Among the pines, light does not reach the forest floor so easily. The clouds have scattered the light as it is, but the soaring boughs of green turn silver as they soak up moonbeam after moonbeam, greedily drinking it in just like the sun and leaving the ground swathed in shadows. Stonetail usually prefers it this way, this dark. All her life, she has never been as skillful a night hunter as her dark-furred Clanmates. Her pale fur is radiant when struck by the moon, a bright sliver of silver visible even at a distance, especially to any prey she might be stalking. She fares much better in morning hunts, when the mist cloaks her from view. This, though, is not a typical hunt, and the grey warrior wishes the trees would bow low and allow her better visibility. It will be harder to find Thrushpaw in the dark even while following a trail.
Careful to make as little noise as possible, grateful that the driest part of greenleaf is yet to come, leaving the grass still supple and soft, she winds her way around the camp's edge towards the entrance. Concealed in the single holly bush that grows nearby, she pokes her muzzle into the open and breathes deeply. Hundreds of scents spring at her, all awakened by the stillness of the night and the easy flow of the wind, and she sorts through them slowly. She smells fear and grief from the camp, underscored by a heavy scent she can give no name to. It likely comes with mourning, but goes unnoticed by the mourners. Beyond that, there is the smell of rabbit droppings, deposited beneath a nearby tree, along with the trail of a mouse long gone and lucky to be alive having passed so close to so many cats. Stonetail also smells Thrushpaw's trail, the scent she has been seeking, leading towards the WillowClan border. There is another scent beneath it.
She focuses on the other scent for a moment, but recoils into the holly as a flicker of movement appears at the end of the log serving as the camp entrance, leaving the scent unnamed. Crouched low, holding her breath, she prays the cat will turn around after a moment, but by the soft rustling of the ferns, they are doing no such thing.
"Quit hiding. I know you're there," Streamheart whispers, pulling back part of the holly bush with one paw. Stonetail sighs, deflating.
"It's you," she says.
"Saw you go into the dirtplace and not come back."
"Could have been taking a while."
Streamheart snorts. "Please. I taught you that trick before we even had our warrior names. Try harder next time."
Stonetail crawls free of the bush without asking Streamheart to return to the vigil. She knows better, knows her friend has spied trouble and wants in on it. Besides, two noses may be better than one in tracking Thrushpaw down, though Streamheart is no better at hiding in the moonlight than Stonetail is. Flicking her tail over her back, the grey warrior leads her friend deeper in the forest, where they can speak without the risk of being overheard by those still in the camp.
Neither she-cat says a word until they reach the sandy training glade. The ground glitters, crystals of sand reflecting the moonlight, and it hurts to look at if a moonbeam bounces the wrong way, straight into the eye. Stonetail averts her gaze, settling down on the grassy fringe to look at Streamheart. "Thrushpaw's been gone since before moonrise," she begins. "This is her brother's vigil, and I overheard her telling Robinfoot she was going to get more lavender specifically for Thornwing, but she isn't back."
"So?" The silver tabby isn't brushing the matter off. Head cocked sideways, ears up, she wants more information. Chances are, she wants to hear a plan, no matter how under-thought it may be.
"So I want to find her. It's dark, the owls are out, and she's been out of warrior training almost half a moon now, not that it was her favorite thing in the first place. Will you help me? Please?" As much as she would like to, it seems Stonetail cannot relinquish responsibility. The day Thrushpaw was named her apprentice had been a glorious experience because suddenly her duties were different, not to mention she had someone to look after instead of being looked after by Greystar's sharp gaze. The role of a mentor had changed everything, and it's hard to let that go even now, especially with the weight of failure on her shoulders. Though it is possible the medicine den has always been Thrushpaw's true calling, there is still a sense of incompetence that Stonetail cannot shake. What if this path was made possible purely by her own shortcomings as a mentor?
Pushing it out of mind, Stonetail refocuses in time to realize Streamheart has pledged her support. "In this case," says the silver tabby, "better safe than sorry. Where should we start? The maple grove?"
"Does lavender grow there?"
"I think so. I've seen big patches closer to WillowClan, but the grove has bigger flowers in smaller groups. And it's not as far from camp, and it makes a great place to nap. Some of the tree roots make nice crannies."
That settles it. "Then we start there," Stonetail says, already crossing the glade and pushing into the undergrowth. The grove is a likely hiding place, and very private provided only one cat gets the idea to hide there at a time. If Thrushpaw is ashamed of her grief or looking to mourn alone, it makes a perfect sanctuary, especially with the rest of the Clan in camp, mourning in the traditional manner.
In silence, Stonetail and Streamheart lope towards the grove. In the daylight, they may have chattered, but night is not a safe time for banter. The owls have keen hearing, and the foxes can be deadly predators by the light of the moon. As a team, the warriors can likely fend off these threats, but it is easier and far less dangerous to practice caution in the dark pines.
As they go, Stonetail is diligent about scenting the chill air. The myriad of odors is difficult to sift through, but it is a necessary task if they want to follow Thrushpaw's trail. However, the closer the warriors draw to the maple grove, the less of the apprentice's trail they can find. Instead, the metallic scent of blood lies heavy on the air.
