Crowfeather's Trial

Breezepelt stood over him, fixing him with an amber glare, pinning him down with his forepaws. “Why are you fighting for your ThunderClan kin?” he hissed. “What about your WindClan son?”

Crowfeather tried to reply, but no sound came out of his mouth. Breezepelt drew back, raising one paw as if he was about to strike again.

Crowfeather jerked awake. Darkness surrounded him; the moon had set, though he could see the top of the moor and the pile of memorial stones outlined against a sky that showed the first pale traces of dawn. Around him he could make out the curled-up bodies of his sleeping Clanmates and hear their faint snores and snuffles.

After his terrible dream, Crowfeather’s mind felt heavy and yet restless. He was sure that he wouldn’t sleep again, and he couldn’t bear to go on lying still in his nest. His whole body demanded movement, but if he paced up and down in camp he would just wake his Clanmates. Instead he crept out of the warriors’ den and up the slope to the edge of the camp, with a nod to Larkwing, who was on watch.

Outside the camp, padding to and fro on the frosty grass, Crowfeather could at last be alone with his troubling thoughts.

He was missing Nightcloud more than he’d ever thought he could. And he couldn’t work out what he felt about Breezepelt. Sometimes he annoys me out of my fur, but at other times it’s as if — almost as if — I’m starting to love him.

Crowfeather remembered too the curious sadness he had felt at the Gathering when he’d seen the animosity between Lionblaze and Breezepelt. They’re both my sons, even though neither of them probably wants me for a father. And I don’t even know what’s going on with Jayfeather.

He sent his thoughts out across the moor to the tunnels, where Breezepelt, Heathertail, and Weaselfur would be still investigating the stoats. I hope they’re all okay — even Weaselfur. Crowfeather wanted to believe that Breezepelt genuinely meant to prove himself, though he couldn’t entirely banish the nagging fear that his son wasn’t the loyal WindClan cat he pretended to be. That one day his emotions would get the better of him and lead him into reckless behavior — or worse, down a dark path from which there would be no return.

And that’s what my dream was about, Crowfeather realized. Deep down, I still don’t trust my own son. I don’t trust that he won’t fall prey to some snake-tongued cat who can encourage him to give way to his bad instincts. If that happens, what difficulties could it cause for WindClan — or even for all the Clans?

The thought knotted Crowfeather’s muscles and made him dig his claws deep into the earth. Why does everything have to be so difficult? For StarClan’s sake, we fought off the Dark Forest cats. So why do disagreements within the Clan seem to matter so much?

Crowfeather was beginning to realize that outside threats like the Dark Forest could destroy a Clan, but it was emotion that would destroy a single warrior from within. I want things to be simpler, he thought. All this messy emotion only weakens a cat. I’d rather live my life without it.

A paw step behind him distracted Crowfeather from his musing. He whirled, his claws at the ready, then relaxed as he saw that the newcomer was Kestrelflight.

“Are you okay?” the medicine cat asked.

“Fine,” Crowfeather responded, retracting his claws. “You startled me, that’s all. I’m sorry if I woke you up.”

“No, it wasn’t your fault,” Kestrelflight told him. “I’ve been awake for a while — and it looks like you have, too.”

Crowfeather nodded. “I had a dream…,” he began. He was reluctant to reveal the details, but a heartbeat later he found himself pouring out the story of how he had found himself back in the Great Battle, how Breezepelt had blinded him, and how he had tried in vain to fight with Hawkfrost.

“I’m pretty sure it wasn’t an actual prophecy,” he finished. “But I can’t help feeling it means something. Maybe my mind is dwelling on cats like Hawkfrost, and that horror Mapleshade, because it’s… warning me?”

“Warning you about what?” Kestrelflight asked.