‘“But it’s just words,” Twilight said defiantly, “Words, as you well know, can be powerful,” Digger replied, “What are you petting at. Coryn?”
“You are right. If Kreeth’s words have managed to survive all these years, even if this book had remained unknown, hidden away, lost, might not some monstrous remnant of her experiments survived in some form or another? And now that the ember has been retrieved we all know that with it comes the possibility for good magic and bad, or nachtmagen. Yes, those hagsfiends that we have all encountered like wisps from a bad dream are impotent. However, they are but one form. Now that the ember is back, there is the possibility that nachtmagen will strengthen these impotent, powerless hagsfiends.”
Especially, Soren thought, if they had the book of the arch hagsfiend, Krceth.“So you are saying that Nyra could be transformed - if indeed she lives.” Soren looked hard at his nephew.
“Wasn’t she bad enough already?” Twilight asked.
“Maybe,” Coryn said, “haggishness is like a disease, which lies dormant for years upon years and when the conditions are. right begins to flourish again.”
Flourish, thought Soren. He was beginning to despise the word. The great tree now so often called the Golden Tree was said to flourish magnificently. But when Soren thought of those shimmering limbs with their sparkling leaves, he imagined them reaching up to and piercing the ether veil of the owl universe.
Oh, how Soren longed for the days when the Golden Tree was just the great tree. Was that wrong? Was it treasonous to think this way? The world had seemed so dangerous back then. But it was a danger one could see. Pure Ones were Pure Ones. Flecks were flecks. St. Aggie’s thugs were … well… St. Aggie’s thugs. You knew who the enemy was. You had an idea of where it might lurk. But this was entirely different. Nyra was not really the enemy. She was merely an agent, the instrument through which an ancient kind of evil, nachtmagen, could be made possible. Nachtmagen itself was the enemy, and how could you fight that?
CHAPTER ELEVENThe Ether Veil
Soren flew in a luminous golden light. He felt his white face gilded by it, and when he looked down he saw that his white-feathered legs appeared to have been dipped in gold. At that moment he noticed a tiny silver glint like a minuscule fracture in the golden light all about him. He felt his gizzard freeze. His wings grow heavy. A slit! A tiny slit in the ether veil. Then he saw another and another. The slits widened, the tips of haggish black feathers began to push through. Suddenly, the golden light bristled with black points. This is not budging. This is not the same as when our primaries begin to emerge. This is the ether veil shredding! “Don’t wait for me!” a familiar voice screamed. “I am beyond all help! Go! Go! They’re back!”
Who? Who is that screaming in my dream? Soren thought. Then, I am going yeep. Yeep in my own dream. The owl world dies!
“Soren, wake up! Wake up!” Gylfie was flying up and down in front of his face and batting the air with her tiny wings trying to bring him out of his dream. How many times have I done this? she thought. But since he was known to have starsight. Soren and his dreams were not to be ignored. The owls were now all awake. Gylfie turned to them as she continued to fan Soren with her wings. “Bad dream.”
“Uh-oh!” Twilight said. He shook his head violently, spinning it this way and that, as if to clear his head of grogginess. “Like we haven’t had enough bad news already.”“Just put a mouse in it, Twilight.” Gylfie scowled. Then she turned to Soren. “You awake now?”
“Yes.” Although as was usually the case he could not remember any details of the dream. “We have to find that book.” This was the only thing he could say.
“Where do we start?” Digger asked.
“Find Trader Mags, of course,” Coryn said.
“She doesn’t like visitors,” Gylfie said. “She always thinks they’re trying to get a discount.”
“Yeah, well, she adds on such, a huge transport charge. It’s ridiculous.” Twilight, huffed.
“Is she still in that chapel ruin?” Digger asked.
“I would imagine so,” Soren replied. “What time is it now?” he said, peering out of the hollow. The sun flared red through the trees.
“Still a while until tween time and then another half hour till First Black.”
Sorn peered out. “We’ll go at First Lavender.”
