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“Two of them?” Fireheart was startled. “You mean there were more than two?”
“There were three.” Bluestar bowed her head; her mew was scarcely audible. “The third kit was too weak to cope with the journey. He died with me, by the river.”
“What did you tell the rest of the Clan?” Fireheart thought back to the Gathering, when Patchpelt had said only that Bluestar had “lost” her kits.
“I…I made it look as if they had been taken from the nursery by a fox or a badger. I tore a hole in the nursery wall just before I left, and when I came back, I said that I had been hunting and had left my kits sleeping safely.” Her whole body trembled, and Fireheart could tell that confessing to this lie was causing Bluestar more pain than losing a life.
“Every cat searched,” she went on. “And I searched too, even though I knew there was no hope of finding them. The Clan was devastated for me.” She dropped her head onto her paws. Forgetting for a moment that she was his leader, Fireheart crossed the floor of the den and gave Bluestar’s ears a gentle lick.
Once again he remembered his dream, and the faceless queen who had faded away, leaving her kits to cry for her. He had thought the queen was Silverstream, but now he realized she was Bluestar as well. The dream had been both prophecy and Clan memory. “Why are you sharing this with me?” he asked.
When Bluestar looked up, Fireheart could hardly bear to see the sorrow in her eyes.
“For many seasons I put the kits out of my mind,” she answered. “I became deputy, and then leader, and my Clan needed me. But lately, with the floods, and the danger to RiverClan—and your discoveries, Fireheart, making me hear again what I knew very well already…And now another pair of kits who are half RiverClan, half ThunderClan. Perhaps this time I can make better decisions.”
“But why tell me?” Fireheart repeated.
“Perhaps after so long I want a cat to know the truth,” meowed Bluestar with a slight frown. “I think you of all cats might understand, Fireheart. Sometimes there are no right choices.”
But Fireheart was not sure that he understood at all. His mind was whirling. On one paw he could picture the young warrior, Bluefur, fiercely ambitious, determined to do the best for her Clan, even if it meant unimaginable sacrifices. On the other, he saw a mother grieving for the kits she had abandoned so long ago. And what was probably more real to him than either, the gifted leader who had done what she felt was best and borne the pain of it alone.
“I won’t tell another cat,” he promised, realizing how much she must trust him to have revealed her secrets to him like this.
“Thank you, Fireheart,” she replied. “There are difficult times ahead of us. The Clan doesn’t need more trouble.” She rose to her paws and stretched as if she had been curled up in a long sleep. “Now I must speak with Tigerclaw. And you, Fireheart, had better go and find your friend.”
The sun was beginning to sink, turning the river into a ribbon of reflected fire, as Fireheart returned to the Sunningrocks. Graystripe crouched beside a patch of freshly turned earth at the top of the riverbank, his gaze fixed on the blazing water.
“I buried her on the shore,” he whispered as Fireheart padded up and sat down beside him. “She loved the river.” He raised his head to where the first stars of Silverpelt were beginning to appear. “She hunts with StarClan now,” he mewed softly. “Someday I’ll find her again, and we’ll be together.”
Fireheart was unable to speak. He pressed himself more closely to Graystripe’s side, and the two cats crouched there in silence as the bloodred light faded.
“Where did you take the kits?” Graystripe meowed at last. “They should have been buried with her.”
“Buried?” Fireheart echoed. “Graystripe, didn’t you know? The kits are alive.”
Graystripe stared at him, jaws gaping, his golden eyes beginning to glow. “They’re alive—Silverstream’s kits—my kits? Fireheart, where are they?”
“In the ThunderClan nursery.” Fireheart gave him a quick lick. “Goldenflower is suckling them.”
“But she won’t keep them—will she? Does she know they’re Silverstream’s?”
“The whole Clan knows,” Fireheart told him reluctantly. “Tigerclaw saw to that. But Goldenflower doesn’t blame the kits, and neither does Bluestar. They’ll be cared for, Graystripe; they really will.”
Graystripe scrambled to his paws, moving stiffly after his long vigil. He looked doubtfully at Fireheart, as if he couldn’t believe that ThunderClan would really accept the kits. “I want to see them.”
“Come on, then,” mewed Fireheart, feeling a surge of relief that his friend felt ready to face the Clan again. “Bluestar sent me to bring you home.”
He led the way through the darkening forest. Graystripe padded after him, but he kept casting glances back, as if he couldn’t bear to leave Silverstream behind. He did not speak, and Fireheart let him be silent with his memories.
