Exile (10 page)

Y
ou mean I can’t see the king?” Cory asked. “Why should you be able to see him? You’re just an ordinary owl,” a Barred Owl replied. The owl sported a blue feather tucked into the coverts of his primary feathers.

“I have very important business.” Cory didn’t want to say his real name. He remembered how the awful blue owl had ordered that Kalo be dragged from the burrow, and then sneered at her when she had said his name. He had claimed that to name an owl “Coryn” was blasphemous. It was Cory’s third night at the tree and still he had not seen the king for whom he had been named. Suddenly, that same hideous blue owl stuck his head out of the port of the king’s hollow.

“What does this Burrowing Owl want?” he asked.

“To see the king. Claims he has business of a personal nature. He’s getting tiresome.”

Suddenly, Cory got an idea. He would change tactics. Anything to get in. “It’s not really of a personal nature,” he blurted out. “I mean, this person used to be my friend, but I want to report a suspected hoarding incident.” The Blue Brigade owls were always keen to hear of hoarding incidents. “Let him in,” said the Striga.

Great!
Cory thought. Now if he could just see the king alone! But they were not alone. The Striga perched nearby. What could he say to the king with that horrid owl right there? And the king seemed odd, not at all kingly. His feathers were dull and lusterless. He had heard gossip that the king rarely left his hollow. He was standing in front of a small case that glowed with the light of an ember and was staring at it.
Could this be the Ember of Hoole that I have heard so much about?
Cory wondered.

“What is it?” the king asked without turning around to look at the owl.

“A hoarding incident to report,” the Striga said.

The king sighed. It was a sigh of boredom more than anything else. He continued peering at the ember. He felt none of the old exhilarating tingle he used to feel when around the ember. The Striga was right. He had grown stronger in its presence. “It’s chilly in here,” he finally said. “Could you poke up the fire in the grate, Striga?”

“Yes, it’s beginning to flurry outside,” Cory said.

The king turned around slowly. Was there something familiar in the timbre of that voice? He looked at the young owl and blinked.
Who is this owl?

And while that disturbing thought swirled in the king’s mind, Cory wished that he could be alone with him for only a minute or two.

“A hoarding incident,” the Striga prompted.

“Yes. I think this owl has been wrongly accused. And I know that King Coryn…”

Something twitched in Coryn’s gizzard. There was something about the way this young owl said Coryn’s name that seemed like a distant echo of something long ago. The fires in the grate burst into a lively blaze. Cory stood between the king and the grate. The young king suddenly pushed him aside. The gesture was misinterpreted by both the Striga and Cory.

“He wants you out! Now!” the Striga commanded.

“But I haven’t said what I have to say,” Cory pleaded.

Before Cory knew it, two guards hustled him from the hollow and the king had done nothing to stop them. But Coryn had spied something in the flames. Something alarming. Something terrifying. “Leave me alone,” Coryn said when the Striga returned. The blue owl silently
retreated. Coryn continued to stare into the fire. How had he let himself forget his gift? Coryn could see things in flames. But how long had it been since he had even looked into a fire? It was a skill that the Striga knew nothing about.

And I must not let him know!
Coryn thought. For the first time in many moon cycles Coryn felt a true tremor in his gizzard. It was as if it had been dead, insentient as a rock, but now it was awakening.

He was seeing shapes in the flames. The first shape was that of an ember, and in its center a lick of blue and then there was the shimmering edge of green.
How could I have forgotten that green?
His eyes widened. He spun about and gazed at the ember in the case.

“It’s a fake,” he whispered to himself. “How could I have not known?” And the young owl who had just been in the hollow, the Burrowing Owl? He had never even asked his name but he knew it was Coryn, brother of Kalo—Coryn hatched from the egg he had rescued long ago.
Great Glaux, what has happened to me?
He looked again at the counterfeit ember.
I cannot blame the ember this time. Yes, I have been weak. The Striga has groomed and nurtured a great weakness in me, through flattery. The very methods used to render the owls of the Dragon Court weak and powerless! Stupid! How
stupid of me!
But he was done with being stupid. He flew out of his hollow and was about to command that the Striga come to see him immediately. But he stopped short. Who were all these new owls and why were they all wearing blue feathers? He had thought that the Blue Feather Club was just a silly owlet thing. Something for the young’uns. He felt a bilious surge in his gizzard. Where were his trusted Guardians? The true Guardians of Ga’Hoole? The Band was away—he knew that. But what about Pelli, Eglantine, Otulissa, for Glaux’s sake? He realized he had hardly seen them except in the dining hollow. Something definitely was up.

