ready?”

The herder answered that he was. One Firekeeper led him in while the other stayed beside the entrance. He wasn’t gone long before he was led out again, but Ratha could tell he was dazed and awestruck. He blinked and, as he looked at the Firekeepers, a new, envious hunger came into his eyes.

“You must have been judged most worthy to serve such a wondrous creature,” he said, and Ratha could see that his words inflated their pride even further. She was tempted to jump out from her hiding place and snarl at them for being so supercilious and overbearing, but she held herself back. She needed to learn more before she could confront Fessran and Shongshar with any real proof of wrongdoing among the Firekeepers.

She decided to come back and hide herself again the following day to gather more evidence. If the behavior of these two Firekeepers was any indication, she thought sourly, she would soon have all she needed. Perhaps she could even persuade Fessran to hide and listen, for she sensed that the Firekeeper leader was growing uneasy about her dependence on Shongshar and her toleration of his methods.

During the next few days, Ratha fell into a regular routine of watching Thakur’s treelings while he was gone in the morning and then hiding out near the fire-cave and observing what went on there. More herders came to visit. Some, like Cherfan, she liked and respected, and it dismayed her that they were drawn here. At first the herders came to satisfy their curiosity, but their interest soon became fascination and they returned again and again to enter the cave.

Ratha noticed that the Firekeepers became more selective about whom they would admit. Herders who were eager to crouch before the fire-creature had to obey rules that seemed to grow harsher and more arbitrary each time Ratha listened to them. She ground her teeth and growled—promising herself that once Fessran understood what was happening she would end these abuses.

Yet, the more she watched, the more uncertain she became. Those who came to the cave begged to enter with such unabashed eagerness that Ratha felt shame for them. They were blind to the pettiness of the Firekeepers’ rules, accepting these restrictions as part of the ritual that seemed to be growing up around the cave.

As she watched, she gained a new and disconcerting knowledge of her people. There was something in the nature of the Named that drove them to crouch in obedience to this new power. Ratha sensed in them a confusion of loyalties. Never before had she thought her position as clan leader might be seriously threatened. She was the one who had brought this new power to the clan. She had tamed the Red Tongue and driven the Un-Named back in terror before its power. All the Named were grateful to her and all bared their throats to her.

But, she realized, they did not look upon her with the same awe and passion as they gave to the thing she had once called her creature. Without the blazing presence of a firebrand in her jaws, she had only the power of claws and teeth—and loyalty based on fading memories. Yes, she had tamed the Red Tongue, but she had given its keeping to others and been blind to how it changed them.

She began to see the real truth behind her dream. Her mind had built an image of a Named One made of fire to show her how deep its power reached within her people and even within herself.

“We are all crying cubs before it,” Thakur had said once long ago. Ratha remembered his words and thought, Once, I alone could stand before it without fear. Now I know I am no better than the others.

The herders continued to visit the Red Tongue’s cave. Some did so openly; others were ashamed and furtive, sneaking up the trail through the shadows. Ratha knew she could do nothing to stop them, but she kept a careful watch to see that no meat was taken. Once or twice, she had read that intention in someone’s eyes as they sank their teeth into a haunch of three-horn, but her look and the slight lift of her lip as she growled quickly dissuaded them.

Her suspicion and the growing ascendancy of the Firekeepers over the herders poisoned the rough-and-tumble yet good-natured competition for places about a culled herdbeast. Ratha made sure that everyone received an adequate share, and there was in fact less inequality than there had been before. But everyone ate in a tense silence, punctuated only by the sound of tearing flesh. Ratha found herself eating less, for the atmosphere around a kill made the meat seem to taste rancid and stick in her throat. Even the cubs were subdued; they rarely dived in to snatch a piece of meat as they had done before. Perhaps they had learned that such antics could result in a fierce bite or scratch rather than an easygoing cuff.

No more food was stolen, and Ratha became less obvious about her watchfulness, hoping that the event would be forgotten and the clan would go back to its old ways. This helped a little. There was more conversation at meal-times and even some humor, but the unspoken distrust between the Firekeepers and the herders was an undercurrent of ill-feeling that kept everyone on edge.

A few days after the last cull, Ratha noticed that one of the three-horn fawns that had been born that spring was missing. She questioned the herders closely and had them search, but no sign of the animal was found. To lose a herdbeast without explanation was a dangerous precedent and she made it clear to the herders that it was not to happen again.

Sometimes she felt as if she was no longer walking among her own people, but among strangers whose puzzled, resentful glances made her feel strangely lost. She looked for the animal herself and did no better than the herders.

At last Cherfan told her that the fawn had been diseased. It died when the herd was driven to the river and the carcass had been buried there as it was unfit for food. She suspected this was told to placate her; she knew Cherfan and the others were growing tired of her suspicions. She gave up the search, finally deciding that trying to discover the animal’s fate would cost too much resentment and further divide the clan.

She found herself turning more and more to Thakur and his family of treelings as a relief from the burden of her leadership. Each morning, when the herding teacher went off to instruct his pupils, she stayed at his den and watched over Aree and her young ones until he returned.

At first, when the youngsters were too small to leave the nest, Ratha found her task easy and pleasant. They would nurse and sleep, although sometimes Aree would take them out into the morning sun to creep about and stare at the world with wide eyes. Like cubs, they were intensely curious and aware of everything around them. Ratha knew, however, that their awareness was not like that of the Named.

As the treelings grew older, the differences between them began to show. The larger of the two males was placid and even-tempered, while his brother made up for his small size with a bullying aggressive nature. Both the little females of the litter were lively and inquisitive, although one sister was reckless, tending to shred the objects of her curiosity, while the other would gaze at flowers or insects without touching them. She seemed to know how to be gentle without needing to be taught.

At first, Ratha was attracted to the larger and bolder of the two sisters. The young treeling shared qualities she had herself and which she thought she might want in a companion. She was stronger and had a beautifully marked pelt and distinctive masking around her muzzle. She was also adventurous, having been the first to come out of the nest. Aree was forever having to seize her tail and yank her out of trouble.

Although Ratha enjoyed the bigger female’s rough-and-tumble play, she often felt her gaze wandering to the smaller sister. The little female’s fur was less rich in color and her markings more subdued, but her gentle nature seemed to feed Ratha’s hunger for affection in a way that even Thakur’s companionship could not. The little treeling could sense when Ratha was troubled and would come to cuddle against her before settling down to groom her fur.

She wasn’t sure when she decided that the little treeling was to be her companion. Perhaps it was when Thakur noticed the growing friendship and in a teasing way began to call the youngster “Ratha’s Aree.” Since Ratha could think of nothing better, she finally accepted the name. It was easier for her to blend the two words into one, so after a while, she began to call the little treeling “Ratharee.”

The ripening season soon started, and Aree climbed trees eagerly to gather fruit. At first, the young treelings disdained this new food, but they were growing too big to nurse and the sweet smell began to tempt them. It was not long before they were eating fruit with as much gusto as their mother.

From birth, the young treelings knew fire. Its glow flickered on the wall of the den above their nest, and they became as used to the smell and sound as they were to their own mother. When the litter was old enough for Aree to leave them for long periods, Thakur again began to teach her how to care for the Red Tongue. Soon they had an audience of youngsters, who attended each teaching session and watched their mother’s training with eager curiosity.

Both Thakur and Ratha welcomed this interest and began to test the little creatures for evidence of Aree’s ability. They did this carefully and gradually, using the same methods that Thakur had used with Aree. Like their mother, the youngsters quickly discovered that the Red Tongue’s warmth could be strong enough to hurt, but if they were careful, they would not be injured.

Ratha feared that her little treeling, Ratharee, might be too timid to train as a fire-bearer. She was indeed more cautious than the others, but underneath her shyness was a certain streak of determination. Like her siblings, she wanted to imitate her mother’s prowess, and Ratha nuzzled her and praised her each time she made an effort to overcome her reticence.

Once it was evident that Aree’s youngsters could be taught the same skills as their mother, Thakur and Ratha began to devote more teaching time to them. She found that he was a much better teacher than she, for he had the experience and the patience to repeat commands and actions endlessly until the pupil finally accepted and understood. Her own impatience often made her blunder, and she struggled hard to control it. Gradually she found herself more able to master her temper, especially with her own treeling Ratharee. The affection she felt for her little companion helped to keep her sense of urgency in check.

Urgency? Yes. Neither Ratha nor Thakur said it aloud, but both shared a feeling that training the treelings was important. How quickly it was done might affect what happened in the days to come. Fessran’s old objection to depending on Aree alone was valid, but now that they had five treelings, the risk was much less. Thakur’s continued training had made Aree herself much more dependable and less likely to do something unexpected, such as the antics she had performed around the Firekeepers. But Ratha did have to grin when she remembered the expressions on the faces of the torchbearers.

Surely when Fessran saw that Aree and her youngsters could do, she would accept their services. Perhaps she would choose a treeling for herself, although Thakur might be reluctant to give one to Shongshar.

Aree was ready. Now all that remained was to get Fessran to bring the Firekeepers down for another demonstration, Ratha thought, but she found that doing so was harder than she had anticipated. The Firekeeper leader spent most of her time in the cave by the falls, watching those who came to pay homage to the Red Tongue. Shongshar was always with her, and in his presence she seemed to change, becoming haughty and imperious. Yet Ratha often caught a sudden look of misery on her face, as if she sensed the effect he had on her.

He never seemed to let her out of his sight, accompanying her down to the meadow to eat or going with her to give orders to those who built the guard-fires. Recently, he had begun to interrupt her or answer for her when she spoke to anyone else, although he still treated her with a deference that seemed exaggerated and sometimes strangely sinister. It was difficult to get Fessran alone and, even then, she seemed ill-at-ease and unwilling to talk.

Ratha finally bullied her away from Shongshar long enough to get her to agree to see Aree’s new skills. But Fessran was deliberately vague about when the meeting would take place. At last, Ratha could wait no longer. She sent word by the Firekeeper Bira that Thakur would set up a demonstration for the evening of the following day. She built a fire near his den at sunset and selected the best pine sticks for the treelings to use as torches. Thakur drilled Aree one more time and then they settled down to wait.

The night had grown cold and the fire fallen low before Ratha admitted to herself that Fessran wasn’t going to come. She stopped her angry pacing and let Ratharee climb down from her back.

“I’m going up to the cave,” she said, staring out of the circle of firelight to where the path led away from Thakur’s lair.

“I don’t think that would be wise, Ratha,” he said softly.

“Fessran will not disobey me when she looks into my eyes. I am tired of sidelong looks and all this sneaking around.”

“Then let me come with you. The trail can be treacherous at night.”

“The only treachery is within that den of belly-crawlers,” Ratha growled. “No, you stay here with Aree and her little ones. Keep the fire going until I return with Fessran. I won’t be gone long.”

She heard him sigh and turn away, but she was too angry for his words to hold her back, or even to think that her hasty actions might place him in danger.

She leaped away into the night, her rage giving her speed. There was no moon that night and the trees that overhung the creek trail made the path so black that she followed it by smell and by feel, rather than by sight. The dark made the way seem steeper, with far more turns and twists than in daylight. She brushed against dew-dampened ferns whose touch, once gentle, now seemed ominous and threatening.

Exhaustion took away some of her anger, and she began to think whether Thakur had been right after all. She also began to wonder if she should have left him without anyone else to help guard the treelings.

She climbed the last part of the trail, with her paws slipping on gravel made slick by spray and the booming of the fall in her ears. There was another sound, which grew louder as she approached the cave: the harsh roar of the Red Tongue.

Shadowy orange light spilling from the cave backlit the forms of the two Firekeepers who stood guard before the entrance. They rose, growling, but their challenge died to a mutter as they caught her smell. “You have come to crouch before the Red Tongue, clan leader?”

“No. I have come to see Fessran.”

The speaker glanced at his companion, who looked doubtfully back. “Before you enter, clan leader, there are some things you must not do …” He faltered under Ratha’s glare and his ears twitched back.

“You dare tell me what I may do before the creature that I brought to the clan? Ptaah!” She lunged at them, striking out with teeth and claws.

Before either of the guards could recover, she was past them and into the gallery leading to the cave. She could tell at once that the fire was much larger than it had been. She could see her shadow on the rock floor of the gallery. A steady wind from outside blew past her, drawn to feed the hunger of the fire-creature.

Despite her anger, she hesitated. The light ahead dazzled her, and the heat swept over her in parching waves. For a moment, the fire seemed to hold her back; then her anger flared, forcing the fear aside.

She was in the cave itself. The Red Tongue’s harsh and constant song filled the cavern and echoed back from the other chambers. The great fire reared up as if it was the central pillar that supported the cave, a writhing column of yellow and gold seeming to reach from floor to vaulted ceiling.

It lit the stone fangs that hung from the ceiling, turning them to a gleaming yellow that made them look even more like teeth in the mouth of a great and terrible creature.

Ratha was so awed by the Red Tongue itself that she almost didn’t see the shapes that gathered around it. Their shadows stretched out toward her, wavering and dancing over the rubble-strewn floor until they passed over her. At first she thought the figures were Firekeepers stoking the great flame, but as she crept closer and her eyes grew accustomed to the fierce light, she saw that they were moving together in a circle around the fire. Their movements were slow and rhythmic, as if they were beginning a dance.

The longer Ratha watched, the more she was convinced that this was a dance, but one such as she had never seen. She remembered the dance-hunts she had used to celebrate the victory of the clan over the Un-Named. Those had been fierce and wild, but even the intensity of the dance-hunt didn’t have the frenzy and fierceness of this.

The dancers leaped, lashed their flanks with their tails and struck out with their claws as if against some unseen but hated enemy. They reared up on their hind paws and reached toward the ceiling, twisting and writhing in the heat as if they themselves were the branches that were being consumed by the fire-creature in its endless hunger.

They shrieked aloud, and whether it was joy or terror in those cries, Ratha did not know. Their faces bore a look that none of the Named had ever held before, a look that was nearly madness. It was the wish to join themselves with the power of something far greater than themselves, even if it meant the sacrifice of their own wills.

The pounding rush and roar formed a rhythm for the dance, and even Ratha felt the strange tug of wild ecstasy that filled the eyes and bodies of the dancers. Amid the leaping figures, Ratha saw Fessran herself, her mouth stretched open in a cry of celebration to the power of the Red Tongue. She bounded higher than Ratha had ever seen her leap before, twisted herself in impossible ways and came so near the fire that Ratha trembled for fear she would fall in.

Ratha was so absorbed by the fire-dance that she didn’t hear someone creep up behind her until his voice was in her ear.

“Yesss,” he hissed. “Watch. Watch how it draws them, how it makes them dance. Look how it inspires them, clan leader, in a way that you cannot.”

Ratha flinched away from Shongshar, but she was too dazed by the scene to do more than take a swipe at him. When her attention swung back to the dancers, he sidled up to her and began to speak again, his words blending in some strange way into the cries of the dancers and the harsh song of the fire. Hypnotized, she listened, unable to break the trance that had fallen across her.

“What is the skill of treelings compared to this?” Shongshar whispered. “Ah, clan leader, you never understood the real power of the creature you tamed. You left that understanding to me.”

Ratha shuddered, but she could not take her eyes from the frenzied circle around the Red Tongue, nor could she block his voice from her ears.

“See what it does to your people. See how it pushes them beyond themselves. See how it takes them and fills them with strength and joy so that they have to leap and cry out. Join them, clan leader. Join them in their dance to the Red Tongue.”

Angrily, Ratha spat at him and her slash drew blood, but he didn’t strike back. She could see in his eyes that he knew she trembled. Her smell betrayed everything: rage, helplessness, fear, disgust and horrified fascination. She could see in his half-closed eyes that he knew she was close to the edge and that he would only have to wait for her to fall.

“Your mistake, clan leader,” he said softly, “is in thinking that the fire-creature is just something to be used to protect us against the Un-Named Ones and to warm us by night. It is that, but it is something much more.”

“It is the egg of a fly that turns a carcass rotten. It is the wound that starts an abscess under the skin,” she hissed, desperately seeking the strength of her anger and trying not to see how high the Firekeepers leaped in the terrifying beauty of the dance.

“If that is how you choose to think of it, clan leader,” Shongshar said placidly.

“Why aren’t you part of the dance?” Ratha demanded, but even as she spoke, she knew the answer. One who understood the Red Tongue’s power as well as he did would not be easily controlled by it.

“I am part of it in my own way,” he said and as he spoke the firelight flashed on his sabers, reminding her that he did not need any power other than his own to be dangerous. He eyed her and grinned at her discomfort. “Perhaps you shouldn’t wait for the dance to finish, clan leader. You’ve left Thakur alone with the treeling creatures. Since you seem to value them for reasons I don’t quite understand, you wouldn’t want anything to happen to them, would you?”

Ratha stiffened, her rage paralyzing her tongue. “You wouldn’t dare!” she finally spat.

“Me? Certainly not. But there are others who dislike the idea of the clan leader dirtying herself with those animals.”

“And you wouldn’t raise a paw to stop anyone from doing such a thing. Let me tell you this, Shongshar. If any one of the Firekeepers even makes a threat against Thakur or his tree-lings, this cave will be closed down and the Red Tongue will die. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, I do,” he said in a silky voice that was almost a purr. “But to be sure, I would also ask them.” He flicked his whiskers at the dancers. His voice hardened. “And then I would ask them who they obey. It might surprise you, clan leader.”

His eyes still held their same orange glint, but now a cold ruthlessness came into them. Their hate struck into Ratha as if he had slashed her with his fangs, and she backed away from him, trembling with fear and the cold certainty that she had left Thakur and the treelings open to attack.

She whirled and sprinted away from him, across the shadows that still danced and flickered on the cave floor, through the gallery and out into the darkness. The fire-creature’s fading roar became a mocking howl as she slipped and skidded on the graveled trail and fought to find her way with eyes that had been made night-blind by the angry light.

Thakur, you told me not to go and again you were right. I was too angry to listen, but anger does me no good now. There was a bright spot before her eyes where she had looked at the heart of the cave-fire, and she could only see in front of her by turning her head from side to side as she ran. By the time she reached the path to Thakur’s den, her sight had recovered, but she could not find the welcoming flicker of the little fire she had left with him.

She thought at first that her panic might have led her down the wrong trail, but the scents about her and the feel of the ground were right. She peered ahead, her growing apprehension choking her throat and tightening her chest. The smell of smoldering ashes drew her to the remains of the fire she had left. It had been broken and scattered.

The ashy acrid smell was strong, and mixed in with it were traces of other scents that she could detect but not recognize. There were pugmarks faintly visible in the starlight, but they were smeared, as if whoever made them had slipped while running.

“Thakur …,” she moaned softly, her whiskers trembling. “Aree … Ratharee …” She approached a shape on the ground and touched it tentatively with her paw, fearing it might be the torn body of a treeling. It was only a broken branch from the scattered fire, and she sighed with relief as it rolled under her paw.

She made her way to the den itself and crawled inside, thinking a treeling might have taken shelter there, but the den was cold and empty except for the same ashy smell that filled the air outside.

When Ratha left the den she froze at the sight of two amber eyes staring at her from the night-shadow of a tree. The eyes blinked and moved forward. Ratha arched her back and flared her tail, unable to catch the newcomer’s scent in the wind that blew away from her.

“Clan leader?” The voice was female and quavery with uncertainty.

“Who is that?” Ratha snarled. “Are you a Firekeeper?”

“I’m Bira. Clan leader, come with me. I know where Thakur is.”

Her first impulse was to follow Bira eagerly, but caution held her back. Young and friendly as Bira was, she belonged with those who tended the Red Tongue.

“How do I know that Shongshar hasn’t sent you?”

“He sent me down with those who were to kill the tree-lings. but I turned on them and fought beside Thakur,” Bira answered. “If you want proof, here is the ash that I rubbed into my pelt to disguise myself like them, and here is the bite on my foreleg from Nyang’s teeth.”

Bira came forward, letting Ratha smell her fur. As she approached, Ratha saw a small shape crouched on Bira’s neck. “Thakur told me to bring your treeling, and she came with me, even though she was still frightened,” said the young Firekeeper. “Here.” She came alongside and Ratha felt treeling paws grasp her fur as Ratharee climbed from Bira’s back to hers. The treeling wound its tail around her neck and hugged her fiercely, its trembling telling her how lost and frightened it had been.

Ratha suddenly felt steadier. Bira wouldn’t have brought Ratharee in order to lead her into a trap. If Shongshar wanted to have her killed, there were other, easier ways. The young female’s story sounded true and there was no taint of deceit in either her words or her smell.

“Hurry, clan leader! Once Shongshar knows I have betrayed him, he will send others after me.”

“All right, Bira. Take me to Thakur.”

She followed Bira down the path until it met the main trail. As soon as Bira took the turn that led to the creek trail, Ratha’s suspicion flared again, and she followed warily, testing the air for scents of hidden attackers. Soon, however, Bira cut off the creek trail and began to climb the steep bank above it. Before long they were in the deeper darkness amid the great trees, and Ratha’s paws fell on crumbled bark and pine needles.

Ratha sensed they were making a wide circle to avoid the base of the falls and the cave that sheltered the Red Tongue. She wondered if Fessran and the others were still at their wild dance. The thought made her shiver.

“We’re going to some little caves above the falls. I found them one day when I was exploring, and no one else knows about them,” Bira explained as Ratha padded beside her. “I brought Thakur up this far, told him where to find the place and then went back down to look for you.”

“Did you save all the treelings?”

“Yes. One of the little ones got a scratch and Aree’s a bit bruised, but they’re all right.”

Some of the tension seeped out of Ratha and she concentrated on climbing. At last they found an old trail that had many rises and drops as well as endless switchbacks. Ratha was sure they must be far beyond clan ground when Bira turned off the path and disappeared down a brush-covered slope. The way led into a little vale with the sound of a brook chuckling over rocks and the glint of starlight on foaming water. Bira ran along the near bank and ducked under a great gray slab of broken rock.

Now Ratha could throw her fear aside, for Thakur’s scent was strong in the air about the streambank. Beneath the overhang were small recesses that barely qualified as caves. She found Thakur and the treelings nestled together in the largest one.

“Shh, Aree. It’s only Ratha,” he soothed as the largest of the treeling shapes lifted its muzzle in alarm. He shifted over to make room for Ratha on the soft sandy floor. Her relief at seeing him safe overwhelmed her, and for a while she could only crouch beside him, licking his ears, and saying, “Thakur, I should have listened. I should have listened,” over and over.

“Well, I was lucky,” he said when she finally calmed down. “The Firekeepers weren’t really after me, just the tree-lings. And when Bira turned and started helping me fight, that really confused them. That gave us time to gather up the tree-lings and run.”

“We nearly lost Aree,” added the young Firekeeper. “When Nyang scratched one of her cubs, she flew at him and bit him hard. You should have heard him yell.”

“Nyang again,” Ratha said with distaste. “He will do anything for Shongshar, won’t he? I imagine he was the one who pushed Bundi into the fire.”

“He led us,” said Bira. “He showed us how to rub ashes into our pelts so that no one could smell who we were. I hate the taste and feel of it; I’m going to wash myself in the stream tomorrow.”

“Bira,” Ratha said slowly, “I’m grateful to you for what you did. You had no reason to want to help me. You wouldn’t have had a witless litter if I hadn’t let Shongshar into the clan.”

“You took your chance, clan leader, and I took mine,” Bira answered. “I grieved for that litter, but now they are gone I don’t think of them any more. As for Thakur, I was the one who built the fire for him when he was teaching Aree. I liked him and I liked the treelings too much to let Shongshar kill them, so I tried to make Nyang think I was fierce and nasty enough for his group of killers. It wasn’t easy,” she added with a grimace that narrowed the glow of her eyes.

“I think,” said Thakur firmly, “that we should get some sleep. Whatever is happening has just begun, and we are going to need all our strength and cleverness tomorrow.”

Although his words sounded somber, Ratha was too tired to worry. Bira offered to stand guard through the first part of the night and Thakur said he would take the following watch. He hadn’t finished speaking when his voice became a drone that faded in Ratha’s ears as she slid into sleep.

She woke suddenly, shaking away the dream-image of a huge fire with grotesque black figures leaping through the flames. She opened her eyes and gratefully breathed the air of a quiet morning. Somewhere a bird trilled a high sweet note over the merry noise of the stream. Bira slept alongside, her head on her paws, her flanks rising and falling slowly. Ratharee was curled between them, the treeling’s brown-black fur contrasting with Bira’s ash-streaked red and Ratha’s own fawn color.

She lifted her muzzle and focused on Thakur, who was sitting just outside the little cave. Ratha yawned and then crept out, trying not to disturb either Bira or the treelings. She stretched, gathering herself together for the new day.

“No one knows what happened last night except Shongshar, Nyang’s group of Firekeepers and ourselves,” she said thoughtfully. “None of them are going to tell anyone, especially since their attempt was a failure, thanks to Bira.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Thakur. “Talk to Fessran?”

Ratha fell silent. After seeing the Firekeeper leader in her frenzied dance before the Red Tongue, she doubted that Fessran would listen to anything about treelings or even about Shongshar’s misdeeds.

“No,” she said. “I’m going to talk to the herders and tell them what Shongshar is up to. Then I’m going to lead them up the creek trail and take all the wood out of the cave. Without wood, the cave-fire will die and so will Shongshar’s power. We’ll see who obeys him then!”

“It may not be so easy.” The herding teacher looked at her, his eyes full of doubt.

“It won’t be, but if I can hold the loyalty of the herders, I can do it. Come with me, Thakur. Cherfan and the other herders will be more likely to listen to me if you are there.”

“And I am less likely to get pounced upon by Nyang and his pack of Firekeepers,” said Thakur dryly and added, “I didn’t think I would do much teaching today.”

“Can we trust Bira to stay with the treelings?”

“Yes. She’s no longer a Firekeeper. They wouldn’t take her back after she turned on them to help me. Nyang’s probably looking for her, and she knows she’s safe here.”

Ratha stared into the cave, taking one last look at Ratharee. “I hope Bira can keep the treelings safe.” She turned to face Thakur and felt a shiver at the solemn look on his face.

“You aren’t sure about this either, are you.”

“No,” he admitted.

There was nothing else to be said. She led the way out from under the overhang, and they waded in the stream for a distance so that their scents and prints wouldn’t lead anyone to Bira. Then they cut back to the trail and set off downhill for the meadow.

Ratha and Thakur didn’t meet anyone on the trails they took. Even the path to the meadow was deserted and, when Ratha reached the trailhead and gazed out across the grass, she sensed a tense stillness in the morning air.

She saw the dapplebacks and three-horns gathered in a tight flock instead of being scattered across the pasture as they usually were in the morning. Around the edge of the meadow, several guard-fires still burned. That was strange, she thought. Usually the Firekeepers put them out after sunrise.

The herdbeasts didn’t like being confined to such a small area of meadow. Ratha could hear the three-horns bray and paw the ground, while the dapplebacks snorted and whinnied. A few herders circled the animals, trotting around the flock to keep it together. The others were nowhere in sight.

“Ratha!” A deep voice drew her attention away from the animals. Cherfan bounded toward her over the grass. She could tell from the urgency in the big herder’s stride and the way his whiskers trembled that he was worried.

“Where is everyone, Cherfan?” Thakur asked calmly.

“Behind the big thorn thicket near the far end of the meadow. Someone killed a dappleback early this morning,” he said, turning to Ratha.

“Un-Named raiders? Bristlemanes?”

“I don’t think so. Nothing broke through the line of guard-fires.”

Ratha began pacing beside him with Thakur at her Bank. “Have you found the carcass?”

“No, but we found the place where the animal was brought down.” Cherfan broke into a fast lope and Ratha galloped beside him until they reached the thornbush. Behind it was a hidden stretch of meadow and she could tell by the torn and flattened grass that the herdbeast had died here.

Gathered around the spot were the rest of the herders, sniffing the ground and exchanging puzzled looks. Cherfan stepped into their midst, waving his tail. He stopped and looked them over carefully. “That’s strange,” he growled. “We’re missing someone. Where’s Shoman?”

The herders muttered among themselves and soon confirmed that Shoman was not helping to guard the remaining animals, nor was he anywhere else in the meadow. In fact, no one remembered having seen him since the middle of the night.

“And Bundi’s not here either,” said Thakur abruptly.

“There’s something else I don’t understand.” Cherfan narrowed his eyes. “We keep the dapplebacks out in the center of the meadow during the night. We don’t let them go behind these bushes; it’s too easy for them to wander away. If someone killed a mare here, he would have had to drive it away from the flock and the beast would have fought and made enough noise to bring all of us running.”

“Unless it was lured here by someone it knew,” said Ratha.

“All right. The dappleback may have been lured here and then killed, but none of us heard it scream. A dappleback will cry out when it feels the touch of fangs.”

“Not if there are a pair of attackers,” Thakur said quickly. “One lures the beast while the other hides. When the beast is distracted, the other leaps out and bites behind the head. The creature dies quickly and quietly. I’ve used the same method in culling.”

Cherfan wrinkled the fur on his brow. “Shoman … and Bundi? Perhaps Shoman would do such a thing. I’ve never trusted him. But Bundi?”

“I caught Shoman with a piece of meat he was using to bribe a Firekeeper,” Ratha reminded him. “Bundi was with him. He said they were both being shunned by the rest of you because of their injuries from the Red Tongue.”

“Shoman killed that dappleback to revenge himself on us?” Cherfan’s puzzlement began to give way to anger.

“Not for revenge,” said Ratha. “I think he was forced to lure it here and kill it.”

“Forced? By whom? And where is the meat? He and Bundi couldn’t have eaten it by themselves.”

Ratha glanced at Thakur, then turned her gaze back to Cherfan. “You will find the carcass in the cave where the Red Tongue is kept.”

A wave of mutters and growls spread through the herders. Some looked uncertain while others raised the fur on their napes and showed their fangs. Cherfan flattened his ears. “You’re saying that Shoman killed the beast for Shongshar and Fessran? Why?”

“Because he and Bundi were made outcasts by the Red Tongue’s mark and sought to placate the Firekeepers by any way possible. Shongshar knew his desperation and used him,” Ratha hissed.

A wave of muttering and growling spread among the herders. Cherfan flattened his ears. “No one is allowed to kill herdbeasts without your order.”

“And I did not order anyone to take that animal,” said Ratha, staring meaningfully at the other herders. “Shongshar and Fessran have disobeyed me and clan law. The carcass is stolen meat and they have no right to it. If the Firekeepers are left unpunished, they will steal again and the rest of us will go hungry.” She paused and then growled, “Do you want to hear your bellies rumble because of the Firekeepers’ greed?”

“No!” came the answer in many voices. “Lead us to the cave and we will take back the stolen meat.”

“Listen to me,” cried Ratha. “It is the Red Tongue in the cave that gives the Firekeepers their strength. They have stored wood there to feed it. If we take back the wood as well as the meat, the cave-fire will starve and die.”

“We will take back what they have stolen!”

“You do not fear the Firekeepers?”

A chorus of roars and howls rose from the group. “There are more of us than there are of them. To the cave!”

Resting briefly, Ratha leaned on a dew-dampened rock, laying her cheek against its coolness. She heard the Firekeepers crashing through brush and dead leaves. She could see the approaching flicker of their firebrands through the trees and sensed that once again they were picking up her trail. A shiver that was half fear and half excitement ran through her.

She was glad, however, that the Firekeepers had chosen to track her by torchlight. A scent trail, which they might have followed easily in the damp night air, became difficult and elusive in the smoky haze from the torches. No. Shongshar knew better than to think he would catch her this way. He had brought out the torchbearers to show the Red Tongue’s wrath and let her own fear drive her like a renegade from clan ground.

She grinned bitterly as she ran across a patch of hair-ferns that made no rustle to give her away. She had already seen the worst that the fire-creature could do. It could burn flesh and bone and even forest, but it could also possess the minds and twist the wills of her people as if they were pieces of bark glowing and curling in the heart of the flame.

The sky above the treetops showed deep violet and the glittering stars were dimming. Ratha realized, looking up, that she had been leading the Firekeepers astray all night. Thakur would have had plenty of time to reach Bira. It was time to put an end to this cub’s play before daylight gave the searchers additional advantage.

She crept away a little farther and listened. Again they had come to a halt and were casting about for signs of her. She spat quietly to herself, disgusted with the noise they were making, and then slipped away through the underbrush.

She kept to the edge of clan ground to avoid being seen by accident. To conceal her trail, she frequently backtracked, waded in streams and rolled in the dung of other animals to disguise her smell.

The sun was just showing over the treetops when she reached the sandy path that led beneath the overhang to the cave where she, Bira, Thakur and the treelings had spent the previous night. She had a bad moment when she discovered that particular hollow empty. She was nervously searching the other caves when the sound of Thakur’s voice came from the shadows beneath the overhang.

“Over here,” he said. “We’ve moved our hiding place.” Her relief made her nearly collapse on the sand, but she only lolled her tongue out and padded after him.

Thakur led her farther upstream, to a smaller fall where the water cascaded down onto split stones that turned it into many tumbling rivulets. Ratha turned for a moment to watch the morning light dance and run down the falling water. Then she glimpsed Thakur’s tail disappearing between two slabs of rock that leaned against each other.

She followed him, reluctant to leave the cheerful morning and go into the dimness of a cave. When she was inside, however, she found the tilted stone floor dappled with sunlight and shadow and felt a breeze that carried the fresh smell and sound of the little fall. It was sufficient shelter to keep anyone who hid within from being seen, yet it was open enough not to feel confining.

Bira lay in a sun-washed hollow with the treelings gathered around her and on top of her. Ratha looked for Ratharee and saw the young one’s black eyes gleam as Ratharee spotted her. With a squeal of joy, the treeling scampered up the sloping rock and launched herself at her companion.

“Ooof. She’s getting heavy, Thakur,” Ratha groaned, but she couldn’t quite make her voice sound convincingly plaintive. Once the treeling had taken her usual place on Ratha’s shoulder with her tail curled around her neck, Ratha stretched out in a pool of sun near Thakur and Bira.

For a while, they lay there, quietly relaxed, and Ratha felt herself drifting into a light doze. Then Thakur sat up, with Aree perched on his shoulder, and said, “We must talk.”

Ratha yawned and shook away her drowsiness. “Does Bira know what happened last night?”

“Yes, Thakur told me,” Bira answered. “I’m not surprised that the herders deserted you. Shongshar seems able to persuade anyone to do anything.”

“There were some things I should have said,” Ratha growled, laying her head on her paws and feeling the helplessness and rage sweep over her again. “I should have told them that his talk about the Named ruling beyond clan ground was a mad cub’s dream. I should have torn apart the herder who brought Shongshar the kindling. And I should have known that trying to kill the Red Tongue by starving it was exactly what Shongshar wanted me to do.”

“Extending his rule may not be a mad cub’s dream for him,” said Thakur thoughtfully. “If he can make the Firekeepers fierce and arrogant, they can hold more territory and the herders can graze more animals. This may be difficult to face, but we have to admit that Shongshar has offered the Named a way not only to survive, but to flourish.”

“Ptahh! They will be meat for his belly.” Ratha spat. “They will grovel before the fire-creature in the cave and forget they once had wills of their own.”

“Many of our people would rather follow the commands of a voice stronger than their own, even if it is cruel and harsh. We of the Named have a strange hate and an even stranger love for those who are powerful,” Thakur said softly and added, “as you found when you first brought us this creature we call the Red Tongue.”

Ratha sighed. “If I had known then what my creature would become to them, I never would have—” She caught herself. “No. Once it was done, there was no way I could go back.”

“And we can’t go back now. Shongshar holds the minds of our people just as surely as he holds the Red Tongue.”

“He is only one and one can die,” she snarled fiercely, making Ratharee start in alarm.

Thakur looked sadly back at her as she soothed her tree-ling. “That is not the answer, Ratha. Even if you succeeded in killing him, others would carry on his ideas. To regain your place as clan leader, you would have to destroy the cave and everything in it. I do not know how that could be done with only you, Bira and me.”

