Rising Storm

The smaller kit remained in the center of the clearing, her eyes shining and her little chest quivering. Fireheart caught her eye and blinked warmly at her. The kit stared back at him as though her life depended on it.

“Darkstripe.” Bluestar paused when she meowed the warrior’s name. Fireheart’s spine tingled as he saw a glimmer of fear flash in the leader’s eyes. He held his breath, but Bluestar blinked away her doubt and went on. “You will be mentor to Fernpaw.” The kit’s eyes widened, and she spun around to see the big tabby warrior padding toward her.

“Darkstripe,” meowed Bluestar, “you are intelligent and bold. Pass on all you can to this young apprentice.”

“Certainly,” promised Darkstripe. He bent to touch noses with Fernpaw, who seemed to shrink back for a heartbeat before stretching up to accept his greeting. As the new apprentice followed Darkstripe to the edge of the clearing, she cast an anxious look over her shoulder at Fireheart. He nodded back encouragingly.

The other cats began congratulating the two new apprentices, crowding around them and calling them by their new names. Fireheart was just about to join them when he caught sight of a white pelt slipping into the camp. Cloudpaw had returned.

Fireheart hurried to meet him. “Where have you been?” he demanded.

Cloudpaw dropped the vole that was clamped between his jaws. “Hunting.”

“Is that all you could find? You caught more than that during leaf-bare!”

Cloudpaw shrugged. “It’s better than nothing.”

“What about the pigeon you caught this morning?” Fireheart asked.

“Didn’t you bring that back?”

“It was your catch!” Fireheart spat.

Cloudpaw sat down and curled his tail over his front paws. “I suppose I’ll have to fetch it in the morning,” he mewed.

“Yes,” agreed Fireheart, exasperated by Cloudpaw’s indifference. “And until then you can go hungry. Go and put that”—he flicked his nose at the vole—“on the fresh-kill pile.”

Cloudpaw shrugged again, picked up the vole, and padded away.

Fireheart turned, still furious, and saw Whitestorm standing behind him.

“He’ll learn when he’s ready,” meowed the white warrior softly.

“I hope so,” Fireheart muttered.

“Have you decided who’s going to lead the dawn patrol?” Whitestorm asked, diplomatically changing the subject.

Fireheart hesitated. He hadn’t even thought about it, or the rest of the patrols and hunting parties for the next day. He’d been too busy worrying about Cloudpaw.

“Give it some thought,” meowed Whitestorm, turning away. “There’s plenty of time yet.”

“I’ll lead the patrol,” Fireheart decided quickly. “I’ll take Longtail and Mousefur.”

“Good idea,” purred Whitestorm. “Shall I tell them?” He glanced over at the fresh-kill pile, where the cats were beginning to gather.

“Yes,” answered Fireheart. “Thanks.”

He watched the white warrior head toward the pile, feeling his own belly growl with hunger. He was about to follow when he noticed another white pelt, longer-haired and the color of fresh snow, mingling with the cats around the fresh-kill pile. Cloudpaw had obviously disobeyed Fireheart’s orders to keep away from the sharing of prey. Fury flashed through Fireheart, but he stayed where he was, his paws as heavy as stone. He didn’t want to argue with Cloudpaw in front of the rest of the Clan.

As Fireheart watched, Cloudpaw picked out a fat mouse and bumped into Whitestorm. Fireheart saw the white warrior glare sternly at Cloudpaw and heard him murmur something—he couldn’t tell what, but Cloudpaw dropped the mouse at once and slunk back toward his den with his tail down.

Fireheart quickly turned his head away, embarrassed that he hadn’t confronted Cloudpaw before the senior warrior. Suddenly he didn’t feel hungry anymore. He saw Bluestar lying under a clump of ferns beside the warriors’ den and longed to share his worries about his disobedient apprentice with his old mentor. But the haunted look had returned to her eyes as she picked halfheartedly at a small thrush. Fireheart felt a sadness like ice in his heart as he watched the ThunderClan leader heave herself to her paws and walk slowly toward her den, leaving the thrush untouched.

Chapter 4

Soft paws padded through Fireheart’s dreams that night. A tortoiseshell she-cat emerged from the forest beside him, her amber eyes glowing. Fireheart gazed at Spottedleaf and felt the familiar ache in his heart. The pain of the medicine cat’s death, so many moons ago, was as raw as ever. He waited eagerly for her gentle greeting, but this time Spottedleaf didn’t press her nose to his cheek as she usually did. Instead she turned from him and walked away. Surprised Fireheart began to follow, breaking into a run to chase the dappled cat through the woods. He called out to her, but even though her pace hadn’t seemed to quicken, she stayed ahead of him, deaf to his cries.