To Be a King

by Kathryn Lasky

  GUARDIANS OF GA’HOOLE

  THE LEGENDS

  To Be a King

  By

  Kathryn Lasky

  SCHOLASTIC INC.

  New York Toronto London Auckland

  Sydney Mexico City New Delhi Hong Kong

  “Where there are legends, there can be hope. Where there are legends, there can be dreams of knightly owls, from a kingdom called Ga’Hoole, who will rise each night into the blackness and perform noble deeds. Owls who speak no words but true ones. Owls whose only purpose is to right all wrongs, to make strong the weak, mend the broken, vanquish the proud, and make powerless those who abuse the frail. With hearts sublime, they take flight…”

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Excerpt

  Maps

  Prologue

  CHAPTER ONE A Great Tree

  CHAPTER TWO Just Plain Hoole?

  CHAPTER THREE Meditations on an Ember

  CHAPTER FOUR To Be a Guardian

  CHAPTER FIVE The Hagsfiend of the Ice Narrows

  CHAPTER SIX The Education of Lutta

  CHAPTER SEVEN Strix Strumajen Yearning

  CHAPTER EIGHT A Mission for Half-hags

  CHAPTER NINE Theo Meets Svenka

  CHAPTER TEN Into the S’yrthghar

  CHAPTER ELEVEN Perch Warriors

  CHAPTER TWELVE Theo Pushes On

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN Home?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN A Stench Most Foul

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN Black Feathers in the Desert

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN In Search of a Feather

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN The Ice Palace of the H’rathghar

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN To Be Emerilla

  CHAPTER NINETEEN An Old Friend

  CHAPTER TWENTY A Rotting Palace

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE Desert Hags

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO The Night of the Green Light

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE Emerilla?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR An Assassination Attempt

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE “Who Am I? What Am I?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX Not the Ember!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN Into the Short Light

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT Into the Long Night

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE The Ice Palace

  Epilogue

  OWLS and others from the GUARDIANS OF GA’HOOLE SERIES

  The Guardians of Ga’Hoole

  A peek at THE GUARDIANS of GA’HOOLE Book Twelve: The Golden Tree

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright

  Maps

  Prologue

  “Nachtmagen!” The word hung in the air treacherous, insidious.

  “Do you really think so, Coryn?” Gylfie asked. “Do you think that nachtmagen has seeped back into our world with the ember?”

  The six owls peered down at the latticed iron box that contained the glowing Ember of Hoole. It was less than the cycle of one moon since Coryn had retrieved the ember from the fires of the volcano Dunmore in Beyond the Beyond to become the rightful heir to the throne of the Great Ga’Hoole Tree. Good Coryn, noble Coryn. But now the owls were shocked as Coryn spoke of this bad magic, this nachtmagen from the ancient times that threatened to destroy the owl world. Through the latticework of the box, they could see the ember’s orange glow with the lick of blue in its center ringed in green. It seemed to pulsate, to breathe.

  For several long nights and days the six knightly owls of the Great Ga’Hoole Tree had been reading the ancient volumes that contained the legends of Ga’Hoole. On his deathbed, Ezylryb, their beloved teacher, had instructed them to read these secret books that he had hidden away in his hollow.

  “Ezylryb meant to warn us,” Digger said.

  “But I don’t understand,” Gylfie protested. She was perched on the shoulder of the Great Gray, Twilight. “We were just getting to the good part. The Great Ga’Hoole Tree and the good magic that made it grow.”

  Soren sighed and felt a bit of a tremor in his gizzard. “I am sure the ember brings much good. But we know that good and evil can exist side by side.”

  “Soren is right,” Otulissa said. “Evil may cloak itself as good, and good can sometimes appear to be evil. They know each other’s ways.”

  Coryn looked closely at Otulissa. The Spotted Owl had been his mentor in the Beyond. He trusted her greatly, but even he was surprised at how fairly she had described what he sensed were the dangers of the ember. Had King Hoole himself been aware of the perils of the ember? Had he been able to vanquish the evil? The nachtmagen? Perhaps they would learn from this last book of the legends. He turned to Soren. “Uncle Soren, let us begin the third legend.”

