Raggedpelt was shouldering Yellowpaw aside when a new voice broke in. “What’s all this?”
Yellowpaw looked up to see Reedfeather, the WindClan deputy, striding toward them through the bracken. His eyes were narrowed and his neck fur bristling.
“Uh … we were just …” one of the young WindClan cats began.
“Get back to your own Clanmates,” Reedfeather meowed sternly. “The Gathering is about to start.”
For a heartbeat Yellowpaw thought that the cat who had started all the trouble was about to protest. Then he clearly thought better of it, and slunk past his deputy to the place farther around the hollow where most of WindClan was assembled. His friends followed him, their heads down and their tails drooping. Reedfeather’s glance swept across Yellowpaw and Raggedpelt, and he gave them a tiny nod before he padded after his Clanmates.
Raggedpelt’s claws were still digging into the soft earth of the hollow. His fur bristled and his eyes blazed as he watched the WindClan cats depart.
“Calm down!” Yellowpaw whispered. “Cedarstar can see you from up there.”
The anger died from Raggedpelt’s eyes, to be replaced by something dark and shadowed. “I hate it when they gossip about me.”
Sympathy surged up inside Yellowpaw. It must be terrible, not knowing who your father is, she thought, remembering how much she owed to Brackenfoot. “Have you asked Featherstorm about your father?” she mewed hesitantly.
“Over and over.” Raggedpelt sighed. “But she won’t tell me. She says it doesn’t matter, as long as I’m only loyal to ShadowClan.”
But Yellowpaw could tell that it did matter to Raggedpelt. “What about Scorchpaw? Does he know anything?”
Raggedpelt shrugged. “Scorchpaw doesn’t care. But I …” He let his voice trail off.
Yellowpaw was stretching out her tail to touch his shoulder when a yowl rang out across the clearing.
“Cats of all Clans!”
Looking up at the Great Rock, Yellowpaw saw Pinestar, leader of ThunderClan, standing in front of the other leaders, ready to start the Gathering. Raggedpelt settled down beside her, and there was no more time to talk.
All the same, Yellowpaw thought, I won’t forget this. I have to help Raggedpelt somehow. This isn’t over.
Curled in her nest later that night, Yellowpaw found it hard to settle down. Though she was tired from the Gathering, she couldn’t get Raggedpelt out of her mind. I’ve always known who my mother and father are, she thought. Even if Brackenfoot had died, I’d remember him. And I love that I look like Brightflower, she added to herself, giving her thick tail a lick. It means I feel safe in my Clan. Raggedpelt ought to be able to feel that, too. She heaved a deep sigh as she remembered how bravely Raggedpelt had attacked the WindClan tom. He’s such a brilliant warrior! There’s no way that he’s half kittypet … is he?
Suddenly Yellowpaw sat up, disturbing Rowanpaw, who muttered something crossly and wrapped her tail over her ears.
“Raggedpelt deserves to know the truth,” Yellowpaw whispered out loud. “Whatever happens, nothing is more important than that, surely? I have to find out who his father is!”
She woke as dawn light began to seep into the apprentices’ den. Careful not to disturb her denmates, she slid into the open. Everything was quiet in the camp. Hollyflower, who was on guard duty beside the gap in the brambles, was yawning, but no other cat was stirring.
I have to get this done before Deerleap comes looking for me.
Yellowpaw padded across the camp to the elders’ den and poked her head inside. She still felt a pang of grief to see only two cats curled up in the thick moss. Silverflame should be here too.
Scrambling inside, Yellowpaw gave Lizardfang a gentle prod. “Wake up!” she mewed. “I need to ask you something.”
Lizardfang twitched an ear. “Sure, ask away,” he mumbled, and sank back into sleep.
Suppressing a hiss of frustration, Yellowpaw turned to Littlebird, jabbing her a bit less gently in the ribs. “Littlebird, please wake up! It’s important.”
Littlebird blinked up at her. “What’s the matter?” She stretched her jaws in a huge yawn. “Yellowpaw … what do you want?”
“I have to talk to you,” Yellowpaw mewed.
Roused again by the noise and movement, Lizardfang heaved himself out of his nest, scrabbling at the moss. “Is it an attack?”
“No, it’s okay, Lizardfang,” Yellowpaw soothed. “I just need you to answer some questions.”
