Rising Storm

  “It’s Tawnykit’s first time out of the nursery,” Goldenflower told him. She glanced anxiously down at the little kit.

  “They’ve grown quickly,” Fireheart murmured.

  Goldenflower leaned down and licked each kit on the head, then padded toward Fireheart. “I understand how you feel,” she mewed quietly. “Your eyes have always betrayed your heart. But these are my kits and I will die to protect them if I have to.” She looked up into Fireheart’s eyes and he saw the intensity of her feeling in their yellow depths.

  “I’m afraid for them, Fireheart,” she went on. “The Clan will never forgive Tigerclaw—nor should they. But Bramblekit and Tawnykit have done nothing wrong, and I will not let them be punished because of Tigerclaw. I’m not even going to tell them who their father was, just that he was a brave and powerful warrior.”

  Fireheart felt a pang of sympathy for the troubled queen. “They will be safe here,” he promised, but the amber eyes of Bramblekit still made his paws prickle with unease as Goldenflower turned away.

  Behind them Whitestorm squeezed out of the nursery. “Brindleface thinks her two remaining kits are ready to begin their training,” he told Fireheart.

  “Does Bluestar know?” Fireheart asked.

  Whitestorm shook his head. “Brindleface wanted to share the news with Bluestar herself, but she hasn’t visited the nursery in days.”

  Fireheart frowned. The Clan leader usually took an interest in every aspect of Clan life, especially the nursery. Every cat knew how important it was for ThunderClan to have fine, healthy kits.

  “I suppose it’s not surprising,” Whitestorm continued. “She’s still recovering from her wounds after the battle with the rogue cats.”

  “Shall I go and tell her now?” Fireheart offered.

  “Yes. Some good news might cheer her up,” Whitestorm remarked.

  With a jolt, Fireheart realized that Whitestorm was as worried as he was about their leader. “I’m sure it will,” he agreed. “ThunderClan hasn’t had this many apprentices in moons.”

  “That reminds me,” meowed Whitestorm, his eyes suddenly brightening. “Where’s Cloudpaw? I thought he was fetching prey for the elders.”

  Fireheart glanced away awkwardly. “Er, yes, he is. I don’t know what’s taking him so long.”

  Whitestorm lifted a massive paw and gave it a lick. “The woods are not as safe as they once were,” he murmured, as if he could read Fireheart’s uneasy thoughts. “Don’t forget WindClan and ShadowClan are still angry with us for sheltering Brokentail. They don’t know yet that Brokentail is dead, and they might attack us again.”

  Brokentail had once been the leader of ShadowClan. He had nearly destroyed the other Clans in the forest with his greed for more territory. ThunderClan had helped to drive Brokentail out of his troubled Clan, but had later given him sanctuary as a blind and helpless prisoner—a merciful decision that had not been welcomed by his former enemies.

  Fireheart knew that Whitestorm was warning him as carefully as possible—the warrior hadn’t even mentioned the possibility that Tigerclaw might still be around—but his guilt at letting Cloudpaw go off alone made him defensive. “You let Brightpaw hunt alone this morning,” he retorted.

  “Yes. I told her to stay in the ravine and to be back by sunhigh.” Whitestorm’s tone was mild, but he stopped washing his paw and looked at Fireheart with concern in his eyes. “I hope Cloudpaw won’t go too far from the camp.”

  Fireheart looked away and muttered, “I should go and tell Bluestar the kits are ready.”

  “Good idea,” answered Whitestorm. “I can take Brightpaw out for some training. She hunts well, but her fighting skills need some work.”

  Silently cursing Cloudpaw, Fireheart padded away toward the Highrock. Outside Bluestar’s den, he gave his ears a quick wash and put Cloudpaw out of his mind before calling a greeting through the lichen that draped the entrance. A soft “Enter” sounded from inside, and Fireheart pushed his way slowly in.

  It was cool in the small cave, hollowed out of the base of the Highrock by an ancient stream. The sunlight that filtered through the lichen made the walls glow warmly. Bluestar sat hunched in her nest like a brooding duck. Her long gray fur was dirty and matted. Perhaps her wounds are still too sore to wash properly, Fireheart thought. His mind shied away from considering the other possibility—that his leader no longer wished to look after herself.

