It had been said, six or seven times throughout her life, that the salt water will wash away her pain. And so, six or seven times throughout her life, Shoretail waded into the ocean and begged the gods to take her pain.
If they heard, they gave no sign of it.
Brightsun was dead, and it was her fault.
Shoretail closes her eyes. She tilts her head back, looses herself to the waves as they beat against her chest, her belly. She waits, knee-deep in the water - until her blood runs cold and she can’t feel her toes. Only when she can no longer stand it does she turn towards the shore. It‘s a short swim to the headland; she cuts neatly to the water, as accustomed to it as she is to the land. Ahead, the headland looms. The rock juts angrily into the water, painted red by the rising sun
Shoretail navigates her way between the jagged outcrops of rock, up into the rock pools. She can swim straight into the largest from the open water. Waves lap against the stone. Seaweed tangles around her paws. The warrior climbs easily from the water, rips the trailing weed from beneath her toes with more force than necessary.
The salt burns her tongue.
The Royal Guard lounges on the narrow strip of sand that borders the pool, pelts fluffed up against the cold breeze. “Any news?” Shoretail shakes the moisture from her pelt.
Goldeneyes rolls onto her back. The she-cat pushes her shoulders into the sand. To the ordinary eye, she looks soft. Relaxed. But Shoretail knows the big warrior well enough to spot the tension in her shoulders, the anger in her eyes. “Not yet,” she says, voice clipped. “They’re treating us like exiles.”
“It’s procedure.” Perched on an outcrop of stone, Irispelt stares down at them. There’s something heated in her eyes. The tip of her soft white tail twitches once.
“It’s disrespectful!”
And it is. Shoretail settles down besides Goldeneyes and licks the salt from her whiskers. She understands it, though, and she hates that she does. Around her, the cats under her command stir and stretch. The Royal Guard numbers six in total, each of them personally chosen by Brightsun on the day of her ascension. They are the only ones absent from the camp as the Clan investigates their leader’s murder.
Shoretail would give up her claws to be there. It isn’t that she doesn’t trust Palefoot to lead the inquisition, but she was the one who knew Brightsun best. Surely, she would be able to provide some insight. The pale fawn warrior digs her paws into the sand. The inquisition is a presumptuous process, but perhaps it’s right. Not all her companions loved Brightsun as fiercely as she did.
“You’re sure you didn’t see anything?” Irispelt meows petulantly, as she has so many times before. The dainty she-cat rests her chin in her paws and stares down at Shoretail.
“Of course I didn’t,” Shoretail snaps. “And I didn’t hear anything, either.”
And she didn’t. There’d been no cries for help, no snarls of anger. No hot stench of blood. Only the dawn, and Brightsun’s broken, torn-apart body. Shoretail folds her paws across her nose. If only she’d listened harder. If only she’d walked in circles, instead of staying still.
Then maybe Brightsun would still be alive.
Behind her, Goldeneyes rolls to her paws. Shoretail is not a small cat, but Goldeneyes dwarfs her, even with her ears flat against her skull. “Alright,” the grey she-cat says evenly. “That’s enough. We have to keep our heads.”
Shoretail is grateful she doesn’t state the obvious. She’s grateful to them all, really, even Irispelt, because they don’t bring up the fact that Shoretail was the last one to see Brightsun alive. They don’t bring up the fact that Shoretail had the night to herself. It had been a long and peaceful season. There’d been no need for a second camp-guard. There hadn’t been for some time.
“We’re going to be all right.” Goldeneyes speaks with a confidence Shoretail doesn’t feel. “We’re going to be all right.” The three of them wait, ears up and tense, although Shoretail couldn’t name what they were waiting for. Whatever it is, she thinks it has been a long time in coming. Irispelt narrows her brilliant eyes.
Pawsteps beat against the damp sand. The three she-cats glance up, their movements synchronised. Shoretail breathes in familiar scent a moment before Fernmask trots onto view, his pelt dusted with dry sand. He’s been running, her sleek and streamlined brother. The sand is bright against his dusky fur. He’s panting, eyes bright with exertion.
Shoretail opens her mouth. Words burn the back of her throat.
