The War of the Ember

by Kathryn Lasky

  “In addition to that, we have discussed the corps of messengers. It is to be headed by Martin, along with Nut Beam, Silver, Primrose, and Clover.” Clover was a Barn Owl. It was always wise to have one Barn Owl in any unit because of their auditory skills. They were all good owls, fast fliers, and fearless.

  “Let us call this crack messenger unit the Joss Corps.” Coryn spoke as he peered into the grate of the fire without turning around. Soren looked at the broad back of his nephew. Joss was the famous messenger from the time of the legends, the time of Hoole and Theo. What exactly is Coryn thinking about? Yes, we are confronting a horrendous possibility, but there is more to it for him than what he is letting on, Soren thought. We all know what is at stake, but there is something even beyond that for Coryn.

  Coryn continued to peer into the grate and study the flames. Coryn was a flame reader and it was just a year ago that he had detected the ice-bright cave with the two shadowy figures in the flames. He had suspected that the huddled shapes were his mother and the Striga. But such flame readings were rarely precise, and never yielded complete information. Like encounters with scrooms, they often raised more questions than they answered. But now as he looked into the flames, he saw the figures of seven owls. One was far to starboard and another was lower in the plane, but five in the center flew close.

  Coryn turned and said quietly, “The Chaw of Chaws. They will be the gizzard of this Operation HALO.”

  Soren returned to his own hollow. A milky light, the first streaks of dawn, washed into the cozy space. Pelli and the three B’s were already sound asleep. He gazed down at them. If the Striga and Nyra prevailed…He tried to cut off the thought, the unthinkable image of those two. So much to lose. “Too many,” Digger had replied when Soren had asked rhetorically how many times they had fought the Pure Ones. Most of his life, even his childhood, had been involved with fighting them. Soren’s mind ranged back. The first fight had been the rescue of dear Ezylryb from the Devil’s Triangle. But there had been so many after that.

  He looked over at the newest-model battle claws that Quentin the quartermaster had just delivered—double-hinged retractables, or DHRs. Absolutely lethal. Would these improve his chances in battle? He tried them on. They were light, he would give them that. Maneuvering would be easy. But were they too light? The younger owls could adapt to these things. He was used to weight. He looked up on the wall of the hollow where the old battle claws hung that Ezylryb had given him. Now those were battle claws with heft! And they’d gotten him through…how many battles? Too many! But there is another to come, Soren thought, then whispered, “Another to come.” He took off the new battle claws and reached for those of his old mentor. Real antiques, he thought. But they’re battle tested. They worked for Ezylryb and they’ll work for me, Glaux willing.

  CHAPTER TEN

  A Dreadful Mis-hatch!

  Dumpy had guided Otulissa and Cleve to the back entrance of the cave in the Ice Narrows. They perched on the ice cliff high above the cave’s entrance, to say good-bye to the puffin.

  “You have been more help than you’ll ever know,” Otulissa told him. “You were brave and smart. Now on your way,” she said. “We’ll send one of the Jossian messengers if we need to get in touch with you.”

  Otulissa and Cleve found the niche that opened into the cave. She slipped into the crack first and peered around. It appeared to be vacant. She had expected as much. A full moon cycle had passed since Dumpy had seen the Striga and Nyra there. “Nothing.” She swiveled her head and whispered over her shoulder to Cleve, “But we should still look around. We might find clues of some sort.” So they squeezed through the crack into the larger space of the cave. It hadn’t been half a minute before Cleve exclaimed, “Yes, clues like this!” He held up a sapphire-blue feather. “The Striga’s?”

  Otulissa flew closer and squinted with her only eye. “Oh, dear!” she said softly. Cleve was confused. Otulissa sounded disappointed. “It’s blue, but unfortunately it’s not turquoise enough; it’s not the Striga’s, but that of another blue owl!”

  “You’re saying that there might be more blue owls involved?” Cleve asked hesitantly.

  Otulissa nodded. “On my visit to the Middle Kingdom I noticed that the owls were not all the same shade of blue. Their plumage varied from turquoise to sapphire to emerald. The Striga’s feathers are definitely in the turquoise range. You might have noticed that Tengshu’s tend more toward cobalt.”

