“Anything for me to do?” asked Graystripe.
“Yes.” Fireheart gave his friend’s ear a quick, friendly lick. “Go back to your nest and rest. You were badly wounded yesterday. I’ll bring you a piece of fresh-kill.”
“Oh, okay. Thanks, Fireheart.” Graystripe returned the lick and vanished into the den.
Fireheart padded over to the pile of fresh-kill, where he found Cinderpaw clawing a magpie out of the dwindling heap. “I’ll take this to Bluestar,” she offered. “I need to check her wound. And then I’ll take some prey for Yellowfang.”
“Good idea,” Fireheart meowed, beginning to feel more confident as his rapid orders seemed to be restoring things to normal. “Tell her if she needs any help to collect herbs, she can have Cloudpaw, once he’s seen to the elders.”
“Okay.” Cinderpaw chuckled. “You certainly know how to make your apprentices work, Fireheart.” She bit down into the magpie and dropped it at once with a retch of disgust. The flesh of the dead bird fell away from the bones to reveal a writhing mass of white maggots. A foul stench hit Fireheart and he winced.
Cinderpaw backed away, passing her tongue around her mouth over and over again as she stared at the rotting carcass. Her dark gray fur was fluffed up and her blue eyes wide. “Crowfood,” she whispered. “Crowfood among the fresh-kill. What does it mean?”
Fireheart couldn’t imagine how the rotten magpie had gotten there. No cat would have brought it in; even the youngest apprentice knew better than that.
“What does it mean?” Cinderpaw repeated.
Fireheart suddenly realized she wasn’t thinking about any practical reasons for how maggot-ridden prey had ended up in the pile. “Do you think it’s an omen?” he croaked. “A message from StarClan?”
“It might be.” Cinderpaw shivered, and stared at him with huge blue eyes. “StarClan haven’t spoken to me yet, Fireheart, not since the ceremony at the Moonstone. I don’t know if it’s an omen or not, but if it is…”
“It must be for Bluestar,” Fireheart finished. His fur prickled as he realized this was the first sign of Cinderpaw’s new powers as an apprentice medicine cat. “You were going to take the magpie to her.” He felt a thrill of horror at the thought of what the omen might mean. Was StarClan trying to say that Bluestar’s leadership was rotting away from the inside, even though Tigerclaw’s outer threat had gone? “No,” he meowed firmly. “That can’t be right. Bluestar’s problems are over. Some cat’s been careless, that’s all, and brought crowfood back by mistake.”
But he didn’t believe his own words, and he could tell that Cinderpaw didn’t, either. “I’ll ask Yellowfang,” she mewed, shaking her head in bewilderment. “She’ll know.” Cinderpaw quickly snatched a vole from the heap and began limping rapidly across the clearing.
Fireheart called after her, “Don’t tell any cat except Yellowfang. The Clan mustn’t know. I’ll bury this.”
She flicked her tail to show she had heard, and vanished among the ferns.
Fireheart glanced around to make sure that no other cat had overheard their conversation, or seen the decaying magpie. Bile rose in his throat as he gripped the bird by the tip of one wing and dragged it to the edge of the clearing. He didn’t begin to relax until he had scraped up enough earth to cover the vile thing.
Even then, he could not get it out of his mind. If the rotting, maggot-filled crowfood was indeed an omen, what new disasters did StarClan have in store for ThunderClan and their leader now?
By sunhigh, the Clan had settled down again. The hunting patrols had returned, all the cats were full-fed, and Fireheart was beginning to think it was time he went to Bluestar’s den to see if she would talk to him about leading the Clan.
He was distracted by movement in the gorse tunnel. Four RiverClan cats appeared, the same four who had joined in the battle the day before: Leopardfur, Mistyfoot, Stonefur, and Blackclaw.
Leopardfur bore a newly healed wound across one dappled shoulder, and Blackclaw’s ear was torn at the tip, proof of how they had fought with ThunderClan to drive out the rogue cats. Fireheart wished he could believe that they had come only to find out if the ThunderClan warriors were all right. But deep down he knew their mission had to do with Graystripe’s kits. Struggling to hide the heaviness in his heart, he padded across the clearing and dipped his head to Leopardfur—not the respectful signal from a warrior to a deputy, but a courteous greeting between equals.
