Rising Storm

“They promised to leave that night.” Her blue eyes challenged Fireheart to argue with her.

“And there’s no stench of sickness left?” he persisted, his fur pricking with worry.

“Look!” she snapped. “I told them to leave and they said they would. I don’t have time for this. There are berries to be collected, and the birds will get them if I don’t. If you don’t believe me about the ShadowClan cats, why don’t you check for yourself?”

A low yowl came from the medicine cat’s den. “I don’t know who you’re mewing at out there, but stop it now and go and fetch those berries!”

“Sorry, Yellowfang,” Cinderpelt called over her shoulder. “I’m just talking to Fireheart.” Her eyes flashed accusingly at him as Yellowfang’s voice sounded again.

“Well, tell him to stop wasting your time, or he’ll have me to answer to!”

Cinderpelt’s shoulders relaxed and her whiskers twitched with amusement. Fireheart felt a pang of guilt. “I’m sorry to keep going on about it, Cinderpelt. It’s not that I don’t trust you. It’s just that I—”

“You’re just a fretful old badger,” she told him, nudging him affectionately on his shoulder. “Go and check out the root cave for yourself, if you want to put your mind at rest.” She brushed past him and limped toward the camp entrance.

Cinderpelt was right. Fireheart knew he would be satisfied only once he’d seen the ancient oak himself to make sure it was free of both ShadowClan cats and sickness. But he couldn’t leave now. He and Whitestorm were the only warriors in the camp. His fur itching with frustration and worry, Fireheart began to pace the clearing. As he turned below the Highrock to retrace his steps yet again, he spotted Whitestorm padding toward him.

“Have you decided on the evening patrol yet?” called the white warrior.

“I thought Runningwind could take Thornpaw and Mousefur.”

“Good idea,” answered Whitestorm distractedly. He clearly had something on his mind. “Could Brightpaw go with the dawn patrol tomorrow?” he asked. “The experience will do her good. I…I haven’t been keeping up with her training lately.” Whitestorm’s ear twitched and, with a twinge of unease, Fireheart realized that the white warrior had been spending more and more of his time with Bluestar. He couldn’t help suspecting that Whitestorm was afraid of what the ThunderClan leader might do if he left her alone for too long. At the same time Fireheart felt guiltily relieved that there was another cat in the Clan—the most respected senior warrior, no less—who shared his concerns for their troubled leader.

“Of course,” he agreed.

Whitestorm sat down beside Fireheart and looked around the clearing. “It’s quiet this afternoon.”

“Sandstorm and Brackenfur have taken the elders and queens to drink by the river. Patchpelt suggested bringing back moss soaked with water for Willowpelt and Goldenflower.”

Whitestorm nodded. “Perhaps they could share some with Bluestar. She seems reluctant to leave the camp.” The old warrior lowered his voice. “She’s been licking the dew from the leaves each morning, but she needs more than that in this heat.”

Fireheart felt a fresh wave of anxiety swell in his chest. “She seemed so much better the other day.”

“She is getting better all the time,” the white warrior assured him. “But still, she…” His deep mew trailed away and, although Fireheart felt shaken by the dark frown on the old warrior’s face, there was no need to say any more.

“I understand,” he murmured. “I’ll ask Patchpelt to take her some when they return.”

“Thank you.” Whitestorm narrowed his eyes at Fireheart. “You’re doing very well, you know,” he remarked calmly.

Fireheart sat up. “What do you mean?”

“Being deputy. I know it hasn’t been easy, with Bluestar…the way she is, and the drought. But I doubt there’s a cat in the Clan who would deny that Bluestar made the right choice when she appointed you.”

Apart from Darkstripe, Dustpelt, and half the elders, Fireheart responded silently. Then he realized he was being churlish, and he blinked gratefully at the white warrior. “Thank you, Whitestorm,” he purred. He couldn’t help feeling encouraged by such high praise from this wise cat, whose opinion he valued as much as Bluestar’s.

“And I’m sorry about Cloudpaw,” Whitestorm went on gently. “It must be very hard for you. After all, he was your kin, and I think it is too easy for Clanborn cats to take that bond for granted.”

Fireheart was taken aback by the warrior’s shrewdness. “Well, yes,” he began hesitantly. “I do miss him. Not just because he was my kin. I truly believe he could have made a good warrior in the end.” He glanced sideways at Whitestorm, half expecting the old cat to contradict him, but to his surprise the warrior was nodding.