  But the worry he had seen in Whitestorm’s eyes pricked at him. Fireheart couldn’t help noticing how thin Bluestar looked, and he remembered the half-eaten bird she’d abandoned last night, returning alone to her den instead of staying to share tongues with her senior warriors, as she’d used to.

  The Clan leader raised her eyes as Fireheart entered, and he was relieved to see a faint spark of interest when she saw him.

  “Fireheart,” she greeted him, sitting up and lifting her chin. She held her broad gray head with the same dignity Fireheart had admired when he first met her in the woods near his old Twoleg home. It was Bluestar who had invited him to join the Clan, and her faith in him had quickly established a special bond between them.

  “Bluestar,” he began, respectfully dipping his head. “Whitestorm’s been to the nursery today. Brindleface told him her kits are ready to begin their apprenticeships.”

  Bluestar slowly widened her eyes. “Already?” she murmured.

  Fireheart waited for Bluestar to start giving orders for the apprentice ceremony. But the she-cat just stared at him.

  “Er…who do you want to be their mentors?” he prompted.

  “Mentors,” echoed Bluestar faintly.

  Fireheart’s fur began to prickle with unease.

  Suddenly a flinty hardness flared in her blue eyes. “Is there any cat we can trust to train these innocent kits?” she spat.

  Fireheart flinched, too shocked to answer. The leader’s eyes flashed once more. “Can you take them?” she demanded. “Or Graystripe?”

  Fireheart shook his head, trying to push away the alarm that jabbed at him like an adder. Had Bluestar forgotten that Graystripe was no longer part of ThunderClan? “I—I already have Cloudpaw. And Graystripe…” His words trailed away. He took a small, fast breath and began again. “Bluestar, the only warrior not fit to train these kits was Tigerclaw, and he has been exiled, remember? Any one of ThunderClan’s warriors would make a fine mentor for Brindleface’s kits.” He searched Bluestar’s face for a reaction, but she was staring unseeing at the floor of the den. “Brindleface is hoping to have a naming ceremony soon,” he persisted. “Her kits are more than ready. Cloudpaw was their littermate, and he’s been an apprentice for half a moon now.”

  Fireheart leaned forward, willing Bluestar to answer. At last the she-cat nodded her head briskly and lifted her eyes to Fireheart. With a wave of relief he saw the tension leave her shoulders. And although her gaze still seemed remote and icy, it was calmer now. “We’ll have the naming ceremony before we eat this evening,” she meowed, as if she had never doubted it.

  “So who do you want to be their mentors?” Fireheart asked cautiously. He felt a tremor ripple through his tail as Bluestar stiffened again and her gaze darted anxiously around the cave.

  “You decide.”

  Her reply was barely audible, and Fireheart decided not to press her any more. He dipped his head and meowed, “Yes, Bluestar,” before backing out of the den.

  He sat in the shade of the Highrock for a moment to gather his thoughts. Tigerclaw’s treachery must have shaken her even more than he realized if she didn’t trust any of her warriors now. Fireheart ducked his head to give his chest a reassuring lick. It was barely a quarter moon since the attack by the rogue cats. Bluestar would get over it, he told himself. Meanwhile, he had to hide her anxiety from the other cats. If the Clan was already uneasy, as Whitestorm had said, seeing Bluestar like this would only make them more alarmed.

  Fireheart flexed his shoulder muscles and padded toward the nursery. “Hi, Willowpelt,” he meo
wed as he reached the queen. The pale gray she-cat was lying on her side outside the thicket of brambles that sheltered the kits, enjoying the warmth of the sun.

  She lifted her head as Fireheart stopped beside her. “Hi, Fireheart. How’s life as a deputy?” Her eyes were gently curious and her voice was friendly, not challenging.

  “Fine,” Fireheart told her. Or it would be, if I didn’t have a pain in the neck for an apprentice, he thought with frustration, or the elders fretting about the wrath of StarClan, or a leader who can’t even decide who should mentor Brindleface’s kits.

  “Glad to hear it,” purred Willowpelt. She twisted her head to wash her back.

  “Is Brindleface around?” Fireheart asked.

  “She’s inside,” Willowpelt meowed between licks.

  “Thanks.” Fireheart pushed his way into the brambles. It was surprisingly bright inside. Sunlight streamed through gaps in the twisted branches, and Fireheart told himself he would have to get the holes patched before the cold winds of leaf-fall.

