Exile

  “Yes, I will. No—don’t waste your breath explaining, dearie.” She swung her head toward Doc Finebeak. “Doc, you need to go to Bubo’s forge. Otulissa is waiting there for you. I think she might have something…” She hesitated. “Something hopeful to tell you.”

  The fires of the forge were crackling noisily. And Bubo was beating the daylights out of a chunk of redmore, a particularly hard kind of rock that yielded a high grade of metal. He saw Doc coming and nodded him into the cave. Doc quickly realized that Bubo meant the whanging and banging of his hammer on the anvil and the cracklings of the hot fires in the forge to serve as a bulwark of noise so that Otulissa could speak to him without fear of being overheard. Quickly, she divulged the secret training that was going on in the old tunnel. She explained how Bubo had juiced the counterfeit ember. Doc’s gizzard sang when he heard this news. They needed his help. She had explained that there were few of them in on the plan as they did not want to arouse suspicion. She also told him how Pelli, after her trip to hide the real ember, had gone to see Hortense and told her of the happenings. From Hortense, she found out that the Band was aware of the dire conditions at the tree. They would be coming back soon with help. But Otulissa and Pelli and Bubo felt that more was needed now.

  “Doc, can you help us?” she whispered desperately. “We know that in your tracking days you met all sorts of owls, including hireclaws.”

  Almost before Otulissa had finished speaking, he was heading to fetch the black feather that allowed him to fly freely any time of the day, safe from mobbings by crows. It was mid-morning. Most of the tree was asleep and it was the perfect time for him to leave. He did not even say good-bye to Plonkie. Better that she not know.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Once Upon a Time

  He knows?” Pelli gaped at Mrs. P. “Coryn knows, and he isn’t angry, Mrs. P.?”

  “Only at himself, my dear. You see, his gizzard is awakening, stirring.”

  “He can’t let the Striga know.”

  “Of course not. He must play dumb, as you have done. But he feels terrible and he is ready to help in any way he can.”

  “Did you tell him about what we are doing?”

  “Not yet. I only said that I would consult with you and Otulissa.”

  “How do you account for it, Mrs. P., his awakening, as you call it?”

  “Well.” She sighed. “It could be one of several things. When I went in the hollow he was staring into the fire in the grate.”

  “Flame reading,” Pelli said suddenly. “He probably hasn’t done it for a long time.”

  “Yes, but I don’t think it was just that. A young Burrowing Owl arrived several nights ago, begging to see Coryn. He finally got in to see him. I have felt that young owl’s extreme agitation ever since he arrived. I saw him leave Coryn’s hollow and it was precisely in that moment that I got my first inkling…glimmer of the stirrings in Coryn’s gizzard.”

  “You are remarkable, Mrs. P.!” Pelli said.

  “Well, you know, it comes with the scales.” Her rose-colored scales seemed to shimmer as she said this.

  While Mrs. Plithiver conversed with Pelli, Coryn stepped out of his hollow for the first time in a long while to explore the great tree. It was nearly a moon cycle since he had gone beyond the branch outside his hollow. Things had changed drastically. First of all, there were many new owls, owls he didn’t recall seeing before. But there were other changes as well. He flew into the Great Hollow and up to the gallery of the grass harp. He tottered as he settled on a perch. “What in the world?” he muttered. The lovely curving frame of the harp was blank and its strings lay in a tangled pile. He remembered talk about damage to the harp and recalled that the Striga said they should not rush to repair it. And then it burst upon him. His gizzard was racked with fear, shame. Great Glaux! He realized that it had been many, many nights since he had last heard the voice of Madame Plonk. He rushed out of the Great Hollow to find her.

  On his way, he saw more signs of the terrible changes that had occurred. Peeking into Mainz, the press hollow where the printers could usually be heard chatting softly, he found all was silent. The inkwells were caked with dried ink. The press itself was strung with cobwebs. He rushed on to the hollow of the lacemakers’ guild. There was no sound of the caller chanting the instructions for the particular designs. Absent was the soft whirring of the bobbins, unfurling thread as the four pairs of lacing snakes wove the thread through a series of patterns. Their perches were empty.

  He heard a stirring coming from a corner in the lacemakers’ hollow. It was a very young nest-maid snake. “What happened here?” Coryn asked.

