by Erin Hunter
“Is it dead?” Fireheart whispered.
“No!” Cinderpaw set down the kit and patted it toward him. “Lick, Fireheart! Make it warm, get its blood flowing.”
As soon as she had finished speaking she turned in the narrow space and went back to Silverstream. Her body blocked Fireheart’s view of what was happening, but he heard the apprentice medicine cat begin to meow reassuringly, and an anxious question from Graystripe.
Fireheart bent over the kit and rasped his tongue over its tiny body. For a long time it didn’t respond, and he began to think Cinderpaw had been wrong, and the kit was dead after all. Then he felt a tiny shiver run through it and it opened its jaws in a soundless mew. “It’s alive!” he gasped.
“Told you,” Cinderpaw called to him. “Keep licking. There’s another one coming, any moment now. That’s right, Silverstream…you’re doing fine.”
Tigerclaw had come down from the rock and was standing in the mouth of the gully with a look of thunder on his face. “That’s a RiverClan cat,” he hissed. “Will one of you tell me what’s going on?”
Before any cat had time to reply, Cinderpaw let out a shout of triumph. “You’ve done it, Silverstream!” Moments later she turned with a second tiny kit in her jaws, and set it down in front of Tigerclaw. “Here. Lick.”
Tigerclaw glared at her. “I’m not a medicine cat.”
Cinderpaw’s blue eyes blazed as she rounded on the deputy. “You’ve got a tongue, haven’t you? Lick, you useless lump of fur. Do you want the kit to die?”
Fireheart flinched, half expecting Tigerclaw to hurl himself at her and slash her open with his powerful claws. Instead, the dark tabby bowed his huge head and began to lick the second kit.
At once Cinderpaw turned back to Silverstream. Fireheart heard her meow, “You need to swallow this herb. Here, Graystripe, make her eat as much as she can. We’ve got to stop the bleeding.”
Fireheart paused for a moment in his own vigorous licking. His kit was breathing evenly now, and it seemed to be out of danger. He wished he knew what was happening in the gully ahead of him; he heard Cinderpaw growl, “Hold on, Silverstream,” and a louder, panicky meow from Graystripe: “Silverstream!”
At the sound of his friend’s distress, Fireheart could not stay back any longer. Leaving the kit, he pushed forward until he could crouch beside Cinderpaw. He was in time to see Silverstream raise her head and feebly lick Graystripe’s face. “Good-bye, Graystripe,” she whispered. “I love you. Take care of our kits.”
Then the silver tabby’s body gave a massive shudder. Her head fell back, her paws jerked, and she was still.
“Silverstream!” whispered Cinderpaw.
“No, Silverstream, no.” Graystripe’s mew was very soft. “Don’t go. Don’t leave me.” He bent over the limp body, nuzzling her gently. She did not move.
“Silverstream!” Graystripe reared up and flung back his head. His wails of grief split the quiet air. “Silverstream!”
Cinderpaw crouched over the body for a few moments more, nudging at Silverstream’s fur, but at last she admitted defeat. She sat up and stared ahead, her blue eyes bleak and cold.
Fireheart got up and padded over to her. “Cinderpaw, the kits are safe,” he murmured.
The look she gave him made his heart freeze. “But their mother is dead. I lost her, Fireheart.”
The rocks were still echoing to Graystripe’s dreadful wailing. Tigerclaw appeared, scrambling past the other cats, and reached out a massive paw to cuff the gray warrior behind the ear. “Stop that moaning.”
Graystripe fell silent, more out of shock and exhaustion, Fireheart thought, than obedience to the deputy’s order.
Tigerclaw glared around at all of them. “Now will some cat tell me what’s going on? Graystripe, do you know this RiverClan cat?”
Graystripe looked up. His eyes had gone dull and cold, like pebbles. “I loved her,” he whispered.
“What—these are your kits?” Tigerclaw seemed stunned.
“Mine and Silverstream’s.” A faint spark of defiance kindled in Graystripe. “I know what you’ll say, Tigerclaw. Don’t bother. I don’t care.” He turned back to Silverstream, pressing his nose against her fur and murmuring softly to her.
