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“I thought Runningwind could take Thornpaw and Mousefur.”
“Good idea,” answered Whitestorm distractedly. He clearly had something on his mind. “Could Brightpaw go with the dawn patrol tomorrow?” he asked. “The experience will do her good. I…I haven’t been keeping up with her training lately.” Whitestorm’s ear twitched and, with a twinge of unease, Fireheart realized that the white warrior had been spending more and more of his time with Bluestar. He couldn’t help suspecting that Whitestorm was afraid of what the ThunderClan leader might do if he left her alone for too long. At the same time Fireheart felt guiltily relieved that there was another cat in the Clan—the most respected senior warrior, no less—who shared his concerns for their troubled leader.
“Of course,” he agreed.
Whitestorm sat down beside Fireheart and looked around the clearing. “It’s quiet this afternoon.”
“Sandstorm and Brackenfur have taken the elders and queens to drink by the river. Patchpelt suggested bringing back moss soaked with water for Willowpelt and Goldenflower.”
Whitestorm nodded. “Perhaps they could share some with Bluestar. She seems reluctant to leave the camp.” The old warrior lowered his voice. “She’s been licking the dew from the leaves each morning, but she needs more than that in this heat.”
Fireheart felt a fresh wave of anxiety swell in his chest. “She seemed so much better the other day.”
“She is getting better all the time,” the white warrior assured him. “But still, she…” His deep mew trailed away and, although Fireheart felt shaken by the dark frown on the old warrior’s face, there was no need to say any more.
“I understand,” he murmured. “I’ll ask Patchpelt to take her some when they return.”
“Thank you.” Whitestorm narrowed his eyes at Fireheart. “You’re doing very well, you know,” he remarked calmly.
Fireheart sat up. “What do you mean?”
“Being deputy. I know it hasn’t been easy, with Bluestar…the way she is, and the drought. But I doubt there’s a cat in the Clan who would deny that Bluestar made the right choice when she appointed you.”
Apart from Darkstripe, Dustpelt, and half the elders, Fireheart responded silently. Then he realized he was being churlish, and he blinked gratefully at the white warrior. “Thank you, Whitestorm,” he purred. He couldn’t help feeling encouraged by such high praise from this wise cat, whose opinion he valued as much as Bluestar’s.
“And I’m sorry about Cloudpaw,” Whitestorm went on gently. “It must be very hard for you. After all, he was your kin, and I think it is too easy for Clanborn cats to take that bond for granted.”
Fireheart was taken aback by the warrior’s shrewdness. “Well, yes,” he began hesitantly. “I do miss him. Not just because he was my kin. I truly believe he could have made a good warrior in the end.” He glanced sideways at Whitestorm, half expecting the old cat to contradict him, but to his surprise the warrior was nodding.
“He was a good hunter, and a good friend to the other apprentices,” Whitestorm agreed. “But perhaps StarClan has a different destiny for him. I am no medicine cat; I cannot read the stars like Yellowfang or Cinderpelt, but I have always been willing to trust our warrior ancestors, wherever they might lead our Clan.”
And that is what makes you such a noble warrior, Fireheart thought, filled with admiration for Whitestorm’s loyalty to the warrior code. If Cloudpaw had had one whisker’s worth of such understanding, perhaps things would have been very different….
The sound of pebbles clattering outside the camp wall made both cats jump. Fireheart dashed to the camp entrance. Speckletail and the others were crashing down the rocky slope, sending grit and dirt crumbling around them. Their fur was bristling and their eyes were filled with alarm.
“Twolegs!” Speckletail panted as she reached the foot of the ravine.
Fireheart looked up to where Brackenfur and Sandstorm were helping the eldest cats as they struggled down from boulder to boulder.
“It’s okay,” Sandstorm called down. “We lost them.”
When they were all safely at the bottom, Brackenfur explained, his breath coming in frightened gasps: “There was a group of young ones. They chased us!”
Fireheart’s fur bristled with alarm as a terrified mewing broke out among the other cats. “Are you all okay?” he meowed.
Sandstorm looked around the group and nodded.