“Greetings,” meowed Leopardfur, her eyes registering surprise at Fireheart’s new attitude. “We need to speak to your leader.”
Fireheart hesitated, wondering how much to explain. It would take the rest of the day to tell the full story of Tigerclaw’s treachery, and to describe how Fireheart himself had been named deputy. In a heartbeat’s pause, he decided to tell the visiting patrol nothing. Even RiverClan, though they seemed friendly now, might be tempted to attack a Clan that seemed to be weak. The next Gathering would be soon enough for them to know. He bowed his head once more and went to look for Bluestar.
To his relief, the Clan leader was sitting in her den, finishing a piece of fresh-kill. She looked more like herself than Fireheart had seen her since Tigerclaw’s attack. As he announced himself at the entrance to the den, Bluestar looked up, swallowing the last of her mouse. Her tongue swiped around her jaws and she meowed, “Fireheart? Come in. We have a great deal to discuss.”
“Yes, Bluestar,” Fireheart mewed, “but not now. The RiverClan warriors are here.”
“Ah.” Bluestar rose to her paws and stretched. “I was expecting them, although I had hoped they wouldn’t come back quite so soon.” She led the way out of her den to where the patrol was waiting. By now, Graystripe had appeared and seemed to be exchanging news with Mistyfoot. Fireheart hoped he was not telling her too much as he settled down a respectful distance from the RiverClan patrol.
Other cats too were gathering around, their faces revealing their curiosity about the reason for the RiverClan cats’ visit.
When Bluestar had greeted the newcomers, Leopardfur began. “We’ve talked for a long time about Silverstream’s kits, and we’ve decided that they belong in RiverClan. Two RiverClan kits died yesterday. They had been born too soon. Their mother, Greenflower, has agreed to suckle these newborns. We think it may be a sign from StarClan. The kits will be well cared for.”
“They’re well cared for here!” Fireheart exclaimed.
Leopardfur glanced at him but still spoke directly to Bluestar. “Crookedstar has sent us to fetch them.” Her voice was calm but determined, showing that she genuinely believed in her Clan’s right to take the kits.
“Besides,” Mistyfoot added, “the kits are older now, and the river has gone down enough to allow a safe passage across. They will be able to cope with the journey to our camp.”
“Yes,” meowed Leopardfur, with an approving look at the younger warrior. “We could have taken the kits before this, but we care just as much about their welfare as you do.”
Bluestar drew herself up. Though she moved stiffly and she still looked exhausted, outwardly at least she had recovered the authority of a leader. “The kits are half ThunderClan,” she reminded Leopardfur. “I’ve already told you, I’ll give you my decision at the next Gathering.”
“The decision is not yours to make.” The RiverClan deputy’s tone had an edge like ice.
At her words meows of protest rose from the assembled cats.
“Cheek!” spat Sandstorm, from where she sat close to Fireheart. “Who does she think she is, walking in here and telling us what to do?”
Fireheart padded over to Bluestar and murmured in her ear, “Bluestar, these are Graystripe’s kits. You can’t send them away.”
Bluestar twitched her ears. “You can tell Crookedstar,” she calmly addressed the visitors, “that ThunderClan will fight to keep these kits.”
Leopardfur’s lips drew back in the beginnings of a snarl, while the ThunderClan cats yowled their approval.
Then a loude
r meow rose above the rest. “No!”
Fireheart’s fur began to prickle. It was Graystripe.
The big gray cat came to stand beside Bluestar. Fireheart winced when he saw the looks of suspicion that ThunderClan gave him, and how they drew back as he passed. But Graystripe seemed to have hardened himself against their hostility. Glancing first at the RiverClan patrol and then at the cats of his own Clan, he meowed, “Leopardfur is right. Kits belong with their mother’s Clan. I think we should let them go.”
Fireheart froze. He wanted to protest, but could find no words. The rest of the Clan was just as silent, except for Yellowfang, who muttered, “He’s mad.”
