Клэр Белл - The Named - The Complete Series

As Thakur, with Drani’s aid, ministered to the mildly injured, Ratha watched, feeling deeply grateful that none of the Named had been killed or disabled.

Only one thing bothered her now, as she sat on the sunning rock in the cool of late evening. She remembered how the black hunter had crouched, watching, as the face-tails retreated before the wall of fire. It was that understanding that lit his eyes.

But exactly what had Night understood?

With the dream-stalking hunters taking refuge on their home ground, Named life settled into familiar paths. Knowing the mating season was approaching, Ratha told the herders to cull herdbeasts and stockpile food. The Firekeepers gathered enough wood to kindle many days’ worth of campfires. Once caught in the heat of mating, her people would be too distracted.

Some clan members would not be caught up in it this time. Mothers with very young cubs would not be taken by the fever. Fessran’s youngsters were old enough that she would be. Mishanti would look after the rumblers while his friend Bundi courted. Thistle-chaser would be among the first-timers, calling to Quiet Hunter. Ratha would fight off the effects of her own heat to see that everything went well for her daughter. Only then would she let the fever take her.

“As if you had a choice,” snorted Fessran when Ratha told her friend her plans the next day. “You are older now and the heat will be stronger. Trust me, I know.”

Instead of hissing a retort, Ratha touched noses with Fessran and left, Ratharee on her shoulder, intending to patrol. She found herself drifting to the meadow’s edge, where the herding teacher was training older students how to manage the new face-tails.

Glancing at the far end of the meadow, Ratha saw Thakur end his session. He shooed away his students, recovered his treeling, Aree, from a bush, and jogged toward Ratha.

Looking as lithe and slim as though he were still young, Thakur moved effortlessly in a ground-eating pace. Ratha found herself enjoying the sight of him, the sun gleaming on his copper coat, his strong, lean muscles, and swift stride. Even the fading scar on his cheek and the fact that he was missing some claws from one foot only gave him more uniqueness and made him more attractive to her than any other clan male. As she watched Thakur approach, Ratha extended her claws in frustration, tearing at the ground beneath her feet. He is the one I want most as a mate. And he is the one I cannot have.

When the herding teacher reached Ratha, his treeling, Aree, bounded up to see Ratharee. Thakur lolled his tongue in amusement as the two treelings huddled together for a quick mother-daughter chatter session.

“Ho, Thakur. May you eat of the haunch and sleep in the driest den,” Ratha said, really meaning the words that were usually spoken in ritual.

“Thanks to you and Fessran’s Firekeepers, I am doing both. Although between you and me, clan leader, I prefer the liver.”

“Come sit with me in the shade and call me ‘yearling’ like you used to.”

With a single bound, Thakur was beside her and licking the nape of her neck. For an instant, his smell overwhelmed her and she wondered if she was to coming into heat. If so, she knew that Thakur would soon have to exile himself as he did every mating season. His heritage was half Un-Named and any cubs he sired on a clan female could lack the Named light in their eyes. Such births only brought tragedy and had already happened too many times in the clan. She remembered Shongshar and the witless young he sired on Bira. Dull-eyed as they were, Shongshar loved them, and taking them away to exile was what turned him into a tyrant. Ratha understood that Thakur dared not take the risk of fathering animal-eyed cubs, especially with her. It did not make her want him any less.

Night… with stars.

Dark has crept past day. Hiding. Watching. No longer going close to the fire-nest. Don’t want to be seen by the red-gold female or the sandy one. Most of all, not the tawny one.

These eyes see the bright licking thing tonguing the night. Warmth, yes, light yes, but more…

The paw rests on a small hollowed-out log from a fallen tree. The end closed. Sand scraped inside. The talking ones do not know that paws have this cleverness. Singing one does not know that the ears inside can choose to hear singing or not. Now they choose not, and all is silent except for what speaks within.

The eyes inside see pictures, and they move as this night-black body will move, without noise, toward brightness that bites the eyes.

More pictures now, telling what the eyes outside saw when yesterday faded. The young of the two-tailed thick-skinned prey, running to the fire-nest. Their fear-scent is hot and acrid in the nose, flooding the mouth with salt and sour, making the body tense. The skin beneath the fur prickles.

Fear and fascination, making the thick-skinned young prey draw close, yet pushing them away. Making the thick-skinned young prey confused, easier to attack.

Inside, the tongue and nose senses taste a meaty flavor. The pictures tell of less shedding of hunter blood, fewer pain-cries from wounds made by tusks.

The song and singer pleased.

Not yet. Not now. Now is for stillness.

Muscles ache with the urge to spring. When, when will the red-gold one turn away from the fire-nest? The scent of the sand-colored female comes on the wind. The red-gold turns, lifts the nose, pricks the ears. Go, go red-gold, and meet sand-pelt, leaving a path open to the burning thing.

Now is for swiftness. Jaws seize the hollowed end-closed wood. It is heavy with sand. Only a few of the talking ones sleep on the far side. Lower the head, feel the weight of sand drag at the jaws and teeth. The brightness that licks at the night sky cannot devour sand, only wood. The glowing eggs at its base will live in sand, if fed.

Steal closer. Narrow the eyes against the brilliance that blinds, the heat that sears. Reach into the nest for the glowing eggs laid by the flame. Use claws, not pads, and brace for the burning, beating pain. The song cannot banish the pain, for the ears inside have shut it out.

Paws moving in a blur before tearing, squinting eyes. Heat blasts the face. Claw the glowing orange and black eggs out. Sweep them into the sand-filled log. Sink the teeth into the bitter bark, feeling blisters rise on the nose leather, the forefeet pads, the chin, the jowls… desperately want the song to take away pain, but it cannot be heard, must not be heard.

Scent says that the red-gold and the sand-coat are returning. It is good that the tawny is not with them. Muscles launch this body free of the torment. Night wind cools the burning, but its touch intensifies the pain.

Want the comfort of the song. Can’t have it, for the singer will know about the glowing eggs in the sand-filled log. The singer will know about the thick-skinned prey being both drawn and repelled by the sky-licking thing.

Fleeing now, the fiery eggs hidden in the log between the jaws. Fleeing now, not only from the two returning females and the eye-clawing light, but also from the song and the singer.

Now is for distance, silence, fur flattened to hold in scent. For seeking out food for the stolen morsels of brightness and feeding them wood so that they stay alive.

Now is for waiting until the singer once again hungers for the thick-skinned prey. Now is for this coat that swallows stars to be swallowed itself by night….

Ratha was dozing on the sunning rock after the morning’s patrol when she felt two clan members spring up beside her. She scented Bira and Fessran. An acridness in their smells told her both were distressed. She forced her eyes fully open and faced the two Firekeepers. Uneasiness stalked down her back to the base of her tail.