Graystripe gave himself a quick shake, and the water spattered easily from his pelt. His long fur, which used to soak up water like moss, looked sleek and glossy. “It’s quicker than going down to the stepping-stones,” he pointed out. “Besides, my fur doesn’t seem to hold the water as much anymore. One of the advantages of eating fish, I suppose.”
“About the only one, I should think,” answered Fireheart, screwing up his face. He couldn’t imagine how the strong flavor of fish could compare to the subtle, musky flavors of ThunderClan’s forest prey.
“It’s not so bad once you get used to it,” meowed Graystripe. He blinked warmly at Fireheart. “You look well.”
“You too,” Fireheart purred back.
“How is everyone? Is Dustpelt still being a pain? How’s Bluestar?”
“Dustpelt’s fine,” Fireheart began, and then hesitated. “Bluestar is…” He searched for words, unsure how much to tell his old friend about the ThunderClan leader.
“What’s up?” asked Graystripe, his eyes narrowing.
Fireheart realized that the gray warrior knew him too well to miss his reaction. His ears flicked self-consciously.
“Bluestar’s all right, isn’t she?” Graystripe’s voice was thick with concern.
“She’s fine,” Fireheart assured him quickly, relieved—it was his anxiety about the ThunderClan leader that Graystripe had detected, not his wariness of his old friend. “But she hasn’t really been her old self lately. Not since Tigerclaw…” He trailed off uncertainly.
Graystripe frowned. “Have you seen that old poisonpaws since he left?”
Fireheart shook his head. “Not a sign of him. I don’t know how Bluestar would react if she saw him again.”
“She’d scratch his eyes out, if I know her,” purred Graystripe. “I can’t imagine anything keeping Bluestar down for long.”
I wish that were true, Fireheart thought sadly. He looked into Graystripe’s curious eyes, knowing with a pang of sadness that his desire to confide in his old friend had been an impossible dream. Graystripe was a member of RiverClan now, and Fireheart had to accept with a heavy heart that he couldn’t share the details of his leader’s weakness with a cat from another Clan. And he also realized that he wasn’t prepared to tell Graystripe about Cloudpaw’s disappearance—at least, not yet. Fireheart tried to tell himself this was because he didn’t want to worry Graystripe when his friend was unable to help, anyway. But he suspected his silence might have more to do with pride. He didn’t want Graystripe to know that he had failed as a mentor for a second time, so soon after Cinderpelt’s accident.
“What’s it like in RiverClan?” he meowed, deliberately changing the subject.
Graystripe shrugged. “Not much different from ThunderClan. Some of them are friendly, some of them are grumpy, some of them are funny, some of them are…Well, they’re just like normal Clan cats, I suppose.”
Fireheart couldn’t help envying the gray warrior for sounding so relaxed. Clearly Graystripe’s new life didn’t carry the burden of responsibility that Fireheart had to deal with now that he was deputy. And part of him still felt a small thorn of resentment that had mingled with his grief since Graystripe had left ThunderClan. Fireheart knew his friend could not have abandoned his kits; he just wished he’d fought harder to keep them in ThunderClan.
Fireheart pushed away these unfriendly thoughts. “How are your kits?” he asked.
Graystripe purred proudly. “They’re wonderful!” he declared. “The she-kit is just like her mother, every bit as beautiful, and with the same temper! She gives her den mother quite a bit of trouble, but every cat loves her. Especially Crookedstar. The tom is more easygoing, happy whatever he’s doing.”
“Like his father,” remarked Fireheart.
“And almost as handsome,” boasted Graystripe, his eyes gleaming with amusement.
Fireheart felt a familiar rush of joy at being with his old friend. “I miss you,” he meowed, suddenly overwhelmed with longing to have Graystripe back at the camp, to hunt and fight beside him again. “Why don’t you come home?”
Graystripe shook his wide gray head. “I can’t leave my kits,” he meowed.
Fireheart couldn’t help the look of disbelief that flashed in his eyes—after all, kits were raised by queens, not their fathers—and Graystripe went on quickly: “Oh, they are very well cared for in the nursery. They would be safe and happy with RiverClan. But I don’t think I could bear to be away from them. They remind me too much of Silverstream.”
“You miss her that much?”