  “Not much!” the nest-maid fumed. “I got here less than a moon cycle ago and was told that the lacemakers’ guild had been disbanded. Everything’s changed here. At least from the way it was.” The snake sighed again. “Once upon a time…” Then the nest-maid seemed suddenly alert. “Hey, who are you?”

  Coryn felt a flutter in his gizzard. This nest-maid was new and probably never had met him before. But nest-maids were keen and this one seemed to realize he was someone special.

  “Oh,” Coryn quickly said, “I’ve been away, too, for quite a while. Yes, things seemed to have changed.”

  “It’s not just the lacemakers’ guild that has been disbanded, but the weavers’ and the printers’ guilds, too. No pun intended, but even the Band seems to have been disbanded.”

  Coryn’s gizzard clenched so painfully, he groaned.

  “You all right?” the snake asked.

  He coughed. “Yes, I’ll be fine. You are right. Once upon a time, things were very different here in this great tree.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Flames Within Flames

  As he left the lacemakers’ hollow, Coryn felt an urgent need to find that young Burrowing Owl who had tried to speak to him. That owl had something vitally important to tell me. I need to find him. But how? Where? Coryn went back to his hollow and looked deeply into the flames again. For too long he had ignored his gift of firesight.

  “Sir! Sir! Your Majesty.” Coryn heard an unfamiliar voice behind him. He turned and saw a Short-eared Owl enter his hollow.

  “Yes?”

  “Your Majesty, the Striga has suggested that I keep you company.”

  “As you wish,” Coryn said, “but do not speak to me,” and he turned his gaze back to the flames. The Short-eared Owl, who wore a blue feather tucked between his coverts, stood in the shadows, watching Coryn study the flames.

  No two flames were ever exactly alike and yet they all possessed the same structures. It was the central yellow curved plane of the flame that yielded the images.

  He blinked, then his eyes opened in wonder. There was a familiar shape, a space from his past. The cave in the canyonlands where he had experienced firesight for the first time! How ironic that this extraordinary gift had been revealed at the Marking ceremony in which his father’s bones had been burned! Coryn felt his gizzard quicken, his mind suddenly keen. Within the cave, other shapes began to take form, but the one that riveted his attention was a dearly known one—his friend, his only friend from that long time ago, Phillip, the Sooty Owl, the very owl his mother had murdered. The flames curled in, engulfing the image. The yellow plane quivered and grew longer, more slender. Another owl shape revealed. Unmistakable in its length and elegance. Kalo! She was perched on an immense fallen trunk. He knew that tree trunk because he had lived there as an outcast when he had fled the Pure Ones, years before. He tipped closer to the fire in his grate. Felt the warmth on his beak. These flames are telling me of my friends. Phillip is gone and…and…He blinked and looked deeper into the very gizzard of the fire. Something was burning within the flames. There were flames within the flames, another fire, and at its center was Kalo! But suddenly the shape that was Kalo dissolved into ashes and another took its place. A smaller owl. It was the young Burrowing Owl who tried to speak with Coryn. “My namesake! Coryn!”

  “Sir?” said the
Short-eared Owl. “Your what?”

  “Namesake.” He said the word slowly. Coryn’s eyes widened into a seemingly vacant stare as he looked at the Short-eared Owl. The images of the fire were replaying in his mind’s eye, stirring the innermost part of his gizzard. He knew Kalo was in the Shadow Forest. She was safe, but not for long. Of this, he was sure. For now, the images yielded by the flames and the words of the Striga began to weave together into a diabolical design. So this is to be the great and special relinquishment ceremony that is to mark Balefire Night.

  It all came to Coryn in a single piece. Owls would be burned in the flames of Balefire Night. Of course, only a few owls knew what was planned, only those closest to the Striga. They were now hunting down the offenders to the way of perfect simplicity. And Kalo was not a simple owl. She loved to think, to read. He remembered her well. It all made perfect sense now that her brother had come to seek his help—help from the king whose name he bore.

  “Are you all right, sir? You look like you’ve seen a scroom.”

  “Perhaps I have,” Coryn replied quietly. He moved away from the fire and flew onto the perch near the portal.

  “Where are you going, sir?”

