(GoG Book 07) The Hatchling (5 page)

“That they are,” Gwyndor replied. The Snowy looked up with interest.

“You say that as if you know for sure.”

“I do. That’s why I’m here.”

“Don’t ask me to make anything for them numbskull owls. The war’s over. I’m finished with war, as a matter of fact. I’m into”—she paused for dramatic effect—“more artistic things.” She held the tongs up in the air. There was an oddly twisted thing pinched between the two parts of the tongs.

“What’s that?”

“It’s free-form, abstract. You know, I come from a very artistic family.” Gwyndor had heard something of this. It was said that this Snowy’s sister was the famous singer of the Great Ga’Hoole Tree.

“What does it do?”

“It pleases me,” the Snowy said simply.

“It pleases you?”

“That’s reason enough to make something. Not everything has to be useful.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Gwyndor replied, but he had not come here to be lectured by an artistic blacksmith. “Look, the reason I came—well, it’s hard to explain.”

“Start by explaining why you were mucking around with those frinkin’ owls.”

Gwyndor was relieved. This sounded like the old Rogue smith he knew. She was known for her salty language. So
Gwyndor explained as best he could and when he finished the Snowy stared at him for several seconds before speaking.

“Let me get this straight—you went there because you felt that Mist somehow sent you, without ever saying to do it?” Gwyndor nodded. The Snowy continued. “She has a way of doing that, I know. And you say you think this hatchling might have fire sight, could be a flame reader?” Again Gwyndor nodded. “Well, my friend, other than Orf, there hasn’t been a flame reader in more than one hundred years. They are extremely rare. But go on. You haven’t gotten to your very important question.”

“Yes,” Gwyndor sighed. “You see, this little fellow…They call him Nyroc.”

“Figures,” the Snowy said disdainfully. “Mum’s name is Nyra, right?”

“Yes. And let’s hope this one doesn’t grow up to be like his mum—or his da. But as I was saying, Nyroc has gone through all the usual ceremonies a young owlet has to do by now. Just had his First Prey ceremony. He got himself a nice plump little chipmunk.”

“Never cared for them myself,” the Snowy said. “They give me gas.”

“Well, the next ceremony is one I have never heard of.”

“What do you mean, never heard of? The next
ceremony after First Prey should be First Moss. That’s always a fun one—going out looking for all the softest mosses for the hollow.”

“Well, there’s no moss now in the canyonlands. So maybe they have to substitute something. I don’t know.”

“What do they call it?” she asked.

“The Special ceremony,” Gwyndor answered.

The Snowy suddenly wilfed and seemed to shrink to half her size. She dropped her tongs. “No!” she gasped.

When the Snowy had recovered herself, she turned to Gwyndor. “Come into my hollow. I have some honey mead. Good for a chilly night. And I’ll try to explain.”

Gwyndor followed the Snowy through a passageway in the stone wall to what had been a courtyard of some sort, and then down steps into a cellar. “This is very nice,” Gwyndor said, looking around.

“I think it was a wine cellar. I make my nest in that barrel over there. Quite sweet-smelling. Care for some vole with the honey mead?” the Rogue smith offered.

“Sure.”

As they ate, the Snowy looked at Gwyndor darkly and began to explain. “I’ve heard bad things. Very bad things, indeed! I have heard that to become a true member of the Pure Ones, an officer, one must kill something. And not in battle.” The Snowy’s voice dwindled off.

A quiver ran through Gwyndor’s gizzard. “You mean to kill without hunger? To kill for no reason?”

“I am not talking about hunting for food. I’m talking about murder.”

“Murder!” Gwyndor whispered. “You mean they kill one of our own kind?”

“Yes. They say that Soren was to be Kludd’s Special years ago. Before he was a Pure One, he shoved Soren out of the nest, thinking that the fall would kill him. Or at least that a ground predator would get him. Kludd hadn’t counted on a St. Aggie’s patrol picking Soren up.”

“You can’t mean he was actually going to murder his own brother?”

“That’s exactly what I mean and they don’t call it ‘murder,’ of course. No, this ceremony is called Tupsi.”

“Tupsi—what in Glaux’s name does that mean?”

“Something like Tytonic Union Pure Special Initiation—Tupsi for short. Murder with a cute name.”

