A cat leaned over him, musty breath warm against his ear. “The time to choose is near, Pinestar,” rasped an ancient voice. “Only you can decide.”
Thunderstar? Pinestar struggled to sit up and looked around. He was alone at the edge of the Thunderpath. The monster had gone and everywhere was silent. In the center of the Thunderpath, a small brown heap lay very still. Pinestar climbed stiffly to his paws, his pelt lifting in dismay.
“Shanty!” he whispered. He padded over to her, each paw carrying the weight of Sunningrocks. The little brown shape didn’t move. Pinestar pushed his muzzle into her fur, trying to feel a heartbeat or a stir of breath. “Shanty, wake up!” Surely the monster had hit him harder? The loss of his life didn’t matter, as long as Shanty had escaped. She can’t be dead! Not now, when I need her more than ever!
There was a thud from the Twoleg den behind the hedge, and a beam of light slanted through the dense leaves. Pinestar heard rapid paw steps and he looked up to see Shanty’s housefolk rush out, their mouths open wide. Pinestar backed away from Shanty’s body.
“I’m sorry,” he mewed. “I tried to save her but I was too slow.”
The female Twoleg dropped to her knees and bent over the dead cat. A howling sound rose into the air. The male Twoleg patted her and made gruff noises as he wiped at his face with a hairless brown paw. Pinestar felt his heart crack. He wanted to tell them that he shared their grief, that he had loved Shanty too, she had been his dearest friend, closer to him even than his Clanmates. . . . But he knew that he couldn’t make them understand him, even though he felt the same pain as they did. They would sit vigil for Shanty tonight, not him.
The Twoleg walls blurred around him as Pinestar padded away.
He walked in the forest until dawn, then sat beneath a tree and watched the sun rise. A day that Shanty will not see. He felt hollow and cut loose, as if his paws weren’t quite touching the ground. He knew he wouldn’t find Shanty in StarClan, however much he dreamed. That was not where kittypets went at the end of their lives. Wherever you are, I hope you are warm and safe, and can see me. The thought that Shanty might have vanished into nothingness was too much for Pinestar to bear. He had felt alone before; now he felt as if he were teetering at the edge of a shadowy chasm, echoing with the yowls of dying cats. Shanty, I need you!
The air around him grew hotter, buzzing with the drone of insects. Pinestar knew he had to return to his Clan. He had to see Leopardfoot and his kits. He was their father, for StarClan’s sake! He could do nothing more for Shanty. But he still had responsibilities toward his Clanmates—and his kin.
He padded back to the ravine, pausing only to roll in ferns to disguise the Twolegplace scent on his pelt. His legs trembled from losing a life, and he wondered if Featherwhisker or Goosefeather would know that he was now on his last. It would be hard to explain how he had lost this one.
His heart sank lower as he followed the path down to the gorse tunnel. Ignoring the mutters as he entered the clearing, he headed for the nursery. Featherwhisker was just slipping through the branches.
“Can I see them?” Pinestar asked.
The medicine cat nodded and stepped aside. “The tom’s the weakest,” he warned.
A savage burst of hope flared in Pinestar’s chest. Perhaps StarClan will take him before the prophecy can come true.
Leopardfoot looked up as he entered. “You came,” she stated flatly. “I waited for you all night.”
Pinestar bowed his head. “I’m sorry. I’m glad you’re all right.”
The queen bent over the tiny damp shapes squirming at her belly. “I won’t be all right until I know my babies are safe,” she murmured. “They’re so frail. I can’t even make them feed!” Her voice rose to a wail as she tried to nudge them closer to the milk that stained her fur.
Pinestar stepped forward and placed one paw on her shoulder. “Calm down,” he mewed. “You’ll frighten them.”
“I just want them to take some milk,” Leopardfoot whimpered.
“I’m sure they will,” Pinestar meowed. His heart was thudding so loud that he thought Leopardfoot would hear it. He peered down at the three little bodies. “Have . . . have you named them?”
Leopardfoot nodded. “The she-cats are Mistkit and Nightkit, and the tom is Tigerkit.” She touched each one with her nose as she spoke, moving with the tenderness of every queen that had ever nursed a kit.
