Bluestar's Prophecy

As if he knew what she was thinking, Thrushpelt sighed. “I wonder if we’ll see Pinestar?”

Bluefur flicked her tail. “I expect he’s got a new name by now.”

Thrushpelt turned to her with his eyes stretched wide. “How can a Clan cat become a kittypet? I’d rather be RiverClan first—and that would be bad enough.”

Bluefur looked at the fence and said nothing. If I were RiverClan, everything would be so much easier.

By the time they reached camp again, Bluefur was too tired to feel anything. She headed for her nest, pushing her way into the yew den. Tawnyspots was curled in his own nest, fast asleep, huddled tight as though he was bone-cold. But it was warm in the den. The leaf-bare sunshine had been pooling in the camp all morning, warming the air.

As Bluefur padded past him, her pelt pricked. A sharp, sour scent was drifting from him: the stench of illness, so strong that it turned her paws cold. She suddenly noticed how his bones jutted through his scrawny pelt. Tawnyspots was really sick. ThunderClan might need a new deputy any moment.

Bluefur hurried out of the den. Was Tawnyspots going to die? I’ll ask Goosefeather. Please let him make sense this time! She had to know. It was too soon. How could she possibly become deputy when she hadn’t even finished training her first apprentice? When she reached the clearing, the old medicine cat was already surrounded by Clanmates.

Dappletail was shaking her head. “I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in days, with his coming and going in the night.”

Smallear agreed. “The only exercise he does is padding back and forth to the dirtplace.”

“Will he recover this time?” Whitestorm asked.

Bluefur pushed in beside the white warrior. “Are you talking about Tawnyspots?” she whispered.

Whitestorm nodded.

“He does seem even sicker than usual,” Lionheart put in.

Goosefeather’s gaze was heavy with worry. “We’ve tried everything, but nothing helps.”

Bluefur flicked her tail. What was Goosefeather trying to tell them? “He recovered last time,” she pointed out.

“He wasn’t this sick last time,” Goosefeather countered. “Sunstar will have to start thinking about appointing a new deputy before long.” He stared at Bluefur, his gaze suddenly sharp and excited as a kit’s.

Bluefur stiffened. Was this her chance?

A voice behind her murmured, “Oh, yes, it’s time for me to take Tawnyspots’s place.”

Bluefur spun around. Thistleclaw stood behind her, where Goosefeather could see him, too. The spiky tom’s eyes were glowing, his tail high, his well-muscled shoulders sleek in the sunshine.

Sunstar wants a cat with youth and energy to serve beside him. Bluefur remembered Goosefeather’s words with a shiver.

Right now, Thistleclaw seemed to be the strongest, most promising cat in the Clan. Would Sunstar choose him to be the next deputy instead?

Chapter 38

The yew branches rustled as Bluefur’s Clanmates filed into the den, bringing with them the tang of a cold leaf-bare wind. They had just returned from the Gathering.

Bluefur lifted her head. “How was it?” She yawned, wanting only to go back to sleep. She had been so tired lately, drowsiness weighting her paws through the day, her sleep heavy at night. She’d felt unusually clumsy in the training hollow, too, and was relieved that Frostfur had been made a warrior, along with her sister, Brindleface. With no more training sessions to attend, she’d had a chance to let her battle practice slide.

Rosetail kneaded her nest and stepped into it. “I’ll tell you in the morning,” she murmured, closing her eyes.

Leopardfoot was more talkative, clearly still buzzing from the Gathering as she plumped up the bracken in the nest on Bluefur’s other side. “Hailstar lost his ninth life,” she announced. “He was bitten by a rat.”

Bluefur sat up. “He’s dead?”

“Yes. Crookedstar’s the leader of RiverClan now.”

“Who is the new deputy?” Bluefur pricked her ears. She knew Oakheart had set his heart on it.

“Timberfur.”

Timberfur? But Oakheart is Crookedstar’s brother. How could he overlook him like that? Bluefur kept the thought to herself. She hadn’t seen Oakheart in the last moon—not since they’d met at Fourtrees. She’d avoided the Gathering by telling Sunstar that she’d wrenched her shoulder jumping down the ravine. She couldn’t bear to see the tree where they’d sat, or the remnants of the nest they’d made together. And to see Oakheart himself and not be able to share more than polite words would have been agony.

“And there was a fight,” Leopardfoot breathed.

“At the Gathering?” Bluefur was shocked.

“A new ShadowClan apprentice called Brokenpaw went for two RiverClan apprentices. Oakheart had to break it up.”

He was there! Pain pierced her heart like a thorn. He would have been looking for her. She hoped he understood why she hadn’t gone.