“And how many cats would have died for it?” Bluestar murmured, almost to herself. Fireheart wondered if she was thinking of Thistleclaw, the arrogant, bloodthirsty warrior she could not have let become deputy instead of her. “If you have nothing else to say, then I sentence you to exile,” the leader announced, her voice cracking. Every word seemed to be dragged out of her. “You will leave ThunderClan territory now, and if any cat sees you here after sunrise tomorrow, they have my permission to kill you.”
“Kill me?” Tigerclaw spoke now, snarling his defiance. “I’d like to see any of them try.”
“Fireheart beat you,” Graystripe called out.
“Fireheart.” Tigerclaw turned his pale amber eyes on his enemy, and Fireheart felt his fur prickle at the look of unfettered hatred there. “Cross my path again, you stinking furball, and we’ll see who’s the stronger.”
Fireheart leaped to his paws, anger lending him energy. “Anytime, Tigerclaw,” he spat.
“No,” Bluestar growled. “No more fighting. Tigerclaw, leave our sight.”
Slowly Tigerclaw got up. His massive head swiveled back and forth as he scanned the crowd of cats. “Don’t think I’m finished,” he hissed. “I’ll be a leader yet. And any cat who comes with me will be well looked after. Darkstripe?”
Fireheart craned his neck to see Tigerclaw’s chief follower. He waited for Darkstripe to get up and go to Tigerclaw, but the sleek tabby remained in his place, his shoulders hunched wretchedly.
“I trusted you, Tigerclaw,” he protested. “I thought you were the finest warrior in the forest. But you plotted with that…that tyrant”—Fireheart knew he was speaking of Brokentail—“and you said nothing to me. And now you expect me to come with you?” He looked away deliberately.
Tigerclaw shrugged. “I needed Brokentail’s help to make contact with the rogue cats. If you choose to take this personally, that’s your problem,” he growled. “Longtail?”
Longtail gave a nervous start. “Come with you, Tigerclaw? Into exile?” His voice shook. “I…no, I can’t. I’m loyal to ThunderClan!”
And you’re a coward, Fireheart added silently, catching the fear-scent as Longtail shrank back into the crowd of cats.
For the first time, a look of uncertainty flickered across Tigerclaw’s face, as the few cats he had trusted turned him down. “What about you, Dustpelt?” he demanded. “You’ll have richer pickings with me than ever you will in ThunderClan.”
The young brown tabby got deliberately to his paws and picked his way through the surrounding cats until he stood in front of Tigerclaw. “I looked up to you,” he meowed in a clear, level voice. “I wanted to be like you. But Redtail was my mentor. I owe him more than any cat. And you killed him.” Grief and fury made his limbs shake, but he kept going. “You killed him and betrayed the Clan. I’d rather die than follow you.” He turned and stalked away.
A murmur of appreciation rose from the listening cats, and Fireheart heard Whitestorm whisper, “Well said, youngster.”
“Tigerclaw,” Bluestar broke in. “No more of this. Go now.”
Tigerclaw drew himself up to his full height, his eyes blazing in cold fury. “I’m going. But I’ll be back; you can be sure of that. I’ll be revenged on you all!” He padded unevenly away from the Highrock. As he drew close to Fireheart he paused, drawing his lips back in a snarl. “And as for you…” he hissed. “Keep your eyes open, Fireheart. Keep your ears pricked. Keep looking behind you. Because one day I’ll find you, and then you’ll be crowfood.”
“You’re crowfood now,” Fireheart retorted, struggling to hide the fear that crawled along his spine.
Tigerclaw spat, then turned and walked away. The Clan cats parted to let him through, every eye tracking him as he went. The great warrior was not completely steady on his paws—his wounds must be bothering him in spite of Cinderpaw’s herbs, Fireheart realized—but he did not stop or look back. The gorse tunnel swallowed him up and he was gone.
CHAPTER 29
As he watched his defeated enemy disappear, Fireheart could not summon up the least sense of triumph. Surprising himself, he even felt a pang of regret. Tigerclaw could have been a warrior whose deeds would have been told to generations of kits—if only he had chosen loyalty over ambition. Fireheart could almost wail aloud at the waste.