“Are you going to give up and leave our people to become meat in Shongshar’s jaws?” Angry indignation swept over her.

“Listen to me. Whatever prompted the choice of our people, they have made it. If you take Shongshar from them now, you will only earn your own death. Later, when his ways have made him hated, you may have a chance. You must wait and watch.”

Bira shifted herself as a young treeling climbed down from her and went to its mother, who started to groom it. “I don’t think we can stay here,” she said. “We are still on clan ground and, although this place is hidden, Shongshar will eventually find it.”

“I agree,” said Thakur. “We must leave clan territory and live somewhere else for a while. There is a place I often go when I leave during the mating season. It isn’t that far, and it has fruit trees, which will feed the treelings.”

Reluctantly Ratha agreed with him. Her first thought had been to make this place their temporary home and use it to launch forays against the Firekeepers or try to undermine Shongshar’s support among the herders. But she had to admit that Thakur was right. There wasn’t much that their small group could do with the rest of the clan against them. It was time now to think not of revenge but of survival.

“How will we live without the herdbeasts and the Red Tongue?” asked Bira fearfully.

“There are other animals that we can eat,” Thakur answered.

“But there are no herders to cull them for us or to keep them from running away.” Bira turned her worried face to him.

“You can take them yourself. Haven’t you ever stalked grasshoppers?”

“Yes, but that was a long time ago.” The young Firekeeper cocked her head at him. “You mean, you can catch other animals that way? I never thought of that. I’m so used to eating from the clan kills.”

Ratha quelled the scorn that started rising inside her at Bira’s words. Once she too had been just as alarmed at the prospect of life outside the clan. She had been equally helpless until an Un-Named male taught her how to hunt and provide for herself. Hunger had made her an eager student, and she never forgot those lessons with Bonechewer, even though the thought of him still brought pain.

She knew that her life as clan leader had dulled her hunting skills, but practice could hone them again. Perhaps she could teach the rudiments to Thakur and Bira. The thought cheered her a little. At least she would have something else to think about other than her hatred of Shongshar.

“I lived apart from the clan for several seasons, Bira,” she said slowly. “I learned how to hunt and take care of myself. I think I can teach you how to do the same.”

Bira stared at her with respectful admiration, and Ratha suddenly felt warmed by the Firekeeper’s gaze. She had almost forgotten what it meant to be looked up to for her own abilities rather than the fact she was clan leader. A life in exile, she thought, might have its compensations.

The little group set out later that same morning, with most of the treelings riding on Bira and Ratha while Thakur and Aree took the lead. They left the pleasant shelter they had found by the fall and followed the stream farther up until they reached the spring that was its source. This was the end of clan territory in the direction of the setting sun. Shongshar would not seek them beyond this boundary.

At least not for a while, Ratha thought to herself.

They wound along the top of a forested ridge for the rest of the day and spent the night curled up together in dry leaves beneath a thicket. By midmorning of the following day, Thakur announced they had come far enough to avoid clan territory; he turned back downhill on the same side he had brought them up.

On the downgrade, their pace was much faster than it had been climbing, and by evening they were back on the plain with the setting sun behind them. On open land, the three could travel through the night. Morning found them approaching the redwood grove that Thakur had made his home during the mating season.

Once they reached it, Thakur showed Ratha and Bira the stream that flowed nearby and the den he had dug in the red clay beneath the roots of an old tree. The next task was to feed the treelings, who were growing cranky with hunger, having had only a few insects during the journey from clan territory. Aree led her brood up into the branches of the nearest laden tree while Thakur napped in the shade beneath and waited.

Ratha took Bira out into the open meadow and began to show her how to stalk quietly. They practiced on the big grasshoppers that clung to swaying fronds, and by the time the afternoon was over, Bira had caught several of the insects by herself. She couldn’t quite bring herself to eat them, however, and Ratha ended up disposing of most of their catch.

When the two returned to Thakur, they found him covered with surfeited treelings and surrounded by fruit pits and gnawed cores. Some of the discards bore his toothmarks, and Ratha guessed that the treelings had shared their harvest. Neither she nor Bira wanted to try such strange food, so she set herself to hunting, leaving Bira behind with Thakur.

Her first attempts were unsuccessful, but on her next try, she caught a wounded ground-bird that had escaped another hunter and brought it back to her companions. The feathers made Bira sneeze, but she was too hungry to be fussy. The bird wasn’t enough to fill their bellies, but Thakur had gnawed fruit while she had eaten all the grasshoppers. Bira ended up with most of the carcass and it was enough to satisfy her.

In the next few days, Ratha found herself assuming the role of major provider for the group. She caught small animals and birds for the others, and once managed to bring down a wild three-horn doe with some help from Thakur. The tree-lings flourished on the ripening fruit. The herding teacher, who admitted he was not much of a hunter, tried his skill at fishing in a nearby creek.

At first the task of providing for the group and feeding the treelings took up all of Ratha’s time and attention. As practice rapidly sharpened her skills and strengthened unused muscles, she found her thoughts turning back to the clan. She would often wonder, as she followed the track of her prey through the grass, what was happening to the Named under Shongshar’s leadership. If those thoughts distracted her and made her miss her kill, she snarled at herself and resolved to pay attention to what she was doing.

Despite herself, her curiosity grew, until she finally admitted that she could not turn her back on her people despite their betrayal of her. Bira, too, confessed that she hungered for the feel of familiar ground and the smells of those she knew.

Thakur was the most adamant about their need to leave the old life behind and not be tempted by any rash hopes of overthrowing Shongshar. Ratha finally gave up her attempts to convince him to come with her, to hide and watch the Named. Bira, however, was willing to come.

Together, they found a tree at the edge of clan land that was tall enough to overlook the meadow where the herdbeasts grazed. From this far height, the two could watch the activities of the herders without fear of being discovered. What they could see from their perch, however, only frustrated Ratha. The smells that the wind brought hinted that the herders were tense and uneasy, but whether they were worried about a lack of rain or the harshness of Shongshar’s rule, she didn’t know.

Ratha and Bira climbed down from their spying tree and started back to their own land. They hadn’t gone far from the edge of clan teritory when Ratha heard a faint buzzing that grew louder and more ominous as they approached the sound.

A cloud of black flies hovered about a bush that stood to the side of the trail and beneath, in the shadows, something lay.

“A dead herdbeast, I think,” said Bira, wrinkling her nose. “I can’t smell it; the wind’s not right.”

Ratha peered at the still form. It didn’t look the right shape for a dappleback or a three-horn, but she couldn’t really tell. She normally didn’t eat carrion, but she knew she shouldn’t waste this opportunity. “The meat may still be good,” she said to Bira and padded toward the bush.

“Don’t taint your belly with this carcass, scavenger,” said a hoarse voice, and a pair of dull yellow eyes opened in the shadowed darkness. “It’s already begun to stink.”

Ratha started at the well-remembered sarcasm in the voice and her jaw dropped in disbelief. “Fessran?”

The eyes gazed back at her, their brightness filmed over by fever and pain. She could hear harsh breathing above the drone of the flies. “Fessran?” she said again, coming closer.

Now she could see there was no fly-ridden dead herdbeast beneath the leaves, with Fessran crouched over it, as she had first thought. The limp form was Fessran herself and the flies were thick around her.

Ratha felt revulsion and sudden pity tighten her throat as she said, “You took the strike that was meant for me and I thought it killed you.”

“It did. I’m just taking a long time to die.” She gave Ratha an exhausted grin. “Remember, I guarded dapplebacks before I held the Red Tongue between my jaws. You and I both know that clan herders are hard to kill.” She coughed and shuddered. “There was a carrion bird here before you came. I thought he’d be at me before I was dead. I’m glad you scared him away for a while.” The eyes closed.

“We left you in the cavern …”

“I stayed there until Shongshar got tired of looking at me and had me dragged off clan ground,” she said weakly and coughed again. “He made Cherfan do it. Poor herder, he gets all the nasty jobs. He tried to give me some meat, but I couldn’t eat it and he looked so sad that I finally had to tell him to go.” She paused and caught her breath. “You had better go too, Ratha.”

Ratha wasn’t listening. “Bira, hold the branches aside so I can see her wound,” she told the young Firekeeper and the shadows slid back. She peered closer and swallowed to keep herself from gagging at the stench that rose from torn and ulcerated flesh. Shongshar’s fangs had struck into Fessran’s upper foreleg at the shoulder, driving through the leg itself and into her chest. Having her leg in the way was the only thing that saved her from an immediately fatal wound, but that death might have been better, Ratha thought, looking at Fessran’s shrunken flanks and pain-wracked face.

Yet there was something in that face that told her Fessran wasn’t ready to die, that if she had a chance, she would fight for her life with the same ferocity that had saved Ratha’s. The wound itself wasn’t that bad. What had weakened her was infection and starvation. If they could get her back to Thakur, his knowledge of healing might save her.

She knew that her friend read her intent, for Fessran shook her head slowly. “No, Ratha. Leave me here for the carrion birds. You have yourself and Bira to care for.”

Ratha only laid back her ears at these words. “Ptahh! You were the one who said clan herders were hard to kill.” She bent her head, seized Fessran’s other forepaw, and dragged her out from beneath the bush. The flies swarmed about her in an angry cloud. “Crouch down, Bira,” Ratha said before Fessran could pull away.

Trembling with pity, the little Firekeeper flattened herself near Fessran. Ratha gave the paw another tug.

“Ratha, you can’t. I’m too heavy for her,” Fessran protested as Bira wiggled herself underneath.

“You, Firekeeper leader?” Bira said over her shoulder and grinned at Ratha. “You’re no heavier than the sticks I carry in my mouth or the fleas in my coat.”

When Ratha had Fessran arranged so that she would not fall off, Bira stood up. Fessran gasped and hissed softly in pain. “All right?” Bira asked.

“No, but it’s better than lying there with flies all over me,” Fessran retorted.

Weakened as Fessran was, Ratha could see she seemed more herself than she had when they first discovered her. She felt a surge of hope that her friend would live.

Bira took a few cautious steps while Ratha walked beside her and steadied Fessran. When it became evident that Bira could carry her burden at a reasonable pace, she set off, with Ratha beside her. Fessran laid her head along Bira’s neck and closed her eyes, letting her legs and tail dangle.

The journey was more painful for her than she would admit and, by the time they reached the redwood grove, she was moaning aloud and rolling her head back and forth. Blood and fluid from her wound trickled down Bira’s side and seeped into the young Firekeeper’s coat.

They put Fessran in Thakur’s den beneath the redwoods and Ratha stayed with her while Bira ran to get Thakur. His astonishment at seeing her was only slightly less than his shock at seeing the ugliness of her wound. Immediately he set about gathering medicinal leaves, which Bira shredded and soaked in the stream before laying on the wound. He also took Aree with him to look for a type of fruit with a thick skin that had gone rotten and fuzzy. When he returned with these, he removed the skin. To Ratha’s astonishment, he forced Fessran to swallow some of the moldy fuzz while he mixed the rest into the shredded poultice.

While he tended the wound, Ratha fed her friend with meat that she had chewed until it was almost liquid. Bira brought damp leaves from the stream to drip water onto Fessran’s dry tongue.

For several days, she lay in the den like a lifeless thing, barely able to swallow or open her eyes. The food and water they gave her only seemed to be prolonging her end, and Ratha felt her hope slipping into desperation. The wound stank and oozed despite Thakur’s poultices, and fever melted her away until she was little more than a skeleton.

Night after night, Ratha stayed beside Fessran, struggling not to fall into a doze for fear she would wake to look into her eyes and find the stare of death. With a fierce devotion, she fed her friend, even though the food often came back up.

And, finally, as they were at the point of giving up, Fessran began to rally. The swelling in the wound went down. It ceased oozing and crusted over. She was able to keep down the food that Ratha gave her and could suck on a wet leaf placed in her mouth.

She no longer lay limply on her side, but was able to roll onto her front, although she often grimaced with pain. She soon was able to take bits of meat and, with Ratha’s aid, could stagger to the nearby stream to lap water.

As Fessran improved, Ratha was able to leave her and resume her task of hunting for the group. She continued teaching Bira her skill and before long the young female was making small kills of her own. Bira also accompanied Ratha on forays to the spying tree, where they would hide and watch what went on in the meadow.

The clan culled more herdbeasts, but few of these were left to the herders. Most of the meat was taken by the Firekeepers and often dragged up the trail out of sight. Ratha strained for the sight or smell of Shongshar, but he never appeared in the meadow, even when the guard-fires were lit at dusk. She itched to know what was going on in the cave, and her anger conjured up images of him lolling before the Red Tongue, bloated with meat taken from the herders. Such thoughts made her growl between her teeth and shred the bark on the branch where she crouched.

The sun hid for days behind a heavy bank of clouds, and the rain fell without ceasing. The stream began to swell, surging and cutting away at its banks until Ratha feared the wall of earth at the high end of the spillway would not hold it back. Now she crouched on the rise above the stream bank, watching the swirling water with anxious eyes.

The break had to be controlled, Thakur had said. If the packed earth gave way too soon or in the wrong place, the rushing water could destroy the channel and race down the hillside, missing the hollow. All their work would be useless if that happened.

Ratharee huddled on the ground beneath her, seeking shelter from the rain in the warmth between her forepaws and her breast. Ratha could feel the little body shiver.

“It won’t be long now, Ratharee,” she said softly, feeling the treeling’s paws on her forefeet. “Bira’s gone down to spy on the cave. She’ll be back soon.”

As she waited for Bira, she found herself thinking about Shongshar, as she had often done during the past days. At first her mind had been clouded with hate. Once the cave-fire was destroyed and his rule ended, she vowed to force the Firekeepers to change their arrogant ways. No one in the clan would speak Shongshar’s name without a hiss. Both his memory and his ways would be buried.

Yet she now realized that as ruthless and cruel as he had become, Shongshar had greater vision than she had. He was right: she had left the true understanding of the Red Tongue’s power to him, and thereby forfeited her leadership. The veneration of fire had thrust her people into debasement and a savagery previously unknown among their kind, but it also fed a hunger of the spirit, a need that could neither be ignored nor denied.

He was also right that the Named were pushed beyond themselves by the awesome presence of the Red Tongue. Not only did gazing into the fire inspire them to greater strength and courage, it gave them the vision to seek beyond the limits of their everyday life for a sense of meaning. Even Shongshar’s dream of extending his rule beyond clan ground was as inspired as it was arrogant, she admitted grudgingly.

As much as she hoped to obliterate all traces of his rule from among her people, she knew some of the things he had done could not be changed. This realization had forced her to put aside her hate long enough to see that not everything the Firekeepers had done under his rule was wrong. Storing wood and sheltering the source-fire in the cave were sound ideas, even though they had been turned to self-serving purposes.

If a large shelter such as the cave had been located in the meadow instead of far up the creek trail, it would have been more difficult to misuse. Had the Firekeepers been made to understand that the Red Tongue’s power was a gift for all to share, perhaps it might have been more difficult for Shongshar to lead them astray. And if she had understood the need of her people to belong to a power greater than themselves and used it for good instead of turning it aside, then Shongshar might not have been able to turn the clan against her.

Ratha heard the slap of wet pads and caught the smell of Bira’s soggy pelt. The shapes of the young female and her tree-ling appeared through the rain.

“Most of the Firekeepers are inside,” she panted as she crouched beside Ratha. “Shongshar is having a great feast in the cave. Where are Thakur and Fessran?”

“They’re coming.” Ratha shivered with cold and impatience.

When the other two arrived, Bira told them the news. They looked at each other with rising excitement and then all eyes turned to Ratha.

“Take Ratharee, Fessran,” she said and sprang onto the top earth dike holding back the stream. Dirt flew into the foaming water. She attacked the soil as if it were Shongshar’s throat; rage made her paw strokes more powerful.

“They’ll be starting … to dance … around the Red Tongue… soon,” she growled as she redoubled her efforts. Brown water began to trickle through the channel between her feet. She was turning to Thakur with a grin when she felt the earth give way beneath her.

Her triumph quickly turned to terror as the earth wall broke and toppled. She threw herself to one side, twisting and scrabbling for a clawhold. She landed on her belly, her hindquarters and tail in the surging flood that spilled through the break. As the wall crumbled the current grew stronger, tugging at her hindquarters. She splashed and kicked with frantic strength, knowing that if she fell beneath the pouring water, she would never fight her way to the surface. She would be carried like a leaf down into the frothing cauldron that would fill the hollow. The Red Tongue would have its revenge even before it died.

That thought gave her the added strength to stretch farther up the bank and drive her claws into harder ground. Her shoulder muscles cramped with the effort of dragging her body from the hungry current. Part of the bank broke away beneath one forepaw and she dangled, held by the claws of the other. She felt teeth seize her flailing paw and grunted as she was yanked up until her chest and then her belly lay on the edge.

Someone caught her scruff, someone else grabbed a hind paw, and treeling hands were on her tail. She was hauled, dragged and rolled away as the rest of the bank caved in, threatening to sweep away both her and her rescuers. When they finally reached safe ground, she could only lie and pant while the others looked anxiously at her.

“I’m all right,” she gasped, struggling to her feet. “See what’s happened.” She shook herself, though it was useless in the heavy rain, and staggered to where the others stood.

Water from the rain-swollen stream coursed into the channel, washing away the remains of the earthen wall. The flood widened and deepened its new course, eating farther into the original streambed and diverting more and more water into the spillway. Ratha and Bira ran along the edge of their ditch, following the foaming wave down to the bottom of the hollow. The strength of the current was enough to send the muddy water fountaining up onto the slope of the hollow and right into the cracks venting the cave.

“We’ve done it!” Ratha roared to Bira as they galloped back to the top where Fessran and Thakur waited.

“We certainly have,” said Thakur as she reached him. “Look. The stream’s left its old path entirely.” He pointed with his paw toward the streambed below the spillway opening. Only a small trickle of water ran between puddles in the sand.

Above the roar of water surging into the channel, Ratha caught the sound of shrieks and cries drifting up from far below.

“The cave-fire must be dead!” she cried, leaping up. “Now we strike against Shongshar!”

She led the four of them down past the new lake that was filling the hollow, to the trail that led to the bottom of the waterfall. She noticed that the sound of the fall was gone. Instead, the noise of falling water came from the cave that had once been the Red Tongue’s den. A torrent gushed from the entrance, washing away a portion of the trail that ran beside the stream and cutting its way back to fill the now-empty streambed.

Even as they watched, a body rode out on the flow, tumbling over rocks and boulders until it was finally pushed to one side and left. Ratha could see others, some lying limp and still in the rain, some trying to crawl away from the growing cataract.

Charred logs that hurtled out on the flood about the entrance gave evidence that the cave-fire had been drowned and washed away. The conspirators gazed at each other, awed by the destruction.

Ratha’s imagination gave her an image of what the inside of the cave had been like when the water came pouring in. First, a small dribble that hissed into steam when it struck the Red Tongue and startled the dancers. Then more rivulets falling from the ceiling, glinting in the firelight. The dancers would have stopped, laying back their ears and snarling at this strange invasion. And when the full force of the flood hit the great fire and plunged the cave into sudden darkness, she could almost hear the howls and screams above the echoing roar that grew louder and louder …

Some would have tried to flee the cave in a panic near madness, guessing that the earth itself had turned against them for their wickedness in worshiping the Red Tongue. She could imagine that terror in the eyes of the half-drowned Firekeepers.

“It must have been terrible,” said Bira softly, saying what Ratha saw in the eyes of the two others.

“Let’s find Shongshar,” she said roughly and turned away.

TO THE DREAMBITERS

AND

THE DREAMBITTEN

On matted, shadow-laced grass in a forest clearing, two wild cats quarreled over prey. They made threat-growls as each circled the other. One was the size and weight of a panther, with a faded dun coat and a ribby, rickety look that spoke his age. The other, a female, was a strange mix of rust brown mottled with orange. A black mask across her face gave emphasis to her chalk-green eyes. Her youth might have given her the advantage despite her smallness, but her left foreleg was withered and drawn up against her chest.

With her pelt of rusty black and orange and her slow uncertain manner, she resembled a newt, an eel-like creature with legs. Once those of her own kind had cruelly kicked a dead one at her, as if to show her what she was. Perhaps they were right. Often she felt as dazed and bewildered as a newt that had crawled from its clammy hole into bright sun.

She remembered the dead thing—cold, limp, and coated with slime that made it too noxious for even her to eat. It was then that the image wormed itself into her mind. From that time, she thought of herself as Newt.

Her gaze fastened on the dusty feathered bundle pinned beneath the old dun-coat’s claws. It wasn’t a fresh catch; her nose told her that the bird had been dead for days. The paw claiming it trembled with age and weakness. The grizzled head bent to strip away feathers.

She gathered her three good legs beneath her, preparing for a rush that would bowl the ancient male over. Carrion rank as this had repulsed her in better days. Now her belly was shrunken, and the odor of any kind of food made her drool.

The dun-coat lifted his head, fixing watery yellow eyes on her. He made sounds that were more than just growls or whines. The sounds and the way he lashed his tail created feelings inside Newt that she didn’t want. She knew the old male despised her.

His noises made her feel just what she was: Ugly. Dull.

The old dun-coat tore at the rotten bird. Newt’s other feelings gave way to her fierce hunger. She lunged, driving into him and knocking him to the ground. He collapsed like the bundle of sticks he resembled. She sank her teeth into the prize and lifted it. He was struggling to his feet again, making mewling sounds.

He faced her so that she looked him full in the eyes. She met there the things she had seen in the gaze of others, but somehow his outraged stare was stronger. It asked questions—questions she could not answer.

 What are you that you would take the last scrap of meat from a dying old one? Have you no respect for the ending of life... ?

The message came not in sounds but in the fierce look from those watery yellow-green eyes. She wanted to flee with the ragged carcass, but the elder’s stare held her. And, as she was imprisoned by his gaze and her growing shame and confusion, his eyes seemed to change before her, becoming those of one she knew well and hated.

From somewhere behind her own eyes, inside her own skull, a familiar nightmare swept down on her. She heard rushing, pounding, and an echoing growl that rose to a shriek. In her fevered vision, a cat-shaped apparition rose up before her with gleaming fangs. The flame-colored demon stabbed its teeth into her crippled shoulder and foreleg, waking the old pain. She struggled, but in the vision she was always smaller, weaker, unable to defend herself. The dream-creature seized her, tore her, and then threw her aside into an abyss, where she lay until the blackness lightened.

Newt woke on her side, bleakly aware that she had fallen once again into the grip of her strange sickness. Now the Dreambiter was gone. Episodes like this were half seizure, half nightmare, and totally bewildering. She found herself still moving her legs weakly. Taking deep breaths, she quieted her movements.

As her heartbeat slowed, she pulled her feet beneath her and rolled onto her chest. She waited, dreading the light-headedness that might herald another attack. Often the dream and the illness would return, savaging her a second or third time before releasing her.

This time there was no sudden relapse. She stumbled to her feet, the contracted muscles in her crippled limb pulling as she mistakenly tried to use the leg. Her nightmare was gone. So was the old male and his feathered carrion. Newt sighed, knowing he had been able to stagger a safe distance away while she thrashed helplessly. Yet the memory of him shamed her a little less, perhaps because she knew he would have at least one more meal.

But why care about the old dun-coat? Usually she wouldn’t. It was too hard to think about anything except scratching up something to eat when she could no longer bear the pain of hunger. But sometimes other thoughts and feelings thrust themselves into her narrow world, like those the old one had roused in her, making her care or shaming her because she didn’t.

Newt hung her head, not wanting this hateful clarity of mind that came to her briefly on these occasions and added to her wretchedness. Yet, perhaps she was capable of thoughts beyond the bare needs of survival. She already knew the difference between kindness and cruelty, for she had felt both at some time in her dim past.

She shook her head to drive out some of the lingering dizziness. Sometimes it seemed as though the mist that always fogged her mind might lift, letting her think clearly. There had been a time... once... before the Dreambiter...

No. She wasn’t going to think about her nightmare. It might rise again, battering her from within.

Slowly, awkwardly, Newt turned. With her useless foreleg tucked up beneath her chest, she limped downhill.

Ratha, the leader of the Named, squinted through the trees to a sun paled by blowing dust. She had grit in her fawn-colored pelt, in the fur of her tail, and between the toes of all four paws. Her tongue felt dry and sticky against her fangs. On the riverbank where she stood, three-horn deer and small dapplebacked horses milled in groups, guarded by her people. The Named had long ago given up the risky life of huters for the more stable existence of herders, living on the meat of the beasts they kept.

Many of the Named carried a small companion called a treeling on their backs: a lemurlike creature with large eyes, a pointed muzzle, a ringed tail, and hands instead of paws. The treelings were the descendants of a single female who had been adopted by one of the Named as a pet. Her hands had proved useful for tasks too difficult for claws or teeth.

Ratha had her own treeling, a female called Ratharee, who sat on her back and groomed her. She felt deft treeling fingers comb the fur along her spine. Ratharee seemed to know exactly where the fleas tickled and would groom there before Ratha twitched or scratched. Sometimes Ratha felt needle-sharp teeth as the treeling nibbled to dislodge a stubborn tick, but Ratharee never nipped her.

Ratha turned her attention to the animals. The dapplebacks stood with their three-toed forefeet in the sluggish flow, nuzzling the water and sucking it up with thirsty gulps. Ratha badly wanted a bath, but she knew she’d have to settle for licking herself with her tongue. The river was too shallow to do more than wet her belly.

At least it had some water. The brook that ran from the river through the home pastures had become a dry channel, forcing the Named to move their drinking site.

Every day the water supply dwindled as the river fell. It was so low now that the three-horns and dapplebacks could not be watered together, or their hooves would churn mud into the water, making it undrinkable. Ratha watched as Named herders held the animals together by circling them, snarling and showing teeth. Firekeepers took up outlying positions, some carrying torches bearing the fire-creature called the Red Tongue. In good times, when the meadow brook ran full and clear and the pasturage was lush, herders rarely displayed more than an irritated grimace to control the animals, and the Red Tongue was needed only to defend themselves against outside raids. Now thirst made the herdbeasts restive, irritable, likely to rebel or stampede. The herders needed the Firekeepers close by, backing up the threat of claws and teeth with the threat of fire.

The dapplebacks grunted and squealed, laying back their ears, shaking their stiff, short manes, and lashing out with hoofed toes at any herder not quick enough to evade their ill temper. Ratha’s flank still stung from an unexpected kick.

She gave a soft prrrup that brought Ratharee from her back onto the nape of her neck. The treeling chirred and draped herself so that her forelegs and muzzle lay along the slant of one feline shoulder, while rear legs and tail extended along the other. The treeling angled her nose out, watching the commotion. Perhaps, Ratha thought, Ratharee was looking at her own treeling offspring, who now rode the backs of young herders.

Ratha paced the bank as the clan rounded up the dapplebacks that had already drunk, clearing the way for a group of three-horn does and fawns. She saw Thakur, the herding teacher, dodge a charge from a thirsty doe who threatened him with its forked nose-horn. His treeling, Aree, leaped from his scruff into the air in front of the deer, screeching and flailing her ringed tail. The startled herdbeast jumped sideways, its charge broken. Thakur and the others moved the does in to drink.

A grunting bellow rose above the tumult of lowing and bawling herdbeasts. Ratharee, startled, clung tightly to Ratha’s neck as the largest three-horn stag broke loose from the herd and headed for the river.

Snarling, Ratha leaped to join other herders dashing to cut the beast off. She found Thakur galloping alongside her through the scattered trees that edged the river. His copper coat flashed as he ran through patches of sun and shade with Aree riding on his nape.

“Turn the stag!” the herding teacher yowled. “Don’t try to block him!” Ratha saw Fessran, the Firekeeper leader, join the fray. A torch flame roared at the end of the branch in Fessran’s jaws. Close behind ran Bira, a red-gold shadow to Fessran’s sand-colored pelt.

Ratha skidded to a stop to let Ratharee scramble off. The treeling bounced on her hind legs over to Bira and jumped on alongside Bira’s own companion.

“Stay behind, Firekeepers,” Ratha called as she raced between saplings. The fire-creature she called the Red Tongue could cow aggressive animals, but the Named used it only if they had no other way.

She and Thakur turned the three-horn stag in tighter circles until it danced and bucked, pivoting on its hind feet to meet the herders with head horns and jabbing at them with both prongs of the forked nose-horn. The stag paused in its flurry, snorting and panting. Ratha saw her chance.

She lunged toward the three-horn stag, stamping with both forepaws together. She caught its gaze, locked her own with the animal’s. The three-horn bellowed, shook its heavy neck, but could not look away. Ratha took another step toward the beast, intensifying her stare. She put all her will into it, menacing and hypnotizing the beast.

She took another slow step, holding her body low, bowing her back, hunching her shoulders. Memories of a similar incident edged into her mind, threatening to distract her. Once, when she had been Thakur’s student, she had confronted a defiant three-horn. That time she allowed her gaze to break, and the animal nearly trampled her.

From behind her came the soft hiss of the Red Tongue as it fluttered on Fessran’s torch. The power was there, if she wanted or needed it. But the Red Tongue was too savage a thing to be used lightly when dealing with herdbeasts. Brought too close, it could madden them, and the only choice then was a quick, killing bite. She didn’t want to sacrifice the stag now, even though the Named needed the meat. It was a bad time and place; the other animals were too restive.

Even so, the instinct to attack rose up in her, almost overwhelming her need to approach slowly, eyes fixed on the quarry. She fought down an urge to spring that tightened her muscles like a cramp. She knew that to return the stag safely to the herd, she must master it by the strength of her gaze. Her stare never faltered or wavered, holding the beast until its proud head dropped in defeat.

Ratha let out her breath as Ratharee came scampering back to her and clambered on. Other herders led the stag back to the herd. She shook herself, sneezed dust from her nose.

Thakur trotted up, his green eyes glowing in his copper-furred face. His treeling, Aree, was Ratharee’s mother. He had originally brought Aree to the clan as a pet.

“Well, yearling,” Thakur said, using his old teasing name for Ratha, “that was one of the best stare-downs I’ve seen.”

“We need every skilled herder we have,” Ratha answered, warmed by his praise. “Even me.” Her tail twitched. “And Shongshar’s rise taught me what can happen if I forget that I am also one of the clan and must work among our people to understand our needs.”

She paced back between the trees with Ratharee on her shoulder, thinking about Shongshar, the orange-eyed stranger she had admitted into the clan. His mating with Bira had produced cubs lacking the intelligence and self-awareness that the Named valued, and Ratha had been forced to exile those youngsters so that they would not grow up in the clan. Embittered by the loss, Shongshar had turned against her, using the Red Tongue to create a worshipful following among the Firekeepers that was strong enough to cast her down from leadership and out of the clan.

It had been two summers since Ratha had fought to gain back her position, but the Named had been long in recovering. Some, like the Firekeeper leader, Fessran, still bore scars on their pelts from Shongshar’s long fangs. Fessran had sided with the Firekeepers and Shongshar in the struggle two summers ago. But when Shongshar held Ratha down for the killing bite, Fessran flung herself between the two, taking the wound. Ratha had escaped his saber-teeth, but her memory of him would never fade from her mind and only gradually from those of her people. And now, too soon after that wrenching time, the drought had come.

The Named watered their herdbeasts with no more major incidents and drove them to a nearby clearing that still had scattered grass and a few thickets with green leaves. Ratha lay down in the shade, missing the sunning rock that stood in the middle of clan ground. She liked to lie on the sunning rock, looking out over the beasts and herders. But now, though spring had not yet yielded to summer, the brook running through the old pasture had dried up, and the green faded into gold and brown.

And how long would the river itself last? Each day it shrank, and the net of cracks in the muddy banks grew and deepened. Ratha remembered tales told by elders of seasons when the Named had left clan ground in a search for pasturage and water. But it had been so long ago that no one could recall where they went or how they managed.

As the animals straggled past, she watched dappleback foals capering about their mothers. Fewer had been born this dry spring. Among the three-horns, several fawns butted and nuzzled at the dams’ flanks. Three-horns often had twins, but this season none of the does had dropped more than one fawn, as if their bodies sensed that they would have food and milk to rear only a single youngster.

Ratha tipped her head back to eye the sun’s white-gold fire against a bleached sky. If rain came again, even a little, the forage might recover enough to last through the summer. But nothing could be done to recover from the disappointment of spring breeding. The herds would decrease instead of expanding this year. Still, if the Named limited the number of their own new cubs, perhaps they could live on what they had.

Ratha gave a soft snort at her own presumption. If there was anything she couldn’t control, it was the fertility of Named females. Though the clan’s mating season had been delayed by the hardships of a dry winter and spring, it would still come. And, if things went as they had the last breeding time, she herself wouldn’t be adding to the number of new cubs.

In a way she felt relieved. Watching mothers cope with their litters of squalling, scrambling youngsters made her feel tired, and the occasional times she did nursery duty, her patience was gone long before someone rescued her. It was clear she was not fit for motherly duties. Still...

Stop dreaming, she told herself crossly. You had your chance, and look what happened. She sighed. Every once in a while thoughts of her lost litter by the Un-Named male, whom she called Bonechewer, still entered her mind. The Un-Named were those of Ratha’s kind who lived outside the clan. Though they resembled her people so closely that they could mate with the Named, they lacked the spark of self-awareness that made thought and language possible. Or so Ratha had believed until her banishment for daring to challenge clan leadership with the Red Tongue, the fire-creature she had found. Her exile forced her to live among the Un-Named, and there she met Bonechewer, an intelligent male with the ability to speak. He and Ratha had mated.

By now she should have forgotten, but images of the cubs, especially of her daughter, Thistle-chaser, still haunted her. She remembered Thisde-chaser’s beautiful empty eyes, which spoke of a mind too stunted to know the world in the way the Named did.

I wonder where she is now. I remember Bonechewer said she lived to run with the Un-Named. Ratha sighed, blowing the breath out between her front fangs and startling Ratharee. Long ago she had dismissed any thought of trying to find the cubs. What good would it do her, or them either? She would look at their eyes and the old rage would rekindle, the fury of knowing that her flesh and blood were nothing more than animals like the herdbeasts on which she fed or the marauders she fought, or the treeling she carried on her back. Even Ratharee’s eyes held more flickerings of the mind’s light than her sons’ and daughter’s ever would.

She tore herself away from the bleak landscape of her memory and gazed out at the herders, their beasts, and their treelings. They were her sons and daughters now —all those who made up the clan, all those who knew names and their worth. She sighted along her nose to a distant point where a fire burned with a Firekeeper standing watch nearby. This too was her progeny, this flame-creature called the Red Tongue, with its power to twist and sear those who bore it. If she had known of this when she first found the Red Tongue, would she have brought it back as a gift to her people? She shivered again with the memory of Shongshar and the struggle between herders and Firekeepers that nearly destroyed the Named.

Now she was wiser. One like Shongshar would never again rise within the clan, not while she had wit and strength to prevent it.

Ratharee rubbed her small head against Ratha’s cheek, as if reminding her of the unexpected gift those events had brought: the coming of Ratharee and her kind. If Thakur hadn’t found that injured treeling cub, or if he had found it and decided to eat it...

She glanced to one side, catching a flicker of motion in the corner of one eye. Thakur, the clan herding teacher, was trotting toward her with Aree bouncing on his shoulder.

“Are the beasts settled?” she called to him.

“Yes, now that they’ve drunk. I’m glad you decided to stay near the river.” He lay down beside her and licked dust from his copper fur.

“I’m worried, herding teacher,” Ratha said. “You know how few young herdbeasts were born this season. We will have to limit the number we use for meat.”

“There won’t be enough,” Thakur said, looking at her steadily.

