He was badly hurt, but reached a wing out toward her. “Is it really you? I can’t believe you came. There’s something I need to tell you.”
Before Sig could say more, Thora saw the battle claws beside his nest, well made and almost brand-new.
“You wore the battle claws I forged into a real battle?” Thora asked, surprised. The battle claws she had given to Sig were simple by battle claw standards, but they were perfectly balanced and meticulously made. She knew Sig thought highly of her special gift, but never thought he would wear them, much less into a real battle.
“The claws were effective, Thora. I took out three Ice Talon guards with them before…” Sig’s voice trailed off and his face turned grim with pain.
“But listen now, this is important,” Sig began again. “While I was at the Ice Talons’ headquarters, I overheard two slipgizzles giving their reports in a cave near where the supplies are kept. One of the voices sounded awfully familiar, so I listened for a while. She kept talking about how she had finally managed to get the information from her ‘target’ and how ‘circumstances’ might force her to ‘move faster with the operation’ than she intended.” Sig paused and took a deep breath. “Thora, I’m sorry to tell you this, but it was Rodmilla. Your stepmother is a slipgizzle for the Ice Talons.”
“So it’s true, the rumor was true all along,” Thora murmured. “The worst of it. It’s all true.”
Brunwella and Torsten decided to look for Berrick at the family hollow first, or as Torsten put it: “Reconnoiter home base.” Brunwella approached ahead of him. She was stunned by what she saw. In the one night that she and Thora had been gone, the hollow had been ransacked. There were papers strewn everywhere, every nest was turned upside down. A nut cup of ink had been knocked down and ink tracked over the scattered papers. Even the moss from the nests was thrown across the floor. Just beyond where her father’s nest had been, she saw something that she had never noticed before—a small compartment hidden behind a stone.
“Brunwella!” came the familiar voice from the shadows just behind her in the hollow’s entranceway.
“Da!” With a start, Brunwella turned to find her father in the hollow with Torsten at his side. Berrick swelled to almost twice his usual size upon finding what had happened to his family’s home. He immediately looked over to the small, once-hidden compartment that Brunwella was just looking at and gave an angry hoot. Then he went over to the ink-smeared papers scattered on the floor and lowered his big head to study them. After a moment of silence a bloodcurdling screech came from his beak. Torsten gave him a startled look.
“Da, what’s happened?” Brunwella asked, still in shock.
“Look here, Brunie, and tell me what you see.” He pointed down to the ink-marked papers.
She did as he said. “They are talon prints, Da.”
“And is there anything strange about them?”
Brunwella looked at them again. “Yes. Here. On the left side, the last talon is missing…just like—”
“Just like your stepmother’s. We have to leave this place immediately. As to the prints, suffice it to say, your mother is not who I thought she was. Let’s go find your sister.”
Brunwella had never seen her father act this way. He turned to Torsten: “Go to the hideout south of the Ice Fangs. Warn them that the Ice Talons know of their location. Now.”
Torsten left the hollow and flew as well as his wounded wing could carry him. As Berrick and Brunwella took off, she tried to explain to her father what had happened in the last few nights. Berrick listened, and seemed to be thinking hard about what to tell his daughter. Finally, he spoke.
“Sometime ago I heard a rumor. An Ice Talon slipgizzle had supposedly infiltrated the family of an old Kielian League soldier, and was working to take down the Resistance. Brunie, I told myself it was just a rumor. Forced it out of my mind. But I should have known. Her constant questioning, all the times she disappeared, supposedly to hunt but never brought back any food…I should have known all along,” his anguished voice began to trail off. “I am such an old fool.”