  “Hi, Brindleface,” he meowed. “Good news! Bluestar says the naming ceremony for your kits will be this evening.”

  Brindleface was lying on her side while her two pale gray kits clambered over her. “Thank StarClan for that!” she grunted as the heavier of the kits, his fur speckled with dark flecks, sprang off his mother’s flank and flung himself at his sister. “These two are getting too big for the nursery.”

  The kits tumbled over and rolled against their mother’s back in a tangle of paws and tails. Brindleface gently shoved the kits away from her and asked, “Do you know who their mentors will be?”

  Fireheart was already prepared for this question. “Bluestar hasn’t decided yet,” he explained. “Are there any warriors you’d prefer?”

  Brindleface looked surprised. “Bluestar will know best; she should decide.”

  Fireheart knew as well as any cat that it was traditional for the Clan leader to select mentors. “Yes, you’re right,” he meowed heavily.

  His fur prickled as the breeze carried the odor of Tigerclaw’s tabby kit to his scent glands. “Where’s Goldenflower?” he asked Brindleface, more sharply than he intended.

  Her eyes widened. “She’s taken her kits to meet the elders,” she replied. She narrowed her eyes at Fireheart. “You recognize Tigerclaw in his son, don’t you?”

  Fireheart nodded uncomfortably.

  “He has his father’s looks, but that’s all,” Brindleface assured him. “He’s gentle enough with the other kits, and his sister certainly keeps him in his place!”

  “Well, that’s good.” Fireheart turned away. “I’ll see you later at the ceremony,” he meowed as he pushed his way back through the entrance.

  “Does this mean Bluestar’s decided when the naming ceremony should be?” Willowpelt called over to him when he appeared outside.

  “Yes,” he answered.

  “Who will be their men…?”

  But Fireheart trotted away before he could hear the rest of Willowpelt’s question. News of the naming ceremony would spread through the camp like forest fire, and every cat would want to know the same thing. Fireheart would have to decide soon, but his nostrils were still filled with the scent of Bramblekit, and his mind whirled as dark thoughts unfolded sinister wings within him.

  Instinctively he headed for the fern tunnel that led to the medicine cat’s clearing. Yellowfang’s apprentice, Cinderpelt, would be there. Now that Graystripe had gone to live with RiverClan, Cinderpelt was Fireheart’s closest friend. He knew that the gentle gray she-cat would be able to make sense of the confused emotions that seethed in his heart.

  He quickened his pace through the cool ferns and emerged into the sunlit clearing. At one end loomed the flat face of a tall rock, split down the center. The niche in the middle of the stone was just large enough for Yellowfang to make her den and store her healing herbs.

  Fireheart was about to call when Cinderpelt limped out from the shadowy cleft in the rock. As ever, delight at seeing his friend was tempered by the pain of seeing the twisted hind leg that had prevented her from becoming a warrior. The young she-cat had been badly injured when she’d run onto the Thunderpath. Fireheart couldn’t help feeling responsible, because Cinderpelt had been his apprentice when the accident happened. But as she recovered under the watchful eye of the Clan’s medicine cat, Yellowfang had begun to teach her how to care for sick cats, taking her on as apprentice a moon and a half ago. Cinderpelt had found her place in the Clan at last.

  A large bunch of herbs dangled from Cinderpelt’s jaws as she limped into the clearing. Her face was creased in a worried frown, and she didn’t even notice Fireheart standing at the tunnel entrance. She dropped the bundle on the sun-baked ground and began sorting fretfully though the leaves with her forepaws.

  “Cinderpelt?” he meowed.

  The little cat glanced up, surprised. “Fireheart! What are you doing here? Are you sick?”

  Fireheart shook his head. “No. Is everything okay?”

  Cinderpelt looked dejectedly at the pile of leaves in front of her, and Fireheart padded over and gave her a nuzzle. “What’s the matter? Don’t tell me you spilled mouse bile in Yellowfang’s nest again?”

  “No!” replied Cinderpelt indignantly. Then she lowered her eyes. “I should never have agreed to train as a medicine cat. I’m a disaster. I should have read the signs when I found that rotting bird!”

  Fireheart remembered the moment that had happened after his naming ceremony. Cinderpelt had chosen a magpie from the fresh-kill pile to give to Bluestar, only to find that, beneath its soft feathers, it was crawling with maggots.

