Клэр Белл - The Named - The Complete Series

She struggled to put away the anger and the urge to protest aloud. It would do no good. And distractions would only hasten the moment when she lost the last tenuous filament of the song and had to lift her paw from Quiet Hunter’s back.

“Those who stay with harmful ones also cause hurt. Quiet Hunter stays with the stranger.”

This time Thistle could not help turning her head to give the speaker a hard stare. She could accept the slights against herself, but not against Quiet Hunter. He had done nothing wrong. And he was, perhaps, enduring more than any of them, for he refused to take refuge in rage and hatred.

Oh, gentle one, beloved one. Wish you would get angry. Even anger against me, I could bear. Would know then that you choose to struggle rather than suffer.

She heard more mutters. Those who were sitting near her drew away.

“She killed True-of-voice. Drive her out.”

“Drive Quiet Hunter out, too. He is with her.”

Tension and fear snapped Thistle’s concentration. She felt the song slip away. It was no good to pretend.

Quickly she bent to whisper in Quiet Hunter’s ear. “Can’t hear song anymore. Leader isn’t dead. Just can’t reach him. Everyone so angry, noisy. Understand?”

Dully he replied,“It is understood.”

She took her paw from his back just as one of the others took an aggressive step toward her. The low background mutter grew into a rumble, then a roar.

“Drive her out! Drive him out!”

Drive us out from what? she thought, wishing she could speak to them as eloquently as she did to herself.You have nothing left. All you had was True-of-voice, and he will soon be gone.

She suddenly felt a deep pity for the hunters. Forlorn, lost, they were reaching for anything that might comfort them. Even hate.

Calmly she said,“Leader still lives. But you so noisy, angry. Makes him hard to hear.”

“Hear her speak!” someone yowled. “The song does not know those words. Stranger! Stranger! Slayer of the song!”

Thistle had seen how the creature the Named called the Red Tongue could spread swiftly through dry wood. With equal speed rage flared up in the group as they yowled and chanted the same words over and over.“Stranger, stranger, slayer of the song. Bleed for True-of-voice. Die for True-of-voice.”

Feeling her fur rising all over, Thistle backed away from those closing in on her.“Will go,” she snarled. “But leave Quiet Hunter alone.”

“No. He has been made a stranger.”

“He is mated to the slayer of the song.” The voices were ugly. Teeth were starting to show.

Before Thistle could say anything else, claws flashed in a stroke across Quiet Hunter’s side. Her own rage leaped up and it was all she could do to keep from flinging herself at the attacker.

If I fight, I’ll die. If I leave him, he’ll die. With her jaws, she grabbed Quiet Hunter’s scruff. Startled by the sudden pain of the claw slash, he was fighting his way out of his trance. Someone else raked his flank. He screamed and shuddered, but whirled to face them, jerking away from Thistle’s hold.

“No, run!” she hissed at him. “With me. Away.”

The look of horror that he gave her told her that the idea of leaving his people was so shattering that he was paralyzed.

“Hunters will kill you,” she cried, and rammed her body into him, forcing him to stagger a few steps away.

Her heart cried out for him. He had done nothing wrong except allow her to care for him.

The look in Quiet Hunter’s eyes told Thistle that he knew he had no choice and, unfairly or not, he was being cast out. On top of the pain of losing the song, he was losing everything else he knew.

Fending off flurries of slashes and bites, he backed away until he was alongside Thistle. She could barely meet his stricken glance.

“So wrong. Because of me,” she whispered.

“Life here is ended,” Quiet Hunter said, his voice dead. “Lead, Thistle.”

And when she bounded away, he followed.

As Ratha galloped along the upper reaches of the cliff trail, she heard the sound of someone descending. The noises of fighting had already drifted to her from above, making her belly jump with fear for her daughter.

She was about to leave the trail and leap into the bushes when she recognized the pattern of the approaching footsteps.

“Thistle,” she said.

Thakur, running beside her, cocked his ears.“Somebody’s with her.”

“Or chasing her.” Ratha felt a growl creep into her voice. She readied herself to defend her daughter if necessary.

Rocks broke loose on the switchback above, and Ratha saw a pair of sea-green eyes glow. Another pair, golden yellow, shone from the face of the form behind her.

“Who is that?” Khushi hissed in surprise.

“I can guess,” Ratha heard Thakur answer. “Quiet Hunter.”

But Ratha was looking only at the sea-green eyes and smelling the scent of her daughter as Thistle came down the last stretch of trail. Then a familiar set of whiskers brushed hers; a small, sinewy body rubbed briefly alongside; and a voice breathed a single word:“Mother.”

Ratha felt a warm tingling sweep over her as she rubbed her head against Thistle’s flank, eyes closed in happiness. “My cub. My strong, brave, clever daughter.”

“Is anyone following you two?” Thakur asked.

“No,” Thistle replied. “Hunters don’t go far from True-of-voice.”

“So he is still alive?” Ratha said, surprised.

“Think so. Everyone around me noisy, angry. Couldn’t hear him anymore. Chased me away. Chased Quiet Hunter too. Wasn’t right.”

Ratha saw Thistle turn to her companion. The male with the yellow-gold eyes had been silent, but the look in those eyes told Ratha more than any words.

He has been torn out of his world and thrown into ours. I have never seen anyone look so lost.

“Resting place not far,” she heard Thistle say to him in a gentle tone of voice her daughter rarely used. “Can keep going?”

“Can. Have to,” he answered.

Thistle gave him an encouraging lick.“Know how hard for Quiet Hunter. Care. Very much.”

“The pace can be kept slow,” Ratha offered, trying to omit any words that would jar Quiet Hunter. “No one is following.”

“Weariness is not in the paws. Weariness is in the place behind the eyes.” Quiet Hunter’s voice was remote.

His last words completely baffled Ratha. She decided that it would be better to let Thistle talk to him, at least for now.

At a slow trot, she set off toward the camp.

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!