“I know. We can’t depend on the herdbeasts entirely for food. Later there may be other food, such as those soggy fruit-things the treelings eat. I know you like fruits, but my stomach won’t stand them.” She paused. “The Named used to hunt all kinds of animals. Perhaps some of those that we used to hunt we can learn to herd. It wasn’t that long ago that old Baire brought three-horns to us.”

“I remember when a certain three-horn stag chased a young herding student up a tree.” Thakur’s eyes glowed with amusement at this memory of Ratha. “But you are right, clan leader. We have overlooked other animals. We should keep creatures that can do well in dry seasons, as well as those that flourish in good times.”

“This is what I will do,” said Ratha finally. “I will call all the strong, young herders and Firekeepers to the sunning rock. Those I need to guard the animals and the Red Tongue on our lands I will send back to their posts. Those who remain will stand in pairs in a circle with their backs to me and their noses pointed outward. Each pair will travel in the direction they face, seeking a place with water and forage for our herds, as well as new beasts we can learn to keep.”

“You know that the mating season will soon come, even if it is short,” said Thakur. “I heard Fessran yowling last night. I don’t think she was just singing.”

“With fewer of the Named on clan land during the mating season, fewer cubs will be born, I hope.”

“Perhaps that is sad, clan leader, but it is wise,” answered Thakur. “And I will also take my place among those you send.”

Ratha was unsure how to respond to Thakur’s offer. She found herself starting to lick a paw and scrub her face to avoid answering him.

“Yearling,” he said, using his old teasing name for her again, “I leave the clan every mating season. You know why, and I thought my going no longer bothered you.”

She licked her pad and gave her cheek a harder swipe than she meant to. “You won’t sire empty-eyed cubs on me, if that’s what you fear. I have not birthed cubs by anyone since Bonechewer. The matings don’t take.”

Thakur looked at the ground. “It is not just you I worry about, Ratha. The others too—Bira, Fessran. They don’t think about such things when the mating fever takes them. If I stay, the risk of siring witless cubs remains.”

Ratha knew what he said was true, and a part of her cried out in sorrow for him. He would never take a mate from among the Named and risk fathering young on a clan female.

Thakur, along with Bonechewer, who was his brother and had lived with the Un-Named, had been born from a mating between a clan female called Reshara and an Un-Named male. Both brothers possessed gifts, showing that such pairings could produce cubs with the light of intelligence in their eyes. But the results were too erratic to trust and too tragic to risk.

Though Thakur knew only that Ratha had birthed Bonechewer’s cubs and lost them, he did not know why. But he had witnessed the results of another mating between one of the Named and an Un-Named outsider.

Shongshar’s cubs by Bira had lacked the ability to speak and think that the Named so valued. Thakur knew that well, for he had helped Ratha carry both litterlings from clan ground.

Thakur nosed Ratha gently, mistaking the reason for her mood. “Don’t mourn because you have no young, clan leader. We, the Named, are your cubs. And I also have sons and daughters in the young ones who learn the ways of herding from me.”

The treeling on his shoulder chirred, as if to remind him that she too was part of his adopted kin. Ratha’s small companion, Ratharee, trilled back at her mother.

“When those who are to journey take their places, let me choose where I will stand,” Thakur asked. “And let me go by myself, as I always do.”

“Do you know where you want to go?”

“Yes. I will stand and lift my head to place the setting sun at my whisker-tips. It will lead me to a place I have seen only once, from a distance, to a body of water greater than any lake.”

“Then I will have the gathering at sunset, and you will choose your place,” Ratha answered, her head full of the pictures Thakur’s words conjured. She felt a prick of envy, wishing she could travel with him, leaving behind the burden of leadership. But he would return and perhaps take her with him to see what he had found, though not for a while. She watched him pad away with Aree on his back, his tail swinging. She wished he didn’t remind her so much of Bonechewer, the father of her own lost cubs.

 In the midafternoon heat Ratha ambled instead of trotted as she made her rounds among the scattered beasts, herders, and Firekeepers. At the nearest guard-fire, she saw Fessran. A tickle of worry about her friend crept along her back. The Firekeeper leader had seemed subdued lately.

Ratha touched noses and rubbed the full length of her body against her friend, crooking her tail over Fessran’s back. She could tell by the warm tone in Fessran’s scent that the Firekeeper welcomed such open affection. But underneath, Fessran’s smell told Ratha her friend was troubled.

“Thakur says he heard you singing last night,” Ratha said, trying to tease. “It is known among the Named that when Fessran is in full voice, the mating season is not far behind.”

Fessran’s reply was flat. “Thakur must have his ears stuffed with herdbeast hair. That was Bira, not me.”

Ratha’s ears swiveled forward, and she tried to look into Fessran’s eyes as the Firekeeper asked, “No one’s been complaining about me, have they? I mean, I haven’t shirked my duties even while I’ve been looking for my treeling.”

“No,” Ratha answered. She felt her own companion on her shoulder. Fessran looked a bit scruffy. Ever since her Fessree had disappeared, she had to depend on her own tongue for grooming.

“Do you want to borrow Ratharee?” Ratha asked.

“No. I appreciate the offer, but grooming isn’t the same if another treeling does it.” Fessran let her forepaws slide out until her creamy belly fur flattened the grass. “Funny. I never thought I’d really get attached to the little flea-picker. You and Thakur are as soft as dung when it comes to treelings, but I thought I was being more practical about it. It’s not Fessree’s little hands I miss. It’s her sitting on my shoulder and making noises in my ear. I got used to it.”

Ratha saw her shift some of the weight off her left foreleg, rolling half onto her side.

“How is your leg?”

“Thanks to Shongshar, it’ll never be the same again, even though it’s had this long to heal. I should be grateful that it works at all. Shoulder’s just a bit stiff. Bites heal better when you’re younger.” She licked the two puckered scars on her upper foreleg. There was another set of scars on her ribs where Shongshar’s saber-teeth had emerged through the leg and into her chest. It was a near-fatal wound, and Ratha was amazed and grateful Fessran had healed this well. Although Bira was coming along as Fessran’s backup for Firekeeper leader, Ratha needed Fessran in that role.

“You know, I wouldn’t feel so bad about Fessree,” Ratha said in an attempt to sound comforting. “Treelings sometimes wander off, but they come back. Aree did that to Thakur.”

“Well, I thought it might be because of the mating season. Everybody’s smell changing and all that. I notice it makes treelings nervous.” Fessran fell silent for a minute, but her scent told Ratha that she wasn’t in heat and probably wouldn’t be this season. After her wound and the long recovery that followed, she wasn’t yet in condition to bear a litter.

“You know why I’m so caught up with that miserable flea-picker?” Fessran asked suddenly, after a long silence. “It’s because of Nyang.”

Nyang. For a moment Ratha switched her tail, lost. Nyang was dead. He had been Fessran’s eldest cub from her last litter, one of those who went over to Shongshar when the clan split into two factions. He had been drowned when Ratha and Thakur managed to flood out the cave where Shongshar had hidden his worship-fire. In helping Ratha to dig the trench that diverted the stream from its banks, Fessran had helped in her son’s death.

“I don’t know why it’s bothering me. I still have Khushi and Chita, though they both are grown. I never felt I knew Nyang as well as I did the others. And then he was gone, and I lost my chance. Well, it’s foolish to mourn now.”

“No, it isn’t foolish at all,” said Ratha, thinking of her own daughter, Thistle-chaser.

Fessran stared at her paws. “After his death I kept thinking of Nyang until it hurt too much. And then Fessree started grooming me very gently and saying treeling nonsense in my ear, and it helped.”

“I know.”

Fessran lifted her muzzle abruptly, startling Ratha. “Do you really know, Ratha? Or would you like me to believe you know? Even though you are clan leader, you still seem so young to me. Have you ever felt the pain of losing a cub you birthed?”

Ratha closed her eyes, trying to keep Thistle-chaser’s story from rushing onto her tongue. No one knew about her lost litter except Thakur, and it was something best kept to herself. Besides, what good would it do to tell except to raise her own old pain again? Fessran didn’t need that. What she wanted was strength from her clan leader, not weakness.

Instead Ratha said, “If it will help, Thakur and I will search for Fessree.”

Fessran hauled herself to her feet, trying not to favor her shoulder. “I’ve been everywhere. It’s easier to see into the treetops now that the leaves are shriveling in the drought. No. You’re both busy. I’ll just leave Fessree to herself, the ungrateful bug-eater.”

She got up and walked off, swinging her tail. Ratha sat at the foot of the sunning rock, looking after her and wondering what else she could have said. Fessran’s change in mood had caught her by surprise, thrown her off balance. The accusation against her of immaturity and lack of understanding stung like a scratch. And even more so because it wasn’t true.

Newt’s ears swiveled forward as she woke, crawled from her sandstone cave, and limped onto the beach. Her pricked foot was tender but no longer painful, and she soon forgot about it. She tested the wind, finding the smells of creatures she had already encountered, such as the short-tusked walrus, but there was an unfamiliar scent among them. Through the background of wind and waves, she heard a distant clamor with odd hooting sounds breaking through.

Warily she hunched down in the sand, all senses extended for danger. She wondered if she should retreat from the beach and was surprised by a possessive anger that welled up inside her. No. This was her place. She had claimed it, left her footprints here, laid down her scent.

She circled downwind, guided by the strange smell. It had a strong seaweed-and-fish tang, resembling the scent of the blubber-tusker, but it differed enough from that animal’s smell for her to identify it as new. Peering up the beach, she saw a natural jetty of gray sandstone thrusting out to sea beneath a cliff. On the promontory, gray and black shapes sprawled in the sun.

At first she thought these animals resembled the blubber-tusker, but their broad bodies were less blubbery and more compact, slate colored on top and cream below. Chunky fore- and hindlimbs folded back against sleek sides as the creatures lay on their bellies. Their heads were long and tapered, reminding Newt of the muzzle of a forest dappleback rather than the snout of a blubber-tusker. They also had leaf-shaped ears that swiveled and twitched.

Newt narrowed her eyes against the morning sea glare. She felt the sun heat her back while her shadow inched along the sand. The wind gusted, bringing her the briny food-scent of shellfish. She remembered how she had plundered the blubber-tusker’s leavings.

As she came around the foot of the steep bluff, she saw a small cove that was sheltered from the wind by sandstone cliffs jutting up on either side. Within that refuge she saw another sea-beast and two smaller companions that resembled it. The large beast wallowed in the surf, while the small ones lay higher on the beach. Newt hid behind the rocks and crept closer for a better look.

The animal lifted its head and pricked its ears, then settled back complacently, chin resting on a short, fat neck. It grunted to itself as the waves washed its sides. Again Newt saw the elongated muzzle, resembling that of a dappleback, but instead of a rounded nose and chin, the creature had a tapered snout with a pronounced overbite. It yawned, revealing downward-pointing incisors in the upper jaw and a cluster of tusks thrusting from the lower.

The sight made Newt uneasy and she hid, but soon the sound of splashing coaxed her to peer out again from her hiding place. The glistening form of the sea-beast slapped against wet sand. With splay-toed webbed forefeet, the creature hauled itself onto the beach, jaws wedged wide open by a huge, muck-covered shell.

The beast seemed to ignore its hind legs, letting them drag behind while it humped and heaved along on belly and stout forelegs. As it crushed the clamshell in its jaws, seawater spurted from the clam’s leathery siphon.

Waves of tantalizing scent reached Newt. She licked her chops but forced herself to remain still, waiting. She listened to the scraping and grinding sounds while the shellfish smell made her drool.

The small sea-beasts wiggled on their bellies in the sand. They lurched up on thick legs and bumbled around until they fell against each other or the big one. From the forbearance the large beast showed the two, Newt sensed she was looking at a female and her young.

Newt marked the youngsters as prey, for they were small enough to kill easily. She would have to wait until their parent wasn’t paying attention. For the present she would settle for clam scraps.

Her hunger was no longer strong enough to blunt her curiosity, for she had eaten from the blubber-tusker’s leavings, and she was intrigued with this new creature. Though this beast ate shellfish, lived on the beach, and had tusks, its face, neck, and ears reminded her of a dappleback, and it was those attributes that made the strongest impression on her. Once she had seen a small mare with two spindly foals, and now this memory emerged as an image, coloring her feelings about the sea-beast family. She stared at the strange mare that swam in the sea.

This creature, whom Newt now thought of as a “seamare,” continued to wrench apart a huge shell with forefeet and tusks. The seamare’s black forepaws, with their wide tapering toes and the webbing between, were nothing like the flippers of the blubber-tusker or the hoofed toes of a dappleback.

The longer she watched the seamare, the more Newt focused on those odd, splay-toed feet. As she had once identified with an image of herself as the newt, so she identified the seamare with the image of those strange feet. To her, the creature became Splayfoot.

Newt stayed hidden until the seamare finished gorging on clams and fell asleep on a low sandstone shelf, with both seafoals sprawled nearby. Newt smelled a few savory bits remaining from the seamare’s feast of shellfish. Carefully she hobbled from her hideaway down through the rocks to the terrace where Splayfoot lay. She got so close she could smell the salty beast-scent and hear the seamare’s rumbling snore. Quickly she snatched up the nearest morsel and went for the next.

Suddenly the seamare’s neck muscles tightened as the beast lifted her head, her tapered muzzle pointing at Newt. With an ungainly heave, the beast swept both chunky forelegs around and heaved up her forequarters. From her open mouth came a booming roar that echoed between the rocks of the cove and made Newt skitter back with flattened ears.

For an instant the two confronted each other. With surprising speed, Splayfoot humped herself toward Newt, swinging her tusks. The seamare’s anger propelled her up onto her rear legs, and Newt discovered that they weren’t as useless as they had first appeared.

Newt hadn’t expected the seamare’s sudden transformation from belly-dragger to walker. Splayfoot had a clumsy gait, with out-thrust elbows and turned-in feet, but it served well enough. Now the seamare was a four-footed behemoth lumbering toward the enemy that threatened herself and her young.

With a mouth full of sandy clamshells and meat, Newt couldn’t use her teeth, but she wasn’t about to drop her takings. Gathering her hind feet beneath her, she leaped as high as she could, clinging and scrabbling at the rocks above.

Once she had gained a secure perch, she started to eat, looking down at the seamare. Unable to hold the shell down with both forepaws, she wedged one side of it under a boulder and held it there with her good leg while she worried the meat away with her side teeth.

Splayfoot strained her head back as far as her thick neck would allow and gave a bellow that almost made Newt choke on the rubbery clam flesh she was gulping. The agile youngsters scrambled back to their mother’s side as the seamare pointed her muzzle in the air and sniffed suspiciously. Splayfoot lumbered along on her belly, probing the way ahead with the long bristles on her muzzle and stabbing the sand with her tusks, as if she thought the menace might still be lurking there.

She snuffled among the scattered shells, putting back her ears and rolling her eyes. But instead of retreating from the place, as prey animals would when they caught the smell of meat eaters, the seamare gave a bubbling roar and knocked all the remaining shell fragments away with a powerful sweep of her foreleg. She opened her jaws and waggled her head, giving the lurking meat eater a good look at her tusks and teeth.

Newt decided that she’d had her fill of clam scraps. She smelled other things that might be edible, such as carrion and seabird eggs. But first she wanted to rest. She retreated as fast as she could limp back to her refuge at the foot of the weathered sandstone cliff.

Thakur’s way of reckoning direction by the sun held true and brought him to the shore he’d seen only from a distant peak. Taking Aree on the journey slowed him down, but he wasn’t going to part with his treeling, even for this. Although he had eaten enough at the clan kill to sustain him for several days, he made stops to hone his hunting skills, long left unused by his life in the clan. He also halted to sleep, relieve himself, or let Aree forage for berries and beetles.

They reached the sea coast just before sunset several days after departing from the sunning rock. Thakur had begun to think he had gone astray, for the way led him through a forest of great pines whose fibrous red bark and enormous girth were new to him. But when he kept to the deer trail that wound through these hills and brush canyons, the redwood forest gave way to a lighter growth of strong-smelling bay laurel. It ended abruptly at a meadow.

The grass was high and whipped by a salty breeze. Walking slowly, Thakur left the trees, turning his head to catch the sights, smells, and sounds of this new country. Ahead he heard the muffled crash and sigh of breaking waves. The sound reminded him of some great creature breathing. A bird sailed above him, its underside a dazzling white against the dark-blue sky, its wings constantly shifting to ride the wind that sent it slipping sideways. As the gull winged overhead, Thakur felt Aree flatten against his neck. With a quick nuzzle, he reassured the treeling.

He walked until the wind was strong in his face and the grass thinning beneath his feet. The meadow ended, tumbling away into sheer cliffs with waves pounding at their base. At first, Thakur thought he should taste the water, but night was coming and he could see no way to climb down. Thakur looked down into the frothing surf until he grew dizzy, then gazed outward.

Before him lay a shimmering expanse of silver, where the setting sun’s light danced in colors like light from the Red Tongue. At first it appeared to be another land, a vast plain spreading toward the horizon with sunlight painting new trails to lead him onward. The shimmer became the ripple of water, of traveling wave crests that swept toward him.

The first time he’d seen this great water from a distance, he had thought it must be an enormous lake. But now, standing on the cliff and sweeping the horizon for some glimpse of a distant shore, he sensed that even if he journeyed for a lifetime, he would never be able to travel around it. Many a closed circle of pawprints had he left about the lakes near his home ground, but a circle of pawprints about this expanse of water would always remain open.

He gazed out over the water, watching its hues and texture change with the sinking sun. He felt the same awe that touched him when he sat gazing into the heart of a flame. Both were things he knew he would never understand, but he sensed they came from the same source and had the same underlying power. It was a feeling that made him want to stay quiet while evening came to this new and almost sacred place. Even Aree remained still, containing her usual tendency to fidget.

At last the feeling faded into simple loneliness, and the wind began to bite. Thakur got up from the place where he had settled and stretched himself. He padded back through the grass to the edge of the forest and found shelter in a niche between two logs that had fallen across each other. There he and the treeling passed the night.

When Thakur awoke at dawn, the sound of breakers was fresh in his ears and the sunlight brilliant. The shoreline country now had an exuberant quality that infected both travelers. Frolicking and scratching with energy, Aree pounced aboard Thakur’s back, and they set off.

With a flick of his tail, he turned from the westward path he’d been on to a northward course that led him up the coast. He hoped to find a way down to the water’s edge, but the cliffs remained too forbidding. He trotted along windblown scarps with Aree munching berries and dribbling the juice on his fur. He crossed wild clifftop meadows and paced over the flanks of hills whose slopes were cut off by the sheer drop of the sea cliffs. He paused to rest in groves of coast pine where the trees leaned the way of the prevailing wind, their shapes stunted and twisted by spray and storm.

The variety and abundance of birds amazed him. They wheeled about him in raucous flocks or glided silently overhead. Fork-tails hovered in midair by beating their pointed wings into a blur and shifting their tails to balance the wind. Sea gulls swooped so low over him that he had to fight his instinct to spring up and bat one out of the air. Though he forced himself to ignore the birds, his tail twitched, and he could not keep his teeth from chattering in excitement as he trotted along.

By midday the stark cliffs had given way to friendlier country that hosted river valleys and winding estuaries. As Thakur descended with Aree from the clifftops, he saw sandy shores and mudflats. Droves of stilt-legged shorebirds rested or waded there, probing the bottom with their bills.

Some of these birds were so odd that he halted to gaze at them. He knew the long, sharp bills of herons and the broad ones of ducks, but here he saw beaks that curved up, down, or even sideways.

The shorebirds looked so clumsy and gawky that he was tempted to stalk one. But Aree would be in the way, and there was no convenient tree where she could wait safely until he had finished his hunt.

At one estuary, there was a place that looked shallow enough to ford. There he tried the water, but gagged at the briny taste. Disappointed, he waded across, the current tugging at his legs, while Aree made wordless treeling noises as to what she would do if he got her wet. Shaking his paws dry on the far side, he found himself behind a line of scrub-covered dunes. He climbed them and stood looking out on a crescent beach that reached to a rocky headland.

He had set one paw into the crusted sand when a swell of noise rose above the soft wailing of the wind. Abruptly he froze, ears swiveling to catch and identify the sound. It was a mixture of animal cries: grunts, bellows, screeches. What made him turn from his intended path was a faint but unmistakable caterwaul that sounded like one of the Named in a squabble.

He listened, his ears strained far forward, his muzzle pointing toward the rocky terraces that formed the promontory north of the beach.

There it was again. Could one of Ratha’s scouts have gone astray and ended up here? He doubted it, but he had to make sure. Rather than follow the sweep of the beach, he decided to circle back behind and climb up the bluff, where he could peer down at the rocks and ledges below.

Soon he was trotting through the short grass and scrub brush of the headlands, heading for the point. He could hear more clearly the commotion of the fight going on among the rocks below. Screeching, yowling, and a powerful roar made him quicken his pace, but it was the female voice rising in a battle cry that made his whiskers stand on end.

He broke into a canter, jolting Aree along. Behind an outcropping of sandstone, he slithered to a stop and peered down onto the wave-cut terraces and tumbled rocks that spilled out from the point in a natural jetty. In a cove along the spit, he saw a female of his own kind facing a huge black-and-white-crested eagle. Nearby was a large web-footed creature. Close to the bird lay a smaller animal that looked like a youngster.

At first he thought the strange female was fighting for her own life against the eagle and readied himself to charge down into the fray. But he saw that the bird hopped toward the small creature every chance it could get, while the female beat it away. When she abruptly turned and nosed the clumsy young animal over a lip of rock and out of the bird’s reach, Thakur realized this was no simple conflict of hunter and hunted. This stranger, whoever she was, fought to defend the young of the sea-beast just as Named herders protected dappleback foals and three-horn fawns.

Abruptly the fight ended. With a great clapping of wings, the bird lifted and flapped away. Thakur peered hard at the stranger, trying to see if she were clan-born or one of the more intelligent among the Un-Named, but he failed.

Her rust-black and orange coloration was unlike anything he had seen before. She seemed to be limping. He thought at first that the bird had wounded her, but as he studied her closely, he realized her three-legged walk was habitual, and he guessed that the drawn-up foreleg must be permanently lame.

Thakur wondered if what he’d seen was only his imagination. Could it be that his training as a herder and his work as a teacher made him misinterpret the stranger’s behavior? Was he seeing only what he expected to see? Well, he could hardly have expected this! He watched the stranger wend her way among the odd, lumpy sea-creatures, their calmness convincing him that they knew her and had grown accustomed to her presence.

The stranger’s smell was faint at this distance, but the trace of it he could catch was not clan scent. Curious now, he cast about until he found a scent-mark she had made on the bluff and inhaled the odor. No, she wasn’t from the clan, nor was she of the Un-Named, who left their traces on hunting trails.

Thakur toyed with the idea of going down to meet this intriguing stranger, but something made him hesitate.

She must be from the fringes of the Un-Named, he decided, a product of a mating between a clan member and one of the Un-Named, just as he and his brother, Bonechewer, were. If so, she might be friendly, but she also might be dangerous. Though crippled, she had managed to beat off a bird bigger than she was. Thakur wasn’t sure he wanted to confront her directly and certainly not with Aree on his back.

Instead, he watched her, being careful to keep downwind so she wouldn’t smell him. He noted the trails she took through the terraces and rocks. If he scent-marked a shrub or boulder along her way, then he could announce himself in a casual fashion and see from a distance what her response would be.

He put his plan into action the following day. After spraying several shrubs and rubbing his chin on a boulder, he sent Aree to safety in the branches of a wind-gnarled cypress and hid himself above the path.

Soon he heard footfalls in the rhythm of his quarry’s three-legged gait. He peered from his hideaway for the first close-up view of the stranger. He was not prepared for the odd little face that appeared around the edge of a boulder. None of the Named had anything like her markings in orange and rusty black. An inky band across the lower part of her face emphasized the lightness of her eyes.

Thakur had never seen such eyes. An iris of milky green swirled about each slit pupil, giving the stranger a gaze that seemed distracted and diffuse. Yet her stare had an unsettling quality. The cloudiness at first made him think she might be blind, but the sharp definition of her pupils and the way she made her way without using her whiskers to touch things convinced him she could see.

The stranger’s ears flicked back, and her neck extended as she caught his scent. He saw her upper lip curl back, revealing short, sharp fangs without signs of wear. She took one limping step toward the bush he had sprayed and then went rigid. A look of terror and rage shot through her eyes. Reeling backward as if she’d been struck, she crumpled into a whimpering heap, her good forepaw shielding her face. Shudders racked her, throwing her on her side, where she fought and thrashed against some unseen enemy.

Thoroughly bewildered, Thakur crept from his hideaway. He had seen and smelled many reactions to his scent-marking, but none as dramatic or frightening as this! An irrational sting of guilt hit him for daring to place his mark in her path.

The young female lay on her side, pedaling weakly with three feet as she stared ahead. Her head arched back and she stared without seeing. As the paroxysm spent itself, her limbs stilled and her eyes closed. She lay limply. When Thakur pawed her, she wobbled like a freshly killed carcass.

Numbed by astonishment and disbelief, he went to her head and stared down at her. Part of him insisted that it was coincidence; she had sniffed his mark just as the fit struck her. No. He had seen too clearly the shock and fright that had flashed through the cloudiness of her eyes in that instant before she fell.

She took quick, struggling breaths that jerked her rib cage. Thakur himself took a sharp breath of relief. As her breathing steadied, he felt his panic drain away. Whatever the cause of this attack, it would run its course. Unable to sit still, he paced around her.

The stranger’s face resembled those of the Named. She had a delicate muzzle and a well-defined break from the line of nose to forehead that Thakur found attractive. But what made him start when he saw it was a line of reddish-tan flame that licked up her forehead from the top line of her eyes to the crown of her head. Against the background color of rusty black, the strange marking stood out. It seemed to waver and flicker in his gaze, as if he were looking once again at a windblown line of fire. In his memory, the Red Tongue made its march through the forest.

Suddenly Thakur felt angry with himself. Yes, she had strange markings, but there was nothing that should disturb him about the patterns on her face. There were little touches of white at the corners of her lips and a narrow cream blaze on her nose. In a Named female, the effect would have been one of disturbing ugliness, or perhaps beauty....

If her smell had matched the unsettling attractiveness of her face, Thakur might have found it harder to break off his close examination of the stranger. But his nose continued to remind him that she was ungroomed, filthy, and so full of the pungent stink of the sea-creatures that he couldn’t make out her underlying scent.

She swallowed. The abrupt movement of her throat startled him. Soon she would wake. Should he stay or go? Was it his scent that had thrown her into this fit, and would it happen again if he stayed?

He looked down at her crippled foreleg. Along her shoulder from nape to breast ran a half-collar of rumpled fur that, he guessed, might hide a ridge of scar tissue. The foreleg itself, though shrunken, didn’t appear deformed. He had seen a similar injury in a herdbeast, caused when one creature kicked another in the breast. Whatever made the leg move gradually died, until the creature could no longer use its limb. He remembered that herders had soon chosen the animal for culling.

He saw the stranger’s eartip tremble. Her lips drew back, exposing her fangs as she swallowed again. He noted the shade of her gums to check if she had lost blood or had the paling sickness. No.

He drew back, then changed his mind. If the fit left her weak or ill, she would need help. But his reason for staying was more than that. What he had seen her doing with the sea-creatures might be valuable to the Named.

At last, after many preliminary stirrings and twitchings, she blinked and moved her head. Thakur sat down where he was, letting her gaze find him. Her nape fur rose, and the pupils of her milky-green eyes shrank. Despite her lame foreleg, she moved so fast that she was a rust-and-black blur in his eyes. In the next instant, she faced him, body displayed broadside, head twisted, fangs bared. The upturned tips of her flattened ears signaled fear as well as anger.

Thakur slowly got to his feet, lifting his tail in the greeting gesture common among the Named. He gave a rising purr.

The other stiffened her defensive posture, her back legs doing an angry little dance of their own that tended to swing her hindquarters toward him. He watched her tail. If it relaxed and curved into a hook, that meant he might have some chance of reaching her.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said slowly. “Please. I want to talk to you. My name is Thakur.”

He faltered on the last word. There was no understanding in those milky-green eyes, not even curiosity. He might as well have tried to speak to a herdbeast! She spat at him and made a pitiful wrenching motion with her stunted foreleg, as if hoping to use it to claw him. He lowered his head and tail. How could this be? How could she have established that unusual relationship with the sea-creatures if she was as dull as this? Herding wasn’t a simple task; that he knew well. You had to outthink the creatures you wanted to control; you had to plan ahead.

He stared at her in dismay, his tail sagging. She backed away in a three-legged crab walk, growling deep in her throat.

“Go then,” he said sadly, more to himself than to her. Deliberately he broke eye contact, looking away. When he looked back again, she was gone.

In the late-afternoon shade of a thicket on the meadow’s edge, Ratha watched a young Firekeeper and his treeling tangle two cords made from twisted bark. Fessran sat nearby, still without her treeling.

“Tell me again why this would be useful,” Ratha said, trying to understand what Fessran’s student was to show her.

“Well, you know that we wrap wood with those lengths of twisted bark so that we can drag more of it. The trouble is that our wrapping often doesn’t hold, so the bundle comes apart, the sticks get scattered, and we have to gather them again. When this student showed me a way to prevent that, I decided you should know.”

Looking nervously at the clan leader, the young Firekeeper pawed apart the two cords, then began again.

“I don’t see any wood, and he’s using separate pieces,” Ratha objected.

“It’s easier to see what he’s doing without twigs in the way. And think of the separate bark-twists as the ends of a single one,” Fessran soothed.

Ratha gave up arguing and watched. She saw how well the youngster and his small companion worked together, as if each knew what the other needed and expected. He had been born after treelings had become a part of clan life, and the two had been raised together.

She listened to the young Firekeeper and his treeling as the two purred and chirred back and forth, exchanging gestures and nudges. The two strings of bark came together under treeling hands, but both wills worked the change.

Ratha asked them to stop so she could see how the cords wound about each other.

“Think of it this way, clan leader,” said the Firekeeper student. “Two snakes have crossed over each other, then the one underneath has looped back and crawled over the top one.”

Ratha stared hard. She was beginning to get the idea.

Do you see what he’s doing, Ratharee? she thought at her treeling, who perched on her head, peering down between her ears. I think I do. Perhaps we can try it together.

The student pulled his tangled cords apart. Ratharee didn’t need any nudging to scramble down from Ratha’s back to get her paws on this intriguing new toy, but she had no idea how to repeat what the Firekeeper’s treeling had done. With soft prrrups and nudges, Ratha directed Ratharee’s hands until the bark cords wound once about each other on the ground.

“Now the wrapped snakes rise up and face each other,” said the young Firekeeper, warming to his task, “and they wind again, but they must go in the opposite direction, or the tangle won’t hold. We pull both tails, and the snakes tighten about each other,” he said as his treeling completed tying the knot.

Ratha had the idea, but getting Ratharee to translate that understanding into action was difficult. She could wind the cords, but she wanted to continue wrapping them about each other until she’d turned them into a tangled mess. However much Ratha nudged, purred, and pawed, she couldn’t get past that.

“It isn’t easy, clan leader,” the student said apologetically. “I had to work a lot with my treeling before we could even do the first part.”

“Yes, and I thought you were just fooling around. I cuffed you for not attending to your duties, as you remember well.” Fessran grinned as her protégé looked slightly dismayed. She sniffed the treeling-made knot.

“All right, youngster,” Fessran announced to the young Firekeeper. “Enough for now. Go back to your work. Since the clan leader likes what you’ve done, you may continue it, but don’t use that as an excuse to be lazy. ”

Ratha called Ratharee to her and watched the student lope away with his ring-tailed companion on his back.

“He’s clever, isn’t he? Makes me feel old and stupid.” Fessran sighed.

“If you got yourself another treeling, my Firekeeper friend, you could do the same things.”

“No. If I can’t have Fessree, I’d prefer to burn my whiskers myself. And have smart young students to think up easier ways to bundle wood.”

“It may go beyond just wood bundling. You know that, since you’re encouraging him,” Ratha pointed out.

“It may, but nothing will ever top what a certain young herder did with the Red Tongue.” Fessran lay down beside Ratha, pawing her playfully.

“Flatterer! No one will ever accuse you of being old and stupid, not while you have a voice to tease me with. What power has the Red Tongue compared to Fessran’s?” With that, Ratha rolled over and play-wrestled with the Firekeeper, while Ratharee scolded both.

The sound of rustling brush and trotting feet brought both heads up. The sun flashed on a dark copper coat as Thakur jogged toward them and slowed to touch noses. With a rising purr, he rubbed past Ratha.

“It is good to smell you again, Thakur,” she said softly. “I’ve thought often of you.”

“And I have missed you, yearling. I have much to tell, but first let me rest.”

He touched noses with Fessran, then flopped himself down in the shade with Aree on his shoulder.

“I thought everyone would still be off yowling in the bushes,” he said, grinning at both of them. “Did you hear any good courting songs this year, Fess?”

The Firekeeper hissed scornfully. “None of this year’s crop of suitors has any voice at all.”

“So we make cubs by singing? That is something new among the Named.” Thakur lolled his tongue at her.

Hearing Thakur’s teasing was like old times, but it also served to remind Ratha that the delayed mating season had been short, with few of the Named taking part. Her own heat had lasted only a few days, then tapered off.

Thakur turned to Ratha. “Have the other scouts returned yet?”

“They’ve been coming in during the past few days. You’re the last. Everyone’s hungry. I’ll have a herdbeast culled.”

Thakur’s brow furrowed slightly. “The last cull took all the unfit animals. Have the herders choose carefully. We need good stock for breeding.”

Ratha felt slightly irritated at him for telling her something she knew well. But he was right; they had to be careful.

“Those who have journeyed far for the sake of their clan shall not sleep tonight with empty bellies,” she answered. “We will take what is needed, no more. Fessran, I’d like to speak with Thakur alone. Would you go and look to the culling?”

The Firekeeper sprang to her feet and padded away. Ratha turned to Thakur. “So then, herding teacher. What tales do you bring?”

He paused, then answered. “I have news, but first tell me what the other scouts have reported.”

Ratha wondered why he was being evasive, but she said only, “The scouts found many new beasts, but none appear to be as well suited to our needs as the creatures we now keep.”

“Oh?” Thakur cocked his head. “That surprises me.”

“Young Khushi came back with a wild tale about huge, shaggy creatures who bear tusks and wear their tails on their faces. Although he didn’t think we could kill the big ones, he thought we might take the young.”

“While their mothers’ backs are turned, of course,” said Thakur with a grin, for he knew how fiercely protective herdbeast mothers could be.

Ratha glanced at him and went on. “I may go with him to see these face-tails, since we might be able to use them. After all, my grandfather brought us three-horns, and everyone told him they were too dangerous. We just need to learn new ways of managing certain animals.”

“Did any other scout find something worthwhile?”

She sighed. “I suppose you didn’t find anything either, since you’re so eager to know if others did. There were some reports that I considered as possibilities. One scout said he saw many prong-horns. He also spoke of lowing beasts with widespread horns and great humps on their shoulders. He thought the prong-horns too small and fleet for our keeping and the others too ugly tempered. Again, I said I might go with him to judge the creatures for myself.” After a pause she noticed he wasn’t listening but seemed to be turned inward as if thinking hard. “What’s the matter, Thakur?”

Slowly he answered, “Ratha, I did find some creatures on the sea coast that we might herd. They are strange, but they can be managed, and I think I know how.”

Carefully he described the seamares, including their shore-dwelling existence. “These water-beasts are larger than our dapplebacks and will provide more meat per cull. They have tusks, but they are clumsy on land.”

“These creatures do sound strange, Thakur,” Ratha said doubtfully after he had finished. “Fat, tusked dapplebacks with short legs and duck’s feet? And you say they swim in this great, wave-filled lake you found? How would we keep one from just swimming away if it didn’t want to be our meat?”

“How do we keep our herdbeasts from running away when we cull them? There are ways, especially when we work together.”

