Runningwind nodded, but Darkstripe’s eyes glittered and he asked, “Who will be going to the Gathering tonight?”
“I don’t know,” Fireheart admitted.
Darkstripe narrowed his eyes. “Didn’t Bluestar tell you, or hasn’t she decided yet?”
“She hasn’t discussed it with me,” Fireheart answered. “She’ll tell us when she’s ready.”
Darkstripe turned his head and stared into the shadowy trees. “She’d better tell us soon. The sun is starting to set.”
“Then you should be eating,” Fireheart told him. “You’ll need your strength for the Gathering, if you’re going.” Darkstripe’s tone made him uneasy, but he refused to let it ruffle his fur. He sat down and waited for the warriors to move away. Only when they had all gone did he turn back to Bluestar’s den. She hadn’t mentioned the Gathering, and he’d been too busy worrying about tomorrow’s patrols to remember it.
“Ah, Fireheart.” Bluestar met him as she was pushing her way out through the lichen. She looked as if she’d just finished washing, and her pelt glowed in the dusky light. Fireheart felt a jolt of relief that she seemed to be taking care of herself once more. “When you’ve eaten, call the warriors together for the Gathering.”
“Er…who shall I call?” Fireheart asked.
Bluestar looked surprised. She listed the names so easily—leaving out Cloudpaw and including Ashpaw, as he’d requested several days earlier—that Fireheart wondered if perhaps she’d already told him, and he’d forgotten.
“Yes, Bluestar,” he answered. He dipped his head and padded across the clearing to the fresh-kill pile. A fat pigeon had been left on the heap. He decided to leave it for Bluestar. Perhaps this might tempt her to eat more than two mouthfuls. He picked up a vole, not feeling very hungry himself. He was too unsettled by Bluestar’s shifting, patternless moods.
As Fireheart carried the vole back to his favorite eating place, a shiver ran along his spine. Instinctively he looked over his shoulder, and he felt a prickle of apprehension as he saw Bramblekit watching him. He recalled Cinderpelt’s words: He will never know his father. It will be the Clan that raises him. Fireheart forced himself to nod at the kit, then turned away and padded to the clump of nettles to eat.
When he’d finished his meal, Fireheart glanced around the clearing. The rest of the Clan was sharing tongues as night stretched out the shadows and brought a welcome coolness to the camp. The days had been so hot lately that Fireheart had found himself wishing more and more that he could swim like the RiverClan cats. He looked over at the apprentices’ den, wondering if Cloudpaw would remember that he wasn’t going to the Gathering because he had eaten while out hunting.
Cloudpaw was crouched on the tree stump outside his den entrance, play-fighting with Ashpaw, who was scrabbling at him from below. Fireheart was pleased that at least Cloudpaw was getting on with his denmates. He wondered if Graystripe would be at Fourtrees tonight. It seemed unlikely, as he had been in RiverClan for barely a moon. But he had given them Silverstream’s kits. The RiverClan leader, Crookedstar, must have been grateful—after all, Silverstream had been his daughter, so the kits were his kin. And even though it would confirm his friend’s acceptance into another Clan, Fireheart found himself hoping that Graystripe would be granted the privilege of joining the Gathering.
Fireheart pushed himself to his paws and called the cats together for the ThunderClan patrol. As he ran through the list of names that Bluestar had given him—“Mousefur, Runningwind, Sandstorm, Brackenfur, Brightpaw, Ashpaw, and Swiftpaw”—he realized with growing unease that Darkstripe, Longtail, and Dustpelt weren’t among them. The three warriors had all been close allies of Tigerclaw, and Fireheart wondered if Bluestar had left them out deliberately. An uncomfortable shiver rippled through his fur as the three cats exchanged glances, then fixed their gazes on him. There was an unmistakable gleam of anger in Darkstripe’s eyes. Unnerved, Fireheart turned away and joined the other cats to wait for Bluestar.
She was sharing tongues with Whitestorm outside her den, and only when the gathered warriors began kneading the ground with anticipation did she get up and cross the clearing.
“Whitestorm will be in charge of the camp while we’re away,” she announced.
“Bluestar,” Mousefur addressed her leader cautiously. “What are you going to say about the way that WindClan stopped you from traveling to Highstones?”
