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Whitestorm gave a noncommittal grunt.
“Anything for me to do?” asked Graystripe.
“Yes.” Fireheart gave his friend’s ear a quick, friendly lick. “Go back to your nest and rest. You were badly wounded yesterday. I’ll bring you a piece of fresh-kill.”
“Oh, okay. Thanks, Fireheart.” Graystripe returned the lick and vanished into the den.
Fireheart padded over to the pile of fresh-kill, where he found Cinderpaw clawing a magpie out of the dwindling heap. “I’ll take this to Bluestar,” she offered. “I need to check her wound. And then I’ll take some prey for Yellowfang.”
“Good idea,” Fireheart meowed, beginning to feel more confident as his rapid orders seemed to be restoring things to normal. “Tell her if she needs any help to collect herbs, she can have Cloudpaw, once he’s seen to the elders.”
“Okay.” Cinderpaw chuckled. “You certainly know how to make your apprentices work, Fireheart.” She bit down into the magpie and dropped it at once with a retch of disgust. The flesh of the dead bird fell away from the bones to reveal a writhing mass of white maggots. A foul stench hit Fireheart and he winced.
Cinderpaw backed away, passing her tongue around her mouth over and over again as she stared at the rotting carcass. Her dark gray fur was fluffed up and her blue eyes wide. “Crowfood,” she whispered. “Crowfood among the fresh-kill. What does it mean?”
Fireheart couldn’t imagine how the rotten magpie had gotten there. No cat would have brought it in; even the youngest apprentice knew better than that.
“What does it mean?” Cinderpaw repeated.
Fireheart suddenly realized she wasn’t thinking about any practical reasons for how maggot-ridden prey had ended up in the pile. “Do you think it’s an omen?” he croaked. “A message from StarClan?”
“It might be.” Cinderpaw shivered, and stared at him with huge blue eyes. “StarClan haven’t spoken to me yet, Fireheart, not since the ceremony at the Moonstone. I don’t know if it’s an omen or not, but if it is…”
“It must be for Bluestar,” Fireheart finished. His fur prickled as he realized this was the first sign of Cinderpaw’s new powers as an apprentice medicine cat. “You were going to take the magpie to her.” He felt a thrill of horror at the thought of what the omen might mean. Was StarClan trying to say that Bluestar’s leadership was rotting away from the inside, even though Tigerclaw’s outer threat had gone? “No,” he meowed firmly. “That can’t be right. Bluestar’s problems are over. Some cat’s been careless, that’s all, and brought crowfood back by mistake.”
But he didn’t believe his own words, and he could tell that Cinderpaw didn’t, either. “I’ll ask Yellowfang,” she mewed, shaking her head in bewilderment. “She’ll know.” Cinderpaw quickly snatched a vole from the heap and began limping rapidly across the clearing.
Fireheart called after her, “Don’t tell any cat except Yellowfang. The Clan mustn’t know. I’ll bury this.”
She flicked her tail to show she had heard, and vanished among the ferns.
Fireheart glanced around to make sure that no other cat had overheard their conversation, or seen the decaying magpie. Bile rose in his throat as he gripped the bird by the tip of one wing and dragged it to the edge of the clearing. He didn’t begin to relax until he had scraped up enough earth to cover the vile thing.
Even then, he could not get it out of his mind. If the rotting, maggot-filled crowfood was indeed an omen, what new disasters did StarClan have in store for ThunderClan and their leader now?
By sunhigh, the Clan had settled down again. The hunting patrols had returned, all the cats were full-fed, and Fireheart was beginning to think it was time he went to Bluestar’s den to see if she would talk to him about leading the Clan.
He was distracted by movement in the gorse tunnel. Four RiverClan cats appeared, the same four who had joined in the battle the day before: Leopardfur, Mistyfoot, Stonefur, and Blackclaw.
Leopardfur bore a newly healed wound across one dappled shoulder, and Blackclaw’s ear was torn at the tip, proof of how they had fought with ThunderClan to drive out the rogue cats. Fireheart wished he could believe that they had come only to find out if the ThunderClan warriors were all right. But deep down he knew their mission had to do with Graystripe’s kits. Struggling to hide the heaviness in his heart, he padded across the clearing and dipped his head to Leopardfur—not the respectful signal from a warrior to a deputy, but a courteous greeting between equals.