Owls were keenly aware of every shade in the changing spectrum of a rising and setting sun for each season of the year. Tween time was the last drop of sun before first shadows of twilight, which at this time of year were a frail lavender color. The Owls waited impatiently in silence as they watched the sun set.“All right “Soren said. “We’re off”.
Five owls flew out of the fir tree hollow, Soren with Coryn at his side. As soon as they were clear of the tree they rearranged themselves into a tightly packed formation. Twilight flew point Coryn to starboard, Sorer to port. Digger flew tail position and Gyfie was in the center. Twilight was always the lead owl in conditions of dramatically changing light. He had an extraordinary ability to see in that silvery border between day an night - at twilight when the boundaries became dim and the very shapes of things seemed to melt away.
Coryn could not help but think how different this was from their fight across the Sea of Hoolemere when they had cold wet poop jokes, laughed, and even sung. It’s all so different now, Coryn thought. How horrible to think that the terrible book was in the same world as they were. What was happening? He was king, but how could he fight hagsfiends or whatever monstrosities had slipped through the ether veil? He knew in his gizzard that was what Soren had dreamed of. It must have been a terrible dream. Why, he wondered, had this not happened when Hoole was king? Had he, Coryn, done something wrong? Was it because he was the child of Nyra and Kludd? All these thoughts ran through Coryn’s head as they flew on toward the chapel of Trader Mags.
CHAPTER TWELVEA Visit With Trader Mags
Book? What book? You know I deal with so many articles. I got me a large inventory these days, Soren, dearie.”
Twilight stepped forward, his plumage bristling so much that he seemed to swell to half again his normal size. “Drop the dearies, sweetheart. We know you ain’t no scholar. You don’t get that many books running through this outfit of yours.”
“Oh, beggin’ your pardon, sir.” Bubbles, a smaller magpie, lighted down on the stone floor next to her boss. “‘Them books don’t run. Don’t fly, neither. No, they more or less flutter. Their pages, that is.”
“Shut your frinkin’ beak!” Trader Mags’ shrill, squawk echoed through the clupel, rousing the last clutch of snoozing bats from the rafters. Soren felt a slight, tremor pass through his gizzard. Ever since that one bloody night in St. Aggie’s long before his flight feathers had fledged,
the sight of bats had made him feel weak. The owls of St. Aggie’s had a savage practice in which they would summon flocks of vampire bats to suck the blood from young owls on the brink of fledging. The bats would take just enough blood to quell the owls’ desire to fly. Now Soren Twilight, and Trader Mags, purveyor of fine goods, stood in a pool of crimson light reflected from the remains of a rose-colored stained-glass window through which the moon shined. The light, the leathery flap of the bats’ wings transported him back to that bloody night so long ago. He shook his head. His patience with Mags was wearing thin.
“Look, Mags, enough of this. We know you had the book. It was reported seen at a grog tree.”“By a slipgizzle?” she said in a more timid voice now.
“Precisely,” Digger said, walking forward on his long featherless legs. “A slipgizzle of the king’s.”
“Oh, I see,” Trader Mags said primly, and readjusted the jaunty bandanna that covered one eye.
The king perched, unnoticed, in a shadowy corner of the chapel.
“Yes,” she said, sighing, “there was a book. Big old thing despite, the fact that some of its pages were missing. An old soldier, I think, wanted it. He had to carry it off in a botkin.” Coryn felt a twinge
in his gizzard. Soldier? What soldier?
“What soldier?” Soren said aloud, echoing Coryn’s thoughts.“Well, soldier or hireclaw, not sure. But hireclaw most likely,” Mags replied.
“What did he look like?” Twilight asked.
Mags hesitated. Twilight swelled now until he looked like a feathery cloud-streaked moon rolled down from the sky. “C’mon! C’mon! Make it snappy.”
Any trace of composure Trader Mags possessed now vanished. Her beak began clacking nervously. “I c-c-can’t say. I can’t say,” she stammered.
“Can’t or won’t?” Twilight said sharply.