Pinestar stared at the dark brown tom. His eyes were tight shut and his mouth opened and closed silently, too feeble even to mew. He looked smaller and more pitiful than a mouse on the fresh-kill pile. Did this kit really have the power to destroy ThunderClan? It was easier to imagine being threatened by a beetle.
Suddenly the kit opened his eyes and glared up at Pinestar. Amber fire blazed in the depths of his gaze, and for a moment he looked older and more terrifying than any cat Pinestar had seen before. He leaped backward and Leopardfoot let out a hiss.
“Careful, you’ll tread on them!”
“Tigerkit looked at me!” Pinestar stammered.
“Don’t be mouse-brained. They won’t open their eyes for days,” Leopardfoot snapped. She placed her tail protectively over her son, whose tiny eyes were tight shut once more. “I think you should go now.” She looked up at Pinestar. “Our kits are very sick. Pray to StarClan that they survive.”
CHAPTER NINE
Pinestar dreamed he was back in the nursery, watching his kits nestle into their mother’s fur. The she-cats slept peacefully, but Tigerkit’s cold yellow eyes blinked open and he scowled up at Pinestar. He was growing now, faster and faster until he covered his sisters and Leopardfoot, filling the nest, filling the nursery, pressing Pinestar against the bramble walls. And now Pinestar’s paws were sinking into the moss—no, not moss, some kind of liquid, thick and red and lapping at his belly. Blood! The nursery was drowning in blood!
Pinestar scrabbled desperately at the brambles, trying to get out. Behind him, Tigerkit’s breath was hot on his neck, and he could hear his son growling from deep in his belly. The blood rose higher, splashing against Pinestar’s muzzle, pulling him down. . . .
He was lying on icy stone, somewhere high up, with only the starlit sky above him. Silver-furred cats surrounded him, their faces obscured by mist. Pinestar tried to sit up but he was pressed down by invisible paws.
“Your son is evil!” hissed one of the cats; Pinestar couldn’t see which one because the fog was too thick.
“He’s only a kit!” Pinestar protested.
“He won’t be a kit forever!”
“Your Clan is in danger!”
“What can I do?” Pinestar wailed.
There was a moment of silence, when even the wind dropped. Then a voice murmured, “Kill him.”
Pinestar flinched in horror. “No!”
“Kill him.”
“Kill him.”
“Kill him! It is the only way to save your Clan!”
Pinestar flung off the unseen paws and leaped to his feet. “I cannot kill my own son!”
The mist and the mountaintop vanished. He was standing in his den, shreds of moss clinging to his fur, his flanks heaving. Goosefeather’s face appeared in the entrance.
“Having a bad dream, were you?” he rasped. His watery blue eyes seemed to look right through Pinestar and see into his mind.
“It doesn’t matter,” Pinestar mewed, shaking off the leaf dust and trying to tidy his nest.
“Oh, I think it does,” growled Goosefeather, taking a step into the den. “Sweetpaw is dead.”
Pinestar blinked. “But . . . but it’s been nearly a quarter-moon since she ate that mouse! Bluefur and Rosepaw got better ages ago!”
“And Sweetpaw didn’t,” Goosefeather snapped. “Another death, and your kits are still so weak. . . .”
“They have nothing to do with Sweetpaw,” Pinestar retorted. He stared bleakly around his den. “I thought the Clan was getting stronger,” he murmured. “The fresh-kill pile has been full for days. I thought
everything was going to be okay.”
“Did you really?” sneered Goosefeather. “Don’t be a fool, Pinestar. I think StarClan has told you exactly what is going on.”
He turned and limped out of the den. Pinestar took a deep breath. Sweetpaw’s death is not an omen. I will not kill my own son!
He padded into the clearing. A knot of sad she-cats was gathered around Sweetpaw’s little body. Judging by the emptiness of the rest of the clearing, Sunfall must have taken most of the young cats out on patrol. Pinestar was relieved. He wanted to spare them the grief that seemed to shroud the Clan every moon. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a tiny shape playing with a piece of moss. Tigerkit!
