Crowfeather’s Trial

  “Ah.” Crowfeather swallowed the last of his vole and took a deep breath. “Well . . . I spoke to Onestar this morning.”

  “And?” Breezepelt asked.

  And he proved himself to be a furball, Crowfeather thought. But I shouldn’t think that of our leader. “He’s . . . reluctant to involve ThunderClan.”

  Breezepelt looked confused. “Okay. So?”

  “Like I said, we’ve already looked at all the WindClan entrances,” Crowfeather explained. “And really, Nightcloud could find her way home from any of them, even if she were injured. Now I think—if she survived—she must have come out on ThunderClan territory.”

  Breezepelt looked blank for a moment, but then his eyes lit with understanding. “You think ThunderClan has her?”

  No, no, no! Crowfeather shook his head hard. The last thing we need is Breezepelt charging into ThunderClan, demanding his mother. . . . “No, but I think she may have come out on their territory and evaded their patrols. Or else she came out on their territory and wandered elsewhere, off any Clan’s territory.”

  Breezepelt nodded. “That makes sense. So what does Onestar want to do? Talk to Bramblestar? Sneak onto their territory?”

  Crowfeather looked away. He wasn’t sure how to tell Breezepelt the truth: that Onestar seemed to want to do nothing.

  “Crowfeather?” Breezepelt asked.

  Crowfeather’s eyes lit on Hootpaw and Featherpaw, whose roughhousing had gotten more intense. “You two there, cut it out! You’re not flea-brained kits anymore!” he yelled.

  The two apprentices disentangled, looking at Crowfeather with mingled embarrassment and amusement.

  “Sorry, Crowfeather,” Featherpaw said. “Will we be leaving soon?”

  “Very,” Crowfeather replied. “Get ready.”

  “Leaving for where?” Breezepelt asked. When Crowfeather turned back to his son, he could read the disappointment in his eyes. And then his expression turned hard. “We’re not going on any patrol, are we?”

  Crowfeather flicked his ear awkwardly. “Not today . . .”

  “When, then?” Breezepelt asked, taking a step toward Crowfeather, his expression challenging. “When exactly are we finding my mother? What did you and Onestar decide?”

  The tom’s voice was rising, attracting attention from the other warriors who were collected around the fresh-kill pile, chatting and relaxing as they ate their morning meal. Crowfeather saw Harespring look over at the two of them with dread in his eyes. Even Emberfoot, who’d defended Breezepelt in the past, looked concerned about the anger in his voice.

  They’re staring. Embarrassment prickled beneath Crowfeather’s pelt. And—as it often did—he felt that embarrassment turn into annoyance with Breezepelt.

  “We can’t just go traipsing over into ThunderClan’s territory,” he meowed scornfully. “You know that, Breezepelt.” He lowered his voice. “Especially not when you practically start a battle with ThunderClan warriors the moment you catch sight of them! Don’t you think your spat with Berrynose and the others will come up the minute we ask for ThunderClan’s help?”

  “You think this is my fault?” Breezepelt exclaimed incredulously—and loudly. “I trusted you! I trusted you to speak with Onestar without me, and you bungled it all up! We’re losing time!”

  “I know,” Crowfeather hissed, his throat hot. “But we have—”

  Have to be careful, he’d meant to say. Or have to think of a way to convince Onestar.

  But it didn’t matter, because Breezepelt whirled away and stomped off before he even got past the first word.

  Watching him go, Crowfeather felt his embarrassment and anger fade into disappointment. He saw the other warriors watching Breezepelt too, disapproval in their eyes.

  But he’s not wrong, Crowfeather thought, turning back to collect the apprentices. We have to figure out a way to find Nightcloud—before it’s too late.

  The sun’s light was pure, blinding white, but the air was frigid, and Crowfeather’s, Featherpaw’s, and Hootpaw’s paws crunched against the hardened snow that clung to some parts of the moor. The sky was pure blue, dotted with silver-gray clouds.

  “I can’t wait for newleaf,” Hootpaw mewed as he and Featherpaw trailed Crowfeather. “Leaf-bare is the hardest season.”

  This leaf-bare certainly is, Crowfeather thought. And it has nothing to do with the cold or lack of prey. “Hard or not, a cat must know how to survive in all seasons,” Crowfeather replied. “So today we’ll focus on working together to catch prey.”

