Exile (7 page)

S
croom, you say?” The Striga thrust his puckered face closer to Tarn, the Burrowing Owl. “You saw those four consorting with a scroom in Ambala?”

“Yes, high in an aerie where two eagles live.”

“Did you follow them any farther?”

“No, sir. They rested there for the day. I felt I should report to you as quickly as possible. Your wisdom, your profound insights…”

But the Striga cut him off. “Don’t flatter me!” he said sharply. The Striga was an expert in matters of flattery, adept with fawning, honeyed words. But he felt a deadly squirm in his gizzard when he was on the receiving end of such blandishments and adulation. For he knew that the core of all flattery was deceit. This Tarn was smart. He would have to watch him. However, he did not know that much about him. He came from some place in the Desert of Kuneer. There had been rumors of some owls holing up there, but he had no time to think about that now. He
wanted to reflect on this fresh bit of news. He could not have hoped for better. He must think very carefully on how to make the best use of it. It could be the initial move in dislodging the Band from the great tree and might lead to their ultimate downfall.
Careful, careful
, he admonished himself. He then turned his head and peered with his pale yellow eyes that appeared to Tarn like watered egg yolks. “Thank you. You have served well, efficiently. Your skills are valued.”
Now that
, he thought,
is how to discreetly flatter an owl
. The little speech was a model of sincerity and yet not excessive. But it would gain this owl’s trust faster than any overly sweet words. Oh, he would sweeten it up as time went on. But there was a course to these things, a pace as well. “Now, please leave me. I must think on this disturbing news.”

I will break this news to the great tree
, he thought.
But when the time is right. After Punkie Night! Yes, of course Punkie Night. They are all so sure it will be cancelled. They will be thrilled when Coryn says it won’t be
…But then he had another thought. The Band might be back by Punkie Night. Although it was mainly a favorite among young owls, older owls donned masks as well, and it was said that Twilight loved this night more than any other. That presented a problem. But then again the masks would provide the perfect cover for the Blue Brigade. They could be at
the tree, masked, in substantial numbers without arousing suspicion.

Finally, a complete plan came to him. The word must go out here on the mainland of the Band’s heinous treachery—consorting with scrooms, conjuring up the dead, dabbling in hagscraft! The news must be spread that they were no longer welcome at the tree. No—better yet: A rumor that they have gone to serve in the Northern Kingdoms, deserted the tree! Broken their Guardian oath! They can be effectively exiled, as conjurers and traitors! He could make it work, he knew it. It was less than a week to Punkie Night. When he had left the tree, some owls were already busy with the preparations. He would send back a message to Coryn that it was indeed time for a celebration. Punkie Night must go on. Madame Plonk must sing. If they were busy preparing for this stupid holiday, they would be nicely distracted. But in the meantime, he would make sure that here on the mainland the word went out. There were two ways to spread that information. He would use both. The first way was grog trees, and the second was scribes. He would send the Blue Brigade to the grog trees—without their telltale blue feathers—to talk and begin the rumors of the Band’s perfidy. The second method was scribes. The number of owls who could be hired to write for those
who were still illiterate, or post public notices throughout the kingdoms had increased dramatically on the mainland in recent years. He would use them. But first, he must get word back to the tree about Punkie Night.

Just before dawn, the messenger arrived and was ushered into Coryn’s hollow. The young king was still wondering if he had so gravely offended the Striga that he would not return. Coryn had been in turmoil since the Striga’s departure. Here, the very owl to whom they owed their existence because of his valorous, selfless acts had been driven from the tree perhaps forever because of Coryn’s own stubbornness.

He dismissed the messenger so he could read the message in complete privacy.

Dear Coryn
,

I have been thinking a lot about our last discussion and I understand your fears concerning the ember. But Coryn, you underestimate your own strengths. You are more than able to withstand the ember’s so-called bad influences. Everywhere I go on the mainland, I see evidence of your own powers as king. The spread of culture, practical culture, the kind that I approve of, that will add to the betterment of our world, is amazing. You are an owl of unparalleled courage and intelligence, with a natural instinct for leadership. I have heard of your ancient King Hoole, but I believe you shall far exceed him. I
now think that in many ways I have been too harsh. It was an act of great sacrifice on your part to give up the Harvest Festival. Therefore, with that in mind and upon great reflection, I believe that Punkie Night should go forward. It is a harmless celebration, mostly enjoyed by the young. So, please go on with the celebration. I shall be back by Punkie Eve if not before
.