The Striga flew down onto the branch where Coryn perched. “Sir, a problem?” The blue owl had sensed something. Coryn felt his gizzard clench painfully. But it was a welcome pain. He was feeling again, thinking again. He was regaining his wits and in that moment he knew that he must appear as witless as ever. “No, nothing wrong. Now tell me, what are the plans for Balefire Night?”

“Well, yes. We are going to build a very large bonfire—the largest ever—and it will be the final stage of the special relinquishment ceremonies.” Coryn felt a chill run through his gizzard. He knew about “special” ceremonies. His mother, Nyra, had invented several; one in particular required that Coryn murder a friend.

But now he couldn’t escape, nor did he want to. He was the king of this great tree. The tree was still great but his own honor was gone. He had let this happen and now he must take responsibility for restoring his honor and order to the tree. He returned to his hollow and peered into the flames again. Was that a reflection in the golden light? Was it his own flickering image? He took a step closer to the grate. “Who is it?” he whispered to the flames. He heard a slithering on the edge of his hollow. Mrs. Plithiver slid into the hollow, carrying a nut cup of milk-berry tea.

“Mrs. P., what are you doing here?”

“I was on my way to visit with Audrey, and I thought I perceived a new stirring in a gizzard that—How should I put it? Has not stirred for a while.”

Coryn blinked. “Yes, Mrs. P.” Coryn nodded slowly and lowered his voice. “A gizzard has stirred.”

“My coronation teacup…I don’t know where it is,” Madame Plonk had said to the Barred Owl who had flown into her hollow without even asking. And it was true, Madame Plonk did not know where it was. The Barred Owl believed her and left. Octavia, her nest-maid snake, pretended to snooze in a fat coil in the corner of the hollow. It was certainly not the hollow it had once
been. Stripped of all ornamentation, the spinning glass whirligigs, the plush velvet cushions, the embroidered cloth, the niches that spilled with beads. Most of them had been seized but Doc Finebeak had managed to sneak a few off the island, and Octavia herself had tucked the teacup away very soon after the first relinquishing ceremonies had begun some nights ago. Although Doc Finebeak had planned to leave right after Punkie Night, Madame Plonk had begged to stay through Balefire Night as she was sure singing would be permitted.

Since Punkie Night, things had deteriorated. Too many strangers had stayed on at the tree after the celebration. The great grass harp had mysteriously suffered new damage. So there had been no song night after night. And now as he entered the hollow he shared with his dear Plonkie, he found her in tears. Between sobs she explained what had happened.

“Don’t worry, my dear. It is safe,” he whispered. But he was agitated and again frustrated that he had not insisted upon their leaving earlier. Just then, Octavia lifted her head. “Oh, Octavia,” Madame Plonk gasped, “you won’t believe what happened.”

“Yes, I will. No—don’t waste your breath explaining, dearie.” She swung her head toward Doc Finebeak. “Doc, you need to go to Bubo’s forge. Otulissa is waiting there
for you. I think she might have something…” She hesitated. “Something
hopeful
to tell you.”

The fires of the forge were crackling noisily. And Bubo was beating the daylights out of a chunk of redmore, a particularly hard kind of rock that yielded a high grade of metal. He saw Doc coming and nodded him into the cave. Doc quickly realized that Bubo meant the whanging and banging of his hammer on the anvil and the cracklings of the hot fires in the forge to serve as a bulwark of noise so that Otulissa could speak to him without fear of being overheard. Quickly, she divulged the secret training that was going on in the old tunnel. She explained how Bubo had juiced the counterfeit ember. Doc’s gizzard sang when he heard this news. They needed his help. She had explained that there were few of them in on the plan as they did not want to arouse suspicion. She also told him how Pelli, after her trip to hide the real ember, had gone to see Hortense and told her of the happenings. From Hortense, she found out that the Band was aware of the dire conditions at the tree. They would be coming back soon with help. But Otulissa and Pelli and Bubo felt that more was needed now.

“Doc, can you help us?” she whispered desperately. “We know that in your tracking days you met all sorts of owls, including hireclaws.”