Meanwhile, Cinderpaw had roused herself enough to examine the two kits. “I think they’ll live,” she mewed, though to Fireheart she sounded less certain than before. “We need to get them back to camp, to find a queen to suckle them.”
Tigerclaw spun around to face her. “Are you mad? Why should ThunderClan raise them? They’re half-breeds. No Clan will want them.”
Cinderpaw ignored him. “Fireheart, you take that one,” she ordered. “I’ll carry the other.”
Fireheart twitched his whiskers in agreement, but before he picked up the kit he walked over to Graystripe and pressed his body against his friend’s broad gray shoulder. “Do you want to come with us?”
Graystripe shook his head. “I have to stay here and bury her,” he whispered. “Here, between RiverClan and ThunderClan. After this, not even her own Clan will want to mourn her.”
Fireheart felt his heart break for his friend, but there was nothing more he could do to help. “I’ll come back soon,” he promised. More softly, though he was past caring if Tigerclaw heard him or not, he added, “I will mourn her with you, Graystripe. She was brave, and I know she loved you.”
His friend did not respond. Fireheart picked up the kit with his teeth, and left Graystripe beside the cat he had loved more than his Clan, more than honor, more than life itself.
CHAPTER 22
Tigerclaw went on ahead, and by the time Fireheart and Cinderpaw reached the camp with Silverstream’s kits, the whole Clan knew what had happened. Warriors and apprentices had gathered outside their dens, watching in silence. Fireheart could almost smell their shock and disbelief.
Bluestar stood at the entrance to the nursery as if she was waiting for them. Fireheart half expected her to turn them away, refusing to take care of a different Clan’s kits, but she only meowed quietly, “Come inside.”
In the heart of the bramble thicket, all was dim and quiet. Brindleface was curled around her kits, asleep in a heap of gray and tawny fur with Cloudkit’s white coat shining among them like a patch of snow. Close by her, in a nest of moss lined with downy feathers, Goldenflower lay on her side, suckling her new kits. One was a pale ginger color like Goldenflower herself, and the other a dark tabby.
“Goldenflower,” murmured Bluestar, “I have something to ask you. Can you manage two more? Their mother has just died.”
Goldenflower raised her head, her startled look softening when she saw the two helpless scraps of fur dangling from Fireheart’s and Cinderpaw’s mouths. They had begun to wriggle feebly, giving out thin, high-pitched mews of fear and hunger.
“I suppose—” Goldenflower began.
“Wait,” Speckletail interrupted; she had padded into the nursery just behind Fireheart. “Before you agree to anything, Goldenflower, ask Bluestar to tell you whose kits these are.”
Fireheart felt a pang of anxiety. Though Speckletail was a good mother, she had a ferocious temper, and he guessed she would not look kindly on kits that were neither one Clan nor the other.
“I would not hide such a thing from her,” Bluestar meowed calmly. “Goldenflower, these are Graystripe’s kits. Their mother was Silverstream—a RiverClan cat.”
Goldenflower’s eyes widened in astonishment, and Brindleface, roused from her doze, pricked up her ears.
“Graystripe must have been slinking off for moons to see her,” Speckletail hissed. “What loyal cat would do that? They both betrayed their Clans. There’s bad blood in those kits.”
“Nonsense,” Bluestar spat back, her hackles suddenly raised. Fireheart winced—he had rarely seen his leader so angry. “Whatever we think about Graystripe and Silverstream, the kits are innocent. Will you take them, Goldenflower? They’ll die without a mother.”
Goldenflower hesitated, an
d then let out a long breath. “How can I say no? I have plenty of milk.”
Speckletail let out a snort of disapproval and pointedly turned her back as Fireheart and Cinderpaw gently laid the kits in Goldenflower’s nest. The pale ginger queen bent over to guide them toward her belly, and their miserable squeaking died away as they burrowed into the warmth of her body and found a place to suckle.
“Thank you, Goldenflower,” purred Bluestar.
Fireheart realized that she was looking down at the young kits with an expression of longing. He wondered if she was thinking about her own lost kits, and his doubts about what had really happened to them came flooding back. Could they possibly be Mistyfoot and Stonefur, alive and well in RiverClan? Did she have any idea?
