Rising Storm

“They’re great,” Fireheart whispered. It was good to see kits again, but he couldn’t help feeling a thorn-sharp stab of sorrow. The last newborn kits he’d seen had been Silverstream’s, and Fireheart’s mind flew instantly to Graystripe. He wondered how his old friend was—whether he was still grieving, or whether his new life in RiverClan with his kits had helped to ease his sadness.

Fireheart felt his tail bristle as he picked up the scent of Tigerclaw’s kit. He turned to see where it was, swallowing the distrust that rose like bile in his throat. Behind him, Goldenflower was curled in her nest, her eyes closed and the kits sleeping soundly at her side. The dark tabby kit looked as innocent as any of its nursery Clanmates, and Fireheart felt a pang of guilt at the resentment that ruffled his fur.

Fireheart awoke early the next day. Thoughts of Graystripe lay heavy at the edge of his mind like rain clouds. He missed his old friend even more now that he was so worried about Cloudpaw. Talking to Sandstorm had helped, but he longed to know what Graystripe would say. Fireheart lay in his nest for a few moments before he made up his mind: He would go to the river today to see if he could find his old friend.

He slipped out of the den and gave himself a long, satisfying stretch. The sun was only just showing on the horizon, and there was a powdery softness in the early morning sky. Dustpelt was sitting in the middle of the clearing talking with Fernpaw. Fireheart wondered grimly what the brown warrior wanted to share with Darkstripe’s gentle apprentice. Was Dustpelt poisoning her mind with malicious gossip? But Dustpelt’s fur lay smoothly on his broad shoulders, and Fireheart detected none of the usual arrogance in his tone, even though he couldn’t hear what he was saying. In fact the warrior was talking to Fernpaw in a voice as soft as a wood pigeon.

Fireheart approached the pair. When Dustpelt saw him coming, his eyes hardened.

“Dustpelt,” Fireheart greeted him, “will you take the sunhigh patrol?”

Fernpaw’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “Can I go too?”

“I don’t know,” Fireheart admitted. “I haven’t spoken with Darkstripe about your progress yet.”

“Darkstripe says she’s doing well,” meowed Dustpelt.

“Then perhaps you could speak to him about it,” Fireheart suggested. He didn’t want to provoke a scornful response, but this could be a chance to smooth out some of the hostility Dustpelt usually showed toward him. “But take Ashpaw and another warrior too.”

“Don’t worry,” Dustpelt assured him. His eyes were filled with uncharacteristic concern. “I’ll make sure Fernpaw’s safe.”

“Er…good,” meowed Fireheart, padding away. He couldn’t believe that he’d had a whole conversation with Dustpelt without the warrior uttering a single barbed jibe.

Once he was out of the ravine, Fireheart raced toward Sunningrocks. The ground was so dry that his paws threw up small clouds of dust where they pounded over the forest floor. When he reached the great stone slabs, he noticed that the plants growing between the cracks had shriveled and died, and it dawned on him with a shock that it had been almost two moons since it had rained.

He skirted the bottom edge of the rocks and headed for the scent markers at the edge of RiverClan territory. The forest thinned out and sloped down to the river here. The air was filled with birdsong and the whispering of wind-stirred leaves, and in the background Fireheart could hear the steady lap of water. He stopped and sniffed the air. There was no scent of Graystripe. If he was going to see his friend, Fireheart would have to venture into RiverClan territory. Determination made him more willing than usual to take the risk. Their dawn patrol would be out, but with any luck they would be patrolling the other borders now.

Fireheart crept cautiously across the scentline and pushed his way through the ferns to the edge of the water, feeling exposed and vulnerable. There was still no sign of Graystripe. Did he dare cross the river and try his luck deeper in RiverClan territory? It would be easy enough—the water was shallow now, so he could wade most of the way, apart from the deep channel in the middle, where the current was slow enough to swim without too much difficulty. After all, he’d grown more used to water than most ThunderClan cats during the terrible floods of newleaf.

An unexpected scent drifting into his half-open mouth made Fireheart stiffen in surprise. It was the stench of ShadowClan! What were ShadowClan cats doing so far from home? The whole of ThunderClan’s territory lay between their land and the river.

Alarmed, Fireheart backed into the ferns. He inhaled deeply, trying to pinpoint where the smell came from. With a sickening feeling, he recognized more than the scent of ShadowClan. There was a rancid tang of illness to it that he had smelled recently, and it was coming from farther upriver.