Almost before Otulissa had finished speaking, he was heading to fetch the black feather that allowed him to fly freely any time of the day, safe from mobbings by crows. It was mid-morning. Most of the tree was asleep and it was the perfect time for him to leave. He did not even say good-bye to Plonkie. Better that she not know.

H
e knows?” Pelli gaped at Mrs. P. “Coryn knows, and he isn’t angry, Mrs. P.?”

“Only at himself, my dear. You see, his gizzard is awakening, stirring.”

“He can’t let the Striga know.”

“Of course not. He must play dumb, as you have done. But he feels terrible and he is ready to help in any way he can.”

“Did you tell him about what we are doing?”

“Not yet. I only said that I would consult with you and Otulissa.”

“How do you account for it, Mrs. P., his awakening, as you call it?”

“Well.” She sighed. “It could be one of several things. When I went in the hollow he was staring into the fire in the grate.”

“Flame reading,” Pelli said suddenly. “He probably hasn’t done it for a long time.”

“Yes, but I don’t think it was just that. A young Burrowing Owl arrived several nights ago, begging to see Coryn. He finally got in to see him. I have felt that young owl’s extreme agitation ever since he arrived. I saw him leave Coryn’s hollow and it was precisely in that moment that I got my first inkling…glimmer of the stirrings in Coryn’s gizzard.”

“You are remarkable, Mrs. P.!” Pelli said.

“Well, you know, it comes with the scales.” Her rose-colored scales seemed to shimmer as she said this.

While Mrs. Plithiver conversed with Pelli, Coryn stepped out of his hollow for the first time in a long while to explore the great tree. It was nearly a moon cycle since he had gone beyond the branch outside his hollow. Things had changed drastically. First of all, there were many new owls, owls he didn’t recall seeing before. But there were other changes as well. He flew into the Great Hollow and up to the gallery of the grass harp. He tottered as he settled on a perch. “What in the world?” he muttered. The lovely curving frame of the harp was blank and its strings lay in a tangled pile. He remembered talk about damage to the harp and recalled that the Striga said they should not rush to repair it. And then it burst upon him. His gizzard was racked with fear, shame. Great Glaux! He realized
that it had been many, many nights since he had last heard the voice of Madame Plonk. He rushed out of the Great Hollow to find her.

On his way, he saw more signs of the terrible changes that had occurred. Peeking into Mainz, the press hollow where the printers could usually be heard chatting softly, he found all was silent. The inkwells were caked with dried ink. The press itself was strung with cobwebs. He rushed on to the hollow of the lacemakers’ guild. There was no sound of the caller chanting the instructions for the particular designs. Absent was the soft whirring of the bobbins, unfurling thread as the four pairs of lacing snakes wove the thread through a series of patterns. Their perches were empty.

He heard a stirring coming from a corner in the lacemakers’ hollow. It was a very young nest-maid snake. “What happened here?” Coryn asked.

“Not much!” the nest-maid fumed. “I got here less than a moon cycle ago and was told that the lacemakers’ guild had been disbanded. Everything’s changed here. At least from the way it was.” The snake sighed again. “Once upon a time…” Then the nest-maid seemed suddenly alert. “Hey, who are you?”

Coryn felt a flutter in his gizzard. This nest-maid was
new and probably never had met him before. But nest-maids were keen and this one seemed to realize he was someone special.

“Oh,” Coryn quickly said, “I’ve been away, too, for quite a while. Yes, things seemed to have changed.”

“It’s not just the lacemakers’ guild that has been disbanded, but the weavers’ and the printers’ guilds, too. No pun intended, but even the Band seems to have been disbanded.”

Coryn’s gizzard clenched so painfully, he groaned.

“You all right?” the snake asked.

He coughed. “Yes, I’ll be fine. You are right. Once upon a time, things were very different here in this great tree.”

A
s he left the lacemakers’ hollow, Coryn felt an urgent need to find that young Burrowing Owl who had tried to speak to him.
That owl had something vitally important to tell me. I need to find him. But how? Where?
Coryn went back to his hollow and looked deeply into the flames again. For too long he had ignored his gift of firesight.

“Sir! Sir! Your Majesty.” Coryn heard an unfamiliar voice behind him. He turned and saw a Short-eared Owl enter his hollow.

“Yes?”