Streamheart smells it, too. Ears flattening back against her skull, she bunches her muscles and unsheathes her claws at the grove's edge. Stonetail nods and breaks away to circle the grove, providing another angle, another view. She waits behind a stout pine, eyes flickering between the maples and Streamheart's hiding place.
A silver tabby tail shoots into the air. Signal spotted, Stonetail launches herself into the grove, claws preceding her body in the event that she needs them. To her left, a violent rustle of the undergrowth tells her Streamheart has done the same.
But there is nothing to fight. The grove may as well be asleep, and quite soundly at that. Besides the she-cats' lashing tails and the rippling breeze, nothing stirs.
"I still smell blood," Stonetail whispers. "No Thrushpaw, but blood."
"This way," replies Streamheart, crouching low without another word and slinking toward the cluster of trees to her right. Carefully, the two she-cats pick their way around the maple roots, following the bloody trail until Stonetail almost trips over its source in the gloom. She jumps back in surprise, and the movement draws Streamheart's attention.
Momentarily, they are both hovering over the mutilated body of a robin, lying spread-eagle on the forest floor.
"Who puts a perfectly good robin to waste when we have an extra half Clan to feed?" Streamheart growls, kicking the bird onto its side. It rolls to a halt on Stonetail's toes, and she inhales deeply despite the faint undertones of rot rising to the surface.
Immediately her heart stops, if only for a fraction of a second. Beneath the blood, beneath the rot, there is a third scent. Tainted by other smells, it cannot be distinguished entirely, but its resemblance to the BreezeClan ravens is all too clear.
"It's a trail," Stonetail blurts out, and when Streamheart gives her a quizzical look, the grey warrior explains every detail of the raven trail and the fox, including the mysterious scent, a piece of information she had deemed too insubstantial, too uncertain, to tell anyone before. A second appearance cannot be a fluke, though, and if the robin is meant to be just like the ravens, there may be another danger to face.
"Whatever it is, we can't lead it to camp," Stonetail insists. "We need to find the rest of the trail and break it. Carry the crowfood away, bury it, whatever it takes, or the Clan is going to be ambushed."
"You're sure about this?" presses Streamheart, though she is already digging a hole for the bird. "Completely certain?"
"I fought a fox for BreezeClan because I couldn't break the trail in time. I'd rather not do that again if I can help it, even for ShadeClan. We need to lead it away instead." She grits her teeth and joins in scraping out the hole. "I'm not letting that trail stay."
And that's enough to convince Streamheart. When they finish sweeping dirt over the robin's grave, she says, "Let's find the rest, then."
"Let's."
»»««
The warriors spend the better part of their night fueled by desperate adrenaline, scampering through the forest in search of carefully laid crowfood. The trail is not so uniform this time, consisting of various birds, mice, shrews, and other common prey, all in various states of decay, all underscored with the unknown scent. Sometimes, two or three feathery bodies are topped with a furry one all in the same location, a small pyramid of death. These are harder to bury, requiring deeper holes or more holes, and the she-cats take to carrying them, depositing the bodies as far out of the way as they dare.
"I feel like we've been all over," Streamheart mutters as she and Stonetail finish burying a vole. "We're almost at the BreezeClan border."
"Makes sense." Stonetail falls back onto her haunches to catch her breath and rest her shoulder. It aches terribly, and running around all night has done it no favors. "There might be more foxes in the meadows, and the trail is to lead them to us."
Streamheart also sits, looking drained. Unlike Stonetail, she did not have the day off. Her endurance, to reach this point and only now rest, is extraordinary, not to mention born of fear, a powerful motivator indeed.
"Wait," the silver tabby says suddenly. "We picked prey up in the grove, by the holly thicket, by the stream from the Gathering Place, and here, right?"
"Right."
"Stonetail, those all lead around the camp. Not to it."
They sit in silence for a moment, tired breathing filling the air. Running along the jagged trail has taken a great deal of strength, and thinking in this state takes a great deal more.
"Maybe it was all for nothing," mumbles Streamheart. "Just a really sick joke. Or a scare tactic." Then she sits up straight, eyes widening as she adds, "Or a distraction."
"It can't be. Not for us, at least," Stonetail reasons. "No one knew we were leaving tonight. It wasn't planned."
"But maybe it was meant for patrols," Streamheart counters. "It crosses so much of our territory. Patrols would take forever to follow a bogus trail."
"And the camp would be half empty."
"And wide open for an attack!"
Together the warriors leap to their feet, but before they dart back into the forest's heart, Stonetail hesitates. All night long, there has been only one foreign scent on their lands, and one cat cannot hope to ambush an entire Clan and then some in broad daylight, not without help. And so far, there has been no sign of assistance. She explains this to Streamheart, slowly mulling it over and searching for the connecting threads. There has to be a purpose to this preplanned game of crowfood and fear, but the puzzle is incomplete. A piece is missing, a vital piece, and even between the two of them, the ShadeClan warriors can't fathom what it might be.
"Let's do one last check for crowfood," Streamheart suggests, "just in case. Head towards WillowClan, make sure nothing's been left out there, too?"