Rodmilla and three Ice Talons guards approached Dark Fowl Island from the east. She wasn’t happy about having to move faster than she had planned, but it would have to do. It was awfully bold of the Resistance to fly right into the heart of Ice Talons territory to attack a storage hollow, and after Rodmilla and her troops finished this short reconnaissance mission and reported back to headquarters, the rebels would suffer dearly for their daring: It was time for payback. She’d finally discovered the location of the Resistance’s hideout—a quick search of the secret compartment behind Berrick’s nest had given her that. To think, she had thought her mate was a dotard—an old fool looking for adventure, gathering herbs, tending to the occasional wounded rebel he chanced to stumble upon. No, her Berrick turned out to be much more than that! Who knew that the key maps and all the information she’d been searching for were right under her beak the entire time! The Great Horned guard, who was flying point, signaled to Rodmilla and the others that it was time to make their descent.
Their mission was to scout out the rebel hideout in advance of an attack by a larger force. The four owls would approach the Resistance pretending to be locals wanting to join the Resistance. No one would recognize Rodmilla as an Ice Talon, after all, and the guards flying at her side were new recruits. The Ice Talons would return with a larger team later, after she gave them a report of the reconnaissance.
The plan was for Rodmilla to enter first and speak to whoever was in charge. She had always been the best sweet-talker in the Northern Kingdoms. But as soon as Rodmilla entered the cave of the rebel hideout, she knew her mission had fallen apart.
“Rodmilla!” Thora shouted. She had almost said “Mother” but that just felt wrong under the circumstances.
Rodmilla was only stunned for a moment. Then her voice turned venomous. “Well, well…Thora, fancy meeting you here, among the rebels!”
“Turnfeather! How dare you?”
“Oh, no, I’m not a turnfeather, dear. I have always been on the same side—the winning side. An Ice Talon through and through. I should have known that you would join this sad little Resistance. You are your mother’s daughter, after all. And I should have known that you would be the one to ruin all my hard work.” Rodmilla eyed Sig, who was trying desperately to get up. “Is that your intended, then? I blame him, too. His little raid made against our storage hollow forced us to set things in motion earlier than I had wanted. It really is too bad for you lovebirds, and for your little sister and your pathetic father, too.”
“Brunwella? And Da? What have you done to them?” Thora asked.
“Nothing…yet. I had it all figured out for both of you. I got Henryk to propose to our pretty little Brunwella, and I was about to accept on her behalf. It would have been quite an alliance. The marriage would have solidified the firths’ allegiance to the Ice Talons, and your father would have had to make certain…concessions when it came to his involvement in the Resistance. And you, well, you were too ugly to marry off, but your voice isn’t half bad, and I thought I could have gotten rid of you by sending you to the Southern Kingdoms to be a singer. I was going to get rid of both of you without hurting either of you, so don’t blame me when it ends otherwise. You’ve gone and ruined it all. Whatever happens now, it’s your fault!”
Rodmilla’s eyes glowed a deadly yellow as she took to the air inside the small cave with battle claws extended. Thora stumbled back in shock, not knowing what to do. Rodmilla was almost on top of her.
“NO!” Sig screamed and threw himself in between Rodmilla and Thora.
There was a blur of gray and white feathers and the sound of metal tearing into flesh. The next thing Thora knew, Sig was lying in a heap on the cave floor, and Rodmilla was still advancing. Thora reached for the battle claws, the ones that she had made in Orf’s forge. She had never flown with battle claws before, and had no idea how to use them, but they would be better than nothing. As
she fumbled, she saw shapes out of the corner of her eye.
“Get away from my daughter!” It was Berrick, her father, and Brunwella was right behind him. “Brunie, stay back, out of the way,” Berrick shouted.
Berrick charged at his mate with bare talons outstretched. “You treacherous…”
“Da!” Brunwella screamed before Berrick could finish the thought.
The Great Horned Owl who arrived with Rodmilla was in the cave and began slashing at Berrick. Bareclawed, Berrick was no match for him. In a second, his wing was broken.
It was Rodmilla who delivered the death blow. “Good-bye, my gullible one,” she whispered to her dying mate.
“Da, no!” Brunwella cried out.
As she heard her sister’s cry, Thora lifted into the air, now with battle claws strapped firmly to her feet. She had never even fought before, much less fought to kill. But her gizzard took over. She didn’t even have to think. She advanced toward her stepmother without hesitation. Rodmilla was the one on the defensive now, parrying Thora’s blows. She was pinned against the cave wall as Thora’s battle claws lashed out.
