Nyra, too, had heard this last remark and it pleased her. Not counting the new untrained recruits, there were barely twenty Pure Ones left since the last battle, but it was from these remnants that Nyra hoped to rebuild that empire of greatness, the Tytonic Union, that she and Kludd had ruled. Their past victories had been magnificent. They had invaded and ruled St. Aggie’s, the small but powerful stronghold to the south of where they now were, that possessed an important natural resource—flecks—which could be used to control the minds and gizzards of other owls. But at the last battle with the Guardians of Ga’Hoole, St. Aggie’s had been lost and those flecks had somehow been rendered powerless by the raging fires.
Nyra had flown out on an errand after reprimanding Nyroc and was now back at the hollow in the cleft. She had completely forgotten about her son’s insolent question. She was telling him how all the elders were raving about his performance. “They cannot believe your elegance and speed, my dear. You are perfection, but even perfection can be improved. Those new recruits who have been flying longer than you wish they were nearly as good.”
“Really, Mum?”
“Oh, yes, really. You should be so proud.”
Nyroc thought about this for a moment. Then he nodded. “If I am like you and if I am like my da, yes, then I am proud.” It was the perfect answer. Nyra beamed.
Nyroc often wondered if other owlets’ mothers were like his. Maybe not. But then again other owlets were not destined to become great leaders as he was.
“You see,” his mum continued, “it is very important that you do everything just as I say, because soon your Special ceremony will be coming up. Your Tupsi.”
Nyroc was not exactly sure what Tupsi was. He thought it might be connected to something with the prisoner, Smutty, but he certainly didn’t want to bring that Lesser Sooty up again, for that was what had caused his mum’s violent outburst. “What exactly is the Special ceremony, Mum? And why do they call it Tupsi?”
“When I think you are ready, I’ll tell you all about it and after that ceremony you shall become an officer in the army of the Pure Ones. Oh, your father would have been so proud.” She sighed. “But before that we shall have the Marking, the Final ceremony for your father.”
“When will that be, Mum?”
“As soon as Uglamore and Wortmore can find a Rogue smith.”
“You mean, for fire?” Nyroc said excitedly.
“Yes, my dear. Your father’s bones are all that is left now, and they must be burned because the Final ceremonies of great leaders require fire. It is called the Marking.”
Nyroc felt a tremor of excitement in his gizzard. The Pure Ones did not know how to make fire themselves. They relied entirely on lightning strikes and Rogue smiths. Rogue smiths not only knew how to make fires that could be controlled but they made hotter fires in which weapons such as battle claws could be made. Although this land in which Nyroc had hatched had been scorched and made treeless and ugly by fire, he was fascinated with the notion that an owl could make fire—small fires with which useful things could be fashioned. He knew that the evil owls of Ga’Hoole were able to make their own weapons and much more with their fires. Nyroc had never even seen a real fire. He had seen only the blackened landscape it had left behind.
Almost as much as he wished to see fire, Nyroc wanted to see a tree, a real tree that was growing and not a charred stump. He had heard rumors of trees with leaves and hollows in which owls could live, hollows that were lined with soft moss. There was no moss in these canyonlands since The Burning. Dustytuft had often tried to describe moss to him, its softness and its colors, which were all shades of green. There was one so soft it was called rabbit’s ear moss. But Nyroc did not even know what the color green was. There was much to ponder in this life—the color green, fire, the rumor of trees in distant places, the softness of moss, and the meaning of the word “destiny.”
CHAPTER THREE
The Marking
Twenty owls swooped down into the narrow canyon. Nyra was in the lead with Nyroc and Uglamore just behind her. Dustytuft flew next to Nyroc. Once again, Dustytuft was amazed at his exalted position in this group of top lieutenants from the old elite forces for this solemn ceremony—the Marking, the Final ceremony for fallen leaders. That is, Dustytuft thought, fallen leaders whose bodies could be recovered. Too often the vultures got to the dead soldiers first, or if an owl was fatally wounded over the Hoolemere Sea, the body was never found.