Ratha stared at her paws. “I suppose. But it sounds as if herding these creatures would cause a big change in the way our herders do things. And it might not work out.”

With a sharpness in his voice that betrayed a flicker of injured pride, he said, “Clan leader, I know we can live off these seamares because I have seen another doing it.”

Ratha’s whiskers bristled and her pupils expanded. She turned her head to stare at him. He looked uncomfortable, as if he had said more than he meant to. “One of our kind?”

“I don’t know who she is,” Thakur confessed. “She may come from among the fringes of the Un-Named who have bred with the clan. I tried to speak with her, but she doesn’t talk. At least not in the way that we do.”

He went on to describe the way the young stranger had blended into the seamare colony.

“A small number of us may be able to do the same thing,” he said. “Perhaps by watching her, we can learn.”

“She actually herds these duck-footed dapplebacks?” Ratha asked. “Are you sure you didn’t just see what you wanted to see, herding teacher? She could have been an Un-Named one passing among them. From what you say, she doesn’t sound as though she has the light in her eyes or the wit to understand herding.”

“I watched her fight off a crested sea eagle from a duck-footed foal. I also saw her swimming with the creatures and sharing their food. Whatever she is doing has a purpose. What’s more, the fact she has done it amazes me even more because she’s lame.” He described how the odd stranger got about on three legs, keeping one forepaw tucked against her chest.

Ratha eyed him. “You seem to have been taken with this bit of an Un-Named one.”

“Do you think I missed the mating season so much that I would consider taking an outside female?” Thakur flashed his teeth at her in irritation. “You and I, of any among the Named, should know the dangers of that!”

“I don’t seem to have to worry,” Ratha said, her voice turning bitter. “I know I won’t have cubs this year, even though the courting fever took me as it did the others. Perhaps it is better that I don’t, since I have all of the clan to look after.” She laid her nose on her paw for a minute and stared ahead into nothing. “I’m sorry, herding teacher. I didn’t mean that. Words can hurt more than claws sometimes.”

“Well, in any case, I wasn’t tempted,” Thakur said, still ruffled. “She wasn’t in heat. She also stank of wave-wallower dung and fish.”

Ratha pensively licked the back of a forepaw. She glanced at him from the corner of one eye. “I will come with you to the lake-of-waves, and you can show me these animals. But you’ll have to wait for a few days. We’re driving the beasts to another river tomorrow.”

“I was afraid you’d have to do that soon,” Thakur said. “So the nearby one has gone dry.”

“And I don’t know how long this new one can supply us.”

“Well, another good reason for going to see those duck-footed dapplebacks is that I found a spring near their beach.” He went on to describe the gush of water from the face of a shaded cliff so well that Ratha became uncomfortably aware of her dry tongue. The drought was progressing so rapidly that a reliable water source had become more important than new game animals.

“I’m interested in the spring,” Ratha said. “I’m thinking of moving our animals permanently to another place until this drought ends.”

Abruptly Thakur asked, “Will you need me on the next drive? If you would allow me to get a head start on the journey back to the lake-of-waves, I could take another look at the spring. It would also help me learn more about the creatures there.”

“And the odd one who lives among them.”

Thakur rolled onto his chest, his front paws spread out before him. “She has much to teach me, I think. Suppose you lead the first drive until the herders can manage alone. Then you and Fessran join me on the shore.”

“By ourselves?”

“Yes.”

“Why not bring others who are not needed to manage our own animals?”

“I’m afraid too many of us would scare our little sea-dappleback herder away. Let me go first, then the two of you. She might get used to me. Perhaps she can talk but was just too frightened.”

“Are you thinking of trying to bring her into the clan if she can speak?” Ratha asked. She knew Thakur could hear the wary edge in her voice. He too remembered what had happened when she had admitted an unknown stranger to the ranks of the Named.

“Let us run that trail when we find it,” said Thakur smoothly. “First I want to learn from her. If the question of clan admittance arises, you, as leader, will have to decide. I don’t think it’s going to be a problem. If she can’t speak, how is she going to ask?” He crossed one paw over the other, the gesture ending his words.

“Well, she doesn’t sound as though she will be too clever for her own good, as Shongshar was,” Ratha growled. “All right, herding teacher. Your plan sounds like a good one.”

“Then I will leave again after I’ve eaten and rested,” he answered. “When you are ready, follow me.” He then told her the way to the shore and said he would leave scent-marks to guide her. He asked her to leave her own signs, once she got there, to tell him she’d arrived. She listened carefully, remembering his words.

Ratha got up as she spotted Fessran’s tan form jogging back toward her.

She turned to Thakur. “Hungry?”

She didn’t need an answer as the herding teacher scrambled to his feet, his belly growling.

Thakur’s return journey to the coast went more quickly because he knew the trail. Again he emerged from the coastal forest onto meadows crowning high cliffs and traveled north along bluffs and ridges until late one evening, when he came to the beach and the jetty. In the scrub behind a bluff overlooking the ocean, he discovered a hollow between two boulders, made himself a nest, and slept.

In the morning, he awoke and took Aree up to a wooded area in the foothills behind the bluff, where the treeling could forage for leaves and insects. When she had eaten her fill, he started back to the beach, intending to seek out the young stranger who lived among the seamares.

The late morning sun warmed his back, making him feel loose limbed and lazy. Aree was snoozing in the hollow behind his shoulders; he could hear her gentle snoring and feel her wobble as he padded along. He grinned to himself, enjoying the feeling of her fingers gripping his fur and her small but comforting weight on his back.

Then the treeling tensed. He felt her fingers clench just as a warning rattle of brush made him flatten his ears. In the next instant a rust-and-black form sprang at him from the side, landing half across his back. He heard teeth click as jaws snapped at Aree. The treeling scrambled onto his head, her hindquarters hanging over his muzzle, blinding him. But the strong tang of seamare mixed with female cat-scent told him who the attacker was.

With a shake of his head, he jolted Aree sideways so he could see again and at the same time flung himself onto his back, bringing his rear claws into play against his opponent’s belly. He felt her scrabble on top of him, lunging for the treeling. With a screech, Aree bounded away and up the nearest sapling, where she clung, swaying as the slender tree bent.

Now Thakur could concentrate on subduing his attacker. She leaped over him, but just as she landed he rolled over and snagged her hindquarters with his foreclaws, knocking her to the ground. He grabbed her around the middle, hauling himself onto her. Angrily she twisted herself back on him, but she had only one front paw to strike out with. He caught the flailing foreleg in his jaws, biting only hard enough to hold it still.

Tangled up and twisted around as she was, she could only wriggle and heave beneath him. He loosed one front paw to fend off her attempt to bite him, catching her under the jaw and shoving her head to the side.

Her jerks grew frantic, and the swirling sea green in her eyes grew stormy. Abruptly her pupils, expanded in rage, contracted to needle size. She fought him with a new and terrifying strength, but her efforts were unfocused, as if she no longer struggled against a flesh-and-blood enemy but against something within herself.

Thakur could only hold on as tightly as possible, keeping her rear legs pressed to the ground and her foreleg trapped in his mouth. He feared that if she did get free, she would attack him in a savage frenzy. Whatever he had wakened within her, he would have to contain it until the paroxysm passed.

At last her heaving became sporadic, and her struggles weakened. He loosened his grip, feeling her sag onto her side. He let her forepaw go and watched it flop. Panting, he sat and looked down at her. Once again she lay at his feet, defeated by the strange fit he had caused. This time, however, he didn’t feel as guilty, although he was surprised. He had never thought she would dare attack him, even with the temptation of the treeling on his back. Perhaps Aree’s smell proved too strong a lure. But the stranger was the one who had been caught.

Her lip twitched back, showing her upper fang. Her jaw trembled and her tongue moved. And then Thakur heard her voice.

“Stay away... from them....”

As she spoke the first few syllables, he leaned closer, wondering if he was imagining words in her inarticulate moans. Her voice was harsh and breathy.

“I won’t hurt you,” Thakur answered, puzzled as to whom she meant. “I held you off from my treeling, but I mean you no harm.”

She hadn’t heard him. She stared ahead, her gaze milky, shrouded, hissing words in strange disconnected clumps.

“... hwish they had been born dead... do you want her... she’s witless... why did you do this to me... why... ”

The sounds were indeed words in the speech of the Named, and he heard in them a pain and an eloquence that made him shiver. Yet the voice that said them was hollow and remote, as if she spoke without knowing what she said.

Her lips fell back over her fangs and she was silent, but her words still echoed in Thakur’s mind. He paced back and forth beside her in confusion. Who were those she warned him to stay away from? Cubs? He looked at her belly. No, she wasn’t nursing a litter. And what had she said about wishing “they” had been born dead? It made no sense to him.

But the agony had come through all too clearly. She whimpered deep in her throat, like a cub needing comfort. He lay down beside her, letting her feel his body warmth. Instinctively, she squirmed toward him. Though he wanted to move away because she was ungroomed and smelly, compassion overcame his disgust. He nuzzled her behind the ears. It soothed her, and she sank from confusion into sleep.

He wasn’t sure how long the stranger lay curled up with her back against him. Aree had gotten over her fright and was starting to descend from the sapling when the lame female stirred, this time into full wakefulness. Again he nuzzled her behind the ears, purring to calm her. She gave a startled jerk but did not scramble away.

She lifted her head to look at him.

“You’re all right,” Thakur said softly. “I promise I won’t let anyone hurt you. Do you have a name?”

The swirling green in her eyes seemed to surround and engulf him with intensity. The fur on her brow rumpled, and he could see that his words only baffled her.

He repeated his soothing litany, seeing that the sound of his voice did calm her, but the words themselves meant nothing.

“You don’t understand me,” he said, dismayed. “You must. I heard you speak.” But the veil of muteness had dropped upon her once again, and only cloudiness moved in those eyes. “It doesn’t matter,” he said softly, feeling her start to tremble. “Just rest here with me.”

After a little while, she got up and shook herself, but she did not scamper away. She sat watching him while he indulged in a good stretch. A chirr overhead reminded him he still had a treeling to look after. Aree hung by her tail from a branch of the willowy sapling, looking doubtfully at Thakur’s new acquaintance.

“She’s not going to eat you,” Thakur said, cajoling the treeling, but as Aree started to climb down, the lame female took several eager steps toward the sapling. Gently, but firmly, Thakur blocked her with his body. “Oh no, my hungry friend. Aree’s not going to be your dinner.”

When the stranger was stubborn and persisted, Thakur put a paw against her breast and pushed her away. “No,” he hissed sharply, emphasizing it with a flash of teeth. She backed away, letting Aree climb nervously onto Thakur’s nape, lying so flat that it felt as though she were trying to bury herself in his fur.

Again the stranger sidled toward him, but another emphatic negative halted her.

He knew she didn’t understand him, but the sound of his voice seemed to calm her, so he rambled on. “Look, I came here to learn about you, but since you can’t or won’t talk, why don’t you just prowl around while I watch?”

She cocked her head at him, then limped a few steps away. He saw how she kept the crippled foreleg tucked underneath her chest.

“You should try to use that foot,” he said, speaking his thought aloud. He came alongside her and pawed at her foreleg, trying to get her to extend the shrunken limb. Gently he took her foot in his mouth and pulled, testing how far he could stretch the contracted muscles.

She gave a sharp yowl of pain, wrenched her paw away from him.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’ll be careful.” He coaxed her into offering her foot again, although she gave a warning growl. Again he took it, pulled gently.

She tugged back with surprising strength in the wasted limb.

Stubbornly but gently, Thakur held on, purring to reassure her. “Easy,” he said, talking around a mouthful of furred toes. “I just wanted to see how this has healed.”

He turned the limb from side to side, also studying the collar of roughened fur that overlay scars from the injury that had crippled her. The scarring ran right down her neck to her breast. It looked like a bad bite, perhaps done to her when she was small. If fangs had penetrated a young cub’s chest near the foreleg, they might have caused such a paralyzing injury.

But in her case, the part that gave the limb life and motion had somehow begun to heal. He could tell that by the way the leg jerked back against his jaws. The real problem was that her muscles had thinned and contracted while the leg was immobile.

The healer in Thakur wanted to tell the stranger that she might not have to spend the rest of her life hobbling about on three legs. The practical part of him knew he couldn’t get this across to her without the use of words. Maybe if he could just show her—get her to stretch the leg and try using it.

But she had already grown impatient. She tugged her paw from his jaws and stalked away.

Thakur waited before he went after her, fearing she might hiss or try to drive him away, but she didn’t. Considering the start of this encounter, it hadn’t turned out all that badly, he concluded as he followed her. Perhaps she might accept him enough to show him the sea-beasts she guarded.

To lessen the disturbance that arose in his new friend whenever he spoke in the tongue of his people, Thakur tried to use only the instinctive cat-noises and body language of his kind. In gesture he had to be careful too, for the Named had overlaid their natural movements and signals with ones that had added meaning. If he strayed over the boundary, he confused his new companion. Clan language in all its forms had obviously been denied to her, yet he could see she hungered for some means of expression. She was not so much mute as she was trapped, caught between a desperate desire to have language and something that frightened her away from it.

His intuition urged him to speak to her and coax her to respond, as if she were one whose speech had been halted by sickness or the forgetfulness of age. When he saw the panic that started up in her eyes whenever he spoke, he knew it wouldn’t work; she was too frightened.

And so for her sake, he too became mute, suppressing his impulses to talk whenever he was with her. It was a strange and difficult thing for him to do. The unsaid words seemed to lie in his breast with a leaden weight, pulling him down. After a day or so of self-enforced silence, his mind rebelled, harassing him with arguments against his choice. When his jaw remained shut, it punished him with a strange weariness that left him feeling dull and draggy. The sound of the wind was muffled and distant, as if his ears were stuffed with fur. He fought to keep himself from falling into a trancelike state.

His only respite was when he retreated from the beach to find Aree in whatever tree he had perched her and take her on his back to forage. Her chirrs and chattering removed the barrier his will had set up, and he talked to her in a gush of words like a dammed stream suddenly freed to flow again. But once she had been installed for the day in her refuge, Thakur resumed his silence.

Just when he felt he would have to say something aloud, the muffled, distanced feeling retreated and he found himself hearing, seeing, and smelling the world about him with a new sharpness and clarity. The pressure to speak his thoughts was no longer so overwhelming. He felt more “outside” himself than he had ever done, more a part of the world and aware of it.

He began to sense that the gift of language was not entirely a gift, that it took something in return as payment. Words and thoughts controlled the way he saw things, coloring his actions and feelings at the price of raw clarity and the intensity of the moment. Was this the way those whom the clan called the Un-Named saw and felt? And the lame female? Did those eyes that looked so dull at times actually look out upon the world with a perception perhaps narrowed, but much keener than his own?

And then something odd happened that upset all his preconceptions. He was lying on his side on one of the upper terraces above the crowded mass of seamares. The lame female lay with him, stretched out in the warm sun. Thakur felt tired but tranquil. He had gained her trust and her friendship.

Gently his companion reached out with her good forepaw and patted his jowls. He thought for a moment that she was just playing, but she touched him again in the same place with a stroking motion of her paw. Her lower jaw trembled, opened.

The realization broke on him like a cold wave, leaving him trembling with chill and excitement. She didn’t want him to be silent. She wanted him to talk! And she was asking him to pull her from her own silence, even though it might force her to face something she greatly feared.

It took him a little while to find his voice again, and it felt creaky from disuse. “Thank you,” he said softly in the words of gratitude used among the Named.

Her ears flicked back, but she wiggled herself a little closer to him on her side, her eyes expectant.

“Where do I start?” he asked her. Again she patted his jowls. “Anything?”

Anything. He talked to her, watching her ears. They would prick forward, then flatten abruptly, but then start to swivel forward once again. He told her stories about his life with the clan, his work teaching cubs, his adventures, how he had found his treeling. It didn’t matter that the words had no meaning to her; she just wanted to hear them. Thakur was reminded that clan cubs heard their parents speaking from the moment they were born.

And so from muteness he went to a flood of talk. There was an almost terrified eagerness in the young female’s face as she began trying to imitate him. But nothing came out. Thakur encouraged her attempts, but it did not increase their success. Nothing worked—simple words, phrases, his name: They elicited only a frenzied struggle and then a strange, sad subsidence.

Had those words that had come from her tongue during her fit been a product of his own imagination? Again he heard the hollow, breathy voice in his mind. Stay away from them, she had said. Why did you do this to me? Why? I wish they had been born dead.... She’s witless.

Strange, disjointed phrases—yet they might hide a chilling history. And she had spoken them once. Perhaps she could speak the same words again. An uneasy feeling made him hesitate, but he could see no other way. He chose the most innocuous of her utterances. Settling close beside her, he caught her gaze and then slowly said,“Stay away from them. Stay away.” He repeated the phrase, making it rhythmic. She followed the pattern, bobbing her head slightly to the beat of his speech, as clan cubs did when trying to learn something difficult.

And then the first word came from her mouth. “Stay,” she blurted, and then, softer but clearer, “Stay.”

Thakur was lavish in his praise, trying to overcome the uncertainty that showed in her eyes at the sound of her own voice. “Stay,” he said, then got up and moved away. When she moved to follow, he pushed her back, making her sit where she was, hoping she would get the idea of what the word meant. It was an odd combination of teaching a clan cub, who could understand that words had meaning, and training a treeling, who understood them only as commands. After many repetitions, he could get her to remain in place with the one word and, after more work, could keep her from approaching him with the phrase “Stay away.”

The afternoon shadows grew longer across the rocks as Thakur drilled his new student. Abruptly, after he had given her the command one last time and she had obeyed it, she sat down with her brow furrowed.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, forgetting himself.

She looked at him blankly. “Away. Stay away. Stay away from them.” Panic rose like a storm in her eyes, and the words came quickly, hammered out as fast as she could say them. “Stay away from them, why did you do this to me, do you really want them, she’s witless... she’s witless... I wish they had been born dead... born dead... born dead ...”

Pupils enlarging, she backed away from Thakur, who was already regretting his choice of teaching methods. Somehow he had set her off again; she had gone into the terrifying world that only she could see.

He expected her to stiffen and topple as she had done in the first two incidents, but this time she lunged, screaming and swiping at an invisible enemy. Then she turned tail and fled, diving among the rocks, scrabbling as fast as she could go.

Thakur pursued her, grateful that she had chosen a path uphill instead of down into the midst of the seamares. But terror gave her speed, despite her three-legged run, and he caught up with her only when lack of breath slowed her headlong dash. Trying to be as gentle as he could, he knocked her sideways with his shoulder, then followed as she tumbled into a clump of weeds.

She lay on her side, her legs stiff, shuddering and trembling. He lay down with her, licking her behind the ears until she grew still. At last she lifted her head and stared at him, looking bewildered and lost. Her mouth opened.

“No,” he said softly. “Don’t try any more. It hurts you too much.”

A stubborn glint appeared behind the swirling fear and forced its way through into the colors of her eyes. She jerked her mouth open and almost in defiance said, “Stay!” She flinched as if someone might strike her and for an instant went rigid, making Thakur afraid she had fallen back into her illness. She drove her claws into the ground and bared her teeth.

Abruptly her eyes cleared. She turned to Thakur, who was starting to rise. “Stay,” she begged, convincing him now that she understood the meaning of the word.

“All right.” He sighed, flopped down, and offered her a shoulder on which to rest her drooping head. He felt her go limp, as if exhausted. He felt weary and emotionally battered himself. Was it worth trying to teach her speech if everything was going to be such a struggle?

As if in reply, her good forepaw came up and patted his jowls, as if to say I will fight what scares me. I want to learn.

Fessran and Khushi were gone from clan ground for many days. For Ratha, those days dragged like the weary herders’ feet, as the weather grew hotter and the trails dustier.

She lay in late-afternoon shade that felt as hot as open sun. She panted, feeling worn out and worried. She wished she had delayed Thakur from returning to the lake-of-waves and its odd inhabitant. The task of controlling herdbeasts made restive by thirst and flies was a wearying one, in addition to her other duties as leader. And the new water source she thought would last had begun to fail.

Both Thakur and Fessran were gone. She let her jaw sag as she panted. Letting them both go had been a bad decision. But how was she to know that Khushi would turn up with a stolen cub from the ranks of the Un-Named, who might well have sprung from the loins of her bitterest enemy? Could anyone blame her if she wanted that litterling off clan ground as fast as possible and shred the consequences!

Letting Fessran go with Khushi was only a quicker way to speed him off with his unwanted burden. Ratha sighed. Not a good decision. Even if all Fessran wanted was her lost treeling—but Ratha couldn’t bring herself to believe that.

She lay with her tail flicking, thinking about the good and bad parts of what Thakur had told her before he left. The good part was the spring. Thakur had described how underground water flowed from a series of cracks in a cliff that lay just behind the beach where he had found the duck-footed dapplebacks. With its source deep in the earth, the spring would run even when everything else went dry. The spring watered thickets where three-horns could browse and patches of meadow that would do for the dapplebacks.

The bad part was that the Named would have to leave clan ground for as long as the drought lasted. Ratha laid her chin down on grass that once would have cooled but now crackled. The journey there would be exhausting. She thought of the river drives and the prospect of increasing the tumult, dust, and weariness over days of traveling.

Before she uprooted the clan, she must see the spring for herself, to be absolutely sure it would support the needs of the Named and their herds through the drought. She wanted to study the wave-wallowers themselves, along with the Un-Named one who lived among them.

Soon she would follow Thakur’s tracks to this great, brine-filled lake. She itched to be gone. But she meant to take Fessran with her, and the Firekeeper had not yet returned. She sighed and laid her nose on her paws instead of the scratchy grass.

Though the clan would be losing its leader and chief Firekeeper for a short time, Ratha felt that this journey was essential, and she needed Fessran’s opinion as much as her own. She had already spoken to the older herder, Cherfan, about taking over clan leadership while she was gone. And Bira, Fessran’s second-in-command among the Firekeepers, had overcome much of her shyness and had grown skilled in the management of the Red Tongue and those who kept it.

Fessran’s absence would give Bira a chance to emerge from the chief Firekeeper’s shadow and show her abilities. Cherfan was a strong, experienced herder and respected by all. Ratha did not think her own and Fessran’s absence would be long enough to cause difficulty; at the slow rate the river was dropping, things would remain stable enough until she had found a place for the clan.

Fessran and Khushi surprised her by arriving later that same afternoon. A herder ran ahead, bringing the news to her and waking her from her sleep in the shade. As soon as the two travelers came into sight, Ratha saw Fessran was still missing her treeling. Khushi’s jaws, thankfully, were empty. With a rising purr, she invited them to stretch out beside her.

When both had rested and groomed, Ratha asked how they had fared on the journey. She noticed that Fessran let Khushi do most of the talking.

“We didn’t find the cub’s mother. I didn’t expect that we would,” Khushi said matter-of-factly. “We left him in a safe place. If she’s still in the area, she’ll find him.”

Ratha glanced at Fessran in surprise. “You agreed to let Khushi do that?”

Fessran seemed preoccupied. She was slow to respond, and her voice sounded distant.

“We couldn’t think of anything else,” she said. “The mother was gone, and we couldn’t find her. We would only have frightened her more if we had. And you would have chewed our ears to scraps if you saw us bringing the cub back.” Fessran stretched out in the shade and began grooming her belly. “Anyway, I did some thinking while I was on the trail and decided you were right. There was no use in making a fuss about this Un-Named cub when we will have our own.”

But you won’t be having cubs this season, Ratha thought.

She tongued her own fur, wondering where her feeling of uneasiness had suddenly come from. Nothing in Fessran’s smell or manner alarmed her, yet she had the sense that something wasn’t right. Well, it wasn’t like Fessran to give up fighting for something she cared about. Not so abruptly.

What are you complaining about? she asked herself crossly. I made Fessran obey me, which is something I’ve had trouble doing ever since I became leader.

Yet this time Fessran’s willfulness had seemed to echo her own conscience. She might just be wrong about this litterling. Her judgment might have been too hasty and too harsh. And not just with him...

She felt slightly dismayed, as if her conscience had given in too easily, just as Fessran had. As if the stronger and not so likable part of her had won out.

I don’t like it, but that’s what made me clan leader. 

She decided to forget about the cub. There were other things to think about; new journeys to plan. Fessran would come with her, and perhaps the time together would allow her to mend the rift in their friendship. Warming to the idea, she laid out the prospect of the coastward journey to the Firekeeper.

Fessran, however, was curiously unenthusiastic, and when Ratha said she wanted to leave the following day, the look in Fessran’s eyes was one of reluctance.

“Are you sure you want to leave so soon?” Fessran asked.

“I have to see Thakur’s spring for myself, and that must be done quickly.”

“That makes sense,” Fessran agreed, though her voice sounded flat. “Why do you want me, though? I’m not a herder. You and Thakur are more skilled at judging if a place is fit for keeping three-horns.”

“You were a herder before I gave you Firekeeper leadership. Fessran, I can’t make this judgment alone. You and Thakur are the ones I trust the most. If I must tear the Named from clan ground, let me have some hope that I am doing what is right.”

“You haven’t had doubts about other things, clan leader,” Fessran replied, and the way she said it told Ratha she had not forgotten the Un-Named cub. Before Ratha’s ears could flatten, Fessran yawned widely. “All right, I’ll come. But give me at least a day to rest. My shoulder aches and my pads feel like I’ve walked across every rock in the world. I just want to be left alone to sleep.”

Fessran got what she wanted, and Khushi soon joined her in the dense shade beneath a pine that stood apart from the other trees in and around the meadow. It was Bonechewer’s grave-tree. Ratha wondered if Fessran had chosen the spot deliberately, so that the clan leader would not come near.

She was surprised by the strength of anger and sadness that weighted her steps as she padded away. She remembered her dead mate too well: the gleaming copper coat, the amber eyes, and the voice that was sardonic yet caring. And she remembered the faces of their cubs and especially the face of their daughter, Thistle-chaser. The blank, bewildered stare of her own litterling suddenly became the equally empty gaze of the Un-Named orphan she had ordered Khushi to abandon.

Toward sunset something drew her to the pine again. If Fessran was as weary as she had sounded, she would still be asleep, and Ratha planned not to wake her. But when she arrived near the grave-tree, she heard only one set of rumbling snores, and they were Khushi’s. Fessran had gone.

Ratha sniffed the ground around the pine. Her first instinct was to track the Firekeeper, but suddenly she grew disgusted with herself. Being clan leader was turning her suspicious and sour, ruining an old and valued friendship. Did she really have a good reason not to trust Fessran? Did she have to know where everyone was and what he was doing at every moment?

She shook herself, grimaced, and trotted away.

Fessran returned, in good time to supervise the lighting of watchfires for the night. Ratha watched the slim, sandy form trotting from one Firekeeper to the next, giving advice, instructions, and seeing that the fires were kept properly fed yet contained. Ratha let her suspicions drop with a sigh of relief. Wherever Fessran went was her own business. She worked hard and well for the clan. There might be mutterings about what she had done in the past, but she had done more than enough to redeem herself, and no one could fault her now.

In the morning, Ratha woke Fessran and met with Cherfan and Bira. If this journey yielded the refuge the Named sought, she said to the older herder, then Fessran would return with instructions to guide the clan, and Cherfan was to bring them under her direction. After the Firekeeper leader gave some brief advice to Bira, Fessran and Ratha set out on their journey to the coast.

Thakur’s worry about Newt’s reaction to the taking of her seamares by the Named soon proved true. Shortly after the incident with the two yearling herders, he learned that other herders had laid out bait trails to lure more seamares. But they had been scattered or trampled into the sand. There were reports that someone seemed to be hiding in the rocks, watching the herders, even if they stayed on their own beach. And one of the young herders who had been involved in the seamare stealing had been attacked by night. Though he was able to drive his assailant off, the ferocity of the attack frightened him. Thakur decided he had better find Newt.

He discovered her in the lagoon where she swam. When she saw him, her ears pricked forward, and she bounded out of the water. He saw, to his mixed delight and dismay, that her foreleg looked stronger and that she made attempts to use it, even on land. He felt a pang of guilt, wondering if his attempt to help her regain the use of her leg had led to her retaliation against the Named.

As soon as she had limped up to him and touched noses, he found she had worked on her speech as well as her leg. She greeted him with the words he had taught her. “Thakur come. Good. Newt swim with him?”

“No,” he said carefully, “talk.” In simple language he explained that the Named herders had been told to leave her and her seamares alone. In return, she was to keep to her territory. Any further ambushes would be looked upon with great disfavor by the leader of the Named.

“If there is another fight, and our clan leader knows I helped you heal your leg, there will be a bit of my fur flying as well,” Thakur said.

“Fur fly,” Newt echoed.

“I promise that no one will take any more of your seamares. If you do see Named herders on your ground, come and get me instead of fighting. You could get hurt.”

Newt looked at the ground, growling. She made a noise like a seamare.

“No fights,” Thakur said, “or we’re both in trouble. My clan leader will stop me from helping you. Understand?”

She looked up at him and hissed a soft yes.

“Good. Now that’s settled, what do you want to do?”

She hopped around him. “Teach. Words.” Thakur grinned, unable to refuse her eagerness. She made a scrubbing motion with her good paw against her face. “Word,” she said again.

“Wash,” he said, licking a forepaw and performing the action. “I wash my face. You wash your face.”

“Splash, wash, face place,” Newt crowed.

Thakur flicked his tail. He didn’t know what to make of her playful rhyming with sounds. He tried to recall if clan cubs did it. If so, they went through such a phase with their mothers before he got them to train.

“Stop being a pest and pay attention,” he said severely. “I’m washing my chest, see, like this.” He tongued his ruff.

“Wash chest, best for pest,” was her response.

He wondered where she had picked up some of the new words. Perhaps she had learned them from shadowing the Named herders, although not all the rhyming sounds she made had meaning. The fact that she had been able to pick up words and figure out their meanings indicated that her intelligence might be higher then he had first thought.

Even so, he wondered if anyone other than himself would understand her singsong garble. There was something oddly lyrical about the way she put sounds together.

He sighed. “You are strange.”

“Strange, change, mange. Thakur talk, stalk. Newt swim,” she said, and with an impatient toss of her head, she trotted back into the lagoon.

This time he did not join her but sat on a low dune overlooking the water and watched while she swam. Something had been plaguing him, and he decided that now was the time to sort it out. Ever since she had first spoken, the question had arisen within Thakur’s mind: Had she come from the lineage of the Named?

Herding animals wasn’t easy. Thakur knew how many of his own students, whose eyes were far brighter than Newt’s, had struggled to learn how to judge a creature’s mood or behavior. How could Newt think fast enough to outwit a beast?

She can plan, thought the herding teacher to himself. She can think ahead and plan. I’m convinced of that.

And the more he became convinced, the more a new certainty began to arise in his mind. She has done this because she was born with the talent, ability, and need to manage other animals, he decided. That conclusion could only lead to another: Somehow, this castoff from the ranks of the Un-Named had clan blood in her.

But how? Thakur thought of his own parentage, of his mother, Reshara, who took a male from outside. Such pairings were forbidden, and his mother was driven out. Hers was the last such mating until Shongshar’s coming showed what a tragedy they could be.

No, Reshara was not the last clan female to dare an outside mating. Thakur sat up suddenly, his ears swiveling forward. Ratha and Bonechewer. She hadn’t spoken much about it, but he remembered she had said something about having had cubs and having lost them. He’d assumed by her words that they had all died, but perhaps not.

Suppose one had survived, had somehow managed to scratch a living from the unfriendly world outside the clan. Without any of her own people to learn from, of course such a cub would be mute. But Newt looked too small to be a product of a mating several seasons past. Perhaps it was struggle and privation rather than age that had stunted her. And that crippling injury.

Everything was falling into place in Thakur’s mind, but he knew that one piece of the picture still needed to be found, and that piece was in Ratha’s keeping. His ears flattened slightly as he thought about asking her. Raising painful memories like that would not earn him favor. But if the outcast was indeed her daughter, the cub might well have talents needed by the clan. Especially now, when it appeared that Ratha would bear no cubs by any clan male.

He tried to argue himself into putting off questioning Ratha. But the more he pondered it, the more inevitable a confrontation seemed, and he knew it would grow larger and more intimidating the longer he waited.

With a sigh, he got up and went in search of Ratha.

Ratha tried to bury the feelings that Thakur had raised by indulging in something she had wanted to do ever since the section of wall had fallen into the river and transformed itself into a raft. The following day she turned over the seamare-watching duties to other herders and went off by herself with Ratharee on her shoulder.

Again she gathered sticks, bark, and brush. The task was easier this time, for she didn’t need to use thorn-wood. Ratharee was eager to show her skills once again, and soon the two were well launched on their project.

At the end of the day, Ratha hid her materials and the beginnings of her raft and returned to her clan-leader duties. But things seemed well enough settled that she could afford some time to herself, and she took advantage of the lull.

The following afternoon, Ratha crouched with her head bent over Ratharee’s back as the treeling wove the sticks and brush together with twisted bark cord. The raft was half-finished when she caught the scent of seamare mixed with that of the clan’s herding teacher.

She stood up as Thakur came forward with Aree on his back. Half-embarrassed, half-proud, she showed him what she and Ratharee had made. She couldn’t help a backward flick of her ears and hoped he wasn’t going to question her again about her lost cubs.

He said nothing about them. Instead, he circled the half-built raft, eying it judiciously.

“You might try adding some bundles of dry reeds near the water,” he suggested, and offered to go collect them. Ratha, suspecting that the offer was an apology of sorts for upsetting her, readily agreed, and after that the two spent all the time they could spare at the task. Sometimes, Ratha noticed, Thakur didn’t come, or he would arrive late from an unexpected direction, reeking of seamare. Not wanting to ask or answer any questions, she made him work downwind of her until finally the raft was finished.

Triumphantly she dragged it from the construction site to the brackish estuary. With Thakur and the treelings helping, she got the raft floating. As he steadied it, with Aree riding nervously on his shoulder just above the waterline, Ratha and her treeling clambered aboard.

The craft floated, but it rocked alarmingly, and she found herself shifting her feet continually to keep from tipping. When Thakur released the raft, it did tip, spilling both her and Ratharee off into the shallow water.

“It’s too narrow,” she said mournfully, after enduring an excited scolding from Ratharee. She licked herself and the treeling, trying to press the water from both soggy coats.

Widening the raft and giving it more support in the form of bundled-reed outriggers helped solve the tipping problem, but Ratha soon found there was something else she had overlooked: She had no way to control the thing, to make it go where she wanted.

After riding weak but malicious currents to disaster several times in a row, she hauled her drenched self and her recalcitrant boat ashore and glared at it. Ratharee, who had abandoned her for Thakur in the interests of staying dry, made an insincere attempt to comfort her and backed away from the water streaming from her coat.

Irritably, she shook herself, growling that she should have known better than to waste effort on such a useless thing.

“It isn’t that useless,” Thakur observed. “It does keep you out of the water when you walk on it.” He added that if she tethered her raft to shore at both ends in a narrow part of the river, the Named wouldn’t have to wade or swim to get across.

That idea mollified Ratha somewhat. Instead of wrathfully shredding her treacherous construction, she followed Thakur’s advice, tethering her raft among the reeds at a narrow spot, where it served as a floating footbridge.

 Having satisfied her urge for raft building, Ratha devoted her attention once more to things that had begun to worry her. One of these was the Firekeeper leader.

Ratha thought at first that Fessran was keeping away from her and Thakur because of the seamare smell they wore. Fessran balked at taking on the same scent. She pointed out that her work ruined her odor enough with the harsh stink of ash. And, as Firekeeper, she didn’t have much to do with seamares once the herders had settled into their duties.

Ratha accepted that. Those of the Named who had adopted the practice of disguising their scents had done so willingly. They saw the advantage when Thakur showed that it made the wave-wallowers less restive. But she didn’t want to force anyone into it; scents were strongly personal issues among the Named, and some had more sensitive noses than others.