  “You think another owl from the Middle Kingdom has come here?”

  “I fear so.” Then the Spotted Owl’s single eye seemed to focus on something. “What’s that?” she exclaimed. She rushed to a corner of the ice cave. From behind, Cleve saw her wilf.

  “Otulissa, dear, what is it?” He rushed to her side and looked down. “Oh, no!” They were both transfixed by the fragments of the shell of a dark and peculiar egg. There was a smear on the ice of some viscous fluid—now frozen—and close by lay a pulpy mass. Otulissa bent closer.

  “Something nearly came to life here—then failed.” Otulissa’s voice trembled. Although the remnants were frozen, a rank odor hung in the air above the mess. “A mis-hatch.”

  “But not just any mis-hatch,” Cleve said. He had taken a sliver of ice and was poking at the half-frozen blob on the floor of the cave.

  “Incipient beak,” Otulissa murmured.

  “Some embryonic feather shafts, rather long,” Cleve whispered.

  “Some ocular cells—but such a bright yellow!” Otulissa’s voice registered shock.

  Otulissa turned slowly toward Cleve. “You’re right. No ordinary mis-hatch. It was to be a hagsfiend! But something scared the ‘mother’ off, if whatever brooded over such an egg can be called a mother. She tried to escape with the egg but it broke.”

  “Let’s hope this was the only egg,” Cleve said.

  “Well, I don’t think we can be sure. They might have rescued others.”

  “Where would they have taken them, though?” Cleve asked.

  “Perhaps to the old Ice Cliff Palace where Siv took the egg of Hoole.” Otulissa spoke in an almost trance-like voice. “Just like in the legends.”

  “Surely they would not know about that, Otulissa,” Cleve said.

  “Why not? You forget that at one time, before we knew how terrible the Striga was, he had Coryn’s confidence and the run of our library. They spent long evenings together. Coryn could have told him the stories of the legends. Siv finding refuge in the Ice Cliff Palace with her egg and her faithful servant, Myrrthe. It was all written down in the first legend by Grank.”

  “Of course,” Cleve replied in a low tremulous voice. “Grank, the first collier.”

  “And as far as the Book of Kreeth, well, I said that I had the book under lock and key, but who knows—perhaps Coryn was reading it and the Striga glanced at it. And for a brief time before the Battle of the Book, it was in Nyra’s possession.”

  “We have to get a message back to the great tree and inform them of what we have found.”

  There was a Jossian unit messenger stationed on the Ice Dagger. Otulissa and Cleve left immediately to report this latest and most dire news.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Stirrings in the Dragon Court

  Far away, in the Middle Kingdom of Jouzhenkyn, Taya, a blue owl who served as a page in the Dragon Court of the Panqua Palace, was troubled. She had been a page for perhaps one hundred years and recently had detected currents of—for lack of a better word—energy among the court owls. She had never before felt such currents there. Was it restlessness? Such disquiet was almost unimaginable amid the thick lethargy of the Dragon Court owls. Their vanity linked with their dullness of wit had kept them subdued. The excessive pride they took in their plumage had led them to grow their feathers to such extravagant lengths that they could hardly fly, and for the most part were towed about the jeweled interior of the palace by bearers. There had been the unfortunate incident of Orlando, who had managed to pluck his feathers secretly u
ntil they were a reasonable length for flight and then escaped. How he had ever managed to learn how to fly was still a mystery. But as far as Taya knew, the other owls of the Dragon Court were too listless to have even noticed.

  Taya had detected this strange energy perhaps two or three moon cycles previously. At first, she thought it was her imagination. But now she began to wonder again when she saw two azure-colored owls whispering with a new brightness in their eyes. She watched carefully as they were towed side by side through the Hollow of Benevolence and Forgiveness in the wake of the Empress Dowager. The empress seemed as dull-eyed as ever. Taya sensed an impatience in the two azure owls, as if they wanted to move faster. This was unheard of. Taya also observed that their feathers seemed somehow different. She decided she had to discuss her concerns with the steward. A pompous old owl, he was only the third steward since the creation of the Panqua Palace nearly one thousand years before by Theosang, the first H’ryth. Taya was not looking forward to this meeting but it needed to be done. She proceeded toward his office, the Jasper Chamber directly off the Hollow of Perpetual Beauty, where the dragon owls indulged in endless preening.