Fernmask stands at the edge of the water, gasping for breath, pink tongue lolling. Irritated, Shoretail flattens her ears. She’s tempted to lash out, to make some biting comment, but she knows her brother won’t speak until he’s ready.
Irispelt, however, shows no such restraint. The little she-cat climbs to her paws, leaps easily from her rocky perch. She steps forward, until she’s nose to nose with the messenger. “Spit it out,” she demands.
“Irispelt,” Shoretail warns. She lets a note of undeniable command creep into her voice. The fawn she-cat was not named captain of the Pharaoh’s Royal Guard for nothing. She isn’t the fiercest, or the fastest, or the strongest, but she is in command. She is always in command.
Fernmask makes no comment. He shoves Irispelt aside and steps forward, makes the effort to slow his breathing. “It’s Palefoot,” he begins.
Almost immediately, the air sharpens. Shoretail draws a shaky breath. Even though she wanted this, she finds herself unprepared to hear the outcome. She hadn’t expected the Clan to reach a decision so soon. She’d been confident in her time. The fawn she-cat flexes her claws, anxious. “Have they reached a decision?” She cant stop herself from asking, even though she knows she needs to call the others.
Fernmask shakes his head. “No, no,” he manages. It’s... it’s about... Falconpaw.”
Falconpaw. Brightsun’s named heir. The last of her litter. Only nine moons old. Shoretail feels suddenly and inexplicably cold. At her side, Goldeneyes draws a sharp breath and flattens her hears against her skull. Irispelt steps backwards, her amber eyes wide. Her mouth hangs open.
“Falconpaw?” Shoretail manages. Horror worms it’s way into her belly. She has a momentary thought of blood and bone and torn fur, but she forces it away. She takes a deep breath, digs her paws into the damp sand to steady herself. She can’t afford to be emotional; she has to be responsible, practical, hopeful. “Is she-”
Fernmask glances up, his eyes wide. “Gods, no!” He barks. His voice is hoarse. “She’s not dead. Well...”
Shoretail wants to shake her hapless littermate, but Fernmask is unhappy and restless and something is very, very wrong. The fawn she-cat steps forward, her tail twitching. “What’s wrong?” She can’t quite keep the fear from her voice.
“Palefoot can’t find her.”
The trio of she-cats settle into silence. Irispelt blinks, her eyes huge. “What do you mean he can’t find her?” Her rage is liquid. She’s filling up and spilling over. Goldeneyes pins the white she-cat’s tail to the ground in a cautionary manner.
“I mean,” Fernmask snaps, “that Palefoot can’t find her. Her nest is cold, her scent stale. Falconpaw hasn’t been in the camp for some time. He sent me to get the rest of the Guard.”
Okay, Shoretail thinks. Missing isn’t dead. Missing can be found. The fawn she-cat chews her whiskers, and processes. She’s always been good at processing. Ever since she was young, she’d enjoyed puzzles. She’d enjoyed pitting her mind against the minds of others, had enjoyed trying to solve the hypothetical situations Brightsun had created for her. They’d been young and naive, too caught up in the idea of themselves, of one another, to truly understand what the fate the gods had chosen for them.
But without Brightsun... gods, without Brightsun nothing felt the same.
The gods were cruel. Shoretail understood that.
First Brightsun, now Falconpaw.
Okay, Shoretail thinks. Mindless, she paces along the edge of the rockpool. Her tail flicks back and forth as she tries to fit the pieces together. There’s too much she doesn’t know, and too little of it fits. “Okay,” she says out loud. “Fernmask, catch your breath. Irispelt, fetch Gullfeather and Duskwing. Goldeneyes and I will meet you back at camp.” She feels like she should say something else, something meaningful, but her heart is raw.
Irispelt flattens her ears, but there’s no aggression in the movement. “I’ll be quick,” she promises. “We’ll see you soon.” She turns, plunges into the water with all the grace of a shark. She’s unbothered by the rolling waves; the tiny she-cat dives neatly under each breaker and powers around the headland. The two remaining members of the Royal Guard are somewhere that way, doing their best to cope.
The Royal Guard is supposed to protect the Pharaoh and their family. For the second time in as many days, Shoretail has failed in her duties. Once the inquisition is over, Palefoot will strip her of her rank. The position will pass to Irispelt, she knows, who is sleek and strong and fierce and never let anyone die while she was keeping watch. Shoretail had accepted that, standing belly-deep in the water. She hoped she could continue to accept that.
