“Are you… a ghost?” he had asked her.
“I never thought you were a stupid cat, Crowfeather,” his mother mewed, dismissing his question with an irritated flick of her tail. “I’m what you see in front of you, and I can’t continue to StarClan until I’ve given you a message.”
Crowfeather’s heart raced with anticipation. Can she really tell me something that will put this whole mess right? Can she tell us what to do about the stoats, or how to settle our differences with ThunderClan? Then he remembered what he really wanted — more than peace within the Clan, more than peace with the stoats, more than anything.
Can she tell me how to help Breezepelt?
“What message?” he asked urgently.
But his mother’s response was only a single word. “Love.”
“Love what?” Crowfeather spat out, hugely disappointed. Has death made her mouse-brained? How can she possibly think that love can help me? “Love is no friend of mine. I loved you; I loved Feathertail; I loved Leafpool. Do you see a pattern here? Every cat I’ve loved, I lost.”
Ashfoot blinked at him, undaunted. There was tenderness and understanding in her gaze. “That shouldn’t have made you close your heart,” she murmured. “I wish I’d said more to you while I was alive, but this is my last chance… Love.”
“Love who?” Crowfeather yowled in desperation, but already the dream was fading, Ashfoot’s form blurring until all he could see was her gaze fixed on him, bright with affection. “Nightcloud is dead, and Breezepelt—”
The brilliant light of a sunny leaf-bare morning had pulled Crowfeather out of his slumber, and once awake he’d wondered what he had meant to say in his dream. Breezepelt is beyond my love? Breezepelt won’t be helped by my love?
He’d closed his eyes again and tried to concentrate, to cling to the last remnants of his dream, but they’d slipped away from him like mist through his claws. His pelt was bristling with frustration as he gave up at last and rose from his nest.
Now, sitting with his Clanmates beneath the branches of the Great Oak, Crowfeather felt his pelt grew hot with embarrassment at the memory of his dream. I’m glad no cat can see into my mind. They’d think I’m going soft. I’m not a medicine cat — that means my dreams are just fluff and nonsense, like any cat’s. But at the same time, Crowfeather couldn’t entirely dismiss what his mother had told him in the dream. It had to be significant, that he kept dreaming of her, when she hadn’t been seen in StarClan… Could it be a vision? Could it mean something?
As Onestar headed toward the Great Oak to take his place with the rest of the Clan leaders, Crowfeather glanced around at the other Clans. RiverClan and ShadowClan still looked wary after the tensions that had followed the Great Battle, while the ThunderClan cats were stiff and bristling, glaring across the clearing at the WindClan warriors. It made Crowfeather glad of the Gathering truce: StarClan had forbidden fighting under the full moon.
When all four Clan leaders had taken their places in the branches of the Great Oak, Mistystar’s voice rang out across the clearing. “Cats of all Clans, welcome to the Gathering!” As the voices of gossiping cats faded into silence, she added to the leaders, “Which of you will speak first?”
Blackstar shifted on his branch, and then announced, “Before we begin, let us remember the fallen.”
Crowfeather caught Larkwing’s eye and could see the pale brown tabby she-cat was thinking the same thing as he was. Was any warrior keen to dwell on the terrible battle with the Dark Forest cats?
But as the ShadowClan leader reeled off names—“From ShadowClan: Redwillow, Shredtail, Toadfoot”—Crowfeather could not deny he felt a strange sense of calm fall over the Gathering. It suddenly felt right that all the fallen Clanmates were remembered, their shared sacrifice honored.
It took a horribly long time for Blackstar to get through all the names, but when he had finished, Onestar rose to his paws. “Thank you, Blackstar. I’m afraid I must continue this Gathering by sharing some sad news with the Clans.” He paused before continuing, meeting Crowfeather’s gaze for a heartbeat and casting a sympathetic glance toward Breezepelt. “Nightcloud is dead.”
Yowls of shock rose from the crowd of cats in the clearing. Another twinge of grief for his former mate pierced Crowfeather; then his tension eased slightly as he realized that the other Clans felt grief for her too. Nightcloud’s prickly nature meant that she had never exactly been popular, but every cat was aware of her courage and loyalty.
“How did it happen?” Mistystar asked gently, concern in her blue eyes.
“She fought so well in the Great Battle.” Blackstar spoke before Onestar could reply. “It’s hard to lose her now, after she survived that.”
“Stoats have come to live in the tunnels between WindClan and ThunderClan,” Onestar explained, dipping his head in acknowledgement of the ShadowClan leader’s words. “Nightcloud—”
“And of course it never occurred to you to warn ThunderClan about the stoats,” Bramblestar interrupted, a sarcastic edge to his voice.
Mouse-brain, Crowfeather thought. You’ve known about the stoats at least since Berrynose’s patrol caught me and Breezepelt in the tunnels. Are you trying to make trouble?
“I understood that ThunderClan already knew about them,” Onestar responded with a curt dip of his head. “I trust you’ve been able to cope?”
“We’re coping very well,” Bramblestar replied, his shoulder fur beginning to rise. “We’ve doubled the patrols in that area, and—”
“Bramblestar, this isn’t the time,” Mistystar pointed out with a whisk of her plumy tail. “Onestar was speaking.”
Crowfeather saw with satisfaction that the ThunderClan leader looked discomfited as he subsided, digging his claws into his branch. It’s challenging to be a leader, isn’t it, Bramblestar?
“As I said,” Onestar continued, “stoats are living in the tunnels, and Nightcloud was part of a patrol that tried to clear them out. She never came home.”
Very clever, Crowfeather thought. Onestar had told the exact truth, and yet he had managed not to mention any possible involvement by Breezepelt. That was something that WindClan would keep to itself.
At least that was what would have happened if Weaselfur hadn’t sprung to his paws and meowed loudly, “Yeah, ask Breezepelt why not!”
Crowfeather’s belly cramped with renewed tension. Must we do this at the Gathering? Murmurs of confusion arose from the other Clans. Harespring, sitting on the roots of the Great Oak with the other deputies, called out, “Weaselfur, keep your mouth shut!”
“Why should I?” Weaselfur challenged him. “We all know that Breezepelt was with Nightcloud in the tunnels when the stoats attacked. Why was he the only one who got out alive?”
Up in the branches of the Great Oak, Onestar was looking furious. Crowfeather knew how unhappy his leader would be at WindClan business being tossed around like a piece of prey in front of all the other Clans. They were at a Gathering! WindClan’s warriors needed to show that their Clan was united, not start spitting accusations at each other.
Weaselfur, I wouldn’t want to be you when we get back to camp!
But it was too late for Onestar to do anything now. Cats of all the other Clans were turning their heads to shoot accusing looks at Breezepelt. Berrynose gave him a particularly intense stare, and Lionblaze was eyeing him with suspicion in his gaze.
Spiderleg leaned over to talk to Graystripe, who was sitting beside him, and Crowfeather was close enough to hear his whisper. “So she was left behind while her son ran to safety. So much for loyalty…”