  Coryn thought quickly. He was going to the Shadow Forest, but he did not want this blue-feathered owl to know. So he replied almost casually, “To the spirit woods, of course.” He paused and blinked at the Short-eared Owl. “That is where scrooms can be found, you know.”

  Getting away was very easy for Coryn. The dawn was just breaking. The owls had been up past twixt time preparing the fires for Balefire Night, which would be set the coming night. They were so exhausted that most had not even gone to the dining hollow for breaklight but repaired immediately to their hollows for sleep. Coryn left his hollow and flew off into that dawn to save Kalo, sister of another owl named Coryn whom he had saved once before. This time he might save himself as well.

  “He what?” said the Striga, blinking his eyes rapidly. “He’s going to the spirit woods?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I suppose one only goes to such a place to consort with scrooms.” The Striga paused, and churred softly. “How convenient. Yes, how very convenient. A king—a so-called king consorting with scrooms. This is worse than any vanity. Why…why, it’s hagscraft!” And by the time he returns, thought the Striga, this great tree will be mine. These kingdoms, these five kingdoms will be mine and the true redemption shall begin. For I have flown through the shadows of faith, have been lured by the deadliest of vanities, have scoured and plucked myself so I am the perfect vessel for this kingship.

  The Striga was nearly overwhelmed by his own sense of perfection. The tree would be his soon. And if anyone had any doubts about his right to rule this great tree, he knew that there were now enough of his elite fighting unit, the Blue Brigade, to take the tree by force. But there might be very little need for force after the climactic moment of the Balefire Night festivities—the special relinquishing ceremonies. No one would dare oppose him after that.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The Last Design

  It’s the Greenowls of Ambala!” A hearty cheer rose up from the grog tree where owls were just beginning to celebrate Balefire Night. They churred and hooted as scores of owls draped in cloaks of greenest moss and lichen flew by overhead.

  “Ain’t seen them out for Balefire Night in a long time.”

  “Naw, they usually keep to themselves, those owls of Ambala,” said another.

  “Don’t quite have the gizzard for Balefire this year meself,” a Whiskered Screech muttered. “Not with all them owls sporting the blue feathers.”

  “Lousy bunch.”

  “Hush, they got spies all over.” A Pygmy Owl fluttered down and put out a nut cup for a spot of bingle juice.

  “They say the king’s useless now. Gone yeep in his own hollow—never comes out.”

  Coryn’s gizzard twisted painfully as he overheard this last remark. He had taken a detour on his way to the Shadow Forest because it had suddenly struck him that he was unarmed. If he went to a Rogue smith he would be recognized, but he could perhaps sneak some coals from a Balefire. He knew from times past that this particular grog tree kept a Balefire, but most of the owls were too occupied with their drinking to keep a close watch on the fire, which was a short distance from the base of the grog tree’s trunk. They might play a few games around it as the evening wore on but, for now, they were enjoying the bingle juice and the song of a rather off-key gadfeather. The owls gathered into a tighter clump in the lower branches as the gadfeather began a new verse. Now would be the perfect time to fetch the coals, along with the discarded botkin on a chain he had seen near the fire to carry them in. He kept a careful watch, and when all the owls had congregated on the other side of the tree far from the Balefire, he stole down and in one swift pass grabbed the botkin and chain and plucked some coals from the very heart of the fire to fill it.

  He was off before the gadfeather had even finished the first bars of the song. He headed as fast as he could fly toward the Shadow Forest, the place he’d seen in the flames where he thought he might find Kalo or his namesake, Cory.

  He slowed his flight as he approached the tree, then felt his gizzard swim up when he heard the voices of two owls.

  He flew into the thickest branches of a black spruce, blinked and focused on the two owls who were flying low around the fallen tree, sometimes lighting down and peering into a crack or hole.

  “She ain’t here! But she’s been here not long ago.”

  “Yep. I see fresh pellets. Some molted feathers.”

  “Hope she’s not going through an early molt. The Striga and Field Marshal Cram want all the owls that we’re supposed to bring to the island in full feather. Burn better that way.”

  Coryn’s gizzard throbbed with disgust and hatred.

