She peered out of her cell. The two guards were gabbing about their new tail-feather treatments and posing for each other in front of one of the ice mirrors. They were big, four times bigger than Gylfie, and they carried ice daggers, and Gylfie knew they could use them. But surely there had to be a way out of here. Let their vanity lead me, Gylfie thought. But how much time did she have and why, why were they keeping her? Why did they need a little Elf Owl who would be perfectly useless in these katabatic winds? She was a high-maintenance owl from their point of view. Had to be fed and guarded. What was the reason for all of this?
Gylfie didn’t realize that she was about to find out in a matter of seconds. She heard a familiar sound as something came slithering down the passageway just outside her cell. Then what little light that slanted into the cave was blocked as the large head of a Kielian snake poked its snout in. Two immense fangs flashed in the dimness.
“Gragg!” Gylfie gulped.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Twilla Suspects
It was just after the evening meditation flight, and Twilla made her way back to the hollow, which was empty as she expected. Where had that miserable old owl and that beastly snake gone? She felt a twinge of guilt calling Ifghar “miserable.” This was certainly not the way of the Glauxian Brothers’ retreat. She had looked after Ifghar for years and although he did provoke pity in her she could never say she had felt any warm feelings toward him. It was the Glauxian way to always forgive, and she had forgiven him for his treachery against his brother, the noble Lyze of Kiel and the Kielian League. Lyze himself had said to her before he had left the retreat that he was sure that someday his brother, Ifghar, would come seeking mercy and help, and he hoped that she would help him as she had helped Octavia and himself when they had arrived. But Lyze had not really needed much help. He had only needed solitude and time to mend from the devastating loss of his beloved Lil.
Ifghar needed everything and yet he gave nothing. He had been cast out by the Ice Talons League. So the betrayer had felt himself betrayed, and it had driven him to dementia. His snake, Gragg, was barely tolerable but easy to ignore much of the time as he was always either tipsy or had passed out. Gragg had been the only one to stick with Ifghar. Twilla supposed she had to give him some credit for that. But in the last few weeks, things had begun to change, ever so slightly at first. Gragg was sober, for one thing. With Ifghar it had been harder to explain. She had first noticed a new luster in his perpetually dulled eyes. He had begun to fly better, and then there had been that night when Gragg had said that he and Ifghar were going out together.
“Together!”
“Yes, together,” Gragg had said.
“Do you think he’s up to it, Gragg? I mean, he hasn’t flown with a snake onboard for years.”
“He’s up to it. We’ve already done a few short practice flights.”
“You have?” She was stunned. When had they managed that, she wondered. “Well, a short practice flight is one thing, but this sounds like a longer flight, and I think I should accompany you.”
“Twilla,” the snake said firmly but in an almost kindly voice for Gragg. “That will be entirely unnecessary. I hope you have noticed that I have not had a drop of bingle juice in some time.”
“Well, yes, Gragg, I have noticed.”
“I have taken the pledge.”
“My goodness, I am impressed.”
“Yes, so is Brother Thor. I know I can handle this flight. I…I…don’t know how to say this…” Gragg hesitated and shook his head. “I hope you understand, but it is very important to my self-esteem and to Ifghar’s that we do this flight on our own.” He paused and then looked up at Twilla. “We have been through a lot, Ifghar and I. We have done things of which we are not particularly proud. But now I think we are both recovering in our body and our spirits.”
Twilla was taken aback. She had never heard this Kielian snake talk in such a manner. He was certainly sober and he was modest and almost likable as well.
“Well, yes. I do understand, Gragg. I think this is most admirable.”
“I knew you of all owls would understand, Twilla. You have been with us for so long.”
Twilla thought back now on that conversation. It had occurred just a few weeks ago, but in that time Gragg and Ifghar had made several flights and often did not show up for meditation. She was getting suspicious. And so she decided one evening to follow them. It wasn’t easy, not with her damaged wing. What’s more, she was surprised to see them flying not south but due east toward the Hrath’ghar Glacier. Why in the world would they be flying toward the Hrath’ghar Glacier? There was nothing in that Glauxforsaken place—except hireclaws and kraals!
Her wing pained her greatly but Twilla had been a great flier in her day, a great reader of winds, and she knew exactly how to work every gust, every eddy of wind to her best advantage. But now on this treeless tundra she would have to be careful. A plain-feathered owl like herself, oddly enough, was bound to stand out among the garishly painted kraals that dominated this land beyond the glacier. She was a good low flier and she could use the scant dwarf shrubs for some coverage. It was daytime, but there were no crows in this region, so any owl might be out flying now. With winter coming on there would be countless hunting parties laying in the tundra rats and the lemmings for the endless months when their world would be ice-locked. She saw one of their dye basins directly beneath her. She blinked at the swirls of pink and vermilion in the natural depression in the tundra. To think that out of this dull, colorless land they could find such colors. But she knew that many of the berries and something called tundra nuggets could be squashed and mixed with various substances to obtain the bright colors that the kraals so loved. But in fact, the kraals’ colors and design work were very primitive. The Glauxian Brothers were much more advanced as painters and dyers. They, of course, did not use the dyes to stain themselves. To paint oneself was thought to be a kind of violation or sacrilege of owlness. They used the dyes to illuminate manuscripts and books.
