To Be a King

by Kathryn Lasky

  The Night of the Green Light

  Ever since Hoole had run with the wolves that first time in the Beyond, there had been fleeting moments when he felt more wolf than owl. It was like that now as Hoole flew low over their silver-and-gray backs. The owl and the wolves were moving forward with the shadows as the night came on. Hoole felt each light footfall of the wolves. His breath came in the same panting rhythms. The wolves had assumed the tight pack of an ambush byrrgis. There would be a subtle shifting of positions as they advanced. It was the seamless movements, their flawless communication that was the real force that drove their intricate strategies, whether it was for hunting, tracking, or simply traveling; Hoole found it fascinating. The wolves played out these designs through a series of silent signals that appeared as smooth as the orbits of planets or the transit of the stars across the sky. The wolves had a name for such strategies: They called them the Great Game.

  The night was growing darker. There would be no moon, and shortly the hagsfiends would begin to stir. But as each minute passed, Hoole felt himself grow more wolflike. He felt the dish shape of his face begin to extend into the night and could imagine the almost square muzzle of a wolf instead of a beak. His ear slits seemed to move toward the top of his head, and he could twitch them in one direction and then another to collect sounds. In his chest, he felt a bigger heart pumping loudly, and even his talons began to feel different. I am not a wolf, but I am a wolf, he thought. A winged wolf.

  They were now approaching the five boulders. They would hunker down behind them and then when the first hags began to stir, Hoole would give a signal and the Great Game would enter the next phase.

  They waited and waited. Finally, Hoole detected a change in the hags’ breathing. He dragged his talon across a rock’s surface. The scratching of the talon was the first signal, and the wolves leaped to their positions on the boulders. Led by Fengo, the howling began, a wild and untamed sound scrolling through the night. The hagsfiends were aghast. They staggered from their sleep and in a great confusion tried to rise and loft themselves into the air. But the night was now crisscrossed with a shimmering green light. Hoole could hear the hagsfiends giving commands to their half-hags in that peculiar language reserved only for speaking to the tiny poisonous creatures. Although he could see their plumage stirring, the half-hags did not emerge. It was as if the green light had made them fall yeep before they could even fly out from the safety of their hosts’ feathers. This sent the hags-fiends into a panic. An order to cast a fyngrot was shrieked. Hoole knew that this would be the real test.

  The wolves now tipped their heads up. Green light issued from thirty pairs of eyes. Fengo began howling commands to direct their gaze, and just as he had hoped, shimmering green light beams shot across and over the hagsfiends as they tried to cast their ghastly fyngrot. Glaring yellow flashed from haggish eyes, but green blades of light cut through it, and the yellow fractured, shattering into millions of pieces.

  Hoole, aloft, together with Fengo on the boulder coordinated their commands from their different vantage points and guided the wolves’ eyes. For those hagsfiends who had lofted themselves into flight, it was as if the entire night had turned into a slope glazed in slippery green ice. They were losing their purchase on the air. Then Hoole saw something that froze his gizzard. “Behind you, Fengo! Behind!”

  Two hagsfiends who had slid down from the night sky were slithering on their bellies through the desert sand. Their talons were inches from Fengo’s back. Suddenly there were streaks of blood in the silver fur, and Fengo was rising in the night, clutched in the immense talons of a hagsfiend.

  “Look up! Look up! Cast your green!” Hoole shouted, but his words were swallowed by the night. The second hagsfiend was now racing toward Fengo’s head. One talon extended beyond the length of the rest. The truth of this moment began to sink in. The hagsfiend was going for Fengo’s eyes. Blood spurted into the night. A sickening feeling engulfed him.

  When Hoole had fought in the Battle of the Beyond, he had not been aware that his mother had sustained a direct hit. He thought she was beside him the entire time until he suddenly became aware that she was gone. This time, however, he had seen the attack. This time he could do something and a rage built in Hoole’s gizzard. He had never felt anything so intensely in his life. It was as if the heat of the ember was rising within him. A passion that seemed almost craven in its power flooded his entire being. He flew directly at the hagsfiend that had seized Fengo. They were high in the air. If the hag dropped Fengo, the wolf would surely die. And Hoole—not even half of the size of a hag—would not have the strength to carry his weight.