Fireheart’s shoulders tensed. Mousefur clearly wanted to know if the ThunderClan cats should prepare themselves for hostility.
“I shall say nothing,” Bluestar answered firmly. “WindClan knows that what they did was wrong. It’s not worth risking their aggression by pointing it out in front of the other Clans.”
The ThunderClan warriors greeted her response with reluctant nods, and Fireheart couldn’t help wondering whether they saw weakness or wisdom in their leader’s decision as they followed her through the gorse tunnel and out into the moonlit forest.
Dirt and pebbles showered down as the cats scrambled up the side of the ravine. The lack of rain had left the forest as dry as crushed bones, and the sun-scorched ground seemed to turn to dust beneath their paws. Once in the woods, Bluestar ran on ahead. Fireheart dropped to the rear of the group as the cats raced silently through the trees, ducking beneath brittle ferns and swerving past brambles.
Sandstorm measured her pace until she matched Fireheart stride for stride, clearing a fallen branch in a single fluid leap. As they landed, she turned to Fireheart and murmured, “Bluestar seems to be feeling well again.”
“Yes,” Fireheart agreed guardedly, concentrating on threading his body between some prickly bramble stalks.
Sandstorm went on, keeping her voice low so it didn’t carry to the other cats. “But she seems distant. She doesn’t seem to be as…” She hesitated, and Fireheart didn’t try to fill the silence that followed. His worst fears were being confirmed. The other ThunderClan cats were beginning to notice Bluestar was not herself.
“She’s changed,” Sandstorm finished.
Fireheart didn’t look at the ginger she-cat. Instead he veered away to avoid a thick clump of nettles while Sandstorm leaped over them, springing up and through the stinging leaves to land on the forest floor beyond.
Fireheart ran faster to catch up. “Bluestar’s still shaken,” he said, panting. “Tigerclaw’s treachery was a huge shock.”
“I don’t understand why she never suspected him.”
“Did you ever suspect Tigerclaw?” countered Fireheart.
“No,” Sandstorm admitted. “No cat did. But the rest of the Clan has recovered from the shock. Bluestar still seems…” Again she seemed lost for words.
“She’s leading us to the Gathering,” Fireheart pointed out.
“Yes, that’s true,” answered Sandstorm, brightening.
“She’s still the same Bluestar,” Fireheart assured her. “You’ll see.”
The two warriors quickened their pace. They leaped over a stream that had been too swollen to cross during the newleaf floods. Now it trickled along a stony bed, so dry that it was almost impossible to imagine the water had ever flowed higher.
The rest of the group was only just ahead of them by the time they neared Fourtrees. Fireheart led Sandstorm along their trail, the undergrowth still trembling where the cats had passed, as if the leaves shared the Clan’s anticipation of the Gathering.
Bluestar had stopped at the head of the slope and was staring down into the valley. Fireheart could see lithe feline shapes slipping through the shadows, greeting each other with muted purrs. From the scents on the still air, he could tell that ThunderClan was the last to arrive. Fireheart watched Bluestar gaze at the Great Rock in the center of the clearing and saw a shudder ripple along her spine. She seemed to take a deep breath before plunging down the slope.
Fireheart raced after her with his Clanmates. He slowed as he reached the clearing and scanned the other cats for a glimpse of Graystripe. The RiverClan deputy, Leopardf
ur, was talking with a ShadowClan warrior Fireheart didn’t recognize. Crookedstar, the RiverClan leader, sat with Stonefur, looking silently around the clearing. Fireheart scented another RiverClan cat close by, but when he turned, he saw it was an apprentice moving to greet Brightpaw. There was no sign or scent of Graystripe. Fireheart wasn’t surprised, but his tail still drooped with disappointment.
A gray ShadowClan apprentice joined Brightpaw as well. With one ear Fireheart listened idly to their conversation.
“Has your Clan seen any more of the rogues? Nightstar’s worried that they’re still roaming the forest.”
Fireheart froze when he heard the ShadowClan cat’s question. All of the Clans had been worried about the group of rogue cats that had been scented in their territories. What the other Clans didn’t know was that ThunderClan’s deputy, Tigerclaw, had befriended these rogues and used them to attack his own camp. Fireheart gave Brightpaw a cautionary glance, warning her to keep silent, but there was no need. The white-and-ginger she-cat replied coolly, “We’ve not scented them in our territory for nearly a moon.”
