Эрин Хантер: Rising Storm

“So who do you want to be their mentors?” Fireheart asked cautiously. He felt a tremor ripple through his tail as Bluestar stiffened again and her gaze darted anxiously around the cave.

“You decide.”

Her reply was barely audible, and Fireheart decided not to press her any more. He dipped his head and meowed, “Yes, Bluestar,” before backing out of the den.

He sat in the shade of the Highrock for a moment to gather his thoughts. Tigerclaw’s treachery must have shaken her even more than he realized if she didn’t trust any of her warriors now. Fireheart ducked his head to give his chest a reassuring lick. It was barely a quarter moon since the attack by the rogue cats. Bluestar would get over it, he told himself. Meanwhile, he had to hide her anxiety from the other cats. If the Clan was already uneasy, as Whitestorm had said, seeing Bluestar like this would only make them more alarmed.

Fireheart flexed his shoulder muscles and padded toward the nursery. “Hi, Willowpelt,” he meowed as he reached the queen. The pale gray she-cat was lying on her side outside the thicket of brambles that sheltered the kits, enjoying the warmth of the sun.

She lifted her head as Fireheart stopped beside her. “Hi, Fireheart. How’s life as a deputy?” Her eyes were gently curious and her voice was friendly, not challenging.

“Fine,” Fireheart told her. Or it would be, if I didn’t have a pain in the neck for an apprentice , he thought with frustration, or the elders fretting about the wrath of StarClan, or a leader who can’t even decide who should mentor Brindleface’s kits.

“Glad to hear it,” purred Willowpelt. She twisted her head to wash her back.

“Is Brindleface around?” Fireheart asked.

“She’s inside,” Willowpelt meowed between licks.

“Thanks.” Fireheart pushed his way into the brambles. It was surprisingly bright inside. Sunlight streamed through gaps in the twisted branches, and Fireheart told himself he would have to get the holes patched before the cold winds of leaf-fall.

“Hi, Brindleface,” he meowed. “Good news! Bluestar says the naming ceremony for your kits will be this evening.”

Brindleface was lying on her side while her two pale gray kits clambered over her. “Thank StarClan for that!” she grunted as the heavier of the kits, his fur speckled with dark flecks, sprang off his mother’s flank and flung himself at his sister. “These two are getting too big for the nursery.”

The kits tumbled over and rolled against their mother’s back in a tangle of paws and tails. Brindleface gently shoved the kits away from her and asked, “Do you know who their mentors will be?”

Fireheart was already prepared for this question. “Bluestar hasn’t decided yet,” he explained. “Are there any warriors you’d prefer?”

Brindleface looked surprised. “Bluestar will know best; she should decide.”

Fireheart knew as well as any cat that it was traditional for the Clan leader to select mentors. “Yes, you’re right,” he meowed heavily.

His fur prickled as the breeze carried the odor of Tigerclaw’s tabby kit to his scent glands. “Where’s Goldenflower?” he asked Brindleface, more sharply than he intended.

Her eyes widened. “She’s taken her kits to meet the elders,” she replied. She narrowed her eyes at Fireheart. “You recognize Tigerclaw in his son, don’t you?”

Fireheart nodded uncomfortably.

“He has his father’s looks, but that’s all,” Brindleface assured him. “He’s gentle enough with the other kits, and his sister certainly keeps him in his place!”

“Well, that’s good.” Fireheart turned away. “I’ll see you later at the ceremony,” he meowed as he pushed his way back through the entrance.

“Does this mean Bluestar’s decided when the naming ceremony should be?” Willowpelt called over to him when he appeared outside.

“Yes,” he answered.

“Who will be their men…?”

But Fireheart trotted away before he could hear the rest of Willowpelt’s question. News of the naming ceremony would spread through the camp like forest fire, and every cat would want to know the same thing. Fireheart would have to decide soon, but his nostrils were still filled with the scent of Bramblekit, and his mind whirled as dark thoughts unfolded sinister wings within him.

Instinctively he headed for the fern tunnel that led to the medicine cat’s clearing. Yellowfang’s apprentice, Cinderpelt, would be there. Now that Graystripe had gone to live with RiverClan, Cinderpelt was Fireheart’s closest friend. He knew that the gentle gray she-cat would be able to make sense of the confused emotions that seethed in his heart.

He quickened his pace through the cool ferns and emerged into the sunlit clearing. At one end loomed the flat face of a tall rock, split down the center. The niche in the middle of the stone was just large enough for Yellowfang to make her den and store her healing herbs.

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.”