Exile (9 page)

Y
ou see, Coryn. You have grown so much stronger. Now tell me truthfully, do you not feel better than ever in the presence of this ember?”

“Yes, it is true,” Coryn agreed.

“You have strengthened your gizzard,” the Striga said.

Coryn thought the Striga might be right. He no longer felt the deep twinges in his gizzard that he had when in the presence of the ember. But even before he had brought the ember from Bubo’s forge, his gizzard had seemed to quiet in a way that gave him a new ease. Since he had been following the Striga’s regime of spiritual cleansing by ridding himself of the vanities that had cluttered not so much his hollow, for those had been few, but his mind, life seemed easier. He no longer had the haunting visions of his mother, Nyra, and he finally began to realize that although he had loved his uncle Soren, this love had been a feckless indulgence on his part. It wasn’t reciprocated in
the way he had expected. He was basically excluded from the Band. He had never really understood this until the Striga pointed it out to him. He might be accepted as king by the great tree but never as a member of the Band by Soren and the others. And now there were two letters that confirmed this exclusion as truth. The first letter had arrived shortly before Punkie Night with its ridiculous talk about the necessity of extending the weather experiments. This second letter had just arrived, in which the Band reported that they had felt that they were not needed at the tree, and how had they put it? “Striga,” Coryn said, “could you read that part of the letter to me again?”

“Certainly. ‘As we do not feel that our presence at the tree is needed and that there are owls in the Northern Kingdoms who could benefit from our knowledge as rybs, we have decided to fly there for a short visit.’”

Coryn looked at the blue owl. “It is just as you predicted, isn’t it? They are trying to make an alliance in the Northern Kingdoms without the consent of parliament.”

“Negotiating independently. Why would any owl do such a thing? Treasonous, isn’t it?” The Striga paused. “And treason is simply another face of vanity.”

Coryn blinked. He supposed the Striga was right. Half a dozen moon cycles ago he might have questioned this logic. But somehow Coryn felt that he no longer had to
question such notions or statements. There was a beautiful simplicity to everything that the Striga said. It would be difficult, however, to tell Pelli that her mate would be gone even longer. Pelli was a sweet, dear owl. He turned now to the Striga. “It’s going to be hard to tell Pelli that Soren has extended his trip even longer and into the Northern Kingdoms.”

“Yes, it will be. But you know, owls get over things. She has her children to keep her occupied. And let’s be honest. Soren’s first loyalty has never been to Pelli, but rather to the Band. At times, she must feel as excluded as you have felt.”

“You know, you’re right!” Coryn paused. “But I hesitate to tell her about this…this possible treason. I hope she doesn’t suspect anything.”

The Striga churred and shook his head. “I wouldn’t worry, Coryn. Pelli is not all that bright, you know.”

Coryn thought he felt a dim twinge in his gizzard, a split second of uncertainty about this last statement, but he chose to ignore it.

“I never knew about this place!” Bubo said with wonder. He glanced around at the thick, knotted roots. A scrim of threadlike taproots hung down, grazing their heads.

“When I came to the tree to live here and be Soren’s mate, he and the Band and Otulissa took me here,” Pelli said.

“We didn’t want to keep any secrets from Pelli,” Otulissa added. “They were mates. There should never be secrets between mates. There are a few others who know about it. The Chaw of Chaws. But it was brilliant of Pelli to think of having the parliament meeting here. There are too many strangers about to speak freely in the parliament hollow. I mean, since when have we allowed outsiders into the parliament meetings? These owls that have been hanging around since Punkie Night, what gives them the right?” Otulissa huffed indignantly.

“So, let me get this straight,” Bubo said. “You can hear the parliament when you’re down here in the roots, but they can’t hear you?”

“Yes, it’s strictly a one-way system,” Otulissa said.

“It’s really the most secure place in the tree. There’s no other place we could all meet except here. And no one will miss us at this hour,” Pelli said.

“I just hope we can all cram in here.” Bubo looked around.

Otulissa glanced about, then blinked. There was a slightly mournful tinge in her amber eyes.

The word had been passed to the other members of the parliament. They would be led to the roots by Martin, Eglantine, and Ruby—other members of the Chaw of Chaws. Immediately upon Pelli’s return, she told Otulissa and Bubo about the notice accusing the Band of treason, and they decided that something must be done. But they did not want to act rashly. Their first step was taking a wing count of the additional owls who were roosting in the outer branches of the tree and the guest hollows, which had been filled since Punkie Night. Guests often came to the tree but never had so many lingered for so long. And now with the latest news of the letter that Coryn had just received—which she felt was as counterfeit as the ember Bubo had juiced—they were convinced that they were in the most dire circumstances. They all dreaded the approaching Balefire Night. They must be prepared. But to fight a battle on their own island in their own tree was simply too risky. The hardest thing Pelli had ever had to do was to feign stupidity when Coryn had summoned her and read the second letter. First of all, she had to pretend that she believed every word of the forged document. She had to appear simple and trusting. But all the while, her mind was ticking and her gizzard sizzling. Simulating ignorance was her best defense. She had begun
to plan before Coryn had even finished reading the letter and she would not let her first instincts or impulses get the better of her.