“Graystripe, think again,” Bluestar urged him. “If I let Leopardfur take these kits, they are lost to you forever. They will grow up in another Clan. They will not know you as their kin. One day you may even have to fight them.” Fireheart heard the sorrow in her voice as she spoke, and saw her eyes straying to Mistyfoot and Stonefur. Her words were full of such bitter knowledge that he wondered how any cat could listen to her and not realize the truth about the kits their leader had lost so long ago.
“I understand, Bluestar,” Graystripe agreed. “But I’ve caused enough trouble for this Clan. I won’t ask them to fight for my kits.” He paused and added to Leopardfur, “If Bluestar agrees, I’ll bring the kits to the stepping-stones at sunset. I give you my word.”
“Graystripe, don’t…” Fireheart burst out.
Graystripe turned his yellow eyes to his friend. Fireheart saw pain there, and measureless unhappiness, but also a determination that made him realize there was something in his friend’s mind that Fireheart himself did not yet understand.
“Don’t…” he repeated softly, but Graystripe did not reply.
Sandstorm pushed her nose into Fireheart’s fur and murmured a few words of comfort, but Fireheart felt too numb to respond. He was vaguely aware of Cinderpaw nudging Sandstorm on the other side and whispering, “Not now, Sandstorm. There’s nothing we can say. Leave him be.”
Bluestar bowed her head for several long moments. Fireheart could see how much of her hastily summoned strength was ebbing away in the confrontation, and how desperately she needed rest. At last she spoke. “Graystripe, are you sure?”
The gray warrior lifted his chin. “Quite sure.”
“In that case,” Bluestar went on, “I agree to your demands, Leopardfur. Graystripe will bring the kits to the stepping-stones at sunset.”
Leopardfur looked startled to win an agreement so quickly. She exchanged a glance with Blackclaw, almost as if she were asking if there could be trickery here. “Then we will hold you to your word,” she meowed, turning back to the ThunderClan leader. “In the name of StarClan, see that you keep it.” She dipped her head to Bluestar and led her cats away. Fireheart watched them go and turned to plead once more with Graystripe, but his friend was already vanishing into the nursery.
As the sun slid down behind the trees, Fireheart waited by the gorse tunnel. Leaves rustled above his head, and the air was filled with the warm scents of late newleaf, but Fireheart was barely conscious of his surroundings. His mind was full of thoughts of Graystripe. There was no way he was going to let his friend give up his kits without making one last attempt to stop him.
At last Graystripe emerged from the nursery, herding the two kits on stumpy, unsteady legs in front of him. The small dark-gray tom already looked as if he would grow into a sturdy warrior, while the she-cat with her silvery coat was a copy of her mother, promising the same beauty and swiftness.
Goldenflower followed them out of the nursery and dipped her head to touch noses with both kits. “Farewell, my beloveds,” she mewed sadly.
The two kits let out bewildered meows as Graystripe nudged them away, and Goldenflower’s own kits nuzzled their mother’s flank, as if they meant to comfort her.
“Graystripe—” Fireheart began, stepping forward as his friend approached with the kits.
“Don’t say anything,” Graystripe interrupted him. “You’ll understand soon. Will you come with me to the stepping-stones? I…I need your help to carry the kits.”
“Of course, if you want me to.” Fireheart was ready to agree to anything that seemed to offer the smallest chance of persuading Graystripe to change his mind and keep the kits.
The two warriors padded together through the forest, as they had done so many times before. They each carried one of the kits; the tiny scraps mewed and wriggled as if they wanted to walk on their own paws. Fireheart did not know how his friend could bear to give them up. Had Bluestar felt like this, he wondered, when she looked on her own kits for the last time before letting Oakheart have them?
By the time they reached the stepping-stones, the red light of sunset was fading. The moon was beginning to rise, and the river was a silvery ribbon that reflected the pale sky. Its liquid murmur filled the air, and the long grass on the edge of the shore felt fresh and cool beneath Fireheart’s paws.
Fireheart set down the kit he was carrying in a soft clump of grass, and Graystripe placed the other gently beside it. Then he moved away a pace or two, jerking his head for Fireheart to follow him. “You were right,” he meowed. “I can’t give up my kits.”
Sudden joy flooded through Fireheart. Graystripe had changed his mind! They could take the kits home, and face up to the threat from RiverClan, whatever it might be. Then his heart froze as Graystripe went on.