But Kludd had been killed in a cave battle. His body, of which only the bones now remained, had been guarded night and day until a Rogue smith could be found to perform the Marking. Nyroc had never before been to the cave. He was apprehensive. He was to see for the first time the bones of his father; his father, in whose powerful wing thrusts he was to follow; his father, the greatest leader the Tytonic Union had ever known; his father, whose fierceness in battle caused every owl’s gizzard to quiver. His father, killed by his own dreadful brother, Soren, in a battle of fire and ice with the Guardians of Ga’Hoole. Yes, Nyroc was very nervous and perhaps for this reason his mother had allowed Dustytuft to fly so close to him. Even now as they entered the huge cave and the shadows seemed to reach out for them, Nyra made sure that there was a space for Dustytuft near Nyroc.
Things sure have changed, Dustytuft thought. I used to be just some no-account owl. But now he was favored!
They flew toward the rear of the cave and took their places on a ledge. Some white sticks had been arranged on the cave floor. And propped against a rock was the metal mask that his father had always worn to cover his warmutilated face. His mum had said that his father’s other name was Metal Beak. It was one of the first goodlight stories she had told him when he was a very young hatchling. She liked to tell stories of his father’s great bravery and feats in battle. But he found this one frightening. He didn’t like thinking that his father had a face he would have never seen. “But, Mum,” he once asked, “would he have had to talk to me through that metal beak?”
“Of course. It gave his voice a lovely resonance.” Nyroc didn’t know what resonance was and he didn’t ask.
His mum patted him along now with her outstretched wing. “Follow me, Nyroc,” she said. “We must nod pule to your father.”
“Nod pule, what’s that?” Nyroc asked.
“Pay your respects, give homage.”
“You mean, say good-bye?” Nyroc asked.
“Yes!” his mum snapped. “Now stop asking so many questions.”
Oh, goodness, Nyroc thought, this is not the time to frink her off. I better shut up. But he couldn’t help but ask one more question. “Can Dustytuft come, too?”
“Of course, darling. Dustytuft can always come.” Dustytuft blinked at this. Downright miracle, he thought. The Sooty Owl puffed up his chest a bit.
“Thanks, Mum.”
Nyroc’s next question—if he had dared to ask—would have been “What do we say good-bye to?”
He soon found out. The white things on the cave floor that he thought were sticks were actually his father’s bones. A large shaggy Masked Owl stood by them. Near the Masked Owl’s talons was a small metal bucket. Nyroc knew from Dustytuft that this was the bucket in which all Rogue smiths carried their live coals or embers. Nyroc stole a glance into it and saw the bright orange glow. A shiver ran through his gizzard like nothing he had ever felt before. But suddenly, there was a sharp peck on his back and Nyra hissed, “Pay attention! These are your father’s bones.” And then she added, “Do you see the one in the middle?”
“Yes,” Nyroc replied.
“You see how it is broken in two?”
“Yes,” he said again.
“That was his spine. Soren, your father’s brother—your uncle—dealt the deathblow that split his spine. I want you to remember that. Never, ever forget.”
“Yes, Mum.”
“Promise!” she said fiercely.
“I promise, Mum. I promise. I’ll never forget.”
Dustytuft knew w
hat bones were. Dustytuft knew about dying and death and owls killed in battle. But what preoccupied Dustytuft right now was why he was a guest at this sacred ceremony. It was an honor far beyond the strange favoritism Nyra had granted him since Nyroc’s hatching. After all, Nyra had been furious with him and all the Sooty Owls after the Pure Ones had lost the Battle of The Burning to the Guardians of Ga’Hoole. There was a Lesser Sooty in prison right now for supposed cowardice. One might have thought that these Sooty Owls were the reason the Pure Ones had lost. In truth, the Sooties were such lowly owls they had hardly been given any responsibilities. It was as if she was so angered by the defeat that she simply had to blame someone. Nyra’s anger could be immense.