“I loved her,” Graystripe answered simply.
Fireheart felt a pang of jealousy until he remembered the sorrow he still felt whenever he awoke from a dream of Spottedleaf. He reached forward and touched Graystripe’s cheek with his nose. Only StarClan knew if he might have done the same thing for Spottedleaf. Or Sandstorm? whispered a voice deep in Fireheart’s mind.
Graystripe nudged him back, disturbing Fireheart’s wandering thoughts and almost unbalancing him. “Enough soppy stuff!” he meowed, as if he could read his friend’s mind. “You didn’t really come here to see me, did you?”
Fireheart was caught off guard. “Well, not entirely…” he confessed.
“You were looking for those ShadowClan cats, right?”
“How did you know about them?” Fireheart demanded, stunned.
“How could I not know?” exclaimed Graystripe. “The stench they were giving off. ShadowClan cats smell bad enough on their own, but sick ones…yuck!”
“Does the rest of RiverClan know about them?” Fireheart was alarmed to think that the other Clans could have found out ThunderClan was sheltering ShadowClan cats again—and ones tainted by sickness at that.
“Not as far as I know,” Graystripe assured him. “I offered to do all the patrolling at this end of the river. The other cats just thought I was homesick and indulged me. I think they were secretly hoping I’d go back to ThunderClan if I got enough of the forest scents!”
“But why would you protect the ShadowClan cats like that?” Fireheart asked, puzzled.
“I came over and spoke to them soon after they arrived,” Graystripe explained. “They told me that Cinderpelt had hidden them here. I reckoned that if Cinderpelt had something to do with it, then you must know. Sheltering a couple of sickly fleabags is just the sort of softhearted thing you’d do.”
“Well, I wasn’t exactly thrilled when I found out,” Fireheart admitted.
“But I bet you let her off.”
Fireheart shrugged. “Well, yes.”
“She always could wrap you around her paw,” meowed Graystripe affectionately. “Anyway, they’ve gone now.”
“When did they leave?” Fireheart felt a wave of relief that Cinderpelt had kept her promise.
“I saw one hunting this side of the river a couple of days ago, but not a whisker since.”
“A couple of days ago?” Fireheart was alarmed to hear that the ShadowClan cats were still there so recently. Had Cinderpelt decided to nurse them until they were well enough to travel, after all? His fur prickled with irritation at the thought, but he trusted that she had not made the decision lightly. He was just grateful to StarClan that they hadn’t bumped into a water-gathering patrol from ThunderClan. They were gone now, and with any luck so was the threat of sickness.
“Look,” meowed Graystripe, “I have to go. I’m on hunting duty, and I promised I’d watch a couple of apprentices this afternoon.”
“Have you got an apprentice of your own?” Fireheart asked.
Graystripe met his gaze steadily. “I don’t think RiverClan is willing to trust me to train their warriors yet,” he murmured. Fireheart couldn’t tell if it was amusement or regret that made his old friend’s whiskers twitch.
“I’ll see you again sometime,” Graystripe meowed, giving Fireheart a shove with his muzzle.
“Definitely.” Fireheart felt a black hole of sadness yawn in his belly as the gray warrior turned to leav
e. Spottedleaf, Graystripe, Cloudpaw…Was Fireheart destined to lose every cat he grew close to? “Take care!” he called. He watched Graystripe pad through the ferns to the edge of the river and wade in confidently. The warrior’s broad shoulders glided through the water, leaving a gentle wake as he swam with strongly churning paws. Fireheart shook his head, wishing he could scatter his troubled thoughts as easily as Graystripe’s pelt had shed water after his swim. Then he turned away and headed into the trees.
CHAPTER 15
Fireheart carried the ball of wet moss gently between his teeth. Some of the moisture had dripped out on the journey home, soaking his chest and cooling his forepaws, but there would be enough to quench Goldenflower’s and Willowpelt’s thirst until a patrol could collect more after sunset.
The Clan lay in small groups around the clearing while the sun slowly slid toward the treetops. Most of them had eaten and were quietly sharing tongues in the customary grooming session, pausing briefly between licks to greet Fireheart as he emerged from the gorse tunnel. He nodded to Runningwind, Mousefur, and Thornpaw, who were about to go out on the evening patrol.
