Rising Storm

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.