Yours in faith
,

Striga

Coryn was so relieved, so happy he thought he might cry. He read the letter twice over, and then went out immediately to make the announcement. Oh, there would be a Punkie Night as never before!

It had been two nights since the Band had left Ambala. They had long forgotten the weather experiments, the original reason for their trip to the mainland. They were much more interested in trying to determine how widespread the influence of the Striga and his Blue Brigade were. To do this they had to operate with some stealth. Keep a low wing, flying on the edges of the night. There was always the chance of being mobbed by crows, but in recent times, ever since Doc Finebeak, a great friend of crows, had begun to reside at the tree, the Guardians had been mostly left alone by the raucous creatures. Therefore, more and more the Band found their flights extending
into the morning and even afternoon hours of the day. Unfortunately, they came across ample evidence of the Blue Brigade’s devastation. They spotted numerous smoldering fires each morning, littered with the charred remnants of ornaments obviously bought from Trader Mags: countless books, scorched jewels, singed scraps of paintings.

One evening shortly after leaving Ambala, a piece of paper flapping against a slender birch tree attracted their attention. They flew down to take a closer look.

“What the…” Gylfie reached it first and was hovering as she read it aloud.

“‘The four members of the Guardians of the Great Ga’Hoole Tree, known collectively throughout the owl kingdoms as the Band, were seen consorting with scrooms and dabbling in faithless acts of hagscraft. They were doing this under the cover of a so-called scientific expedition. Further information suggests that they have renounced their Guardian oath and switched their allegiance to the Northern Kingdoms. For this reason, the parliament of the Great Ga’Hoole Tree forbids anyone to welcome them into their hollows, speak to them, or transact any manner of business with them. Warning: These owls are considered dangerous.’”

Luckily, the ground was only a foot or so beneath them because Gylfie, Digger, and Soren looked at each other, wilfed, and went yeep, falling gently to the ground.

“This is outrageous!” Soren shouted.

“We’re as good as exiled,” Digger said.

“Twilight, get over here!” Soren yelled. “You gotta look at this notice written by some scribe. Absolutely outrageous!”

Gylfie turned her head to look at Twilight, who had been investigating a still smoldering fire. The Great Gray looked like a pillar of solid ashes. He was frozen, stiff, like one of the statues in the Palace of Mists.

What could have silenced Twilight? They all rushed over to where the Great Gray stood and looked down.

There was the charred skeleton of an owl, still lashed to the stump of a burnt stake.

“This is hagscraft!” Soren said in a hoarse whisper.

F
ar away, across a vast sea at the end of the River of Wind, a blue owl perched. Tengshu had been the sage of these Luminous Pearl Gates at the river’s end for years beyond counting. Perched on his branch of meditation, he looked out toward the River of Wind where the qui he flew danced in the patchwork of gusts.

Tengshu flew his qui for many reasons. Often for the sheer joy of it, and at other times to collect vital weather information about the air currents, wind speeds, and any shifts in the windkin. But he also flew them when he needed to meditate on a question, and at this moment, Tengshu was deeply disturbed and needed to meditate. He sensed that things were not as they should be in the Hoolian world. In particular, he was worried about his good friends, the four owls known as the Band. He knew that the blue owl, the one who had renamed himself “the Striga,” had never returned to the Dragon Court. He had gone missing shortly after the battle at the owlery.
He had distinguished himself at this battle not so much for his courage but for the brutality with which he had killed. This went against every tenet of Danyar, the way of noble gentleness. The Hoolian owls had said that he could return with them, and Tengshu had concluded that, in fact, the former Dragon Court owl had flown to the five kingdoms of the Hoolian world.

Accompanying this certainty, another feeling had been building in him, and it was that the Band in particular, and consequently the great tree, was in some sort of peril. It was just a feeling. He had no evidence as he had for the dragon owl’s flight, but his uneasiness had been growing steadily. He had never traveled to the Hoolian kingdoms, but his mother had done so hundreds of years before. As the qui dong of the Luminous Pearl Gates, it was his job to welcome any owls who found their way across the River of Wind. Very few ever had. He led a very reclusive life, one of contemplation. He pursued his poetry and his painting and, when called upon, he could fight. But this was seldom. He realized now, however, as the sun broke over the low clouds, that he must act soon. It suddenly became clear to Tengshu that he could not meditate, equivocate a moment longer. He must go. To remain a recluse at times like these was a terrible self-indulgence. He thought of his mother, Bao. She had made
this same trip for reasons he had not completely understood at the time. She had gone without a minute’s hesitation. His father had been left to care for Tenghsu and his siblings.
Enough of this!
he thought to himself. Without another second wasted, Tengshu spread his wings and lifted into flight. Following the qui lines to the windkins, he effortlessly soared over them and joined that spectacular and boisterous river of wind.
In my mother’s wing prints
, he thought.
The wing prints of Bao!

