“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.
Chapter Nine
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.”