  “Permission to see the steward.” Taya addressed a tiny cerulean-blue owl, who resembled an Elf Owl except for his color.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, but this is important.”

  “That’s what they all say.” He had mastered the cultivated weariness of the steward’s many sycophants. They all tried to lord their position over the other owls who served in the Panqua Palace. One had to play their game, had to toady up to them the way they toadied to the steward. The cerulean owl named Pingong would take a bit of work.

  “Come on, Ping. You know I hardly ever ask for an audience with the steward,” Taya said. Pingong gave Taya a look of disdain which was not easy since she towered over him. How does an owl who is one-third my height manage to look down at me? Taya wondered. She was becoming tired of this game. What she had to talk to the steward about was important and she was getting very irritated. “Look,” Taya said. “The last secretary to the steward was let go because the head page complained. That was maybe fifty years ago, and guess what? I’m the head page now. If you consult the Panqua Scroll of Peerage, in the staffing section for the palace, you will find that I actually outrank you.” The little owl wilfed a bit and became slightly smaller. “So let’s be reasonable.”

  “Oh, all right. He’s in there now, going over the menus.”

  The steward was a jade-blue with dashes of a softer blue in his coverts. He was bent over some charts. “Yes,” he said, but did not look up.

  “High Steward,” Taya began. No one was ever allowed to address the steward by anything but his title, never his name. “I have recently become aware of a stirring, a suspicious energy in the palace.”

  The steward still did not look up. This was part of his game. It did not disturb Taya in the least. She was about to go on when he said, “Are you aware, Taya, that this new source of yak butter I found for the preening has not only increased the dragon owls’ feather growth, but since we have incorporated it into their diet, it seems to be making them even fatter and slower. They delight in it.”

  Yak butter was the fuel used for fire in the Middle Kingdom. Every hollow had its yak butter lamps. It was rarely used for feather conditioner. And, thought Taya, I am sure you’re getting a kickback.

  The high steward could be absolutely maddening. “Look,” Taya said impatiently. “With all due respect, I did not come here to talk about yak butter.”

  Now the jade-blue owl looked up from his scroll. “I don’t care for your tone, Taya,” he said slowly.

  Taya ignored the comment and barged ahead. “I’m worried. I am detecting unrest.”

  “You have a very active imagination.”

  “Before Orlando left…”

  The high steward cut her off immediately. “We don’t speak of that. It was a freakish anomaly.”

  “Indeed!” Taya said pointedly, and glared at the high steward, her contempt barely concealed. “When was the last time we took a census?”

  “A census? You mean, actually counting all the owls in the Panqua Palace?”

  “Yes, this used to be done on a regular basis.”

  “It was found to be a waste of time and effort. There are more than a thousand owls here.”

  “Are there?” Taya said softly. The jade-blue owl puffed up his feathers. He narrowed his eyes. As if to say, You dare challenge me? But instead, he returned to his study of the fat content in yak milk. “You are dismissed, Taya. Do not bother me again with your imaginative ramblings.”

  Taya whirled and flew out of the Jasper Chamber. She was absolutely furious. Tearing through the Hollow of Extended Preening and then taking a sharp turn, she swept down the Hollow of Supreme Contentment where the Empress Dowager was being towed by her servants. The wafting extravagance of her feathers created a soft weather of their own that actually generated thermals on which servants could often soar without stirring a wing. The empress tipped her head up. “Why the rush, dear Taya? Enjoy my thermal drafts.”

  “Yes, they are lovely, glorious. They wrap me in your eternal beauty and warmth.”

  It was part of court etiquette to answer almost any remark from one of the dragon owls with lavish praise. Taya knew that she must slow her flight or she would be in for yet another reprimand from the minister of protocol. Perhaps slowing down was good. It would give her time to think. Her emotions had gotten the better of her during the disastrous interview with the high steward. She would coast along for a bit and then discreetly leave the Empress Dowager’s thermal wake at the Amethyst Gate.