Two by two, the owls of the parliament crept down into the hidden chamber deep within the roots of the great tree.

“Even though this particular place in the tree is virtually soundproof, I suggest that we keep our voices low.” Pelli looked around at the members of the parliament. Some of them, like Elvanryb, were very old and had been members of the parliament for years. Some, like Sylvana, a beautiful Burrowing Owl and masterful ryb of the tracking chaw, were relatively new to the parliament. But they were all now in this small space, their eyes glistening with a mixture of apprehension and perhaps a glint of hope. They had felt depressed by the state of their king, concerned by the new owls hanging around the tree, and utterly contemptuous of the one called the Striga.

“We are safe here,” Pelli said. She felt it was important for them to be at ease. “What I am about to show you is shocking. But not for a moment do I believe it. And neither should you.” Pelli unfurled the notice she had found on the tree. The owls gathered close and read it, their beaks dropping open one by one as they took in the heinous accusations.

“Outrageous!” Elvanryb said in a hot whisper. “I don’t believe it for one second.”

“Nor do I.” Several of the other owls of the parliament shook their heads vigorously.

“How did you get this?” Sylvana asked.

“I flew to the mainland with the real Ember of Hoole.”

There was utter silence.

“You mean that’s not the real ember in Coryn’s hollow?” said Poot, a Boreal Owl who had flown with the weather chaw for years.

“No, it’s a fake. I juiced it,” Bubo said.

“Then what’s his excuse? Why is Coryn acting yoicks?”

Pelli shook her head. “I’m not sure. I know that Coryn suffered things when he was young with Nyra, horrible things that none of us could ever imagine. But now is not the time to think about that. We have to act. When I read this malicious notice, my first thought was: If the Band has seen this, they will fly directly back to the great tree, but then I realized…”

“It’s a trap,” Elvanryb said quietly.

“Exactly, Elvanryb, a trap. Look at all the new owls in the tree who have come since Punkie Night. Something’s up.”

The owls nodded. “So what can we do?” Poot asked.

Pelli continued, “We must keep up a show of ignorance. It is my good luck to be considered almost witless by the Striga. And Coryn seems to agree with everything the Striga says. But we must be prepared when the time comes.”

“What should we do?” Martin asked.

“I think Otulissa can speak to this.”

Otulissa stepped forward. She cocked her head and looked directly at Sylvana. “Sylvana, you were crucial to our success during the siege. I think we must call upon you again. We need to move the ice weapons from their cold storage burrow. I don’t want these new owls knowing anything about them. Any ideas, Sylvana?”

“Yes,” she replied. “There is an old tunnel in the roots, on the other side of the tree from where we are now. I’ll get it cleaned out.”

“Does Coryn know about the ice weapons?” Poot asked.

“He might know about them,” Sylvana said. “But since he has been at the tree we have never fought with them. The last time was in the Battle of the Burning.”

“Precisely,” Martin said. “And that could be a problem. Ruby, Otulissa, and I are the only owls here right now
who have ever fought with the ice weapons. We were on that first expedition to the Northern Kingdoms where we trained with old Moss and the Glauxspeed and the Frost Beaks units. We’re out of practice.”

“Get in practice.” It was Quentin, a grizzled old Barred Owl who, as long as anyone could remember had been the quartermaster of the great tree, in charge of weapons and military equipment. “I’ve been tending those ice weapons like they were new hatchlings all these years, just exactly according to Ezylryb’s instructions. They are in perfect condition. The ice picks sharp as talons. The ice scimitars got as keen an edge as anything Bubo could forge. What they need are owls who can wield them.”

“But when can we practice? Where?” Martin asked.

Pelli looked at Sylvana. “Sylvana, is that tunnel big enough for owls to hone their ice weapons skills in secret?”

“I suppose so. But how do we train enough owls without being noticed—even in secret?”

Martin, who was particularly gifted with the ice splinter, having trained directly under Colonel Frost Blossom of the Frost Beak division, stepped forward. The little Northern Saw-whet looked at the owls. “When it comes down to it, we’ll be fighting in tight quarters, around, perhaps, or even in the tree. We don’t need a
huge number of fighters. All we need is a few good owls. I’ll teach them.”