Brindleface was getting ready to lead another group of elders to fetch water. She was gathering them together at the fallen oak, and Fireheart heard Smallear’s determined mew as he passed. “We’ll need to keep our ears pricked and our eyes sharp while we’re traveling.” The old gray tom went on: “You see that nick in my ear? I got that when I was an apprentice. An owl swooped out of nowhere. But I’ll bet my claws left a bigger scar than his!”
Fireheart felt his fur relax on his shoulders, soothed by the familiar murmurings of Clan life. The ShadowClan cats were gone, just as Cinderpelt had promised, and he had seen Graystripe. He slipped into the nursery and placed the moss gently beside Willowpelt and Goldenflower.
“Thanks, Fireheart,” meowed Willowpelt.
“There’ll be more after supper,” Fireheart promised as the two queens began to lick the precious drops of water from the clump of moss. He tried to ignore the eyes of Tigerclaw’s kit gleaming hungrily from the shadows as Goldenflower pressed the moss with her muzzle to squeeze out another mouthful.
“Brindleface is going to lead the other elders to the river once the sun has set and the woods are clear of Twolegs,” Fireheart explained.
Goldenflower licked her lips. “It’s been a while since some of them have been out in the forest after dark,” she commented.
“I think Smallear is looking forward to it,” purred Fireheart. “He was telling stories about the owl that used to hunt near Sunningrocks. Poor Halftail looked a bit nervous.”
“A little excitement will do him good,” Willowpelt remarked. “I wish I could go with them. A scrap with an owl would be just the thing to stretch my legs!”
“Do you miss being a warrior?” Fireheart asked, surprised. Willowpelt looked so comfortable lying in the nursery while her fast-growing kits scrambled over her. It hadn’t occurred to him she might hanker after her old life.
“Wouldn’t you?” Willowpelt challenged him.
“Well, yes,” stammered Fireheart. “But you have your kits.”
Willowpelt twisted her head to pick up a tiny tortoiseshell-and-white she-kit that had tumbled off her flank. She dropped it between her forepaws and gave it a lick. “Oh, yes, I have my kits,” she agreed. “But I miss running through the forest, hunting for my own prey, and patrolling our borders.” She licked the kit again and added, “I’m looking forward to taking these three out into the forest for the first time.”
“They look like they’ll make fine warriors,” Fireheart meowed. The bittersweet memory of Cloudpaw’s first expedition, when he went into the snowbound forest and came back with a vole, rose in Fireheart’s mind, and he blinked. He dipped his head to the queens and turned to leave, glancing furtively at Tigerclaw’s kit. He couldn’t help wondering what sort of warrior it would be. “Bye,” he mumbled as he squeezed out of the nursery.
He could smell the tempting scents of the fresh-kill pile wafting from nearby, but there was one more thing he had to do before he could settle down for his evening meal. He padded across the clearing to Yellowfang’s den.
The elderly medicine cat was resting in the evening sun, her fur dull and unkempt as usual. She lifted her muzzle to greet him. “Hello, Fireheart,” she rasped. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for Cinderpelt,” answered Fireheart.
“Why? What do you want now?” Cinderpelt’s mew sounded from inside her fern nest, and her gray head popped out.
“Is that any way to greet your deputy?” Yellowfang scolded, her eyes glinting with amusement.
“It is when he disturbs my sleep,” retorted Cinderpelt, clambering out. “He seems determined I shouldn’t get any rest these days!”
Yellowfang narrowed her eyes at Fireheart. “Have you two been up to something I should know about?”
“Are you questioning your deputy?” Cinderpelt teased.
Yellowfang purred. “I know you’ve been up to something,” she meowed. “But I won’t pry. All I know is that my apprentice seems back to her old self again. Which is good, because she was no use to any cat while she was moping around like a damp mushroom!”
Fireheart was very relieved to see the two cats sparring with each other as they had done when Cinderpelt was first apprenticed to the medicine cat, before Silverstream had died. He shifted his paws awkwardly on the sun-baked ground. He had come to tell Cinderpelt that the ShadowClan cats had gone, but with Yellowfang here it was not easy.