Rodmilla screeched in desperation, “Thora! Did I not try to spare you?”
As if in a trance, Thora said nothing. Her starboard claw drove deep into Rodmilla’s throat, killing her.
By now, many Resistance fighters had come to the cave, and it was an all-out battle. The Great Horned turned his attention to fight alongside his two fellow Ice Talons guards, but the three of them were easily outnumbered and defeated.
In the end, all four Ice Talons, including Rodmilla, were killed. But they had taken with them the lives of the two owls most dear to Thora and Brunwella—Berrick and Sigfried were gone. The sisters collapsed into a heap and cried, holding each other in their wings. They remained in this sad embrace until the sun began to set.
The next night, Thora, Brunwella, and the owls of the Resistance burned Berrick’s and Sig’s bodies using coals from Orf’s forge. As the fire burned, Brunwella began to sing.
Fly away with me.
Give my loneliness a break.
Fly away with me, so my heart will stop its ache.
Rise into the night,
Fly away with me.
Fly with me till dawn,
Hollows we shall leave behind.
Fly with me till dawn, to places they’ll never find.
By the pale moonlight,
Fly with me till dawn.
Soar over this land,
In the night sky we’ll find glee.
Soar over this land, see the steam rise from the sea.
Soft winds do invite,
Soar over this land.
Fly away with me,
My love, don’t hesitate.
Fly away with me, for I can hardly wait.
Our hearts shall take flight,
Fly away with me.
It was the same song she had sung on the night of voice tryouts, which now seemed so long ago.
Thora listened to the old gadfeather words—“fly away”—and realized it was exactly what she and her sister needed to do. After the ceremony, she told Brunwella.
“Brunie, I think it’s time we fly away from here.”
“But where will we go?” Brunwella asked.
“South,” Thora said definitively. “I don’t think there is anything left for us here in the Northern Kingdoms. Sig told me that his family lives in a place called Silverveil. I want to go find them and tell them what happened here, that their son died a hero. Who knows, maybe they can use a Rogue smith. And you, I think you’re sure to be chosen as the next singer at the great tree.”
Brunwella was still hesitant. “It’s such a long way away…” But she thought about the lyrics she had just sung and grew brave. “You know what, you’re right, Thora. Let’s fly away.”
The next night, a letter would arrive at the hollow once shared by Berrick, his mate Rodmilla, and his two daughters. It would confer the title of Singer at the Great Ga’Hoole Tree on Brunwella Plonk. But no one was there to receive it.
The two sisters flew south together in the moonlight, leaving behind their aching hearts in the frozen north. They flew on for many days, and then they went their separate ways—one to a life of seclusion and anonymity at a forge in the Forest of Silverveil, and the other to a life of fame and esteem at the great tree.
TWO
Fritha’s Painted Past
As a ryb, I have had my share of bright students. A few of them rise above the rest. These are the young owls who make me feel truly blessed to be a ryb at the Great Ga’Hoole Tree. You may know one such student as the assistant editor of The Evening Hoot. Yes, I speak of none other than the Pygmy Owl Fritha. Fritha is clever, hardworking, diligent…well, I could go on and on. She came to the great tree in the time of the Great Flourishing. Impressive from the beginning, she was double chawed in colliering and weather, just as I was as a young owl. Fritha has proven herself time and time again, not just to me, but to all her rybs at the great tree. She has even received the highest merit badge a colliering chaw owl could earn.
When Fritha took her oath as a Guardian, I thought it would be the start of a life of discovery and adventure for a promising young owl. Little did I know that Fritha had already led a life of adventure, intrigue, and secrecy. I learned the truth from Fritha herself just recently, and I shall share it with you, my readers. She feared the truth would make me mistrust her. On the contrary, it made me respect her even more.