  He explained how changes in the terrain presented new challenges in leaf-bare. Snow that crunched beneath paws could serve as an alert system for the prey they chased—or, cats could use it to their advantage.

  “Let’s try a new technique,” Crowfeather went on. “Hootpaw, I want you to wait behind this bush, where the snow is piled. When prey approaches the bush, you move your paws to crunch the snow—that will startle the prey, and it’ll run toward us. Then Featherpaw—it’s your job to surprise it and make the killing blow.”

  The apprentices eagerly agreed, and Hootpaw settled down, hidden behind the bush in the hardened snow. Crowfeather crawled into a small indentation in the ground to watch. All three cats grew silent.

  It seemed like a long time before a tiny brown mouse, fluffed up in the cold, darted into the bush from a nearby hole. Crowfeather watched, not making a sound, as Hootpaw’s eyes widened and then he scrambled to his paws, scrabbling them on the ground to make a satisfying crunch. Unfortunately, Hootpaw was so excited, or so cold, that he stood awkwardly and slid on the snow. As his paws went out from under him, Hootpaw fell on his back in the snow, making the expected crunch—but not in the intended way at all.

  The mouse was still startled, though, and began to dart back to the hole. Crowfeather turned expectantly to Featherpaw, only to find her doubled over with amusement, her eyes dancing as she stared at Hootpaw.

  As the mouse passed near Featherpaw, she made a halfhearted attempt to grab it, but her attention was still clearly on Hootpaw.

  “Pay attention!” Crowfeather snapped.

  The mouse slipped easily back into its hole. When it was gone, both Featherpaw and Hootpaw dissolved into laughter.

  “I’m sorry!” Featherpaw mewed. “It’s just . . . Hootpaw looked so ridiculous!”

  Hootpaw, who was still lying on his back, shook his head. “It was an accident! The snow was so slippery. . . .”

  Crowfeather got to his feet and stalked toward them, his neck fur ruffled with annoyance. “Do you think this is a game?” he asked.

  Both apprentices abruptly stopped laughing, looking up at him with regret.

  “No . . . ,” mewed Hootpaw. “It’s just . . .”

  Crowfeather turned his attention to Featherpaw. “Do you think your Clanmates’ bellies will be filled with your amusement? Do you think a good warrior turns away from a hunt to entertain her friends?”

  Now Featherpaw really looked ashamed. “No, Crowfeather.” She cast her eyes at the ground.

  Crowfeather strode to a stop just in front of her. “You’re usually a good apprentice,” he murmured. When he sensed Hootpaw shifting uncomfortably from where he stood, Crowfeather turned to him and added, “You usually are, too, Hootpaw. At least, I have every reason to believe that from Nightcloud.”

  Hootpaw swallowed and nodded, his eyes on the ground.

  Crowfeather let out a sigh. Am I being too hard on them? Hootpaw lost Nightcloud, too.

  He nodded. “Right, then. Let’s try that again. Maybe we’re all just a little off today.”

  Or maybe it’s going to be hard to handle two apprentices at once, Crowfeather mused as he stalked back to the indentation in the ground, settling in and focusing his attention on the bush Hootpaw hid behind.

  Just one more reason we need Nightcloud back as soon as possible. . . .

  CHAPTER 8

  Crowfeather limped through the tunnels, lost in the darkness with no idea of where he was going. He
couldn’t remember fighting against the stoats, but one of his paws was bleeding from a bite and several of his claws had been ripped out. He felt so exhausted that he could hardly force himself to put one paw in front of another.

  But I have to keep going. I have to find Nightcloud.

  Then Crowfeather saw movement ahead, though how he could see anything in this thick darkness was a mystery to him. At first he thought it must be more stoats, but after a moment he recognized that it was a cat’s tail, whisking around the bends in the tunnel, always just ahead of him.

  Nightcloud!

  But then he noticed that this cat’s tail was gray, not black. Then who . . . ? At last Crowfeather realized who the cat must be. “Ashfoot!” he called out, warmth spreading through his pelt in anticipation of seeing his mother again. “Ashfoot!”

  Summoning all his strength, Crowfeather put on a burst of speed and rounded the next corner. There she is! Ashfoot was sitting beside the tunnel wall where the passage widened out into a small cave. Her gray fur glimmered with a pale light, and her eyes shone as she gazed at Crowfeather.

