Tigerheart’s Shadow

Life here might be simpler, he thought, but, without kin—without a Clan—will our kits be anything but strays?

Chapter 17

Tigerheart opened his eyes. Dawn light filtered through the high stretches of clear wall. Dovewing was sleeping beside him. He let himself wake slowly. In the days since he’d helped chase the foxes away, he’d grown accustomed to the slow pace of life among the guardian cats. There were no dawn patrols, no borders to mark, no dens or camp walls to repair. He could hunt when he liked, bringing food back for the others as well as for Dovewing and himself. He’d accompanied a patrol to the herb patch to gather leaves and checked the blocked fox den. There was no sign the foxes had returned; their scent was all but gone, replaced by Thunderpath smells.

Now he gazed lazily around the cluttered cavern. The guardian cats were still sleeping, except Boots, who was murmuring softly to Marigold, the old black cat who had hardly left her nest since Tigerheart had arrived. Marigold listened, her gaze distant and dull. Boots stopped talking and began gently lapping her head, working his way along her spine with gentle strokes.

Tigerheart guessed that the old cat was dying. He was glad she had the care and protection of the guardian cats. For a moment he wondered how often strays must die alone, in a chilly makeshift den, with no help for their pain. The thought stung him, and he pushed it away. He wasn’t a stray; he never would be. And he’d make sure his kits never became strays either.

He stood up and stepped from the nest, turning back to tuck a few pelts around Dovewing so she didn’t feel the chill of his absence. He padded into a stream of early-morning light and began to wash. The sound of his tongue rasping over his fur was loud in the silent cavern. Boots lifted his head and blinked at him, then returned to washing Marigold.

Fur swished nearby, and Tigerheart turned to see Spire creeping from his nest. The skinny black tom glanced back at Blaze, still sleeping among the furless pelts, then tiptoed across the cavern floor and leaped onto the ledge that led to the entrance.

Quiet as a mouse, the tom slid out the gap into the pale morning.

Why had he left Blaze? Spire normally took the kit everywhere with him. What was he up to? Curious, Tigerheart hopped onto the wooden ledge, waited until Spire had slipped out of sight, and then leaped up and squeezed through the gap in the wall. Stone dust trickled into his fur, and he shook it free as he padded out of the shadow of the gathering place. The leaf-fall sunshine was bright, the air cold, and a blue sky arced above. The lines of stone slabs, sitting upright in the dewy grass, striped the clearing with shadow. Tigerheart saw a shape move between them. Spire was weaving his way toward a tall chestnut tree at the edge of the clearing. A Thunderpath lay beside it, monsters rumbling sedately past. Tigerheart had grown so used to them, he hardly noticed. His gaze was following Spire.

Tigerheart lingered behind a stone slab and watched as Spire reached the chestnut tree. The tom sat down and stared across the stretch of grass, which was divided by a smooth stone path that led to what Tigerheart guessed was the Twoleg entrance to the gathering place. Was Spire waiting for something? Tigerheart padded closer, his pelt tingling with curiosity. Keeping quiet, he stopped behind the stone slab nearest the chestnut tree and, hidden from view, watched to see what Spire would do next.

“Is this what warriors do?” Spire asked pointedly.

Tigerheart stiffened, confused for a moment—he hadn’t expected to hear the word warrior from one of the guardian cats, though it didn’t sound quite so strange out of Spire’s mouth. But he had been sure that he hadn’t been seen or heard as he approached.

“I came outside to get a chance to think,” Spire went on.

Tigerheart padded sheepishly from his hiding place and dipped his head to the skinny black tom. “I wondered why you’d left Blaze,” he mumbled. “You usually take him everywhere.”

“He usually follows me everywhere,” Spire answered tartly. “But even a crazy cat likes me needs solitude once in a while.”

“I’m sorry.” Tigerheart backed away. “I’ll leave you alone.”

As he spoke, a monster drew up at the end of the smooth stone path, and a brightly pelted Twoleg got out and began to walk toward the gathering place. Tigerheart froze and waited as the Twoleg disappeared inside.

“The entrance is open,” Tigerheart mewed in surprise. The wooden slabs that usually barred the entrance to the gathering place stood open. “Will they find the cavern?”

“They won’t even look for it,” Spire told him matter-of-factly. “It’s their yowling time. They do it every quarter moon, and in the evenings sometimes too.”