The tom had survived, and not just survived but grown swiftly and strong, unlike his sisters, who were still too frail to leave the nursery. With the gaze of his Clanmates burning his pelt, Pinestar forced himself to go over to his son.
Tigerkit looked up at him. “Sweetpaw’s dead,” he announced.
“I . . . I know,” Pinestar mewed.
“Are you really sad?” Tigerkit asked.
“Of course!” Pinestar replied.
The little brown tom tipped his head on one side. “As sad as if I died? I mean, you’re my father, so you must love me more than Sweetpaw or any of the other cats.”
Pinestar stared at his son in horror. Why is he talking about dying? “Y-yes, of course I love you and your sisters the most. But I care for every cat in ThunderClan.”
Tigerkit seemed to lose interest in speculating about his death. “Play with me.” He pushed the ball of moss toward Pinestar. It rolled against his paw and he looked down at it.
Kill him!
But he is only a kit!
You have to protect your Clan!
“I’m sorry, I can’t play with you today,” Pinestar meowed. The blood was roaring in his ears and his vision blurred. “I have to go somewhere.” He turned and padded quickly across the clearing.
“Tomorrow?” he heard Tigerkit call after him.
Pinestar didn’t answer. He pushed his way into the gorse, relishing the way the thorns clutched at his fur and pricked his muzzle. I cannot be a father to this kit! Oh Shanty, what should I do?
He blundered through the undergrowth toward Twolegplace. He had never missed Shanty more, never yearned more strongly that he had told her about the prophecy before she died. He had deliberately kept his dream from her, knowing that she would have no understanding of StarClan and the meaning of omens. But now he wished he had trusted her with everything so that she could give her honest opinion, let him consider all of the possibilities—and dismiss the idea that the only way to save ThunderClan was to kill a helpless kit.
When he reached the wooden fence, he stopped. He couldn’t go to Shanty’s home, not when he knew she wouldn’t be there. The emptiness would be too heartbreaking. He decided to look for Jake instead. He trotted through the long grass until he reached the edge of Jake’s territory. A quick leap over the fence and he was standing behind Jake’s Twoleg den. There was no sign of the ginger cat.
“He’s with Quince,” mewed a high-pitched voice. A strikingly elegant fawn cat with dark brown ears and paws was looking down at Pinestar from a tree on the other side of a wall. “You’re the wild cat, aren’t you?”
“Er, yes,” mewed Pinestar.
The stranger stood up and stretched each long, slender leg in turn. “I’m Tyr,” he meowed. “See you around, I expect.” He sprang out of the tree and vanished behind the wall.
Pinestar stood on the grass, feeling the sun warm his pelt. The scents of Twolegplace wafted around him, flowers and leaves and the faint hint of monsters. There was no stench of blood here, no hiss of fear or fury as cats fought over who was allowed to walk where. Some kittypets were more bad-tempered than others, Pinestar had learned, but they never fought to the death. They are better at following the warrior code than we are!
There was a noise behind him, and Pinestar turned to see Jake’s female Twoleg coming out with something in her front paw. It rattled, and Pinestar knew that it was something Jake called his food bowl, containing the brown pellets that Jake ate. He pricked his ears, feeling a worm of curiosity stir in his belly. Was kittypet food really that bad?
The Twoleg saw him and made a soothing sound. She reached out with her empty paw and Pinestar padded close enough for her to touch him. He had done this enough times with this Twoleg to know that he didn’t need to be frightened. He meowed in delight when she smoothed his fur from head to tail tip. She made more friendly noises, then put the food bowl onto the white stone path that surrounded the Twoleg den. Pinestar took a step forward and stretched out his neck to sniff the pellets. They didn’t smell too awful; there was a hint of rabbit, even. He licked one of the pellets, then jumped back to consider the taste. Definitely rabbit, and something else, a bit like pigeon. . . .
The Twoleg murmured and bared her teeth at him. Pinestar knew this wasn’t a sign of hostility; quite the opposite. He bent his head and crunched up a mouthful of pellets. The Twoleg ran her paw along his back again, just the way he liked it. He purred, sounding rather muffled around the food.
When the bowl was empty, Pinestar looked up at the Twoleg and pressed himself against her hind legs. “That was delicious!” he mewed. “Is there any more?”