P
unkie Night had arrived. Everyone was overjoyed that this night that had been celebrated for countless years had not been cancelled as the Harvest Festival had been. The mood of the tree had lightened considerably. Many concessions had been made for the evening’s entertainment. Madame Plonk had been permitted to sing as she always had on Punkie Night in her fabulous gadfeather costume. Pelli was watching from the gallery in the Great Hollow as Madame Plonk began yet another wonderful ballad. Doc Finebeak was looking upon his mate rapturously. Despite his misgivings and his decision to leave, he felt it would be unfair to deny Plonkie this chance to sing. He had not told her yet that he thought they should leave immediately after Punkie Night. Pelli herself was relieved. She sensed that Finebeak was so distressed over his mate’s silencing by Coryn that he had been considering leaving the great tree. He had said to Pelli that he had something he must speak to her about, but after Punkie Night.

Madame Plonk was singing a very old ballad from the Northern Kingdoms. Doc Finebeak’s gizzard trembled, for the song his mate sang was portentous to say the least.

Fly away with me
,
Give my loneliness a break
.
Fly away with me
,
So my heart will never ache
.
Fly away with me this night
.
Fly away with me
.

Would she have really left?
Pelli wondered.
What a loss!
Then, suddenly, something caught her eye. She wasn’t sure what. A gesture of some sort from the blue owl? How he had bent his head toward Coryn as he whispered to him? Her hearing was as fine as any Barn Owl’s. What was it? She began to observe more closely the Striga and Coryn as Madame Plonk’s magnificent voice swelled into the Great Hollow with the accompaniment of the newly repaired grass harp plucked by the nest-maid snakes of the harp guild. There was no doubt about it, the Striga was uncomfortable with this extravagant display of what he must have felt were dangerous vanities. She also watched Coryn, who seemed to be furtively glancing at the Striga as if taking his measure. Coryn, she could
tell, was extremely worried. Not worried about the tree, nor about the owls who seemed finally to be lifting out of the depressed mood that had enveloped the tree since the Harvest Festival.
No
, Pelli thought with sharp alarm.
He’s worried about the Striga!
Then it came to her with great clarity.
He’s made a deal with the Striga. Let us have Punkie Night and then…and then what? What did the Striga demand in return?
The very question sent a chill through her gizzard. The ember! She was certain: The ember was in danger. She had to find Bubo immediately. But how? Everyone was wearing masks. Owls were so starved for celebrations that even the older ones who never dressed up were all wearing masks. How would she ever figure out which one was Bubo?

Frantically, she spun her head around, scanning the gallery for Bubo. There was a Great Horned nearby in the mask of a Spotted Owl with a cloak of spotted feathers, but his own shown through. Pelli flew up to him and peered directly in his face.

“I beg your pardon, madam!” the owl replied coolly at her sudden intrusion. He was speaking with a Burrowing Owl.

“Oh, sorry,” Pelli apologized. “I thought you were someone else.” She had never seen either one of these owls at the tree before. But it was not unheard of for strangers to come from the mainland for the various
celebrations. Although there did seem to be an awful lot of them tonight. But where was Bubo? The harp guild snakes had started to pluck a jig, and there were owls fly-dancing outside the tree. She would have a look.

A quarter of an hour later, she had still not found him. Back inside she went. A flash of ruddy feathers peeking out from under a cape of snowy-white ones caught her eye, and then there were his horns barely concealed under the white mask. It was Bubo, she was sure, and he was weaving about in slow glaucana, a kind of waltz, with Otulissa.
Great!
Pelli thought. They both needed to know about her terrible gizzard-wrenching feelings. Otulissa was wearing the mask of a Great Gray but she was unmistakable. She was a lovely fly-dancer, much better really than Bubo. She danced with great style, a crisp yet fluid motion.