  “Oh, Ashfoot,” Crowfeather whispered. Here in the tunnels, under his mother’s gentle gaze, he didn’t have to be the fierce, unapproachable warrior that his Clan knew. “I miss you so much. . . . But why are you here? Why aren’t you in StarClan?”

  “I can’t leave you yet,” his mother replied. “There are tasks you must do. You could lose everything.”

  Crowfeather scowled. “Do you mean Breezepelt?” he asked with a sigh. “Are you yet another cat telling me I have to work things out with him?”

  Ashfoot shook her head sadly and gestured with her tail toward the other side of the cave. Crowfeather turned and saw a pool of blood spreading out on the cave floor from a mound of black fur beside the wall. He glanced at Ashfoot, confused, but his mother said nothing. He turned and padded toward the black shape, carefully skirting the dark, sticky pool. His heart slammed into his throat as he realized he was looking at a dead cat.

  “Nightcloud!”

  Crowfeather woke with a gasp. He was lying in his own nest under the stars, his breathing fast and shallow and his heart pounding so hard he thought it would burst out of his chest.

  It was a dream . . . , he told himself. Just a dream . . . It doesn’t mean Nightcloud is really dead. It doesn’t.

  He lay still until his breathing settled and his heartbeat calmed, but he didn’t think he would get any more sleep that night. He felt too tense: He was worrying about Nightcloud, afraid that if she was dead they would never have the chance to settle their unfinished business. He wondered whether Kestrelflight’s vision of the flood could be related to Nightcloud’s disappearance. The clash with the ThunderClan warriors came back into his mind, too, and he imagined the whole of the Clan pouring out of the tunnels, just as Breezepelt had suggested, ready to attack WindClan.

  Across the den, he could hear a cat tossing and thrashing around. Breezepelt. His son hadn’t slept quietly in the short amount of time since they’d lost Nightcloud. Slowly, Crowfeather rose to his paws and gave his pelt a shake.

  The truth was, he couldn’t ignore the dream he’d just had. He was no medicine cat, but he knew it meant something. He also realized knew that Onestar was unlikely to approve another patrol for what he already felt was a lost cause—certainly not on ThunderClan territory, which was where Crowfeather meant to go. If any cat saw him leave, they’d likely stop him and tell him as much. Still, he couldn’t just lie around until morning, worrying himself into a froth. He had to do something. I have to go look for Nightcloud. And if he left now, he could survey the ThunderClan territory before the dawn patrol arrived.

  Crowfeather padded over to Breezepelt, avoiding the sleeping bodies of his Clanmates, keeping his head turned away from the empty nest of moss and bracken where Nightcloud used to sleep. His son wanted to find Nightcloud even more than he did. He’d want to go. But by the time Crowfeather reached his son’s nest, Breezepelt had settled down a little, and Crowfeather changed his mind.

  It would be unkind to wake him now. Besides, there will be less chance of getting caught if I go alone.

  Hesitantly he stretched out a paw and held it just above his son’s shoulder, not quite touching. He almost drew it back, but then he laid it on Breezepelt’s fur, murmuring, “It will be all right.”

  He was rewarded by seeing Breezepelt sink into a deeper sleep, though his ears twitched now and again, and he let out faint whimpers. Crowfeather left him and slipped away to the edge of the camp, waiting for the first light of dawn to touch the moor.

  As soon as he could make out the line of the ridge above the camp, and the memorial pile of stones, Crowfeather rose to his paws and slid silently out of the camp, stepping as lightly as if he were stalking a mouse. As soon as he was well clear, where no cat was likely to hear him, he picked up his pace and raced down the hill toward the tunnels.

  A strong drive to find Nightcloud gave strength and energy to Crowfeather’s limbs. He pushed away any thought of the risks he was taking, except to feel glad that he hadn’t taken Breezepelt with him. He didn’t want to expose his son to any more danger. He’d already been through enough.

  Am I worrying about finding Nightcloud because I want to protect Breezepelt? he asked himself. Nightcloud and I weren’t on the best terms when she disappeared, but his life will surely be easier if I bring her back. . . . If nothing else, he won’t have to beat himself up over losing her.

