The Darkest Hour

“The thanks of the Clan go with you,” Fireheart called out after them, his voice echoing thinly off the Highrock.

Mistyfoot and Stonefur didn’t respond. They didn’t even turn to look back before they vanished into the tunnel.

Every hair on Fireheart’s pelt prickled with the desire to turn and run from his new responsibilities. The secret that had been so heavy to keep—that Bluestar had given up her kits to another Clan—would be heavier still in the sharing. He wished that he had been given more time to think of what to say, but he knew that it was better for his Clan to hear the truth from him now, instead of from Tigerstar at the next Gathering. As Clan leader he had to face the task, however little he liked it.

Dipping his head to Cinderpelt, he bounded up onto the Highrock. There was no need to summon the Clan; they were already turning to look up at him. For a heartbeat Fireheart was breathless, unable to speak.

He could see their anger and confusion, and smell their fear scent. Darkstripe was watching him with narrowed eyes, as if he were already planning what to tell Tigerstar. Bleakly Fireheart reflected that Tigerstar already knew; he had heard what Bluestar said to her kits as she lay dying by the river. But the ShadowClan leader would certainly be pleased to hear about ThunderClan’s confusion and Fireheart’s own difficulties. Tigerstar was sure to find a way to twist it to his advantage in his quest for revenge against ThunderClan and his efforts to recover his kits, Bramblepaw and Tawnypaw.

Fireheart took a deep breath and began: “It’s true that Mistyfoot and Stonefur are Bluestar’s kits.” He struggled to keep his voice steady, and prayed to StarClan to give him the right words so that the cats would not turn against Bluestar. “Oakheart of RiverClan was their father. When her kits were born, Bluestar gave them to him to be brought up in his Clan.”

“How do you know?” snarled Frostfur. “Bluestar would never have done that! If the RiverClan cats said so, they’re lying.”

“Bluestar told me herself,” Fireheart replied.

He met the white cat’s gaze; her eyes blazed with fury, her teeth were bared, but she did not quite dare to accuse him of lying. “Are you telling us she was a traitor?” she hissed.

One or two cats yowled a protest. Frostfur spun around, fur bristling, and Whitestorm rose to face her. Though the senior warrior looked stunned with shock, his voice was steady as he meowed, “Bluestar was always loyal to her Clan.”

“If she was so loyal,” Darkstripe put in, “why did she let a cat from another Clan father her kits?”

Fireheart found that question hard to answer. Not long ago, Graystripe had taken a mate from RiverClan, and his kits were growing up there now. The ThunderClan cats had been so horrified that Graystripe had felt he couldn’t stay in his birth Clan any longer. Although he had returned, some cats still felt hostile to him and doubted his loyalty.

“Things happen,” Fireheart replied. “When the kits were born, Bluestar would have brought them up to be loyal ThunderClan warriors, but-”

“I remember those kits.” This time the interruption was from Smallear. “They disappeared out of the nursery. We all thought a fox or a badger had gotten them. Bluestar was distraught. Are you saying that was all a lie?”

Fireheart looked down at the old gray tomcat. “No,” he promised. “Bluestar was devastated at the loss of her kits. But she had to give them up in order to become Clan deputy.”

“You’re telling us her ambition meant more to her than her kits?” asked Dustpelt. The brown warrior sounded puzzled rather than angry, as if he couldn’t reconcile this image with the wise leader he had always known.

“No,” Fireheart told him. “She did it because the Clan needed her. She put the Clan first—just as she always did.”

“That’s true,” Whitestorm agreed quietly. “Nothing meant more to Bluestar than ThunderClan.”

“Mistyfoot and Stonefur are proud of her courage—both then and now,” Fireheart went on. “As we should be.”

He was relieved when there were no more open challenges, though the tension among the Clan cats did not die away completely. Mousefur and Frostfur were muttering together, casting suspicious glances up at him. Speckletail, tail-tip twitching, stalked across to join them. But Whitestorm moved from one cat to another, clearly backing up what he had said, and Smallear was nodding wisely, as if he respected the hard decision Bluestar had made.

Then a single voice rose clearly out of the hum of conversation. “Fireheart,” Tawnypaw piped up, “are you going to be our leader now?”

Before Fireheart could reply, Darkstripe sprang to his paws. “Accept a kittypet as Clan leader? Are we all mad?”

“It’s not a question, Darkstripe,” Whitestorm pointed out, raising his voice above shocked exclamations from Sandstorm and Graystripe. “Fireheart is Clan deputy; he succeeds Bluestar. That’s all there is to it.”