Fireheart felt his breath catch in his chest, but he knew he had to protect his own Clan. “You can show them how to make the healing mixture, can’t you?” he suggested.
Cinderpelt nodded.
“Okay,” Fireheart went on. “If you do that, they’ll be able to take care of themselves, maybe even help their Clanmates.” The thought that he was not totally abandoning the desperate ShadowClan cats came as a relief, but he still felt the need to explain why he was turning them away. “Cinderpelt, I have to listen to Spottedleaf….” A hard lump of sadness choked him into silence. The scent of ferns around him made the memory of the medicine cat even sharper, for this was where she had lived and worked.
“You talk about her as if she is still alive,” murmured Cinderpelt, closing her eyes. “Why can’t you let her rest with StarClan? I know she was special to you, but remember what Yellowfang said to me when I couldn’t stop thinking about Silverstream: Put your energy into today. Stop worrying about the past.”
“What’s wrong with remembering Spottedleaf?” Fireheart protested.
“Because while you’re dreaming about her, there’s another cat—a living one—right under your nose whom you should be thinking about instead.”
Fireheart stared at Cinderpelt, puzzled. “What are you talking about?”
“Haven’t you noticed?”
“Noticed what?”
Cinderpelt opened her eyes and lifted her head. “Fireheart, every cat in the Clan can see that Sandstorm is very, very fond of you!”
Fireheart felt a hot flush spread through his fur and he started to protest, but Cinderpelt ignored him. “Now go away and let me rest,” she muttered, resting her chin on her paws once more. “I’ll tell Littlecloud and Whitethroat to leave tomorrow, I promise.”
By the time Fireheart reached the fern tunnel he could hear Cinderpelt’s gentle snoring mingling with the steady rasps of Yellowfang. His mind was still reeling as he padded into the clearing. He knew Sandstorm liked and respected him, far more than he would ever have expected when he first joined the Clan, but it had never occurred to him that she felt anything stronger than friendship for him. Suddenly he pictured the soft sparkle in her pale green eyes when she had licked his stinging paws, and his fur began to prickle with a sensation he had not felt before.
CHAPTER 14
Over the next few days, the streams in ThunderClan territory dwindled until the only freshwater to be found was near the RiverClan border, on the far side of Sunningrocks.
“There’s never been a summer like it,” grumbled One-Eye. “The forest is as dry as a kit’s bedding.”
Fireheart was searching the sky for clouds, sending a silent prayer to StarClan that rain would come soon. The drought was forcing the ThunderClan cats to fetch water nearer and nearer to the place where Cinderpelt had sheltered the sick ShadowClan cats, and he didn’t want to risk any of the patrols coming into contact with lingering traces of disease. At the same time, he was almost grateful for the distraction of worrying about water, which left him less time to dwell on what had happened to Cloudpaw, and where his apprentice might be now.
The sunhigh patrol had just returned, and Frostfur was organizing a party of elders and queens to go to the river to drink. They gathered in the narrow shadows at the edge of the clearing.
“Why would StarClan send such a drought now?” Smallear complained. Out of the corner of his eye Fireheart saw the old gray tom glance in his direction, and he remembered with a shiver the elder’s warning about the broken rituals.
“It’s not the dryness that bothers me,” rasped One-Eye. “It’s all the Twolegs out in the forest. I’ve never heard so many crashing around, scaring off the prey and ruining our scent markers with their stench. A bit of rain might drive them away.”
“Well, I’m worried about Willowpelt,” meowed Speckletail. “It’s quite a journey to the stream and back, and she doesn’t like to leave her kits for so long. But if she doesn’t drink, her milk’ll dry up and her kits will starve.”
“Goldenflower too,” Patchpelt put in. “Perhaps if we each carried back moss soaked in water, they could lick the moisture from that?” he suggested.
“That’s a great idea,” Fireheart meowed. He wondered why he hadn’t thought of that himself. Perhaps he had been trying to put the nursery—and one kit in particular—out of his mind. “Can you bring some back today?”
The old black-and-white tom nodded.
“We’ll all bring some,” offered Speckletail.