Mags wheeled around to Soren and looked at him beseechingly with her tiny, piercing black eyes. Soren remained impassive. In a flash, Twilight tore off the bandanna. The owls gasped. A bald spot in the magnificent glistening black plumage was revealed. Trader Mags shrieked.
“Cover her up. Give her back the bandanna! For Glaux’s sake,” Soren ordered.
“Don’t, be such a thug. Twilight.” Gylfie scolded. “We need some answers here,” Twilight shot back.
“Oh, that hireclaw, he was a thug all right,” Trader Mags muttered.
“Oh, ma’am, I be so sorry,” Bubbles broke in, gushing with sympathy. “Never knew you got the feather blight. And on your head! How unfortunate,” she said, picking up the bandanna to give to her boss.“Better bald than brainless, you twit!” Trader Mags lashed out at the smaller magpie with one wing and swatted her across the floor. She then turned to Soren. “He didn’t give a name. I can only tell you that he was an unusually large Barn Owl.”
Coryn. felt a turbulence mounting in his gizzard. “Any distinguishing characteristics? Marks?” Don’t say it! Don’t say it! he thought.
“Yes, as a matter of fact. A large nick out of his beak.”
She had said it. She might as well have shouted his name out loud. Stryker! One of Nyra’s top lieutenants. Lieutenant Major Stryker of the Pure Ones, and he had received that wound in the Battle of the Burning. Trader Mags, of course, did not know his name or much else about him aside from the nick in his beak.
“I don’t know,” she said repeatedly to each question as it was asked. “I don’t know where he flew in from…. No, Gylfie, no idea where he was going.”
“Did he talk much?”
“Not really.”“Did he know Krakish?” Digger asked.
“What in hagsmire is Krakish?” Trader Mags asked. “The language of the Northern Kingdoms,“Soren replied.
“I don’t know if he knew it,” she paused, “But…” “But what?” Twilight pressed.
She looked at him nastily. Then spat the words out. “He didn’t have to know much freakish.”
“Krakish,” Gylfie corrected. “Why not?”
‘“Cause there wasn’t many words in that book. Mostly pictures. Worst, ugliest pictures you ever seen. To tell the truth, I was glad to get rid of the frinkin’ thing.”
“Well.” Soren sighed, realizing that getting more information was a lost cause. “You’ve been most helpful, Mags. I’m sorry about the bandanna.” She had retied it on her head and looked up beseechingly. “You won’t go telling now about me bald spot, will ya. Soren? It’d just tear me up somethin’ fierce.”
“No, of course not.”
“You know, Mags, if you took off that bandanna some of the time and let the air get at it, your feathers might come back,” Gylfie offered.
“I’m attached to it,” she said without a trace of sentiment in her voice, and looked furiously at Twilight with her beady black eyes. Then she turned to the others. “Are you sure I can’t interest you in something? You know, I found this new site. And I got me some lovely porcelain things back in the sacristy. Bubbles, go fetch them demi-tasse cups.”
Soren felt obliged to at least look at the wares after having caused her so much trouble and embarrassment. Maybe he could bring back a present for the three Bs, as his chicks were sometimes called. They were always wanting presents when he came back from hunting. It seemed like just bringing in a vole was not quite sufficient these days. Bubbles arrived with a botkin, and Mags drew from it several little cups.“They ain’t teacups exactly. They calls them demitasses. At least, so Madame Plonk tells me. Now, mind you, they ain’t as big and as fancy as that lovely coronation teacup of Madame Plonk’s. But they be awfully pretty. So dainty, ain’t they?”
Soren could imagine Basha, Blythe, and Bell eating dried caterpillars out of them. “What’ll you take for them?” he asked.
“Oh, let’s see. I’ve had a hankering for some yoick stones.” Yoick stones were small rocks with traces of both gold and silver that could be smashed by a Rogue smith and then fired to release the silver and gold, even though it was an inferior grade of these two metals.
“Don’t have any,“Soren said. “How about a fine rabbit skin?”“Perhaps.”
“Digger, will you get the botkin with the skin?
Digger went out, returning quickly, and spread the skin on the stone floor.
“Killed him myself,’ Twilight said.