“I need to see both of you right now!” Pelli hissed. Mrs. Plithiver, who was just wending her way as a sliptween through an octave, swung her head in the direction of Pelli. She sensed a thin filament of tension in the air. It was pronounced, because all of the other owls for the first time in a long while seemed to be relaxed and enjoying the celebration.

Bubo and Otulissa immediately sensed the rising panic in Pelli’s voice. “Where should we meet?”

“The forge,” Pelli replied. “But leave separately and by different ports. I’ll take an interior corridor. They will just think I’m tired and going to my hollow.”

They
. The word sounded ominous to Otulissa. She glanced over at the Striga and Coryn.

Pelli actually got to Bubo’s forge first. When the two other owls entered, they saw her peering into the coal pits where he kept his bonk embers. Immediately, they knew what she wanted. “The ember is in danger, isn’t it?” Otulissa blurted out.

“I knew this celebration stuff was too good to last.” Bubo sighed, pulling off his Snowy Owl mask and cloak.

“It just came to me. I don’t know how. I was looking at Coryn and the Striga when I had a feeling deep in my gizzard and suddenly realized that Coryn has weakened in some terrible way, that he’s going to come for the ember. I know it.”

“So, what do we do?” Bubo asked.

Pelli’s dark eyes shone with such a luster that had she been outside and not in the cave, they would have reflected the moon and the stars. “We get it out of here. We substitute another.”

“A substitute?” Bubo said with a note of incredulity in his voice. “Won’t he know?”

Otulissa swiveled her head and peered with her amber eyes into Pelli’s dark ones. “You think Coryn has been weakened to the point where he won’t notice the difference, right?”

“Possibly.” Pelli nodded.

“You think or you hope?” Otulissa asked pointedly.

Pelli sighed. “A little bit of both, I suppose. But what do we have to lose?”

Otulissa knew that Pelli was right. What did they have to lose? At the very least, the ember would be safely tucked away someplace. Otulissa now turned to Bubo. “Do you have a bonk coal that is a reasonable facsimile?”

“Reasonable facsimile of the Ember of Hoole?” Bubo raised a talon to his head and scratched between his horn tufts. “Not likely, but I suppose I could try to fire-juice one.” Fire-juicing was a way of heating coals so that their interior structure changed slightly to radiate a more intense heat for a short period of time.

Bubo was now poking around in one of the coal pits. With his tongs, he plucked out an ember. “Here she be.” The tongs pinched a glowing coal. Deep in the ember’s gizzard, there was a lick of blue and around it a pulsating ring of green. The air seemed to tingle as Bubo held it up. Each one of them could feel it. Dislodged from the other embers in the pit, its power was more direct. It was
amazing that Bubo himself had been able to live with it and suffer no ill effects. But he was a blacksmith. He had built up his resistance to it, and it had been buried with other coals, which had acted as a shield. “You see, it’s that green that is hard to reproduce. It truly is the color of the wolves’ eyes.” Bubo was talking about the great dire wolves of the Beyond, who for centuries had guarded the ember as it nestled in its lava cocoon in the volcano called Hrath’ghar. “But you never can tell, Coryn might not notice.”

“Right now we have to get the real ember out of here,” Otulissa said. “Where do you think you should take it?”

“The Palace of Mists,” Pelli answered.

Otulissa closed her eyes. She had suspected that Pelli might say this. Pelli had never been there. Bess would not like it. Otulissa could go, but she had made so many trips already with Fritha transporting books that she was worried about arousing the Striga’s suspicions. Pelli was a strong flier and very fast and if she left immediately, she might not be missed.

“All right, I’ll give you the navigational coordinates. You’re going to have to leave immediately. In the meantime, Bubo, start juicing another coal to substitute for the Ember of Hoole.”

“I already got me eye on one down there. But understand that when Pelli flies with this ember, we have to put it in a good strong botkin with some other bonk ones to insulate her from its power.”

“And do you have the case, the original one that we always kept it in?”

“Yeah, it’s around here someplace.”

“Well, you better be prepared. Coryn might come asking for it anytime.” Otulissa felt her gizzard twitch. How had it come to this? She had had so much faith in Coryn. She had been his first teacher in the Beyond. She had taught him how to dive for coals. Of course, he was such a natural that it only took him two blinks to learn. She had been there in the Beyond when he had taken that spectacular dive into Hrath’ghar and came back with the ember. Not even singed. But now he was being singed, so to speak, being weakened, damaged perhaps irreparably, by this strange blue owl.