“Thank you.” Fireheart blinked gratefully at her. He couldn’t help thinking with a pang of regret how eagerly Cloudpaw would have volunteered to help the elders. He’d always been particularly close to them, listening to their stories at night and sometimes even sharing their meals. It stung Fireheart, if he let himself think about it for too long, that the elders hardly seemed to notice Cloudpaw’s absence. Was Fireheart the only cat in ThunderClan who thought Cloudpaw could have adjusted to life in the forest? He shook his ears irritably. Perhaps Bluestar was right, and the young cat had made the right decision to leave. But it didn’t stop Fireheart from missing him with an unexpected intensity.
He called to Sandstorm and Brackenfur, who were resting in the shade of the nettle patch after the sunhigh patrol. They leaped up at once and trotted over to him.
“Would you escort Smallear and the others?” Fireheart meowed. “I don’t know how close to the river they’ll have to go, and they’ll need some backup if they bump into a RiverClan patrol.” He paused. “I know you’re tired, but the other cats are out training, and I need to stay with Whitestorm to guard the camp.”
“No problem,” meowed Brackenfur easily.
“I’m not tired, Fireheart,” insisted Sandstorm, fixing him with her leaf-green gaze.
Fireheart’s paws tingled as he remembered what Cinderpelt had told him a few nights ago. “Er, great,” he meowed, a little too loudly. He began washing his chest self-consciously, his licks becoming brisker as he noticed that Brackenfur’s whiskers were twitching with amusement.
He was relieved when the group padded out of the gorse tunnel leaving him in the deserted clearing. Whitestorm was with Bluestar, in her den. Willowpelt and Goldenflower were in the nursery with their kits. Fireheart had noticed Tigerclaw’s kit padding around the camp on unsteady legs these past few days, encouraged by Goldenflower. He’d found himself avoiding its eyes, and had looked on warily as, little by little, it joined in with Clan life.
Now, as he listened to it mewling with the other kits, Fireheart’s main thought was how hungry it would be if its mother didn’t get water soon. He hoped that the cats wouldn’t have to travel all the way to the river, and he pictured the band of queens and elders moving slowly through the undergrowth with Sandstorm beside them, her orange fur glowing among the green fronds. With a jolt, he remembered the sick ShadowClan cats. What if Cinderpelt hadn’t really sent them away and they were still hiding there?
Fireheart shuddered. He hurried toward Yellowfang’s clearing and nearly bumped into Cinderpelt limping out of the tunnel entrance.
“What’s the matter with you?” she mewed cheerily, and then she looked at the frown on Fireheart’s face and her expression changed.
“Did you tell Littlecloud and Whitethroat they must leave?” Fireheart whispered urgently.
“We’ve been through all this already.” Cinderpelt sighed impatiently.
“Are you sure they’ve gone?”
“They promised to leave that night.” Her blue eyes challenged Fireheart to argue with her.
“And there’s no stench of sickness left?” he persisted, his fur pricking with worry.
“Look!” she snapped. “I told them to leave and they said they would. I don’t have time for this. There are berries to be collected, and the birds will get them if I don’t. If you don’t believe me about the ShadowClan cats, why don’t you check for yourself?”
A low yowl came from the medicine cat’s den. “I don’t know
who you’re mewing at out there, but stop it now and go and fetch those berries!”
“Sorry, Yellowfang,” Cinderpelt called over her shoulder. “I’m just talking to Fireheart.” Her eyes flashed accusingly at him as Yellowfang’s voice sounded again.
“Well, tell him to stop wasting your time, or he’ll have me to answer to!”
Cinderpelt’s shoulders relaxed and her whiskers twitched with amusement. Fireheart felt a pang of guilt. “I’m sorry to keep going on about it, Cinderpelt. It’s not that I don’t trust you. It’s just that I—”
“You’re just a fretful old badger,” she told him, nudging him affectionately on his shoulder. “Go and check out the root cave for yourself, if you want to put your mind at rest.” She brushed past him and limped toward the camp entrance.
Cinderpelt was right. Fireheart knew he would be satisfied only once he’d seen the ancient oak himself to make sure it was free of both ShadowClan cats and sickness. But he couldn’t leave now. He and Whitestorm were the only warriors in the camp. His fur itching with frustration and worry, Fireheart began to pace the clearing. As he turned below the Highrock to retrace his steps yet again, he spotted Whitestorm padding toward him.