So Fessran remained free of the seamare stink and avoided those who had it. But Ratha noticed that she seemed to sit at a greater distance from her than from Thakur. And that whenever Ratha approached, she would stop grooming her belly and immediately switch to washing her face.

Ratha knew that not all of the Firekeeper’s coolness to her was due to her smell. The forced abandonment of the Un-Named litterling still rankled; there was resentment in Fessran’s eyes, even though the Firekeeper had said she didn’t care.

It was late in the summer and a hot day, even on the sea coast. The herdbeasts sought shade in the forest, and the seamares wallowed in the shallows enclosed by part of their corral. With heat making the animals lazy, the herders too could relax. Ratha decided to take a break from overseeing the seamare herders and went to drink from the pool beneath the spring.

Coolness from the spring seemed to blow away the heavy, hot air surrounding her as she came down the deeply shaded path. Spray-moistened moss cushioned her feet when she crouched to drink. She lapped her fill, then laid first one side of her face, then the other, in the pool, letting the chill seep through her fur. As she dangled a forepaw in the water, she glanced up to the rock ledges above, wondering which one would be best for a nap.

One ledge was already taken. Sandy fur showed against blue-tinted stone. Fessran was there, relaxing and starting to groom herself. One rear leg stuck stiffly over her head as she began licking the creamy fur on her belly.

The soft chuckle of the stream had covered Ratha’s footsteps, and the wind blew her scent away. Fessran didn’t know she was here. The idea of spying on the Firekeeper made Ratha uncomfortable, and she was about to announce herself when something disquieting about Fessran’s grooming caught her attention.

Slowly she backed under a hanging bunch of ferns, shielding herself from Fessran’s view. Absently she licked the back of her own forepaw and began to scrub her cheek, wondering what it was about Fessran’s grooming that disturbed her. And then, aware of the motion of her own forepaw over her face, she froze, knowing she had found her answer.

When Ratha groomed, she always started by scrubbing her cheek with the side of her forepaw. So did the others of the Named. Only if a Named female was pregnant or nursing did she break the inborn pattern and start by grooming her stomach. Ratha peeked out from beneath the ferns. Fessran wasn’t carrying cubs. She hadn’t come into heat this year. But she could be nursing.

A Named female could give milk without birthing a litter. If a female took in a motherless orphan, the cub’s suckling could make her produce milk in a matter of days—even sooner if she badly wanted to feed the litterling. And Fessran had wanted to.

Ratha watched Fessran lick and nibble, taking great care over her belly. She felt a slow anger start to burn away the refreshing coolness from the pool. Yes, Fessran must be nursing. She had kept the cub, despite the orders to Khushi that the litterling be returned. Ratha crouched beneath the ferns, feeling hot-and-cold surges of anger and betrayal. What a fool she had been!

Her first mistake had been letting Fessran go with Khushi. She imagined how the Firekeeper must have persuaded the young herder not to obey the clan leader’s orders and instead to turn the cub over to her. And then the two had stayed away to make it look as though they had made the journey. It must have been then that Fessran found she could suckle the orphan.

Ratha ground her back teeth. She could see them now in her imagination, Fessran lying in the shade, nursing the Un-Named cub. Such a sweet maternal scene it must have been! And Khushi, sitting by, looking torn and bewildered because he had not wanted to disobey Ratha’s orders.

But well-chosen words from his mother about the value of a cub’s life and the sorry blindness of a clan leader might well have swayed him. Fessran, she remembered, was very good at choosing words.

So they had kept the Un-Named orphan, the two conspirators, and even brought him along when the herds moved from the old clan territory to the coast. No wonder Fessran had been so itchy to return from the first expedition.

And I saw all of that, but I chose to look the other way. Now they’re shoving my nose in it.

She repressed an urge to bound up from ledge to ledge until she reached the one where Fessran sat. That would do no good and might lead to embarrassment or worse, should her sense of balance be overwhelmed by her sense of outrage. Instead she came out from beneath the ferns and called Fessran down. After a few grumbles, the Firekeeper came.

Ratha sat, looking at the ripples that spread from the cascading of the falls into the pool. Fessran sat down a short distance away from her. Deliberately, Ratha said nothing until the Firekeeper started to fidget.

“Am I keeping you from your grooming?” Ratha asked. “Please continue. I’m just nursing my thoughts.”

With a sidelong look at her, Fessran wet a paw and slowly started massaging her cheek.

“Shouldn’t you start with the fur on your belly?” Ratha made her tone more pointed.

“Ratha, what are you talking about? If you have something to tell me, just say it and quit chasing your tail.” Fessran’s own tail switched irritably.

Ratha got up and paced toward her, keeping her eyes fixed on Fessran’s. “You know what I’m talking about: keeping your teats clean to nurse a cub. That Un-Named litterling I made Khushi return never was taken back to the place he was found, was he?” She felt the hackles on her neck rising. “You may be keeping your teats clean, Firekeeper, but the rest of you stinks, and the smell is worse than the seamare dung on me.”

Fessran’s face grew tight as her ears flattened. “All right. Yes, I kept Mishanti.”

“Mishanti? By the Red Tongue’s ashes, you’ve already given him a name?”

“Yes, because he deserves one. You are wrong about him, Ratha. As soon as Khushi stopped for a rest, I looked at that cub, and I knew that if we took him out and abandoned him, I would hate myself for the rest of my life. It would be like killing one of my own litter.”

Ratha closed her eyes. “We’ve trodden this path already, Fessran. You know where it leads. I thought when you turned from me to support Shongshar and his fire-dance, it was something that would happen only once. Now you have disobeyed me again, tricked me, lied to me. ”

Fessran swallowed and her laid-back ears began to droop, but the determined glitter stayed in her eyes. “The part of you I disobeyed and tricked and lied to,” she said slowly, “is not the part of Ratha that I know. The part I know would not have me kill or abandon this cub out of a fear of what he might become.”

Ratha gritted her teeth. “You forget too easily. Shongshar... ”

“Stop holding Shongshar over my head,” Fessran hissed. “This isn’t the same at all. A cub’s life is what I seek, not power over the Named.”

“What is the same is a headstrong Firekeeper who does what her belly tells her without regard for what anyone thinks, even me.”

This stung. Ratha could see Fessran flinch. “You don’t think I didn’t worry about your feelings? I’ll tell you, I spent a lot of time thinking.”

“With that misbegotten Un-Named suckling curled up next to you, kneading your belly,” Ratha sneered.

Fessran’s voice and eyes went cold, stabbing Ratha deeper than she expected. “You are wrong about Mishanti, clan leader. You don’t know how wrong.”

Ratha turned away from her, began to pace the banks of the pool. She stopped to look at herself, saw the bared teeth, the angry eyes that did not look quite like hers. Was Fessran right? What part of her was saying these ugly things? And was there something blinding her to what Fessran saw?

She made an angry turn, tore up moss with her claws as she pivoted. When she came back to Fessran, she had trodden down her doubts and felt as cold and determined as the Firekeeper looked.

“Fessran, I won’t exile you from the clan, as I have the right to. I need you too badly. I also know that you don’t have the skills to survive outside.”

At this, Fessran bridled, but Ratha could see she knew the truth of those words. Fessran had managed her own stays away from the clan only by depending on the hunting and fishing skills of others.

“I will, however, break you down in rank to the lowest wood-stacker and give you a few good swipes into the bargain if you don’t get rid of that cub. And if I come and find him in your den, I’m taking him. Is that clear?”

Fessran’s sides heaved. She looked at the ground. “It is, clan leader. And I am very sorry for you.”

“If you’re sorry for me, don’t hurt me any more. Do what I told you to in the first place.” Ratha turned and left, without waiting to see what Fessran’s reaction would be.

Though Thakur could see well enough in the early-morning dark to tell that the seamare pen was damaged, he had to wait until dawn to tell how badly. As the sun cast its first light over the salt fens near the estuary where the pen had been built, Thakur saw Ratha striding toward him, her shadow thrown far ahead of her and her form backlit by the dawn.

At first she stepped daintily, avoiding soggy patches or stopping to shake mud off her feet. But as the ooze deepened, she gave up and slogged through it to meet him. Wading into the chill water of the estuary, he showed her how one wall of the pen had been ripped open to free the seamares. Newt had not been content with just tearing an exit but had vented her wrath on the stick-and-lash construction, wrecking an entire section of wall where it stood in the deepest water.

Ratha sniffed a pole that had been knocked askew. Thakur could tell by her expression that she couldn’t smell anything; the briny water had washed away any remaining odor. But he didn’t need the odor to know who had done this and why. He also felt the sharp jabs of his conscience. He had helped and encouraged Newt to regain some use of her leg and with it increased mobility and a greater capacity to destroy what the Named had built. Still, the healer in Thakur argued, he had done the right thing.

“This was done by someone who could swim well, since the water was high last night,” Ratha said. “Also someone who has plagued our efforts with the seamares ever since we arrived. And we both know who that is, herding teacher.”

Thakur felt his ears and whiskers sag as water dribbled off them. “I didn’t think she was strong enough to wreck the pen.”

“That was a lot of work for us and the treelings,” Ratha said. “And we are going to have to catch all the seamares again, which will be twice as hard. We may not be able to find them again.” She paused. “Thakur, I’ve tried to be nice to you about this, but this three-legged renegade of yours has caused more trouble than we can afford right now. If I catch sight of her, I am going to give her a good cuffing to drive her away, and I’m ordering everyone else to do the same. Including you.”

Thakur looked away. “You don’t have to make that an order, clan leader,” he growled between his teeth. “I know where my duty lies.” Though he was furious with Newt, the thought of chasing her off only made him feel worse. He hung his head. “Ratha, the way we were keeping the seamares penned here wasn’t a good thing. She tried to tell us in the best way she knew, and we didn’t listen.”

“By the Red Tongue’s ashes, how are we supposed to keep the beasts where we want them, then? If we didn’t pen them, they’d use those duck-feet of theirs to swim away, and then where would we be?” Ratha’s teeth clicked as she shivered, and Thakur knew the chilly water wasn’t doing her temper any good.

“The ones she keeps don’t swim away,” he retorted.

“But we can’t live among them and just scavenge off dead young ones, as she does. Even in this small group, there are too many of us.”

“Newt doesn’t just scavenge. It’s something more than that. She knows the beasts, and they know her. They accept her, and they trust her.”

Ratha only snorted.

“No, it is true. Our herdbeasts may tolerate us and accept the protection we give them from other meat eaters, but we do not have the kind of bond that she seems to have developed with these seamares. That is what I want to learn from her.”

“Is that worth a wrecked pen and so much work gone to waste?” she retorted.

Thakur was prepared to snap back at her when he realized how silly it must seem to anyone watching. Here stood the clan leader and the herding teacher, up to their bellies in clammy seawater, shivering and arguing.

“Come on, Ratha. Let’s get out and fluff our coats dry, then we can talk sense,” he suggested. He turned and splashed toward shore.

She followed, complaining that this soggy existence was going to ruin her coat. The salt crystals, she said, were already making her skin itch.

“Well, maybe the water will drown your fleas,” he answered.

“That may be true. I don’t have as many now,” she admitted, her mood lightening as the morning sun warmed both of them. “Herding teacher, I understand that you think this outcast has something we should learn. I won’t disagree with you, but”—and here she pointed her nose toward the pen—“I can’t let something like this happen again. Keep her away from our herd of seamares once we get them back. I don’t care how you do it, but keep her away.”

Thakur looked her in the eye and answered, “Yes, clan leader. ”

Ratha paced toward Fessran’s new lair, hating the tightness that grew between her shoulders with every step she took. Fear stole the fluidity from her stride, the suppleness from her muscles, until she felt wooden.

She wished that Fessran had taken Mishanti and gone beyond her reach. But no. Instead, the Firekeeper had chosen to den nearby and, even worse, to walk on Named ground, leaving footprints whose mixed odors said that the Firekeeper had fostered the witless cub and openly defied the orders of the clan leader.

Sand and salt grass lay under Ratha’s feet now, but the path she trod was the same in bitterness as the trail she had taken before to Fessran’s den when the Named had lived on clan ground.

Last time, Thakur had made the journey with her. This time she would make it alone. There was only one cub to carry from the lair, but that would not lessen the difficulty of the task. The ache in her jaw from the litterling’s weight would be the least of the pains she would know.

And Fessran had already named the cub and kept the name, in defiance of Ratha’s order: Mishanti. The word beat in Ratha’s mind, whispered like the salt grass tearing past her legs. A name worthy of a cub who could bear it and know what it meant to be set apart by the gift of a word—a name—that carried the essence of selfhood. Ratha drew back her lip in scorn at Fessran’s foolishness. A name was worse than useless to a cub who could not use it.

She clung to one hope: that the remaining rags of the friendship she and Fessran had known might make Fessran surrender the cub without a fight. That hope dwindled when she topped a rise that led to the den and looked down to see a sand-colored form pacing the ground. A fire burned beside the lair.

Now the tightness crept from between Ratha’s shoulders to a place in her chest, between her front legs. Would Fessran use the Red Tongue against her? The Firekeeper looked rough, wild, her belly drawn except for the swollen teats she used to nurse the cub. Her face was taut.

She stopped pacing and stood, her gaze fixed. Ratha slowed but did not stop.

“The trails we take turn back on themselves, clan leader,” Fessran hissed, reminding Ratha that she too remembered how they had stood facing each other when Ratha had come to take Shongshar’s cubs. That time, Fessran had seen the truth and backed down. Perhaps now...

“No, Ratha.” The Firekeeper’s voice was low and shaking. “I wasn’t sure then. I know now. You are wrong about Mishanti. The light in his eyes is hard to see, but it is there.”

“Has he spoken? Has he done anything to show he has the gift we seek?”

“Not yet. But that doesn’t matter. Not to me.”

Ratha ground her back teeth in frustration over Fessran’s willing blindness. She knew the depth of loss and loneliness that could twist things and make an impossibility into a forlorn hope.

“Let me see him again,” she said wearily. Fessran went into the den and brought Mishanti out. She lay beside him, guarding him with a forepaw, gazing down at him and licking the top of his head.

“I don’t know why I love him,” she said softly, “but I do.” She gathered him in with both forepaws. He fell against her breast, snuggled up against her with his paws waving. “Why do we love cubs?” she asked Ratha, looking up with eyes that were angry and pleading. “Why, when they cause so much fuss and trouble, when they grow up and forget who you are, or when they die and you have nothing left?”

Ratha found herself unable to answer. At last she said, “Fessran, this season has been difficult for all of us. And I didn’t realize... ”

“Do you know why I’m so sure about him, Ratha?” Fessran interrupted suddenly. “Because at night, when I’m lying in the den with him, smelling his scent, I can see what he will be. In the dark I can see him running along a hill crest with a torch in his mouth, his fur silver and his eyes flame. And that fire will burn for the Named, if you give it a chance.”

Ratha stared at Fessran, not knowing what to say. She wondered if the strain of the drought and the move had somehow pushed Fessran onto trails that led beyond reality.

She tried to steer Fessran away from her vision and her strange conviction. Softening her voice, she said, “I know you can’t help loving cubs. It’s part of what you are. Most of the clan sees the Fessran who is the Firekeeper leader, who calls others soft as dung about treelings, who chews the ears of anyone who gives her any nonsense. I have seen the one who ran beside me with the Red Tongue, and I also see the one who loves cubs. But this cub is a mistake. He won’t be able to give back what you are giving him. Please understand. I’m not trying to be cruel either to you or to him.”

Fessran’s gaze pierced her. “Do you really know by looking at a cub’s eyes what he will be like? Do you have some infallible gift that says this one can be Named and this one cannot? I don’t think so. It isn’t as easy as that. And I don’t think you are as sure as you pretend to be.”

“I’m not,” Ratha admitted. “But what my eyes and my nose and my belly tell me is that this cub is worthless to the clan. Khushi never should have brought him, and you never should have kept him.”

“Is that how you think of him?” Fessran’s gaze and voice had a raw edge. “As something that just happened? A creature that died and must now be buried?”

“An Un-Named one whose grandsire probably left those scars in your shoulder,” Ratha said, hardening her voice.

Fessran flattened her ears. “You think you’ll frighten me with that again? Oh no. Just because Shongshar’s blood may run in this cub is no reason to say he will have to grow up that way. It was not just Shongshar’s long teeth that led him to take the trail he did.”

Ratha broke off and stared at the cub, trying to find some indication that she was wrong after all. But Mishanti was diffident, refusing to answer her gaze and turning his head away in the shy way of the Un-Named. What Ratha could see of his eyes held little promise. She swallowed hard, wishing for Fessran’s sake that there was something. But she couldn’t lie to herself or to Fessran.

“I cannot accept him in the clan, Firekeeper.”

The dregs of Fessran’s hope seemed to run out of her, making her shrink down. To Ratha’s eyes she seemed to grow thinner, harder. Only her eyes held a trace of softness, and that was for the cub she guarded. Mishanti arched his back, rubbing his little spike of a tail under her chin.

Ratha saw doubt flicker at the edge of her eyes like a snake’s tongue and seized it.

“Fessran, this is a blind trail you run, an empty husk, a dried bone. Next birthing season, you will have your own cubs. Save your love for them.” Ratha paused. “I promise I will not kill this cub. I will take him to the same place as I took the others. At least one of those survived. Perhaps he will too.”

“But I will never know him,” Fessran said in a dried-up, desperate voice. “Don’t you understand that? I will never know him.”

“There is nothing there to know,” Ratha said in a low voice that started to turn into a growl.

“How can you be so sure?” Fessran cried. “You’re not, are you? You are afraid. Afraid of something I don’t understand. You are more frightened by this than you were of Shongshar. What is it, then, that stalks you, and makes you turn and strike out, even if the one before you is only a litterling?”

Fessran’s words struck deep, as if into the heart of a flame, and the sparks they threw coalesced into Thistle-chaser’s face. Ratha shuddered, squeezed her eyes shut, and thrust the memory aside. No, she could not face that, not even now.

“All right. I’ll tell you what I fear. You know that there is something in our kind that sets us apart from the others around us. There are very few of us and many of the Un-Named. Why we have come to be, I don’t know. Why we have the gift that lights our eyes, I don’t know either.”

“We are more clever than the Un-Named,” Fessran grumbled. “Is that such a big difference?”

“No, it is not just cleverness. It is something else that we don’t have a word for. It is what makes us Named and the others not.” Ratha drew a breath. “And what frightens me is I know we can lose this gift. When I was exiled from the clan after I brought the Red Tongue before Meoran, I walked trails with the Un-Named. Some were as clever as we, others no better than herdbeasts, but many stood somewhere between. It was they who frightened me most of all, for what I saw in their eyes was that gift fading away....”

But it was what I saw in Thistle-chaser’s that tore me most of all.

Fessran looked away. “So those who do not have this gift taint us if they come near?” She snorted. “Sometimes I wonder if we aren’t the ones who are tainted. What has this gift you speak of really brought us? The sharper the fang, the deeper wound it can give and the worse pain.” She looked down at Mishanti. “The Un-Named do not have to judge their own and cast them aside. And when the judgment comes from fear, clan leader?”

“Then blame me and leave the marks of blame on my coat. But I have to do what is right for our people,” Ratha said. “The cub must be taken from clan territory so that he does not mate with females of the Named. And he must go now, so that the pain of his going is less.”

Fessran lowered her chin over the cub and raised her hackles. “Mishanti is mine.”

“I won’t fight you, Fessran,” Ratha said quietly. “You may deny the power of Shongshar’s teeth, but the wound they gave you will tell.”

Pain whipped the Firekeeper’s face into a mask of slitted eyes and bared teeth. The eyes were wild with the knowledge that Ratha’s words were bitterly true; that if it came to a fight, Fessran would lose.

“Give him to me. Now.”

Suddenly the eyes were gone from in front of her, and Fessran became a sand-colored streak that blurred the ground near the fire. The Red Tongue spit sparks as Fessran dug a torch into its heart and lifted the flame aloft. Her jaw trembled so that her teeth shuddered against the torch shaft, but she swung the flame around so that it blocked Ratha from Mishanti.

The shock of seeing the Red Tongue raised against her in Fessran’s jaws seemed to wrench the ground from beneath Ratha’s feet. She staggered, squeezed her eyes shut. She opened them again to find the one who had been her friend standing before her with a flaming torch.

“Will you burn me with my own creature?” she hissed. “Maybe you would be right to do so. The two gifts of the Named burn too brightly and leave only ashes.”

A wordless, agonized howl broke from the Firekeeper. The firebrand swung, but it went past Ratha and soared free back into the fire-nest. Fessran faced Ratha, her sides heaving. “Take him then, because I can’t kill you. Because my cursed memory still lets me see the times when you and I ran the trails together, carrying the Red Tongue in our jaws.” She took a shuddering breath. “But before you go, you should know something else: You drove your own daughter away for the same reason you are tearing Mishanti from me.”

Ratha felt a shock go through her body, almost paralyzing her. “How do you know this? I never told anyone. You’re good at lying, Firekeeper. I almost believed you.”

“Thakur told me some of the truth, and the rest I found myself,” Fessran said. “She has nightmares about you, falls into fits when she catches your smell. She calls you the Dreambiter and would kill you if she could. Newt is yours, Ratha. Half-witted, crippled—she is your daughter.”

“No,” Ratha growled.

“And I’ll tell you something else. I think she’s out there, watching, listening to your words.”

Again Thistle-chaser’s spotted face was before Ratha, distorted, crying out in pain. Then Newt’s face overlaid it, but the eyes were still the same. They swirled, taunting her. Could Fessran be right? Was the one who had been Thistle-chaser out there listening?

Ratha shook herself. She could not be distracted. Not now.

She lunged at Fessran, driving her back from the bewildered Mishanti.

“Take him!” the Firekeeper howled. “Take him and then, maybe, I will be able to hate you enough to feed you your own creature and make you live by your own law. ”

Another cry broke from her, a cry that seemed to tear Ratha from inside. She shook with the pain of it and ached to offer the Firekeeper some scraps of comfort, but all she could do was take the cub by the scruff and go.

As Ratha padded through the salt grass with Mishanti in her jaws, she eyed the floating bridge with mixed feelings. She was glad she would not have to make the trip around the inlet. Her jaws already ached from carrying the cub by the scruff, and her conscience hurt her almost as badly. The bridge would save her some travel, but she didn’t like the way it shifted and strained against the cords that anchored it to stumps on the bank. Currents riffled water against the upstream side as the retreating tide drew water from the inlet.

The Named had crossed the floating bridge enough times to prove its worthiness. It was her own bad luck that she had to cross on an outgoing tide, but the bridge would bear her.

Lifting her chin to hold Mishanti high, she took several steps down the bank. Was that a splash in the water upstream, she wondered, and what was that eddy? She cocked her head to one side so she could see past the cub in her jaws. A shadow seemed to cross the bottom, but it went swiftly and was chopped up by the small whitecaps. She stared hard but could see nothing.

Clouds scudded by overhead, casting fleeting shadows along the ground and over the water. The cub sagged in Ratha’s jaws. With a toss of her head, she heaved him up again and strode onto the floating bridge.

With the first step, the raft-bridge rocked, as she had expected it to. The next few steps were staggers; the mass of bound driftwood and rushes heaved as if it had been struck from beneath. Ratha nearly lost her hold on the cub in her mad scramble to keep on her feet on the plunging raft. But she lost her balance, flopping on her side and clawing wildly to keep atop the mass of thatch and sticks. Mishanti squealed in pain from the pressure of her teeth in his scruff, and her neck muscles strained with the effort of keeping him from tumbling off.

Angrily she vowed never again to use this flimsy crossing during an outgoing tide. Her anger turned to alarm as she felt one end of the raft-bridge swing downstream. She snapped her head around, causing a squall from her small charge. Surely the other tether would hold. But she saw to her horror that the cord lay loose on the surface of the water. The raft surged beneath her and floated away free, carrying her with it.

She crouched, digging her claws into the thatch and holding the cub in her mouth. Her muscles tensed for a jump to the bank, but the shore retreated. She faced the green-gray water, ready to plunge in and stroke for shore. But she knew she could not keep her head above water with Mishanti in her jaws. All she could do was cling to the raft as it headed seaward, bucking and bounding as if it were alive and rejoicing in its escape.

Seeing the tether from the front end streaming alongside her, Ratha extended a claw and snagged the twisted bark-cord. It looked stout, but it must have frayed. Then she looked more closely at the soggy end draped across her paw. Yes, the fiber looked worn, but the final cut was clean, as if someone had chewed on the rope to weaken it and then, at the final moment, bitten through.

She guessed that the other tether would look the same. Crouching, she ground her back teeth while her fangs held Mishanti’s scruff. He was a mute, wet little ball of fur by now, hanging limp in her jaws, too terrified to struggle or mewl.

The raft gave an odd lurch that wasn’t part of the rhythm of the water bearing it. Ratha loosed her mouth-grip on Mishanti, pressing him down with her chest and hoping he would have enough sense to dig in his claws. She risked a glance over her shoulder at the back of the raft.

Two paws stuck up out of the frothing water, with claws driven deep into sodden thatch and driftwood. One paw was smaller than the other, the leg shrunken. Soaked fur revealed the bony outlines of the leg and the corded tendons in each foot.

From the instant she had recognized that the raft’s tethers had been bitten through, Ratha had known her opponent was Newt. Now the knowledge hit her again, this time with such bitter force that it threatened to jolt her off the raft. To Newt, she was a nightmare, a tormentor. And Newt was Thistle-chaser, the daughter she had bitten, then deserted. She could no longer deny to herself that this vengeful enemy was her own flesh and Bonechewer’s legacy. How could there be anything between them except hate?

Ratha felt ice freeze in her belly. She was no stranger to hate. Many had opposed her and tried to thwart her rise to clan leader or topple her from leadership. She had faced Meoran, the old clan leader, and then Shongshar, but neither could claw as deeply to her heart as this water-soaked, green-eyed revenge that fought to hang on to the raft.

She will give her own life if she thinks she can take mine, Ratha thought, and knowing that sent the ice creeping out along her limbs. Thakur and Fessran, why did you meddle? You did her no favor by finding a mother who should have stayed lost.

The raft slid with the tidewater toward the sea. Ratha stared numbly at the white surf line ahead and flattened her ears against the increasing rumble and crash of the waves. A roller crested ahead of the raft then broke, drenching her. The sea’s churning whitecaps took the raft and spun it around so rapidly that Ratha closed her eyes from dizziness. One whirl took the craft so close to shore that she tensed to jump, but before she could get her feet beneath her, a strong seaward current swept the raft away again.

Though Newt might be smaller and lame, she had maneuvered Ratha into alien and treacherous surroundings, where she held the advantage. Ratha, the proud bearer of fire on land, was but a ragged wretch clinging to a few sticks in the sea.

The current weakened, giving the raft less forward motion, but the chop and roll tossed it about more than ever. Ratha clung to the slithering mass of thatch and driftwood. Drenched and cold to the point of numbness, she nestled Mishanti between her forelegs, holding his nape in her jaws and trying to shield him from the spray. Even now she was wondering if she could manage to swim ashore without drowning him.

The fierceness of the attack told Ratha that Newt was ruthless and remorseless enough to kill her. Was her daughter mad, like one taken with the foaming sickness? No, Newt’s illness was not the foaming sickness, for that killed rapidly. It was something slower, more subtle, and even more destructive. Newt’s attack was more than purposeless madness. It had been planned with a cold cunning that had outdone the best of the Named.

Knowing that there was a deep and painful reason for Newt’s hatred drew Ratha’s strength from her. She closed her eyes again, not from dizziness but from despair. I sought the light in Thistle-chaser’s eyes. I have found it now, but it is a light that sears me more than the touch of the Red Tongue.

Her fear hardened despair into harsh resolution. This ex-cub might have good reason to vent revenge on her. That didn’t matter anymore. If Newt attacked, she must fight back, not only for her sake but for the sake of the Named, who would be left without a leader. Perhaps, she thought, she might be able to somehow talk to Newt, and if the chance came, she would take it. But if it came down to teeth and claws, the fact that Newt was Thistle-chaser, her own daughter, would no longer matter.

It was that decision that made her sidle backward, trying to gauge whether she could lash out with her rear claws and break Newt’s grip on the raft. If she could do it without wounding her, then Newt could swim to shore. That might make managing the runaway raft and Fessran’s adopted cub a little easier.

Ratha’s impulse was to strike quickly and get Newt off the raft. Her hind paws trembled but didn’t move. She was certain that Newt meant to seek her life, yet something in Ratha still held to the hope that it was only a threat.

She couldn’t attack. Not without knowing.

She secured Mishanti once again and craned her head back over her shoulder. The raft had slowed now. Newt was still in the water, hanging on with her claws, but the surging current no longer buried her. As Ratha peered back at her, Newt lifted her chin above the water, her ears flat, her gaze the color of serpentine.

She may understand words. I have to try.

“Thistle-chaser,” Ratha said. The ears twitched and flattened more against the brine-slicked head. The chill in the eyes went beyond the cold of the sea. They looked like marble or green-frosted ice.

“Dreambiter,” Newt answered, never taking her gaze from Ratha’s. Ratha could not control her flinch.

“We can tear each other apart well enough with words. Let it stop there.”

“You tear me with teeth, Dreambiter. I answer.”

“Leave the raft and swim to shore. I promise none of the Named will hunt you or seek you out,” Ratha said.

Newt slitted her eyes. “I hunt you, cub-slayer.”

“You have given me to this angry water. I will never reach shore. Isn’t that enough? Or will you force me to stain myself with your blood... ?”

“Again,” Newt hissed, ending the sentence with the word Ratha could not say.

Newt loosed her grip and slid back into the sea. For one hopeful instant Ratha thought she had persuaded her to go. Then she saw a shape glide alongside the raft. Newt lifted her head, bared her teeth, then ducked under. Again Ratha hoped she had gone. She felt the raft lurch once more and sag beneath her. Newt surfaced, her jaws tangled in bark-cord lashing from the bottom of the raft. Ratha watched, feeling numb. Newt was tearing her floating refuge apart.

With slow, deliberate malice, Newt continued to destroy the raft-bridge. She slashed reed bundles, chewed off bindings, and pried driftwood sticks apart. Now Ratha fought back, striking out with bared claws from the narrow and increasingly cramped area that remained to her. But Newt could easily duck into the sea to escape and rise on the raft’s far side to plague her again.

Ratha knew that Newt could mount a sharp, quick attack, tearing her throat or pulling her into the sea and dragging her under. Newt wanted more than just her death: She had discovered the savage pleasure of tormenting an enemy.

The sea behind the raft was soon littered with shreds of driftwood, rushes, and bark-cord. Gray water welled up through the floor, soaking Ratha’s feet and half covering Mishanti. She tried to hold the fraying mass together with her claws, but Newt relentlessly pulled away one piece after another.

Ratha found herself clinging to the last fragment of the raft, holding the cub in her mouth and staring at the foam-streaked back of a wave. As the swell lifted her, she caught sight of white surf in the distance. Waves breaking meant land of some sort, even if it was no more than a few rocks. She held to the raft as long as she could, then launched herself over Newt’s head into the sea.

The shock of cold water punched the breath from her. The weight of the struggling cub dragged at her jaws as she fought to get her nose above water. For one panicky instant, she almost let him go in order to get a precious breath.

She suddenly wondered why she was fighting so hard to save the youngster. Hadn’t she taken him from Fessran’s den to exile him from the clan? To abandon him, not kill him, a hurt part of her cried. The irony of that claim made Ratha cringe with shame as she shivered and struggled in the ocean. Had she really fooled herself into thinking that young cubs taken from their mothers and abandoned far beyond clan ground would survive? Quit fooling yourself. You were going to kill him. And now you probably will whether you intend to or not.

With an angry sideways toss of her head, Ratha flung the youngster back over her shoulder, still holding on to his scruff. He slid off, dangling in her jaws and threatening to drown both of them. Once more she tried, giving a fierce kick and a wrench of her neck. He fell across the back of her shoulders and she felt cub-claws drive in deeply, making her snarl with pain.

She wallowed in a trough between waves, searching for some sign of the breakers she had seen from the raft. Disoriented by the swells, she picked one direction and struck out with Mishanti clinging to her neck. A roller lifted her, showing her the distant surf line once again, and she changed her course.

It was slow, hard paddling, with bouts of exhaustion, disorientation, and panic. Several times she lost sight of the breakers and ended up swimming aimlessly. Her breath seared her lungs and the back of her throat. Her limbs felt heavy and the cub on her back even heavier.

And then she saw a shape circling her, and she thought about all the creatures of the sea, especially those who ate meat. Her heart sank further when she recognized the sleek form gliding around her. The thought came to her that without Mishanti, she would have a better chance against Newt and the ocean.

His eyes are empty. I should let the sea take him.

Ratha growled deep in her throat, angered by the suggestion and at the part of her that made it. She knew that if she sacrificed the youngster, she would be much closer to Newt’s image of her. But why did it matter, a part of her cried out, despairing. The cub would die out here anyway.

The stinging pain of claws in her nape told her he wasn’t dead yet. She forced herself to stroke with limbs that throbbed with weariness and lungs that burned with ashy dryness, despite all the water around her. And all the time, Newt circled her like a shark, coming in to rake her flank.

Newt’s attack was strangely languid, as if she were only sporting. Perhaps she was playing with her quarry as a hunter would toy with prey. Or perhaps she was surprised to see that Ratha had come this far and wondered how much farther she would go before the sea overwhelmed her.

Ratha only fixed her eyes on the tossing surf and struggled toward it.

Thistle-chaser lay near Ratha, trying not to think of anything at all. The events just past were too painful to recall. Bite-and-scratch wounds throbbed and burned all over her body. Some had come from Ratha, others she had inflicted with her own teeth during the fit. She had a scratch on her nose from Mishanti. Though it hurt, she was glad she had saved him, although she still didn’t know why. She felt confused, but it was a new kind of confusion: one that promised rather than one that denied.

She wriggled closer to the cub, nestling him in the longer fur covering her belly. Ratha’s fur was starting to dry in the fitful wind. Mishanti might be warmer, Thistle-chaser thought, if she sheltered him between herself and Ratha. To get herself and the cub into the right position, she had to lay a paw over Ratha. She didn’t want to. It was still frightening to be near this stranger who had somehow given birth to her. She kept her paw in the air above Ratha until it ached with weariness. Gradually she let it sink until her pawpad rested on the fawn-colored fur over Ratha’s ribs.

I am touching my Dreambiter, she thought.

To her touch, Ratha felt cold, even colder than Mishanti. She lay stretched out by the pull on her imprisoned forepaw, her head lolled to one side, her mouth half open, her tongue flopping out. It frightened Thistle-chaser.

She it so cold and she doesn’t shiver. Dreambiter, wake up. She pawed Ratha gently, then a little more roughly. There was no response.

Dreambiter, why am I afraid you will die? I wanted you to die.

Feeling as though someone else were using her body, she wriggled closer to Ratha, pulling her mother against her chest.

It hurt to hear what you said, but you are right: We are both the same.

Slowly, because she was so frightened, Thistle-chaser spread herself across Ratha as well as Mishanti, trying to warm both of them. She too was shivering, and she wondered if she would die out on this lonely rock. She felt a strange and painful mixture of hope and despair. Perhaps this one who had cast her into such a gray world would be the one to lead her out of it.

But not if you die, Dreambiter. For my sake, please live.

And at last, Thistle-chaser stopped shivering and fell asleep.

“Thistle-chaser. Stubborn, scrappy, mentally and physically crippled, sullen, prickly, can barely speak, not pretty, hot tempered, yet she rivals Ratha in the affections of readers. Thistle originated in Ratha’s Creature, as the cub Ratha rejected and injured. Her appearance came from a portrait of my mother’s calico cat, Jenny. Into crippled and abandoned Newt, I poured feelings from a time when despair tore my life. The cloud around her mind comes from the slowed thinking of clinical depression. Her rage at the Dreambiter is my rage at the “blaming the victim’ attitude before people recognized depression as a treatable illness.