“This is monstrous! I must tell the young’un immediately.” Gwyndor stopped drinking the honey mead from the metal flagon the Snowy had set before him.

“I am not sure if that is such a good idea,” the Snowy Owl replied cryptically.

“What in Glaux’s name do you mean—not a good idea? What am I supposed to do? Stand by and let this
thuggish bunch of owls turn a fine young’un into a worse brute than his father?”

“These lessons are perhaps best learned on one’s own.”

Gwyndor blinked. “I don’t see why.”

Then even more cryptically, the Snowy Rogue smith said, “Truth must be revealed and not simply told.”

This Snowy is just plain yoicks!
Gwyndor thought. And he had no intention of withholding from Nyroc the horrific truth about Tupsi.

M
urder with a cute name! Murder with any name is still murder. Tupsi!

That was all Gwyndor could think of as he flew back to the canyonlands the following evening in the first snowfall of the season.

Normally, Gwyndor would have loved being out on a night like this. The moon was barely newing. Only a sliver of light hung up there in the dark sky, behind the moving snow clouds. Big fluffy snowflakes drifted slowly against the dark blue-gray of night. He loved it when snowflakes fell slowly, spinning, turning to a music all their own. But there was no music in this night for Gwyndor. There was just the one thought: He had to get back and somehow save young Nyroc from this terrible thing called Tupsi. There was a prisoner called Smutty who the Pure Ones were holding. He was accused of cowardice during the battle they called The Burning. He had heard some talk that the charges were questionable. He hadn’t thought
much of it because he knew that Sooties, particularly Lesser Sooties, were held in low esteem and the first to be accused of anything in the Union. Was it this Sooty named Smutty who would be the victim in this brutal ceremony? And were they really planning on turning Nyroc, a perfect young hatchling who performed every task put to him so flawlessly, into Smutty’s murderer? And would he become the perfect murderer? The flawless executioner? And coupled with what Gwyndor suspected to be Nyroc’s extraordinary capacity for flame reading would this not become a deadly combination? Gwyndor felt a tremendous shudder pass through his gizzard.
Great Glaux, he would be a hundred times worse than his father, Kludd!

And what exactly was he, Gwyndor, supposed to do about it? He was tempted to turn back, head to Ambala, and find Mist to ask for some instructions. But Mist was strange. She didn’t give instructions.

The easterly wind had suddenly backed around to south and then southwest.

“Oh, Glaux! What’s that wind doing?” Gwyndor felt himself losing speed. If this was a real headwind, he would be ramming into it for the next few hours and would never get to the canyonlands before dawn. And he had to! He had no choice but to go on. If Nyroc did have fire sight, if he was a flame reader, and if he in fact had perceived
glimpses of the great Ember of Hoole with the blue flame in its ruby-red heart, then he must not under any circumstances be allowed to go through with the murderous initiation ceremony of the Pure Ones. That a natural flame reader would be trained to murder was unthinkable. Such a power turned to evil would endanger the future of the owl universe. The ceremony must be stopped. But would Gwyndor himself be forced to murder to stop it? The very thought was enough to make one go yeep.

Gwyndor took a deep breath and somehow found new strength. He carved a turn and headed southwest toward the Great Horns of the canyonlands, battling the ever-increasing headwind. His flight had slowed, and the black was leaking out of the night. Soon it would be dawn. No time for a lone owl to be abroad. But even as he grew more and more weary in his mind, in his gizzard he felt that he must risk daylight flying. There was no choice. So on he flew.

The morning star was just above the horizon when he heard the first wing beats behind him.
Crows!
He felt his gizzard grow still.
I am going yeep!
he thought, and the Masked Owl began to plummet. But then something happened. His gizzard seemed to explode with sudden fury. He pulled out of his plunging spiral and flew downwind. He twisted his head to see how far behind they were.
Not far enough! The odds weren’t good—three crows to one owl. But he was a better flier than any crow. He forgot his tired wings. He felt a new energy flow through him.

He was flying heavy with his kit. Why not let it drop? But then he would lose the coals, the really choice ones the Rogue smith of Silverveil had given him. He had another idea. There was not much time and the maneuver would take some doing, but if soldier owls could fight with battle claws and flaming branches, why couldn’t he fight with the tools of his trade?

