Night Whispers

Brightheart let out a low moan as she hauled herself to her paws.

Bumblestripe, one ear torn, surveyed the flattened grass. “I think we showed them,” he declared.

Hazeltail glanced at him with scorn in her eyes and pressed closer to Mousewhisker, lapping at her sister’s bleeding, ruffled fur. “Showed them what?” she muttered between licks. “How much blood can be spilled in a pointless battle?”

Only Lionblaze looked uninjured. A smear of blood stained his flank, but Dovepaw knew it wasn’t his. She frowned, doubts flocking into her mind like starlings. Lionblaze was part of the prophecy, like she was. His power was the ability to fight any cat, any creature at all, without being hurt.

Why couldn’t Lionblaze have saved Firestar? What’s the point of having all that power if he couldn’t help his leader?

In front of her, Brambleclaw crossed the stained grass where Russetfur had lain, and touched the tip of his tail to Lionblaze’s shoulder. “Russetfur was too old for this battle,” he murmured. “It wasn’t your fault she died.”

Lionblaze hung his head.

Oh, StarClan! Dovepaw’s belly tightened. Lionblaze killed Russetfur? Her mentor looked shattered, his eyes dull. She hurried to his side and pressed against his flank. She felt utterly helpless. Her power was the ability to hear and see things that were happening far away, much farther than other cats could sense; she should have known what ShadowClan had been up to. Instead it had been her sister, Ivypaw, who had told Firestar that Blackstar was planning to invade ThunderClan’s territory and steal more land for hunting. Had StarClan sent a dream to Ivypaw because Dovepaw had refused to use her powers to spy on the other Clans? Maybe if Dovepaw had been listening and watching, as Lionblaze had asked, she’d have known what ShadowClan was going to do. She could have warned Firestar about it before there was no choice left but to fight.

Could I have prevented this?

She felt Lionblaze’s warm breath as he touched his muzzle to the top of her head. “Come on,” he whispered wearily. “Let’s go home.”

Dovepaw pressed close to Lionblaze as they trudged on heavy paws through the whispering trees.

Chapter 2

Jayfeather reached a paw into the far corner of his medicine store. He could smell stale marigold tucked beneath the rock; it was the last of his supply and so old that he wasn’t sure it’d be strong enough to keep infection from Sorreltail’s wound. But he clawed it out anyway and pawed it together with the last of his dried oak.

“This might sting,” he warned Sorreltail.

The tortoiseshell-and-white she-cat had been sitting patiently beside Briarlight’s nest. “That’s okay.” From the echo of her voice, Jayfeather could tell she was watching the dozing young warrior. “Her breathing sounds rough.”

Briarlight had fallen asleep before sunset despite the steady flow of injured warriors and apprentices through the den. Sorreltail was the last, having insisted on waiting until the others had been treated, though the gash in her shoulder was deep and still oozing blood.

Jayfeather pressed on the poultice and reached for cobwebs to cover it. “She has a chest infection,” he explained, draping sticky white strands across the wound. “I’m not sure whether to make her exercise harder to clear her chest or to let her rest and fight it from inside.”

Sorreltail brushed his shoulder with her muzzle. “Have you asked Leafpool?”

Jayfeather flicked his tail crossly toward the wads of bloodstained moss and herb fragments that littered the den floor. “Does it look like I’ve had time?”

“I just wondered,” Sorreltail replied mildly.

“Besides,” Jayfeather muttered, “Leafpool’s busy checking injuries.”

“I suppose.” Sorreltail got to her paws. “Thanks for the herbs.”

Regretting his sharpness, Jayfeather touched her flank with his tail. “Do you want poppy seeds to help you sleep?”

“No, thanks.” Sorreltail padded away. “Brackenfur’s snoring lulls me better than any medicine.”

Jayfeather had treated the golden warrior earlier, snapping his wrenched shoulder back into place before sending him to his nest with strict instructions not to move until sunrise. The rest of the Clan had been spared serious injury. Only Firestar’s wound had required careful attention. The tear in his neck had been closed with cobwebs and firmly bound. It would heal, but the life that had seeped away could never be replaced. Jayfeather pictured the faint warrior in StarClan, a little less transparent now, his flame-colored pelt one shade more vivid against the greenness of StarClan’s hunting grounds.

As Sorreltail limped from the den, Briarlight stirred. “What a mess,” she rasped over the edge of her nest.

“How are you?” Jayfeather sniffed her, relieved to find that her ears were cooler.

“Sleepy. How’s Firestar?” Briarlight blinked.