“Throughout the series, Thistle’s limitations and suffering bring her unexpected gifts of insight and empathy. Her fits and visions of the Dreambiter prepare her to understand the strange mental ‘Song’ of the menacing face-tail (mammoth) hunting tribe in Ratha’s Challenge. Reconciling with Thistle may be the real ‘Challenge’ for Ratha, but in that book Thistle also becomes Ratha’s conscience, asking the Named to look beyond the harm done to them by others: to reach out in friendship rather than strike back in fear.”

and

Stones flew over Thakur’s head and rattled against the bark of a tree behind him. The steep-sided gully in which he and his companions were trying to capture a shaggy young mammoth had become a trap for them instead of for the mammoth. Thakur crouched, flattening his fur and ears. The beast before him raised its trunk in a trumpeting blast.

Thakur drove his claws into the ground and bared his fangs in a feline hiss before he could stop himself. As herding teacher to his people, the Named, Thakur knew and taught the young ones all the skills that had been developed to manage dapplebacked horses and three-horn deer. He told his cub-students never to show fear to a herdbeast. Now he had broken his own rule, though this woolly tusker wasn’t one of the clan’s herdbeasts. Not yet.

The ground vibrated beneath Thakur’s paws as the mammoth stamped its massive front feet and bellowed. The gully resounded with the brassy roar. His head ringing from the noise, Thakur glanced at his young fellow stalkers, Khushi and Bira.

Khushi, a herder, and Bira, a Firekeeper, had come with him on this scouting expedition far from the clan’s seacoast settlement. Khushi was a seasoned herder and not easily intimidated. This creature had him bristling all over. The usually calm Bira had a line of raised red-gold fur down her back.

This was their second attempt to catch a mammoth. And this one wasn’t even fully grown—that was why they had chosen it.

Thakur and Khushi made another sharp rush at the beast, trying to back it into a narrow corner of the gully. Bira joined in. The quarry tossed its head, flailing its trunk and spearing the air with its tusks. Thakur’s nose was filled with its heavy smell and the faint but sharp odor that told him that his two companions were fighting fear of their own. The beast’s red-rimmed eyes glared from behind a thicket of orange hair. Its trunk swung down and coiled like a snake in the loose gravel. When the trunk whisked up again, another barrage of rocks hurtled at Bira.

She dodged, but several struck her ribs and back. Thakur heard her grunt in surprise and pain. Herdbeasts weren’t supposed to throw rocks.

“You said this would be easier than herding three-horns!” Bira yowled at Khushi.

“I … thought … it would be since … these face-tail things … don’t have horns!” Khushi puffed.

“They don’t need them!”

Thakur glanced at Khushi. Every hair of the young herder’s dun-colored fur was standing on end. Still, Khushi advanced on the quarry, trying to trap its gaze with his own. The stare-down worked on deer and dapplebacks, but this mountain of hide and flesh was having none of it.

With an enraged roar, the beast charged Khushi. Thakur and Bira both leaped at the same instant, snarling, to turn it back before it trampled him. They broke the face-tail’s attack, but it would not be deprived of its quarry. Again the trunk swept down, but instead of gathering and flinging stones, it curled around Khushi’s middle.

In an instant the squalling herder was lifted high over Thakur’s head. Then he was shooting through the air. With a loud crash he landed in a thicket.

“Enough!” Thakur yowled to Bira, who was vainly trying to force the beast back to its corner with short rushes and feints. “Let the thing go!”

Bira dived to one side while Thakur galloped to the bush where Khushi had landed. He whirled, fearing for an instant that the beast would charge into the thicket and tear it apart trying to find Khushi. Even in his short experience with these animals, Thakur had found them to be very single-minded, especially when they wanted to trample an enemy.

With a ground-shaking trot, the orange-haired young mammoth headed for the thicket, then swerved aside. It lumbered away down the gully, ears flapping, short tail stuck stiffly upright.

Bira’s ribs lifted in a sigh of combined exhaustion and relief. The red-gold fur on her back flattened, but worry remained in her green eyes. Thakur shared it. The face-tail had thrown Khushi hard.

“He’s young and tough,” Thakur said before Bira could speak, but he could not keep anxiety out of his own voice as he pawed at the thicket, calling to Khushi.

At last he heard the herder’s low moan. “Oooh, why did we try to catch that creature? I wish we had never seen it!”

Thakur’s ears and whiskers lifted. Khushi couldn’t be badly hurt if he chose to complain about the face-tail instead of about his own injuries.

Thakur and Bira turned to the task of extricating the herder. Only one of his feet was visible, hanging forlornly from a tangle of thorn scrub. Using claws and teeth, Thakur and Bira attacked the bush.

“Let me get Biaree,” Bira offered as Thakur grimaced at the sharp twigs and thorns that lodged painfully between his teeth. He agreed. Bira ran off to fetch her treeling companion. Treelings were much better than the Named at untangling or clearing away things. Their clever fingers could do what paws and teeth could not.

Thakur thought longingly of his own treeling, Aree. His neck still felt bare without her small arms about it and her fingers twining in his fur. He’d left her behind in the clan’s care, for she was bulging with babies. A mammoth-capturing expedition was no place for a pregnant treeling.

Soon Bira galloped back with her male treeling, Biaree, perched on the nape of her neck. The treeling’s slender ringed tail stuck up, and a pointed light-brow muzzle with a black mask showed between Bira’s cars. A few purrs of encouragement and a nudge from Bira’s nose soon had the treeling pulling apart branches and breaking off dead twigs. With his aid, they cleared a way in to Khushi and gently pulled him out.

Khushi was more shaken than hurt. While Bira and Biaree groomed thorns and twigs from the young herder’s hide and tail, Thakur used his paws and his sensitive nose to check Khushi for injuries.

“Why did I ever tell the clan leader about these animals that wear their tails on their faces?” Khushi asked him plaintively. “And why did I ever think we could add them to our herds?”

“I think we will be able to, when we find ways to manage them,” Thakur answered.

“If we ever do.” Khushi groaned.

Thakur didn’t contradict him. Despite his words, he wasn’t sure that these beasts the Named called face-tails would work out as herd animals. There was certainly a lot of meat on one, but Khushi’s unexpected trip through the air had shown that there were certain hazards involved in taming them.

“Well,” said Bira, “if they aren’t suitable, it won’t be the first time we’ve chosen the wrong kind of animal. Thistle’s seamares didn’t work out either.”

As he watched Bira and Biarce finish grooming Khushi, Thakur licked his own dark-copper fur and thought of their previous attempt to bring a new kind of animal into the herd. Last season’s drought and its effects on the three-horn deer and dapplebacked horses had made Ratha, the clan leader, start the search. If the clan herds had animals that could survive under different kinds of conditions, the Named would have a more stable supply of meat.

Ratha’s idea was a good one, but putting it into practice was difficult. It had also yielded one very unexpected result. While scouting the seacoast for possible herdbeasts, Thakur had found a crippled young female of his own kind. She turned out to be Thistle-chaser, Ratha’s lost daughter.

Thakur had also found the seamares, chunky water creatures with horselike heads and webbed feet—and tusks that they used to dig up and tear apart heavy-shelled clams on the shore. Thistle had formed a strange but real friendship with them. When the clan tried to capture and keep seamares, she angrily interfered. Then she turned her wrath against her mother.

Thakur still remembered finding the two on the wave-washed rocks, both bleeding from their fight and nearly dead from exposure. Since then Ratha and her daughter had become partially reconciled, but Thistle had not accepted Ratha’s offer to join the clan. She remained apart, living among the seamares.

With a twitch of his whiskers, Thakur turned his attention back to Khushi, who had recovered enough to shake the last leaves and twigs out of his coat.

“Maybe you should have used a lighted torch,” he heard Khushi say to Bira. “I haven’t seen a beast yet who didn’t fear the Red Tongue.”

Except us and our treelings, Thakur thought. And I have seen that we do fear it, although in a different way than the herdbeasts.

“Thakur doesn’t like using the Red Tongue to frighten herdbeasts,” Bira said, looking to him. “I agree. It’s cruel and often useless. Once a herdbeast is maddened by fear, you can’t do anything except kill it. That is a waste.”

“And imagine what would have happened if that face-tail had grabbed the torch and flung it,” Thakur said, entering the conversation. “If it hadn’t hit one of us, it would have spread the Red Tongue all over the grass.”

“That wretched beast deserved to get burned up,” Khushi growled.

“Yes, and we’d have burned up with it,” Bira reproved. “You know how fast the Red Tongue can run.”

Khushi admitted that they were right, but he wouldn’t have minded if Bira had singed the obnoxious mammoth in a tender spot.

“I need to see that the embers in the fire-den haven’t gone out,” Bira announced, lifting her plumed tail. “Are we going back to the knoll? Good, I’ll meet you there.”

As she loped off down the gully, Thakur climbed up the side, followed by Khushi. He found the hill that they had used as a vantage point to locate the face-tails. It had a single oak that gave shade from the sun. The prevailing breeze carried their own scent away from the face-tail herd.

It brought him the odors of many other kinds of animals. Among these were feline scents that might belong to the Un-Named outsiders who outwardly resembled his own people but had only the minds and ways of beasts. Everything was so overlaid with the pungent smell of mammoth that Thakur could not be sure. He was not going to worry. The Red Tongue that Bira carried would protect him and his party.

He sat down in the litter of last season’s leaves and acorns, letting his gaze travel over the rolling plain below. It was still filled with the face-tailed beasts, some wallowing in a marshy sink between two hills, some drifting back and forth in a large group as they tore up grass with their trunks and stuffed it into their mouths.

The young ones showed up as blotches of orange against the more somber black and brown wool of their elders.

One of those orange splotches was probably the animal that had just escaped them. Despite their bulk the face-tails could move fast. Thakur eyed the beasts, trying to pick one that was young enough to be vulnerable and old enough not to need the protection of its mother. It wasn’t easy. Yesterday he had chosen a young calf and ended up fleeing from the enraged mother. Today’s quarry had proved to be old enough to defend itself.

His cars pricked forward as a line of smaller shapes emerged from a copse of trees near the wallow. They were not face-tails, nor any other kind of herdbeast. Beside him he felt Khushi stiffen as the wind brought a stronger version of a familiar scent to their noses.

“Un-Named ones, Thakur!” Khushi hissed.

The herding teacher hesitated in his reply. Yes, the forms were the cat shapes that resembled those of his own kind, but never had he seen the Un-Named do what these newcomers were doing.

The line broke up as its members dispersed and melted into the high grass about the wallow. Thakur narrowed his eyes. At one end of the marshy area stood a face-tail whose patchy orange-and-black coat showed that it was older than the one the Named had tried to capture.

“They are hunting it,” Bira said. She had arrived so quietly that Thakur had hardly noticed.

Yes, they were. He caught a glimpse of a circle of hidden stalkers creeping toward the face-tail. There were more hunters than he had first thought, and they seemed to move with a deadly purpose. Unconsciously he cased himself down, peering through the high grass. Bira and Khushi followed his example.

The face-tail, unconcerned, was sloshing in the wallow, squirting water over itself with its trunk. The circle of hunters paused, as if making the final decision to attack. The scent wafting to Thakur’s nose carried more than a sense of hunger or the usual blind ferocity of the Un-Named. He sensed a certain unified purpose in their behavior that surprised him.

If these ones are truly Un-Named, they are different than any I know, he thought.

He did not see which individual triggered the attack. At one instant they were all crouched together in the grass; the next they were swarming onto the startled face-tail. Muddy water turned pink as the attackers clawed their way up the beast’s flanks and laid open its flesh with deep slashes.

The rest of the face-tails, alarmed, lumbered away with raised trunks, abandoning the victim.

The struggle did not last long. Despite the face-tail’s trumpeting and plunging, it soon toppled under the savagery of the assault. For a while it flailed in the shallow water as the hunters gathered atop it and began to feed. Then it grew still.

Beside him, Thakur felt Bira shivering. “I have never seen Un-Named ones like these before,” she hissed. “And I don’t like them!”

Khushi was struck silent. “They made it look … easy!” he blurted at last.

“Sh. We don’t want to attract their attention,” Thakur cautioned.

Bira began to creep slowly backward, deeper into the shade cast by the oak. Khushi followed. Thakur, torn between curiosity and fear, was the last to come away.

“Let’s go,” said Bira as Biaree huddled nervously on her shoulders.

Thakur agreed, but would only let his companions retreat as far as the small fire-den Bira had dug to store the coals of the Red Tongue.

He was thinking hard. The speed and efficiency of the unknown hunters told him that they were not a ragtag group of Un-Named ones such as those that had raided the clan’s herds in previous seasons. Even the organized attacks that had nearly decimated the Named had not been as complex or as smoothly carried out as this hunt. His sense of danger told him to leave these hunters far behind, but there was another sense that told him to stay.

Who were they? Where had they come from? How had they learned to hunt such formidable prey as the face-tails? The questions whirled through Thakur’s mind.

“You saw the hunt,” he argued, when his two companions protested against the idea of remaining. “Something like that takes more than strength and fierceness. They were working together.”

Bira gave him a questioning look. “The Un-Named can work together. They did when they attacked us several seasons ago.”

“Yes, but those attacks were not as well planned as the hunt we just saw. I was in those fights. I remember.” Thakur turned to Khushi. “This kill looked easy because everything was arranged in advance. Each hunter knew exactly what she or he was supposed to do and did it.” He continued, growing more excited. “Don’t you see? Not only must they be able to think and speak, they must be able to make detailed plans and describe them to each other. They must be like us!”

The other two stared at him, their jaws hanging open. As long as the Named had existed, they had thought their clan was the only one of its kind and that they alone had the gifts of awareness, forethought, and speech. A few individuals with such gifts existed among the Un-Named, but they had come from fringe matings with the clan.

Perhaps the Named were not unique after all.

Thakur and his two companions returned to the scene of the kill, hid, and watched patiently. The face-tail hunters were joined by others: elders, half-grown cubs, and nursing or pregnant females. The group all gorged themselves until late in the day. They then scattered to chew on bones they had taken from the carcass, or to lie in the sun.

Now was the best time to approach, Thakur decided. The Un-Named would be sated and sleepy. Carefully he and the others crept to a small stand of brush that was closer to the hunters and safely downwind.

“Are you sure this is a good idea, herding teacher?” Bira asked when he told her what he planned and asked her to stay behind with a small flame of the Red Tongue and pine branches to light for torches.

“They won’t attack. They’ve eaten too much. And if they chase us, they can’t run far with heavy stomachs.”

Bira was still doubtful. She also questioned Thakur’s conviction that he would be able to talk to the face-tail hunters. “We did not hear them speak to each other,” she argued quietly. “And they did not seem to be following a leader’s directions. That tells me that they are not like us. Perhaps we should wait and keep watching from a distance.”

Thakur answered that those objections had occurred to him, but that this chance was one worth taking. The hunters would only be sated and lazy for a short time. Afterward it would be too dangerous to approach.

Khushi, listening to them both, offered to go by himself. Thakur’s skills were too valuable to risk losing, he said. Who else would instruct the clan’s young if the herding teacher were killed?

“You and all the other herders I have trained,” Thakur answered. “Together you have enough knowledge. What you do not have is my experience in dealing with strangers outside the clan. I don’t plan to let myself be killed. You and I look enough like the hunters to fool them, at least from a distance.”

“What about our smell?”

“Rolling in face-tail dung should disguise it; the stuff is strong enough.”

Khushi only made a grimace.

Thakur gazed out over the open plain where the hunters sprawled in scattered groups. “Bira, watch us and keep a torch ready. I hope we will not need it….”

“But if you do, the Red Tongue will be there,” Bira said fiercely, taking up her post.

With Khushi pacing beside him, Thakur left the sheltering brush and walked out onto the open plain. The sun sat low behind him and the sky was starting to pale into the colors of dusk. After rolling thoroughly in a fresh pile of face-tail manure, he and Khushi took a wandering course toward the hunters. Sometimes the two lay down or even flopped over on their backs for a little while, imitating the bloated lassitude of the others.

The smell of the carcass was rich in Thakur’s nose. Next to him, Khushi swallowed, and the aroma of hunger tinged his smell. Thakur could not blame the young herder. His own mouth was watering. They had eaten yesterday, a few ground-birds caught by Bira, but it was not enough to fill their bellies.

“Don’t think about eating,” he said when he saw the thought in Khushi’s eyes. “We won’t get close to the kill. The chances are that they will smell something strange about us, despite the dung, and chase us away.”

To Thakur’s astonishment, his deception worked. In the fading light the two managed to pass the outer fringes of the large group without being challenged. To one side, Thakur saw spotted cubs gamboling around their parents. He and Khushi skirted a group of half-grown males all snoring together in a pile.

“They don’t even post sentries?” Khushi whispered to Thakur.

“Why should they? Who is going to attack them? As for the kill, it is too heavy to be stolen, and they have eaten all they want.”

Thakur looked about for someone who might respond to their approach. He chose a group of three who were resting but not asleep. One was toying with a broken piece of rib bone, but none were still eating. As one lifted a muzzle against the sky, Thakur could see that the fangs were long enough to show outside the mouth.

The sight of those teeth reminded him of Shongshar, the orange-eyed stranger that Ratha had once taken into the clan. Could these hunters be his people? Feeling a chill, Thakur hoped not. Shongshar had turned into a tyrant, overthrowing Ratha and ruling the clan with his savage ways and long saber-teeth. One of his kind was enough.

But the fangs of these hunters were not as long as Shongshar’s, although their teeth were longer than Thakur’s own. The length seemed to vary in different individuals. It also did among the Named, although not to such extremes.

He realized that he was delaying, fearful of making the first try at speaking to these people. Was he more afraid of provoking an attack or of losing his hope that this group might be a clan like the Named? He did not know.

“Khushi, stay close behind me and don’t say anything,” he warned. His mouth, wetted by appetite, went dry with apprehension. His usually eloquent tail felt stiff and clumsy. Swallowing to moisten his tongue, he deliberately approached the other group. Eyes—green, gold, and amber—shone in the fading dusk.

He feared that his heart was booming loud enough for everyone to hear. His pelt felt as though it would jump right off his body—every hair was standing so much on end. Would the face-tail hunters know him for a stranger and attack, or would they welcome him as a brother?

Not trusting the manure scent to conceal his smell entirely, he and Khushi positioned themselves downwind of the three they were approaching. He lifted his tail in a friendly arch.

One, a tawny female with heavy shoulders, got up. He was afraid she would snarl, but instead she extended her muzzle for a nose-touch. His hopes leaped up. This was the same greeting the Named knew and used. Eagerly he answered in kind, breathing in her scent. It was much like that of his own people, though overlaid with the powerful aroma of face-tail.

The two others in the group roused themselves and also greeted him with the nose-touch. One even rubbed a welcoming chin on Thakur’s shoulder and flopped a tail across his back. Khushi was also accepted.

Yet as soon as the nose-touching and rubbing were finished, the three turned back to lazing or grooming or playing, without a word to the newcomers. Thakur found this disconcerting. They must have recognized that he was a stranger. Why, then, hadn’t they attacked him or chased him away?

Or, if for some reason they had chosen to accept him anyway, why wouldn’t they say something to him?

He rolled over on his side, nudging Khushi to follow suit. He would have to speak first. A dismaying thought seized him. He had not heard any of these hunters talk. Suppose Bira was right and they couldn’t.

No, that can’t be true, he argued to himself. They could not have organized that hunt if they couldn’t tell each other what to do.

Perhaps their language was all gesture and scent. As Thakur considered that possibility, he heard a voice that was not Khushi’s.

“Give the bone,” it said. The heavy-shouldered female was trying to paw the rib fragment from the male who was playing with it.

“No. Go get another. There are plenty left in the carcass,” came the irritable reply.

Thakur’s heart leaped in excitement. Not only did these ones speak, but they used a language so close to that of the Named that he could understand what they said. He waited tensely, hoping someone would speak to him.

The female yawned. “The meat was tender.”

“Salty,” said the other.

“Go drink,” the male advised. “There are places at the water hole.”

Thakur’s ears, which had been sharply pricked, started to sag. Surely they had more interesting things to say than this. He made himself stay quiet and listen, but he heard only more of the same.

Khushi, bored, yawned widely, showing all his teeth. He snapped his mouth shut self-consciously.

“Open it again,” said the male who was playing with the bone. Thakur blinked when he realized the command had been given to Khushi. Khushi was startled, too. Thakur had to nuzzle him before he responded.

The male peered into Khushi’s mouth. “Those fangs are too short. Stop eating bones. They wear teeth down. The song says good teeth are needed for the hunt. Listen to the song.”

“The … song?” asked Khushi, but he spoke so softly that the male didn’t hear him. Thakur listened, but he could hear nothing like the courting yowls the Named called songs.

Puzzled, he asked the hunter, “What are you listening to?”

He thought he spoke clearly, but the male only gave him a baffled look. “Those words are confusing,” the other said. “Speak again.”

Thakur had no idea why his question was not clear. “The song,” he faltered.

“The song is always being sung,” the other stated.

“Why can’t I—”

“Stop speaking!” the male ordered sharply. “Those words make no sense.”

Puzzled and slightly irritated, Thakur closed his mouth. He noticed that the others in the group were eyeing him as if he were something noxious that had walked into their midst. What had he said? He wondered if it had been wise for him to confess he could not hear this “song” or whatever it was that they were making such a fuss about.

Perhaps if he stayed away from that, he might make some headway. With a sinking heart he realized that it was already too late. His easy acceptance and anonymity in the group were gone. Now he was the subject of attention and discussion.

“The ears don’t work,” said the female, looking at him with a grimace and turning to the male.

“The ears do work. The words are heard.”

“The song is not heard.” The female stared at Thakur with molten-gold eyes.

Without answering her stare directly, Thakur tried to get a good look into her eyes. He expected to meet a gaze that was much like his own. He felt the fur prickle up and down his tail when he could not find what he sought. The look in her eyes was neither the blank, unknowing stare of the animal-like Un-Named, nor the sharp, aware gaze of his own people. It was aware, yes, but the awareness was somehow … different.

“The song is heard,” Thakur put in quickly, imitating the odd style of speech.

He hoped his answer would mollify the hunters, but the suspicion in the female’s face grew deeper as she stared at him. “The form is not known to True-of-voice. The eyes are not known; the voice is not known.”

What did she mean? Thakur could make no sense out of what she was saying. Perhaps True-of-voice was her name.

“True-of-voice,” he repeated. “Is that you? Is True-of-voice your name?”

He did not know if she understood him or not, but he saw he had made a major blunder. She flattened her ears and spat.

The other hunters traded looks, bristled, and growled. Thakur noticed that the misunderstanding was starting to draw attention from groups outside their own.

He decided that the time had come to withdraw and think things out before he got himself and Khushi into more trouble. With a poke he got the young herder on his feet. They both backed away from the now-hostile hunters, turned, and jogged in the direction they had come.

Though no one had noticed their initial approach, heads now lifted and eyes followed as they passed. It was as if word of the intruders had somehow spread instantly throughout the group, even though Thakur had heard no cries of alarm.

“Don’t run,” he warned Khushi, even though the muscles in his own hindquarters were twitching with the impulse to turn tail and flee.

Only when he had put the group at a distance did he and Khushi break into a bounding run. It carried them to the bushes, where Bira met them.

“What happened?” she asked.

Thakur sighed. “I said something wrong. I don’t know what.”

“So they do speak like us?”

“They use words, but not the way we do. Bira, we had better not stay here. We’re too close, and they’re angry. ”

Quickly the Firekeeper packed up the coals in an old bird’s nest filled with sand. Khushi helped, taking the resinous pine branches that served as firebrands.

Once Thakur decided they were a safe distance from the hunters, the Named made camp. Bira lit a fire from the embers she carried, and everyone drew close around it.

“I think we should give up on that bunch,” said Khushi, disgusted. “They may speak, but they are as stupid as the Un-Named. And crazy too. They kept mewling about some song. I couldn’t hear anyone singing. Could you, Thakur?”

“No,” the herding teacher confessed. He was disappointed at his failure. Khushi’s dismissal of the hunters as witless and crazy provided an easy escape from his own responsibility. For an instant he was tempted to take it. Perhaps no one could talk to these people. If so, he could not fault himself for failing.

Yet he knew the answer was not so simple. He had been close enough to look into their eyes. He had seen an alertness there, not the blank unawareness of the Un-Named. But it was directed strangely inward in a way he did not understand.

And it echoed something that he had seen and knew well, though at first he could not think what it was. Then he remembered another pair of eyes, sea-green and once shrouded by pain. Those were Thistle’s eyes when he had first found her.

He remembered how he had coaxed Thistle back outside herself, had given her not only words to speak with, but hope. How those eyes had begun to brighten and clear, showing that she was truly of the Named. Yet even now, her gaze would sometimes become opaque and she would retreat where none of the Named could follow. To Thakur it seemed as though Ratha’s daughter walked two paths, one with the Named and another in a cave world of mist and entrancement, where strange voices echoed.

Voices. The hunters had spoken, in their puzzling way, of a voice, a song that Thakur could not hear. Perhaps only they could hear it. The one name they had said was True-of-voice. In some way speech was vital to them, yet why did their grasp of it seem so limited and stilted?

It was clear that they did not walk the same path as the Named. But there was one among the Named who might be able to follow them. Thakur sensed that he would never be able to speak to these hunters by himself. He needed Thistle.

But she was not a clan member and did not have to obey Ratha or anyone else. If he sent for Thistle, the decision to come or not would be hers alone.

Was this the right thing to do? Thakur wondered. Would such a contact with the group of strange cats bring joy or disaster? The hunters could be a formidable enemy, but what if they were an allied clan who could help the Named survive?

He would send for Ratha as well as Thistle, he decided. Experienced as he was, he could not be alone in decisions that involved the future of the Named. Ratha must see these hunters for herself.

When the herding teacher came out of his reverie, he was slightly chagrined to find that Bira had banked the fire and that both she and Khushi had gone to sleep. Try as he would, Thakur could not close his eyes. He remained awake long into the night, thinking.

Days later, wind was kicking up sand on a coastal beach, stinging Thistle’s eyes and nose. She felt lonely and cross, for her friend Thakur had been gone too long. The haze that had once clouded her mind came less often now, but today it was here, making her feel remote and withdrawn.

Keeping her claws fixed in the driftwood log, she pulled at her injured foreleg to make the muscles stretch, as Thakur had taught her. From a short distance away came a splintering sound. Ratha was using the same log to sharpen her claws.

Thistle could not help a glance sideways at her mother. Ratha was on top of the log, raking backward with the powerful muscles in her shoulders. Half fascinated, half resentful, Thistle watched. Ratha looked so beautiful and strong. She was all one tawny color that flowed over her head, down the bowed arch of her back, over her hindquarters, and out the long sweep of her tail.

Thistle wondered if anyone would ever watch her sharpening her claws and think that she was strong and beautiful. No. Even if her limp went away, she would still be small and awkward. And ugly, for her pelt was rusty black, mottled with orange.

She looked quickly away before Ratha could notice her gaze. The hard green light in her mother’s eyes burned too brightly today. Only when those eyes were half-closed or dulled by suffering or illness did Thistle dare approach and touch or lick her mother. When Ratha was strong and well, Thistle kept her inside thoughts well hidden.

Thistle gazed down at her outstretched leg. It was much stronger now. She could almost walk without a limp along short paths. Soon she hoped she would be able to walk for short distances without a limp. The leg no longer hurt either. At least most of the time. Only when …

No. Thistle flattened her ears. She wasn’t going to think about the Dreambiter that appeared to her in nightmares. Thinking about it could too easily bring it, as if thoughts were meat laid on a trail that it prowled. But not thinking sometimes brought it, too.

Today, for some reason, it was hard to think and hard not to think. The wind and blowing sand seemed to catch everything in her mind and whirl it away. She sank her claws deeper into the gray driftwood and stretched her leg muscles until she felt the good healing hurt that promised to make that leg, once shrunken and crippled, as sound as her other limbs.

She heard a yawning sound as Ratha opened her jaws and curled her tongue upward in pleasure. Thistle saw the white sharpness of her teeth. She remembered, before she could catch herself, that the nightmare also had such sharp teeth.

And the nightmare, thus summoned, came.

The Dreambiter’s soft tread quickened, echoing along the caverns within Thistle’s mind. Thistle’s eyes and cars filled with blackness, and she felt herself being pulled deep into those caves. However she might struggle and scream and cry out, she could not break free. The sound of the Dreambiter’s feet became louder and faster.

Dimly, a voice cried out from beyond the cave, but she couldn’t understand it, for words had been lost to the rising howl of the Dreambiter. The blackness that was deeper and harder than anything outside pounced on her, green eyes flaming, mouth open, teeth bared. The upper fangs sank into her shoulder, the lower fangs into her chest, for she was suddenly small enough in the nightmare for her forequarters to fit within the Dreambiter’s mouth.

With the shock came the flooding pain that raged from her shoulder and chest to her foreleg, drawing the leg up in a cramped knot. Writhing, screaming, she clawed at the Dreambiter with her good forepaw, but her foe was made of nothingness, and her claws found no hold. Then the jaws released her, but the release was almost worse than the bite, for when the teeth pulled out, it hurt more than ever, and the hurt flamed and seared until the pain burned away everything—herself, the caves, the Dreambiter—until all were ashes.

And the ashes were picked up by the wind and swirled high into the sky. They slowly drifted down.

Thistle waited until Ratha had left the beach. She got up, shook off the sand crusted on her belly, and paced over the dunes toward the seamares’ cove. On the way, she passed Fessran, who was still playing tag with Mishanti.

“I’ll keep him if you want to nap for a while,” Fessran called to her.

“Sleep enough. Swim again. With seamares. Will get Mishanti later.”

Fessran waved her tail in agreement. Thistle watched her chase Mishanti. The Firekeeper leader had a reputation for being acerbic and hard to approach, but Thistle found her easier to be with than Ratha.

Perhaps it was because Fessran had also been hurt. She had scars in the sandy fur on her upper foreleg. She had said that someone with very long teeth had bitten her there. There were scars on both the inside and outside of the leg. The teeth had gone right through.

Wonder if teeth hurt her the way Dreambiter hurt me.

From the beach, Thistle crossed onto a series of sandstone ledges beneath the cliffs. She made her way down through the tidepools until she reached the seamares’ cove.

There they all were, basking in the sun. Some lay on their bellies with their horselike heads outstretched and their tusks digging into the sand. Others sprawled on their backs or sides, sometimes flipping sand over themselves with a webbed foot.

She lifted her whiskers. She liked seamares. There was something comfortable about their tubby bodies and the way they lumbered and lolled about on land. Their raucous greeting chorus when she walked through the herd and the friendly bumps and swishes she got from their heads and tails made her feel accepted among them.

And she knew a secret about the seamares that nobody else had discovered. On land the creatures were ungainly and clumsy, but in the sea they became beautiful—elegant, streamlined shapes that slipped through the undersea dimness, leaving only a silvery trail of bubbles.

Many creatures of the shore were like that, finding their true beauty in the sea. Perhaps, Thistle mused, she was like that, too. Even though her leg was much better, she could still swim better than she could walk.

She could tell by the dryness of the seamares’ velvety fur that they hadn’t yet gone on their daily foraging expedition in the ocean. Either she had come at just the right moment or they had waited for her.

Joy surged through Thistle as she trotted into the surf in the midst of the herd of lumbering, hooting seamares. She breasted the incoming swells as they did, then ducked under and swam with powerful strokes of her hind feet. Like the seamares, she used her forelimbs to steer.

Sometimes she wondered if she really was a seamare, somehow born into the wrong body.

The only place she could not follow the herd was down to the ocean floor, where they foraged for shellfish. She had learned that neither her chest nor her ears could withstand the pressure, so while the seamares dove to forage, she remained on the surface. She could act as lookout, spotting any enemies that might come. And at the same time she could think out things that were troubling her.

It was easier for Thistle to think while drifting at the top of the ocean, while being rhythmically lifted and lowered by the swells. Everything seemed clearer out here. The mist that often clouded her mind vanished with the brilliance of the sun on the water.

Thakur had asked her to leave the shore and journey inland. How could she leave the seamares and the ocean? They comforted her, sustained her, renewed her.

It was too much to ask, too much to even think of asking. Away from the sea she became small, ugly, withdrawn into herself. The fits happened more often. The white mist descended on her mind too often, not letting her think.

He knows! Why does he ask?

Yet if he does know, a part of her argued, and he asks anyway, it must be important.

Thistle swam back and forth, trying to find her answer in the ocean’s touch. How soothing it felt, washing through her coat, lifting her and rocking her. The others of the Named seldom went into the sea, or, if they did, came out shivering and coughing.

Well, they hadn’t grown a heavy undercoat like hers that kept her body’s warmth trapped against her skin. And they had never learned to swim the way she did.

Except Thakur. He had let her teach him and he had tried to understand. It was he who had coaxed her out of herself, had helped start the healing in her leg and her mind.

Don’t have to help him, even after all he has done. But want to.

And Ratha. Her mother had also asked for her to come. Did that make a difference?

She asked for Thakur’s sake. She is not sure herself if she wants me.

Thistle glided and turned as the waves tumbled her gently about. She could feel the sea’s muted power. Sometimes it seemed that she could draw more than just comfort from the ocean.

She remembered Ratha’s words to her. Her mother had chosen the hard path—the truth. Though stung by those words, Thistle was deeply grateful that Ratha had not tried to conceal her uncertainties.

She asked me to give her a chance. Don’t have to, but want to.

When the seamares surfaced, blowing and snorting, she had her answer. Though the journey would be challenging, she would go.

It was morning of the third day after they’d set out, and a light rain was falling. The three companions kept to a steady trot. Ratha put Khushi in the lead most of the time. Not only did the young scout know the way, but he chose a pace that was easy for Thistle to keep without straining her nearly healed foreleg. Ratha knew that if she went up front with Khushi, it would be hard for her to keep from leaping ahead, for she was excited and intrigued by Thakur’s message.

Another clan like the Named! Could it be? Had Thakur really discovered a group that might band with their own, providing fresh ideas and new talents?

Ratha felt her hopes soar. If Thakur was sure enough to send for her, he must have found another Named clan. His difficulties in speaking with them would quickly be resolved. They probably have a few different words and customs, that’s all.

Her tail waving in anticipation, she trotted along the trail, eager to speak to the leader of the newly found clan.

Thakur had been watching as Thistle’s nose met the hunter’s muzzle. He had thought for an instant that the other male would attack him, for he clearly had been recognized as an outsider. But the other seemed to have forgotten about him.

He listened. Thistle was speaking, in the same disjointed phrases as the hunter. Her eyes had the same turned-inward look. Was it possible? Could she walk the same trails as these strange, entranced ones?

Thakur admitted he had no real reason to expect that she could. Just a feeling down in his belly. But somehow she was reaching across the boundary, going where he could not, hearing what he could not….

His thoughts were suddenly shattered by a scream from Thistle, a ragged sound that was barely a word.

“No!”

The cry slashed through his hopes, through the slender tie of restraint holding the other clan-cats back from him. Growls and roars exploded from behind him. Instantly he was streaking away beside Thistle, running for his life from the rage of the others who cried out that he was not known to True-of-voice.

Thakur knew that the only thing slowing the hunters was the weight of face-tail meat in their stomachs. Even so, he and Thistle ran far. He could see the strain on her leg, but if he faltered or slowed, they would be overtaken and slain before either Ratha, Khushi, or Bira could catch up and drive the attackers off.

Thistle was limping badly by the time Thakur lost the pursuers. He collapsed together with her in the high grass. The dread that had been making her shudder, even as she ran, now seized her entirely. She went rigid, her eyes blank and glassy.

The spasm tossed her about and then released her, letting her crumple into an exhausted heap of fur. He could not even ask her what had happened, much less tell Khushi, Ratha, and Bira when they galloped up.

