Exile (11 page)

I
t’s the Greenowls of Ambala!” A hearty cheer rose up from the grog tree where owls were just beginning to celebrate Balefire Night. They churred and hooted as scores of owls draped in cloaks of greenest moss and lichen flew by overhead.

“Ain’t seen them out for Balefire Night in a long time.”

“Naw, they usually keep to themselves, those owls of Ambala,” said another.

“Don’t quite have the gizzard for Balefire this year meself,” a Whiskered Screech muttered. “Not with all them owls sporting the blue feathers.”

“Lousy bunch.”

“Hush, they got spies all over.” A Pygmy Owl fluttered down and put out a nut cup for a spot of bingle juice.

“They say the king’s useless now. Gone yeep in his own hollow—never comes out.”

Coryn’s gizzard twisted painfully as he overheard this last remark. He had taken a detour on his way to the
Shadow Forest because it had suddenly struck him that he was unarmed. If he went to a Rogue smith he would be recognized, but he could perhaps sneak some coals from a Balefire. He knew from times past that this particular grog tree kept a Balefire, but most of the owls were too occupied with their drinking to keep a close watch on the fire, which was a short distance from the base of the grog tree’s trunk. They might play a few games around it as the evening wore on but, for now, they were enjoying the bingle juice and the song of a rather off-key gadfeather. The owls gathered into a tighter clump in the lower branches as the gadfeather began a new verse. Now would be the perfect time to fetch the coals, along with the discarded botkin on a chain he had seen near the fire to carry them in. He kept a careful watch, and when all the owls had congregated on the other side of the tree far from the Balefire, he stole down and in one swift pass grabbed the botkin and chain and plucked some coals from the very heart of the fire to fill it.

He was off before the gadfeather had even finished the first bars of the song. He headed as fast as he could fly toward the Shadow Forest, the place he’d seen in the flames where he thought he might find Kalo or his namesake, Cory.

He slowed his flight as he approached the tree, then felt his gizzard swim up when he heard the voices of two owls.

He flew into the thickest branches of a black spruce, blinked and focused on the two owls who were flying low around the fallen tree, sometimes lighting down and peering into a crack or hole.

“She ain’t here! But she’s been here not long ago.”

“Yep. I see fresh pellets. Some molted feathers.”

“Hope she’s not going through an early molt. The Striga and Field Marshal Cram want all the owls that we’re supposed to bring to the island in full feather. Burn better that way.”

Coryn’s gizzard throbbed with disgust and hatred.

“Scouring. That’s the word we’re supposed to use. Scouring—not burning—remember? That’s the one the Striga always uses. It’s their redemption. Cleanse them so they can rise to glaumora.”

Coryn had stopped listening to this trash. He opened the botkin and broke off a branch from the tree and then broke that one in half again.

“Hey, what’s that noise? Something in that tree!”

And at that very instance, Coryn flew out of the tree with two flaming branches.

“Time for a scouring!” he bellowed.

“It’s the king!” The scar running down his face gleamed like an ice seam in the white feathers of his face. The two owls fumbled with their battle claws. They were big owls. One was a Great Gray, one a Great Horned. Coryn was much smaller. But he had two things on his side: surprise and fire weapons. He had learned firefighting from the Chaw of Chaws. The Great Gray extended his battle talons and was scooping under the flaming branches for a heart rip. But he was coming in too fast, which would wreck his aim and so, with a dodge and a swat, Coryn threw him off. Still, he was a bold fighter, this Great Gray.
A match for Twilight
, Coryn thought. How he wished Twilight were here. Coryn was sweeping the branches in wide arcs to set up a defensive ring of sparks around him that he hoped would keep the owls at bay. But he could not keep fighting defensively. It would tire him out. He had to hurt these owls or kill them.

Suddenly, there was a blur at the edge in the narrow cone of his vision. To see more he would have to turn his head, but he must keep his eyes focused on the two owls who were trying to break through the ring of sparks. What was it on the edge of his vision? Whatever it was quickly caught the owls’ attention. They turned and in that second he felt his flaming branch shake.