The owls crammed into the small, confined chamber of roots looked at one another.
A few good owls!
The words stirred their gizzards and made their hearts beat stronger. They were those owls!

N
ever for the rest of his life would Cory forget stepping outside the burrow he shared with his sister, Kalo, and her family in The Barrens that tween time and catching sight of the singed blue feather quivering in the light breeze. He wilfed and felt his gizzard turn to stone. “We’re marked!” Then he silently cursed his sister, the owl he loved most in the entire world.
Her frinkin’ books! Racdrops! Why has she clung to them so long? Why after the burning did she salvage the scraps of paper and try to piece them back together?
When he had confronted her with this and asked her how, as a mother, she could have done this, she had replied, “Simply because I am a mother. I owe it to my hatchlings to learn all that I can.”

There was no arguing with Kalo. Her husband, Grom, was a quiet, reflective owl, who rarely contradicted his mate. Marked by the blue feather! This was the limit, in Cory’s mind. Now she had done it. They would all have
to go into hiding. A singed blue feather was the death warrant. Once a hollow, nest, or burrow had been marked with it, an owl would stand trial—trial by fire—for keeping an unclean habitat, a home profaned by the “vanities” and “skart” literature that they had refused to yield up. It was an odd test. If the owl could escape the strong fibrous green vines that bound them to the stake, and fly away while reciting the Glaux creed rejecting all vanities, then that owl was declared innocent of all charges. But so far no owl had escaped.

Cory knew of two burnings and suspected more. The creed itself was controversial. No one had ever heard of it before the Blue Brigade had appeared. It was a jumble of words about the hagsfires, lustrous pearls, rich fabrics, and the dark and haggish ink of skart pages printed by the “monster”: the printing press. More and more charred piles of these so-called vanities littered the landscape on the mainland. And with the Blue Brigade patrolling everywhere, owls stayed in their burrows and hollows whenever possible. Cory stumbled back and headed toward Kalo’s burrow. He heard the soft crying before he got there.

“Grom!” he called out to Kalo’s mate, hardly more than a heap of feathers collapsed in a corner of the burrow. The Burrowing Owl looked up. His face had feathered
gray overnight. The white swag of feathers above his eyes had thickened, as had the one beneath his beak. “She’s gone,” he sobbed.

“Then she saw it? The blue feather?”

“I guess so. She left me this note.” He handed Cory a scrap of paper.

My dear mate, my brother Coryn, and my little owlet
,

You must understand, all of you, how deeply I regret endangering my own family. But in truth, every owl in every one of the five kingdoms is endangered, for we’re not talking about losing our “vanities” here. We’re talking about losing the right to think. Books can be burned. But the ideas and the knowledge in them cannot be killed. Owls can die, but books, never. Fear of ideas is the most extreme form of cowardice. I have love in my gizzard and heart; they only have hatred. I have inspiration from the books I have read; they only have terror from the lies they have chosen to believe. I have heroes, like Siv and King Hoole; Grank, the first collier; and Theo the peaceful blacksmith. They have no one but that twisted blue owl. So don’t worry about me. These owls who hunt me are more cowardly and more defenseless than I am, for they have stopped thinking
.

Glauxspeed
,

Kalo

“I’m going to find her,” Cory said.

“I knew you would say that.” Grom looked up as if seeking an answer. “But what has happened to that
friend of hers, that Barn Owl we thought was to be the noblest of kings? The one you were named after?”

It was then that an idea came to Cory. He turned around to leave the burrow.

“You’re leaving?” Grom asked. “Going to find her, right now?”

“No, I am going to see a king, a king who was once noble.”

As Cory angled north by northeast to catch the wind, he noticed that the border between Silverveil and his own scoured landscape, The Barrens, seemed different. The verdant lushness of one of the most beautiful forests in the Southern Kingdoms, like a cloth of green plush with trees and undulating meadows and valleys, usually rose up in sharp contrast to The Barrens. But now he noticed bare patches in the tree line along the border, and when he crossed over, the terrain below appeared scarred and scorched in places. He saw smoldering pyres and his gizzard writhed.
They are everywhere
, he thought.
Wherever will Kalo hide?
Yes, Balefire Night was coming, but these piles of wood and brush were much more numerous than those usually prepared for the celebration.

