Forest Of Secrets

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.