  “Scouring. That’s the word we’re supposed to use. Scouring—not burning—remember? That’s the one the Striga always uses. It’s their redemption. Cleanse them so they can rise to glaumora.”

  Coryn had stopped listening to this trash. He opened the botkin and broke off a branch from the tree and then broke that one in half again.

  “Hey, what’s that noise? Something in that tree!”

  And at that very instance, Coryn flew out of the tree with two flaming branches.

  “Time for a scouring!” he bellowed.

  “It’s the king!” The scar running down his face gleamed like an ice seam in the white feathers of his face. The two owls fumbled with their battle claws. They were big owls. One was a Great Gray, one a Great Horned. Coryn was much smaller. But he had two things on his side: surprise and fire weapons. He had learned firefighting from the Chaw of Chaws. The Great Gray extended his battle talons and was scooping under the flaming branches for a heart rip. But he was coming in too fast, which would wreck his aim and so, with a dodge and a swat, Coryn threw him off. Still, he was a bold fighter, this Great Gray. A match for Twilight, Coryn thought. How he wished Twilight were here. Coryn was sweeping the branches in wide arcs to set up a defensive ring of sparks around him that he hoped would keep the owls at bay. But he could not keep fighting defensively. It would tire him out. He had to hurt these owls or kill them.

  Suddenly, there was a blur at the edge in the narrow cone of his vision. To see more he would have to turn his head, but he must keep his eyes focused on the two owls who were trying to break through the ring of sparks. What was it on the edge of his vision? Whatever it was quickly caught the owls’ attention. They turned and in that second he felt his flaming branch shake.

  “Kalo!” She had rushed up with a branch of her own and ignited it from his. But Kalo was not the only thing on the edge of his sight. He spied a rabbit hopping about below. It was popping in and out of the hollow trunk of the fallen tree, distracting the Great Horned and the Great Gray. Coryn blinked in disbelief. It was his friend the rabbit, the mystic rabbit who read webs. The creature had distracted the two owls just long enough fo
r Kalo to sweep in and ignite a branch.

  Kalo was a natural fighter. Her long featherless legs gave her a distinct advantage. She and Coryn advanced together on the two owls who fought wing to wing, making them an easier target. Without speaking, Kalo and Coryn instinctively knew how to vary their moves. They alternated: One blocked while the other attacked. Coryn landed a solid blow to the Great Gray’s port wing. The owl screeched in agony but he kept on fighting. The rabbit kept Gpopping up, leaping in arcs, trying to distract the two owls and throw them off in any way. They were fighting close to the ground now and the combat grew more intense. Coryn had to admit, this Great Gray was tough. He was not letting his injured wing distract him but seemed to have grown angrier and more aggressive—and closer. The rabbit leaped up and, in that second, the Great Gray swooped down, caught the rabbit in its talons, and flung him in an arc. Blood spun through the air. Kalo opened her beak and gave a low agonized scream and then took off after the Great Gray. She hurled herself into a downward plunge, a streak of tawny feathers with sparks flying. There was no scream, just a rush of air from the Great Gray’s lungs as Kalo skewered him to the tree with the burning tip of the branch. The Great Gray’s companion staggered in flight, and Coryn was now backing him against a large boulder. But then, with an insane surge of energy, the Great Horned reached out and tore the branch from Coryn. Suddenly emboldened, he advanced on Coryn.

  Coryn reversed his course, backwinging. He and Kalo were without fire or battle claws. Was Kalo strong enough to pull loose the spear with which she had stabbed the Great Gray—if she could even get to it? Would it still be burning? Coryn suddenly remembered the botkin he had swiped from the grog tree. It was a metal one, slotted to let the coals breathe. The chain from which it was suspended was fairly long. It wasn’t that different from a fizgig. The Great Horned had Coryn dancing backward. It might look like a defensive move. It had certainly started out that way, but with every second, Coryn was getting closer to the spot where he had left the botkin hanging. The Horned Owl was clumsy with the ignited branch. He might set himself on fire before touching Coryn. Suddenly, flames erupted all around them. The black spruce flared like a torch. Coryn did not even stop to think and rushed into the tree. There was a screech and a howl of laughter as the Great Gray realized what had happened. He turned on Kalo, who had almost gone yeep when she saw Coryn fly off into the flames.