“Pinestar! What are you doing?”
Pinestar felt his belly flip over in horror, and the pellets stuck in his throat. How long had Lionpaw been standing on top of the fence? He ran across the grass, thinking furiously. “You shouldn’t be here! What if that kittypet comes back?” He hoped Lionpaw would remember Pinestar telling him about the ferocious kittypet who had been causing trouble, and needed a close watch.
“RiverClan is invading!” the apprentice meowed. “You have to come!”
Another battle! Time seemed to slow down around Pinestar, and his mind whirled. At this very moment, his Clanmates were fighting to defend a few paw steps of territory, a couple of fox-lengths of trees and grass that would provide prey for whichever Clan was prepared to shed the most blood. I cannot do this any longer. No matter what he did, brave cats would die. He pictured Shanty’s housefolk, bent double with grief over her death, and then the solemn, calm atmosphere in the camp that morning around Sweetpaw’s body.
Have we lost the ability to grieve? he wondered. Do we watch so many cats die that we cannot let ourselves feel true loss? Does any cat’s life really matter at all?
Then he thought of Tigerkit, his own son, innocently playing with a bundle of moss with a cruel and terrible destiny hanging over him. StarClan must have known that he would never be able to kill this kit, whatever warnings they gave. If Pinestar could not prevent the threat, perhaps another cat would; a different leader, one who was able to guide Tigerkit’s paws to a brighter destiny.
Every leader faces difficult choices, whispered a voice in Pinestar’s ear. And yours will be the most difficult of all.
Thunderstar! The cat who had given him one of his nine lives. And here is my choice, Pinestar thought. To stay with my Clan, or leave and follow a different path. He knew there was a place where he belonged, where he would be needed and loved and kept safe in return for a different kind of loyalty and honor.
There was no choice at all, or if there had been, Pinestar had made it already, without even noticing. Still, he could not meet Lionpaw’s eye as he spoke. “I can’t.”
“Why not? Did the kittypet hurt you?”
“There is no kittypet. Only me.”
“You’re just pretending to be a kittypet,” Lionpaw mewed in confusion. “So the Twoleg doesn’t chase you away.”
Pinestar looked back at Jake’s Twoleg. She was holding the food bowl and watching them. “She won’t chase me away. She likes me.”
“But . . . but you’re our Clan leader! You can’t be friends with Twolegs!”
Oh, Shanty! This is the hardest thing I have ever done! I wish you were here with me.
Pinestar took a deep bre
ath. “Then I can’t be your Clan leader anymore. I’m sorry, Lionpaw. I tried so hard, but I can’t keep the Clan safe. I’m too old, too scared of losing any more battles. Sunfall will make a better leader than me. Tell . . . tell ThunderClan that I am dead.”
The apprentice narrowed his eyes in anger. “No! I will not lie for you! You might not want to be our leader anymore, but you could at least be brave enough to tell the Clan yourself. They deserve to know the truth, that you are leaving to become a kittypet.”
Pinestar hung his head. He couldn’t blame Lionpaw for his fury. And the apprentice was right: His Clanmates deserved a proper good-bye. They had done nothing wrong; only served him loyally and courageously and to their deaths, like all good warriors. It wasn’t their fault that Pinestar couldn’t bear it anymore.
Lionpaw was already racing across the grass and hurling himself over the fence. Pinestar followed, his paws suddenly light as he realized that this was the last time he would have to enter the forest, the last time he would have to take responsibility for these cats who were so much braver, so much better able to fight for their survival, than he was.
And so much stronger to deal with Tigerkit.
“Pinestar!” Sunfall’s call greeted Pinestar as he entered the clearing.
Pinestar winced as he noticed the fresh blood on his deputy’s ear. Adderfang and Stormtail stood behind him, deep claw marks on their fur. Oh, my Clanmates. I am sorry that I did not fight alongside you today. You deserve more than this, I promise.
“Where were you?” Sunfall meowed.
Pinestar blinked. “Did you win?”
Sunfall nodded. “We chased those fish-faces back as far as the river. They still have Sunningrocks—that is a battle for another day—but they won’t set foot across the border for a while.”