Surely when Fessran saw that Aree and her youngsters could do, she would accept their services. Perhaps she would choose a treeling for herself, although Thakur might be reluctant to give one to Shongshar.
Aree was ready. Now all that remained was to get Fessran to bring the Firekeepers down for another demonstration, Ratha thought, but she found that doing so was harder than she had anticipated. The Firekeeper leader spent most of her time in the cave by the falls, watching those who came to pay homage to the Red Tongue. Shongshar was always with her, and in his presence she seemed to change, becoming haughty and imperious. Yet Ratha often caught a sudden look of misery on her face, as if she sensed the effect he had on her.
He never seemed to let her out of his sight, accompanying her down to the meadow to eat or going with her to give orders to those who built the guard-fires. Recently, he had begun to interrupt her or answer for her when she spoke to anyone else, although he still treated her with a deference that seemed exaggerated and sometimes strangely sinister. It was difficult to get Fessran alone and, even then, she seemed ill-at-ease and unwilling to talk.
Ratha finally bullied her away from Shongshar long enough to get her to agree to see Aree’s new skills. But Fessran was deliberately vague about when the meeting would take place. At last, Ratha could wait no longer. She sent word by the Firekeeper Bira that Thakur would set up a demonstration for the evening of the following day. She built a fire near his den at sunset and selected the best pine sticks for the treelings to use as torches. Thakur drilled Aree one more time and then they settled down to wait.
The night had grown cold and the fire fallen low before Ratha admitted to herself that Fessran wasn’t going to come. She stopped her angry pacing and let Ratharee climb down from her back.
“I’m going up to the cave,” she said, staring out of the circle of firelight to where the path led away from Thakur’s lair.
“I don’t think that would be wise, Ratha,” he said softly.
“Fessran will not disobey me when she looks into my eyes. I am tired of sidelong looks and all this sneaking around.”
“Then let me come with you. The trail can be treacherous at night.”
“The only treachery is within that den of belly-crawlers,” Ratha growled. “No, you stay here with Aree and her little ones. Keep the fire going until I return with Fessran. I won’t be gone long.”
She heard him sigh and turn away, but she was too angry for his words to hold her back, or even to think that her hasty actions might place him in danger.
She leaped away into the night, her rage giving her speed. There was no moon that night and the trees that overhung the creek trail made the path so black that she followed it by smell and by feel, rather than by sight. The dark made the way seem steeper, with far more turns and twists than in daylight. She brushed against dew-dampened ferns whose touch, once gentle, now seemed ominous and threatening.
Exhaustion took away some of her anger, and she began to think whether Thakur had been right after all. She also began to wonder if she should have left him without anyone else to help guard the treelings.
She climbed the last part of the trail, with her paws slipping on gravel made slick by spray and the booming of the fall in her ears. There was another sound, which grew louder as she approached the cave: the harsh roar of the Red Tongue.
Shadowy orange light spilling from the cave backlit the forms of the two Firekeepers who stood guard before the entrance. They rose, growling, but their challenge died to a mutter as they caught her smell. “You have come to crouch before the Red Tongue, clan leader?”
“No. I have come to see Fessran.”
The speaker glanced at his companion, who looked doubtfully back. “Before you enter, clan leader, there are some things you must not do …” He faltered under Ratha’s glare and his ears twitched back.
“You dare tell me what I may do before the creature that I brought to the clan? Ptaah!” She lunged at them, striking out with teeth and claws.
Before either of the guards could recover, she was past them and into the gallery leading to the cave. She could tell at once that the fire was much larger than it had been. She could see her shadow on the rock floor of the gallery. A steady wind from outside blew past her, drawn to feed the hunger of the fire-creature.
Despite her anger, she hesitated. The light ahead dazzled her, and the heat swept over her in parching waves. For a moment, the fire seemed to hold her back; then her anger flared, forcing the fear aside.
She was in the cave itself. The Red Tongue’s harsh and constant song filled the cavern and echoed back from the other chambers. The great fire reared up as if it was the central pillar that supported the cave, a writhing column of yellow and gold seeming to reach from floor to vaulted ceiling.
It lit the stone fangs that hung from the ceiling, turning them to a gleaming yellow that made them look even more like teeth in the mouth of a great and terrible creature.
Ratha was so awed by the Red Tongue itself that she almost didn’t see the shapes that gathered around it. Their shadows stretched out toward her, wavering and dancing over the rubble-strewn floor until they passed over her. At first she thought the figures were Firekeepers stoking the great flame, but as she crept closer and her eyes grew accustomed to the fierce light, she saw that they were moving together in a circle around the fire. Their movements were slow and rhythmic, as if they were beginning a dance.
The longer Ratha watched, the more she was convinced that this was a dance, but one such as she had never seen. She remembered the dance-hunts she had used to celebrate the victory of the clan over the Un-Named. Those had been fierce and wild, but even the intensity of the dance-hunt didn’t have the frenzy and fierceness of this.
The dancers leaped, lashed their flanks with their tails and struck out with their claws as if against some unseen but hated enemy. They reared up on their hind paws and reached toward the ceiling, twisting and writhing in the heat as if they themselves were the branches that were being consumed by the fire-creature in its endless hunger.
They shrieked aloud, and whether it was joy or terror in those cries, Ratha did not know. Their faces bore a look that none of the Named had ever held before, a look that was nearly madness. It was the wish to join themselves with the power of something far greater than themselves, even if it meant the sacrifice of their own wills.
The pounding rush and roar formed a rhythm for the dance, and even Ratha felt the strange tug of wild ecstasy that filled the eyes and bodies of the dancers. Amid the leaping figures, Ratha saw Fessran herself, her mouth stretched open in a cry of celebration to the power of the Red Tongue. She bounded higher than Ratha had ever seen her leap before, twisted herself in impossible ways and came so near the fire that Ratha trembled for fear she would fall in.
Ratha was so absorbed by the fire-dance that she didn’t hear someone creep up behind her until his voice was in her ear.
“Yesss,” he hissed. “Watch. Watch how it draws them, how it makes them dance. Look how it inspires them, clan leader, in a way that you cannot.”
Ratha flinched away from Shongshar, but she was too dazed by the scene to do more than take a swipe at him. When her attention swung back to the dancers, he sidled up to her and began to speak again, his words blending in some strange way into the cries of the dancers and the harsh song of the fire. Hypnotized, she listened, unable to break the trance that had fallen across her.