She and Goldeneyes bound up the beach as the sun slips towards the horizon. The sand is hot and soft underpaw. They cross the beach and weave their way through the sand dunes until they reach the biggest. Gorse tangles thickly at its base, but Shoretail threads her way through with practiced ease. The branches rattle as Goldeneyes forces her way through.
The big she-cat drapes her tail over Shoretail’s shoulders as they stand, hesitant, at the base of the dune. “We’ll find her,” she promises. “We’ll bring her home. You’re the best of us, Shoretail.”
Shoretail wants to feel humbled. She wants to feel hopeful, but her emotions are as thick and tangled as the gorse. “Thank you,” she says quietly.
She isn’t sure how long they wait. It’s a lifetime. It’s no time at all. But at least, the dry brush rattles and the rest of the Guard arrives. They are six in total, for the first time since Brightsun’s death. No-one says anything. It’s too much, and it’s not enough. The air is heavy, but Shoretail meets each set of eyes in turn.
They climb the dune in silence.
It’s steep, and the sand is soft underpaw, but they manage. The other side of the dune dips away into shadow. Scrub dots the slope. Palm trees provide sporadic shade. The Clan gathers at the base. They huddle around the meeting stone, their eyes turned upwards. They look almost hopeful.
The members of the Royal Guard half-climb, half-slide down the slope. The sand is damper on the far side dune. It’s cooler, more sheltered. A safe place, Shoretail had always thought. She passes the warrior’s den, dotted with purple flowers. The apprentices den, beneath the crooked palm. The meeting stone and the elder’s den, tucked up against the cliff face where the shadows ran deep and cool. Shoretail keeps her eyes on the stone; she won’t let herself glance sideways to the leaders den.
She won’t.
She can’t.
“Captain,” Palefoot greets quietly. The Medicine Cat sits neatly by the meeting stone, his tail wrapped around his paws.
“Palefoot,” she murmurs.
They don’t bother with formalities. Palefoot walks her through it, how they found Falconpaw missing after they roused the apprentices for questioning. Palefoot explains that they searched the camp and the immediate territory, found nothing but faint traces of her scent. Around her, the clan whispers.
Whoever killed Brightsun took her. Falconpaw ran away because she’s a witness. Falconpaw ran away because she is a coward. Shoretail does her best to tune them out.
She noses at the apprentice’s den, draws the stale scent into her nose. “Did anyone see her?”
Palefoot stammers, ears flat against his skull. “No.” A note of fear creeps into his voice. The slender tom steps backwards, like he’s afraid of something. The Clan, Shoretail knows, does not like Palefoot, but his reaction baffles her. As far as she knows, no-one had ever hit the silver tabby.
“Has anyone spoken to Jackalcry?” Shoretail digs her paws into the soft sand and tries to appear non-threatening. Palefoot says nothing, just tilts his head to one side. Shoretail hesitates, then draws a shaky breath and follows the healer’s directive.
Brightsun’s den is tucked away behind a thicket of lantana. A crooked banksia tree grows, pressed against the sheer cliff face that shelters the rear of the camp. Jackalcry sits beneath an arching root, his shoulders slumped. The lanky warrior is so still it takes Shoretail a moment to see him.
“He barely speaks,” Palefoot murmurs.
“Are you surprised?” Shoretail murmurs. She turns away, leaves Palefoot staring after her. She shouldn’t intrude, she knows. Grief is a private, devastating thing, and Jackalcry deserves time to himself, but she can’t wait. If Falconpaw is still alive, she can’t waste any more time. Already, the morning has slipped away.
Goldeneyes catches her eye as she crossed the camp. The Royal Guard clusters at the meeting stone, their heads close together. Shoretail twitches one ear, the Guard’s own signal for stand down. The big she-cat nods once, the movement jerky. She doesn’t look pleased.
Shoretail picks her way back to the leader’s den. She lets her claws scrape over the arching roots, but Jackalcry does not turn around. Instead, the charcoal tabby slumps forward. “What do you want, Shoretail?” His voice is gritty with unshed tears.
Jackalcry and Brightsun have not been mates in nearly nine moons, but they had loved each other once.