“It’s strange,” Yellowfang growled, looking pointedly at Fireheart. “I suddenly feel like fetching another mouse from the fresh-kill pile.” Fireheart blinked gratefully at the old medicine cat. “Anything you want, Cinderpelt?” she called over her shoulder as she padded toward the tunnel. Cinderpelt shook her head. “Okay, I’ll be back in a moment,” Yellowfang rasped. “Or maybe two.”
When she had disappeared, Fireheart meowed quietly, “I checked on the ShadowClan cats. They’ve gone.”
“I told you they would,” replied Cinderpelt.
“But they didn’t go until a couple of days ago,” Fireheart added.
“It would haven’t done them any good to travel any sooner,” mewed Cinderpelt. “And I had to make sure they’d learned how to make the herb mixture before they went.”
Fireheart twitched his tail at Cinderpelt’s stubbornness, but he couldn’t bring himself to argue with her. He knew she believed with all her heart that she had done the right thing in caring for them, and part of him agreed it had been worth the risk.
“I did tell them to leave, you know,” she meowed, her tone losing some of its certainty.
“I believe you,” Fireheart agreed gently. “It was my responsibility to make sure they left, not yours.”
Cinderpelt looked up at him curiously. “How do you know when they left?”
“Graystripe told me.”
“You spoke to Graystripe? Is he okay?”
“He’s fine,” Fireheart purred. “He swims like a fish now.”
“You’re kidding!” mewed Cinderpelt. “I’d never have expected that.”
“Me neither,” Fireheart agreed, then stopped, embarrassed, when his belly growled with hunger.
“Go and eat,” Cinderpelt ordered. “You’d better hurry up before Yellowfang demolishes the entire pile.”
Fireheart leaned down and licked Cinderpelt’s ears. “See you later,” he mewed.
Yellowfang had left him the choice of squirrel or a pigeon. Fireheart took the pigeon and looked around the clearing, wondering where to eat it. He sensed Sandstorm watching him, her slender body stretched out and her tail neatly curled over her hind legs.
Fireheart felt his heart begin to beat faster. Suddenly it didn’t matter that she wasn’t tortoiseshell, and that her eyes were pale green, not amber. Fireheart looked at the pale ginger warrior, the pigeon hanging limply from his jaws, and remembered what Cinderpelt had told him: live in the pre
sent, let go of the past. He knew Spottedleaf would always remain in his heart, but he couldn’t deny the way the fur tingled along his spine at the sight of Sandstorm. He padded across the clearing to join her. As he laid his pigeon beside her and started to eat, he heard her begin to purr.
Suddenly a terrible caterwauling made Fireheart jerk up his head. Sandstorm scrambled to her paws as Mousefur and Thornpaw thundered into the clearing. Their fur was matted with blood, and Thornpaw was limping badly.
Fireheart swallowed his mouthful quickly and heaved himself up. “What happened? Where’s Runningwind?”
The other cats gathered behind him, hissing with fear, their fur bristling as they prepared for trouble.
“I don’t know. We were attacked,” panted Mousefur.
“By who?” Fireheart demanded.
Mousefur shook her head. “We couldn’t see. We were in the shadows.”
“But what about their scent?”
“Too near the Thunderpath. Couldn’t tell,” answered Thornpaw, his breath coming in short gasps.
Fireheart looked at the apprentice, who was swaying unsteadily on his paws. “Go and see Yellowfang,” he ordered. “Whitestorm!” he called to the white warrior who was already hurrying from Bluestar’s den. “I want you to come with us.” He turned to Mousefur. “Lead us to where this happened.”
Sandstorm and Dustpelt looked expectantly at Fireheart, waiting to receive orders. “You two stay here and guard the camp,” he meowed. “This might be a trap to lure our warriors away. It’s happened before.” With Bluestar on her last life, Fireheart knew he had to leave the camp well protected.
He charged out of the camp with Whitestorm at his side and Mousefur panting behind them. Together they scrambled up the ravine and raced into the forest.
Fireheart slowed his pace when he saw that Mousefur was struggling to keep up. “Quick as you can,” he urged. He knew she must be in pain after the fight, but they had to find Runningwind. He had a horrible feeling that this attack must have something to do with ShadowClan. Littlecloud and Whitethroat had been in ThunderClan territory so recently. Had they tricked him into leading his Clan into danger after all? He headed instinctively toward the Thunderpath.