Bluestar's Prophecy

Chapter 33

“StarClan honors you for your wisdom and your loyalty. I name you Whitestorm.”

As Sunstar pressed his muzzle to the white warrior’s head, the Clan broke into cheers. “Whitestorm! Whitestorm!”

Bluefur closed her eyes, relief washing over her like rain. I kept my promise, Snowfur. I kept him safe.

Bluefur hadn’t been Whitestorm’s mentor after all. Sunstar had told her that he didn’t think kin were the best mentors for kin, especially as Bluefur had basically mothered Whitestorm since Snowfur’s death. Instead he had given Bluefur Frostpaw as an apprentice a few moons later, and Patchpelt had trained Whitestorm, a choice Bluefur approved of. Whitestorm had trained alongside Tigerclaw, and Bluefur was pleased to have a wise and gentle mentor around to temper Thistleclaw’s brutal practices. She had involved herself whenever she could in Whitestorm’s training, which hadn’t been easy with Thistleclaw glowering at her whenever she tried to guide the young tom.

She opened her eyes, basking in the warmth of the cheers that welcomed Whitestorm to the Clan. He had grown strong and handsome, and he stood now with his chin high and his eyes bright, thick snowy fur dazzling in the leaf-fall sun. It had rained in the night, and the forest sparkled with silvery drops, reflecting rainbows through the trees.

Four seasons had passed since Bluefur had promised her sister in her dream of the gorge that she’d help raise the young tom, seasons that had brought change to the whole Clan. Redpaw, Willowpaw, and Spottedpaw had moved to the apprentices’ den, though Spottedpaw spent every spare moment shadowing Featherwhisker, fascinated by how much he knew about cures and herbs. Mumblefoot and Weedwhisker had died peacefully, and were still missed by their Clanmates. Fuzzypelt and Windflight had joined Stonepelt, Larksong, and Poppydawn in the elders’ den. White-eye had moved to the nursery, expecting her first kits. She was anxious about raising a litter through leaf-bare, but the Clan was strong and hopeful, and Bluefur knew that they would protect the kits however harsh the season.

Thistleclaw had established himself as a senior warrior, taking a nest near the center of the warriors’ den. Tigerclaw had been a warrior for four moons and had already claimed a nest close to Thistleclaw’s, shunning the outer den. No warrior had challenged him, though Bluefur wasn’t sure whether that was because his denmates respected the fierce, dark tabby and his former mentor—or feared them. Thistleclaw had become like a father to the dark tabby in Pinestar’s absence; he had trained him to win at any cost, defending his methods as part of the warrior code, though Bluefur saw no honor in the way Thistleclaw fought for his Clan.

Tigerclaw watched Whitestorm now; the new warrior’s eyes glittered as he padded over to Bluefur and dipped his head to her.

“Thank you.” The white tom’s mew had grown deep. “You have given me so much.”

Bluefur’s heart swelled. I won’t let anything hurt you, ever.

“Your mother would be proud of you,” Bluefur murmured, her mew catching in her throat.

“I know,” Whitestorm purred. “She’d be proud of you, too.”

Bluefur’s gaze clouded as she reached up and licked a stray tuft of fur on the warrior’s shoulder. She noticed with a pang the scar behind his ear. Tigerclaw had done that when he unsheathed his claws during a training session, when both cats were still apprentices. Bluefur had blamed Thistleclaw.

“If you taught Tigerclaw respect for his Clanmates, it would never have happened,” she had told him.

Thistleclaw had curled his lip. “His Clanmates must earn his respect.”

“But Whitestorm will be scarred for life!”

“It’ll teach him to react more quickly next time.”

Bluefur had stalked away fuming. She was furious at the way Thistleclaw had seemed to pitch the apprentices against one another, again and again. Seeing the scar now, she still had to push away a bolt of anger. What’s done is done, she told herself. Perhaps Thistleclaw’s ruthlessness had made Whitestorm a better fighter.

“Whitestorm!” Lionheart and Goldenflower were calling to him.

Whitestorm pressed his muzzle to Bluefur’s cheek and hurried away.

Larksong! Bluefur remembered that she’d promised to tell the old she-cat about the naming ceremony. She had been too frail to leave her nest. Padding to the fresh-kill pile, she picked a juicy mouse from the top and pushed through the branches of the fallen tree.

Larksong was curled in her nest with her nose on her paws and her eyes closed. Her tortoiseshell pelt, once so pretty, was now dull and ragged, but the old she-cat never lost her humor, even after her denmates Weedwhisker and Mumblefoot had died.

“At least I’ll get a few moons’ peace from their bickering before I join them in StarClan,” she had joked.