“Kalo!” She had rushed up with a branch of her own and ignited it from his. But Kalo was not the only thing on the edge of his sight. He spied a rabbit hopping about below. It was popping in and out of the hollow trunk of the fallen tree, distracting the Great Horned and the Great Gray. Coryn blinked in disbelief. It was his friend the rabbit, the mystic rabbit who read webs. The creature had distracted the two owls just long enough for Kalo to sweep in and ignite a branch.

Kalo was a natural fighter. Her long featherless legs gave her a distinct advantage. She and Coryn advanced together on the two owls who fought wing to wing, making them an easier target. Without speaking, Kalo and Coryn instinctively knew how to vary their moves. They alternated: One blocked while the other attacked. Coryn landed a solid blow to the Great Gray’s port wing. The owl screeched in agony but he kept on fighting. The rabbit kept Gpopping up, leaping in arcs, trying to distract the two owls and throw them off in any way. They were fighting close to the ground now and the combat grew more intense. Coryn had to admit, this Great Gray was tough. He was not letting his injured wing distract him but seemed to have grown angrier and more aggressive—and closer. The rabbit leaped up and, in that second, the Great Gray swooped down, caught the rabbit in its talons, and
flung him in an arc. Blood spun through the air. Kalo opened her beak and gave a low agonized scream and then took off after the Great Gray. She hurled herself into a downward plunge, a streak of tawny feathers with sparks flying. There was no scream, just a rush of air from the Great Gray’s lungs as Kalo skewered him to the tree with the burning tip of the branch. The Great Gray’s companion staggered in flight, and Coryn was now backing him against a large boulder. But then, with an insane surge of energy, the Great Horned reached out and tore the branch from Coryn. Suddenly emboldened, he advanced on Coryn.

Coryn reversed his course, backwinging. He and Kalo were without fire or battle claws. Was Kalo strong enough to pull loose the spear with which she had stabbed the Great Gray—if she could even get to it? Would it still be burning? Coryn suddenly remembered the botkin he had swiped from the grog tree. It was a metal one, slotted to let the coals breathe. The chain from which it was suspended was fairly long. It wasn’t that different from a fizgig. The Great Horned had Coryn dancing backward. It might look like a defensive move. It had certainly started out that way, but with every second, Coryn was getting closer to the spot where he had left the botkin hanging. The Horned Owl was clumsy with the ignited branch.
He might set himself on fire before touching Coryn. Suddenly, flames erupted all around them. The black spruce flared like a torch. Coryn did not even stop to think and rushed into the tree. There was a screech and a howl of laughter as the Great Gray realized what had happened. He turned on Kalo, who had almost gone yeep when she saw Coryn fly off into the flames.

“You’re alone now. So, come, my dear! Time for your scouring. To the great tree!” He rushed at her. But in that same second something whizzed by like a comet from the flaming tree—a spinning ball of flying sparks with a deadly chain attached. Kalo soared up out of the grasp of the Great Horned just before it hit him. Something sailed off into the sparks: a large head, its yellow eyes staring. The Great Horned’s body fell to the ground.

“Coryn!” she gasped.

“Kalo!” Coryn swooped up under her and supported her beneath one wing.

“No, I’m fine, Coryn. I’m really fine. We have to go to the rabbit. The rabbit saved my life…“ She paused and looked at Coryn. “As you did,” she said shyly.

The rabbit was dying. There was a deep rip in his chest. There was a strange whistling sound as if a low wind was blowing through his lungs. He tried to speak. The flames
were spreading. They would have to leave soon or be smoked out by the fire. “Look up!” gasped the rabbit. “Look up.”

Coryn and Kalo both looked up into the lowest branches of the closest tree that was not yet burning. Sparkling, like a small constellation fallen to Earth, was the glittering design of a spiderweb.

“It’s the last design,” the rabbit said in a gurgling whisper. A trickle of blood came from his nose. “Easy to read—an orb weaver’s web. Remember Coryn? I told you. They’re the easiest. The design is coming to me whole—because it is the last, you see. Find moss, not flames. Clad yourself in green, not fire. And fly…fly with the green…the green…” he gasped. “Fly with the Greenowls of Ambala to the tree.”

“Don’t leave us,” Kalo begged.

“Another web reader will come. They always do.” He sighed. It was almost a sigh of contentment, and then the mystic rabbit was gone. The heat from the fire was growing intense.