The fawn she-cat stays standing. Jackalcry is not a hostile cat, but sitting doesn’t seem right. She isn’t sure why, but she can’t bring herself to do it. “I just need to know-“
“Where I was last night?” He cuts in. “Because Palefoot has already quizzed me.”
“This isn’t about Brightsun. Well, not entirely. I just need to know when the last time you saw Falconpaw was.”
That catches the dark tabby’s attention. He glances over his shoulder, his pale eyes wet with unshed tears. “Last night. We shared a pigeon.” Jackalcry sighs and slumps forward. He’s boneless with sorrow. “We went our seperate ways. I never should have let her go.” He chokes in the words.
Shoretail steps forward and rests one paw on his shoulder. “You couldn’t have known any of this would happen.”
Jackalcry meets her gaze. It’s surprisingly level. “Neither could you, Shoretail.” The words are softer than she deserves.
The leader’s den still smells faintly of blood and disgrace, but Shoretail lingers. She promises, once again, that she’ll protect protect Falconpaw. She’ll have to find her first, but Shoretail is nothing if not stubborn. She presses Jackalcry for information and learns that Falconpaw was listless and distracted, but that isn’t entirely unusual. The young she-cat has always been uncertain of herself, and prone to self-inflicted isolation, but never before has she run away.
“I’ll bring her back,” she says again. “I swear, on Brightsun’s memory.”
It’s a painful, powerful thing to swear on, but it’s all she has.
- - - - -
“Are you sure about this?” Her brother asks.
Shoretail laps up the travelling herbs, her movements precise. “Of course.”
“You’ll leave the Royal Guard without a captain.”
“And the Clan will be without a Pharaoh until we find Falconpaw.”
The Clan gathers at the peak of the sand dune. Palefoot stands at the back of the crowd, his eyes in shadow. It’s hard to tell if he approves, but Shoretail finds she doesn’t care. It’s a rash plan - bordering on stupid - but it’s the only one she has. “I’m leaving Goldeneyes in charge.” She raises her voice, so the rest of the Royal Guard can hear.
Irispelt narrows her eyes, but nods along with the rest. Goldeneyes is the logical choice; calmer, more level-headed, even if she lacks Irispelt’s ferocity.
“This isn’t a good idea!” Fernmask protests again. He paces beside her, restless. Shoretail thinks she should be nervous, but an icy calm has settled over her. She trots down the sand dune, to the main track through the scrub. Other than the beach track, it is the only way in or out of the camp. Falconpaw’s scent is there, but it’s faint and it’s fading fast. The sand does not hold onto things well.
“It’s the only one we have.” She says. And it is, for the only alternative is waiting for Falconpaw to come back on her own accord. That, she thinks grimly, could take days.
Her brother sighs and slumps forward. “I know. You’re right, as always.” He offers her a wary smile. “That’s why you’re the boss.”
Shoretail steps forward and touches her nose to his. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Keep an eye on things for me. Ask some questions.” She trusts her brother implicitly. Fernmask is good at asking questions, good at finding information. If there are secrets to be uncovered, the grey tom will find them.
She doesn’t linger. There’s little reason to stay, and Shoretail has always been goal orientated. She starts down the scrub track, the Guard at her heels. Behind them, the Clan waits. They say nothing, but their eyes are heavy. There’s something terrible, something knowing in their gazes. A shiver crawls down Shoretail’s spine.
Once they’re out of sight, she turns to face her followers. The scrub track is cast in shadow; lantana arches overhead and ferns crowd the sides. Banksia trees keep a silent watch. A spider weaves a lazy web. They’re hidden now, from the eyes of the Clan. There are things Shoretail wants to say to them, but when she opens her mouth, the words jam in her throat. They smile back at her, a little sorrowful, a little dangerous. They have things to do now.
“Time to live up to our name,” Shoretail manages. “Brightsun is counting on us.” Her heart twists in her chest. She turns away, walks steadily down the track.
“Shoretail!” Irispelt calls.
The fawn she-cat pauses and glances over her shoulder. The dainty white she-cat has taken a step forward, her ears slicked back. Shoretail twitches her tail in invitation to speak.
“Good luck.”
Shoretail can’t help but smile.