“Drop it, Harry! Our daughter is just as good as any nest-maid snake at digging up worms.”
“I must be on my way immediately,” Gwyndor said, struggling up from the rabbit fur. He had forgotten how very good Burrowing Owls were at rabbit hunting with their finely honed talons, and how they lined their nests with the soft fur. Lovely practice, Gwyndor thought.
“You’re going? You can’t be serious, sir,” Harry said.
“Oh, but I am. It is essential that I get to my destination as soon as possible.”
The entire family of Burrowing Owls blinked in astonishment as Gwyndor staggered to his feet, then reached for his kit. “I cannot thank you enough. I shall never forget your kindness.”
“But, sir,” Harry interrupted.
“No, I must go—without delay. Good-bye and Glaux bless.”
A few seconds later, they heard the flutter of his wings as Gwyndor took off.
CHAPTER TEN
One Wing Beat at a Time
The contrary winds had eased up, making flying less difficult. As the Great Horns came into sight, Gwyndor at last allowed himself to feel his fatigue. He ran over his plan in his head. He had to get Nyroc alone. He would ask Nyra if her young son could help him set up the forge for the fire claws. He would say that as a Rogue smith, he had a sense about which young’uns would make good blacksmiths and he thought that perhaps Nyroc might be one. He felt this would be an irresistible idea for Nyra. If the Pure Ones had their own smith they would have an endless supply of weapons.
And then what? Gwyndor thought. How was one supposed to go about telling a young owlet, a near-hatchling, that he was going to be asked to kill another owl in cold blood? And after that, what? There were many parts of Gwyndor’s plan that were not worked out. But he would just have to take it one wing beat at a time, as his dear old mum used to say. The words of the Snowy still haunted him: These lessons are perhaps best learned on one’s own.
“Nonsense!” Gwyndor muttered to himself. First, he would have to find a spot to set up his forge. The making of the fire claws was actually a ruse so it did not matter much where he set up. A plan began to fall into place. As soon as he told Nyroc the true meaning of the Special ceremony he would have to leave—leave or be killed. If Nyroc wanted to leave with him, he could. Gwyndor didn’t much like company, but he could point Nyroc in the right direction, suggest some region where he might find a safe hollow to hide in. But then again, even at this young age Nyroc looked a great deal like his mum. He would immediately be identified as one of the Pure Ones, who were welcome nowhere.
Suddenly, a call cracked the air. “Hail, the Rogue smith has returned!” It was one of the lookouts from the watch perch on the Great Horns. Gwyndor spiraled down toward the Pure Ones’ outpost in the canyonlands.
He saw some owls, Nyra among them, come out from their stone hollows and gather on a ledge.
As he lighted down, Gwyndor looked for Nyroc. Was he too late? Had the ceremony already happened? He then spotted Nyroc on a ledge looking quite fit. Even elated. He must have once again performed some task flawlessly.
“Welcome, sir.” Nyra nodded to the Rogue smith. “I trust you’ve brought the proper tools for making our fire claws.”
“Yes, madam. I need only now to find the right place to set up my forge.” He cast a glance toward Nyroc. “Madam, if I might proffer a suggestion?”
“Yes?” Nyra said.
“I would like some help in the setting up of my forge.”
“Of course.” She turned to her first lieutenant. “Uglamore?”
“Oh, madam, that is very kind of you,” Gwyndor hastened to say, “but I was wondering…”
“Yes?” she snapped. Owls seldom questioned Nyra’s choices.
“I was wondering if your son, Nyroc, might assist me.”
“Nyroc? Why Nyroc?” she asked Gwyndor.
“Because, madam, I think he has the gift for fire.” This was truer than anyone there, except Gwyndor, could possibly know. If Nyroc truly was a flame reader, his powers went far beyond those of a blacksmith.
“You think he could learn to be a smith?”
“Absolutely, madam, and a very fine smith at that. He may be born to command—eventually—but could he not in the meantime learn, and then teach, smithing?”
There was a stirring among the owls. “Well, this is indeed an unexpected idea, and perhaps a blessing, if what you say is true.”