  Soren swept one wing over the mouse-leather cover of the ancient volume. A puff of dust swirled into the air. The tarnished gold letters seemed to shine in the glow of the coal that was set nearby. In large letters were the words: THE LEGENDS OF GA’HOOLE. And then written smaller were four words—TO BE A KING.

  CHAPTER ONE

  A Great Tree

  It matters not who I am, only that I tell the rest of the tale…

  Hoole flew on, a simple knight among knights. No crown, no kingly trappings. He wore only his battle claws and, from his starboard claw, hung a crude metal container. In it glowed the mysterious coal that he had retrieved from the boiling lava of the volcano Dunmore in the Beyond. The heat from that ember, though strong, was not as intense as another, more illusive power that seemed to emanate from its depths. How odd, Hoole thought. The ember had drained Grank of energy and caused the powerful old owl to succumb to an overwhelming lethargy of mind and body. But this was not the case for Hoole. Indeed, it was quite the opposite. He felt a new strength that almost frightened him and with it came a taste for vengeance. Vengeance for his mother’s death, for his father’s murder, vengeance for all the ruin and desecration that Lord Arrin and his hagsfiends had brought to a once-great kingdom. Hoole felt a deep unwelcome movement in his gizzard. Vengeance could be a distraction. And worse, vengeance was the elixir of tyrants. Creatures had been driven mad by vengeance.

  On his port wing, Hoole was flanked by Grank, his mentor and foster father, and, on his starboard wing, by his two best friends: tiny Phineas, a Pygmy Owl, and Theo, a Great Horned. Behind them flew scores of owls and beneath them boiled a tempestuous sea. Through the sea’s cresting waves an island broke and on that island a great tree loomed. It was the most immense tree any of the owls had ever seen. It soared out of the clouds as if to scrape the moon and fling some of its silver to make a path for the owls to follow, for a thickening fog began to swirl that obscured the sea itself. But the mist turned pearly and a luminous glow surrounded the island. Did this light come from the moon? The stars? Or the glowing ember the young king named Hoole clutched in his battle-clawed talons? Once again, the power of this ember gave Hoole pause. What were its limits? What was the reach of its light?

  Hoole came fresh from the great Battle in the Beyond against the forces of Lord Arrin and his hagsfiends. Lord Arrin was the usurper of the N’yrthghar, and slayer of King H’rath, Hoole’s father. Then in the Battle in the Beyond, Hoole’s mother, Queen Siv, had been slain as well. Though Hoole and the H’rathian Guard had won this last battle, Hoole’s gizzard twisted in the agony of loss that shadowed their triumph.

  But now was not the time for mourning. A new order was to begin on this night. Now more than ever, Hoole had to reclaim his father’s kingdom, oust the rebellious lords and their hideous hagsfiends. Even more important than this, he must rid the owl world of the poisonous nachtmagen that had begun to spread like some terrible disease. Until this time the cunning magic of the hagsfiends had been confined to the N’yrthghar. But for the first time hagsfiends had ventured into the S’yrthghar. Hoole dared not think what would happen
if they stayed and increased. The magic they practiced was of the vilest sort.

  Hoole knew the ember had great powers, but would it help him think? Would it help him lead? For that, Hoole felt he must use his firesight; there were flames to be studied. There would be new plots, ominous alliances. Lord Arrin had been beaten into retreat but not yet destroyed, and the hagsfiends were roaming the world of owls. Suddenly, Hoole’s dire thoughts were interrupted by an excited shout.

  “The tree! The tree!” dozens of owls hooted. The branches seemed to reach out to embrace them, and from each branch slender vines hung down, stirred by a gentle breeze. On the vines were berries the color of gold with just a touch of rose.

  Grank, battle weary and thinking that indeed he had grown old, suddenly felt a tingle in his gizzard. He blinked in amazement at the sight of this huge tree. How well he remembered when they passed over the island not even a moon cycle before on their way from the N’yrthghar to the Beyond and had lighted down for a rest. The island had been barren then, with nothing but scrub and rocks.

