Forest Of Secrets

Prologue

Cold gripped the forest, fields, and moorland like an icy claw. Snow covered everything, glittering faintly under a new moon. Nothing broke the silence in the forest except for the occasional soft rush of snow sliding from the branches of trees and the faint rasping of dried reeds when the wind swept through them. Even the murmur of the river was stilled by the ice that stretched from bank to bank.

There was a flicker of movement at the edge of the river. A large tomcat, his bracken-colored fur fluffed up against the cold, emerged from the reeds. He shook snow impatiently from his paws as he sank into the soft drifts with every step.

In front of him, two tiny kits struggled forward with faint mews of distress. They floundered in the powdery snow, the fur on their legs and belly matted into icy clumps, but every time they tried to stop, the tomcat nudged them on.

The three cats trudged along the river until it widened out, and they drew level with a small island not far from the bank. Thick beds of reeds surrounded it, their dry stems poking up through the ice. Stunted, leafless willow trees concealed the center of the island behind snow-covered boughs.

“Almost there,” the bracken-colored tom meowed encouragingly. “Follow me.”

He slid down the bank into a narrow frozen pathway through the reeds and leaped onto the dry, crisp earth of the island. The bigger of the two kits scrambled after him, but the smaller one collapsed on the ice and crouched there, mewing pitifully. After a moment’s pause the tomcat jumped down beside it and tried to nudge it to its paws, but it was too exhausted to move. The tomcat gave its ears a lick, roughly comforting the helpless scrap, and then picked it up by the scruff of the neck and carried it onto the island.

Beyond the willow trees was a stretch of open ground broken by bushes. Snow covered the earth here, crisscrossed by the pawmarks of many cats. The clearing seemed deserted, but bright eyes gleamed from shelter, watching the tomcat as he led the way to the largest clump of bushes and through the outer wall of tangled branches.

The icy chill of the air outside gave way to the warmth of the nursery and the smell of milk. In a deep nest of moss and heather a gray she-cat was suckling a single tabby kit. She raised her head as the tomcat drew closer and gently set down the kit he was carrying. The second kit staggered into the nursery behind him and tried to scrabble its way into the nest.

“Oakheart?” meowed the she-cat. “What have you got there?”

“Kits, Graypool,” Oakheart replied. “Will you take them? They need a mother to look after them.”

“But…” Graypool’s amber eyes were shocked. “Whose kits are they? They’re not RiverClan’s. Where did you get them?”

“I found them in the forest.” Oakheart did not meet the she-cat’s eyes as he spoke. “They’re lucky a fox didn’t find them first.”

“In the forest?” meowed the queen, her voice rasping with disbelief. “Oakheart, don’t talk to me as if I’m mouse-brained. What cat would abandon her kits in the forest, especially in weather like this?”

Oakheart shrugged. “Rogues, maybe, or Twolegs. How would I know? I couldn’t leave them there, could I?” He nosed the smaller kit, which was lying completely still except for the rapid rise and fall of its tiny ribs as it breathed. “Graypool, please…Your other kits died, and these will die too, unless you help them.”

Graypool’s eyes clouded with pain. She looked down at the two kits. Their tiny mouths gaped pink as they mewed pitifully. “I have plenty of milk,” she murmured, half to herself. “Of course I’ll take them.”

Oakheart puffed out his breath in a sigh of relief. He picked up first one kit and then the other and laid them next to Graypool. She nudged them gently into the curve of her belly next to her own kit, where they began to suckle eagerly.

“I still don’t understand,” Graypool meowed when they were settled. “Why would two kits be alone in the forest in the middle of leaf-bare? Their mother must be frantic.”

The bracken-colored tom prodded a piece of moss with one massive front paw. “I didn’t steal them, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Graypool looked at him for a long moment. “No, I don’t think you did,” she meowed at last. “But you’re not telling me the whole truth, are you?”

“I’ve told you all you need to know.”

“No, you haven’t!” Graypool’s eyes flashed with anger. “What about their mother? I know what it’s like to lose kits, Oakheart. I wouldn’t wish that kind of grief on any cat.”

Oakheart lifted his head and glared at her, a faint growl coming from the depths of his throat. “Their mother is probably some rogue cat. This is not the weather to go looking for her.”

“But Oakheart—”

“Just take care of the kits, please!” The bracken-colored tom sprang to his paws and turned abruptly to push his way out of the nursery. “I’ll bring you some fresh-kill,” he meowed over his shoulder as he left.

When he had gone, Graypool bent her head over the kits, rasping her tongue over their fur to warm them. The melting snow had washed away most of their scent, though Graypool could still make out the odors of the forest, of dead leaves and frostbitten earth. And there was something beneath that, fainter still…

Graypool paused in her licking. Had she really sensed that, or was she imagining things? Dipping her head again, she opened her mouth to breathe in the kits’ scents.

Her eyes grew wider, and she stared unblinking into the dark shadows that edged the nursery. She was not wrong. The fur of these two motherless kits, whose origins Oakheart refused to explain, unmistakably carried the scent of an enemy Clan!