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Graystripe shrugged, more embarrassed than ever. “I just wanted to say.” He turned and vanished through the branches of the warrior’s den.
Firestar felt choked with emotion and shook himself briskly. Padding around the Highrock to the den entrance, he heard movement inside. Thornpaw, the oldest apprentice, whirled around as Firestar went in.
“Oh Firestar!” he exclaimed. “Whitestorm told me to fetch you some new bedding—and some fresh-kill.” He flicked his tail to the far side of the den, where a rabbit lay beside a thick pile of moss and heather.
“That looks great, Thornpaw,” Firestar meowed. “Thank you—and thank Whitestorm for me.”
The ginger apprentice dipped his head and started to leave, only to halt as Firestar called him back.
“Remind Mousefur to have a word with me tomorrow,” Firestar mewed, naming Thornpaw’s mentor. “It’s about time we started thinking about your warrior ceremony.” It’s long overdue, he reflected. Thornpaw had proved himself an able apprentice, and would have been a warrior moons ago but for Bluestar’s reluctance to trust any of her Clan. He was the only one left of the group that had included Swiftpaw and Lostface, neither of whom would ever experience a warrior ceremony.
Thornpaw’s eyes lit up with excitement. “Yes, Firestar! Thanks!” he meowed, and dashed off.
Firestar settled himself in the mossy nest and took a few mouthfuls of the rabbit. It had been thoughtful of Whitestorm to have the bedding changed, though Firestar still felt that Bluestar’s scent lingered in the very walls of the den. Perhaps it always would, and that was no bad thing. There was pain in his memories of her, but comfort too, w h en he thought of her wisdom and her courage in leading her Clan.
Shadows gathered around him as the last of the light died. Firestar was acutely conscious of being completely alone for the first time since joining the Clan: no warmth of other cats sleeping close by, no soft meows and purrs as his friends shared tongues, no gentle snoring or the sound of cats shifting in their dreams. For a few heartbeats he felt lonelier than ever.
Then he told himself to stop being so mouse-brained. He had an important decision to make, and it was vital for ThunderClan that he get it right. His choice of deputy would affect the life of the Clan for seasons to come.
Settling deeper into the moss, he wondered whether he ought to sleep now, and ask Spottedleaf in a dream which cat would be the right deputy. He closed his eyes and almost at once he caught a trace of Spottedleaf’s sweet scent. But no vision came; he could see only darkness.
Then he heard a whisper in his ear, filled with Spottedleaf’s gentle teasing. “Oh, no, Firestar. This is your decision.”
Sighing, Firestar opened his eyes again. “All right, Spottedleaf,” he mewed aloud. “I’ll decide.”
The deputy could not be Graystripe, that was clear, and Firestar was grateful to his friend for making that part of his choice easy for him. He let his mind drift over the other possible cats. The new deputy would have to be experienced, and a d never been questioned. Sandstorm was brave and intelligent, and choosing her would reassure her more than anything else that Firestar still valued her and wanted her at his side.
But that was not the right reason to choose a deputy. Besides, the warrior code dictated that no cat could be deputy without having been a mentor first. Sandstorm had never had an apprentice, so Firestar could not choose her. With a prickle of shame, he recognized that that was his own fault, because he had given Tawnypaw to Brackenfur to mentor, even though Sandstorm had been the obvious choice. He had done it to protect her, afraid that the mentors of Tigerstar’s kits would be in danger from their bloodthirsty father. It had taken Sandstorm a long time to forgive him, and Firestar hoped she would never realize that his previous mistake had prevented her from being deputy now.
But was Sandstorm really the right choice anyway? Surely there was one cat who towered over all the other possibilities? Whitestorm was experienced, wise, and brave. When Firestar had been made deputy, he had shown not a scrap of the resentment that a lesser cat might have felt. He had supported him from the beginning, and he was the cat Firestar naturally turned to when he needed advice. He was old, yes, but still strong and active. There were a good few moons left before he would be joining the elders in their den.
Bluestar would approve, too, for the white warrior’s friendship had meant a great deal to her in her last moons.
Yes, Firestar thought. Whitestorm will be the new deputy. He stretched in satisfaction. All that remained was to announce the decision to the Clan.