“I am seldom wrong about such things. Yes, madam, if he has the gift, I could train him—and he in turn could train others—other Pure Ones—to make all the battle claws and fire claws you will ever need.”
Nyra’s eyes shone. She ruffled her feathers, and her face seemed to grow even larger. “Come forward, Nyroc.” The other owls parted on the ledge to make a path for the young owl. “Did you hear what the Rogue smith said?”
“Yes, General Mam,” he said.
“You could start your apprenticeship directly following your Special ceremony.”
“And when is that to be, madam?” Gwyndor asked, trying to keep the alarm out of his voice.
“Tomorrow evening.”
“That is unfortunate,” he said.
“What is the problem?” Nyra asked.
“It is essential that I find a place for my forge and get my fires going immediately. I have brought special coals. The first step of a young apprentice’s education is to see what kind of place makes for a good forge and the setting of the coals.”
“Oh, I see. Well, no harm in him accompanying you now.”
“Good,” Gwyndor said. At last he would have the chance to speak to Nyroc alone. It had been worth everything: the contrary winds, the mobbing by crows. Yes, one wing beat at a time—one wing beat at a time, his mum’s wise words echoed in his head.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Free Will
Nyroc was overjoyed by Gwyndor’s words. Who would have ever thought that the Rogue smith would invite me to be an apprentice? He says I have the gift, the gift of fire. I’m not sure what that means. Nyroc was thinking all this as he and Gwyndor flew over a ridge on the far side of the Great Horns. They had been flying for a while before Gwyndor finally began his descent. Much to Nyroc’s surprise, the Rogue smith settled on a ledge high above the ground. There were no caves in sight.
“A ledge seems an odd place for a forge,” Nyroc said.
Gwyndor was about to blurt everything out, to say, “Nyroc, I didn’t bring you here to make a forge. We shall not be making any forges.” But once again, the Snowy Owl’s words coursed through him: Truth must be revealed and not simply told. Perhaps he could build a fire and see what it revealed to the young’un. If the Snowy Owl was right, the truth might be stronger coming from the fire, might go deeper—right to the center of Nyroc’s gizzard. “You’re right,” Gwyndor replied quickly. “This is no place for a forge. I just need a bit of a rest. It was a hard trip back. Headwinds, you know.”
Nyroc looked at him. He wasn’t sure why they had stopped on the ledge. It had seemed at first as if the old Rogue smith was about to say something to him, something important. He was a curious, almost funny-looking old owl, Nyroc thought. Relative of the Barn Owl with the same almost heart-shaped facial disk except that instead of being pure white, a shadowy mask stretched across it. His beak had permanent dark smudges from a lifetime spent tending a forge. Nearly all of his leg feathers had been scorched off and his thin knobby knees poked through the remaining feathery bits. His talons were rough and blackened from working with the hammer and tongs. But now Gwyndor spread his wings and lifted into flight and Nyroc followed. Soon they found the perfect place for a forge. It was a cave in the base of a cliff with a good dirt floor. Gwyndor began to tear at the dirt with his talons, hollowing out a shallow pit. From his kit, he removed some twigs for kindling, then drew out coals that were still red-hot. Nyroc felt a stir in his gizzard as the first flames leaped up from the kindling. “Step closer, lad,” Gwyndor instructed.
Nyroc mo
ved closer. He stood very still. He did not feel the heat. He peered deeply into the flames. The flames danced into shapes again, telling, revealing shapes that were disturbingly strange and familiar. Gwyndor watched him intently. He saw the young owl’s eyes glaze over. Look at it, lad, look deeply. Now is the time to be brave. Don’t deny what the fire reveals. But Gwyndor kept his beak clamped shut. Oh, how he wanted to tell Nyroc what horror lay ahead but he knew in the deepest part of his gizzard that the Rogue smith of Silverveil was right. Nyroc must learn this lesson on his own.
The world began to spin for Nyroc. A pellet flew out of his beak. Then another. He was yarping in distress.
“Steady, lad. Steady,” Gwyndor said. He extended his wing and touched Nyroc’s back.
