Only Coryn could see this. This was the moment to seize. He spiraled up, high above the crater. Then, laying back his wings so they were flat to his sides, Coryn rocketed down into the crater. His last thought was I have flown through the Shredders, I can fly through this. He was amazed that he felt no heat within the crater and when he dipped his beak into the lava for the ember, it felt almost cool.
Like a fiery comet, Coryn whistled out of the crater. A blazing rainbow of sparks streamed from the ember in his beak. The wolves howled. The owls hooted and shreed and shrieked and crooned. Then the unique call of a Boreal Owl sounded like chimes in the snowy wind-ripped night, proclaiming: “The new king lives! Long live Coryn, Heir of Hoole.”
The chant was taken up by all the gnaw wolves, wolf birds, and owls. Even a wandering caribou herd, which joined the braying in their own way: “Long live Coryn, the King!”
Otulissa, weeping, joined the chorus.
In the shadows, Nyra waited patiently. She said nothing. She merely glared, and because she was some distance from the rejoicing crowd, no one noticed her strange silence. But there was one owl who had been watching her since she had arrived. A great Snowy Owl. His name was Doc Finebeak. His white plumage blended in well with the surroundings. He had perched on a drift not far from where Nyra was. He wore a crow feather stuck jauntily among his back feathers. Known as one of the best trackers, he lived in the Beyond and, like hireclaws, had few scruples. His last job had been for Nyra, tracking down her errant son, who somehow had managed to fly through the Shredders to escape the Pure Ones. Ever since that job, he had vowed never to work for the tyrant again. His conscience had finally caught up with him that day on the far side of the Shredders. He had been shocked by her response when Nyroc, as he was then called, had survived. His mother had actually preferred that he die. Disgusted by the very sight of Nyra, he turned his gaze away. He looked across from where he perched to a nearby cliff and blinked. “By Glaux, it is Uglamore!”
He had heard that the former lieutenant of Nyra’s was in the Beyond, that he’d deserted the Pure Ones shortly after Nyroc had escaped from the Shredders. The Guardians of Ga’Hoole didn’t want him. He could never return to the Pure Ones, even if he wanted to. He was a marked owl as far as they were concerned, to be killed on sight. And this was where marked owls came. Doc Finebeak observed that Uglamore was certainly much the worse for wear. His feathers were tattered, with not a hint of luster. He was alarmingly thin. Just as Finebeak was looking at the old owl, Uglamore swept his head around and caught sight of him. The two owls locked eyes, then they blinked.
Uglamore had not seen Finebeak since the horrible days when Nyra had hunted down her son. Uglamore himself had always had a soft spot for Nyroc. And when he first heard that a young Barn Owl was in the Beyond, he had a hunch it might be Nyroc. Then he had spotted him that day at the carcass of the moose. He knew immediately it was Nyroc. The son resembled the mother right down to the scar he bore. He had heard a rumor that she had attacked him and scarred his face. So he had taken to following the young’un. Little did he imagine that it would lead to this. Odd, Uglamore thought, that we are all now here together—Finebeak, myself, and the young’un, Nyroc.
Uglamore had heard the rumors coming from the dire wolves that this owl was special—perhaps the one to retrieve the ember. But wolves were dramatic and naturally superstitious. He never paid much attention to their talk. But what he was now seeing was making him believe. This young Barn Owl, this fugitive from the Pure Ones, raised on hate and the vitriol of their vicious notions, this outcast of all outcasts, had grown noble. Here, indeed, was the true heir of King Hoole.
In that very same moment, Doc Finebeak was thinking the same thing. It was enough to bring a tear to a very cynical eye. And it would have if Doc Finebeak hadn’t resolved to stay alert. He had to keep an eye on this female, the tyrant owl who was seething with such hatred, he could feel its heat through the frigid wind-whipped air.
She’s going to make a move any second! I know it, Doc Finebreak thought. And everybody’s so drunk with joy they’ll never notice it. He looked around. He was going to need help to stop what Nyra was planning. But there was only Uglamore. As quietly as possible, Doc Finebeak signaled the old lieutenant to stay put—that he would join him on the ice shelf where he perched. Uglamore nodded.