Fritha landed on an ice ledge in the tundra. To her relief, she had finally managed to cross the H’rathghar glacier. She was grateful to have gotten through the contrary winds known as the katabats as she had learned to do in the weather chaw. The flight was long and arduous. Being a Pygmy Owl, and an especially tiny one at that, she had to stop and rest many times. Even resting was no easy task in these parts—whenever she rested, she felt the deep northern chill down to her hollow bones, even though she fluffed out her down feathers to maximum fluffitude as her da had taught her to do. At least flying kept her warm, even if it tired her terribly quickly.
It was the dead of winter in the Northern Kingdoms, and a terrible time to be traveling there. But it was the only time she was able to get away. The owls of the Great Ga’Hoole Tree had just celebrated Long Night, and a short period of relative quiet would ensue. She hated having to leave the tree, but she would have hated to miss this trip even more. Fritha had told everyone that she was visiting her aunt on Elsemere Island at the Glauxian Sisters retreat. It wasn’t entirely a lie, she did stop there to visit with Aunt Bea for a night. But she didn’t tell anyone the whole truth, either.
She took to the air again. Any owl watching her would have figured out that she was searching for something. It was daytime, and she circled low over the land. Fritha knew there were no crows in this region, and flew without fear of being mobbed. Her time was short, and she hoped that her search wouldn’t take much longer.
Fritha turned her head slowly and surveyed the frozen landscape from the air. There! She finally spotted what she had been looking for. In the distance there was a pop of color—swirls of emerald and chartreuse—against the dull, colorless ground of the tundra. The colors could not be mistaken for the muted green of the shrubs and conifers found nearby; they were far too vivid. What Fritha was looking for, and found, was a dye basin—one that belonged to the kraals of the Northern Kingdoms.
It would not be wise to continue on as a plain-feathered owl, Fritha knew. The kraals, or pirates, of the Northern Kingdoms customarily dyed their feathers in garish hues. Purples, reds, yellows, greens, blues—the brighter the better. To be a natural shade of tawny brown, black, white, or gray would, ironically, make an owl conspicuous here. And you did not want to be conspicuous among the kraals. Kraals were the thugs of the Northern Kingdoms, and their bad reputation was well deserved. They fought for no side. They fought to steal, often to capture for ransom, and sometimes—Fritha hated even to think of it—to kill. They were m
ore dangerous than hireclaws, who worked alone and fought for any side willing to pay them, because these pirates stuck together as a band, and thus had become much more advanced in their attack strategies.
Fritha landed next to the dye basin. She pulled a feather from her starboard wing. What a shame, she thought, that one would have made a fine quill. She dipped it carefully in the green dye and began painting the top of her head. Always take extra care when painting your head and face; don’t just go dipping your head into the dye unless you want to look like an ugly parrot. She remembered those instructions well. When her head was painted in streaks of emerald and chartreuse, she worked on the rest of her body. She dipped both her wings in the dye and painted her chest. Then she painted the wings themselves. She hopped to a slab of issen vingtygg, or deep ice, that had been polished to a mirror finish near the dye basin. It was no surprise that such a mirror would be found here. The kraals were infamous for their vanity, and kraals who just finished dying their feathers would want to take a good long look at the result. Fritha noted that the two shades of green were eye-poppingly bright—lurid, garish, and downright ostentatious. In other words, perfect. She knew that these particular shades were created using something called tundra nuggets mixed with the sap of pine trees and the oil from pine nuts. Other colors like reds and purples were made with various berries and flowers. If only the kraals put their dye-making knowledge to better use. She used similar dye- and paint-making techniques at the great tree, but she never used those dyes on her feathers; they were only used for illustrations in books. She took another long look at herself. Yes, she looked sufficiently kraal-like, she decided.
Fritha headed east, deeper into kraal territory. As she neared her destination, she spotted another dye basin off her port wing. This one was pink and violet. She made a quick circle over it. As much as she admonished the kraals’ vanity, she did always like that shade of pink. There was no time to stop today to add another color to her already painted feathers. Fritha flew on. She knew she was but a few wing beats from her destination.