“I’m going with them. They’re all I have left of Silverstream, and she told me to take care of them. I’d die if I were parted from them.”
Fireheart stared at him, his mouth dropping open. “What? You can’t!” he gasped. “You belong to ThunderClan.”
Graystripe shook his head. “Not anymore. They don’t want me, not since they found out about me and Silverstream. They’ll never trust me again. I don’t even know if I want them to trust me anymore. I don’t think I’ve got any Clan loyalty left.”
His words clutched at Fireheart’s belly like the claws of an enemy, trying to tear it into shreds. “Oh, Graystripe,” he whispered. “What about me? I want you there. I’d trust you with my life, and I’d never betray you.”
Graystripe’s yellow eyes were brimming with sorrow. “I know,” he murmured. “No cat ever had such a friend as you. I’d give my life for you; you know that.”
“Then stay in ThunderClan!”
“I can’t. That’s the only thing I can’t do for you. I belong with my kits, and they belong in RiverClan. Oh, Fireheart, Fireheart…” His voice trailed off into an anguished wail. “I’m being torn in two!”
Fireheart pressed close to him, licking his ear and feeling the trembling that racked his friend’s powerful body. They had been through so much together. Graystripe had been the first Clan cat he had ever spoken to, as a kittypet lost in the woods. He had been his first friend in ThunderClan. They had trained together and been made warriors together. They had hunted in the hot days of greenleaf when the air was filled with scent and the murmuring of bees, and through a bitter leaf-bare when the whole world was frozen. Together they had discovered the truth about Tigerclaw, and risked Bluestar’s anger to do it.
And now it was coming to an end.
But worst of all, Fireheart could not find the words to argue with his friend. It was true that ThunderClan still mistrusted the gray warrior for his love of Silverstream, and they showed no sign that they would ever fully accept his kits. If they had fought to keep them, it would have been only for the honor of the Clan. Fireheart could see no future for his friend or the kits in ThunderClan.
At last Graystripe moved away and went back to call the kits. They stumbled up to him, mewling in tiny, high-pitched voices. “It’s time,” he meowed softly to Fireheart. “I’ll see you at the next Gathering.”
“It won’t be the same.”
Graystripe held his gaze for a long moment. “No, it won’t be the same.” Then he turned and carried one of the kits down the shore to the stepping-stones, leaping
over the gaps with the kit gripped safely by the scruff. On the opposite bank, a gray shape slipped out of the reeds and stood waiting while Graystripe returned for the second kit.
Fireheart recognized Mistyfoot, Silverstream’s best friend. He knew she would love these kits as much as her own. But no cat could feel more strongly for Graystripe than Fireheart had done, for four long seasons.
Never again, his heart was crying. No more patrols, no more play-fights, or sharing tongues in the den after a day of hunting. No more laughter shared or dangers faced together. It’s over.
There was nothing he could do or say. He watched helplessly as Graystripe and the second kit reached the far riverbank. Mistyfoot touched noses with the gray warrior, then bent to sniff the kits. With unspoken agreement, she and Graystripe each picked up a kit, and all four cats disappeared into the reeds.
Fireheart stayed there for a long time, watching the silver water as it slid past the shore. When the moon had risen above the trees, he forced himself to his paws, and padded back into the forest.
He felt a sadness and a loneliness greater than anything he had ever felt before, but at the same time he could sense a surge of energy rising from deep inside himself. He had revealed the truth about Tigerclaw and stopped the deputy from causing any more destruction within the Clan. Bluestar had honored him beyond measure by choosing him to be her second in command. He could go on from this moment, guided by his leader, and with Spottedleaf and StarClan watching over him.
Unconsciously, his pace quickened, and by the time Fireheart reached the ravine he was running, his flame-colored pelt a blur in the lilac dusk, eager to return to ThunderClan and his new life as their deputy.
About the Author
ERIN HUNTER is inspired by a love of cats and a fascination with the ferocity of the natural world. As well as having a great respect for nature in all its forms, Erin enjoys creating rich mythical explanations for animal behavior, shaped by her interest in astrology and standing stones.