“Good.” Fireheart steadied himself with a deep breath. “Where were these Twolegs? Were they by the river?”
“We hadn’t even reached Sunningrocks,” answered Sandstorm. Her voice grew calmer as she got her breath back, and her eyes began to gleam with indignation. “They were loose in the woods, not on the usual Twoleg paths.”
Fireheart tried not to betray his alarm. Twolegs rarely ventured this deep into the forest. “We shall have to wait till dark to fetch water,” he decided out loud.
“Do you think they’ll be gone by then?” asked One-Eye shakily.
“Why would they stay?” Fireheart tried to sound reassuring despite his private doubts. Who could predict what a Twoleg might do?
“But what about Willowpelt and Goldenflower?” fretted Speckletail. “They’ll need water before then.”
“I’ll go and fetch some,” offered Sandstorm.
“No,” meowed Fireheart. “I’ll go.” Fetching water for Willowpelt would give him a perfect opportunity to take Cinderpelt’s advice and check for himself that the ShadowClan cats and their sickness had gone from the cave beneath the old oak. He nodded to Sandstorm. “I need you to stay at the top of the ravine and look out for Twolegs.” One-Eye let out an anxious mew. “I’m sure they’ll have turned back by now,” Fireheart soothed the elder. “But you’ll be safe with Sandstorm on guard.” He looked into the orange she-cat’s sparkling emerald eyes and knew he spoke the truth.
“I’ll come with you,” meowed Brackenfur.
Fireheart shook his head. He had to make this journey alone to avoid any other cats finding out about Cinderpelt’s foolish good deed. “You’ll need to guard the camp with Whitestorm,” he told the pale ginger warrior. “And I want you to report what you saw in the forest just now to Bluestar. I’ll carry back as much moss as I can. The rest of you will have to wait till sunset.”
Fireheart and Sandstorm climbed the ravine together, cautiously sniffing the air as they approached the top. There was no scent of Twolegs here.
“Be careful,” whispered Sandstorm as Fireheart prepared to head into the forest.
He licked the top of her head. “I will,” he promised softly.
Green eyes met green eyes for a long moment; then Fireheart turned and crept warily through the trees. He kep
t to the thickest undergrowth, his ears pricked and his mouth half-open as he strained his senses to pick up any signs of Twolegs. He smelled their unnatural stench as he approached Sunningrocks, but it was stale now.
Fireheart turned and cut through the woods to the slope above the river that marked the RiverClan border. As he checked for RiverClan patrols, he couldn’t help looking out for the familiar gray head of his friend, Graystripe. But there was no sign of any cats in the airless forest. Fireheart would be able to fetch water from the stream without being challenged, but first he had to check the cave beneath the ancient oak.
He headed along the border, stopping at every other tree to leave his scent and freshen the boundary between the two Clans. Even this close to the river, the forest had lost its newleaf lushness and the leaves looked shriveled and worn. Fireheart soon spotted the gnarled oak, and as he drew near he saw the dusty cave where the ShadowClan cats had sheltered.
He breathed in deeply. The stench of sickness had gone. With a sigh of relief he decided to take a quick look inside and then fetch the water. He padded forward, his eyes fixed on the hole. He crouched low, then cautiously stretched his neck and peered into the makeshift den.
He let out a startled gasp as a weight dropped onto his back and claws grasped his sides. Fear and rage pulsed through him and he yowled, twisting violently in an attempt to throw off his attacker. But the cat who had ambushed him kept a firm hold. Fireheart braced himself for the pain of thorn-sharp claws in his flanks, but the paws that clutched him were wide and soft, their claws unsheathed. Then a familiar scent filled his nostrils—a scent overlaid now with the odors of RiverClan, but recognizable all the same.
“Graystripe!” he meowed joyfully.
“I thought you would never come to see me,” purred Graystripe.
Fireheart felt his old friend slip from his back and realized that Graystripe was dripping wet with river water. His own orange pelt was soaked from their tussle. He shook himself and stared in amazement at the gray warrior. “You swam across the river?” he meowed in disbelief. Every cat in ThunderClan knew how much Graystripe hated getting his thick fur wet.