  “Did Yellowfang think that was an omen about you?” Fireheart asked.

  “Well, no,” Cinderpaw admitted.

  “So what makes you think you’re not cut out to be a medicine cat?” He tried not to let his mind dwell on the fact that the rotting magpie could have been an omen about another cat—his leader, Bluestar.

  Cinderpelt flicked her tail with frustration. “Yellowfang asked me to mix a poultice for her. Just a simple one for cleansing wounds. It was one of the first things she ever taught me, but now I’ve forgotten which herbs to put in it. She’s going to think I’m an idiot!” Her voice rose to a wail and her blue eyes were huge and troubled.

  “You’re no idiot, and Yellowfang knows it,” Fireheart told her robustly.

  “But it’s not the first dumb thing I’ve done lately. Yesterday I had to ask her the difference between foxglove and poppy seeds.” Cinderpelt hung her head even lower. “Yellowfang said I was a danger to the Clan.”

  “Oh, you know what Yellowfang’s like,” Fireheart reassured her. “She’s always saying things like that.” Yellowfang had been ShadowClan’s medicine cat and, although she had become part of ThunderClan after being exiled by their cruel leader, Brokentail, she still betrayed flashes of the fierce temper of a ShadowClan warrior. But one of the reasons she and Cinderpelt got on so well was that Cinderpelt was more than capable of standing up to Yellowfang’s irritable outbursts.

  Cinderpelt sighed. “I don’t think I’ve got what it takes to become a medicine cat. I thought I was doing the right thing, becoming Yellowfang’s apprentice, but it’s no good. I just can’t learn everything I need to know.”

  Fireheart crouched down until his eyes were level with Cinderpelt’s. “This is about Silverstream, isn’t it?” he meowed fiercely. He remembered the day at Sunningrocks when Graystripe’s RiverClan queen had given birth before her time. Cinderpelt had tried desperately to save her, but Silverstream had lost too much blood. The beautiful silver tabby had died, although her newborn kits had survived.

  Cinderpelt didn’t reply, and Fireheart knew he was right. “You saved her kits!” he pointed out.

  “But I lost her.”

  “You did everything you could.” Fireheart leaned forward to lick Cinderpelt on her soft gray head. “Look, just ask Yellowfang what herbs to use in the poultice. She won’t mind.”

/>   “I hope so.” Cinderpelt sounded unconvinced. Then she gave herself a shake. “I need to stop feeling sorry for myself, don’t I?”

  “Yeah,” Fireheart answered, flicking his tail at her.

  “Sorry.” Cinderpelt threw him a rueful look that glimmered with a hint of her old humor. “I don’t suppose you’ve brought any fresh-kill with you?”

  Fireheart shook his head. “Sorry. I just came to speak to you. Don’t tell me Yellowfang’s starving you?”

  “No, but this medicine-cat thing is harder than you’d think,” Cinderpelt replied. “I haven’t had the chance to take any fresh-kill today.” Her eyes flashed with curiosity. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

  “Tigerclaw’s kits.” Fireheart felt the bleakness seep into his belly again. “Especially Bramblekit.”

  “Because he looks like his father?”

  Fireheart winced. Were his feelings that easy to read? “I know I shouldn’t judge him. He’s just a kit. But when I saw him, it was as if Tigerclaw were looking at me. I…I couldn’t move.” Fireheart shook his head slowly, ashamed of his admission but glad of the chance to confide in his friend. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to trust him.”

  “If you see Tigerclaw every time you look at him, it’s not surprising you feel like that,” mewed Cinderpelt gently. “But you must look beyond the color of his pelt and try to see the cat inside. Remember, he’s not just Tigerclaw’s kit. There’s some of Goldenflower in him too. And he will never know his father. It will be the Clan that raises him.” She added, “You of all cats should know that you can’t judge someone by the circumstances of their birth.”

  Cinderpelt was right. Fireheart had never let his kittypet roots interfere with his loyalty to the Clan. “Has StarClan spoken to you about Bramblekit?” he asked, knowing that Cinderpelt and Yellowfang would have studied Silverpelt at the moment of his birth.

  His heart lurched uncomfortably as the gray cat looked away and murmured, “StarClan doesn’t always share everything with me.”