“We have to go now, Coryn. We have to get moss. We must do as the rabbit told us.”

“Yes! Fly with the Greenowls of Ambala!”

T
he night sky was split with song, and the gizzards of those who sang swelled with a fierce new hope.

The path is a ribbon of moonlight across a dusky sea
.
The wind sings a song that beckons us
To that great and mighty tree
.

We are the Greenowls of Ambala, clad in raiments of moss
,
Sprigged with lichens and grasses
Then gilded with silvery frost
.

Fair and square we play—for a sporting lot we are
.
We ride the boisterous Balefire gusts
And we reach for every star
.

As Soren flew with these owls of the Brad, who could doubt they were not as carefree and happy as they
sounded? But their mission was a most serious one, a deadly one. For under these cloaks of green, they wore battle claws and carried scimitars crafted by Gwyndor, who had set up a forge in the deep dell of the Brad. Even more deadly than these weapons were the methods of Danyar, which the owls of the Brad had mastered.

Soren prayed that the coded messages that had passed via Hortense to Pelli had been safely delivered and that she and the others back at the tree were ready to carry out their part of the plan. He looked around as they closed in on the Island of Hoole. It seemed that there were a few more Greenowls than when they had left.
Yes
, he thought,
Gwyndor has most likely decided to come with us. Have Streak and Zan come as well?
he wondered as he glanced at two other birds cloaked in moss. But, no, there were no owls who could compare in size to the two eagles.

Indeed, they were not eagles. Under the thin blankets of moss was a Barn Owl and a Burrowing Owl. Coryn and Kalo had found mousefoot moss in Silverveil when they had fled the fire in the Shadow Forest. They had caught sight of the Greenowls as they flew over Cape Glaux, scores of Greenowls, flying to the great tree. They knew they would not be noticed. But now Kalo seemed alarmed as one flew toward them.

“Who’s that, Coryn? I’m worried.”

Coryn felt a deep tweak in his gizzard. “My uncle, Soren.”

“Oh, dear!” Kalo said weakly. Coryn had told her about the Striga, and his own failures as king. It had been one of the most shameful moments of his life, having to tell this story of his pathetic, reprehensible weakness. He made no excuses, however. He just simply said, “I was a weak fool. I do not deserve to be king.”

And Kalo had answered, “I don’t think one ever deserves to be king. One must earn it and keep on earning it. You began tonight when you saved me. You shall continue, Coryn. I know.”

Now as Soren approached Coryn, he hoped he could keep his identity a secret a bit longer. But he was worried.

“That moss does not grow in Ambala,” Soren said, flying close to him. “Where do you hail from?”

It’s useless
, Coryn thought and began to speak. “I hail from the great tree, but I went afoul, dear Uncle. Now I am back. I am a Guardian—a Guardian of Ga’Hoole.”

“Coryn, is this really you?” Soren gasped.

“It is I, Uncle. Please let me join this fight tonight not as king but as a Guardian, with Kalo by my side. Kalo from The Barrens who, on orders of the Striga, was to be
brought here tonight to be burned. She fights as fearlessly any Guardian.”

At that moment another owl came around. Coryn’s gizzard lurched as he spied its blue feathers.

“Fear not, Coryn!” the sage said.

“Tengshu, you are here?”

Soren and Tengshu quickly explained how the owl from the Middle Kingdom had flown the River of Wind to find the cursed owl, whom he knew would prove dangerous.

There was no more time to explain. The bonfires on the beaches of the Island of Hoole had been lit. The Balefire Night games were about to begin.

Soren turned to Coryn. “You two follow me. I’ll pass the word to the Band.”

“You believe me, Soren, don’t you? You believe I have changed?”

“I believe that you are the owl you were always meant to be. You were ill. You are well now.”

“Sickness cannot always be an excuse. I failed all of you.”

“Then don’t fail us now. The plan is simple. We play the games for a while. We have learned that there are prisoners who have been brought to the tree, who will be killed. Owls who, like Kalo, had refused to give up their vanities,
their families’ possessions, and their books. We may be outnumbered. But Doc Finebeak went searching for hire-claws. We hope he found them. Otulissa and Pelli have been secretly training forces within the tree. We must hope for the best.”

