The gray-and-white cat exchanged words with the flame-pelted tom. Moth Flight didn’t even strain to hear; she knew she’d pick up nothing but the whispering of wind in her ears.
Then the spirit-cat touched his nose to the tabby’s.
The she-cat jerked with pain.
Moth Flight narrowed her eyes. She’d seen this before. The cat was receiving the agonizing blessing of StarClan. She worked her paws deeper into the coarse grass, her pelt pricking with curiosity as more cats appeared from the mist.
A dark gray tom touched the brown-and-white tabby, and the tabby shuddered again.
Then an older white-and-tabby she-cat stepped forward.
They must be related. Their markings were similar, and the look that passed between them glistened with affection. Are they mother and kit? Moth Flight’s thoughts flicked to Wind Runner.
In the two days since the battle, her mother seemed to have grown worse, not better. A moan of pain jerked her attention back to her dream. As the older cat touched noses, the young tabby stiffened and jerked, clenching her teeth. She swayed on her paws, but held her ground until the older cat withdrew and began fiercely lapping her cheek, as though sorry for the pain she’d caused. They must be mother and kit. The young tabby closed her eyes, seeming to relish the moment. Then the old tabby turned and headed into the mist.
The young tabby watched her go, eyes desperate with grief.
She opened her mouth to yowl. Though Moth Flight could not hear the words, she guessed that the tabby was begging her mother not to leave.
Grief stabbed at Moth Flight’s heart, so sharp it jerked her awake.
She blinked her eyes open. Her den was shady and cool.
Through the entrance she could see sunshine scorching the clearing.
Wind Runner lay beside her on a bed of moss and heather, her broken leg jutting over the edge. Moth Flight leaned close.
The WindClan leader felt hotter than ever. What can I do? Over the past two days, Wind Runner had struggled into consciousness less and less often, sleeping most of the time now. Perhaps it was a blessing. It saved her from the pain.
Perhaps it was her body’s way of healing. But if that was true, why was Wind Runner’s fever worsening? Perhaps I’m giving her too many poppy seeds? Maybe she needs to feel the pain to fight it.
Moth Flight frowned. She’d helped Pebble Heart set her mother’s broken leg, and felt sure that they’d done the right thing. She’d treated the gash in her throat with dock and horsetail, just as Micah had taught her. And yet, it still oozed blood.
She sniffed the neck wound. Her pelt pricked with alarm.
Beneath the pungent tang of herbs, she smelled sour infection.
Why hadn’t Micah’s poultice stopped it from turning bad? Was this wound what was making her mother so sick? If Micah’s herbs weren’t strong enough to heal it, what herbs should she use?
Perhaps she should go and ask Pebble Heart. No. After a moon in ShadowClan, she knew his herb store as well as her own. There were no herbs there she didn’t have already. What about Dappled Pelt? When she’d visited RiverClan with Micah, the RiverClan medicine cat had only just begun to experiment with the lush plants growing along the riverbank. Perhaps she’d discovered something new, something strong enough to fight
Wind Runner’s infection.
“Moth Flight?” Honey Pelt’s mew interrupted her thoughts.
He was peering at her from the den entrance. “Can you come and play yet?”
She’d left her kits in the care of the Clan while she’d tended to Wind Runner.
Honey Pelt’s eyes were round with worry. “We miss you.”
Guilt wormed in her belly. “I’m sorry,” she told him. “I have to look after Wind Runner.”
Honey Pelt didn’t argue, but turned away, his tail drooping.
Moth Flight’s guilt deepened.
Another shadow darkened the entrance. She smelled Gorse
Fur’s scent before she could make out his pelt against the bright sunlight.
“How is she?” Gorse Fur’s mew was grim as he padded in.
He stopped beside Wind Runner and sniffed her pelt.
“Her fever’s getting worse,” Moth Flight confessed. “I’m not sure what to do.”
A growl rolled in Gorse Fur’s throat. “This isn’t fair!” he snapped. “After the Great Battle, I thought the Clans had stopped acting like foxes! Can’t a new moon pass without bringing us fresh troubles?”
Moth Flight got to her paws and met her father’s gaze. “I will heal her,” she promised. “I’m going to RiverClan to see if Dappled Pelt has any herbs to treat the infection in her neck wound. Will you watch her while I’m gone?”
“Of course.”
As Gorse Fur settled close to his mate, Moth Flight nodded toward the wet moss piled beside her mother’s makeshift nest.
“Drip a little water into her mouth every now and then,” she told him. “Send Dust Muzzle or Spotted Fur to get fresh if the old moss dries out.”
Gorse Fur’s ears twitched. “Will you be gone long?”
“I’ll be as quick as I can.” Moth Flight ducked from the den, screwing up her eyes against the harsh sunshine. Slate was lying in the long grass outside her den. The gray she-cat was recovering from her cough, but was still weak. Storm Pelt was nosing through the prey pile with Swift Minnow. The other hunting parties were still out on the moor. Jagged Peak had been organizing patrols while Wind Runner was sick, making sure the prey pile was well stocked.
“Moth Flight!” Blue Whisker’s excited mew sounded from the sandy hollow. “Have you come to play with us?”
Moth Flight stiffened. “I have to go and speak with Dappled Pelt.”
Spider Paw scrambled out of the hollow and stared at her.
“But you haven’t played with us for days!”
Honey Pelt and Bubbling Stream stopped wrestling beside
Blue Whisker, untangling themselves and jumping to their paws.
“Just one badger ride!” Honey Pelt mewed.
“Please.” Bubbling Stream blinked at her eagerly.
Moth Flight’s belly tightened with frustration. Digging her claws into the earth she met Honey Pelt’s gaze. “I’ll play with you as much as you like once Wind Runner is well.”
Slate heaved herself to her paws. “I’ll play with them,” she puffed.
“You need to rest,” Moth Flight told her sternly.
Storm Pelt looked up from the prey pile and called to Honey Pelt. “Once I’ve eaten, I’ll give you a badger ride.”
“And me?” Bubbling Stream scrambled toward the young tom.
“Eagle Feather and Dew Nose will be back from hunting patrol soon,” Storm Pelt told her. “Then you can have as many badger rides as you want.”
Moth Flight glanced gratefully at Storm Pelt. “Thank you.”
She headed over the tussocky clearing and hurried out of camp.
The heather was browning after endless days of sunshine.
Moth Flight looked at the horizon, hope flickering in her belly as she saw clouds bubbling in the distance. Rain might help cool
Wind Runner’s fever. The feverfew leaves she’d given her hadn’t helped.
She headed downslope. The dry heather jabbed her pelt as she nosed through it. Grass crunched beneath her paws. As she neared the gorge, she heard the faint swish of the river far below. Slowing as she neared the edge, she followed the steep trail that sloped down the cliff and flattened onto the shore. In newleaf, the river churned and frothed between the sheer sides of the gorge, swelled by moons of rain and snowmelt. Now, it swirled smoothly, its deep currents pushing quietly against the bank. Moth Flight stopped to lap water, her throat burning with thirst, then hurried along the bank as it opened onto marshland.