He spotted a ledge ahead. He quickly landed on the ledge, set down his precious bucket of coals, and took out his hammer and tongs. The three crows were almost on him when he flew into them straight from the ledge, swinging his hammer and wielding the tongs, which held a hot coal. He poked one of the crows in the primaries of its left wing. The bird cawed and the smell of fried feathers whirled through the air. But the other two were still coming after him. He felt something hit him in his tail feathers. He began to wobble. With his tail damaged he could hardly keep his flight steady. This was bad. Drops of blood splattered the dawn. Was it his blood? No time to worry.

He wheeled around still swinging his hammer in one talon and gripping the tongs with the hot burning coal in the other. The crow with the singed wing was back.
Impossible!
There was a sudden downdraft that sucked all four birds into a trough of still air. Just beneath him was the black back of a crow. It glistened like a polished anvil. With all his might he struck that feathered anvil with his hammer. The crow broke in half like a dried twig. The other two let out terrible caws that ripped the stillness of the dawn.

Then as fast as they had come, they were gone. Gwyndor was exhausted. He felt himself losing altitude.
I have to go on. I have to go on. I must get to Nyroc before it’s too late.

And the dawn bled into day, and the day became the night, and the night was thick with shadows and dreams. The crows became hagsfiends like dark vapors flying through the night. Gwyndor moaned in pain and fear.

D
o you know what scrooms are, my little hatchling?” Nyra asked her son.

“Sort of. But, Mum, I am an expert flier now and I have killed my first prey. Do you have to keep calling me a hatchling? I’ve been through my First Flight ceremony.”

“Well, yes, that’s true. But we still have Tupsi, the Special ceremony. And after that, I shall truly no longer be able to get away with calling you ‘hatchling.’” She churred softly. “Nor even owlet. For you shall be a soldier after the Special ceremony that we call Tupsi.”

“Tupsi, I like the sound of that,” Nyroc said.

“It stands for Tytonic Union of Pure Ones Special Initiation.”

“But what is the special initiation? I wish I knew more about it. What am I supposed to do?”

“Tonight I shall tell you more about it. And more about your history, and about scrooms, too.”

And so she began.

“A scroom, my dear, is a spirit that cannot rest until its work on Earth is finished.” Nyra blinked. Her dark eyes as polished as river stones seemed to look into another place, another time, another night. There was something spooky about his mum, Nyroc suddenly realized. For the first time he was afraid of her in a new way—not because he had done something less than perfectly or asked a question that he should not have asked. This was different. She seemed to have gone into some sort of a trance. She began to speak in a scratchy singsong voice.

There were three scrooms who came to me

And said Nyroc shall be king

And with this Special ceremony

His glory shall long and loudly ring.

Nyroc’s eyes brightened. “You mean, Mum, that I am really to be king, supreme commander like my great father?”

“You will. Once you have completed the Special ceremony.”

“But what is it?”

“The Special ceremony is a sacrifice of sorts. But it is also more. It is a courageous act—a blood act.”

“A blood act? Sacrifice?”

“Sacrifice is giving up something that is difficult to give up. Something you care for.”

“I get it! It’s like killing something you might want to eat but then not eating it, right?”

Nyra’s eyes glittered. “Not exactly, but close. I shall explain more as we draw nearer to the time of the ceremony.”

Centipedes?
Nyroc wondered. He
loved
centipedes. They were one of his favorite foods. But he had a feeling that it was not centipedes. Centipedes, after all, didn’t have blood. Perhaps a fox, or something larger.
Could it be the prisoner he was to kill?
He did not want to, would not, think about that.

Maybe it had to do with his da’s battle claws. Yes, that must be it. He would be required to kill something with his da’s battle claws! His mum had saved them for him. They were pretty special, and so was his da’s mask, which hung in their hollow in the cliff. Actually, Nyroc thought, the mask gave him the creeps. Every time he looked at it he wilfed a bit. But he was drawn to the battle claws. They were his inspiration. Everything he had learned how to do was because of the claws. They burnished his ambition and stirred his gizzard every time he was put to a new challenge.
You shall grow into those claws, Nyroc, his mother had told him
…
You were born to wear them into battle. Regard them closely, my hatchling.