Fireheart felt a jolt of relief as the RiverClan cat added, “Nor ours. They must have left the forest.” Fireheart wished he could share the RiverClan cat’s confidence, but his instincts told him that, if Tigerclaw were involved, the rogue cats would return one day.
Mudclaw, the WindClan warrior who had turned Fireheart and Bluestar away from Highstones, sat a foxlength away. Fireheart recognized the young WindClan warrior Onewhisker standing at Mudclaw’s side. He had made friends with this small brown tabby on the journey back from exile, but he didn’t dare approach him now. Mudclaw was eyeing him coldly, and Fireheart knew this was no place to continue the argument they’d begun on their way to the Moonstone.
But he couldn’t resist flexing his claws, still angry at the memory, and was angered further when Mudclaw leaned sideways to whisper something into his companion’s ears with a meaningful glance at Fireheart. To Fireheart’s surprise Onewhisker blinked sympathetically at him, then turned and walked away, leaving Mudclaw flicking his tail with annoyance. It looked as if there was at least one WindClan warrior who remembered the old debt of loyalty to ThunderClan. Fireheart couldn’t stop his whiskers from twitching with satisfaction as he stalked past Mudclaw and headed toward Leopardfur and the ShadowClan warrior.
His confidence evaporated when he approached the RiverClan deputy. Although they were equals now in the hierarchy of their Clans, this she-cat had a fierce and commanding presence. Ever since ThunderClan and RiverClan cats had fought at the gorge and a RiverClan warrior, Whiteclaw, had fallen to his death, Fireheart had felt her unforgiving hostility as sharp as thorns. But he needed to find out how Graystripe was doing. He nodded respectfully, and Leopardfur dipped her head in return.
The ShadowClan warrior sitting beside Leopardfur started to rasp a greeting, but broke off, coughing and spluttering. Fireheart noticed for the first time how ragged the warrior’s pelt looked, as if he hadn’t groomed himself for a moon.
Leopardfur gave her paws a lick and wiped her face as the ShadowClan warrior stumbled into the shadows.
“Is he all right?” Fireheart asked.
“Does he look all right?” retorted Leopardfur, her lip curling with distaste. “Cats shouldn’t come to the Gathering riddled with disease.”
“Shouldn’t we do something?”
“Like what?” meowed Leopardfur. “ShadowClan has a medicine cat.” She lowered her paw, her wet whiskers gleaming in the moonlight. Her eyes glittered with curiosity. “I hear you are ThunderClan’s new deputy.” Fireheart nodded, realizing that Graystripe must have shared this news with his new Clan. Leopardfur went on: “What happened to Tigerclaw? None of the other Clans seemed to know. Is he dead?”
Fireheart flicked his tail uncomfortably. He could imagine Leopardfur wasting no time in telling the other Clans that ThunderClan had replaced their distinguished deputy with a kittypet. “What happened to Tigerclaw is of no concern to RiverClan,” he meowed, trying to match her cool tone. He wondered if Bluestar would say anything about her former deputy when she announced the news about Fireheart later on.
Leopardfur narrowed her eyes but didn’t press the subject any further. “So,” she meowed, “have you come to brag about your new title, or to find out about your old friend?”
Fireheart lifted his chin, surprised that she was giving him a clear opportunity to ask about Graystripe. “How is he?” he meowed.
“He’ll do.” Leopardfur shrugged. “He’ll never be a true RiverClan warrior, but at least he’s getting used to the water, which is more than I expected.” Fireheart had to hold in his claws at her dismissive tone. “His kits are strong and clever,” Leopardfur went on. “They must favor their mother.”
Was this cat trying to annoy him on purpose? Fireheart was struggling to hold back a sharp reply when Mousefur trotted up behind him.
“Hello, Leopardfur,” she greeted the RiverClan deputy. “Stonefur tells me there are new kits in your camp, besides Graystripe’s.”
“Yes, there are,” Leopardfur meowed. “StarClan has blessed our nursery this greenleaf.”