  Despite the spaciousness of the Panqua Palace’s hollows and the dazzling beauty of its jeweled walls and pillars, there was not a servant who did not welcome a break from its splendor when they could fly freely outside, encountering the real wind and the tumultuous drafts that blew off the snowy peaks of the Middle Kingdom. Each servant earned a leave of absence, usually once a moon cycle, when they would return and visit their families. And although it was an honor to serve in the Panqua Palace, it was an even greater one to serve as pikyus, the spiritual teachers who resided in the owlery at the Mountain of Time. But few were qualified and even fewer were chosen for the long arduous course of study.

  After leaving the dowager’s procession, Taya had been riding some crisp drafts not far from the opening split of the enormous geode that formed the structure of the Panqua Palace, when she spied a small blue cyclonic swirl rising up as if directly through the walls of the geode. She immediately went into a steep, banking turn to investigate closer. It must be from one of the vents, she thought. There were a series of natural vents penetrating the geode that brought in thin rivulets of fresh air to the outermost walls and chambers of the palace. These chambers were used mostly for storage of yak butter and as servants’ quarters. She alighted on a cornice just by the vent and poked her beak through. She blinked and felt a stab deep in her gizzard. There was an enormous pile of blue feathers in the chamber. Many of them had broken and bloodied shafts. These had not been naturally molted at all, but unnaturally plucked. This was precisely how Orlando had succeeded in arresting the extreme growth of his feathers before making his escape. Plucking the feathers when they were at the proper stage encouraged vigorous growth, and kept the vain dragon owls earthbound, but plucking when they were freen inhibited this growth, which was exactly what Orlando did to get himself flight-ready. How many Dragon Court owls are flight-ready right now? Taya wondered.

  She peered down at the pile of blood-streaked feathers. It seemed immense. Was a rebellion brewing? How many had already flown away, and where had they gone? She raged now when she thought of her curt dismissal by the high steward. He had nearly laughed at her when she had suggested a census. Then a maverick thought shot through her brain and she felt her gizzard freeze. Forget the dragon owl census. What about the sterile eggs that the dragon owls of the Panqua Palace rou
tinely produced? Unlike most sterile eggs, these were not allowed to remain in a nest for five minutes but were immediately removed by servants and destroyed. They were smashed to bits for reasons never quite clear to Taya but in strict accordance with instructions explicitly laid down in the Theo Papers. Hadn’t she noticed that the mound of broken eggshells that she often flew over seemed smaller of late?

  Taya now flew to the far side of the cliffs, where the refuse heaps were. There were mounds of yarped pellets and knolls made from the smashed shells of the infertile eggs. She was about to fly closer to the eggshell mound when she noticed one of the lower-echelon owls of the preening unit. His beak was slick with yak butter and he was poking into the yarped pellet heap. Why would a preener be sticking his nose into yarped pellets? Were there ingredients for some kind of beauty treatment to be found? Hardly! The notion was disgusting and would certainly offend the vanity of any dragon owl worth its fancy plumage. Taya watched closely. Her eyes widened. She felt her gizzard clutch. He was arranging pellets carefully around something. What was it? Why doesn’t he leave? She was desperate to see why a preener would be hanging around this offal. Finally, he left.

  As soon as he was out of sight, Taya flew down. She looked about, then began to poke her beak into the area where she had seen the preener. Her beak struck something! With her talons, she began carefully picking off the top layer of pellets. When she got to the bottom of the pile of pellets, she noticed the ground had been recently disturbed. So she began scratching at the loose gravelly debris. Within half a minute she saw something all too familiar—the gleaming dark shell of a sterile dragon owl’s egg. At that moment, Taya thought she might faint dead away. Her first instinct was to destroy it. But this had to be part of some terrible plot, a heinous conspiracy, and if the conspirators knew she was on to them, it would make it more difficult to catch them. She first had to tell someone. Not the steward, obviously. For all she knew, he was the owl behind the plot. No, there was only one thing to do.