Crowfeather's Trial

And what about Breezepelt? he added to himself. He needs Nightcloud… now more than ever, when there are so many questions about his loyalty. And if she were to die in the tunnels, would those questions ever really go away?

There were so many other concerns, too. If his mother is no longer in the Clan, who will be the one to encourage Breezepelt and defend him to the others?

As soon as Crowfeather asked himself the question, the answer came back, in the sharp tones of the black she-cat.

Who do you think, flea-brain? You’re his father — you do it!

Crowfeather was so shamed by the chiding he imagined she’d give him that he turned his face away as if avoiding her. Because this thought brought a question: Yes, he was Breezepelt’s father, but… how long would it take him to really feel as if that was true?

Then he let out a long sigh, and waited impatiently for the dawn.

I hope it’s soon…

Chapter 5

Crowfeather drew his patrol to a halt outside the tunnel entrance where the stoats had appeared the day before. They had traveled across the hills in a gray, reluctant dawn, the moorland grass spiky with frost beneath their pads. A cold wind gusted down from the ridge, but the ice Crowfeather could feel inside himself, spreading from his ears to the tips of his claws, had nothing to do with the bitter weather of leaf-bare.

“Listen, all of you,” he meowed, turning to his Clanmates. “This isn’t going to be easy. We’re going to face the stoats on their own territory, and—”

“What do you mean?” Larkwing interrupted. “The tunnels are our territory!”

Crouchfoot let out a snort. “ThunderClan might not agree with you there.”

“Well, it’s our territory up to the underground river,” Larkwing retorted. “And one thing’s for sure — it doesn’t belong to these crow-food-eating stoats!”

“That’s enough,” Crowfeather snapped, raising his tail to put an end to the wrangling. He knew that his Clanmates were only arguing because they didn’t want to think about the danger they would soon be facing. Working themselves up into a rage would distract them from the dread they felt. “The point is, the stoats think it’s their territory. Remember that they didn’t follow us very far when they chased Breezepelt out of the tunnels last night. But inside the tunnels, they’ll be a lot more confident.”

“Encourage us, why don’t you?” Crouchfoot muttered.

Crowfeather ignored the comment. “Every cat needs to be very careful,” he continued. “We have to stick together, avoid the stoats if we can, and do whatever it takes to find Nightcloud.”

But where is Nightcloud? he wondered Trapped in a stoat’s den? Or lying on one of those piles of rotting crow-food? He shuddered. Then another thought occurred to him, terrifying in its own way. What will we do if we can’t find her?

The tunnel gaped in front of them, seeming darker and eerier than ever before. Glancing at Breezepelt, Crowfeather could see fear in his son’s amber eyes, but instead of worrying he might panic, he felt a renewed pang of sympathy for him.

It would be a weird cat who wasn’t unnerved, he thought. He couldn’t help but admire Breezepelt for his determination to be part of the patrol, even after his earlier encounter with the stoats.

Impulsively he turned to his son, meaning to tell him this, but Heathertail, who had padded right up to the entrance and stuck her head inside, interrupted before he could speak.

“I think I can scent Nightcloud!” she exclaimed.

Crowfeather hurried to join her, sniffing carefully at the air just inside the tunnel. The stench of stoat was overwhelming, and he could distinguish Breezepelt’s scent, reeking of his fear when he fled. But there was a faint trace of Nightcloud, too.

Turning to the rest of the patrol, Crowfeather was about to discuss with them what the best approach would be, when he realized that Heathertail was simply walking into the tunnel. He caught a glimpse of her tail disappearing into the darkness.

“Wait for us!” he called out with an exasperated lash of his tail. Just because the tabby she-cat knew the tunnels well didn’t mean that she should just stroll in there unprotected. What happened to “stick together” and “be careful”? he asked himself. Does she think she’s a kit exploring her own camp?