Bluestar's Prophecy

Chapter 44

StarClan has never regretted its choice.

Snowfur’s words echoed in Bluestar’s ears. Many moons had passed since her naming ceremony. Bluestar had led her Clan through countless seasons, good and bad. She sat on Highrock, letting the newleaf sunshine dapple her pelt. The stone beneath her felt cold, and even the sun seemed unable to soften the chill beneath her pelt. Leaf-bare had been reluctant to loosen its grip on the forest, and prey was still scarce. Even Whitestorm looked bony underneath his thick pelt as he stretched beside the nettle patch. Lionheart sat beside him, wolfing down a scrawny shrew.

Dustpaw, Sandpaw, and Graypaw were play fighting, chasing one another’s tails and bundling one another around the clearing.

Redtail, the ThunderClan deputy, sat beside Bluestar. “I bet they call that training,” he meowed, flicking his tail toward the apprentices.

A fourth apprentice, Ravenpaw, was stripping a leaf from its stem, concentrating hard. He carefully ran his claw around the stalk, unaware that Dustpaw was creeping up behind him.

Dustpaw pounced, landing neatly on Ravenpaw’s tail. Shocked, the little black tom leaped into the air.

Bluestar shook her head. Ravenpaw had been nervous from the day he was born. It had taken his mother nearly half a moon to coax him out of the nursery. Bluestar hoped that, by giving him Tigerclaw as a mentor, the young cat would learn to have courage from the fearless warrior.

“Do you remember your first moon of training?” Redtail asked.

Bluestar nodded, sighing as memories warmed her heart. She had played like this with Snowfur and Leopardfoot. Both walked now with StarClan. So many familiar faces had gone: Stormtail, Swiftbreeze, Thrushpelt, Poppydawn, at a time when the Clan was hungrier than it had ever been. Even Thistleclaw.

The spike-furred warrior had died just a few moons earlier, chasing RiverClan invaders out of the territory. He had died as he lived, claws unsheathed, hungry for a fight, and his Clanmates had found him in a pool of blood, like the one Bluestar had seen staining the snow so many moons ago.

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?