The Fourth Apprentice

“I’ve come for more of those herbs,” Dustpelt announced, then added reluctantly, “My back feels much better today, so they must have done some good.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Jayfeather replied. “Hang on, and I’ll get them.”

As he headed for the storage cleft at the back of the den, Dustpelt called after him, “I don’t want them if another cat needs them more.”

“No, it’s fine,” Jayfeather replied. He collected a few leaves of tansy and some of daisy from the store and headed back to the tabby warrior. “Eat those,” he ordered, pushing the tansy toward his Clanmate.

While Dustpelt was licking up the herbs, Jayfeather chewed up the daisy leaves and made a poultice to spread on the base of the ThunderClan warrior’s spine, where the pain was worst.

“Thanks,” Dustpelt meowed. As he was heading out of the den he paused, acute embarrassment flooding from his pelt. “Ferncloud said I had to thank you from her, too. She said I was being really annoying, complaining about backache without doing anything about it.”

“Surely not,” Jayfeather murmured, faintly amused, as the tabby warrior padded off toward the warriors’ den.

The sound of Dustpelt’s paw steps had hardly died away when another cat popped her head around the bramble screen.

“Hi, Cinderheart,” Jayfeather mewed, breathing in her scent and picking up her anxiety along with it. “Is something wrong?”

“I’m fine, but I’m worried about Poppyfrost,” the gray she-cat replied, slipping into the den.

“What’s the matter with her?” Alarm leaped in Jayfeather like a jumping fish. “Is it her kits?”

“Oh, no, she’s doing well physically,” Cinderheart told him. “Her belly is about the right size, and there’s no sign of fever or vomiting.”

“Good,” Jayfeather murmured. And you would know—Cinderpelt, he added privately to himself. Only he and Leafpool knew the strange truth about Cinderheart, that she had lived in ThunderClan before as the medicine cat Cinderpelt, who had died saving Sorreltail from a badger at the moment Cinderheart was born. Cinderheart had no idea why she knew so much about herbs, or why memories of ThunderClan’s former home haunted her dreams. Leafpool and Jayfeather had agreed long ago not to tell her; she was a warrior in her own right, and if StarClan had chosen to give Cinderpelt a second chance, they would not interfere.

“It’s just that she’s so quiet and sad,” Cinderheart went on. “Is there anything you can do to help?”

Jayfeather was puzzled. What sort of help does she expect? “I don’t want to give Poppyfrost herbs,” he began, “not when she’s expecting kits, unless it’s really urgent.”

“Yes, but—”

“You told me she’s not ill,” Jayfeather went on, ignoring the she-cat’s protest. “If everything’s okay—”

“It’s not okay,” Cinderheart interrupted in her turn. “Nothing’s okay,” she added wretchedly. “Oh, Jayfeather, I miss Hollyleaf so much!”

Jayfeather felt as though some cat had hurled a rock into his belly. He tried hard every day not to think about his sister, and every day he failed. “So do I,” he replied quietly.

“Yes, you must.” Cinderheart’s tone was full of sympathy. “Losing a littermate is the worst thing ever. Maybe that’s why Poppyfrost is so sad, because Honeyfern’s gone.” She let out a long sigh. “I’m sorry for disturbing you, Jayfeather.”

She turned and padded out of the den; Jayfeather pictured her head drooping and her tail trailing in the dust. When she had gone, he slipped inside the storage cleft again and turned over his dwindling stock of herbs. Poppy seed…tansy…borage…No, there’s nothing here that will help a cat who’s just sad. And there was nothing any cat could say or do that would stop Poppyfrost from grieving for her dead sister.

Curling up in his nest of moss and fern, Jayfeather let himself drift into sleep and turned his paws in the direction of Poppyfrost’s dreams. To his surprise, he found himself on the steep, rocky path leading to the Moonpool. The moon shed its pale light over the boulders and moorland grass on either side, and it gleamed on the tortoiseshell fur of the young cat slipping quietly ahead of him.

“Poppyfrost!” Jayfeather called.

The young cat started, then slowly turned to face him; starlight glittered in her eyes.

“What are you doing here?” Jayfeather asked her.

Poppyfrost seemed unsurprised to see that he was the cat who was following her. “I’ve dreamed of this mountain path so many times since Honeyfern died,” she explained. “I want to see her so much, and I can hear her calling to me from somewhere up there.” She nodded to the top of the ridge, silhouetted against the star-filled sky.

Jayfeather pricked his ears, straining in an effort to hear the young she-cat’s voice. But there was nothing except the faint whisper of the wind over the grass. “I can’t hear her,” he meowed.

“I can.” Poppyfrost was calm and clear-eyed as she spoke, though her voice betrayed her longing for her dead sister.