“Why did you really bring me here?” Nyroc demanded. “What is this about?” the young owl asked in a tremulous voice.
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
“It is all there in the fire for you to find.”
Nyroc forced himself to look back at the fire. Gwyndor wanted to tell him to look deeper. To not be afraid. But he himself was afraid for the lad.
Finally, Nyroc backed away from the fire. The young hatchling had suddenly aged. He looked coldly at Gwyndor. “I saw things,” he whispered. “I saw things I do not understand. I saw things I cannot believe…about my parents, about the Pure Ones.”
Gwyndor desperately wanted to ask if he had seen the truth about the Special ceremony, but he resisted.
“Why do I see these things?” he asked Gwyndor.
“I don’t know why.”
“But are they true?”
“I cannot tell you.”
“Cannot or will not?”
“Will not,” Gwyndor replied reluctantly. “Because, Nyroc, if I tell you, you will not truly believe. Belief is found in one’s self, in one’s gizzard, in one’s heart, in one’s mind. It has no power if it is simply ordered like a command.”
These words made Nyroc blink.
“But why would the Pure Ones do what I see in these flames?”
“I can’t answer that except to say that the Pure Ones have very strange ideas.” The Rogue smith’s voice dwindled to a whisper.
“Strange ideas about what? What do you mean?”
“Ideas about what makes a courageous owl, ideas about power.” Gwyndor shook his head in frustration. “I cannot explain it. I hardly understand it myself.” The silence between them was thick as each retreated into deep, gizzard-stirring reflections. Gwyndor suddenly had a notion. He could say something. Something that might help the poor owl without really telling him the truth outright. He wondered if Nyroc knew much about St. Aggie’s Academy. “Lad, have you heard about St. Aggie’s?”
“Oh, yes, we conquered them long before my hatching. Their place was rich in flecks.”
“Well, there was more,” Gwyndor said. “There was a place called the glaucidium where the young owlets were moon blinked.”
“Moon blinked?” Nyroc asked. “What’s that?”
So Gwyndor explained about St. Aggie’s, a cruel institution despite its claim of being a refuge for orphans. “It was in the glaucidium that the young orphan owls were forced to sleep-march under the blazing light of the moon. It broke their will and made them docile creatures totally under the power of St. Aggie’s leaders. They could not think. They could not make any decision on their own. They had no will—no free will.”
“Free will,” Nyroc murmured the two words softly. But what does all this have to do with me? Or the Pure Ones? Or my parents? It all happened when the St. Aggie’s owls were in power. It was over when the Pure Ones conquered them.
Gwyndor drew the young owl close to him. The shadows of the early evening mingled with the dark patches of the Masked Owl’s face. His beak was blacker than Nyroc had first thought and was a bit twisted. “It has everything to do with you, lad. You see, Nyroc, you have free will! You can think things through, consult your own gizzard, do what you think is right. You can be what you want to be.”
Be what I want to be…The words rang ominously in his head. He felt his gizzard grow very still.
“But I only want to be the best, most perfect Pure One ever,” he said. “I must grow into my father’s battle claws. I must bring these claws great honor.”
His words echoed hollowly in the cave and as hard as he tried to summon the great enthralling image of the burnished battle claws, he could not. The claws seemed to grow dim, to dissolve like mere mist into a deepening fog. He looked back into the fire for a long time, then he wilfed and grew slender as a fragile branch.
“What do you see, lad, what do you see?” Gwyndor whispered.
Nyroc turned from the fire. “Nothing.”
Gwyndor knew that the young owl was not telling the truth. Nyroc had seen something in those flames, something so awful that he could not believe it. And he was denying it not only to Gwyndor, but to himself. The Masked Owl was feeling desperate.
“Nyroc, there isn’t much time.”
But Nyroc turned his back, hopped to the cave’s entrance, spread his wings, and lifted himself into the sky. From the cave mouth Gwyndor watched the young owl carve a slow circle above and head back to the stone hollow he shared with his mum, Nyra.
Nyra and Nyroc had been flying their normal rounds on their evening flight through the canyonlands. Tonight, however, Nyra noticed that her son was unusually quiet and distracted.