“Did the others attack you?” Khushi asked. “I heard Thistle yowl.”

Before answering, Thakur nudged Ratha over to lie down by her daughter. When Thistle came out of the unconsciousness that followed her seizures, she needed warmth and comfort. Only when Ratha and Bira were curled about the sleeping Thistle did Thakur say anything about what had happened. Khushi sat to one side, his ears up, his eyes wide.

“It was her cry that started the attack. Before she screamed, I thought everything was going well,” Thakur said.

“Then why did she … ?” Bira asked softly.

“Something happened … inside, I think,” Thakur replied. “Bira, maybe what you said is true. I may be asking far too much of her.”

Ratha licked Thistle’s ruff. “That thing she dreams about. That’s what frightened her. But why did it happen just then?”

“I don’t know,” Thakur admitted.

“What will you do now?”

“Wait until she recovers and try again.”

Ratha fell silent. He watched the expression in her eyes as she stared down at her gifted, troubled daughter.

Three days later, Ratha settled with the other members of her group beside an evening campfire. Thistle crouched beside Thakur, her eyes closed, her whiskers drooping. Ratha’s heart went out to her daughter. She had watched Thistle try again and again to approach the hunters, only to be attacked and overcome by the prowling terror that lived inside of her.

The thing that wears my shape and uses my teeth, Ratha thought bitterly.

And then Thakur had tried, both alone and with Bira. The face-tail hunters refused. Each encounter was more savage and frightening than the last.

Thakur is going to get himself killed. When I watched from the bushes, I saw nothing to suggest these strangers might be like us. There is no reason to try to talk to them now.

The Named had then changed their tactics, leaving the hunters alone and concentrating on the animals. This hadn’t worked either. Any attempt to capture or kill a face-tail sparked retaliation from the other clan. They might not speak, but they certainly thought they owned the face-tail herd, Ratha thought. When the Named even ventured near, they were met with blind ferocity.

Ratha tried to groom her matted and soot-streaked fur, but gave up. Everybody else looked equally bedraggled and out of sorts.

Too many skirmishes in the last few days had taken much out of them. Ratha could see how her people were starting to suffer. It angered her.

She heard Khushi muttering to Bira as the young Firekeeper and her treeling tended the flame.

“Those hunters are greedy,” he growled. “There are plenty of face-tailed beasts for all, yet they keep driving us away.”

Bira agreed, her fur ruffled and her usually calm green eyes fiery with indignation. From the corner of her eye, Ratha caught a glimpse of Thakur and Thistle, who had heard Khushi’s words. She couldn’t help seeing Thakur bristle. Thistle looked tired and defeated. She was also limping slightly—having to run away from the attacks had strained her leg.

Seeing her daughter struggle inflamed Ratha’s anger even more.

“I think we have shown enough patience with these hunters,” she said. “I heard what Khushi said to Bira and I agree. Trying to speak to them is getting us nowhere.”

“I disagree,” Thakur said slowly. “Thistle and I did make some progress when we first tried. I understand them a little better than before.”

“I don’t understand them at all,” Bira said, wrinkling her nose. “There is plenty of meat for everyone. Why don’t they share? As far as I can see, they are no different than the savage Un-Named.”

“Ratha?” The clan leader felt Thakur’s gaze go to her.

She answered, trying to control her own impatience. “I sent Khushi here to scout for face-tails. My intent was to add them to our herds. The hunters are making that impossible.”

“So you would attack the other clan with the Red Tongue,” Thakur said in a low voice.

“Herding teacher, what choice do I have? If we are to survive and grow, we must enlarge our herds. I think these face-tailed beasts can be managed, but we have never really been able to try—the other clan keeps driving us off.”

“Perhaps we would be better to look in other places for other animals,” Thakur said stubbornly.

Khushi yowled scornfully. “And run away with our tails between our legs if someone else claims them? Herding teacher, I mean no disrespect, but we are the Named, after all. Are we going to back down just because this scruffy bunch is being unreasonable?”

“Enough, Khushi,” Ratha said, raising a paw. “Bira? You look like you have something to say.”

“Yes, I do,” said Bira in her soft voice as she curled her plumed tail around her feet. “I am a Firekeeper. I know how cruel the Red Tongue can be. It is not easy for me to think about using it against others. If I thought these strangers might be like us, I would be horrified by the idea.” She paused. “But I have watched them, looking for signs that they are like us. I haven’t seen any.” She glanced at Thakur and then away again. “Herding teacher, I am sorry.”

Despite herself, Ratha was startled. Gentle Bira would give anyone the benefit of the doubt. If even she had hardened her heart, then it must be because the other clan didn’t deserve any sympathy.

“What makes you feel that way, Bira?” Thakur asked.

“All the time I have watched this other clan, I have never seen them show any sign of caring for each other—not the way we do. Each one walks past the others as if they were not even there.”

“They think differently than we do,” Thakur began, but Bira gently, yet firmly, cut him off.

“That should not make a difference. Our treelings think very differently than we do, yet they care for us.” She nuzzled her treeling, Biaree, who was snuggled up against her neck.

Thakur had no answer for that. Ratha saw him staring down at the ground between his paws. “I think,” he said after a long silence, “that they do care for each other, but in a very different way than we do.”

“Herding teacher, is it possible you are seeing something in these people that you only wish was there?” Ratha asked softly.

“I admit I have made that mistake in the past, clan leader. We both have. But this time I think I am right. I only ask for the chance to prove it.”

Ratha felt her ears twitch back. “I’ve given you that chance. I’ve given the other clan that chance. What can I do if they refuse it?” She sighed. “To be frank with you, Thakur, I don’t like these hunters. I like them even less than the witless Un-Named. At least the Un-Named do not enslave themselves willingly to a tyrannical leader, as this True-of-voice seems to be. And they walk around in an endless dream, unable to wake up. It makes me shiver.”

“And because you judge them different, you are willing to drive them with the Red Tongue, like animals?” Thakur’s voice was very low, nearly a growl.

“My duty is not to the other clan,” Ratha snapped. “The Named must come first.”

“I thought there might be room in the world for the Named and others as well,” Thakur said softly.

“It is their choice whether to attack us,” she retorted. “Thakur, the decision is made. We will catch a face-tail tomorrow. If any of the hunters interfere, Bira and I will use the Red Tongue.”

She heard Thistle gasp softly, almost a moan of pain, as if she had been struck. For an instant anger burned away the exhaustion in her eyes, and Ratha braced herself to endure a passionate defense of the hunters.

But the spark died, extinguished by weariness. Her daughter only said, “Doesn’t matter what Thistle feels. No right to speak anyway. Not clan member.” She limped away into the darkness before anyone could stop her.

As much as Ratha wanted to go after her, she knew it would be useless.

She turned instead to Thakur. She thought she had succeeded in becoming hard both inside and outside, but it hurt her to see how Thakur stared at the fire and fell silent.

The fire was banked and burning low. Above its crackle Thistle could hear the sounds of breathing—Ratha, Bira, and Khushi were asleep nearby.

Thakur wasn’t asleep. Thistle could tell by the way he moved restlessly beside her. She wasn’t asleep either, and it was not just his squirming that was keeping her awake.

She was angry at Ratha. Khushi and Bira too, but mostly Ratha. Once again her mother had chosen to strike out at those she did not understand.

She did that to me and she is doing it again to this other clan. I thought she would have learned better by now.

Beside her, Thakur rolled over again, sighed, and started to get up.

“Thakur?” she said, not wanting his comforting warmth to be replaced by the cool night air.

“Sh, Thistle. Don’t wake the others. I can’t sleep, so I thought I’d go watch the stars for a while.”

“Can’t sleep either. Go with you?”

“All right, but be quiet.”

They left the campfire and the sleepers behind, Thakur moving noiselessly through the scrub. Thistle glanced back. The fire had become a dim glow in the distance between the trees. When the low boughs and brush overhead opened up to a clear night sky, Thakur sat down and lifted his chin. Thistle did too.

There was no moon that night. Each star was as sharp as the point of a claw. Across part of the sky there was a misty light wafting outward like a plume of smoke from the Red Tongue. To Thistle, the night had a stark, aching beauty.

“It makes me want… something I do not even know about,” she said, wriggling a little closer to Thakur’s warmth.

Thakur said, “It makes me want to lift my paw to the sky, even though I know I cannot reach the stars.”

“Night-flying birds,” Thistle said. “The mice with wings and big ears—could those creatures fly high enough?”

She felt him give a sigh again. “Somehow … I don’t think so.”

After a long silence, she asked, “Thakur, does… she… ever sit like this and look up? My mother, I mean.”

“I think she did when she was a cub. But that was a long time ago. She hasn’t done it for a while.”

“Being clan leader is hard. Too many things to think about,” Thistle said.

“Too many,” Thakur agreed.

Again the silence fell and covered them both. The stars seemed to shimmer against the night sky.

“You were right,” said Thistle abruptly. “What you said—to my mother and the rest—you were right. Don’t let anyone make you back away from what you said.”

“Why do you say that, Thistle?” Thakur asked in a mild voice. The herding teacher sounded slightly puzzled, as he often did when she took off on a different thought trail without letting him know where she was going.

“Because the other Named ones—they will try to make you say you are wrong about the hunters. And my mother—she will try the hardest of all.”

“She is clan leader, Thistle,” she heard him say gently. “She is doing what she thinks is best for all of us. She must, or we will not survive.”

“Not best for me,” she protested. “Not for you either, or for the hunting clan. You said, ‘Can’t there be room for Named and others as well?’ Think there can be.” She paused, feeling her whiskers tremble with the force of passion. “Don’t let them make you give that up, Thakur.”

There was bafflement in the herding teacher’s green eyes. “Thistle, what makes you feel so strongly?”

“Don’t you think you were right?” she asked, afraid that he was going to change his mind.

“Yes, and I’m glad you think so, too, but I’m just surprised. After all, these hunters have repeatedly attacked us.”

Thistle couldn’t answer. She wasn’t sure. When had this conviction come to her—that the strange clan were more than savage killers? She tried to cast her mind back, remembering. Yes, she had screamed and run away, but she was fleeing from the Dreambiter, not from the strangers. And before that had happened, there was something else, dim and weakly sensed, but powerful.

“They gave me something,” she said. “What they call… the song.” She had looked into a hunter’s eyes. She had breathed his breath, touched his whiskers, inhaled his smell. And in all of that was the knowledge of the song; that he heard it and that he knew that she also heard it, however briefly.

She struggled to explain this to Thakur, but the words she found were not the right ones, and her newly made hold on language began to slip.

“Arrr! How can I say it? How?” she blurted in frustration as Thakur tried to soothe her. “Something comes from them. From them into me. And I know that they know… Oh, arrr, that isn’t right either.” Her tail flipped irritably back and forth, but Thakur seemed to have infinite patience.

Finally she said, “I have heard my mother talk about a ‘gift’ that you Named ones have. That it shows in the eyes. These hunters have something like it, but instead of looking out, they look in. Instead of speaking, they listen. Instead of trying to make sense, they make dreams. Do you understand, Thakur?”

“Only a little.”

She stumbled on. “How do I know this? I can’t tell you. What they have … is like the sea when you swim in it. All around you. Moving into you. Making voices in you. Making you feel the same as when you look up to the sky. The fierce red thing …” She fell silent.

“The Red Tongue,” Thakur said.

“It would destroy all of that. Wish my mother would understand.”

“Perhaps you can help her understand.”

“And perhaps you can scratch the stars,” she said wryly.

“Thistle …”

“Oh, Thakur, how can I lead anyone on this path when I am so lost?” she burst out, feeling an anguish that made her want to cry aloud. She leaned her head against the fur on his breast. He was so gentle, so wise, so eloquent….

She sighed. “Wish I could talk better. But sometimes the words—they run away. Because I am not Named?”

“Thistle, you are Named.”

“Only through my mother.”

“Through your father as well. He was not a clan member, but he had the same gifts. Perhaps he was more gifted than any of us.” Thakur paused. “Ratha called him Bonechewer. He was my brother.”

Thistle listened to Thakur’s heart—strong, steady, and comforting. She had always sensed that he resembled her lost father. Now she knew why.

“If he was what you say, why didn’t he pass it to me? Why did my mother think we were all so stupid”—her voice caught—“and drive us away?”

“Thistle, he did pass his gift on to you, but it took a long time to show. I think that is the reason you were slow in growing up. Because you weren’t with us, you didn’t learn to speak as a cub. That is why you find it difficult now.”

“And … the driving us away?”

“Ratha told you once,” Thakur said softly. “Don’t you remember? She couldn’t bear the idea that you couldn’t be like other Named cubs. But it wasn’t your fault, and she told you she was wrong.”

“Yes, she did,” Thistle admitted. “But it is hard to make her words feel real.”

“You may need to hear them again. It may take you many seasons of hearing them.”

She let the silence stay for a little while before chasing it away with a question. “I had a brother, didn’t I?”

“Two. There were three of you in the litter.”

“Are my brothers like me?”

“We don’t know, Thistle. We never found them.”

“Does my mother… want to find them?”

There was a long pause before he answered. “I think you should ask her.”

“Maybe I will. But not here. For my mother—too many things to think about.”

“Too many,” Thakur agreed, yawning. “I feel I can fall asleep now.”

Thistle felt her own mouth stretch in a sleepy gape. She followed Thakur back to the campfire and curled up beside him.

It was morning. Thistle no longer slept by Thakur. Instead, she had gone away quietly, without waking anyone. Now she crouched, alone in the brush, spying on a band of hunters as they stalked a face-tail. Her mottled coat might be ugly, she thought, but it made her blend in with the background when she didn’t want to be seen. She watched, quivering with fright and fascination.

This hunting party was a small group. Its members looked young, some of them perhaps just out of cub-hood. They didn’t seem as well organized as the larger hunting band that Thakur had described. Thistle also wondered about their judgment, for they had chosen an older female face-tail with a nursing calf. But perhaps the younger clan-cats did know what they were doing, for they had already managed to separate the pair from the main herd.

A ring of feline hunters now surrounded the beasts. Thistle could see that they were trying to maneuver their prey onto swampy ground, where mother and calf would bog down. But the mother face-tail seemed aware of the danger. Each time two or more of the attackers dashed in to drive her into the trap, the shaggy black-and-brown face-tail gave ground only briefly, then lunged at its tormentors, nearly breaking through their ring.

This is the wrong animal to try for, Thistle thought. This one has been hunted before and knows the tricks.

She watched the young hunters struggle with the wary old face-tail. They seemed unwilling to give up, as if something drove them to try again and again, despite knowing that this creature was the wrong prey.

Even Ratha, for all her stubbornness, would have surely given up by now, Thistle thought. The Named would have recognized they had met their match and chosen another beast.

The old female face-tail was tiring, but so, too, were the hunters. Thistle could see frustration and exhaustion in the rise and fall of their ribs beneath mud-streaked fur. Their feints were becoming slower, and each time one dodged the face-tail’s lunges, the tusks came closer.

Why do they keep choosing this animal? I am not a hunter, but even I can see…

One of the hunters turned, letting Thistle catch a glimpse of his eyes. Even from the distance, she could see that his gaze was still strangely turned inward, as if he was listening intently, even while he stalked.

“It is the song,” Thistle muttered to herself. “It is telling them what to do. And they have to do it.”

As she watched, she realized that the hunters had not only chosen an unsuitable animal, but they were trying the same tactics over and over again, even though the beast was wise to them. There was something strangely pitiful and even horrifying about the scene before her, as if the hunters as well as the prey were caught in the trap.

Why was True-of-voice doing this? Thistle wondered. Thought leader cared about people. Or does care, but somehow gets stuck… can’t understand why hunting didn’t work. Can’t change.

She knew what would happen almost before it did. The attackers’ lunges and feints were slowing, narrowing their escape from the slashing tusks and trampling feet. And then, as one lithe, fawn-colored shadow darted in, the face-tail’s great head dipped down, the tusks thrust, and she heard an anguished yowl.

Thistle did not know what seized her legs, making her leap out of the bushes. Or what seized her will either, sending her in to bite and claw at the pillars of the face-tail’s rear legs. Looking forward beneath the great shaggy belly, she saw the cat-form of the stricken hunter twist and turn, trying desperately to avoid the huge feet slamming down on the ground.

For an instant Thistle feared the face-tail would ignore her attack, as if she were too small to bother with. It was too intent on the wounded hunter, and even the attacks by the other cats could not turn it away. The bright ribbon of blood on his side was a flag that drew the beast to him. The trampling feet were right above him, and his squall of terror filled the air.

Something whiplike yet heavy struck Thistle’s side, sending her tumbling. As she sprang back to her feet she saw that the face-tail had spun away from the wounded hunter and was thundering at her, trunk raised for another blow. She jumped, flattened as it flailed over her back. Her mind was whipping around as fast as the beast’s trunk, seeking an escape.

Pure panic made her run for a bluff and sail off the edge. With a bellowing roar, the face-tail came crashing down behind, and she was sure that it would land right on top of her, crushing her. But she landed clear, splashing into a mud puddle.

She shook herself, casting a wary glance at the face-tail, tensing as if she expected the beast to come charging out of the morass beneath the bluff. But the creature was down on its side, thrashing, beating its great trunk against the ground. A fall that was nothing to her had crippled it.

Her fur still on end, she watched the face-tail struggle to rise. The hunters were already appearing on the bluff. She could see their faces, their hunger. The first one leaped down, landing on the heaving mound of the face-tail’s body. She heard claws start to rip through woolly hide.

Soon all of the hunters were on the creature, swarming over it as if they had downed it themselves. Thistle felt hungry, but she knew she dared not venture among the horde that was already stripping off the face-tail’s flesh.

But one was missing from among them. The young male the face-tail had stabbed with its tusks.

Above the noises of eating, she heard a low moan. It came from up above, where she and the face-tail had gone off the bluff. Her ears flattened.

They leave one of their own to bleed while they feast.

She skirted the great corpse with the hunters tearing at it. Ears still flat, tail low and twitching, she circled back up to the top of the bluff. Where was the wounded one?

There. Under a bush. A trail of blood on the trampled ground told her he had dragged himself there to die hidden. She halted in midstep, one forefoot lifted. Why should she go to him? There was nothing she could do, and he might just attack her.

It was cruel of them to leave him to suffer while all the others filled their bellies. If he died his life would have paid for that meat. Among the Named that act would have been acknowledged.

Thistle tried to turn aside. Every step that might have taken her away instead brought her closer, until she was within nose-touch of him. Crumpled beneath the low branches of the bush, he looked dead, until she caught the fine tremor of his whiskers and the slight movement of dry leaves before his muzzle that told her he was still breathing.

A shudder went through the wounded hunter. He gasped and cried out like a cub. But there were words in the cry, and Thistle understood them.

“Away … from True-of-voice. Dying away … alone …”

She glanced nervously at the bluff, at the sounds of feasting. Hunters of this same tribe had chased her away. If she had any sense, she would be gone by now. But they seemed engrossed in their prey. She could stay beside the wounded one at least for a little while, offer him warmth and words, if they helped. She knew how it felt to be hurt and alone.

As she crouched down beside the wounded hunter, his head lifted and his eyes opened. They were a molten gold and seemed to swirl, like water draining inward through a hole.

Inward, thought Thistle. Always inward. These ones dream as they die, dream as they suffer. Aloud she said, “Don’t be frightened. I will stay with you as long as I can.”

The wounded one’s head jerked. The eyes went to her, yet never seemed to fix on her. Thistle wondered if he was blind.

No. All the hunters have eyes like this. Thakur said that I once had eyes like this.

The young male was in a funny half twist that looked uncomfortable. After nudging him to make sure that he had no other injuries besides the tusk wound, she got him arranged so that he was lying on his belly. She had to put herself beside him to prop him up, for he kept wanting to flop over onto his side.

“No,” she scolded softly. “Better for you to stay on your belly.”

She studied his wound. It was no longer bleeding freely, and it didn’t look too bad. There were no bones showing or guts or anything else that should stay inside a body, except blood. But he was trembling and his nose felt cold against hers. The trembling and the coldness. And the fear. The fear could kill, even if the hurt didn’t.

She made him keep his head down. Thakur had told her some things about how to take care of the injured. He was a skilled healer. How she wished he were here now!

She looked at her charge critically. On his belly, with his head down, the wounded young male seemed to be doing a bit better. His nose wasn’t so cold and his trembling was less violent. Maybe he wouldn’t die after all.

“The song,” he sighed. “It is heard again. True-of-voice comes to Quiet Hunter.”

His words completely baffled her except for his reference to the song. She remembered her own brief experience with it. She had felt from far away the power it had to comfort and soothe.

If the song helped the wounded hunter, she didn’t care what it was. She knew she couldn’t hear it. She was too far into the self-identified, Named way of thinking. Well, she had to be, in order to look out for herself and for him. She couldn’t afford to go stumbling around in a dream-trance. Look what that had gotten him!

The smell of the huge kill made her belly growl. He must be hungry, too, since he was stalking with them. With disgust she noted that none of those now feasting on the downed face-tail had even glanced around for their injured companion.

Thistle remembered what Bira had said at the campfire. She was reluctant to admit that she would agree with one of the Named, but Bira was right. These people seemed to feel no compassion for one another. They could plan and carry out an elaborate hunt, but they were not capable of the feelings that she and the Named both shared.

How could I have thought that they are like us?

This wounded male—he was the same. Even if he lived, he would never be able to look at her with eyes that understood what she was. She had nothing in common with him or his people. She had no business being there at all. She should go.

Thistle was giving the wounded male a soft farewell nudge when movement at the corner of her vision made her glance up. One of the hunters, a large, heavy-shouldered male, was climbing a trail up the side of the bluff. He had come from the kill. He had a chunk of meat in his jaws.

Thistle was sure that he would eat it himself, that he would walk right past the two of them. Instead he paced deliberately to the bush where the wounded male lay. Unsure whether to freeze or run, Thistle stayed where she was. The large male ignored her, laid the meat down before his injured clan-mate ….

An excited shiver went down Thistle’s back, all the way along her tail.

Bira is wrong! These hunters do care about each other. 

Stretching out his neck, the injured male got the tips of his fangs into the meat and dragged it to him. The intoxicating food smell washed over Thistle, forcing her to fight an impulse to snatch some. Instead she crouched slightly apart from the injured male, watching.

When he had eaten, others of his kind brought more.

They also gave him small melons from a vine that grew nearby. Thistle had seen the Named eat these to slake thirst when there was no good water.

Those who brought the meat and melons gazed briefly at her. Their eyes were distant, but Thistle had no doubt they saw her and recognized her. Why didn’t they chase her away?

Perhaps they know that I tried to help.

Her belly rumbled again and she swallowed. Would they mind if she had just a little of the meat and melon? She crept toward the nearest piece, sniffed it, and almost jumped out of her pelt when the wounded male pushed it toward her with his nose.

Thinking that the others might not approve of his act, she glanced at them, tensing to flee if anyone showed raised hackles. But no one did. Soon she was gulping face-tail meat and crunching moist melon, enjoying its juicy coolness on her tongue.

Once the wounded male had eaten, he rested and then tried to groom himself. The bleeding from his tusk wound had dwindled to a slow seepage, but Thistle feared that if he twisted around to lick himself, he might start bleeding again.

“Don’t try,” she said softly. “Will do it for you.”

He looked faintly baffled at her words but seemed to understand her intent. He lay quietly as she worked on him, using her teeth and raspy tongue to clean the fur around the wound. Several of the hunters gathered around, as if to watch, although their odd, dreamy gaze made Thistle feel as though they were looking right through her.

She was startled when one spoke. The voice was light, female. “True-of-voice has learned of the hurt done to Quiet Hunter.”

Thistle, unsure whether the speaker was talking to her or not, glanced at her companion. He was washing his face, but he paused, put his paw down, and lay, eyes closed, ears forward as if listening.

“True-of-voice sings healing,” said someone else.

Thistle itched with curiosity. Who was this True-of-voice? A clan leader, like her mother, Ratha? She realized that she didn’t know if the unknown singer was male or female. He or she might even be right here, watching. Thistle had no way to tell.

These people… so strange. Know why Thakur could not talk to them.

She felt lost and uneasy. What if this True-of-voice found out about her, realized that she was an outsider, ordered the others to attack her?

In her uncertainty she had moved close to the wounded male and was now huddling against him.

“The song’s healing is for all.” She both heard and felt her companion’s voice as it vibrated through his body.

If you can hear it, she thought, her ears twitching crossly. Did hear it once. Had to go deep inside myself.

Dare she try that again? It would leave her open, vulnerable, dream-entranced.

But they are all like that, too.

She glanced around at the cat shapes surrounding her. Their eyes never met hers and they avoided her gaze as if it was too sharp, too direct. She felt left out, as if everyone were speaking a silent language she could not understand.

Her only choice was to go … inside.

Again she pushed away her feeling of identity, of self. There was no one named Thistle-chaser. There was no one with a name. There was nobody and no names….

And she, without self, without name, walked in mist-shrouded caverns, following a haunting, distant call. It had a voice, but no words. It did not need speech. The rise and fall of the voice itself spoke with an eloquence beyond words. It drew her like the scent of one beloved, and she realized that it was not just a sound but a scent as well—distant, tenuous, yet powerful just as the voice was. It resonated not only in her senses, but in her whole being.

The desire in her grew frantic. Her longing to find the singer, to feel surrounded by the strength and sureness of the song, hurtled her headlong through the depths of herself.

There were no questions in the song. There were no doubts. The voice, the smell, the feeling, all promised an end to uncertainty. She would not need to seek. The singer, the song… already knew.

That was why the singer was called True-of-voice.

To one who walked so much on the edge, to one for whom the questions overwhelmed the answers, the song was a lure that could not be escaped. It was the sound in her ears, the intoxicating scent in her nose, the feeling in her skin as if someone she loved was rubbing against her. It was everything she wanted and had never thought she could have.

And she could plunge down the trails of herself forever in search of it….

Until a growling roar shattered the distant music, and her skin prickled and burned.

She had forgotten the guardian of the caverns. Her mind’s eye, seeking the beautiful shape of the singer, flinched away from the apparition of the Dreambiter.

She tried to turn back, but the nightmare was on her, fiery with hate, teeth sinking deep into her shoulder and chest. She sought the outside, the self, the name, but the Dreambiter had her. She knew that it would keep her until it had exacted the price of her daring.

Thistle fled, both within and without, the blackness sweeping over her even as she ran. It took her from the wounded male she had tried to help, from those who had been watching, from the song, and, worst of all, from the unknown singer called True-of-voice.

She might have hurt someone in her panic, even the injured male she had been tending. As her shaking legs gave way and she felt herself begin the slow topple onto her side, she gave one last cry for forgiveness.

Thakur stirred in his sleep. The warm spot that Thistle made against his back had grown cold. Blinking, he lifted his head, thinking that she had just shifted to one side. No. She was gone.

Sleep fled as he jumped to his feet. Ratha, curled up against Bira with her nose buried in her tail, was startled awake.

“What … ? Arrr! Where’s Thistle?”

“What we talked about last night upset her,” Thakur said. “No, you stay here,” he added as Ratha started to get up. “I know where she went.”

“Oh, no! She’s trying to talk to the face-tail hunters again.” Ratha groaned. “Thakur, she’ll get herself shredded by that bunch.”

“They’ll shred you if you start running out into their midst. I have some experience with them. You wait. I’ll find out what happened to Thistle.”

Before Ratha had a chance to object, he galloped away into the scrub forest. Soon he reached the open land where the face-tail hunters stalked their quarry. From a distance he saw the exposed bones of their kill at the foot of a small bluff. When he climbed the trail to the top of the bluff and hid in the brush nearby, his gaze turned toward the group of cat figures there. Among them he spotted a familiar mottled red-brown and orange coat.

Thistle’s head was down. She was eating. They were sharing food with her! How … ?

Thakur stayed hidden downwind from the group, not wanting to interfere. He stared at the scene, filled with amazement. Somehow Thistle had done what he could not. The other clan had accepted her. An injured young male lay near her. From the look of his wound, he had been gored by a face-tail. Had she been tending him?

Yet something odd was happening in the group. Everyone was sitting, staring at nothing. Even Thistle.

Thakur crept closer, intensely curious. Things were changing. Thistle looked frightened. Arrr! She was starting to jump around in circles on three legs, the way she did when she went into one of her fits.

Not now, Thistle! he wanted to yowl. He knew it would be useless. She couldn’t control what was happening.

Fearing that the others would attack, he tensed, ready to rush in and defend her. They didn’t, although some backed away from her, looking puzzled. As Thistle broke into a panicked run, they moved aside for her.

Silently Thakur stole through the brush and the high grass, trying to guess where her crazy zigzag path would take her. At last he was far enough away from the hunters so that he didn’t worry about being scented or seen. He bounded toward Thistle and intercepted her.

She staggered, fell on her side, and began to thrash. Eyes wide open, but blank, she struggled, trying to speak. “Wanted to help… but couldn’t… ran inside … to hear … song for healing…. Why… does he hear it when I can’t….”

“Thistle, don’t try,” Thakur said.

“He … knows how much… it hurts…. Didn’t want to run from them…. Afraid, couldn’t help… Will hate me… Dreambiter …” She shook violently.

Thakur lay down alongside Thistle, draping his paws and tail over her. The warmth and the weight seemed to help, for she closed her eyes and her limbs became still. He thought that she would fall into a deep sleep, but instead she spoke again.

“I could have reached them,” she hissed, her voice raw. “If I hadn’t let … the badness… have me….”

“You can go back,” Thakur said, trying to soothe her. “You can try again, Thistle.”

“No…. They saw the badness…. Afraid of me now…. Jumped around, clawed somebody… hurt them…. No trust… anymore….”

“You didn’t hurt anyone. There is nothing to be ashamed of,” Thakur soothed.

“Should fight the badness, not run … away….” Thistle’s voice slowed and slid as exhaustion took her. Thakur could feel the wiry little body go limp beneath him.

Gently he pulled his paws out from around her. She would feel nothing for a while.

Why is it so hard for her? he asked silently, and found himself hackling, as if there were a flesh-and-blood enemy that he could fight for her sake.

He sighed, made his fur lie flat, and licked Thistle’s check. He had to think what to do next. She had managed to reach the hunters and get accepted. But she had ruined that tentative bond, or so she thought. What would happen if and when she tried again? The answer lies with that wounded young male. She was caring for him. Perhaps they will allow her back.

He grimaced. There were too many questions, uncertainties, fears. Besides, Ratha and Bira were coming, and he had no idea how to explain what had happened. He decided that he wasn’t even going to try.

At the fire where the Named gathered, Ratha crouched with Bira, Khushi, and Thakur, listening to her daughter speak. Thistle was talking about her experiences with the face-tail hunters and how she had learned more about them.

When Thakur had returned that previous morning, with Thistle at his side, Ratha had been too grateful to ask questions, even though Thistle was subdued and looked as if she had been through another fit. She seemed to have recovered, but listening to her now, Ratha couldn’t help wondering. What she said seemed so nebulous and strange. And she actually seemed comfortable with the nature of the face-tail hunters!

Every word she says about them makes me shiver inside. How can she think that understanding more about this clan will make me accept them?

Ratha tried to keep her nose from wrinkling and her tail from twitching, but she found it hard to hide her repugnance. Thakur evidently spotted her reaction, for after Thistle had finished speaking and curled up near the fire to rest, the herding teacher approached Ratha and took her aside.

“Clan leader, come with me,” he said, and they walked away from the fire together.

“I hope you are not taking me to watch that hunting bunch again,” Ratha said crossly when they were away from the others.

The herding teacher looked at her quizzically. “You really don’t like them, do you?”

“It is worse than that. Thakur, I hate them. I wish they were all gone, or dead.” She surprised herself with the coldness in her voice.

Thakur’s silence told her more eloquently than any words the depth of his shock and surprise.

“You never thought you would hear such things from me, did you?” she said wryly, but her whiskers trembled.

“No.”

She stopped, facing him. “You want to know why those hunters make my belly crawl? It’s that leader of theirs, that True-of-voice character. From what I saw and what Thistle said, he sounds worse than any of the Un-Named, or even Shongshar. Shongshar may have been a tyrant, but he couldn’t take away anyone’s thoughts. This True-of-voice seems to have something slimy oozing out of him that turns his people into infant cubs.”

“Thistle didn’t use those kinds of words,” Thakur said.

“Thistle was so befuddled she couldn’t see the truth. How would you like having someone talking in your ear all the time so that you couldn’t think for yourself?”

“I wouldn’t,” Thakur confessed.

“Well then?”

“Ratha, just because such a thing is wrong for you or me doesn’t mean that it is wrong for the face-tail hunters.”

“How can anything be wrong or right if you don’t even have a choice?” she countered.

“All right. The way these hunters are controlled is hard to accept. I’m not having an easy time either.”

“I can’t even think about accepting it. I can’t believe anyone would want to stumble around in a trance their whole life. If this True-of-voice really forces his will on his people, he is bad,” Ratha said bluntly, and added, “Maybe the best thing we could do for them is to kill him.”

She watched Thakur’s green eyes go wide, and his teeth flashed as he spoke. “You don’t know enough to judge,” he said, his voice hard.

“There are times when I’ve known even less about an enemy, yet I’ve acted. How much did I know about the Un-Named when I first used fire against them?”

“Do you have to think of these hunters as enemies? When you saw them, you said they share some of our ways. ”

“Yes. I also saw how well they worked together and how devoted they are to their leader. They are a threat. I can’t pretend that I’m blind to it. We need to show our strength by wielding the Red Tongue.” She looked away from Thakur, then back. “I’m doing what I did when the Un-Named attacked us. It worked. And I never heard you speak out against it.”

“Perhaps I should have spoken out against it,” Thakur said in a voice that was nearly a growl. “Or maybe I should have spoken louder. Clan leader, we of the Named have already learned that things are not as simple as we once thought. We can no longer divide the world of creatures into those who are like us and those who are not.”

“It is easier to do that when you are clan leader,” Ratha said, feeling both shamed and justified. “Thakur, you know that I have to choose in favor of our people.”

“Does something that helps the Named have to hurt others?”

The green in his eyes seemed to burn into her, making her tongue clumsy. “N-no. But somehow it has happened that way.”

“In past seasons we were struggling so hard to survive that we couldn’t afford to worry about who we hurt. But now—and I credit your leadership, Ratha—things are better. We are not so much on the edge. Maybe we can afford to be more understanding. It may have unexpected rewards.”

Ratha eyed him. “You are thinking about Thistle, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

She switched her tail. “Sometimes I wish you didn’t think so much, herding teacher. You’d be easier to live with.”

“I probably would be,” Thakur agreed.

“So you want me to postpone any face-tail hunts. How long?”

“Long enough for Thistle and me to convince you that True-of-voice’s people are not enemies.”

Ratha sighed. “All right. I’ll delay the hunt I’d planned and I’ll explain why to Bira and Khushi. If I have any rash impulses to go shred True-of-voice, I’ll sit on them. ”

“Or talk to me about them,” Thakur suggested.

She grimaced. “I don’t think that even you can make me feel differently about True-of-voice. My belly really doesn’t like him. I’m being patient for your sake, not his.”

“I appreciate that you are being patient. The reason doesn’t matter.”

And I’m doing this for your sake too, Thistle, Ratha thought as she jogged back to the campfire beside Thakur.

For the third time in less than a day, Thakur watched Thistle’s eyes begin to swirl as her body went rigid and started to tremble.

He felt his own heart pound in his chest. He hated seeing this happen to her. He hated it even more when there were others around to witness her helplessness. Luckily, this time, no one was. He had taken her to a little hollow where they could be alone, where she could practice slipping into the dreaming state of mind that was so like that of the hunters.

Instead she was battling a nightmare.

“Come out of it, Thistle,” Thakur yowled as her pupils shrank to black slits in the stormy green sea of her eyes. “You’ve had enough. I’ve had enough.”