“Questions?” the old tom spat. “It’s the middle of the night!”
Littlebird sighed. “Well, we’re awake now. Ask away, Yellowpaw.”
Yellowpaw took a deep breath. “What can you tell me about Raggedpelt’s father?”
Lizardfang let out a disbelieving hiss. “You woke us up so that we can gossip about Featherstorm? That’s not going to happen.” Turning his back on Yellowpaw, he curled up again among the moss, closed his eyes, and wrapped his tail over his nose.
Yellowpaw turned to Littlebird. “Please!” she begged. “This is really important to Raggedpelt. He has to know the truth about his father!”
The small ginger she-cat hesitated for a couple of heartbeats. “Well …” she began. “I’m like Lizardfang, I don’t want to gossip—”
“But Raggedpelt—”
“Let me finish,” Littlebird went on. “You’re like all the young cats, Yellowpaw. No patience at all. What I was going to say was, I don’t know very much. But in the moons before Raggedpelt and Scorchpaw were born, Featherstorm spent a lot of time near the border with the Twolegplace—not far from the big sycamore tree with the dead branch.”
“I know where that is!” Yellowpaw meowed. “Do you think if I go there, I might find Raggedpelt’s father?” Excitement tingled in her paws.
“Don’t you do anything foolish, now,” the elder warned her as she settled back in her bedding.
“I won’t, I promise!”
Yellowpaw scrambled out of the elders’ den. By now the dawn light was brightening, and Stonetooth was organizing the day’s patrols in the middle of the clearing. Yellowpaw spotted Deerleap emerging from the warriors’ den and bounded over to meet her.
There’s no time to do anything about Raggedpelt’s father today, she thought. But tonight … I’m going to help him discover the truth!
Yellowpaw waited impatiently for her denmates to go to sleep. Nutpaw and Scorchpaw had burrowed into their bedding immediately and the soft sound of their snoring filled the den. Rowanpaw spent some time grooming her tail, then curled up neatly with it wrapped over her nose. But Wolfpaw and Foxpaw went on chattering like a pair of starlings until Yellowpaw could have cheerfully shredded their ears.
“Settle down, you two,” she meowed at last. “Can’t a cat get any sleep around here?”
“You’re not our mentor. You can’t tell us what to do,” Foxpaw muttered.
The two young cats went on telling each other about their catches at hunting practice, but to Yellowpaw’s relief they soon were yawning more than they talked, and moments later both of them were quiet and breathing steadily. Yellowpaw waited a little longer to make sure they were really asleep, and then crept out.
The sky was clear and the moon filled the camp with an eerie, pale light. Nettlespot, on duty beside the entrance, looked like a cat made of ice. We don’t want her asking what we’re doing outside the camp at night, Yellowpaw thought. We’ll need to use the dirtplace tunnel to get out.
Cautiously, slipping from shadow to shadow, she crossed the clearing to the warriors’ den. She could make out Raggedpelt’s tabby pelt through the gaps between the branches, but it was too far for her to reach through and prod him with a paw.
“Raggedpelt!” she whispered. “Wake up!”
She was worried that the warrior was too deeply asleep to hear her, but to her relief, Raggedpelt stirred and raised his head, looking around as if he thought the voice had come from inside the den.
“Here—outside!” Yellowp
aw hissed. “It’s me, Yellowpaw.”
Raggedpelt peered at her through the branches. “What do you want?”
“Come here. I have to tell you something.”
The tabby tom hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. Wait.”
Yellowpaw flexed her claws until she saw Raggedpelt emerging from the den. He padded up to her, yawning and bleary-eyed.
“What is it?” he demanded.
“I can’t tell you here,” Yellowpaw replied. “We have to go outside the camp.”
Raggedpelt blinked in surprise, then seemed to decide that it wasn’t worth arguing.
“We can’t let Nettlespot see us,” Yellowpaw went on. “Follow me. We’ll use the dirtplace tunnel.”
She padded to the narrow gap behind the warriors’ den and breathed a sigh of relief once they were well away from the camp. The air was still, and Yellowpaw sniffed deeply at the fresh scents of growing things. Not far away she could hear the gentle gurgling of a stream, and closer still the scuffling of small prey in the undergrowth, but this was no time for hunting.
“What’s going on?” Raggedpelt growled, pacing alongside her. “Why have you brought me out here?”