Firestar waited for a while, finishing the rabbit, drowsing but not letting himself fall into deep sleep in case he missed moonhigh. Silver light seeped into the den as the moon rose. Eventually he got to his paws, shook the scraps of moss from his fur, and padded out into the clearing.
Several of the Clan were pacing among the ferns at the edge, obviously waiting for the announcement. Sandstorm and the evening patrol had returned and were eating their share of the fresh-kill. Firestar flicked his tail in greeting to the ginger she-cat, but did not go over to speak to her. Instead he sprang up onto the Highrock and yowled, “Let all cats old enough to catch their own prey join here beneath the Highrock for a Clan meeting.”
His summons was still ringing in the air when more cats began to appear, slipping from the shelter of their dens or padding into the moonlight from the shadows around the edges of the camp. Firestar saw Darkstripe stalk into the open and sit a few tail-lengths away from the rock, his tail wrapped around his paws and a scornful look in his eyes. Unobtrusively, Brackenfur followed him and took up a position close by.
Bramblepaw emerged from the apprentices’ den; Firestar couldn’t help wondering if he would go over to Darkstripe, but he stayed with his sister, Tawnypaw, near the edge of the gathering crowd. The eyes of both apprentices were watchful, flicking back and forth. As Mousefur walked past them she snapped at Tawnypaw, and the younger she-cat turned her head away sharply, as if she and Mousefur had disagreed over something. Tawnypaw was bright and very confident, Firestar reflected; he wouldn’t be surprised if she offended the experienced warriors now and then.
Sandstorm and Graystripe were sitting together near the rock, close to Cloudtail and Lostface, and the elders all came out in a group and settled down in the center of the clearing.
Firestar saw Whitestorm strolling over from the nettle patch with Cinderpelt. There was no air of anticipation about him as he stopped for a quick word with Fernpaw and Ashpaw before taking his own place beside the Highrock.
Swallowing his nervousness, Firestar began. “The time has come to appoint a new deputy.” Pausing, he felt the presence of Bluestar very close to him as he remembered the ritual words she used to speak. “I say these words before StarClan,” he continued, “that the spirits of our ancestors may hear and approve my choice.”
By now all the cats had turned their faces up to him; he looked down at their eyes gleaming in the moonlight and could almost taste their excitement.
“Whitestorm will be the new deputy of ThunderClan,” he announced.
For a heartbeat there was silence. Whitestorm was blinking up at Firestar, a look of pleasure and surprise spreading over his face. Firestar realized that the surprise was part of what he liked so much about the old warrior; Whitestorm had never assumed that he would be the one chosen.
Slowly he rose to his paws. “Firestar, cats of ThunderClan,” he meowed, “I never expected to be given this honor. I swear by StarClan that I will do all I can to serve you.”
As he finished speaking, sound gradually swelled from the assembled cats, a mixture of yowls and purrs and voices calling, “Whitestorm!” All the Clan began to press around the white warrior, congratulating him. Firestar knew that he had made a very popular choice.
For a few moments he remained on the Highrock and watched. A new feeling of optimism surged through his paws, filling him with confidence and warmth. He had his nine lives; he had the best deputy a cat could w
ish for; and he had a team of warriors who were ready to face anything. The threat of the pack was over: Firestar had to believe that soon they would be able to drive Tigerstar out of the forest for good.
Then, just as he was poised to leap down and offer his own good wishes to Whitestorm, he caught sight of Darkstripe. He alone of all the cats had not moved or spoken. He was staring up at Firestar, and his eyes burned with cold fire.
Firestar was instantly reminded of the dreadful vision in the ceremony, the hill of bones and the tide of blood that had flowed from it. Bluestar’s words rang in his ears again: Four will become two. Lion and tiger will meet in battle, and blood will rule the forest.
Firestar still did not know what the prophecy meant, but the words were laden with doom. There would be battle and bloodshed. And in Darkstripe’s malignant stare, Firestar seemed to see the first cloud that would eventually unleash the storm of war.
CHAPTER 7
A raw, damp cold pushed its way through Firestar’s fur as he padded through Tallpines. The sky was heavy with gray cloud and seemed undecided between sending rain or snow onto the forest. Here, where the ravages of the fire had been worst, ash still covered the ground, and the few plants that had begun to grow back had shriveled again with the coming of leaf-bare.