“Have you decided on the evening patrol yet?” called the white warrior.
“I thought Runningwind could take Thornpaw and Mousefur.”
“Good idea,” answered Whitestorm distractedly. He clearly had something on his mind. “Could Brightpaw go with the dawn patrol tomorrow?” he asked. “The experience will do her good. I…I haven’t been keeping up with her training lately.” Whitestorm’s ear twitched and, with a twinge of unease, Fireheart realized that the white warrior had been spending more and more of his time with Bluestar. He couldn’t help suspecting that Whitestorm was afraid of what the ThunderClan leader might do if he left her alone for too long. At the same time Fireheart felt guiltily relieved that there was another cat in the Clan—the most respected senior warrior, no less—who shared his concerns for their troubled leader.
“Of course,” he agreed.
Whitestorm sat down beside Fireheart and looked around the clearing. “It’s quiet this afternoon.”
“Sandstorm and Brackenfur have taken the elders and queens to drink by the river. Patchpelt suggested bringing back moss soaked with water for Willowpelt and Goldenflower.”
Whitestorm nodded. “Perhaps they could share some with Bluestar. She seems reluctant to leave the camp.” The old warrior lowered his voice. “She’s been licking the dew from the leaves each morning, but she needs more than that in this heat.”
Fireheart felt a fresh wave of anxiety swell in his chest. “She seemed so much better the other day.”
“She is getting better all the time,” the white warrior assured him. “But still, she…” His deep mew trailed away and, although Fireheart felt shaken by the dark frown on the old warrior’s face, there was no need to say any more.
“I understand,” he murmured. “I’ll ask Patchpelt to take her some when they return.”
“Thank you.” Whitestorm narrowed his eyes at Fireheart. “You’re doing very well, you know,” he remarked calmly.
Fireheart sat up. “What do you mean?”
“Being deputy. I know it hasn’t been easy, with Bluestar…the way she is, and the drought. But I doubt there’s a cat in the Clan who would deny that Bluestar made the right choice when she appointed you.”
Apart from Darkstripe, Dustpelt, and half the elders, Fireheart responded silently. Then he realized he was being churlish, and he blinked gratefully at the white warrior. “Thank you, Whitestorm,” he purred. He couldn’t help feeling encouraged by such high praise from this wise cat, whose opinion he valued as much as Bluestar’s.
“And I’m sorry about Cloudpaw,” Whitestorm went on gently. “It must be very hard for you. After all, he was your kin, and I think it is too easy for Clanborn cats to take that bond for granted.”
Fireheart was taken aback by the warrior’s shrewdness. “Well, yes,” he began hesitantly. “I do miss him. Not just because he was my kin. I truly believe he could have made a good warrior in the end.” He glanced sideways at Whitestorm, half expecting the old cat to contradict him, but to his surprise the warrior was nodding.
“He was a good hunter, and a good friend to the other apprentices,” Whitestorm agreed. “But perhaps StarClan has a different destiny for him. I am no medicine cat; I cannot read the stars like Yellowfang or Cinderpelt, but I have always been willing to trust our warrior ancestors, wherever they might lead our Clan.”
And that is what makes you such a noble warrior, Fireheart thought, filled with admiration for Whitestorm’s loyalty to the warrior code. If Cloudpaw had had one whisker’s worth of such understanding, perhaps things would have been very different….
The sound of pebbles clattering outside the camp wall made both cats jump. Fireheart dashed to the camp entrance. Speckletail and the others were crashing down the rocky slope, sending grit and dirt crumbling around them. Their fur was bristling and their eyes were filled with alarm.
“Twolegs!” Speckletail panted as she reached the foot of the ravine.
Fireheart looked up to where Brackenfur and Sandstorm were helping the eldest cats as they struggled down from boulder to boulder.
“It’s okay,” Sandstorm called down. “We lost them.”
When they were all safely at the bottom, Brackenfur explained, his breath coming in frightened gasps: “There was a group of young ones. They chased us!”
Fireheart’s fur bristled with alarm as a terrified mewing broke out among the other cats. “Are you all okay?” he meowed.