  Grank recalled how Hoole had stood apart, weeping for his mother, and how his tears had fallen on one tiny seedling just then sprouting from the barren soil. And how the tree began to grow at a miraculous rate.

  How odd, he thought now as he approached the tree. Its berries appear to be shaped like teardrops. The old Spotted Owl blinked again to clear his eyes.

  Hoole’s words flooded back to Grank as they flew through the gently swaying curtains of teardrop berries. “This is a good tree. It has…Ga’, Uncle Grank. Yes, Ga’!”

  Ga’ was that most elusive of all owl qualities. It literally meant “great spirit”; a spirit that somehow did not contain only all that is noble but all that is humble, as well.

  Hoole had been right in bringing them back to this tree and not directly to the N’yrthghar. It was not yet time to go north. All in due course…all in due course, thought Grank.

  Suddenly, there was a great din in Grank’s ear slits, a surging up of hoots and chimes, of hoo-hoos, woo-woos, and whoops. Every species of owl had its own particular way of hooting, but they were all crying out the same words: “The Great Ga’Hoole Tree! The Great Ga’Hoole Tree!”

  The young king swiveled his head and blinked in confusion at his mentor. “What is this?”

  Grank churred softly and replied, “They have named the tree Hoole.”

  “But—” Hoole started to say.

  “Yes, Great Spirit of Hoole. It is named for you, Hoole, and rightfully so.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Just Plain Hoole?

  Outside the Great Ga’Hoole tree, a late summer storm raged and lightning peeled back the sky. But inside the tree, which still continued to grow but more slowly, all was dry and cozy. Even with the loudest claps of thunder, the immense tree hardly shuddered. Hoole was in the loveliest hollow he could ever imagine, gazing at the ember glowing through the piercings in a small metal container. Grank flew into the hollow.

  “Ah, a lovely new box, Your Grace.”

  Hoole looked up at his mentor in dismay. “Not you, too!”

  “Me, too, what, Your Majesty?”

  “We’ve been here barely three nights, and everywhere I turn it’s ‘Your Grace,’ ‘Your Highness,’ ‘Your Majesty.’ I can’t stand it. If you start, too, Uncle Grank, I’ll feel I have lost my oldest friend.”

  “You must understand, Hoole, these titles are a form of respect. It is important that respect be maintained if you are to lead.”

  “But it is action and words that earns one respect, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, a title is worthless without the gallgrot to back it up. But it is protocol, after all.”

  This word confused Hoole. He guessed it had to do with how a king’s or queen’s retinue paid homage to their monarch; very much about ritual and manners. It sounded incredibly boring to Hoole, and very restrictive.

  Grank, for his part, had to remind himself continually that Hoole was a different kind of monarch. He had been raised about as far as one could be from the elaborate rituals of court behavior. So why bog him down with rigid procedures and detailed codes of manners and ritual?

  Grank looked at the new container for the ember. “The new box is lovely. Very different shape—not square as before. Almost a…” Grank hesitated. He had been about to say “teardrop,” but instead said “berry.”

  “Yes,” Hoole whispered. “Theo took the old one and reshaped it.” Hoole also resisted saying the word “teardrop.” Theo had not known about Hoole’s tears. The Great Horned blacksmith had merely thought the shape of the berries lovely.

  “You know, they say the berries taste like what some creatures call milk,” Grank added. “Some owls call them milkberries now,” Grank said.

  “Oh, really?” Thank Glaux they’re not Hoole berries or some such nonsense! Hoole thought.

  “Well,” Grank said, “Theo has done wonders with his forge. So lucky he found that cave. He’s got his fires going. And, he has come around to making battle claws.”

  “I know it must have been a hard decision, Theo being a gizzard-resister and all,” Hoole said.

  “It was the battle that changed him,” Grank offered. “And, of course, the idea of hagsfiends and nachtmagen let loose in the world.” He paused. “Well, I think I shall turn in for the day, Your—” He stopped himself. “Hoole, I’ll tell you what: I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll not call you Your Grace or any of those titles that you seem to loathe if you’ll not call me Uncle.”