When they reached the camp, the curious murmuring groups of warriors and apprentices had broken up, and everything looked normal for a warm newleaf evening. Brackenfur and Dustpelt crouched by the nettle patch, sharing a piece of fresh-kill, and outside the apprentices’ den Thornpaw and Brightpaw were rolling around in a play fight while Swiftpaw looked on. Tigerclaw and Bluestar were nowhere to be seen.
Fireheart breathed a sigh of relief. He wanted Graystripe left alone, at least until he had visited the kits, without being troubled by blame or hostility from his fellow warriors.
Then, on their way to the nursery, they passed Sandstorm. She halted abruptly, glancing from Fireheart to Graystripe and back again.
“Hi,” Fireheart mewed, trying to sound as friendly as he always did. “We’re going to visit the kits. See you in the den later?”
“You can,” Sandstorm growled, with a glare at Graystripe. “Just keep him away from me, that’s all.” She stalked off, her head and tail held high.
Fireheart’s heart sank. He remembered how hostile Sandstorm had been to him when he first joined the Clan. It had taken her a long time to thaw toward him. How long would it be before she would treat Graystripe as a friend again?
Graystripe flattened his ears against his head. “She doesn’t want me here. No cat does.”
“I do,” Fireheart meowed, hoping he sounded sufficiently encouraging. “Come on; let’s go and see your kits.”
CHAPTER 24
Fireheart leaped from one stepping-stone to the next across the swiftly flowing river. The floodwater had retreated and the stones were clearly visible again. It was the day after Silverstream had died; the sky was gray with a thin drizzle of rain, as if StarClan were mourning her too.
Fireheart was on his way to take the news of Silverstream’s death into RiverClan, although he had not sought Bluestar’s permission first. He had slipped away without telling any cat because he thought Silverstream’s Clan had the right to know what had happened to her. And he suspected that not every cat in ThunderClan would agree with him.
Reaching the opposite bank, Fireheart stood with his head raised, tasting the air for fresh scents. He caught one almost at once, and a heartbeat later a small tabby tom appeared from the ferns above the path.
He hesitated, looking startled, before sidling down the bank to confront Fireheart. “You’re Fireheart, aren’t you?” he meowed. “I recognize you from the last Gathering. What are you doing on our side of the river?”
He was trying to sound confident, but Fireheart could detect nervousness in his voice. He was a very young cat—an apprentice, Fireheart guessed, anxious at being away from the camp without his mentor.
“I’m not here to fight, or to spy,” Fireheart promised. “I need to talk to Mistyfoot. Will you fetch her for me?”
The apprentice hesitated again, as if he would have liked to protest. Then the habit of obeying warriors’ orders won over, and he padded along the riverside in the direction of the RiverClan camp. Fireheart watched him go and scrambled up the bank to a spot where he cou
ld lie concealed in the bracken until Mistyfoot appeared.
It was a long time before she came, but at last Fireheart caught sight of her familiar blue-gray shape trotting rapidly toward him. Familiar because of Bluestar, he realized with a jolt. His leader’s daughter was practically her double. To his relief she was alone. As she paused to sniff the air, he called out softly to her, “Mistyfoot! Up here!”
Mistyfoot’s ears twitched; moments later she was pushing her way into the ferns beside him. “What is it?” she meowed, looking worried. “Is it about Silverstream? I haven’t seen her since yesterday.”
Fireheart felt as if a bone were lodged in his throat. He swallowed uncomfortably. “Mistyfoot,” he mewed, “it’s bad news. I’m so sorry…Silverstream is dead.”
Mistyfoot fixed him with wide blue eyes full of disbelief. “Dead?” she echoed. “She can’t be!” Before Fireheart could respond, she added more harshly, “Did some of your ThunderClan warriors catch her over there?”
“No, no,” Fireheart replied quickly. “She was at the Sunningrocks with Graystripe, and the kits started to come. Something was wrong…there was a lot of blood. We did everything we could, but…oh, Mistyfoot, I’m so sorry.”
Pain flooded into Mistyfoot’s eyes as he explained. She let out a long, low wailing sound, her head flung back and her claws digging into the ground. Fireheart moved closer to try to comfort her, and felt every muscle in her body rigid with tension. There were no words he could say that would do any good.
At last the terrible wailing died away and Mistyfoot relaxed a little. “I knew no good could come of it,” she murmured. There was no anger or accusation in her voice, only a weary sadness. “I told her not to meet Graystripe, but would she listen? And now…I can’t believe I’ll never see her again.”
“Graystripe buried her by the Sunningrocks,” Fireheart told her. “If you’ll meet me there one day, I’ll show you the place.”