In a clearing below, he saw a gathering of owls. Something was about to be ignited.
Great Glaux! It’s an
owl—it’s four owls
. He felt his gizzard turn to stone.
I am going yeep
, he thought. The ground was rushing toward him. His vision suddenly narrowed, tunnel-like, its edges a radiant blur as the ground rushed up. He felt the wind press through his feathers. His eyes dried out. A hiss filled his ear slits. It was the noise of his body gathering speed.
I am going to die
, he thought. But then he felt something grab his neck. Talons gripped him. He was floating up again. The ground receded. He could see the moon, the stars, and then the dark embroidery of pine needles.

“There’s a hollow right up here, buddy.”

Cory looked up. A Masked Owl was clutching him.

“Thought you bit it.” The owl smelled like charred wood, coal, fire!

“You going to burn me?” Cory asked.

“Are you yoicks? There’s enough burning around here. It’s these blue-feather thugs. They steal coals from my forge to start their haggish fires.”

Cory almost fainted with relief. The Masked Owl was a Rogue smith. There was a famous one in Silverveil he had heard of from Kalo. In fact, if he recalled correctly, this Rogue smith had been a good friend to the king, when the king was a young’un living with his terrible mother in the canyonlands.

“Well, that was certainly a close one,” the Rogue smith said, tucking Cory into the hollow.

“What are they doing down there? Are they burning owls?”

“Not yet. Just dummies—effigies, I think they call them.”

“Effigies of whom?” Cory asked.

“Well, I’m not sure. Let’s have a peek. You feel steady enough?”

“Yes,” Cory replied and followed the Rogue smith out to the end of a long limb.

Below them on the ground were four figures made from bundles of twigs and dried grasses. One was very large and was covered with a silvery lichen called old bird’s beard. Another was made of reddish twigs with a face that was almost white and two black coals for eyes. The third was a bundle of twigs with two long sticklike legs, and the fourth was a little ball of frizzled tumble-weed. Four owls, each a different species: a Great Gray, a Barn Owl, a Burrowing Owl, and an Elf Owl. Gwyndor, the Rogue smith of Silverveil, for it was he, swiveled his head and looked at Cory. “The Band,” he said quietly. “They are burning the Band in effigy.” And just then a dozen or so owls, each sporting a blue feather, swooped around the effigies. A grim chant rose from them.

Fire does redemption bring
Cleansing flames for which we sing
.
Scour the soul, prepare the mind
,
Make us to all vanities blind
.
Bring your gaudies, profane art
,
Singe it, burn it, all is skart!
Let there be nought but ash
,
Make redemption ours at last
.

As they sang, owls came forward, dropping strands of beads, books, whirligigs, and all sorts of articles onto the pyre. A large Horned Owl flew up to the pyre with a torch and touched it to the kindling. There were cracks and popping sounds as pearls and glass exploded. As the flames licked higher and closer to the effigies of the Band, the figures began to jiggle in a weird palsied dance as if trying to escape. And then the red tongues reached them and they were devoured in one fiery gulp. A cheer went up, but Cory noticed that the cheers came only from the Blue Brigade. The other owls remained silent and wilfed as the fire grew hotter and hotter. The scent of sizzling glue rose from the books and with it the sad odor of the incinerating lovely things.

In the dell of Ambala a new kind of training had begun. This training involved learning to fly dressed in draperies of moss.

“How am I suppose to do my famous flying wedgie with all this stuff hanging off me?” Twilight grumbled.

“Put a mouse in it, Twilight, and pay attention.” Gylfie scowled.

“That’s easy for you to say. You’re so itty-bitty one little patch of moss covers you up.”

“It’s all relative,” Digger said. His legs were cloaked in a very green moss called bunch clover. The owls of Ambala had introduced them to one of their oldest traditions for Balefire Night celebrations: Greenowling. The tradition could be traced back to an ancient poem of Ambalan origin:

In a night sky drenched in flames

Thus begin the Balefire games
.

Then high above the conflagration

Comes the brightest green formation
.

Robed in Ambala’s greenest green

Their brains so fit, their gizzards keen
,

“Greenowls” is their special name
.

Cloaked in moss they play the game

Merry, fast, and fair they play

Until the night fades into day
.

The fires die, begin to smolder
,

The embers grow cold, then colder
.

Another Balefire come and gone

Ambala’s Greenowls praised in song
.

On Balefire Night, with battle claws tucked into their mossy garments and branches ready to ignite, the Band would end their exile and reclaim the great tree. If the king must die…well, they tried not to think of that. But if it did come to that, they must be prepared. Soren had been ready to kill his own brother, Kludd, and was only spared from delivering those fatal blows because Twilight had hurled himself into the fray, impaling Kludd on a firebrand. But would Soren kill the son of Kludd—his own nephew—if need be?

He would do anything to protect Pelli, the three B’s, and the great tree. He was, after all, a mate, a father, and finally, a Guardian of Ga’Hoole.