  “You don’t like being called Uncle?” Hoole blinked in surprise.

  Grank’s yellow eyes softened. “I love it. It stirs my gizzard like no other word, I think. But if you are to be king, it does not suit to call your chief advisor Uncle.”

  “I see,” Hoole replied. “All right, Grank. You shall be Grank and I shall be just plain Hoole.”

  Hardly, Grank thought as he left the hollow. Hardly “just plain Hoole”!

  CHAPTER THREE

  Meditations on an Ember

  Hoole resumed his study of the ember in the iron teardrop. “I am king because of you, ember,” he whispered. It startled him that he had addressed the ember as if it were a living creature. But in a curious way it felt right. The ember was said to have great powers. He had heard in great detail from the wolf Fengo that its powers nearly overcame Grank when he first retrieved it years ago. Hoole thought about magic and why even good magic might not truly be the way to rule. It was disturbing to him that some of the owls of the tree were thinking of him as not only a king but a mage. He disliked the title “mage” even more than that of “king.”

  “How dangerous you can be!” he spoke in that same hushed voice to the ember. It seemed to pulse and the blue glow at its center darkened. “So many want you. Would kill for you. So many think that your magic will grant them all powers, perhaps even immortality, eh?” The ember gave a little hiss and a bit of fiery spittle escaped the iron teardrop. So, thought Hoole, this ember forces us to balance on a blade’s edge between a kingship and tyranny, between principles of justice and magic. “Somehow I must make all owls of the Great Tree understand this danger.”

  The lovely voice of the Snow Rose, the gadfeather who had fought with them in the Beyond, began to filter through the tree. She had taken to singing ballads toward First Light as the owls nestled in for the day.

  Where go the stars,

  where goes the dark,

  the night so black and clear?

  Worry not, worry not,

  night will come again soon.

  Dark, dark, fold me in your wings.

  Dark, dark, let my gizzard sing.

  But now is the time for light—

  let it come, let it come.

  Bring the sun so bright,

  then the shadows beyond the noon

  grow long as day grows old.

  Worry not, my owls,

  the dark will wait for you.

  Worry not, the night steals away the day.


  Worry not, twilight turns to gray.

  Here comes the night,

  here comes the night.

  Hoole had been so glad that the Snow Rose had decided to stay at least temporarily. But Grank had warned him that gadfeathers rarely remained in any place for long. “Remember, Hoole, she’s already tried being a Glauxian Sister. And she left that after a very short time. Once a gadfeather, always a gadfeather,” Grank had cautioned.

  Hoole thought about this now. For the past three nights she had sung to them at daybreak. Daybreak could be a hard time for owls. The night was gone and everything seemed too bright. But she had made it a more comfortable, friendlier time. Perhaps that was it! Hoole suddenly realized a thing of great importance. The Snow Rose might stay because she had a unique role to play here. If each owl thought he or she was special and vital to the tree, it would not only make them loyal but also perhaps distract them from notions of magic and mages. More than that, it could make this tree truly great if each owl used their special talents. The Snow Rose was much more than a gadfeather. She was an artist and a warrior. Just as Theo was much more than a blacksmith who forged weapons. He must learn to make many useful things beyond battle claws and containers for embers. Hoole looked at the iron teardrop now. Suppose, thought Hoole, Theo might be able to make many similar containers, and we could put coals in them to light the many hollows in the tree. If certain hollows were always illuminated, learning could go on all the time.

  And Grank himself was a collier. He must teach others if the skill was not to be lost eventually. There were so many things to be taught, to be learned. The Great Ga’Hoole Tree could become great beyond its mere size. It would be the beginning of a new era that would be Glaux blessed and free of magic or nachtmagen. Now how to explain all of this to the parliament?

  He poked his beak out of the hollow and summoned a young lieutenant from the Ice Regiment of H’rath, who had been perched as a lookout.

  “Yes, Your Majesty?” The Barn Owl swept down from his high perch.