Not wanting to wake her, Bluefur laid the mouse beside her nest and began to creep out of the den.

Larksong lifted her head. “Did it go well?”

Bluefur turned. “Wonderfully. Whitestorm is a warrior now.”

“A good name for a strong warrior,” Larksong commented. She sniffed at the mouse and sat up, stretching. “You’ll miss him.”

“What?” Bluefur was unnerved by the solemn look in the old she-cat’s eyes.

“Whitestorm.”

“He’s not going anywhere. In fact he’ll be closer now that we’ll be sharing the same den.”

“But he won’t need you as much.”

Bluefur felt a pang. It was true. “I still have Frostpaw to train,” she pointed out.

“Training an apprentice is not the same as raising a kit.”

Bluefur blinked as Larksong went on. “You gave up everything for Snowfur’s kit. Look around you: Your Clanmates have mates, kits—lives of their own, beyond being a mentor.”

“There’s nothing more important than training warriors!” Bluefur protested.

Larksong gazed at her. “Really?”

Bluefur shifted her paws.

“You’ve fulfilled your promise to Snowfur,” Larksong mewed softly. “You need to live your own life now, Bluefur, before you wake up and realize that you’re as empty as a beech husk.”

Is that how the old she-cat really saw life? Surely there were things to offer the Clan other than kits! Bluefur was proud of what she’d done for Whitestorm, what she was doing with Frostpaw. Her apprentice was going to make a fine warrior. My life isn’t empty! She started to back out of the den. Was this really how her Clanmates saw her?

Larksong prodded the mouse and, without looking up, rasped, “Maybe Thrushpelt has waited long enough.”

Bluefur scooted from the den without replying. Was Larksong telling her to take Thrushpelt as a mate? She shook her head, baffled.

“Bluefur!” Tawnyspots was calling her from beneath Highrock. “You can join Lionheart’s hunting patrol!”

Lionheart and Goldenflower were pacing the clearing, while Thrushpelt sat nearby, plucking absently at the ground. Bluefur nodded to Tawnyspots. The ThunderClan deputy was growing thin again, his eyes tired. The sickness that had dogged him last leaf-bare seemed to be returning. The Clan cats might need a new deputy sooner than they thought.

And if that happens, I need to be ready. Having a mate would only distract me, take away my focus. It’s for the sake of my Clan!

“Ready?” Lionheart was staring at her, his yellow eyes bright.

Bluefur nodded and followed the golden warrior as he led Goldenflower and Thrushpelt out of the camp. They headed for the river, the ground turning wet underpaw as they neared the shore. Wet ferns draped themselves over Bluefur’s pelt. The rain made prey-scent harder to detect.

“We should split up.” Lionheart halted and looked over his patrol. “We’ll have more chance of picking up scents if we cover a wider area.”

Bluefur nodded. As her Clanmates headed in different directions, she chose a path through the undergrowth onto wetter ground. Mud squelched between her claws as she picked up the scent of squirrel. With her heart quickening, she followed the trail, pulling up when Thrushpelt’s scent tainted the bushes. She didn’t want to steal his prey, so she doubled back, heading closer to the river.

Something hopped between the clumps of marsh grass. Pricking her ears, Bluefur dropped into a crouch. A small moorhen was flitting low along the ground, stopping to peck at roots and snuffle for food in the mud. Water seeped up and soaked her belly as Bluefur crept forward. The bird hadn’t seen her. It was too busy rooting around in the marsh grass.

Bluefur sprang and grasped it with unsheathed claws. It fluttered for a moment in her paws, then fell still as she nipped its neck. It would make a tasty treat for White-eye.

“Good catch!”

A deep mew made her jump. Someone had called from the other side of the river. She spun around, the moorhen dangling from her jaws.

Oakheart!

The RiverClan tom was watching her from the far shore.

Bluefur dropped her catch and glared at him. “Are you spying on me?”

“No.” Oakheart looked mildly amused. “I’m allowed to patrol my own territory, you know.”

Lionheart’s call sounded from farther up the bank. “Bluefur!”

“I have to go,” she told Oakheart.

He stared at her, his amber gaze unwavering. “Okay.”

She headed away with her prey, reluctant to leave. Walking away from the RiverClan tom left a hard, hollow feeling in her belly.

He’s RiverClan, she reminded herself sharply.

Her Clanmates were waiting, each with prey.

“Were you talking to someone?” Lionheart asked her.

Bluefur dropped her catch. “Just to myself,” she meowed quickly.

Thrushpelt glanced admiringly at the moorhen. “Nice catch,” he purred.

“Thanks.” Bluefur didn’t meet his gaze. Somehow the ThunderClan warrior’s praise didn’t spark the same thrill in her as Oakheart’s had done.