But there was no way to tell, before she looked in each pair of eyes, whether or not the mind behind them had the spark of intelligence. In some it barely flickered, while in others it burned and lit their whole being from the inside out. The gift often showed itself in those in whom Ratha least expected to find it, and, perversely, was absent from those she assumed would have it. Shaggy, sullen hunters, who at first glance seemed capable only of brutality would surprise her by the depth of their gaze. Elders, whose gray fur betokened wisdom, startled her out of her assumptions when she saw the emptiness behind their faces.
Why? The question beat in her mind as her paws beat the trail. Why some and not others?
She also noticed that most eyes were dull; that ones such as she and Bonechewer had were rarities among the Un-Named. Few could understand speech and fewer still could speak at all, let alone with any sophistication.
Why? Why among these folk was the gift so rare? It was not so in the clan.
Ratha thought about these questions, but she could get no answers that satisfied her. Only her own study of the Un-Named would tell her, she decided. Somehow she sensed that the answer would come soon and part of it might come from her own self, although how she did not know. The thought, instead of reassuring her, made her feel uneasy. She said nothing of this to Bonechewer. She knew he wasn’t interested in either the questions or the answers.
The path grew steeper, the trail windy and narrow as the hills became mountains. It rained continuously and all the travelers acquired the same color, the dull brown of mud. Each day, Ratha woke chilled and sodden to plod along in the line, staring at the trail or at the curtain of rain in front of her whiskers. Bonechewer was quiet, almost sullen, showing little of his former energy.
Something began to bother Ratha, and at first she could not tell what it was. It was a feeling of familiarity, as though this country was not entirely new to her. The smells, the way the wind blew, the shape of the leaves and the rocks on the path told Ratha that she had passed through these mountains once before. Not on the same trail; she knew that. Perhaps not even across the same spur that the group was crossing now. Her memory could only provide her with vague images, for she had run most of the way, driven by rage and terror and the terrible pain of betrayal.
She found herself trembling as she put each foot in front of the other and she left the trail and stood aside, watching the others pass, blurred shadows behind the rain. She stood there, telling herself that it happened long ago and not to her. The Ratha that slogged along this muddy trail with the ragged Un-Named could scarcely be the Ratha who had brandished the Red Tongue before the clan. That part of her life was gone now and she cursed the things that woke her memory.
“Are you tired, Ratha?” a voice said. Bonechewer had left the line to join her by the side of the trail. She looked up, trying to hide her misery, but she was sure Bonechewer caught it, for there was a flicker in his eyes and for a moment he looked guilty.
“Come,” Bonechewer said gruffly, glancing back toward the trail. “I don’t want to be the last to get there.”
“How far?” Ratha asked.
“Less than a day’s travel. We should be there by sunset.”
Ratha wiped her pads on the grass and shook out the mud between them. There was no sense in doing so, for she knew she would pick up more as soon as she stepped back on the path. She intended it to annoy Bonechewer, and it did, for he drew back his whiskers and plunged into the stream, leaving her alone by the side of the trail.
The rest of the day she walked by herself, despite the others jostling around her. The rain slackened and then stopped. The clouds lightened and a little sunlight filtered through, edging the wet grass with silver. The drops clinging to her whiskers caught the light and startled her with their sparkle. She shook her head and tossed them all away.
The grass became scrubby and then sparse as Ratha climbed the mountain along with the others. The sun fell low, sending shadows among the peaks, and she knew that the Un-Named and she were almost at the end of their journey.
The line now was long and straggling. Some of the travelers Ratha had seen at the beginning were no longer in their places, having fallen out by the side. They reached the top of the ridge and wound along its spine as the clouds turned from gray to rose and gold.
Ratha saw an outcropping of rock rising from the flank of the hill. As she and the others at the end of the line approached, the river of the Un-Named ended, breaking up into streamlets that poured around and over the great mass of stone. This was the gathering place.
The sun flared over the edge of the rock, blinding her for an instant. Dazed and weary, she let the flow carry her to the base, and she washed up against it, caught in her own little eddy, while the others surged by her.
“Sss, up here,” came Bonechewer’s voice from above her. Ratha stretched her neck back and saw the outline of his head against the dusk. Ratha gathered herself and leaped up to the ledge where he was sitting.
“Look,” he said and Ratha did. Up and down the steep rock face, eyes glowed and damp pelts gleamed faintly in the sun’s last light. Bonechewer rose and walked along the ledge, Ratha followed, placing her feet carefully, for the stone was weathered and broken. Pieces skittered out from under her pads and went clattering down the rock face until their echo died. The ledge led into a cleft and then they were through to the other side. Here the stone had split and fallen apart in several sections, creating a sheltered hollow where many more of the Un-Named were gathered. Out of the stiff wind that blew on the rock face, Ratha was warmer. She followed Bonechewer as he picked his way over talus and fallen boulders, giving greeting to the Un-Named perched on top of them or clustered around them. No one spoke to Ratha, although she felt their eyes follow her as she moved among them.
“Bone—” Ratha started. His tail slapped her across the muzzle before she could say his name. Hurt and outraged, Ratha snapped at the tail and caught a mouthful of fur before he whisked it away.
“Why did you—” she demanded, but he cut her off before she could finish.
“To keep you from making a fool of yourself and of me as well,” he said softly. “There is no use of names here. Do not forget.”
“How am I to speak to you if I can’t use your name?” Ratha asked, feeling bewildered.
“Call me dweller-by-the-water, as they do. Or, better still, be quiet and listen.”
“Yarrr.” Ratha flattened her ears but she knew he was right. He had stopped calling her “clan cat” as well. Although the nickname had begun as an insult, he used it now in an affectionate sense. To have this stripped from her left her feeling empty and desolate, as if she were becoming one of those who had nothing behind their eyes. She hung her head and swallowed hard.
“What is the matter, young one?” The voice was not Bonechewer’s, although he still stood nearby. Ratha looked up into a pair of glowing green eyes in a face so black it seemed to her that the eyes floated by themselves in the dark.
“She is just tired, nightling,” Bonechewer said before Ratha could gather her wits to speak.
“I haven’t seen or smelled her before,” the black remarked, “yet she is too old to be of the last litters. Did she come with you, dweller-by-the-water?”
“She joined me on the trail,” Bonechewer said shortly. Ratha sensed a certain tension between him and the black one.
“We meet at the same place, among the stones-with-fangs.”
“I will be there, nightling.”
“Good.” The black turned and snarled at the two dull-eyed shadows standing behind her. “Away, cubs! I have no need of you until sunrise.” With guttural growls, the two males lowered their heads and padded away.