Yellowpaw turned to him triumphantly. “We’re going to find your father.”
Raggedpelt halted. For a moment his eyes blazed with anger. “That’s a terrible idea!”
“Why?” Yellowpaw challenged him. “You want to know who he is, and Featherstorm won’t tell you, so all you can do is find out for yourself.”
Raggedpelt shook his head. “We’d have to search the whole of Twolegplace,” he objected. “We’d have to check out all the rogues and loners … and kittypets,” he admitted reluctantly. “And we still wouldn’t be certain of finding him.”
“I know we can’t be certain,” Yellowpaw mewed. “But it’s worth a try, isn’t it? Or have you forgotten how much you need to know the truth?”
Raggedpelt sighed. “Okay, let’s do it. I can see what you’re thinking, Yellowpaw,” he added. “You’ll go to Twolegplace by yourself if I don’t come with you, and StarClan knows what sort of trouble you’ll get into.”
Yellowpaw bounced on her paws with satisfaction. She set off again toward the sycamore, picking up the pace until she was pelting through the forest with the grass brushing her belly fur, the moonwashed undergrowth whirling past her. Raggedpelt raced along at her shoulder.
At last Yellowpaw halted, panting, under the bare branches of the sycamore. The walls of the Twolegplace reared up in front of her. As she gazed over the border a cloud drifted across the moon, leaving the forest around her so dark that she could barely see her own paws. The cold yellow lights of the Twolegplace seemed harsher by contrast, glaring down from thin trees made of some weird Twoleg stuff.
“What now?” Raggedpelt prompted.
“We go into Twolegplace and start asking questions, I guess,” Yellowpaw meowed, with a stab of uncertainty. “Let’s say one of our warriors—Amberleaf, maybe—has gone missing. We could ask the Twolegplace cats if they’ve seen her.”
“Sounds mouse-brained to me,” Raggedpelt argued. “Why would one of our Clanmates go missing in Twolegplace?”
Yellowpaw gave an exasperated sigh. “Stop being so logical! The Twolegplace cats won’t know that, will they? And we have to start somewhere.”
Raggedpelt nodded slowly; Yellowpaw thought maybe he was starting to get excited. “Let’s go.”
Side by side they left the pine trees behind and scrambled up a Twoleg fence. Balancing on the top, Yellowpaw looked down on a small square of grass with strong-smelling plants growing around the edges. Yellow light shone from the Twoleg den beyond. Everything was quiet.
But as soon as Yellowpaw and Raggedpelt dropped down onto the grass a flurry of barking split the silence. A door opened in the den and a small white dog shot out, still barking. A Twoleg appeared behind it, yowling at the dog as it raced toward the two cats. As if they shared the same thought, Raggedpelt and Yellowpaw split up, pelting in opposite directions. The dog skidded to a halt, not knowing which cat to chase first. By the time it plunged after Raggedpelt, the tabby tom had already reached the fence that separated this den from the next. He stood poised with his claws digging into the top of the fence, while the dog tried to jump up at him, whining in frustration.
Seeing that her Clanmate was safe, Yellowpaw bounded in a wide circle around the outside of the grass plot and scrambled up onto the fence a couple of fox-lengths farther along. Raggedpelt spotted her and gave her a nod.
“Shove off, flea-pelt,” he spat at the dog, then dropped down onto the next square of grass.
Yellowpaw joined him, hearing more yowling from the Twoleg as she leaped, and the two cats stopped, panting.
“What are you doing here, strangers?”
The low growl came out of the darkness. Yellowpaw and Raggedpelt spun around, looking for the cat who had spoken. A moment later a huge ginger tom paced forward into the light from the den. He was wearing a collar, but his muscles rippled as he walked, and a torn ear showed that he had experienced at least one fight. There was a hostile gleam in his eyes.
Yellowpaw gulped. That’s a kittypet?
Two more cats appeared from the darkness, flanking the ginger tom. One of them was what Yellowpaw had always pictured when she thought of kittypets: a fluffy white she-cat wearing a collar with a bell on it. The other was smaller and scrawny, with a badly groomed russet pelt. The softness of her features showed that she was barely out of kithood.
“You come from the forest, don’t you?” the fluffy cat mewed. Her tone was sharp. “You’re not welcome here.”