The island was now less than a league away.

The Greenowls started one of their most boisterous and jolly songs.

We are the Greenowls of Ambala
,

Across thermals we scrambala
.

To the top with a bounce

We would like to announce

That downdrafts don’t faze us

And hardly amaze us
.

We catch bonks on the fly

While eating milkberry pie
.

Dance a fine little jig

Then alight on a twig
.

Oh, we’re the jolliest of jollies
,

We mossy green owlies
.

So, hip-hip-hooray!

Until night fades to day

And Balefire fades to gray
.

“And who do you say they are, Field Marshal Cram?” the Striga asked.

“Owls from Ambala. They call themselves Greenowls because for holidays they clad themselves in green. An ancient custom.”

“Perfectly harmless, I suppose. No vanities.”

“No, sir. No pearls, nothing like that.”

“Which reminds me: any luck in apprehending the notorious Trader Mags?”

“No, sir, but we do have her assistant, Bubbles.”

“Have you been able to get anything out of her?”

“No, sir. She’s as daft as any magpie you could imagine.” He paused. “I just have one question, sir. I was wondering if we should worry that any owls here might be, you know, still loyal to the Band?”

“No. I think I have given these owls what they always longed for. A life without distraction of the vanities. A simpler way. It was the children, the young’uns, who really led the way.” He looked down from his perch to the Blue Feather Club. Perhaps the Striga did not notice that Bell, who had been his most ardent early member, was shaking and weeping copious tears.

Bell was crying because she realized how wrong she had been about the Striga. Mrs. Plithiver had told them earlier this evening of the lies the Striga had spread about
their father, of how he had deceived Coryn to such a point that he had, as Mrs. Plithiver tried to delicately put it, grown so weak in his gizzard that he had fallen ill. She also told the three B’s that they would have to be very brave little owls now. They must do some mighty good pretending because the noble owls, the Guardians like their own dear mum, were going to try their best to set things right.

In the new special ceremonies that had been added to Balefire Night, it was the March of the Toys that came first. The youngest of the owlets—hatchlings and fledglings—had lined up with their favorite toys, owli-poppen, which were down-stuffed animals—usually field mice or tiny chipmunks that they often took to their nests when they went to sleep. All to be heaped on a bonfire. Next were the somewhat older owls like the three B’s with their favorite things.

“Stop whimpering, Bell,” Bash said.

“It’s all right. They’ll think she’s crying over the berry necklace. And that’ll be good pretending, like Mrs. P. told us,” Blythe said. She herself was clutching a piece of music—not a favorite one, at least.

“Will you two ever forgive me?” Bell swiveled her head first to Bash and then to Blythe. “Will you ever get to sing, Blythe?”

“Hush! If things work out, yes, I’ll sing. And yes, we forgive you.”

A little owlet ahead of them began to sob as one of the Blue Brigade pried from her a pretty tail clip with sparkly stones that she had clutched in her beak.

“Now, you don’t need this!” said the Boreal Owl harshly. “These fancy things are just silly adornments. They will get in the way of your humility.”

The ranks of the Blue Brigade had swelled and they were now singing the songs of relinquishment.

And to the flames consign things vain
Give up your prideful ways
.
Submission is the path to grace
Where each owl knows its place
.
Bless our Striga for his suffering
,
For his enduring pain
.
Scour our gizzards of the vanities’
Horrible shameful stain
.

A-Glaux!

Bell tried to keep her eyes down as she passed the Striga with her necklace. She was tempted to look up and stick her tongue out at him. How had this blue owl
fooled her? It didn’t help when Bash and Blythe reminded her that he had even gotten to the king’s gizzard. It was her gizzard that he had gotten to, and she should have minded it better. It flinched constantly now, racked with shame. Somehow she had to make things better. Prove herself a better owl. “I will.” She muttered the words softly. “I will!” Mrs. Plithiver watched her nervously. But Mrs. P. knew that for all her faults Bell had a steely determination, mettle as strong as anything hammered in Bubo’s forge.

“You see that little one there?” The Striga leaned over on his perch above the line of owlets and spoke in a low voice to his field marshal.

“Yes, sir.”