  He considered the question for a long time, but he wasn’t sure of his own intentions. He knew he owed Nightcloud a great debt, too. . . . Perhaps I need to repay her for the way things ended between us. Either way, he couldn’t leave her out here. He had to find her—dead or alive. At least then they’d know what happened to her.

  Crowfeather didn’t enter the tunnels on the WindClan side. Instead he skirted the steep bank and the dark, gaping holes as he followed his own scent trail back to the border stream. With every paw step he kept his ears pricked and his jaws parted to pick up the faintest sound or scent of the white stoats, but nothing disturbed the silence of the night.

  Every hair on his pelt prickled with apprehension as he bounded lightly across the stepping stones and onto ThunderClan territory.

  If the ThunderClan cats find me here, after what happened yesterday, he thought, then I’ll really be in trouble. Still, it would be worth it, if he could bring Nightcloud home.

  It was too early for the dawn patrol, but Crowfeather stayed alert in case there was a cat or two out for some night hunting. He slid furtively through the undergrowth, shivering as the frosty grass scraped along his pelt. He reached the tunnel entrance where he and Breezepelt had met the ThunderClan cats, but he couldn’t pick up even the faintest trace of Nightcloud there.

  His belly was churning as he moved on to where he thought he could find another entrance. He didn’t know this territory well, and every heartbeat that passed made him fear that an unexpected ThunderClan patrol would find him.

  The first birds were beginning to twitter as Crowfeather approached the next tunnel entrance, low down between a couple of rocks that jutted out of the forest floor. There he stopped, quivering. A tail-length from the nearest boulder he picked up a scent: faded and stale, but unmistakably Nightcloud’s.

  She was here.

  Hope sprang up inside Crowfeather at finding proof that Nightcloud had left the tunnels alive, that the stoats hadn’t killed her. Breezepelt was right. She is a fierce warrior. . . .

  Then he saw a smear of blood on the rock. No!

  She was wounded, then . . . but how badly? If she escaped from the tunnels, why didn’t she come home? For a moment Crowfeather wondered whether it had something to do with the way he and Nightcloud had argued, then gave his head a dismissive shake.

  It’s not always about you, mouse-brain! he chided himself. Nightcloud is far too loyal to leave her Clan over an argument with you—she doesn’t even like you.

  Forgetting all about pos
sible ThunderClan patrols, Crowfeather put his nose to the ground and began to follow Nightcloud’s scent. It veered in the direction of the WindClan border, but from here she had a long way to go. With every paw step Crowfeather was afraid that he would find her body, but although he spotted more traces of blood, the scent trail did not disappear.

  Then Crowfeather came to a shallow dip in the ground, with a pool of water at the bottom surrounded by ferns. Nightcloud’s scent led down toward the water; flattened and broken grass stems suggested that she had fallen or slid down. He traced her path through the ferns, guessing that she must have been desperate for a drink of water. Maybe she was still there, waiting for her Clan to come find her!

  But as Crowfeather reached the water’s edge, his remaining hope vanished. A flattened patch among the plants that overhung the pool told him where Nightcloud must have lain down. Blood had soaked into the ground and was clotted on the fern fronds. And Nightcloud’s scent was almost drowned by the mingled smells around the pool: the faint, stale tang of dog and Twolegs, and the overwhelming reek of fox.

  Crowfeather shivered. Did the fox get her? That’s most likely. She would have already been injured, perhaps too exhausted to fight it off. He pictured the black she-cat, weak and wounded, her glossy fur matted with blood, turning on the fox with her teeth bared and her claws out, using the last of her strength in a desperate attempt to escape its cruel fangs.

  She was so brave. . . . She wouldn’t be easy prey.

  Crowfeather bent his head to the flattened patch of plants and breathed in Nightcloud’s scent. He felt a sharp pain in his chest, as if every thorn in the forest were digging into him. She was a loyal WindClan warrior. We’re not too far into ThunderClan territory . . . she would have known where she was. If she were alive, she would have done whatever it took to get back to camp. Oh, Nightcloud . . .

  He realized that while he and Nightcloud had never loved each other as mates were meant to, he cared about her more than he had ever admitted. He admired her strength and her loyalty, and the way she had always protected Breezepelt. Crowfeather knew now that he had never appreciated what a good mother she had been.