Shortly after that she spotted a jumbled pile of boulders that looked exactly like the kind that pirate owls of the tundra would use for their ground nests. She flew lower between the dwarf shrubs looking for a very bushy one to hide behind. Then she would wait. Wait and watch for some sign of Ifghar and Gragg.
Glaux! Twilla gasped. She dived for the nearest shrub. Owls were emerging from the slot between boulders. She wilfed in a sudden fear reaction that caused her plumage to droop and flatten. The normally burly Short-eared Owl was suddenly slender so the shrub, though not bushy, at least provided a decent screen for her. And if it was possible for her to get any smaller, she did as she saw two pirates leading a very small owl out into the open with a tether bound to one leg. That small bird was the dear little Elf Owl, Gylfie, who had been at the retreat. And even more shocking, Ifghar and Gragg were following. What in Glaux’s name are they doing to this little Elf Owl?
Twilla did not have to wait long to find out. She rotated her head so that her ear slits were turned precisely toward the owls. Short-eared Owls did not have the auditory skills of a Barn Owl, but they could still hear pretty well and, thankfully, she was downwind, so the sound traveled directly to her.
“You see, owl, this is your choice.” A Snowy, who was all painted up like Glaux knows what, spoke, and Twilla observed. Probably a leader of this gang, as Snowies were known to head up pirates. “You give them the information they want,” the Snowy said, “or we set you out here for the wolves. All tied up in a neat little bundle. Wolves often have a hankering for owl.”
Set out the Elf Owl for wolves! Twilla blinked. The sheer brutality of it made her beak drop open in amazement.
“Not only that,” another pirate continued. “If we serve you up, they’ll be most grateful to us. And to thank us they will show us where the golden sedge berries grow.”
Golden sedge berries—gilt. So now they want to paint themselves up in gold, and they’re ready to sacrifice an owl to decora
te their own feathers! This was becoming more shocking by the second. But Twilla had heard that pirate owls entertained a lot of very foolish lore and superstitious beliefs about the gilt that could be made from the golden sedge berries. The brothers at the retreat had no such illusions. They used the golden sedge berries for their illuminated manuscripts, but it was difficult to work with. These pirates would certainly make a mess of it. In fact, there had never been a pirate owl who had succeeded in finding the sedge berries and squashing them.
Then Twilla heard the thick, oozy voice of Gragg. “It’s nearly morning. The wolves don’t come out until nightfall. You’ll have all day to think about it.”
What in hagsmire is Gragg getting out of this? What is the information that horrid snake wants from this Elf Owl? Twilla was absolutely bewildered. She had to think of some way to save the dear little owl who had never raised a talon against any of them. But then a creaking voice cut through her thoughts. It was Ifghar! Ifghar was speaking! He had hardly said more than a single word or two at a time in all of Twilla’s memory. And when he had spoken it was mostly incoherent, and now most shockingly he was speaking in fairly decent Hoolian, not Krakish.
“You see, little one,” Ifghar began.
Oh, Great Glaux, thought Gylfie. He’s actually speaking to me in Hoolian. So much for me not pretending to understand the language.
“I long for a reconciliation with my dear brother, Lyze, or Ezylryb, as I understand he is now called. It is time to let bygones be bygones. I hear of terrible things happening in the Southern Kingdoms. I hear that these owls who call themselves the Pure Ones threaten the great tree. And we all know that the great tree with its noble owls, the Guardians of Ga’Hoole, have attained the highest level of civilization in the entire bird kingdom. I, with my contacts in the League of the Ice Talons with whom I still enjoy enormous friendships and good will…”
Oh, bless my gizzard! What a bunch of racdrops, Twilla thought. That horrible bird was turned out by the League of the Ice Talons. But does the Elf Owl know this?
Ifghar continued. “Think how stupendous it would be if I could bring an entire division from the Ice Talons League to fight for my dear brother. But, of course, it would be most helpful to me to know what they might need. What do the Guardian forces consist of? When do they plan to strike against these Pure Ones? I cannot convince the Ice Talons to join us if they do not know what they would be joining. You do understand, don’t you?”
Gylfie was trying to think fast. The Ice Talons had been the enemy of the Kielian League. Would Ezylryb really welcome them? He would not settle for hireclaws, after all. Why would he take up with those owls who had once been his enemy? And his brother had been a turnfeather once. Why would it not happen again? All these questions ran through Gylfie’s mind, and at the same time her gizzard was in such a tizzy she couldn’t even think straight. They claimed they wanted to know the lay of the land—the lay of the canyonlands more precisely which was now held by the Pure Ones. And then there was a lot of information they wanted to know about winds. These owls of the Northern Kingdoms had never traveled south before. They were used to katabatic winds but not accustomed to the wild Hoolspyrrs, the very deceptive and tumultuous winds of the Hoolemere sea. But then it dawned on Gylfie why under no circumstances should she give them one jot of information: Whatever they found out from her they would take directly to the Pure Ones. And that information would allow the Pure Ones to attack first, before Ga’Hoole could get any kind of invasion under way. Gylfie wondered if she would have the courage and the strength to resist them. She had heard of torture. Would she have the courage to keep her beak shut as her entrails were being torn out by wolves?
