Ratha’s Challenge (The Fourth Book of The Named) (23 page)

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

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

“Can you reach him?” Thakur asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Biaree, please.

No good. Got scared. Doesn’t trust.

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

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

Won’t give up. Won’t!

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ratha ...”

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

“But . . .”

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

At least what I had to do is done.

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

Shaking. Can barely feel my feet, my claws.

Feel like I am already falling.

Maybe I am.

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No ... enemy.

But there is one. The Dreambiter.