His thoughts were interrupted when Cinderpaw turned abruptly and made her way out of the den. Fireheart followed her, to find her crouching outside with her head bowed onto her front paws. “What’s the matter?” he asked.
“Silverstream died.” Fireheart could hardly hear her muffled reply. “I let her die.”
“That’s not true!”
Cinderpaw looked up, blinking. Her eyes were blue pools of misery. “I’m supposed to be a medicine cat. I’m supposed to save lives.”
“You saved the two kits,” Fireheart reminded her, moving closer and pressing the side of his face against her cheek.
“But I didn’t save Silverstream.”
A wave of sympathy washed over Fireheart. He understood how Cinderpaw felt, and he wanted to tell her she was wrong to blame herself, but he didn’t have the words. Feeling useless and saddened, he began to lick her gently.
“What’s going on?” Fireheart looked up to see Yellowfang standing in front of them, a puzzled frown on her broad gray face. “What’s this I hear about Graystripe and a RiverClan queen?”
Cinderpaw didn’t even seem to notice that her mentor was there. It was left to Fireheart to explain.
“Cinderpaw was brilliant,” he told the elderly medicine cat. “Those kits would have died without her.”
Yellowfang nodded. “I’ve seen Tigerclaw,” she rasped. “Brackenfur was taking me to the Sunningrocks when we ran into him. He’s furious about the kits. But he’s not furious with you, Cinderpaw,” she added. “He knows you did your duty, just as any medicine cat would.”
Cinderpaw glanced up at that. “I’ll never be a medicine cat,” she spat bitterly. “I’m useless. I let Silverstream die.”
“What?” snarled Yellowfang angrily, arching her skinny gray body. “That’s the most mouse-brained thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Yellowfang—” Fireheart began to protest at her harsh tone, but the medicine cat ignored him.
“You did your best, Cinderpaw,” she growled. “No cat can do more.”
“But it wasn’t good enough,” Cinderpaw pointed out dully. “If you’d been there, you would have saved her.”
“Oh? StarClan told you that, did they? Cinderpaw, sometimes cats die, and no cat can do anything about it.” She let out a rusty mew, half laughter, half scolding. “Not even me.”
“But I lost her, Yellowfang.”
“I know. And that’s a hard lesson.” Now there was rough sympathy in the old cat’s meow. “But I’ve lost cats before now—more cats than I care to count. Every medicine cat in the world has. You live with it. You go on.” She nudged Cinderpaw with her battle-scarred muzzle, and went on nudging until the younger cat rose unsteadily to her paws. “Come on. There’s work to be done. Smallear’s complaining about his aching joints again.”
She herded Cinderpaw in the direction of her den and paused to glance over her shoulder at Fireheart. “Don’t worry,” she told him. “She’ll be fine.”
Fireheart watched the two cats cross the clearing and vanish into Yellowfang’s den.
“You can trust Yellowfang.” At the sound of the quiet meow, Fireheart turned to see Bluestar. “She’ll see Cinderpaw through this.”
The Clan leader was sitting just outside the nursery, her tail wrapped neatly over her paws. In spite of all the turmoil of Silverstream’s death and the discovery of Graystripe’s illicit relationship, she looked as calm as ever.
“Bluestar,” Fireheart meowed hesitantly, “what will happen to Graystripe now? Will he be punished?”
Bluestar looked thoughtful. “I can’t answer that yet, Fireheart,” she admitted. “I need to discuss it with Tigerclaw and the other warriors.”
“Graystripe couldn’t help himself,” Fireheart blurted out loyally.
“Not help himself—when he betrayed his Clan and the warrior code to be with Silverstream?” Bluestar’s eyes glinted, but her tone was not as angry as Fireheart would have expected. “I promise you one thing,” she added. “I’ll do nothing until the shock has died down. We need to consider the whole matter carefully.”
“You’re not really shocked, though, are you?” Fireheart dared to ask. “Had you guessed it was happening?” He half expected Bluestar not to answer. She held him motionless for several heartbeats with her penetrating blue gaze. There was wisdom in her eyes, he saw, and even pain.
“Yes, I suspected,” she mewed at last. “It’s a leader’s place to know things. And I’m not exactly blind at the Gatherings.”
“Then…then why didn’t you stop it?”