“Is something troubling you, my dear?”
“No, Mum, nothing. Nothing at all.”
They were flying over the jagged narrow canyons that had once been occupied by the owls of St. Aggie’s. Nyroc looked down. “Is that where the glaucidium was, Mum?”
“Why, yes, how do you know about that?”
“Just do. You know, talk and things.”
A nervous twinge tweaked Nyra’s gizzard. “What did you hear?”
“Something about how they moon blinked the orphan owls so that they couldn’t think.”
“Probably couldn’t think to begin with,” she said dismissively. “Very few Barn Owls among them.”
“Hmmm,” Nyroc said.
Nyra looked at him suspiciously.
“Mum, tell me once more about the night my da was killed.”
“Of course, dear. It was in the Battle of The Burning. We had all been brutally attacked by the owls of Ga’Hoole. They outnumbered us and had more weapons, although we were much superior in our firefighting. Nonetheless, your father fought on bravely. He and a small contingent of owls had been chasing some of the fiercest of the Ga’Hoolian warriors when they were suddenly forced into a cave by the backdraft of the fire. They didn’t know that a larger band of Ga’Hoolian owls was already in this cave and they were caught completely by surprise. In a maddened frenzy, Soren flew directly at your father and sliced his back through the spine with an ice sword. It happened so quickly, there was no time for any of the Pure Ones to…to…” She was searching for the word.
“Think?” Nyroc asked.
Nyra gave him a poisonous look. She did not like the way this conversation was going. Not at all.
“There was no time for orders to be issued and obeyed,” she said coolly.
Can a soldier only act when a command is given? Can soldiers never think or act on their own? Nyroc thought. However, he knew better than to ask such questions. And, in fact, he did not need to ask. What he had seen in the flames of the fire was nothing at all like what his mother had just described. Either the flames were lying or his mother was. It was time for him to find out the truth.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Blood in the Flames
The night had thinned into the dawn. Mist pearled the charred landscape below as Nyroc flew to the hollow in the cleft of the rock wall. He alighted on the ledge outside. What he had seen in the fire was unbelievable, some of it so unbelievable that the images within the flames had made no sense at all. Well, he must find out for himself. It was the only way. He knew
Gwyndor was right about this.
He stepped into the hollow. His mum had fluffed up the lichen she used instead of moss for his bedding and plucked some fresh down from her own breast. Nyra was sleeping soundly in her corner. He looked at the tufts of down, then at his mother. He remembered the first time he had ever seen her pull out tuft after tuft from beneath her breast feathers. It had amazed him.
“Doesn’t that hurt?” he had asked as he watched her.
“Not when you do it for your dear hatchling,” she had replied.
And Nyroc knew that because he had no father and this burnt land no longer had the soft moss used in nests, his mum had to pluck twice as much of her own down. He had wondered if he could ever do such a thing. He didn’t like pain and could not imagine that it would be any less painful if you were doing it for someone you loved. He had complained bitterly when his first flight feathers had begun to bud. The shaft points of the primaries hurt as they poked through his tender skin.
He wanted to whisper out to her now, Mum, what I saw in the fire—this isn’t true. The first time he had looked through the flames, at the Marking ceremony in the cave where his father had died, he had seen a place he did not recognize, a strange landscape where weird creatures with four legs and strangely colored eyes loped through swirling mists and vapors. And then there had been the curious thing like a flame made of stone, orange in color with the lick of deep blue at its center, and between the inner blue and the outer orange what he thought might be the color green. This reminded Nyroc that his mum had promised to take him to see a tree after the Special ceremony if he performed it well. Nyroc’s gizzard gave a sickening twist. A darkness seemed to flood through it as it did every time he thought of the Special ceremony. He quickly pushed all thoughts of it from his mind.
He remembered instead how oddly his mother had looked at him when he had told her Oh, Mum, I love you sooo much, almost as if she didn’t know the word “love” or what it meant. And then with dread in his gizzard, he remembered her other words to him: “You must learn to hate, Nyroc. I shall help you learn to hate.”