“She’s the daughter of Soren and Pelli. And she’s mine now.”

The field marshal wasn’t exactly sure what the Striga meant, but he nodded. “Yes, I can see that she has an air of perfect humility.”

“Well, not quite perfect yet. But she will. Now review with me again the schedule for this evening.”

“This is the first of three marches. The second march is the March of the Diamonds, and then the third is the March of Scurrilous Books.”

“Ah, I like to call it the ‘March of Pride’ because these owls have been the most prideful. Their stubbornness in clinging to their books is most un-Glauxly. They put their gizzards and their minds above Glaux. I have chosen a few of those especially prideful owls for the special relinquishment ceremonies.” The Striga churred softly.

“Yes, indeed,” the field marshal replied.

“They will be perched on their pedestals of books and then ignited. That will be a surprise for these ‘Guardians.’ A surprise and a lesson. But I feel we must have a break between these marches. So anticipation can build for the grand climax.”

“Oh, yes, indeed. The games begin soon. Right after the March of the Toys finishes. Look—they are perching up now—the Greenowls and the others for the first set of colliering games.”

A ruddy-feathered Short-eared Owl perched on a high limb next to a tiny Northern Saw-whet. Their expressions were grim. “All right,” Ruby said to Martin. “I guess we have to try and make a good show of it during this colliering thing.”

“You’re darned right, you do!” Bubo flew in and settled beside them. “We are all actors tonight. Remember
what Otulissa said. Just a few rounds, then the March of the Diamonds begins.”

“First team to participate!” Elvanryb was the game announcer. “In the colliering competition will be the Guardians’ team of Ruby, Short-eared,
Asio flammeus
, member of the colliering chaw, trained under the late great Ezylryb.”

“Why’s he giving our formal species name?” Ruby asked.

“Buying time,” Bubo said softly.

“This magnificent owl, known for her short, steep vertical plunge into exploding tree crowns will be teamed with Martin, Northern Saw-whet,
Aegolius acadius
. This tiny bird is distinguished for his precision wing work, as well as his stylish manipulation of collateral drafts created by fire ladders. He is also renowned for his low-level close-to-ground rolling-ember retrievals. Let’s give them a big round of applause!”

The other teams from the opposing kingdoms on the mainland were announced. In this event there would be four sets of two-owl teams simultaneously diving into the fires. They would be judged on speed and the number and quality of coals retrieved.

“And flying under the moss cloak of the Greenowls of Ambala we have Braithe, Whiskered Screech,
Otus
trichopsis
, known for his crown-leaping, along with his partner, Tintagel.”

Pelli was watching from the hollow where she had lined up for March of the Diamonds. Had he said Tintagel? She blinked.
He’s here! My dear Soren is here!
Who else would call himself Tintagel, the name of the castle in the book that she and Soren had read from the
Fragmentum? The Legends of King Arthur and His Knights of the Round Table
was their favorite book. Tintagel! Soren was back. He had come to save the great tree! The word was secretly passed beak to ear slit. The Guardians, the true owls of the great tree, were emboldened. Their message had gotten through.

As Ruby flew up from one of her famous short, steep aerial plunges a voice whispered, “What a ‘magnificent
Asio flammeus’
!”

“I knew it was you,” Ruby whispered back. “Tinky Town or whatever you’re calling yourself. No one does that power dive quite like you. So you’re back.”

“Absolutely!” Soren whispered.

“The action starts with the March of the Diamonds.”

Pelli and Otulissa and the owls in the tunnel were ready. Although the “vanities” they carried sparkled, they were not diamonds at all. That were deadly ice weapons.

Elvanryb announced that there would be a break in the games while the judges reviewed the coals retrieved
during the colliering competition. “Between these games and the next set we shall have the March of the Diamonds,” he said, turning to the Striga and the owls of the Blue Brigade, who were gathered on the reviewing branches of the great tree.

Another dreadful dirge deploring the evil of vanities and the sins of pride began as two columns of owls led by Otulissa and Pelli flew out. Only the points of their glittering ice picks showed, appearing, indeed, like diamonds. Quentin, the quartermaster, had slipped the longer ice blades under the wings of the owls that were marching on the ground, making two tiers of ice-armed owls.