“I hoped Graystripe would remember his loyalty to the Clan on his own,” Bluestar replied. “I knew that even if he didn’t, something would happen to end it, sooner or later. I only wish it had not ended so tragically, for both of them. Though I don’t know how Graystripe would have coped with watching his own kits grow up in another Clan.”
“You understand about that, don’t you?” The words were out before Fireheart had a chance to think about what he was saying. “It happened to you.”
Bluestar stiffened and Fireheart flinched at the sudden blaze of anger in her eyes. Then she relaxed, and the anger was replaced by a distant look of memory and loss.
“You guessed,” she murmured. “I thought you might. Yes, Fireheart, Mistyfoot and Stonefur were once my kits.”
CHAPTER 23
“Come,” Bluestar ordered. She began to walk slowly across the camp toward her den, leaving Fireheart with no choice but to follow. Once inside, she told him to sit down, and settled herself on her bedding.
“How much do you know?” she asked Fireheart, her blue eyes searching his.
“Only that Oakheart once brought two ThunderClan kits to RiverClan,” Fireheart admitted. “He told Graypool—that’s the queen who suckled them—that he didn’t know where they had come from.”
Bluestar nodded, her gaze softening. “I knew Oakheart would stay loyal to me,” she murmured. She raised her head. “He was the kits’ father,” she added. “Did you guess that much?”
Fireheart shook his head. But it made sense, then, that Oakheart had been so desperate for Graypool to care for the helpless kits. “What exactly happened to your kits?” he demanded, curiosity making him unguarded. “Oakheart didn’t steal them, did he?”
The Clan leader’s ears flicked impatiently. “Of course not.” Her eyes met Fireheart’s, suddenly clouded with a pain he could not begin to imagine. “No, he didn’t steal them. I gave them away.”
Fireheart stared in disbelief. There was nothing he could do but wait for the she-cat to explain.
“My warrior name was Bluefur,” she began. “Like you, I wanted nothing more than to serve my Clan. Oakheart and I met at a Gathering early one leaf-bare, when we were still young and foolish. We were not mates for long. When I discovered I was to have kits, I intended to bear them for ThunderClan. No cat asked me who the father was—if a queen does not wish to tell, that is her choice.”
“But then…?” Fireheart prompted.
Bluestar’s eyes were fixed on a point far away, as if she were staring into the distant past. “Then our Clan deputy, Tawnyspots, decided to retire. I knew I had a good chance of being chosen to take his place. Our medicine cat had already told me that StarCl
an held a great destiny for me. But I also knew the Clan would never take a queen nursing kits as deputy.”
“So you gave them away?” Fireheart could not keep the note of disbelief out of his voice. “Couldn’t you have waited until they had left their nursery? Surely you could have been made deputy once the kits were old enough to care for themselves.”
“It wasn’t an easy decision,” Bluestar told him, her voice rough with pain. “That was a bitter leaf-bare. The Clan was half-starved and I had barely enough milk to feed my kits. I knew that in RiverClan they would be well cared for. In those days the river was full of fish, and RiverClan cats never went hungry.”
“But to lose them…” Fireheart blinked at the sharpness of pain he felt in sympathy.
“Fireheart, I don’t need you to tell me how difficult my choice was. I lay awake for many nights, deciding what to do. What was best for the kits…what was best for me…and what was best for the Clan.”
“There must have been other warriors ready to be deputy?” Fireheart was still struggling to accept that Bluestar had been so ambitious that she would have given away her own kits.
Bluestar jerked her chin up defiantly. “Oh, yes. There was Thistleclaw. He was a fine warrior, strong and brave. But his answer to every problem was to fight. Should I have watched him be made deputy, and then leader, and let him force the Clan into unnecessary wars?” She shook her head sadly. “He died as he lived, Fireheart, a few seasons before you came to join us, attacking a RiverClan patrol on the border. Wild and arrogant to the last. I couldn’t stand by and let him destroy my Clan.”
“Did you give the kits to Oakheart yourself?”
“Yes. I spoke to him at a Gathering, and he agreed to take them. So one night I crept out of the camp and took them to the Sunningrocks. Oakheart was waiting, and he took two of them across the river.”