When he lighted down beside the old raggedy owl, he whispered to him, “She’s going to do something.”
Uglamore nodded.
“She’ll make a move soon. We have to be ready. Are you up to it?”
Uglamore nodded again. A grim fierceness burned in his eyes. It was almost miraculous. The old lieutenant seemed to grow young. “All right,” he said.
Nyra spread her wings as Coryn began one more circle of the Sacred Ring with the ember firmly clamped in his beak. The colliers were flying madly below him trying to capture the sparks from it for their buckets. It was said that a spark from the ember ensured bonk coals in a Rogue smith’s forge forever.
Coryn himself could hardly believe it. At this moment, his gizzard was brimming over with joy and something else—deep, deep gratitude. Until this moment he had never realized how many creatures he loved for the love they had given him—everyone including the beautiful cream-colored wolf, Gyllbane. He looked below for her now but couldn’t find her. And Hamish and Otulissa and Gwyndor, dear Gwyndor who had hinted of such destiny but, more important, told him of free will. Yes, he had come here of his own free will. And Mist! Dear Mist. But right now he wanted to find Hamish and Gyllbane.
“Stop her!” he heard someone scream.
What was it? Coryn turned around.
Nyra!
“Come to Mama! Give it here!”
His gizzard screamed, No!
Coryn went into a steep spiral up, but then something caught his eye on the ground. A wolf was staggering near the edges of the ember beds. Sizzles went up as foam dripped from his mouth. The sick wolf! Suddenly, he had an idea. He spiraled down directly toward the foaming-mouthed wolf that was trying to bite its own tail.
“Look what the lad is doing!” Doc Finebeak said. “Brilliant! He’s herding the old witch right into the jaws of the wolf with the foaming disease. Let’s help!” Uglamore and he were off the ice shelf in a split second.
In no time, others picked up on Coryn’s strategy. Hamish and Gyllbane seemed to come out of nowhere and began lurching at the sick wolf, driving him toward Nyra. Coryn was determined to keep flying low. If he flew low, Nyra would fly low. Everyone was joining in the attempt to drive the hated owl into the jaws of the sick wolf. They were in a fever. For eons, they had waited for a king, and now their young king was threatened.
Nyra did not quite know what was happening. She had thought it would be an air battle between her and Coryn, but she was actually being forced toward the ground. She wasn’t a good ground fighter. What’s happening here? She was now tightly surrounded. Where is Nyroc? Behind her were the biggest wolves she had ever seen. There was the cream-colored one from the MacHeath Gadderheal. What is she doing here? Nyra wondered.
“I’m on your side,” she said in a desperate whisper as Gyllbane closed in on her.
The wolf’s eyes glittered so brightly they cast a green glow on the patch of snow on the ground. “No, you’re not! You’re on no one’s side but your own,” Gyllbane said through bared teeth.
Nyra suddenly caught sight of the sick wolf. She could hear its rough breathing and see its foaming mouth. She realized now what they were doing as the other owls and wolves edged her closer and closer to him. She knew of this sickness. She knew it drove animals mad and that they died horrible deaths. She looked up for an escape.
“Uglamore, you old fool! What are you doing here?” she shreed.
“Watching you die,” he replied in an even voice.
“Uglamore, you can’t do this to me.”
“Yes, he can,” another voice said.
“Doc Finebeak, you’ll help me, won’t you?”
>
“Not on my life.”
Above her, a phalanx of birds closed in, making escape impossible. Below her were walls of wolves and above them all, Coryn flew with the bright jewel of the Ember of Hoole clutched in his beak.
There had to be a way out of this. She hadn’t lived this long to die now. She knew every trick. She would figure out something. The wolves were strong and huge, but many of them were missing limbs. That’s where the gaps in the wall of wolves would be. She scanned the legs. If she found a gap and was quick and flew low, she might get out.
But just at that moment, the sick wolf lunged. There was a flurry as all the birds and wolves leaped back to avoid the flying flecks of foam. One speck in the wrong place could mean death. But Nyra saw her chance.