All around him talk was beginning to break out again, as cats mewed urgently to one another about the startling events. “Who’ll be deputy now?” he heard Runningwind ask.
Fireheart glanced at Bluestar to see if she meant to make an announcement, but she was slipping around the side of the Highrock toward her den. Her head was down and her paws dragged as if she were ill. There would be no announcement yet.
“I think Fireheart should be deputy!” Cloudpaw declared, bouncing with excitement. “He’d do a great job!”
“Fireheart?” Darkstripe’s eyes narrowed. “A kittypet?”
“And what’s wrong with being a kittypet?” Cloudpaw bristled in front of the much bigger warrior.
Fireheart was about to haul himself to his paws and intervene when Whitestorm pushed between Darkstripe and the young apprentice. “That’s enough,” he growled. “Bluestar will tell us who she chooses before moonhigh. That’s the tradition.”
Fireheart let his shoulders relax as Cloudpaw scampered off to join the other apprentices. He could see that his apprentice didn’t realize the seriousness of what had happened. The older warriors, the ones who had known Tigerclaw well, were looking at one another as if their world had just come to an end.
“Well now, Fireheart.” Graystripe looked up as Fireheart walked over to join his friend and Cinderpaw. “Would you want to be deputy?” There was pain in his eyes, and blood still trickled from his mouth, yet he looked more alive than Fireheart had seen him since Silverstream’s death, as if the battle and the exposing of Tigerclaw’s villainy had taken his mind off his grief for a moment.
Fireheart couldn’t prevent a faint prickle of excitement from creeping along his spine. Deputy of ThunderClan! Then he realized how hard a job it would be, to pull these shattered cats together and mold them into a Clan again. “No,” he told Graystripe. “And Bluestar would never choose me.” He got up, shaking his head as if to put these thoughts out of his mind. “How are you feeling?” he asked. “Are those wounds very bad?”
“He’ll be fine,” meowed Cinderpaw. “But his tongue was scratched, and it’s still bleeding. I don’t know what to do for a scratched tongue. Fireheart, would you fetch Yellowfang for me?”
“Sure.”
The last Fireheart had seen of Yellowfang, she had been dragging Brokentail into her den; she had not reappeared for the condemning of Tigerclaw. He padded across the clearing and into the fern tunnel. As he pushed through the soft green fronds, he heard Yellowfang’s voice. Something about it—perhaps its gentleness, so unusual for Yellowfang—made him stay in the shelter of the arching ferns for a moment longer.
“Lie still, Brokentail. You have lost a life,” Yellowfang was murmuring. “You’re going to be fine.”
“What do you mean?” snarled Brokentail, his voice weak from loss of blood. “If I’ve got another life left, why do my wounds still hurt?”
“StarClan have healed the wound that killed you,” Yellowfang explained, still in the same soft murmur that sent prickles along Fireheart’s spine. “The others need the skill of a medicine cat.”
“Then what are you waiting for, you scrawny old pest?” hissed Brokentail. “Get on with it. Give me something for this pain.”
“All right, I will.” Yellowfang’s voice suddenly turned icy cold, and a ripple of fear coursed through Fireheart. “Here. Eat these berries, and the pain will go away for good.”
Fireheart peered out of the ferns to see Yellowfang dabbing something with her paw. Carefully, deliberately, she rolled three bright red berries in front of the wounded Brokentail, guiding his paw until he could touch them. Suddenly Fireheart was transported back to a snowy day in leaf-bare
. Cloudkit was staring at a small, dark-leaved bush that bore scarlet berries, and Cinderpaw was saying, “The berries are so poisonous we call them deathberries. Even one could kill you.”
He drew breath to call out a warning, but Brokentail was already chewing the berries.
Yellowfang stood watching him with a face like stone. “You and my Clan cast me out and I came here,” she hissed into his ear. “I was a prisoner, just like you. But ThunderClan treated me well, and at last they trusted me enough to be their medicine cat. You could have earned their trust, too. But now—will any cat trust you ever again?”
Brokentail let out a contemptuous hiss. “Do you think I care?”