“He also said Mistyfoot’s kits are about to begin their training,” meowed Mousefur. “You know, the ones Fireheart saved from the floods,” she added, her eyes sparkling with mischief. Fireheart noticed Leopardfur stiffen, but his mind was on Mistyfoot and her brother, Stonefur. He glanced around the clearing and saw Bluestar sitting alone beneath the Great Rock. Did she know her son was here? Had she heard that Mistyfoot’s kits were ready for their apprenticeship? When he turned his gaze back to Leopardfur and Mousefur, the RiverClan deputy was stalking away.
Mousefur shot a look of sympathy at Fireheart. “Don’t worry. You’ll find her less intimidating when you get used to her. The rest of RiverClan seems happy to see us. They would not have survived the floods so well without the help of ThunderClan, and we did let them have Silverstream’s kits without a fight.”
“Graystripe was never Leopardfur’s favorite ThunderClan cat, though,” Fireheart reminded her. “Not since Whiteclaw fell into the gorge.”
“She should learn to forgive and forget. Graystripe has given RiverClan two fine, healthy kits.” Mousefur flicked her tail. “Did she ask you about Tigerclaw?”
“Yes.”
“Everyone’s desperate to know what happened to him.”
“And why a kittypet has replaced him,” Fireheart added bitterly.
“That too.” Mousefur glanced briefly at him. “Don’t take it personally, Fireheart. We’d be just as curious about a change of deputy in another Clan.” Her attention wandered around the clearing for a moment before she observed, “Have you noticed how small ShadowClan’s patrol is tonight?”
Fireheart nodded. “I’ve seen only a couple of ShadowClan warriors so far. One of them just had a nasty coughing fit.”
“Really?” meowed Mousefur curiously.
“It is furball season,” Fireheart pointed out.
“I suppose so.”
A voice sounded from the Great Rock. Fireheart looked up and saw the RiverClan leader, Crookedstar, standing on top of the massive boulder, his thick pelt gleaming in the moonlight. Bluestar sat on one side and Tallstar, the WindClan leader, on the other. And on the far side, half hidden by the shadow of an oak tree, sat Nightstar.
Fireheart was shocked by the ShadowClan leader’s appearance. The black tom looked even scrawnier than a WindClan cat, who were kept lean by the rabbits they chased on the moor. But Nightstar didn’t just look thin. He held his head low, and his shoulders were hunched. For a moment Fireheart wondered if he was sick, but then he remembered that Nightstar had already been an elder when he’d taken on the leadership of ShadowClan. Perhaps it wasn’t surprising if he looked frail. He may have been granted the nine lives of a leader, but not even StarClan could turn back time.
“Come on,” Mousefur murmured. Fireheart followed the dusky brown she-cat to the front of the cats and sat
down beside her, with Mistyfoot at his other flank.
Crookedstar meowed from the Great Rock, “Bluestar wishes to speak first.” He bowed his head to the ThunderClan leader as she stepped forward and raised her voice, sounding as strong as it always had.
“You may already have heard from WindClan, but for those of you who have not, Brokentail is dead!”
A satisfied murmur rippled through the crowd. Fireheart noticed Nightstar’s ears and tail flicking restlessly. The ShadowClan leader seemed almost excited to know that his old enemy was dead.
“How did he die?” Nightstar rasped.
Bluestar didn’t seem to hear him. “And ThunderClan has a new deputy,” she went on.
“So it’s true what RiverClan has been saying.” The stunned mew of a WindClan warrior rose from the watching cats. “Something’s happened to Tigerclaw!”
“Is he dead?” Mudclaw demanded to know. His words brought a barrage of concerned cries, and Fireheart couldn’t help feeling a twinge of resentment when he realized how much Tigerclaw had been respected by the other Clans. He watched Bluestar anxiously as the cats bombarded her with questions.
“Did he die of sickness?”
“Was it an accident?”
Fireheart felt his Clanmates stiffen around him. They all shared Brightpaw’s unwillingness to reveal the truth about their former deputy’s disloyalty.
Bluestar’s authoritative yowl silenced the questions. “Tigerclaw’s fate is ThunderClan’s business and does not concern anyone else!”
The cats fell into a disgruntled murmuring, their curiosity clearly not satisfied. Fireheart couldn’t help wondering if Bluestar should warn the other Clans that Tigerclaw was still alive—that there was a dangerous traitor roaming the forest, unfettered by the warrior code.