  “Do not drop him. I command you to set him down gently!” The words sounded entirely foolish. It was hard to imagine, let alone daring, to command a hagsfiend to do such a thing. But if any creature had looked up, they would have seen a curious sight. Overhead, an owl began to glow luminous green. He appeared to be composed more of light than feathers and bones and flesh. The hags-fiend was trying desperately to cast a fyngrot, but the yellow simply washed away in the night. “Down, down gently! Gently.” The hag, as if in some strange hypnotic state, began to sink slowly through the air and gently laid the bleeding wolf on the boulder.

  Taking their cue from Hoole, the other wolves began to bring the rest of the hagsfiends to ground by manipulating the beams of their eyes until a large web of green light was formed that, like a spider gathering its prey, drew them in.

  Then, when the hagsfiends touched ground, a silent signal was given, and the wolves sank their teeth into the throats of the stupefied hagsfiends. Hoole ripped open the chest of the hag that had gouged out Fengo’s eye, and another wolf killed the hag whose talons had clutched Fengo.

  Blood seeped from Fengo’s empty eye socket. The other eye still burned fiercely, but Fengo’s breath came in ragged gasps. “My time on earth is near its end, my friend, dear Hoole.”

  “No! No! It cannot be. It simply cannot be!”

  “But it is, Hoole,” Fengo said calmly.

  “The ember. I felt the power of the ember. It brought the hagsfiends to the ground. It can bring you back to life.”

  “No, no, young king. It does not work that way.”

  “The magic of the ember can, though. It is good magen, not nachtmagen.”

  “Just the point, young’un. Good magic works in harmony with Lupus and Glaux and nature. Death is also part of the Great Game we wolves play. I am an old wolf, my time has come. You must not go against such things just because you have the ember.” There was a weird gurgling sound that came from Fengo as his chest heaved, gasping for every breath. “Say farewell to my old friend Grank… And now the time.” With his last bit of strength, he cocked his head and fixed his single eye on Hoole. It was time for lochinvyrr. Even though Hoole had not brought on this death, and although Fengo was not Hoole’s prey, this was an honorable death. It must be recognized as such in order for Fengo’s spirit to climb the spirit trail of the stars to the cave of souls, the wolf heaven.

  Namara, who had been standing off to one side, now approached Hoole. “The hagsfiends are all dead, Hoole. There were thirty to start with and there are thirty bodies accounted for.”

  Hoole looked up. He saw small piles of feathers. Once again, as in Ambala, he was astonished at how small they appeared in death. Hoole wondered, however, if these were the only hagsfiends in the S’yrthghar. And if they had simply strayed here after the Battle in the Beyond or if they had been ordered here by Lord Arrin. Had they diminished the enemy’s strength enough so that when the Short Light came, the enemy could be defeated? Well, he had done his best with the help of the wolves, but there were many questions still to be answered, and at least one battle yet to be fought.

  And was the world of owls any closer to being rid of all magic? That was the real question.

  The wolves dragged Fengo’s body far from those of the hagsfiends. At the bottom of a sandy rise they dug a pit and buried their chief so the carrion eaters woul
d not tear his body to pieces.

  The owl and the wolves then left the desert, and before the night was half over they were back in Ambala where they found a large old oak. It had turned cold and the wolves made what they called a sleep fold, in which they huddled together for warmth when there was no real shelter. As for Hoole, he was happy to be back in a tree. The night was still too young for any self-respecting owl to sleep, so he flew to the topmost branch of the tree. The darkness flowed with stars. Grank had taught him the names of the different stars and constellations, and Hoole knew that the group of stars that the owls called the Golden Talons was known as Lupus or the Star Wolf to the wolves. And as the last stars climbed to the front paws of the wolf, Hoole felt a strange mixture of sadness and joy: sadness at the loss of his old friend, and joy as he watched the spirit trail burn out of the night sky just beneath the Star Wolf. He’s on his way to the cave of souls, Hoole thought. Quietly, Hoole lifted off from the tree and flew into the night.

  Am I flying or loping through these stars? he thought as he traced with a wing tip the outline of the Star Wolf’s muzzle. There was a gathering of mist in the shape of a wolf that appeared to trot softly up the spirit trail. It passed Hoole and then paused. Turning its head, it raised its muzzle high and a sonorous howl flowed that was made of clouds and mists, star shine, and all the heavenly bits of the night. “Good-bye, my friend,” Hoole whispered. “Good-bye.”

  And far away on an island in the middle of the southern sea, another Spotted Owl peered into his own fire and saw that his old friend from the Beyond was climbing the spirit trail to the cave of souls. Glaumora? The cave of souls? thought Grank. They are one. We shall meet again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Emerilla?