Twice before she had managed to pull herself out of the trance before it took her. But this time she was gone where only she could go.

Thakur had chosen this place for another reason. It had a pool. A marshy little wallow of a pool that was more mud than water.

She was starting to jump around, muttering nervously to herself. Thakur grabbed her by the scruff before she could dash off on a mad run, and swung her with a splash into the pool.

“There,” he said. “Now come back to me.”

Her pupils expanded with surprise as she started to thrash in the pool. The water was colder here than in the beach lagoon where she swam. He grabbed her scruff again until he felt her relax.

“Thistle?”

“Y-y-yes?”

She was shivering. He hauled her out and made her shake dry, then spread himself beside her to warm her up.

“Bad again,” she said, looking disconsolately at the ground between her paws. “Every time I go … inside … it … is there.”

Thakur didn’t have to ask what “it” was. He groomed the nape of her neck with his tongue.

“Have to try again,” she said stubbornly.

“Not today,” he answered.

“Yes, today. Have to talk to hunters.”

Thakur groaned. “Thistle, you’re tired.”

“Know. Talking getting not easy. Words running and hiding.”

“Then give it up for now.”

Thistle closed her eyes and let her head sink onto her paws. “Give it up for now,” she muttered. “Try and fail again tomorrow too? Can’t. Others. Him. The hurt one. Means too much.”

“Sh,” he said softly.

“Can’t … sleep… have to … talk….” But by the time the last word had fallen from her tongue, she was deep in slumber.

With Bira and Khushi, Ratha made her way along the outskirts of the face-tail herd. The animals spread over the river plain, and there were some small groups that had broken off from the main herd.

It was the morning of the day following her talk with Thakur. She wasn’t ready to face him again. Nor did she want to see Thistle.

“Surely the hunters won’t bother us here,” said Bira, when the three found several face-tails and their young in a small side valley between two hills.

“We’ve just come to watch the animals,” Khushi reminded her. “Ratha said that we need to learn more before we try to catch one again.”

The clan leader listened to them, feeling slightly guilty. She wasn’t going to break her promise to Thakur, but he had said nothing about scouting the beasts. Well, watching was all they would do, no matter how the creatures tempted her. Anyhow, Thakur wasn’t with them and he was the best at dealing with face-tails.

He was also the only one who could cope effectively with Thistle. He had said he would keep her from trying again to make herself ready to talk with the hunters. There was no reason to, at least for now.

No sooner had she, Bira, and Khushi settled down in the grass to watch the face-tails than Bira’s sharp eyes caught movement in a bush nearby.

“That is definitely not a face-tail,” Bira said. “I think the hunters are spying on us.”

Ratha considered a hasty retreat, but the idea made her hackles rise. Khushi and Bira both agreed with her. They weren’t going to be frightened off by one spy.

“They don’t own the whole face-tail herd,” Khushi said indignantly.

“Perhaps the watcher will just stay hidden and report later,” the more even-tempered Bira suggested. “But I could go and light a torch from the fire-den I dug.”

“No,” Ratha said. She wanted to keep her promise to Thakur. She had disappointed him—and Thistle—in so many ways already. She wasn’t going to add another, although Bira’s offer was tempting. She would like to feed these arrogant hunters a small taste of the Red Tongue.

She turned her attention to watching the face-tails, but it was hard to keep her mind on the big animals.

Maybe Thakur is right. Maybe we should just move on and leave these animals to the hunters. Then we could forget about them, and Thakur wouldn’t need me to help him with Thistle.

“The spy just left,” said Bira, who had been keeping an eye on the suspicious bush. “I think he’s gone to get the others.”

“Let them come,” growled Khushi.

As much as Ratha shared his feelings, she realized that they were at a big disadvantage. And without the Red Tongue…

Bira wanted to bring a torch. I should have let her. But I promised Thakur.

“No,” she said again. “We’re going back to the fire-den. I doubt if they will follow us there, but just in case …”

Quickly she got the two others moving through the long grass. Having to retreat stuck in her throat, and she could tell by the looks on the others’ faces that it stuck in theirs, too.

We are the Named. We shouldn’t let ourselves be chased off by a bunch of sleepwalking hunters. I almost hope they do chase us to the fire-den so we can feed them the Red Tongue!

Khushi, scouting briefly from the top of a hill, reported that the spy from the hunters had indeed gone to fetch some reinforcements. However, they seemed to be content just to make sure the Named had left the face-tail herd.

“We could make another try at a different place in the herd,” he suggested when he got back.

“No, they’ll find us and chase us off again,” Ratha said, disgusted.

“How can they watch the whole herd?” Bira wondered.

“I don’t know. They seem to be very well organized.” Ratha paused, her tail twitching with annoyance. “I think we’re going to have to make a choice. The only way we are going to get near those face-tails is by using the Red Tongue to scare off the hunters.”

“I think we should,” Khushi argued. “I’m fed up with playing hide-in-the-grass.”

“But you said that you made a promise to Thakur not to,” Bira said gently to Ratha, coming alongside her.

“I may have to rethink it. I will talk to him when we get back.”

As Ratha paced toward the camp with the others, she argued with herself.

Most of the Named would say I am justified in using the Red Tongue against True-of-voice and his bunch. We used it against the Un-Named in order to survive. This is the same situation.

She shook herself as she ran. She didn’t need justification. Her rage was enough. True-of-voice was a filthy tyrant and his subjects mindless fools. The world would be better without them. She should set the Red Tongue against them, burn them out.

She drew her lips back from her fangs as she imagined the grass afire on the plain, the hunters and their prey fleeing in terror, or falling, exhausted, and burning to death in the flames.

And then, suddenly, one of those frightened shapes fleeing from the fire in her mind was her daughter. The flames caught up with Thistle, surrounded her, consumed her, leaving her body black and charred….

No! Ratha recoiled from the imagined scene in horror. Not Thistle. Why was she thinking like this?

“Clan leader? Are you … all right?”

The voice beside her was Bira’s. Ratha realized that she had slowed to a stop and was staring straight ahead at nothing.

“I’m all right,” she said, her voice feeling rough in her throat. “Bira, Khushi, go on ahead. I’ll follow.”

Both of them gave her a backward glance as they left. Then she was alone. She checked briefly for any sign of enemies or ambush before she went on slowly, immersed once more in her thoughts.

Again she seemed to look upon the fire-swept ground where the hunters had once been. It was swept clean of them.

Instead of triumph, she felt only horror.

Not only because her daughter had been among those seared by the fire’s touch. The high, waving grass was burned to stubble. The blue sky had gone gray. The whole landscape before her was ashen, hellish with cruelty and the terrible knowledge of what she had done in the name of survival.

Ratha closed her eyes, bent her head in pain. No, no, no … I would never… But she knew that a part of her would.

There was something in her that was as ruthless and relentless as the Red Tongue itself, that burned with hatred and consumed those around her.

There were many who had felt its searing touch. The old clan leader, who had died with a flaming brand jammed through his lower jaw. Thakur’s brother Bonechewer. The Un-Named ones who had fallen in the first battle with fire as a weapon. The cubs she had borne in the litter that included Thistle. The usurper Shongshar, whom she had thrown down in a bitter fight that had nearly cost the life of her friend Fessran. Thistle, who had known the terrible shock and pain of her own mother’s teeth sinking deep into her chest and foreleg.

She had nearly destroyed the Named themselves and she had certainly changed them.

And now the victims would include True-of-voice and his people.

Thistle had a name for the fiery wildness that struck out, not caring who it hurt: the Dreambiter.

The Dreambiter.

No, I am not…. She made it…. I am not….

In the midst of her denial, she heard Thakur’s voice, speaking in her memory.

Ratha, don’t run.

Don’t run from your daughter. Don’t run from yourself.

How can I not run? This part of me hurts, kills, hates…. The Dreambiter. It consumes everything. Soon it will swallow the rest of me.

No. Ratha clamped her jaws together. I don’t have to let it take over. I can fight it. I will fight it. I will drive it out of my daughter’s life and out of mine.

Yet it was hard to take those steps along the trail that would lead her back to Thakur; hard to say, Yes, I will help you with Thistle.

She stopped, caught in indecision. The hatred was still there. She still hated the hunters, wanted to burn them. She still dreaded the Dreambiter and dreaded even more the look on Thakur’s face when he realized that she really was the Dreambiter.

Thakur, I don’t want you to turn away from me. Please don’t hate me, despite what I am, despite what I’ve done….

She forced herself to take a step, even though her legs felt as though they were sheathed in ice. She shut down all the thoughts in her mind except one as she walked stiffly back toward the camp.

I have to kill the Dreambiter.

Thakur looked dumbfounded when Ratha stood before him and said the words that she had been practicing all the way along the trail.

“You’ve changed your mind?” he said. “You’ll work with Thistle and me?”

“Yes. Anything to help her get rid of this nightmare.”

Thakur gave her an odd look, and she realized that she had spoken as if the nightmare were also hers. Well, it was.

“Do you mind if I ask you why?”

“Because of what you said to me. I have been running away. Now I’m ready to fight.”

Thakur gave her another strange look, but he seemed to be satisfied. After all, it was he who was asking for her help, not the other way around. Or was it?

Quietly he led her to Thistle, who was having a nap by the dunking pond. Ratha could see that her daughter had obeyed Thakur by not attempting to go into any trances and thus risk the apparition again. Instead, she had rested, and eaten to gain strength. She looked good, her coat better groomed and dry.

When Thistle woke up and saw that Ratha had joined them, she looked a little nervous.

“Must have been hard deciding,” she said, glancing shyly at her mother.

“Yes.”

“Hope you don’t mind… getting wet. Thakur throws me in pond…. Chases the …” She faltered, then went on. “Chases the bad away.”

“Perhaps I won’t have to do that anymore,” Thakur said, with a glance at the pond. “Thistle, Ratha, are you ready?”

Thistle sat up straighter, her whiskers bristling. Ratha realized that she couldn’t tell which of her daughter’s forelegs had been the crippled one. She seemed to use both equally well now.

“I’m ready, although I don’t know exactly what to do,” Ratha said.

In answer, Thakur lay down, forming himself into a half circle around Thistle, his tail lying across hers, his head lifted so that he could look into her eyes. You make the rest of the circle, his eyes seemed to tell Ratha. She arranged herself on the other side of Thistle, draping her tail across Thakur’s and bringing up her forepaws to touch his. Her belly lay against her daughter’s rear foot and flank.

“All right, Thistle. Go … inside,” Thakur said.

The clear green in Thistle’s eyes seemed to shift, as if a cloud were moving across sunlit water. Her breathing grew fast and shallow and her jaw opened as she panted.

Thakur’s voice was soft yet strong. “Don’t be afraid. We’re here. We’re both here.”

Thistle swallowed, but her panting cased. Ratha’s own heart was pounding so hard she thought that Thakur might be able to hear it. Mingled dread and excitement swept through her. At last she was going to meet and battle the enemy.

“Dreaming,” Thistle said in a distant voice. “Caves. Walking. Speaking not easy.”

“Say what you can,” Thakur coaxed.

“Oh!” Thistle gave a sharp indrawn breath.

“What?” Ratha asked, her voice tight with anxiety and eagerness.

“Easy, Ratha,” Thakur said softly, pushing his forefeet against hers.

“Even here. Far away. It comes.”

“The badness?” Thakur asked.

“Oh, no!” Thistle’s face was rapt. “Good. Sweet. Want to follow.”

Thakur looked surprised. “The song? You can hear True-of-voice’s song?”

“Yes. So faint. Want to be closer.”

Thakur leaned closer to Ratha, who was bursting with impatience. “She’s picking up the song, the thing True-of-voice sends out to his people. I’m surprised. They’re pretty far away from us.”

“It won’t hurt her, will it? It won’t take her over?” Ratha’s worry made her whisper harsh. She felt intensely uncomfortable with the idea that the strange leader of the hunters could somehow reach from a distance and lure her daughter. She had thought she would have to fight only one threat. Not two.

“Want to go closer,” Thistle begged.

“Go,” Thakur answered.

A look crept across Thistle’s face that Ratha had rarely, if ever, seen. It was happiness. Pure delight.

“Not walking anymore,” Thistle said. “Swimming. Like… in the sea. But warmer. Softer.” Again she gave a sharp gasp. “Oh! Ahead brightness, shape, color, beauty… sweetness in the ears, the nose, the eyes, the skin, everywhere. No words good enough to say.”

“To say what, Thistle?” Thakur asked gently.

“What it is. What he is. What she is.”

“True-of-voice?”

“More than True-of-voice. Wise ones sing through him. Wise ones now dead sing through him. Fathers, mothers, all sing through him.”

Ratha felt her fur prickle as she listened. Wonder and dread fought inside her. This was stranger than anything she had ever encountered before. And it was in her own daughter! What was Thistle-chaser? More than Named. More than Un-Named. Something else, working through both, had shaped her.

“I’m lost, Thistle,” Ratha heard Thakur say.

“Not lost. Never be lost again.” Her daughter’s voice was breathy. The black of her pupils had gone to tiny slits in swirls of sea-green.

“I mean that I don’t understand.”

“Will tell you. When I come back.”

Come back! She might never come back. Ratha gave Thakur’s forefoot a sharp push to get his attention. “Where’s she going? What is this?”

“I don’t know. She’s never gone this far before,” Thakur admitted. “Having you here has done something.”

“It’s scaring me. Take her out of it.”

“It’s not frightening her. Let her go, Ratha. She knows this path better than you.”

“I don’t want to lose her! Seeing her sitting there, staring at nothing, makes me feel as though I have a million fleas in my fur. She might… just… stay… like that for the rest of her life.”

Thakur started to say something, but Thistle interrupted. Her voice was strangely light and she turned her head to gaze at Ratha, although the remoteness was still in her eyes.

“Do not be afraid, my mother. Can come back if I want. Help me to go on. Need you to help me go on.”

“Thistle, I care too much. I’m frightened. This is too strange. Come back. Please. I—I love you.”

“Must reach where the hunters are to speak to them.”

“I-is it that important to you?”

“Yes. If you give love, give trust too.”

Ratha closed her eyes, pressed her feet against Thakur’s, feeling the answering warmth. “Then I trust you. Go where you must.”

“Not sure about doing. But must try.”

Ratha opened her eyes, fixing her gaze on her daughter as Thistle continued her inward flight. Who had given her this ability? The one called Bonechewer who was her father, the brash and gifted outsider, Thakur’s brother?

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.

“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.

“Call me, Thistle,” she whispered, her throat dry.

“Call hurting part? Part that would bite and burn?”

“Call me,” Ratha said. “And tame me.”

“Can’t.”

“Yes, you can. Tell me you are not afraid. Tell me you are stronger than I am.”

Thistle had been starting to crumple again, curling inward. Now she shoved both forepaws ahead of her, as if propping herself up.

“Am stronger than you, Dreambiter.”

“You won’t let me out. You won’t let me hurt.”

“No. Come, Dreambiter.”

“I am coming,” Ratha said softly, watching Thistle. She could almost imagine herself in the shape and form of the dream image, pacing through the caverns toward a distant shape.

I want… so much. That is why it hurts.

Come to me, terrifying one, beloved one. I hear Thistle call. Come even if you rend me. You are a part of me even as I am of you. One flesh, one lineage … one pain.

The Dreambiter hurts, too.

“I need you,” Thistle said.

“I am coming. But I do not know what I will do when I reach you.”

In a dreamy but intense voice, Thistle spoke, her face rapt. “See you now. Your coat… black, eyes orange. You… more powerful than ever but now you are beautiful. You leap….”

Thistle broke off with a gasp and a violent jerk. Ratha feared she was going into one of her fits, but she seemed to recover herself and went on.

“Leaped right at me as if … going to attack. Landed on me, but did not weigh me down. Instead… soaking into me … like drop of water falling on my coat.”

Thistle shook her head. She had lost the entranced look and had come outside herself. And she stared at Ratha in perplexity.

“What happened?” Ratha asked.

“Not know, exactly. Except that it … wasn’t bad. Was afraid, then … everything changed.”

“You didn’t go into a fit this time. Does that mean that the Dreambiter is … gone?” Ratha asked hopefully.

“No, not gone,” Thistle said, looking thoughtful. “But somehow… changed.” Her jaws gaped in a sudden yawn.

“Well, I think we’ve gotten somewhere,” said Thakur. “I’m not sure exactly where, but perhaps things will sort themselves out.” He got up, stretched until his tail quivered.

“So sleepy,” Thistle mumbled. “Don’t know why.”

Ratha nudged Thistle so that her drooping head lay against Ratha’s belly. The rest of her curled up in the circle of Ratha’s limbs, and soon her sides began rising and falling in a long, regular rhythm.

“I was going to ask you if you wanted to take a walk, clan leader,” Thakur said, “but I guess you won’t be able to.”

“No,” said Ratha, gazing down at the sleeping Thistle and thinking of what she had looked like as a nursling. “I won’t be able to go. But I don’t mind. Even if she snores a little. Isn’t that funny?”

“Dreambiters can be comfortable to sleep on,” said Thakur, and walked off, swinging his tail.

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.

Thistle had eventually fallen asleep by Quiet Hunter, and the others had wandered off to nap or groom. But Quiet Hunter lay awake, full of questions that would not go away, even when the song was well heard.

What was behind Thistle’s eyes? Sometimes it seemed the same as what lay behind the eyes of his own people. Sometimes it seemed so different.

What makes her give healing and comfort? Quiet Hunter wondered. True-of-voice and the song had no answers for this.

He wanted to give Thistle something in return. So much that it hurt like a bone chip in the belly.

Behind Thistle’s eyes lay something that cared for Quiet Hunter. Something more than her voice, the color of her fur, the way she moved, the depth of her gaze.

If she were killed and torn apart to find this thing, he thought, it would not be found.

Sweat came to his paw pads, and prickles woke beneath his fur at the thought that what was behind Thistle’s eyes might cease to be if she were killed.

These thoughts were all new, all disturbing. There were no words in the song for them. There never had been.

Thistle stirred and woke up. “Quiet Hunter?” she asked after a while. “Feel I have done something … bad to you.”

A surge of impatience kept Quiet Hunter silent.

I, I … What is this I? I’s and ifs and me’s. Meaningless!

It was all tangled up. Words, thoughts, everything. No sense was left. The only sense lay in the song.

Go back to it, Quiet Hunter scolded himself. Forget everything else.

“You … looking at me in … funny way. Why?” Thistle asked, but Quiet Hunter couldn’t answer.

Me. Looking… at… me, he thought. You looking at me. You is Quiet Hunter. Looking at is done with the eyes. Me—the mystery at the center.

And then, with a quiet shattering, the mystery fell away. It was Thistle. But not just Thistle. Me was what was looking out through her eyes. That was what Quiet Hunter wanted in her.

First, he sensed, he had to find it in himself.

He said the word softly. It was dry in his mouth. “Me.”

Thistle wanted to stop. This was not the right way for Quiet Hunter. The way of the song was the right way.

But once a hunt like this is begun, it cannot be abandoned, thought Quiet Hunter. He was looking out through his own eyes and speaking new words.

She said, “Your eyes are changing, Quiet Hunter.” Thistle sounded regretful, almost fearful. He knew what she was thinking.

I don’t want your eyes to change. Go back to where you were meant to be. With True-of-voice. With the song.

But even if you did not want Quiet Hunter’s eyes to change, Thistle, you caused it anyway. Just by being what you are, saying the words you say.

Quiet Hunter knew that his eyes had been opened. Even he could not close them again.

In the Named camp, Ratha watched Bira kindle a morning fire. We don’t really need it, Ratha thought, but Bira likes to keep to her routine. Besides, it was good to renew the Red Tongue’s embers each day so that they stayed hot.

She turned her thoughts to the face-tails. If the Named wanted one, they would have to capture it before the herd departed, as Thistle said it would. The hunters still would not allow the Named to approach the beasts. Thistle had tried her best, Ratha had to admit, but the differences in understanding between those who followed True-of-voice and those who followed her were too great even for Thistle to cross.

What was the next step? Should the Named take what they needed by means of fire?

Ratha stared at the flames, remembering how she had found the Red Tongue and used it against threats to her people. The choice to use fire had never been easy. This time it was much more difficult.

She wanted to delay, yet she couldn’t. All too soon, Thistle had told her, the face-tail herd would start its migration. The hunters would go with it.

If Thistle chose to stay with them, she might go as well. Ratha could not bear to think about that.

As she sat watching the fire, Khushi trotted up with a grouse in his jaws. She stared at him and lifted her tail in a wordless question. When had Khushi learned to hunt?

“Thakur caught it,” the scout confessed. “But he’s teaching me how. He thought you might like a meal, clan leader.”

The growling in Ratha’s stomach came more from uneasiness and worry about her daughter than from hunger, but to show her appreciation, she took the grouse and shared it with Bira.

While she was eating, Khushi relayed a report from Thakur. “He thinks that True-of-voice’s people will hunt once more before the herd starts to migrate,” the scout said. “In fact, he thinks the hunt will happen today.”

Ratha sneezed out a mouthful of feathers before she could reply. She left the rest of the grouse to Bira, who was better at dealing with feathered prey.

“We’ll join Thakur,” she said. “This is a good opportunity.”

“To do what, clan leader? We can’t catch a face-tail.”

“No. I promised Thistle that we wouldn’t and I will keep that promise. But the other clan hasn’t forbidden us to watch.”

Khushi groaned. “That’s all I have been doing.”

“Well, I want to see how True-of-voice’s people hunt. Thakur says they might have picked up some ideas from Thistle.”

“Unless they are hunting seamares, I don’t know what good her ideas would do them,” grumbled Khushi.

Bira raised her muzzle from her feathery meal and spoke quietly. “Thistle knows about more than seamares. She survived by herself for a long time.”

“All right, so I’m wrong again,” said Khushi. “If we are going to watch, clan leader, let’s hurry.”

“Sorry to rain on your fur, scout,” Ratha said, “but you and Bira are staying here. I only want two of us watching the hunters. They are already wary of us, and I don’t want to endanger Thistle. If they get irritated with us, they could turn on her. I may not agree with everything Thistle does, but I realize that she has risked a lot to be accepted by the hunters. Any mistake on our part could ruin everything she’s done.”

“Then I’ll help Bira with the fire,” said Khushi, who was never in a bad mood for long.

“If you need help, send for us,” said Bira quietly.

Ratha noticed that the Firekeeper and her treeling had laid out resin-filled branches so that firebrands would be quickly available if needed. Bira was probably the most reliable one among the Named, Ratha thought. She rarely made a fuss and she had developed an effective partnership with her treeling, Biaree. They worked so efficiently together that they seemed to be done with tasks before they even started.

I hope I won’t need you, Bira, but thank you anyway, Ratha thought as she left.

She met Thakur on the knoll near their camp. At a ground-eating pace he led her up one of the little valleys that opened onto the plain, down a rugged gully, then up and over the top of a ridge of wooded hills. From a viewpoint just below the crest, where the trees thinned out, Ratha saw some face-tails bunched together in a tight group. Behind the great beasts, in a bow-shaped line, were the hunters.

“I’ve never seen True-of-voice’s people do that before,” Ratha said, puzzled.

“I haven’t either.”

They both moved closer, paralleling the hunters and the driven band of prey. Soon Ratha could see that the land was a tilted plateau. The beasts were being driven up-slope.

“There are cliffs ahead,” said Thakur. “If the hunters do what I think they are planning, they will drive the herd over the edge.”

“The whole herd? That sounds wasteful.” The idea of seeing so many of the great beasts crashing down from the drop-off disturbed Ratha. “Are you sure they picked this up from Thistle?”

“The hunters saw what happened when she was being chased by a face-tail. I did, too. She jumped off a bluff and the face-tail followed. The fall wasn’t far. Thistle wasn’t hurt, but the face-tail was so big and heavy that the fall crippled it. Then it was easy for them to make the kill.”

Ratha cantered alongside Thakur, increasing her speed to compensate for his long legs and greater stride. “Thistle said that they didn’t learn from outsiders. The only thing they follow is this ‘song,’ and only True-of-voice can make it.”

“Although the song itself comes from True-of-voice, it can include things from any of the others,” Thakur said. “Thistle has become part of their group. True-of-voice may walk around in a trance most of his life, but he is not stupid. If he senses something of value in one of his people, he will use it.”

“Or misuse it,” Ratha added. “I don’t like the idea of killing more than you can eat. I wish we’d thought about that before we let Thistle in among them.”

Even if we had, would it have made any difference? she wondered. Once I made the decision not to let these hunters alone, I had to find some way of dealing with them. The Red Tongue was one possible way, and Thistle was another. The trouble is, these ways have effects that I can’t control.

Ratha and Thakur angled in toward the driven face-tails, staying downwind in the high grass to keep themselves hidden from the hunters. The musty, rank odor of the face-tails was sharp in Ratha’s nose. The beasts could not gallop, but their lumbering trot made a rumble that filled the air and shook the ground beneath her paw pads.

The noise grew and swelled, rising like the cloud of rolling dust sent up by the herd. Shrill, brassy trumpeting broke through the thudding rumble, giving voice to the beasts’ terror. They were being hunted in a way they had never been hunted before and they knew it.

“Faster,” Thakur yowled beside her. “The hunters have got the herd in a stampede.” He seemed to sail over the grass as if he were a swift, low-flying bird.

The bawling, the stamping, the thunderous commotion seemed to surround Ratha. For an instant she panicked, thinking that she and Thakur had somehow blundered into the midst of the rampaging animals.

And then Thakur yowled at her again, and she bounded to one side and saw that they were out of the herd’s path.

“Ahead … the cliff,” he panted. “Back there … the hunters.”

Ratha reared up on her hind legs for a quick look. The bow of hunters around the mass of face-tails was deepening, closing, forcing the animals toward the drop-off. True-of-voice’s people might not think and learn in the same way as the Named, but in some ways they were even more effective. Ratha had no doubt that they would kill every face-tail in the group. The thought chilled her spine as she dropped down again beside Thakur.

And it was my Thistle who showed them how.

The dusty haze turned the hunters into a grim line of shadows. She did not want to think that one of them might be her own daughter.

No, Thistle would not be a part of such wasteful killing … unless she has been so completely overwhelmed by True-of-voice that she has forgotten herself.

She heard the angry trumpeting of a face-tail turn into an anguished scream. With a rattle of rocks the first animal to reach the cliff plunged over. Another followed, unable to stop. And another and another in a cataract of shaggy fur and flesh, tumbling down with terrible cries and the sounds of heavy flesh meeting stone.

Though the first animals ran over blindly, the ones behind realized their danger and fought to stop. But others collided with them, pushing them over the cliff.

Only the face-tails at the rear of the herd had any chance to veer away or halt their maddened rush.

But the hunters would not allow any to escape. With cold ferocity, they lunged and slashed at the face-tails’ legs. Blood mixed with the roiling dust. Some animals tried to use their tusks, but they were too tightly crowded against the bodies of their fellows to do more than toss their heads and flail their trunks.

“Ratha, watch the edge!” Thakur cried. She bounded away with sweaty paw pads, realizing how close she had come to the brink. She crouched with him behind a pile of boulders to one side of the drop-off. Pressed close against him, she felt his sides rise and fall while the smell of carnage drifted up from below the cliff.

Now only three face-tails fought for their lives against the closing ring of hunters: an old bull, a female, and her calf. Relentlessly the hunters pressed them closer to the edge.

Ratha felt herself shiver. True-of-voice’s people were already frighteningly effective under his guidance. With the new knowledge gained from Thistle, they were now deadly. She felt a crazy impulse to run between the hunters and their doomed prey. The contest had become too unbalanced, too cruel….

The face-tail bull, his hide gashed by many claws and teeth, backed too close to the cliff edge. The rock and soil crumbled beneath his weight. With a brassy scream he, too, was gone, leaving only the female and her calf to face the hunters.

Her jaws opening in dismay, Ratha stared at True-of-voice, who was at the center of the hunters’ line.

Do you have to kill all of them?

But what had been set in motion could not be stopped, even by the one who had created it. The song possessed them all and it was filled with the need to attack and slaughter, even after there was enough meat to fill their bellies many times over.

Thistle had said it. The hunters repeated what they had already done, unable to stop or change. Perhaps that had served them well in the past, but if they continued to hunt like this, they would destroy the prey that sustained them.

But the song would not allow any questions, any doubts.

The face-tail calf screeched in terror as the hunters flanking True-of-voice engulfed it and dragged it away from the enraged mother. The female’s roar of anger turned to a roar of grief as the calf’s shrilling was abruptly cut off. The shaggy animal charged the hunters twice and was repelled easily, for they were prepared for her desperate attempt to rescue her calf.

What they were not prepared for was the face-tail’s attack on True-of-voice. As if the great beast sensed that he was the source of the will that drove the hunters, she turned on him.

Ratha, hidden, saw instantly that True-of-voice had been left dangerously unprotected by the others in their eagerness to bring down the face-tail calf. Now, with yowls of dismay, they sprang to his defense, but too late. The face-tail shook off their attacks. True-of-voice sought to escape, but the flailing, beating trunk found him and wound about his leg.

It flipped the gray leader on his back and dragged him to the edge of the abyss. Raking the face-tail’s forehead with his back claws and twisting around to drive his foreclaws into the rocks and dirt, True-of-voice mounted a frenzied battle.

From behind the hunters’ line, Ratha saw two figures charge through—the male called Quiet Hunter and her own Thistle. With a roar, she leaped from cover to her daughter’s side. She heard Thakur follow. Flattening her ears, she snaked her head around, ready to launch an attack on anyone who threatened Thistle. No one did. All gazes were locked on the cliff edge, the female face-tail, and True-of-voice.

Slowly, relentlessly, the leader of the hunters was being dragged backward, his claws leaving trails in the dirt. Quiet Hunter and others grabbed him by the scruff and the paws, but the vengeful face-tail was stronger. Her eyes reddened by rage, her black, shaggy pelt stained with blood, the beast wrenched True-of-voice from his rescuers. With a jerk she pulled him to the brink and flung him over.

The face-tail unleashed the rest of her wrath against the ones who had tried to save their leader. Ratha heard Thistle screech in dismay as a vicious downswing of the face-tail’s trunk clubbed Quiet Hunter in the ribs and sent him tumbling to one side.

And then, as if she had made her choice, the red-eyed, shaggy-pelted animal pivoted on the brink and let herself topple to join her slaughtered companions below. With a hail of rocks, she was gone, and the dust was already settling on the bloodied and torn ground where True-of-voice had fought for his life.

In the settling dust, Thakur stood over Quiet Hunter, nosing him gently. With a grunt of surprise, he said, “I thought he was dead, Ratha, but he’s not. Maybe I can help him.”

Ratha, with one paw around her daughter, said, “Thistle came back. Maybe he can, too.”

“No,” Thistle cried, her voice muffled because her nose was once more buried against Ratha’s chest. “Maybe I can come back, but Quiet Hunter can’t. He knows no trails other than the ways of the song. For him … everything is ended.”

And you cry out in agony because you want to help him just as I want to help you, Ratha thought.

Ratha was not sure whether she felt stunned, shocked, saddened, or relieved by what had happened. She was, for the moment, thankful that the hunters were too stricken and confused to cause trouble for the Named, although she knew that might end soon. Right now it was Thistle who needed her badly.

Her daughter’s eyes were filled with agony as she gazed at Quiet Hunter. “Their pain … his pain … my fault,” Thistle moaned. “Showed his people … bad way to kill face-tails. Didn’t mean to. But couldn’t hide from True-of-voice. Became part of the song, but learning not complete enough.”

The words were jumbled, but Ratha understood them. Firmly she answered, though her voice was threatening to shake as much as Thistle’s, “It wasn’t your fault. I won’t let you blame yourself.”

“Happened … because I became one of them.”

“It happened because of what you are and what they are. I was the one who said you could try. And it worked, Thistle. You became one who could walk on both trails, theirs and ours. So we could speak instead of fighting.”

“Cared much … for Quiet Hunter. Didn’t want to hurt him.”

“I know,” Ratha said softly. “Thakur is trying to heal him. ”

Thistle’s voice broke in a sob as she watched Thakur crouching over Quiet Hunter. “Kindness … caring … from the Named, even Thakur … not enough. Only the song can heal Quiet Hunter. Song died with True-of voice.”

Again Ratha drew Thistle to her.

Suddenly Thistle gave a strange gasp, and her pupils widened. She pulled away from Ratha. “No … Can’t be. Thought it came again … an instant. No. Imagining because I want it. Not real. Only hope.”

“What is it?”

“The song. Thought I … heard…. No. Can’t be. Can’t be. Not if True-of-voice is dead.”

Looking at the intense expression on her daughter’s face, Ratha wondered if Thistle’s longing was responsible for what she now sensed. That would be one way to face the situation. Yet she had learned enough about her daughter to know that Thistle would not delude herself.

Thistle gave an odd little twitch, as if something had touched her. She looked to her mother, a question forming in the depths of her eyes.

Ratha looked back, her gaze steady. “You are all assuming that True-of-voice is dead. Maybe he isn’t.”

Later that evening, Thistle, dozing beside Quiet Hunter, raised her chin from her paws. She saw the glow of the Red Tongue through the trees. All of the Named were curled up near the fire, except for Khushi, who had volunteered for sentry duty. She and Quiet Hunter slept at a distance from the campfire. She had told Ratha that Quiet Hunter had already been jolted enough without having to cope with seeing and smelling the Red Tongue close up. The flame might be her mother’s creature, but to Thistle it was still a threat.

Even away from the campfire, Quiet Hunter remained too tense to sleep. Every time he started to drop off, something seemed to jerk him awake again.

“This is the first time that Quiet Hunter has tried to fall asleep without hearing the song,” he confessed, his voice miserable. “Quiet Hunter forgets, drowses, drifts inside, seeking the warm, comfortable place where the song used to be. But there is only bleakness, coldness. As if Quiet Hunter has fallen into icy water.” He paused.

Thistle felt herself shivering. She knew in part how he was feeling. The song that had come from True-of-voice had given her so much. To have it suddenly yanked away had been painful even to her. How much more agonizing it must be to someone who had known and depended on it his entire life!

“It will never come again,” Quiet Hunter said, and Thistle ached at the heavy resignation in his voice.

“Don’t know,” she answered, feeling helpless.

“Quiet Hunter cannot live in icy water. Quiet Hunter cannot sleep in icy water.”

“Quiet Hunter,” Thistle said, and paused to lick him gently. She would do anything for him and she wanted to be with him. She had never felt this way about anybody else, neither her mother nor Thakur.

Yet Quiet Hunter could be beside her now only because he had been torn from his own people and from a way of being that was his life. He knew nothing else.

“Is everything … icy water?” she asked, hoping for and dreading the answer.

But the one she cared for only lay and stared ahead without speaking.

Thistle went back to Quiet Hunter, wishing she could do something more for him. He was in a dazed, half-awake state since he had not been able to sleep.

When he lifted his head to touch noses with her, his nose leather was cold, even though he lay in a patch of sun.

For him, everything is icy water, she thought.

She curled around him, trying to drive away the frozen despair.

“Any better?” she asked. “Or everything still cold?”

“Thistle is warm,” he said, and his whiskers lifted a little. “But Quiet Hunter is too weary to come out to where Thistle is.”

She gave an unhappy sigh. There had to be a way to help him. There had to.

But the only thing that could help him was True-of-voice’s song. She wished she could become like True-of-voice so that she could help Quiet Hunter.

She grimaced scornfully at herself. She could not begin to do what True-of-voice had done. Wishing was useless. But she still desperately wanted to help Quiet Hunter.

If she tried hard, she could remember how True-of-voice’s song sounded and felt, but she couldn’t give it to Quiet Hunter. She couldn’t reach his “inside ears.” Not the way True-of-voice had.

But you have outside ears too, and I have a voice, even if it is a small one, she thought.

“Listen, Quiet Hunter,” she said, and let her memory lift her voice as she began to sing softly to him.