“I don’t doubt it,” Mags said as she. carefully stepped around the skin, examining it.
“It was an artistic kill if I do say so.” Twilight’s voice brimmed with pride.
Trader Mags stopped in her tracks. “There ain’t no such thing, you brute, as an artistic kill!” She then looked up at Soren. “I’ll take, it.”
So the deal was made and the owls were off. The night was still long. “I’d say,” Digger began, “that you, Twilight, are not high on Trader Mags’ list of favorite creatures.”
“That’s the least of our problems,” Gylfie said. “Where in the world are we going to find this owl with the book? We don’t even know his name.’
“His name is Stryker and he was my mother’s top lieutenant.”
“Our worst fear,” Gylfie moaned.“Not exactly,” Coryn said cryptically. The other four owls spun their heads to look at Coryn. “Our worst fear is a half-made hagsfiend with a book on how to finish the job.”
“But the book,” Digger said. “What little we know from reading the legends did not tell how to make a hags-fiend but how to create new monsters. Hagsfiends were born, not made.”
Now all the owls peered at Digger. “That is small comfort, Digger!” Gylfie said. “A monster? A hagsfiend? Not exactly delightful company.”
“Words, just words,” muttered Twilight.
“Quit squabbling!” Coryn barked. He was trying to think how they might find Stryker. Where he might be. For a long time, the Pure Ones had been encamped in the canyonlands. But they had been routed by war and must have moved by now. If he could get some coals from a Rogue smith’s forge they could kindle a fire. Just a small one that might yield a few hints as to where the old lieutenant might be. But Coryn knew from past experience that his firesight never seemed to work very well when he sought specific answers. The images were often vague and confusing. The flames did not like to be forced. They yielded what they would at their own whim and not on demand. As he was thinking about this, he caught a glimpse of something sparkling beneath them. Like diamonds strung through winter grass, a spiderweb hung in the night. And then a rapid heartbeat. The rabbit!
CHAPTER THIRTEENThe Coronation Teacup
Otulissa had been busy in the library for at least half the day and had not yet slept. As she flew back to her hollow through the strands of golden milkberry vines and heard the soft susurrus of stirring leaves, she thought how wrong all this felt. It’s the time of the white rain, for Glaux’s sake. It’s winter. Winter everyplace hut here, she thought miserably. The golden strands should be withered and white. The berries should be shriveled and even whiter and there should be no leaves. The tree should loom dark, stripped of the splendors of summer or autumn. That was the way it was supposed to be. Was she the only owl feeling this way, she wondered. She was pretty sure that Soren’s mate was not all that pleased with this perpetual summer. But of course, Pelli was so busy with her three owlets she barely ha
d time to worry. Fine thing, Soren going off like that just when the Bs were about to learn how to fly! Males! She’d never mate. Well, she thought, one should never say never. She felt a little squeeze in her gizzard as she thought of Cleve. A gizzard squeeze was the closest an owl came to blushing.
Cleve was a dear friend whom she had met in the Northern Kingdoms. He lived at the Glauxian retreat on the island in the Bitter Sea. He was a healer and was continuing his study of medicine. So far he had not taken vows. I’ll smack him if he does! Otulissa thought. Cancel that! What a terrible thing to even think of dear Cleve. But she knew that if they mated, there would be a mess of hatchlings, and guess who would get stuck taking care of them? Otulissa wasn’t really mother material. She loved young-‘uns. But how could she raise chicks in a proper manner, head up the Ga’HooIogy chaw, fly weather and colliering, teach the history of the tree, and give special seminars in higher magnetics, all on her own? She was one of the busiest rybs in the entire tree. No, it was out of the question.But then she returned to her original question: Was she the only one disturbed by the unchanging nature of the tree, this so-called Golden Tree that seemed condemned to a perpetual summer, that shed very few of its leaves? And those leaves that did drop left behind odd golden traceries like some sort of scroom. A scroom tree? she wondered. Taking one more look at the branches of the tree before she entered her own hollow, she thought for perhaps the thousandth time how peculiar everything felt.