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“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.
