Fireheart backed out of the den. He sat down in the shade of the Highrock and twisted his head to lick the fur on his tail. What should he do? His pounding heart told him to race into the forest, find Cloudpaw, and bring him home to the safety of the camp. But Bluestar had ordered him to stay here until one of the patrols returned.
Just then he heard the crashing of cats through the undergrowth outside the camp and he smelled the familiar scents of Darkstripe, Runningwind, and Dustpelt on the warm air. Their pawsteps slowed as they trotted through the gorse entrance, Runningwind leading the way.
Fireheart sprang to his paws with relief. Now he could leave the camp and find Cloudpaw. He hurried across the clearing to meet them. “How did the patrol go?” he called.
“No signs of the other Clans,” reported Runningwind.
“But we did smell your apprentice,” added Darkstripe. “Near Twolegplace.”
“Did you see him?” Fireheart meowed as casually as he could.
Darkstripe shook his head.
“I expect he was looking for birds in one of the Twoleg gardens.” Dustpelt smirked. “They’re probably more to his taste.”
Fireheart ignored Dustpelt’s kittypet jibe. “Was the scent fresh?” he asked Runningwind.
“Fairly. We lost his trail when we started to head back to camp.”
Fireheart nodded. At least he had an idea where to begin looking for Cloudpaw. “Darkstripe and Dustpelt,” he meowed, “Bluestar wants to see you in her den.” As the warriors padded away, Fireheart wondered whether to go with them, just in case Bluestar was still acting strangely. Then he noticed that Runningwind was leading Thornpaw toward the camp entrance. “Where are you going?” he called anxiously. Bluestar wanted three warriors to remain in camp; he couldn’t go and look for Cloudpaw if Runningwind was going out again.
“I promised Mousefur I’d teach Thornpaw how to catch squirrels this afternoon,” Runningwind meowed over his shoulder.
“But I…” Fireheart’s voice trailed away as the lean warrior eyed him curiously. He couldn’t bring himself to admit how worried he was about Cloudpaw. He shook his head. “Nothing,” he meowed, and Runningwind and Thornpaw disappeared into the gorse tunnel. A twinge of guilt shot through Fireheart as he watched Mousefur’s apprentice padding obediently after the warrior. Why couldn’t he inspire that sort of behavior in his own apprentice?
The rest of the afternoon dragged. Fireheart settled himself beside the nettle clump outside the warriors’ den and strained his ears, scanning the sounds of the forest for any sign of Cloudpaw’s return. But the fear that Bluestar had stirred in him had eased slightly since Darkstripe reported scenting only the young apprentice on the patrol, and no intruders in ThunderClan territory.
As the sun began to sink below the treetops, the hunting party returned. It was followed by Whitestorm and Brightpaw, drawn away from the training hollow, no doubt, by the scent of fresh-kill. Longtail and Swiftpaw returned soon afterward, but there was still no sign of Cloudpaw.
There was plenty of prey to go around, but no cat approached the pile. News of the naming ceremony had spread through the camp. Fireheart could hear Thornpaw, Brightpaw, and Swiftpaw whispering in excited mews outside their den until Bluestar padded out from her cave, when they hushed one another and looked up with huge, expectant eyes.
The ThunderClan leader leaped onto the Highrock in a single, easy bound. She had clearly recovered from her physical injuries after the battle with the rogue cats, but Fireheart didn’t know whether to feel relieved or worried by this. Why hadn’t her mind recovered as quickly as her body? His heart quickened as she raised her chin, preparing to call the Clan together. Her voice sounded dry and cracked, as if it had grown brittle from lack of use, but as she yowled the familiar words, Fireheart felt his confidence return.
The sinking sun glowed on his flame-colored fur, and he thought of his own naming ceremony, when he had first joined the Clan. Proudly squaring his shoulders Fireheart took the deputy’s place at the head of the clearing below the Highrock, while the rest of the Clan gathered in a circle around the edge. Darkstripe sat calmly at the front, staring ahead with unblinking eyes. Dustpelt sat stiffly beside him, unable to suppress the excitement that shone from his eyes.
“We are here today to give two Clan kits their apprentice names,” Bluestar began formally, glancing down to where Brindleface sat with a kit on either side of her. Fireheart hardly recognized the boisterous gray kits he’d seen wrestling in the nursery earlier. They looked much smaller out here, with their fur neatly groomed. One of them leaned toward its mother, its whiskers trembling with nervous excitement. The larger kit kneaded the ground with its paws.
An expectant hush fell over the rest of the Clan.
“Come forward,” Fireheart heard Bluestar’s voice command from above.