I’m free! She spread her wings to rise, but Uglamore swooped down upon her. She tumbled sideways, stunned.
Uglamore! Coryn shreed silently.
It was unbelievable. The old lieutenant was now in the foaming jaws of the wolf. All eyes were on Uglamore and the disease-maddened animal. In the desperate confusion of the moment, Nyra flew off.
“He’s dying! He’s dying!”
Gyllbane charged the sick wolf, which dropped Uglamore’s body on the ground, howled, and ran directly into the coal beds. In its frenzy, the wolf had thrown itself on its back and was now being consumed by flames.
The wolves and the owls had raced to Uglamore, who now was dying, for the wolf’s fangs had stabbed right to his heart. “Stand back, stand back,” Fengo, the chief of the Sacred Watch, was saying. “You must not touch him. It is sure death.”
Coryn now lighted down. The owls backed away from him. He did not carry the poison of death, but now seemed wrapped in the majesty of a king. Gwyndor came up beside him with his bucket and Coryn dropped the ember in so he could speak.
“Uglamore,” Coryn whispered. “You took the fangs of the wolf for me.”
“I took the fangs of the wolf for a king, Nyroc.”
“They call me Coryn now.”
“That is a fine name for a fine young owl.”
“You left the Pure Ones. But why? I don’t understand. You were one of Nyra’s top lieutenants.”
“When you hatched, young’un, I began to see things differently.” He was gasping for breath now. His eyes rolled back in his head. “For a long time I doubted the beliefs of the Pure Ones. There is no…aggg…such thing…pure is nothing…It is only the infinite and wonderful variety of owls that makes us rich. Barn Owl, Boreal, Snowy, Elf…”
“Spare your breath, dear Uglamore.”
But now the old owl had begun to foam at the beak and his body jerked in death twitches. The wolves looked on in wonder as their king crouched low to the ground. Uglamore stopped twitching. He looked deep into Coryn’s eyes, and Coryn looked deep into his. Around him, the wolves began to whisper in stunned voices, “It’s like lochinvyrr, without predator or prey.”
“Yes,” said another wolf. “It’s lochinvyrr between a king and his loyal subject who has died for him.”
Coryn backed away from the body of the dead owl. “Rogue smiths,” he said in a commanding voice that surprised even himself, “colliers, bring your coals. We must burn the body of this noble owl.”
Within a short time, flames leaped up from the owl that was Uglamore. Sparks began to float off into the night. Gyllbane and Hamish came to stand beside Coryn. They tipped their heads back and howled. The other wolves joined in.
Coryn blinked. He could see the sparks arcing toward the stars.
“He goes now on the spirit trail of stars toward the soul cave in the sky,” Hamish whispered.
“To glaumora,” Coryn said.
“Yes, to glaumora,” Hamish whispered.
When Coryn looked at his wolf friend, he blinked in disbelief. “Hamish, what has happened to you? Your leg is no longer crooked.” He looked at the other gnaw wolves of the Sacred Ring. Fengo, the chieftain of the Sacred Watch, now had all four of his paws, and Banquo, who had been born without an eye, now had two glistening green ones. Wolves without tails had mysteriously grown them, wolves with misshapen hips now walked straight.
“What has happened?” Coryn asked, stunned by these transformations.
Fengo stepped forward and lowered his body in a submissive posture. He then put his head so it almost touched the ground and twisted his neck to look up at Coryn. Flashing the whites of his eyes, he said, “The Ember of Hoole has been guarded all these years. We waited for the right owl. Now the kingship has been restored. We are released from our duties at the Sacred Ring until, upon your death, the ember must be buried again. The prophecy of great King Hoole has come true, and after our lifetimes of service, we may choose to be anything we want or dare. We have all chosen to remain as wolves, to serve you, King Coryn, but we have also chosen to regain what we had lost. Our twisted limbs have been straightened. Our eyes are restored, our tails made whole once more. But we shall always be prepared to come to your aid, good King Coryn, always. That is our pledge.”
“And I vow to protect you and lead you with all the wisdom and fairness that Glaux has given me. To be merciful and kind and just to all. To never fight for a wrongful cause. This I pledge.”