“Your Majesty, the Striga has suggested that I keep you company.”

“As you wish,” Coryn said, “but do not speak to me,” and he turned his gaze back to the flames. The Short-eared Owl, who wore a blue feather tucked between his coverts, stood in the shadows, watching Coryn study the flames.

No two flames were ever exactly alike and yet they all possessed the same structures. It was the central yellow curved plane of the flame that yielded the images.

He blinked, then his eyes opened in wonder. There was a familiar shape, a space from his past. The cave in the canyonlands where he had experienced firesight for the first time! How ironic that this extraordinary gift had been revealed at the Marking ceremony in which his father’s bones had been burned! Coryn felt his gizzard quicken, his mind suddenly keen. Within the cave, other shapes began to take form, but the one that riveted his attention was a dearly known one—his friend, his only friend from that long time ago, Phillip, the Sooty Owl, the very owl his mother had murdered. The flames curled in, engulfing the image. The yellow plane quivered and grew longer, more slender. Another owl shape revealed. Unmistakable in its length and elegance. Kalo! She was perched on an immense fallen trunk. He knew that tree trunk because he had lived there as an outcast when he had fled the Pure Ones, years before. He tipped closer to the fire in his grate. Felt the warmth on his beak.
These flames are telling me of my friends. Phillip is gone and…and…
He blinked and looked deeper into the very gizzard of the fire. Something was burning within the
flames. There were flames within the flames, another fire, and at its center was Kalo! But suddenly the shape that was Kalo dissolved into ashes and another took its place. A smaller owl. It was the young Burrowing Owl who tried to speak with Coryn. “My namesake! Coryn!”

“Sir?” said the Short-eared Owl. “Your what?”

“Namesake.” He said the word slowly. Coryn’s eyes widened into a seemingly vacant stare as he looked at the Short-eared Owl. The images of the fire were replaying in his mind’s eye, stirring the innermost part of his gizzard. He knew Kalo was in the Shadow Forest. She was safe, but not for long. Of this, he was sure. For now, the images yielded by the flames and the words of the Striga began to weave together into a diabolical design.
So this is to be the great and special relinquishment ceremony that is to mark Balefire Night
.

It all came to Coryn in a single piece. Owls would be burned in the flames of Balefire Night. Of course, only a few owls knew what was planned, only those closest to the Striga. They were now hunting down the offenders to the way of perfect simplicity. And Kalo was not a simple owl. She loved to think, to read. He remembered her well. It all made perfect sense now that her brother had come to seek his help—help from the king whose name he bore.

“Are you all right, sir? You look like you’ve seen a scroom.”

“Perhaps I have,” Coryn replied quietly. He moved away from the fire and flew onto the perch near the portal.

“Where are you going, sir?”

Coryn thought quickly. He was going to the Shadow Forest, but he did not want this blue-feathered owl to know. So he replied almost casually, “To the spirit woods, of course.” He paused and blinked at the Short-eared Owl. “That is where scrooms can be found, you know.”

Getting away was very easy for Coryn. The dawn was just breaking. The owls had been up past twixt time preparing the fires for Balefire Night, which would be set the coming night. They were so exhausted that most had not even gone to the dining hollow for breaklight but repaired immediately to their hollows for sleep. Coryn left his hollow and flew off into that dawn to save Kalo, sister of another owl named Coryn whom he had saved once before. This time he might save himself as well.

“He what?” said the Striga, blinking his eyes rapidly. “He’s going to the spirit woods?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I suppose one only goes to such a place to consort with scrooms.” The Striga paused, and churred softly. “How convenient. Yes, how very convenient. A king—a so-called king consorting with scrooms. This is worse than any vanity. Why…why, it’s hagscraft!”
And by the time he returns
, thought the Striga,
this great tree will be mine. These kingdoms, these five kingdoms will be mine and the true redemption shall begin. For I have flown through the shadows of faith, have been lured by the deadliest of vanities, have scoured and plucked myself so I am the perfect vessel for this kingship
.

The Striga was nearly overwhelmed by his own sense of perfection. The tree would be his soon. And if anyone had any doubts about his right to rule this great tree, he knew that there were now enough of his elite fighting unit, the Blue Brigade, to take the tree by force. But there might be very little need for force after the climactic moment of the Balefire Night festivities—the special relinquishing ceremonies. No one would dare oppose him after that.