Now he gazed lazily around the cluttered cavern. The guardian cats were still sleeping, except Boots, who was murmuring softly to Marigold, the old black cat who had hardly left her nest since Tigerheart had arrived. Marigold listened, her gaze distant and dull. Boots stopped talking and began gently lapping her head, working his way along her spine with gentle strokes.
Tigerheart guessed that the old cat was dying. He was glad she had the care and protection of the guardian cats. For a moment he wondered how often strays must die alone, in a chilly makeshift den, with no help for their pain. The thought stung him, and he pushed it away. He wasn’t a stray; he never would be. And he’d make sure his kits never became strays either.
He stood up and stepped from the nest, turning back to tuck a few pelts around Dovewing so she didn’t feel the chill of his absence. He padded into a stream of early-morning light and began to wash. The sound of his tongue rasping over his fur was loud in the silent cavern. Boots lifted his head and blinked at him, then returned to washing Marigold.
Fur swished nearby, and Tigerheart turned to see Spire creeping from his nest. The skinny black tom glanced back at Blaze, still sleeping among the furless pelts, then tiptoed across the cavern floor and leaped onto the ledge that led to the entrance.
Quiet as a mouse, the tom slid out the gap into the pale morning.
Why had he left Blaze? Spire normally took the kit everywhere with him. What was he up to? Curious, Tigerheart hopped onto the wooden ledge, waited until Spire had slipped out of sight, and then leaped up and squeezed through the gap in the wall. Stone dust trickled into his fur, and he shook it free as he padded out of the shadow of the gathering place. The leaf-fall sunshine was bright, the air cold, and a blue sky arced above. The lines of stone slabs, sitting upright in the dewy grass, striped the clearing with shadow. Tigerheart saw a shape move between them. Spire was weaving his way toward a tall chestnut tree at the edge of the clearing. A Thunderpath lay beside it, monsters rumbling sedately past. Tigerheart had grown so used to them, he hardly noticed. His gaze was following Spire.
Tigerheart lingered behind a stone slab and watched as Spire reached the chestnut tree. The tom sat down and stared across the stretch of grass, which was divided by a smooth stone path that led to what Tigerheart guessed was the Twoleg entrance to the gathering place. Was Spire waiting for something? Tigerheart padded closer, his pelt tingling with curiosity. Keeping quiet, he stopped behind the stone slab nearest the chestnut tree and, hidden from view, watched to see what Spire would do next.
“Is this what warriors do?” Spire asked pointedly.
Tigerheart stiffened, confused for a moment—he hadn’t expected to hear the word warrior from one of the guardian cats, though it didn’t sound quite so strange out of Spire’s mouth. But he had been sure that he hadn’t been seen or heard as he approached.
“I came outside to get a chance to think,” Spire went on.
Tigerheart padded sheepishly from his hiding place and dipped his head to the skinny black tom. “I wondered why you’d left Blaze,” he mumbled. “You usually take him everywhere.”
“He usually follows me everywhere,” Spire answered tartly. “But even a crazy cat likes me needs solitude once in a while.”
“I’m sorry.” Tigerheart backed away. “I’ll leave you alone.”
As he spoke, a monster drew up at the end of the smooth stone path, and a brightly pelted Twoleg got out and began to walk toward the gathering place. Tigerheart froze and waited as the Twoleg disappeared inside.
“The entrance is open,” Tigerheart mewed in surprise. The wooden slabs that usually barred the entrance to the gathering place stood open. “Will they find the cavern?”
“They won’t even look for it,” Spire told him matter-of-factly. “It’s their yowling time. They do it every quarter moon, and in the evenings sometimes too.”
Another monster pulled up and stopped at the edge of the Thunderpath. Several Twolegs climbed out and headed toward the gathering-place entrance.
Tigerheart hesitated. He knew Spire wanted to be alone, but he wanted to know what yowling time was. He’d leave soon, but for now he’d watch. Another group of Twolegs were heading up the smooth stone path toward the wooden entrance. Soon more were flocking toward the thorn den, and Tigerheart glanced guiltily at Spire, whose gaze hadn’t shifted from the Twolegs. “I should go.” Reluctantly, he turned toward the cavern.
“Stay and listen if you want.” Spire shifted his paws.
“But you wanted to be alone,” Tigerheart reminded him.
“Being pestered by a kit is not the same as sitting with a warrior.” Spire didn’t look at him. He was absently watching more Twolegs arrive. He must have watched it many times before.
Tigerheart padded to the tom’s side and sat beside him.
“I like having Blaze around,” Spire meowed suddenly, as though he felt he had to explain. “But kits ask lots of questions, and this morning I need to think.”
Tigerheart remembered with a pang how Grassheart’s kits had asked questions relentlessly, and had wanted to play when Grassheart longed to doze quietly in the sunshine. The apprentices had kept them busy, teaching them games and hunting moves, and the elders had joined in, giving Grassheart a chance to rest. Would his kits ask questions? How would he and Dovewing cope without Clanmates to help them?
“I had a dream.” Spire interrupted his thoughts. “I saw a tree fall…” The tom’s eyes had glazed; his mew had drifted into thoughtfulness. “It cut through a shadow as black as night.”
A shadow? Tigerheart stiffened. Spire might not be a medicine cat, and they were far beyond the reach of StarClan—but there was something about the way that he described his dream that made Tigerheart feel it might be significant.
“Where it cut through,” Spire continued, “I could see beyond.”
Tigerheart’s pelt prickled with foreboding. “What could you see?”
Spire looked at him, his gaze clearing suddenly as though waking from a trance. “Light.”
Tigerheart’s thoughts spun in a way they hadn’t since he’d left ShadowClan. He’d thought he was free of omens and worry. But now, this cat, who had never even heard of StarClan, was talking of dreams like a real medicine cat. His dream sounded like one Puddleshine might have had. And it was about shadows. Always shadows! Tigerheart shivered. “The tree.” He stared at Spire. “The one that sliced through the shadow… What sort was it?” Could it represent Rowanstar?
Spire shrugged. “It was a tree. A tall one. An old one.”
“Was it a rowan tree?”
“I don’t know,” Spire told him. “A tree is a tree.”
“But it’s important!” Was his father going to destroy ShadowClan like the tree in Spire’s dream? Or would he cut through the shadows that threatened to swallow the Clan and find a way to light beyond? “How did you feel when you saw the tree cut the shadow? Were you scared?” Tigerheart leaned closer. “Or did you feel hope?”
“I didn’t feel anything, apart from curiosity.” Spire looked at him blankly. “Why? Does the dream mean something to you?”
Tigerheart looked away. “I don’t know.” He stared at the ground. Spire wasn’t a Clan cat. How could his dream have anything to do with ShadowClan? “You dream a lot, right?”
“Yes.” Spire curled his tail over his paws and looked back toward the Twolegs streaming into the gathering place. “Sometimes when I’m awake.”
Tigerheart forced his fur to smooth. Maybe they aren’t real visions, he told himself. Maybe Spire just has… a good imagination.