The Clan was weaker without him, but she did not miss him. Not in the way she missed Thrushpelt. Her faithful old friend had kept her secret till the end, only ever speaking of the lost kits with the fond grief of a father. Bluestar still carried the guilt of never telling him that two of them lived on. He’d know about that now; he’d see them from StarClan. Finally he would understand why she’d watched those two RiverClan cats with such interest, always seeking them out at Gatherings, cheering with such warmth when their warrior names were announced. Mistyfoot and Stonefur had become fine warriors. Oakheart and Graypool had raised them well, and she was very proud of them.
Did Oakheart know that?
They had never shared words since the night she’d given him their kits. They kept apart at Gatherings, fearing that some cat might make the connection between the loss of Bluestar’s kits and the appearance of two strays in RiverClan. But she had never stopped loving him or their kits. And the memory of their night at Fourtrees was lodged in her heart.
“I’ve led four good lives,” she murmured.
Redtail looked sideways at her, eyes narrowing. “Feeling nostalgic, eh?”
Bluestar sighed. “You’ll have to indulge me now that I’m old.”
“You’re not old,” Redtail argued.
Bluestar’s whiskers twitched. “I’m not young,” she reminded him. “Just look at the white hairs on my muzzle.”
She couldn’t help feeling that most of them had been caused by Thistleclaw. He had snapped at her heels with the hunger of his ambition, bristling when she’d made Redtail deputy, a growl always held back in his throat. He was the reason she’d hidden the loss of three of her lives.
I’ve led four good lives. The lie had come, as always, with a prick of guilt. She should tell Redtail the truth—that she’d lost seven lives and had just two left. She suspected Redtail knew, though he’d never challenged her. She’d learned the hard way that some things were best kept secret.
Bluestar sighed.
Redtail glanced at her. “What’s worrying you?”
“I was just thinking,” Bluestar murmured. “We’ve had so few kits born recently. Who will keep the Clan strong and well fed through leaf-bare? The elders’ den gets fuller each season.” Halftail, Smallear, Patchpelt, One-eye, and Dappletail all made their nests there now.
On the far side of the clearing, Spottedleaf emerged from the fern tunnel. She was the Clan’s only medicine cat since Featherwhisker had died, killed by the same bout of greencough that had taken one of Bluestar’s lives. But Featherwhisker had trained his apprentice well, and Spottedleaf was passionate about the welfare of her Clanmates. She’d cared for White-eye after she’d lost her blind eye completely and moved to the elders’ den, taking the new name One-eye. Her hearing was as poor as her sight these days.
One-eye wasn’t the only warrior to have changed her name. Sparrowpelt had become Halftail when he’d lost the end of his tail to a badger. Now unable to balance properly, he’d moved to the elders’ den, too, and left the tree climbing to his Clanmates.
The tortoiseshell medicine cat looked exhausted. The sun had risen that morning on a camp full of bleeding, disheartened warriors, driven back from Sunningrocks the day before after a desperate attempt to take it back from RiverClan. Bluestar hadn’t wanted to battle over the disputed rocks yet again. So much blood had been lost there already. And for what? A few extra tree-lengths of territory to hunt? But to let RiverClan cats swarm across the river and hunt for forest prey was seen as a sign of weakness by WindClan and ShadowClan.
So they’d fought, with patrols led by Redtail and Tigerclaw, who at times seemed fiercer and thirstier for battle than his mentor, Thistleclaw, ever had. And they had lost, chased back into the forest bloodied and humiliated. Back to their camp of too many elders and too few apprentices.
What would happen to ThunderClan now?
Chapter 45
Bluestar sat alone in the clearing and gazed up at Silverpelt. All around her, the camp stirred with the restless murmuring of wounded warriors.
Unease chilled her pelt. ThunderClan was weaker now than it had been since Pinestar had been leader. Was this how she blazed through the forest?
Spottedleaf padded out of the fern tunnel and halted beside Bluestar.
Bluestar looked at her. “How’s Mousefur?”
“Her wounds are deep.” Spottedleaf settled herself on the night-cool ground. “But she is young and strong. She’ll heal quickly.”
“And the others?”
“They’ll survive.”
Bluestar sighed. “We’re lucky not to have lost any cat.” She tilted her head again and studied the stars. “I’m worried by this defeat, Spottedleaf. ThunderClan hasn’t been beaten in its own territory since I became leader,” she murmured. “These are difficult times for our Clan. Newleaf is late, and there have been fewer kits. ThunderClan needs more warriors if it is to survive.”
“There will be more kits when greenleaf comes,” Spottedleaf pointed out calmly.
Bluestar shifted her paws. “Maybe. But training takes time. If ThunderClan is to defend its territory, it must have new warriors as soon as possible.”
“Are you asking StarClan for answers?” Spottedleaf mewed, following Bluestar’s gaze and staring up at the swath of stars glittering in the dark sky.
“Have they spoken to you?”
“Not for some moons.”
As she spoke, a shooting star blazed over the treetops. Spottedleaf’s tail twitched, and the fur rippled along her spine. Bluestar’s ears pricked up, but she kept silent as Spottedleaf continued to gaze upward. After a few moments, Spottedleaf lowered her head and turned to Bluestar. “A message from StarClan,” she murmured. A distant look came into her eyes. “Fire alone can save our Clan.”
Bluestar’s tail bristled. “Fire?” The ThunderClan leader fixed her clear blue gaze on the medicine cat. “You’ve never been wrong, Spottedleaf,” she meowed. “It must be so. Fire will save our Clan.”
But how?
“Goosefeather once said I would be the fire,” Bluestar confessed, uneasy at sharing the old medicine cat’s prophecy after all these moons.
“I know.” Spottedleaf gazed at her leader with clear, unblinking eyes.
“Was he right?” Bluestar leaned forward, desperate with curiosity. Had she been chasing an empty dream all these years? Had she sacrificed her kits for nothing?
“You saved the Clan from Thistleclaw’s leadership. He would have drowned us in blood. And you’ve led the Clan through many moons, keeping it strong and safe.”
Bluestar shook her head. “And now I have led it to defeat. That’s not exactly blazing through the forest.”
“Sunningrocks will be won and lost many more times.” Spottedleaf shrugged.
“But if I have followed my destiny, why does StarClan still speak of fire now?”
“Perhaps you haven’t finished,” Spottedleaf mewed.
“What more can I do?”
A moon passed, and the Clan began to recover from its defeat. At last newleaf was pushing away the leaf-bare chill. The forest was starting to buzz with life, the trees a green haze, the undergrowth starting to crowd the forest floor once more.
Bluestar padded beside Whitestorm as they walked along the Twoleg border. “How much do you remember about Snowfur?” she asked. She’d often wondered if her kits remembered her. If they did, they never gave any clue of it at Gatherings.
“I remember her smell and the warmth of lying beside her,” Whitestorm replied. “Having you around kept her memory alive. You carried the same scent and sometimes, even now, I see my mother in the twitch of your whiskers or the flick of your tail.”