Gylfie was not the only owl trying to think fast. Twilla was desperately attempting to come up with a plan to rescue the little Elf Owl. There were seven owls who had come out from the rocky den. Two seemed to be guards for Gylfie. Then there was Ifghar—and Gragg—and five other owls, and Glaux only knew if there were more in the den. She doubted it, however, as this was a prime time for tundra owls to hunt. She blinked again. It looked as if they were preparing for flight. Several of them were spreading their wings and lofting up to a takeoff perch on top of one of the higher boulders to catch a good launching wind. But, yes, the two she had suspected of being the guards were marching the little prisoner back into the lair. Twilla crouched behind the shrub. Now was a dangerous time. Once these owls were airborne they could spot her. Odd to think that an unpainted owl in this terrain would stand out more than a painted one. That’s it! I have to paint myself. Not only do I have to paint myself, I have to gild myself in the bright gold dyes of the golden sedge berries. And I know exactly where to find them. Twilla had once worked in the library under the direction of the master gilder.
As soon as the pirate owls departed, and the coast was clear, Twilla flew off in the opposite direction. This would not take her long. She knew exactly where the golden sedge berries grew. It was a bit tricky, for there were dozens upon dozen of kinds of sedges that grew on the tundra, but only those that grew in what the brothers called a golden triangle yielded the golden berries. For some reason, wolves had a natural instinct for where these berries grew. But most owls did not. Finding the berries did require a knowledge of geology and botany, not to mention the proper method for extracting the juice, which had to be pressed between pads of the reindeer moss ever so carefully. But Twilla would do it! She knew that Gylfie was an owl of strong gizzard and mind and she would sooner die than betray the owls of the Great Ga’Hoole Tree. Twilla would not see this brave Elf Owl set out for the wolves.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
An Unholy Alliance
Soren and the six other young owls faced the members of the great tree’s parliament to give their reports. The bad news about Gylfie had been delivered at once. The mood was quite somber in the parliament hollow, but had been lightened slightly because Otulissa had just dazzled them with her research on cold fire from the library of the Glauxian Brothers’ retreat. But soon it would be Soren’s turn. And he certainly had nothing good to report. No assurances that the Frost Beaks, the Glauxspeed divisions, or the Kielian snakes would be joining the invasion. The ice weapons they had brought that now lay on the hollow floor seemed to mock their entire mission. These few weapons, even if they could train owls to use them, would be enough for two dozen Guardians at most. Soren began to speak, however. He hoped his voice wasn’t too shaky. His report was brief, and he was relieved when he got to the end.
“And so you see,” he concluded, “we were unable to attain any assurances of support from the Northern Kingdoms. I had hopes that the parliament might convene early. But they would not. It was for this reason that I delayed our return as long as I could.” He then added in a small voice, “It was the delay that caused the loss of Gylfie. She would not have been kidnapped if we had not delayed. I take full responsibility for that.” Soren’s voice broke as he said these last words.
Ezylryb had simply stared at him, and Boron and Barran had asked him very few questions. What was there to ask? Soren had never felt more miserable in his life. If someone had told him that a few minutes after leaving the parliament he would feel even worse, he would have said they were yoicks.
But he did feel worse. His talons gripped the perch in the hollow he shared with Twilight and Digger. He was staring at Gylfie’s empty nest below; so tiny, no bigger than one of those teacups that Trader Mags was always trying to sell them, and so perfectly kept in that particular way that Gylfie had. Yes, she insisted that the moss must be layered just so. Soren’s own nest was a haphazard affair at best; a complete mess with moss and twigs and leaves piled up any which way.
And, as if Gylfie’s kidnapping were not enough, as if it were not enough that Soren had lost his best friend in the whole wide world, as if it were not bad enough that he had failed to bring back assurances that the Northern Kingdoms would support them in this coming invasion, there was something even worse than all of that. Soren
trembled every time he thought of the scene when they had first returned and gone into the dining hollow for tweener. There they were—the ones responsible for snatching Gylfie and Soren when they were owlets—Skench and Spoorn, at the same table as the members of the parliament. To see those two horrendous old owls, Skench, Ablah General of St. Aggie’s, and Spoorn, her first lieutenant, sharing a nest-maid snake table with Boron, Barran, Ezylryb, Bubo, and Elvanryb was enough to make an owl yarp in his milkberry soup. Even the snake at which they gathered seemed to be quivering. She was an older nest-maid snake named Simone who was known for her discretion; thus, she could be trusted to never let slip anything she overheard when the parliament dined together at her table. They did not often dine together except when distinguished visitors came. Distinguished visitors! Those thugs of the canyonlands! It was unthinkable. Soren had quickly left the dining hollow and returned to his perch where he contemplated how his entire world was falling apart.
He heard a stirring outside the hollow. Then the voice of Mrs. Plithiver called out, “Soren, dear, may I come in?”