Yellowpaw forgot all her plans to ask clever questions. “We’re looking for a tom who might have known a forest cat called Featherstorm,” she blurted out.
The scrawny russet she-cat let out a hiss. “You have no right to ask us about anything!”
“Hang on a moment, Red.” The big ginger tom narrowed his eyes. “Maybe we should let them ask their questions.” His glittering gaze passed from Yellowpaw to Raggedpelt and back again. “That’s the best way to get rid of them. Otherwise, they’ll be back.”
Red looked furious. “Honestly, Marmalade, you’ll be making friends with dogs next! Why don’t we just chase them off with a scratch or two to remember us by?”
“We might not be the only cats to get scratched,” Raggedpelt growled, sliding out his claws.
“That’s enough!” The white she-cat raised her tail. “If we let you ask a question, will you leave?”
Instead of answering, Raggedpelt turned to Yellowpaw. “Is it worth asking?” he mewed.
“Don’t you want to know the truth?” Yellowpaw asked. He can’t give up now; we’ve come this far!
“Are you going to stand there arguing?” Red asked scathingly. “Or are you coming with us?”
“We’re coming,” Yellowpaw decided.
The huge ginger tom leaped onto the fence at the far side of the enclosed space. Joining him, Yellowpaw saw that a narrow alley lay beyond, with a high wall of red stone at the other side. There was a strong smell of crow-food.
As she paused at the top of the fence, the white she-cat gave her a push. “Get a move on.”
Yellowpaw lost her balance and fell ungracefully into the alleyway, barely managing to twist herself in midair so that she landed paws first.
“Well done, Pixie.” Red’s voice was cold as she looked down from the fence. “Show them who’s in charge.”
Marmalade led them along the alley. The wooden fence gave way to another wall of red stone; Yellowpaw’s heart raced; she felt as though she was padding along at the bottom of a crevasse. Eventually the alley led into an open space surrounded by shabby Twoleg dens. The reek of crow-food was joined by other scents: monsters and a smell that reminded Yellowpaw of a blackened stump in the forest that Deerleap told her had been struck by lightning moons ago.
Yellowpaw blinked as she spotted movement and the gleam of eyes in the shadows. There are oth
er cats here!
“Just think!” she whispered, turning to Raggedpelt. “You might be about to meet your father!”
Raggedpelt didn’t reply, but his eyes were troubled, and Yellowpaw could feel his pelt bristling against hers.
The three kittypets crowded around Yellowpaw and Raggedpelt, urging them into the middle of the open space. At the same time, more cats began slinking out from the shadows. Some of them were wearing collars, but others looked more like rogues, with skinny bodies and flea-bitten pelts. Yellowpaw was uncomfortably aware that they were way outnumbered if it came to a fight.
“These are cats from the forest,” Marmalade announced. “They want to ask some questions.”
“Hi.” Yellowpaw felt hot and uncomfortable to be the focus of so many staring eyes. “I’m Yellowpaw, and this is Raggedpelt. We come from ShadowClan,” she ended proudly.
“Never heard of it,” a black she-cat sniffed.
“Are you really from the forest?” A gray tom padded up to Yellowpaw and her Clanmate, sniffing at them. “Yeah, you smell of trees.”
“Get away from them, Boulder,” Pixie snarled, giving the gray tom a shove.
“But I’ve always wondered what it would be like to live beyond the fence,” Boulder protested.
“Sit down and be quiet.” The gray tom was interrupted by a black-and-white she-cat, so old that her muzzle was grizzled and all her teeth had gone. Yellowpaw tried not to stare. She looks even older than our elders! “No one wants to listen to you meowing nonstop about the forest,” the old cat hissed at Boulder.
Boulder sat down, looking annoyed. Yellowpaw guessed that the old cat was some kind of leader, though this collection of cats didn’t look at all like a Clan. Maybe they look up to her because she’s so old.
She spotted a black she-cat rolling her eyes, and heard her whisper to Boulder, “Don’t let Jay worry you. She’s just a bossy old furball.”
“Questions, you said?” the old cat, Jay, rasped. “All right, you can ask one. Let’s hear it.”
Raggedpelt nudged Yellowpaw. “I told you this was a dumb idea. Let’s go.”
“No!” Yellowpaw gave Raggedpelt a furious glare. “One question is all it will take. We’re looking for a cat who knew a forest cat called Featherstorm,” she continued. “We—”