Rising Storm

Fireheart was about to call when Cinderpelt limped out from the shadowy cleft in the rock. As ever, delight at seeing his friend was tempered by the pain of seeing the twisted hind leg that had prevented her from becoming a warrior. The young she-cat had been badly injured when she’d run onto the Thunderpath. Fireheart couldn’t help feeling responsible, because Cinderpelt had been his apprentice when the accident happened. But as she recovered under the watchful eye of the Clan’s medicine cat, Yellowfang had begun to teach her how to care for sick cats, taking her on as apprentice a moon and a half ago. Cinderpelt had found her place in the Clan at last.

A large bunch of herbs dangled from Cinderpelt’s jaws as she limped into the clearing. Her face was creased in a worried frown, and she didn’t even notice Fireheart standing at the tunnel entrance. She dropped the bundle on the sun-baked ground and began sorting fretfully though the leaves with her forepaws.

“Cinderpelt?” he meowed.

The little cat glanced up, surprised. “Fireheart! What are you doing here? Are you sick?”

Fireheart shook his head. “No. Is everything okay?”

Cinderpelt looked dejectedly at the pile of leaves in front of her, and Fireheart padded over and gave her a nuzzle. “What’s the matter? Don’t tell me you spilled mouse bile in Yellowfang’s nest again?”

“No!” replied Cinderpelt indignantly. Then she lowered her eyes. “I should never have agreed to train as a medicine cat. I’m a disaster. I should have read the signs when I found that rotting bird!”

Fireheart remembered the moment that had happened after his naming ceremony. Cinderpelt had chosen a magpie from the fresh-kill pile to give to Bluestar, only to find that, beneath its soft feathers, it was crawling with maggots.

“Did Yellowfang think that was an omen about you?” Fireheart asked.

“Well, no,” Cinderpaw admitted.

“So what makes you think you’re not cut out to be a medicine cat?” He tried not to let his mind dwell on the fact that the rotting magpie could have been an omen about another cat—his leader, Bluestar.

Cinderpelt flicked her tail with frustration. “Yellowfang asked me to mix a poultice for her. Just a simple one for cleansing wounds. It was one of the first things she ever taught me, but now I’ve forgotten which herbs to put in it. She’s going to think I’m an idiot!” Her voice rose to a wail and her blue eyes were huge and troubled.

“You’re no idiot, and Yellowfang knows it,” Fireheart told her robustly.

“But it’s not the first dumb thing I’ve done lately. Yesterday I had to ask her the difference between foxglove and poppy seeds.” Cinderpelt hung her head even lower. “Yellowfang said I was a danger to the Clan.”

“Oh, you know what Yellowfang’s like,” Fireheart reassured her. “She’s always saying things like that.” Yellowfang had been ShadowClan’s medicine cat and, although she had become part of ThunderClan after being exiled by their cruel leader, Brokentail, she still betrayed flashes of the fierce temper of a ShadowClan warrior. But one of the reasons she and Cinderpelt got on so well was that Cinderpelt was more than capable of standing up to Yellowfang’s irritable outbursts.

Cinderpelt sighed. “I don’t think I’ve got what it takes to become a medicine cat. I thought I was doing the right thing, becoming Yellowfang’s apprentice, but it’s no good. I just can’t learn everything I need to know.”

Fireheart crouched down until his eyes were level with Cinderpelt’s. “This is about Silverstream, isn’t it?” he meowed fiercely. He remembered the day at Sunningrocks when Graystripe’s RiverClan queen had given birth before her time. Cinderpelt had tried desperately to save her, but Silverstream had lost too much blood. The beautiful silver tabby had died, although her newborn kits had survived.

Cinderpelt didn’t reply, and Fireheart knew he was right. “You saved her kits!” he pointed out.

“But I lost her.”

“You did everything you could.” Fireheart leaned forward to lick Cinderpelt on her soft gray head. “Look, just ask Yellowfang what herbs to use in the poultice. She won’t mind.”

“I hope so.” Cinderpelt sounded unconvinced. Then she gave herself a shake. “I need to stop feeling sorry for myself, don’t I?”

“Yeah,” Fireheart answered, flicking his tail at her.

“Sorry.” Cinderpelt threw him a rueful look that glimmered with a hint of her old humor. “I don’t suppose you’ve brought any fresh-kill with you?”

Fireheart shook his head. “Sorry. I just came to speak to you. Don’t tell me Yellowfang’s starving you?”

“No, but this medicine-cat thing is harder than you’d think,” Cinderpelt replied. “I haven’t had the chance to take any fresh-kill today.” Her eyes flashed with curiosity. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

“Tigerclaw’s kits.” Fireheart felt the bleakness seep into his belly again. “Especially Bramblekit.”

“Because he looks like his father?”