Yellowfang crouched even closer to him, her eyes gleaming. “I know you care for nothing, Brokentail. Not your Clan, nor your honor, nor your own kin.”
“I have no kin.” Brokentail spat out the words.
“Wrong. Your kin has been closer to you than you ever dreamed. I’m your mother, Brokentail.”
The blind warrior made a curious rasping noise in his throat, like a terrible attempt at laughter. “Spiders have spun webs in your brain, old one. Medicine cats never have kits.”
“That’s why I had to give you up,” Yellowfang told him, seasons of bitterness dripping from each word. “But I never stopped caring…never. When you were a young warrior, I was so proud of you.” Her voice dropped to a low snarl. “And then you murdered Raggedstar. Your own father. You killed kits of our Clan, and made me take the blame. You would have destroyed our Clan completely. So now it is time to put an end to all this treachery.”
“An end? What do you mean, you old…” Brokentail tried to rise to his paws, but his legs gave way and he fell heavily onto his side. His voice rose to a thin screech that chilled Fireheart to the bone. “What have you done? I can’t…can’t feel my paws. Can’t breathe…”
“I fed you deathberries.” Yellowfang’s eyes were mere slits as she gazed at him. “I know this is your last life, Brokentail. Medicine cats always know. Now no cat will ever be hurt again because of you.”
Brokentail’s jaws parted in a cry of shock and fear. Fireheart thought he could hear regret there, too, but the blind warrior was unable to put words to it. His limbs thrashed and his paws scrabbled in the dust; his chest heaved as he fought for air.
Unable to go on watching, Fireheart backed away and crouched at the other end of the fern tunnel, shivering, until the sounds of Brokentail’s last struggle died away. Then, mindful of Cinderpaw’s request, he forced himself to go back, making sure that Yellowfang could hear him pushing his way through the bracken this time.
Brokentail lay motionless in the center of the small clearing. The old medicine cat crouched beside him, her nose pressed to his side. As Fireheart padded up, she raised her head. Her eyes were filled with pain and she looked older and frailer than ever. But Fireheart knew how strong she was, that the sorrow she felt for Brokentail would not destroy her. “I did everything I could, but he died,” she explained.
Fireheart could not tell the medicine cat that he knew she was lying. He would never tell any cat what he had just seen and heard. Trying to keep his voice steady, he meowed, “Cinderpaw sent me to ask you what to do for a scratched tongue.”
Yellowfang struggled to her paws as if she too could feel the numbing touch of deathberries. “Tell her I’m coming,” she rasped. “I just need to fetch the right herb.”
Still unsteady, she staggered over to her den. She did not turn once to look back at Brokentail’s unmoving body.
Fireheart thought he would be unable to sleep, but he was so exhausted that as soon as he curled up in his nest he sank at once into deep unconsciousness. He dreamed that he was standing in a high place, with wind ruffling his fur and the stars of Silverpelt blazing with icy fire above his head.
A warm, familiar scent drifted into his nostrils and he turned his head to see Spottedleaf. She padded up to him and touched her nose gently to his. “StarClan is calling you, Fireheart,” she murmured. “Do not be afraid.” Then she faded, leaving him with nothing but the wind and the stars.
StarClan calling me? Fireheart thought, puzzled. Am I dying, then?
Fear jerked him awake, and he gasped with relief when he found himself safe in the dim light of the den. His wounds from the battle still stung, and as he got up his limbs protested stiffly, but his strength was returning. Still, it was hard to control his shivering. Had Spottedleaf just prophesied his death?
Then he realized that the chill he felt was not just because of fear. The den, usually warm from sleeping bodies, was cold and empty. Outside he could hear the murmuring of many cats. When he pushed his way out to join them, he saw that nearly all the Clan was already assembled in the clearing, with the pale light of dawn just rising above the trees.
Sandstorm pushed her way through a group of cats. “Fireheart!” she mewed urgently. “Moonhigh has come and gone, and Bluestar hasn’t named the new deputy!”
“What?” Fireheart stared at the pale ginger she-cat in alarm. The warrior code had been broken! “StarClan will be angry,” he murmured.
