(GoG Book 08) The Outcast (16 page)

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 fine 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.

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.

It had shocked all the owls of the great tree when the two monarchs had become so ill at the same time. It was almost as if they had planned it. They were old, yes, but not as old as Ezylryb, who was still more or less flying. When Soren had been summoned, he had hoped for some sort of explanation, some clue as to why this was happening. As he entered the chamber, he was surprised to see that in addition to the band, the entire Chaw of Chaws had been assembled. All except for Otulissa, who was off on some mission. Soren was struck once again by
how very odd it was that Otulissa was gone and by the way in which she had left—stealthily, at twixt time, without a word. They had learned about it only later, when Ezylryb had said that she was off on “some business.” And he had heard that Nyra was raising a chick. But then, surprisingly, came rumors that the young owl had fled. Could Otulissa’s business have something to do with that?

Ruby, Martin, and Soren’s sister, Eglantine, were all present. Cleve of Firthmore, a healer from the Northern Kingdoms, motioned them forward to where the two monarchs rested, not on their usual perches, but in fluffy nests of down to which every owl in the tree had contributed breast feathers.

“Be brief,” Cleve cautioned. “Do not ask too many questions, for they have much to tell you.” The members of the Chaw of Chaws nodded.

“But where’s Ezylryb?” Soren asked.

“You’ll find out.”

Surely he has not been sent out on a mission at this hour,
Soren thought.

Boron summoned the Chaw of Chaws weakly with his talon. But it was Barran, his mate the queen, who first began to speak. Soren went forward slowly and with great apprehension. His gizzard had stilled. He knew what would happen soon. It felt strange. The passing of Boron and
Barran would mark the end of an era. The future seemed fragile. The tree would seem so frail without them.

“The first thing we want to say to you all,” the old Snowy’s voice was so feeble that they had to lean forward to hear her, “is that this is not a sad time. It is and shall be a time of great rejoicing.”

The owls of the Chaw of Chaws were confused.

“Yes.” Boron now spoke in a slightly stronger voice than his mate. “We see your confusion. But it shall be. Our dear Ezylryb is at this moment on the highest lookout branch of the great tree to welcome your new king—your true king.”

“What?” all the owls said at once.

“What do you mean?” Digger asked. “You have been our true monarchs.” Digger, the most philosophical of all the owls, could not contain himself. “What do you mean by the word ‘true’? You have been most loyal and brave.”

The two monarchs churred weakly. “Did I not tell you, dear, that Digger would question us when we said ‘true leader’?” Boron turned his head toward his mate. She churred so softly it was almost inaudible.

“You are right. We have been loyal, but as king and queen we were not anointed in the way of that first king, King Hoole. We have been stewards, custodians, guardians of the kingship.”

The two monarchs nodded feebly.

“But those tales of the ember and Hoole were just stories, just legends,” Martin said.

Soren knew there was no “just” about it. Used like this, “just” was a terrible little word that snuffed out truth and possibility.

Boron’s voice grew suddenly stronger. “It is through legends that our gizzards grow bold and our hearts strong. Legends separate the civilized from the uncivilized. A great thing is happening this evening. A prophecy is coming true. There is a young owl about to retrieve the Ember of Hoole.”

Stunned silence fell upon the hollow of the parliament. Never had Soren expected this. Never in a thousand years. But then again, according to the legend, that was exactly how long ago good King Hoole had reburied the ember and then passed on to glaumora.

“At the moment the ember is his, we shall die. So it is writ.” Barran’s voice was growing more frail by the second. “Yes, you shall miss us, but do not mourn us. This is a great and happy occasion…Our…” She fought for a breath.

“Our business…” Boron now spoke and in a thin voice finished the sentence, “on Earth…is finished. Glaux bless you all.” Both owls took one last breath and died. There
was a slight wind in the parliament hollow as their spirits passed over.

The final ceremonies took place immediately. Soren returned to his hollow. His mate, a lovely young Barn Owl named Pellimore, or Pelli, was sitting on the clutch of eggs. Soren had rescued Pellimore from a fire in Ambala the previous summer. It hadn’t exactly been love at first sight, because Pelli had struggled fiercely, thinking Soren was a Pure One. What had it taken to convince her that he was not? A recitation from the Fire Cycle. He would never forget her response. “Quite an appropriate choice, considering the situation we’re in.” Trees full of sap were exploding all around them. Soren had admired first her courage in trying to fight him off, and secondly her cool answer in the midst of the very hot fire. So their friendship began as a literary one. She knew the legends by heart, but she did not know how to read. He taught her, and she learned quickly. They spent many hours in the library together poring over books, and their passion for books had slowly turned into a passion for each other.

“Any action?” Soren asked upon arriving in their hollow.

“No,” Pelli said and shook her head.

“Want me to sit for a while?”

“No. I want you to go figure out whatever it is that is bothering you.”

“Why do you think something’s bothering me, Pelli?”

“Soren, I can always tell when you’re bothered. You have this odd little habit of fussing with your port plummels. Now tell me what it is.”

“It’s just that when Boron and Barran were dying, Barran said, ‘At the moment the ember is his, we shall die. So it is writ.’ But I can’t find anything like it in any of the legends or the cantos. It makes me think that something is happening or about to happen.”

At just this moment, Mrs. Plithiver slithered in. “Why, I think you’re half snake, Soren, with your forebodings.” Blind snakes were known for their refined sensibilities. “I have a feeling, too, that something very important is about to happen. The heat of that ember seems close. You two fly up to the crown of the tree. I’ll nest-sit for you.”