Then all the wolves and owls on that edge of the Beyond, which swirled with sparks and leaped with flames, bowed down to Coryn. They had wanted him to wear a crown of finely incised bones, but he refused. Otulissa and Gwyndor watched from the side as Fengo urged him to take the crown.
“No, I need no crown,” Coryn said good-naturedly. Then Otulissa began to whisper to herself the ancient words from the legends of Ga’Hoole: “And what was known of this owl was that he inspired other owls to great and noble deeds and that although he wore no crown of gold, the owls knew him as a king, for indeed his good grace and conscience anointed him and his spirit was his crown.” She then turned to Coryn. “It’s time for us to leave.” Coryn blinked. A look of confusion filled his eyes. “To the great tree, Coryn.” She gave him a searching look. “You know that is where the ember belongs now. And where you belong.”
Coryn felt a joyous trembling in his gizzard as he never had before. It flooded through him. He felt as if he were shimmering inside. “To the great tree,” he whispered. “Finally, to the great tree!”
Before he left the Beyond, Coryn sought out both Hamish and Gyllbane to bid them farewell in private.
“Hamish, you befriended me from almost my first day here. I shall never forget you as long as I live.”
“Nor I you. But now you are king. Your Majesty.”
“No, please, we owls are not like wolves. We do not have these complicated orders of rank, custom, and tradition. You must still call me Coryn.”
“If it pleases you.” But instinctively the yearling wolf began to lower himself to the ground.
“No, Hamish, please don’t. You must be my friend first and always.”
Coryn then turned to Gyllbane. “I see the sadness in your eyes.”
“Does it show that much?” the wolf asked.
Coryn nodded. “You have now lost a child for no reason. There is no Sacred Watch for him to serve in.”
“I have lost a child and a clan but gained a friend and a king.”
“Would you not consider coming to the great tree? You are both strong swimmers. You could cross Hoolemere.”
Both wolves shook their heads. “We are wolves of the Beyond, Coryn,” Hamish said. “No matter what, this is where we belong. But if you ever need us, we shall come.”
“Coryn,” Otulissa called down from an ice perch. “We must be going.”
“Good-bye, friends,” Coryn said. They were all three weeping now. Coryn spread his wings and lofted into flight. Once more, he flew around the Sacred Ring with the coal in his talons and then, flanked by Otulissa and Gwyndor, he headed away from the star Never Moves, on a course south and east toward the Island of Hoole in the middle of the west Sea of Hoolemere where the Great Ga’Hoole Tree grew.
It was a fin
e night for flying. Coryn knew that although he was flying away from those he loved, he was at last flying toward something for which his heart and his gizzard had always yearned.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Uncle Soren and the King
A shadow had descended on the Great Ga’Hoole Tree. It was the shadow of death. The great harp had remained silent for days now. Madame Plonk’s sister, the Rogue smith of Silverveil, had been murdered. And now Boron and Barran lay gravely ill.
“First Madame Plonk’s sister and now this!” Audrey, one of the blind nest-maid snakes, commiserated with Mrs. Plithiver and Hilda.
“Oh, there goes Soren, I feel his wing beats,” Mrs. Plithiver exclaimed. The nest-maid snakes were sunning themselves on this late autumn day in the time of the Copper-Rose Rain, when the milkberries turn their most gorgeous hues. It was usually a festive time, but not now. “I think he’s on his way to Boron and Barran’s in the parliament.”
“Do you think the end is near?” Hilda asked.
All three nest-maids were silent. They didn’t want to think about it.
Soren presented himself at the parliament entry. He remembered that when he first came to the great tree, he and the band—Digger, Gylfie, and Twilight—had discovered a place down deep in the roots of the tree from which they could eavesdrop on the parliament meetings. But he didn’t have to do that anymore. They were all—Digger, Twilight, himself, and Gylfie—members of the parliament. He had been summoned here to the deathbeds of the old monarchs. This is where King Boron and his mate, Queen Barran, the monarchs of Hoole, had chosen to spend their last nights and days. Too weak to fly, barely able to eat, they said their time had come. They had been mates for life and they would now be mates in death, in glaumora.