But two days after the battle, when Nyroc had hatched, Nyra had invited Dustytuft into the nest in the cleft of the rock to chick-sit while she went off hunting. This was a great honor. Dustytuft had liked Nyroc right from the start. Their friendship began to grow, and Nyra encouraged it. Dustytuft felt so close to Nyroc that he confessed to him one of his innermost secrets, which was that he hated the name the Pure Ones had chosen for him. Once, he told Nyroc, he had had a real name. He thought it had been something rather noble-sounding, like Edgar or Phillip. And Nyroc had asked him which name he liked the best. No one had ever asked him such a personal question. He thought for a minute and said, “Phillip—definitely Phillip.” So when no one was about, Nyroc called Dustytuft Phillip. It was the one thing that Nyroc did that was less than perfect, in the Pure-One sense of the word. It was odd that this one flaw in Nyroc’s otherwise perfect behavior was what Dustytuft most admired him for, and what, unlike Nyra’s strange favoritism, made Dustytuft feel truly honored. He had said to Nyroc many times that it was too much of a risk. But Nyroc had simply shrugged it off and told him not to worry. “I’ll call you Phillip and make up for it by being extra good in everything else.” And he had.
Now the Sooty Owl stood beside Nyroc and looked down at the bones of the owl that had been Kludd, High Tyto of the Pure Ones. He could see that Nyroc was, even after his mum’s reprimand, still stealing looks at the Rogue smith and his bucketful of embers, which seemed to interest the hatchling more than his father’s bones. Perhaps, mused Dustytuft, Nyroc was even less perfect than he knew. He had never seen Nyroc disobey his mother like this. Luckily, she wasn’t watching. Her attention was riveted on the bones.
“And now the time has come to honor our fallen leader in the manner befitting a great soldier,” Uglamore intoned. Nyra motioned Nyroc to step back toward the wall of the cave. Uglamore kept talking, as Gwyndor, the Rogue smith, came up to the place where the bones of Kludd lay and spread some dry twigs and bark over them. He took an ember from his bucket and set it on the twigs. Flames sprang up from the bones. The darkness of the cave began to flash and sparkle. Suddenly, shadows began leaping and sliding through the cave. Nyroc blinked. Never had he seen such shadows. They were huge. The flickering light of the fire made them jigger and jump in an odd dance across the stone walls of the cave. A bright realization flooded Nyroc’s mind. It is light that makes shadows. Look to the light. Look to the flames. Then he looked into the flames. His gizzard lurched. I am supposed to be seeing the bones of my father burning, he thought. But I am seeing something else.
Nyroc saw a landscape he did not recognize. And across this land, creatures with four legs and peculiarly colored eyes loped. The fire was crackling loudly now but beneath its hisses and snapping Nyroc thought he heard low growls. Darker shapes like gray mist floated through the air above the four-legged creatures. Then he saw something else. His gizzard gave a deep strange quiver, and he felt a pull deep within himself. He peered harder into the fire. It seemed at first like one of the fire’s flames. It was orange and at its center there was a lick of deep blue like the sky on a clear day. As he looked closer, Nyroc saw yet another color around the edge of the blue. It was the same color as the creatures’ eyes. Was this green? Was this a leaf? Was this the color Dustytuft had tried to describe when he spoke of trees? Something about the tricolor shape still hovering in the dancing flames entranced Nyroc and he could not look away. He felt himself being pulled to this flame. He imagined himself plunging into it, diving right into its center.
Nyra was chanting a song for fallen warriors and the other owls were watching her, all except for Gwyndor, the Rogue smith. He was watching Nyroc.