“We must have a deputy,” Sandstorm went on, lashing her tail in agitation. “But Bluestar won’t even come out of her den. Whitestorm tried to talk to her, but she sent him away.”
“She’s still shocked about Tigerclaw,” Fireheart pointed out.
“But she’s the leader of this Clan,” retorted Sandstorm. “She can’t just curl up in her den and forget about the rest of us.”
Fireheart knew she was right, but he could not stifle a pang of sympathy for Bluestar. He knew how much she had depended on Tigerclaw, loyally defending him against Fireheart’s accusations. She had chosen him to be her deputy, and had trusted him to help her lead the Clan. She must be shattered to realize that she had been wrong all along, and that never again would she be able to count on Tigerclaw’s strength and fighting skills.
“She won’t forget—” he began, and broke off.
Bluestar was stumbling around the Highrock from her den. She looked old and weary as she sat down in front of the rock, making no attempt to climb it. “Cats of ThunderClan,” she rasped, barely loud enough to be heard over the anxious muttering. “Listen and I will appoint the new deputy.”
Every cat was already turning toward her, and the clearing fell chillingly silent.
“I say these words before StarClan, that the spirits of our ancestors may hear and approve my choice.” Bluestar paused again, staring down at her paws for so long that Fireheart wondered if she had forgotten what she was going to say. Perhaps she had not even decided yet who the new deputy should be.
One or two cats had begun to whisper uneasily, but as Bluestar raised her head again they stopped.
“The new deputy will be Fireheart,” she announced clearly. As soon as she had spoken she rose to her paws again and padded back around the rock on legs that seemed made of stone.
The whole Clan froze. Fireheart felt as though a thorn had pierced his heart. He was to be deputy? He wanted to call Bluestar back and tell her there must be some mistake. He was barely a warrior!
Then he heard Cloudpaw’s shrill voice raised gleefully. “I knew it! Fireheart’s the new deputy!”
Close by, Darkstripe snarled, “Oh, yes? Well, I’m not taking orders from a kittypet!”
A few of the cats padded over to Fireheart and congratulated him. Graystripe and Sandstorm were among the first, and Cinderpaw, purring enthusiastically and throwing herself at him to give his face a thorough licking.
But other cats, Fireheart noticed, slipped quietly away, and did not speak to him at all. It was clear that they were as startled by Bluestar’s choice as Fireheart was himself. Was this what Spottedleaf had meant in his dream, when she told him that StarClan was calling him? Calling him to new responsibilities within his Clan? “Do not be afraid,” she had told him.
Oh, Spottedleaf, Fireheart thought desperately, as fear and uncertainty flooded his mind. How can I not be afraid?
CHAPTER 30
“Well, Clan deputy,” Whitestorm meowed softly in his ear. “What would you like me to do now?”
Fireheart realized his offer was genuine, and he flashed the great white warrior a grateful glance. He knew Whitestorm could have expected to become deputy himself, and his support would be valuable to Fireheart in the days to come. “Yes…now…” he began, frantically trying to think what the most urgent priorities would be. With a jolt, he realized that he was trying to imagine what Tigerclaw would have done. “Food. We all need to eat. Cloudpaw, start taking fresh-kill to the elders. Get the other apprentices to help the queens in the nursery.” Cloudpaw shot off with a flick of his tail. “Mousefur, Darkstripe, find yourselves two or three warriors each and go out on a hunting patrol. Split the territory between you. We’ll need more fresh-kill right away. And keep a lookout for those rogues or Tigerclaw while you’re at it.”
Mousefur moved away with a calm nod, collecting Brackenfur and Willowpelt as she went. But Darkstripe glared at Fireheart for so long that Fireheart began to wonder what he would do if the dark warrior really refused to obey him. He met the pale blue gaze steadily, and at last Darkstripe turned away, meowing to Longtail and Dustpelt to follow him.
“All Tigerclaw’s sympathizers,” Whitestorm observed as he watched them go. “You’ll need to keep an eye on them.”
“Yes, I know,” Fireheart admitted. “But surely they’ve shown that they’re more loyal to the Clan than to Tigerclaw? I hope they’ll accept me if I don’t tread on their tails.”
Whitestorm gave a noncommittal grunt.