Sandstorm looked around the group and nodded.
“Good.” Fireheart steadied himself with a deep breath. “Where were these Twolegs? Were they by the river?”
“We hadn’t even reached Sunningrocks,” answered Sandstorm. Her voice grew calmer as she got her breath back, and her eyes began to gleam with indignation. “They were loose in the woods, not on the usual Twoleg paths.”
Fireheart tried not to betray his alarm. Twolegs rarely ventured this deep into the forest. “We shall have to wait till dark to fetch water,” he decided out loud.
“Do you think they’ll be gone by then?” asked One-Eye shakily.
“Why would they stay?” Fireheart tried to sound reassuring despite his private doubts. Who could predict what a Twoleg might do?
“But what about Willowpelt and Goldenflower?” fretted Speckletail. “They’ll need water before then.”
“I’ll go and fetch some,” offered Sandstorm.
“No,” meowed Fireheart. “I’ll go.” Fetching water for Willowpelt would give him a perfect opportunity to take Cinderpelt’s advice and check for himself that the ShadowClan cats and their sickness had gone from the cave beneath the old oak. He nodded to Sandstorm. “I need you to stay at the top of the ravine and look out for Twolegs.” One-Eye let out an anxious mew. “I’m sure they’ll have turned back by now,” Fireheart soothed the elder. “But you’ll be safe with Sandstorm on guard.” He looked into the orange she-cat’s sparkling emerald eyes and knew he spoke the truth.
“I’ll come with you,” meowed Brackenfur.
Fireheart shook his head. He had to make this journey alone to avoid any other cats finding out about Cinderpelt’s foolish good deed. “You’ll need to guard the camp with Whitestorm,” he told the pale ginger warrior. “And I want you to report what you saw in the forest just now to Bluestar. I’ll carry back as much moss as I can. The rest of you will have to wait till sunset.”
Fireheart and Sandstorm climbed the ravine together, cautiously sniffing the air as they approached the top. There was no scent of Twolegs here.
“Be careful,” whispered Sandstorm as Fireheart prepared to head into the forest.
He licked the top of her head. “I will,” he promised softly.
Green eyes met green eyes for a long moment; then Fireheart turned and crept warily through the trees. He kep
t to the thickest undergrowth, his ears pricked and his mouth half-open as he strained his senses to pick up any signs of Twolegs. He smelled their unnatural stench as he approached Sunningrocks, but it was stale now.
Fireheart turned and cut through the woods to the slope above the river that marked the RiverClan border. As he checked for RiverClan patrols, he couldn’t help looking out for the familiar gray head of his friend, Graystripe. But there was no sign of any cats in the airless forest. Fireheart would be able to fetch water from the stream without being challenged, but first he had to check the cave beneath the ancient oak.
He headed along the border, stopping at every other tree to leave his scent and freshen the boundary between the two Clans. Even this close to the river, the forest had lost its newleaf lushness and the leaves looked shriveled and worn. Fireheart soon spotted the gnarled oak, and as he drew near he saw the dusty cave where the ShadowClan cats had sheltered.
He breathed in deeply. The stench of sickness had gone. With a sigh of relief he decided to take a quick look inside and then fetch the water. He padded forward, his eyes fixed on the hole. He crouched low, then cautiously stretched his neck and peered into the makeshift den.
He let out a startled gasp as a weight dropped onto his back and claws grasped his sides. Fear and rage pulsed through him and he yowled, twisting violently in an attempt to throw off his attacker. But the cat who had ambushed him kept a firm hold. Fireheart braced himself for the pain of thorn-sharp claws in his flanks, but the paws that clutched him were wide and soft, their claws unsheathed. Then a familiar scent filled his nostrils—a scent overlaid now with the odors of RiverClan, but recognizable all the same.
“Graystripe!” he meowed joyfully.
“I thought you would never come to see me,” purred Graystripe.
Fireheart felt his old friend slip from his back and realized that Graystripe was dripping wet with river water. His own orange pelt was soaked from their tussle. He shook himself and stared in amazement at the gray warrior. “You swam across the river?” he meowed in disbelief. Every cat in ThunderClan knew how much Graystripe hated getting his thick fur wet.