The kits padded side by side to the center of the clearing, their mottled gray coats bristling with anticipation.
“Dustpelt,” rasped Bluestar. “You will be mentor to Ashpaw.”
Fireheart watched as Dustpelt walked toward the larger gray kit and stood beside him.
“Dustpelt,” Bluestar went on, “this will be your first apprentice. Share your courage and determination with him. I know you will train him well, but don’t be afraid to turn to the senior warriors for advice.”
Dustpelt’s eyes gleamed with pride, and he leaned down to touch Ashpaw’s nose with his own. Ashpaw purred loudly as he followed his new mentor to the edge of the circle.
The smaller kit remained in the center of the clearing, her eyes shining and her little chest quivering. Fireheart caught her eye and blinked warmly at her. The kit stared back at him as though her life depended on it.
“Darkstripe.” Bluestar paused when she meowed the warrior’s name. Fireheart’s spine tingled as he saw a glimmer of fear flash in the leader’s eyes. He held his breath, but Bluestar blinked away her doubt and went on. “You will be mentor to Fernpaw.” The kit’s eyes widened, and she spun around to see the big tabby warrior padding toward her.
“Darkstripe,” meowed Bluestar, “you are intelligent and bold. Pass on all you can to this young apprentice.”
“Certainly,” promised Darkstripe. He bent to touch noses with Fernpaw, who seemed to shrink back for a heartbeat before stretching up to accept his greeting. As the new apprentice followed Darkstripe to the edge of the clearing, she cast an anxious look over her shoulder at Fireheart. He nodded back encouragingly.
The other cats began congratulating the two new apprentices, crowding around them and calling them by their new names. Fireheart was just about to join them when he caught sight of a white pelt slipping into the camp. Cloudpaw had returned.
Fireheart hurried to meet him. “Where have you been?” he demanded.
Cloudpaw dropped the vole that was clamped between his jaws. “Hunting.”
“Is that all you could find? You caught more than that during leaf-bare!”
Cloudpaw shrugged. “It’s better than nothing.”
“What about the pigeon you caught this morning?” Fireheart asked.
“Didn’t you bring that back?”
“It was your catch!” Fireheart spat.
Cloudpaw sat down and curled his tail over his front paws. “I suppose I’ll have to fetch it in the morning,” he mewed.
“Yes,” agreed Fireheart, exasperated by Cloudpaw’s indifference. “And until then you can go hungry. Go and put that”—he flicked his nose at the vole—“on the fresh-kill pile.”
Cloudpaw shrugged again, picked up the vole, and padded away.
Fireheart turned, still furious, and saw Whitestorm standing behind him.
“He’ll learn when he’s ready,” meowed
the white warrior softly.
“I hope so,” Fireheart muttered.
“Have you decided who’s going to lead the dawn patrol?” Whitestorm asked, diplomatically changing the subject.
Fireheart hesitated. He hadn’t even thought about it, or the rest of the patrols and hunting parties for the next day. He’d been too busy worrying about Cloudpaw.
“Give it some thought,” meowed Whitestorm, turning away. “There’s plenty of time yet.”
“I’ll lead the patrol,” Fireheart decided quickly. “I’ll take Longtail and Mousefur.”
“Good idea,” purred Whitestorm. “Shall I tell them?” He glanced over at the fresh-kill pile, where the cats were beginning to gather.
“Yes,” answered Fireheart. “Thanks.”
He watched the white warrior head toward the pile, feeling his own belly growl with hunger. He was about to follow when he noticed another white pelt, longer-haired and the color of fresh snow, mingling with the cats around the fresh-kill pile. Cloudpaw had obviously disobeyed Fireheart’s orders to keep away from the sharing of prey. Fury flashed through Fireheart, but he stayed where he was, his paws as heavy as stone. He didn’t want to argue with Cloudpaw in front of the rest of the Clan.
As Fireheart watched, Cloudpaw picked out a fat mouse and bumped into Whitestorm. Fireheart saw the white warrior glare sternly at Cloudpaw and heard him murmur something—he couldn’t tell what, but Cloudpaw dropped the mouse at once and slunk back toward his den with his tail down.
Fireheart quickly turned his head away, embarrassed that he hadn’t confronted Cloudpaw before the senior warrior. Suddenly he didn’t feel hungry anymore. He saw Bluestar lying under a clump of ferns beside the warriors’ den and longed to share his worries about his disobedient apprentice with his old mentor. But the haunted look had returned to her eyes as she picked halfheartedly at a small thrush. Fireheart felt a sadness like ice in his heart as he watched the ThunderClan leader heave herself to her paws and walk slowly toward her den, leaving the thrush untouched.