“Greetings,” meowed Leopardfur, her eyes registering surprise at Fireheart’s new attitude. “We need to speak to your leader.”
Fireheart hesitated, wondering how much to explain. It would take the rest of the day to tell the full story of Tigerclaw’s treachery, and to describe how Fireheart himself had been named deputy. In a heartbeat’s pause, he decided to tell the visiting patrol nothing. Even RiverClan, though they seemed friendly now, might be tempted to attack a Clan that seemed to be weak. The next Gathering would be soon enough for them to know. He bowed his head once more and went to look for Bluestar.
To his relief, the Clan leader was sitting in her den, finishing a piece of fresh-kill. She looked more like herself than Fireheart had seen her since Tigerclaw’s attack. As he announced himself at the entrance to the den, Bluestar looked up, swallowing the last of her mouse. Her tongue swiped around her jaws and she meowed, “Fireheart? Come in. We have a great deal to discuss.”
“Yes, Bluestar,” Fireheart mewed, “but not now. The RiverClan warriors are here.”
“Ah.” Bluestar rose to her paws and stretched. “I was expecting them, although I had hoped they wouldn’t come back quite so soon.” She led the way out of her den to where the patrol was waiting. By now, Graystripe had appeared and seemed to be exchanging news with Mistyfoot. Fireheart hoped he was not telling her too much as he settled down a respectful distance from the RiverClan patrol.
Other cats too were gathering around, their faces revealing their curiosity about the reason for the RiverClan cats’ visit.
When Bluestar had greeted the newcomers, Leopardfur began. “We’ve talked for a long time about Silverstream’s kits, and we’ve decided that they belong in RiverClan. Two RiverClan kits died yesterday. They had been born too soon. Their mother, Greenflower, has agreed to suckle these newborns. We think it may be a sign from StarClan. The kits will be well cared for.”
“They’re well cared for here!” Fireheart exclaimed.
Leopardfur glanced at him but still spoke directly to Bluestar. “Crookedstar has sent us to fetch them.” Her voice was calm but determined, showing that she genuinely believed in her Clan’s right to take the kits.
“Besides,” Mistyfoot added, “the kits are older now, and the river has gone down enough to allow a safe passage across. They will be able to cope with the journey to our camp.”
“Yes,” meowed Leopardfur, with an approving look at the younger warrior. “We could have taken the kits before this, but we care just as much about their welfare as you do.”
Bluestar drew herself up. Though she moved stiffly and she still looked exhausted, outwardly at least she had recovered the authority of a leader. “The kits are half ThunderClan,” she reminded Leopardfur. “I’ve already told you, I’ll give you my decision at the next Gathering.”
“The decision is not yours to make.” The RiverClan deputy’s tone had an edge like ice.
At her words meows of protest rose from the assembled cats.
“Cheek!” spat Sandstorm, from where she sat close to Fireheart. “Who does she think she is, walking in here and telling us what to do?”
Fireheart padded over to Bluestar and murmured in her ear, “Bluestar, these are Graystripe’s kits. You can’t send them away.”
Bluestar twitched her ears. “You can tell Crookedstar,” she calmly addressed the visitors, “that ThunderClan will fight to keep these kits.”
Leopardfur’s lips drew back in the beginnings of a snarl, while the ThunderClan ca
ts yowled their approval.
Then a louder meow rose above the rest. “No!”
Fireheart’s fur began to prickle. It was Graystripe.
The big gray cat came to stand beside Bluestar. Fireheart winced when he saw the looks of suspicion that ThunderClan gave him, and how they drew back as he passed. But Graystripe seemed to have hardened himself against their hostility. Glancing first at the RiverClan patrol and then at the cats of his own Clan, he meowed, “Leopardfur is right. Kits belong with their mother’s Clan. I think we should let them go.”
Fireheart froze. He wanted to protest, but could find no words. The rest of the Clan was just as silent, except for Yellowfang, who muttered, “He’s mad.”