The young’un was seeing something. The old Rogue smith could tell by the way Nyroc’s eyes stared, unblinking, into the gizzard of this fire. Gwyndor studied the reflection of the flames in Nyroc’s eyes. He felt his own gizzard give a twang. Was it the Ember of Hoole he saw reflected in those young eyes? Gwyndor, like all blacksmiths, looked upon fires as living creatures with an anatomy not entirely different from that of an owl. Just as owls had gizzards in which they felt their deepest emotions, fires had gizzards, too. There were some owls who had the gift to look right into the flames of a fire and find that gizzard, and with this came a special kind of vision. Few had it. Gwyndor did not. Even Bubo, the blacksmith of the Great Ga’Hoole Tree, did not possess it. Orf, who crafted the finest battle claws in the world on the remote island of Dark Fowl, was said to have it. Long ago, there had been a very few colliers who were said to be able to see a fire’s gizzard. Still, none of these had ever been able to find the legendary Ember of Hoole. There had been many stories about the Ember and the powers it held within its deepest blue. It was a blue like the color of the bonk embers that the smiths favored for their hottest fires. But the Ember of Hoole was more than just a bonk ember. Much more.
Gwyndor had never seen an owl stare so deeply into the flames. And such a young owl at that! What was he seeing in that fire? The Rogue smith had not wanted to come to the canyonlands. He had no desire to have any dealings with the Pure Ones. Since the last battle, The Burning, he had wanted to fly clear of this very odd group of owls who had such strange beliefs about the pureness of Barn Owls. He had been quite surprised that the little Sooty was permitted to stand so close to the son of the great fallen leader, Kludd. There wasn’t a Rogue smith around when Kludd lived who had not been called upon to fashion a mask or claws for him or his followers.
Gwyndor now wondered why he had come here—all the way from Ambala. He remembered the night that he decided to go. Earlier in the evening he had visited the strange little Spotted Owl called Mist where she lived with the eagles. It had been rumored for years that Mist was actually the legendary Hortense, hero of Ambala, because of the undaunted courage she had shown when she had worked as a slipgizzle, years ago at St. Aggie’s. The heroism of Hortense was so much a part of the lore and history of Ambala that almost every other owl you met there, male or female, had been named after her. Gwyndor was not sure if Mist was or was not the real Hortense. All he knew was that he enjoyed her company when he went to visit the eagles. She was so elderly now and so faded that she did in fact seem more mist than owl. Gwyndor had noticed that after visiting with her he would often have strange dreams, dreams that he could never entirely remember.
And that had been the case on the night after his last visit to Mist. Uglamore and Wortmore, two lieutenants of the Pure Ones, had already asked him, and a half dozen other Rogue smiths, if they would come to do the Marking for the Final ceremony for Kludd. He had at first refused, as had the others. But on the night after that visit with Mist, he had woken up at tween time after having had another strange dream and decided—for no apparent reason—that he should go to the canyonlands and do this small service for the Pure Ones, even if he did not like Nyra or the rest of the group. In some way that dream he could no longer remember had instilled deep in his gizzard an urge to go.
Now he wondered if this little owlet, the one they called the hatchling, who was staring so intently into the fire, was the reason he had been summoned here. Yes, summoned. That was the word. He had felt there was something beyond the Marking duties that he would need to do here. This isn’t about dead bones at all, he suddenly realized. He regarded Nyroc, who
se unusually large white face, so similar to his mother’s, hung like a moon in the glimmering orange shadows of the cave. This is about him. But what am I supposed to do?
“Time will tell,” a voice seemed to whisper as if from a dimly remembered dream. “Time will tell.”
CHAPTER FOUR
First Prey
Nyroc could not get the flames out of his mind. He had never seen anything quite like it. It seemed to him that the flames in some way told a story, or at least part of a story. Where was this land? What were those loping creatures? And was that color around the core of that tricolor flame really green? There was something else that he had glimpsed in the fire but not clearly. It was frightening. He almost did not want to see it. He felt it had something to do with his terrible uncle Soren. But he could not be sure.
“Nyroc!” his mum screeched. “Pay attention. I’m letting you navigate while we track this chipmunk, and you’re not listening at all. What’s happened to you lately? Very inattentive! Won’t do, Nyroc. Won’t do at all. If you can’t even follow a chipmunk, how are you ever going to track a mouse, which is much smaller? You must start using those lovely Glaux-given ear slits.”