"I suppose. If there is, we can bury it, do the patrols a favor. At this rate, we'll be out long enough to tell the dawn patrol everything."
With less fervor than they had started with, Stonetail and Streamheart follow the BreezeClan border to the west for a short way, turning northward at the first sight of the low hills that occupy ShadeClan lands near the WillowClan border. As they go, there are no signs of the trail, though Stonetail swears that she'll never get the unnamed scent out of her nose. It seems to be dogging her on the wind, billowing from behind and being carried northward. She makes no mention of it to Streamheart, blaming her exhaustion, which feels heightened by the creeping approach of dawn. Though the sun's rays have not yet crested the horizon, it won't be long before the sky shimmers with golden light. As it is, the light of the moon is beginning to fade somewhat as the silver body edges downward.
At the foot of the first hill, they stop. "The lavender patches grow over the next hill," Streamheart says. "Check there for Thrushpaw and bring her home with us if she's there?"
Thrushpaw. In the mad scurry to protect ShadeClan, Stonetail had forgotten all about the apprentice. "We should," she replies. "She might have gone home by now, but we still should." Edging in front of Streamheart, the grey tabby leads the way, laboring up the hill even as her shoulder screams at her to stop. The slope is not normally this terrible, but Stonetail is winded and injured, which makes for slow going. Mind drifting a little with the slow ascent, she realizes she's grateful for Streamheart walking behind her; if she misses a step and comes crashing down, her friend will be there to break her fall. And chastise her, of course, but that is a given.
They stop at the peak, overlooking a long, steady slope down into a miniature valley void of trees and heavy brush. The pale purple lavender blooms wave in the breeze, drained of their color by the moonlight. Many of the stalks are taller than a grown cat, and those that aren't are bound to grow close to the muzzle.
Stonetail's heart leaps, though, as she looks the scene over and spots a depression in the far side of the small flower patch. It is just big enough to accommodate one small cat while still shielding them from view by means of the surrounding stalks. "Down there!" she says, pointing with her nose, and Streamheart sighs in relief at her side before they make their way down the hillside and into the lavender.
No wonder the flowers are used in death rites to hide the smell, Stonetail thinks. The flowers' sweet smell overpowers anything else that might be drifting on the night air, and a faint pounding starts up at the base of her skull, slowly crawling up and forwards until the space between her eyes hurts. When she dies, hopefully someone will have the sense not to use too much lavender.
Thankfully the valley is a small one, and the warriors reach Thrushpaw before long. She lies on her side with her back to them, all four paws stretched out and tail draped over her hind feet. "Thrushpaw," Streamheart calls when they are a few tail-lengths away, "it's almost dawn. You've missed Thornwing's vigil."
Stalwartly the brown tabby ignores her, not even bothering to acknowledge their presence. Stonetail huffs, rolling her eyes, but instead of reprimanding her ex-apprentice, she pads ahead to nose Thrushpaw's shoulder.
And then she sees the blood.
The lavender blooms tamped down by Thrushpaw's body are brown and brittle, crusted over with dried blood. The grass beneath is similarly drenched, and now that Stonetail is here, practically on top of the missing apprentice, the metallic smell rockets through the heavy lavender, finally, finally becoming apparent.
"No!" she shouts, finding no other words readily available. Darting around to Thrushpaw's other side, chanting, "Please no, please no," as she goes, Stonetail finds that her legs can't seem to support her. She crashes into a heap, paws slipping on a patch of grass that has not dried, sprinkling blood across her belly and chest as she lands. The fierce ache in her forehead has migrated straight to her heart, piercing it like a set of claws, and she scrabbles in the grass, trying to get back on her feet. Gravity is against her, though, not to mention her throbbing shoulder and the rising sensation of the urge to be sick. Everything spins for a merciful second, taking away the terrible view, but when Streamheart cries out, it all ricochets back into horrifying focus.
Stonetail can't look away, can't feel her paws, can't breathe. She simply stares, paws splayed out before her, claws plunging deep into the dirt, and prays that it is just a nightmare, a nightmare of the worst kind. But the pulsating ache in her shoulder is violent and all too real, and so the scene before her must also be real.
She is dimly aware of Streamheart pressing against her side, trying to bolster her upright again, but whatever the silver tabby has said reaches ears stuffed full of cotton. Trapped in a bubble, the outside world muffled, she crawls toward Thrushpaw, forgetting to cringe even when her pads are covered in sticky blood residue. This is the result of her training efforts. This is her failure. Thrushpaw was never ready to go into the forest alone because Stonetail never prepared her for it, not properly.
The medicine cat apprentice wears a deep gash from chin to belly, staining her white underbelly a dizzying scarlet, and Stonetail buries her muzzle in the crook of Thrushpaw's neck, heedless of the fur stiffened with blood. The lavender surrounding them chokes out any of the apprentice's scent, and all else is metallic and sanguine.
I let you down, Stonetail thinks, unable to get the words out. Where was she when this happened? Sleeping soundly in the medicine den? Staring at Thornwing's vigil? Or was she out chasing crowfood for nothing? Whatever the case, she was not here when it happened. She was not here.
Streamheart lets her grieve until the sun comes up.