  The great tree shook violently in the early winter storm. “Only a fool would be out there tonight,” Justin, a young Short-eared Owl, said. “What in Glaux’s name are Grank and Strix Strumajen perched on the lookout for?”

  “They ain’t fools, Justin. I just come off watch, and we think we spotted her daughter flying in.”

  “The young master of the short blade, eh? Well, stars in glaumora—that’ll set the old Strix up something fine, wouldn’t it?”

  “It certainly would.”

  Now both owls became curious enough that they crept from the coziness of the guard hollow they shared near the very top of the great tree and peered up. A lovely Spotted Owl had just landed next to Strix Strumajen and Grank.

  “Mum?”

  “Emerilla!” Strix Strumajen’s beak dropped open.

  “This is your daughter?” Grank asked.

  “Yes!” Strix Strumajen gasped and then folded her daughter gently into her wings. The young Spotted Owl closed her eyes tight and tried not to fall off the branch as a wave of nausea swept through her. Don’t yarp, don’t yarp. It must be that thing they call a gizzard. Emotions don’t just get in the way, she thought. They make you sick.

  “Are you all right, dear? You look a bit shaky.”

  “Fine, Mum. Fine.”

  “Just your gizzard. I know mine is in a wondrous twitch.” Strix Strumajen’s eyes began to leak tears again.

  This is ridiculous, Lutta thought. She saw what Kreeth meant. Her own “gizzard” began to calm down a bit, and she was feeling slightly less nauseated.

  “We sent so many out to look for you. Where were you, and how did you ever find us?” Grank asked.

  “Oh, forgive me.” Strix Strumajen turned to her daughter. “I have not even introduced you to our dear Grank. He is the chief counsel to King Hoole.”

  “Oh, yes, so pleased to meet you,” Lutta said.

  “He is regent in Hoole’s absence,” Strix Strumajen explained.

  “Hoole isn’t here?” Lutta tried to cover her surprise. If he wasn’t in the great tree, it probably meant that the ember was not there, either. She had to be careful. “Where is he?”

  “Out looking for you, my dear—and on other business as well,” Strix Strumajen replied.

  Better not appear too interested in this “other business.” “I’m honored that a king should be looking for me.” That must have been the appropriate answer because Strix Strumajen made a soft churring noise. “Don’t be so modest, my dear. Your reputation as a close fighter and your courage in battle are well known.” She sighed and thought, If only my mate were alive and could see this magnificent daughter safe again. There was indeed a stronger resemblance between her daughter and her dear mate, Hurthwel, than she had remembered. She shut her eyes briefly as if to stanch the memory and the sorrow.

  Lutta had learned her lessons well. “Don’t think of dear Da now, Mum. We are together.”

  “Yes, Emerilla, and it seems like a miracle. They said you had vanished over the Ice Fangs. What happened?”

  Lutta was ready with her story. “It was almost like vanishing. Although there was no blood, I did suffer a terrible blow to my head and began to fall unconscious. And you’re right, it was a miracle of sorts. I plummeted right onto the furry belly of a polar bear. Svin was his name, and I am forever grateful to him. He saved my life. Not only that—he tucked me away in his ice cave and tended me, bringing me fish. He even grabbed me a lemming once.”

  Curious, thought Grank. He had never heard of a polar bear going after a lemming, especially a polar bear of the Ice Fangs. And this region was not known for lemming communities.

  “Believe me, Mum, I have had enough fish to last me a lifetime.”

  “Well, come with me, dear. We’ll go to the dining hollow and you can have your fill of vole and some awfully good meadow mice.”

  After having supped, Strix Strumajen led her daughter to the hollow they would share. She had hoped that her daughter might be a bit more forthcoming as to how she had heard that her mother was here at the great tree and what she had been doing in these long moon cycles since she had been struck down in the Ice Fangs. Had her recovery taken all this time? But Emerilla was chary with her information and seemed more interested in the young king and the ember.

  “You’ve heard about the ember, then?” Strix Strumajen asked.

  “Oh yes, Mum. It’s the talk of the Northern Kingdoms.”

  “But you were mostly with this polar bear, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, but Svin got out and about. He brought me news. But tell me, what is the young king like?”

  “Oh, quite handsome. Very quick-witted. He’s…” She paused. She had told Emerilla that Hoole was out looking for her, but she had not told her the other part of his mission, which was even more important: to set up a system of slipgizzles in the S’yrthghar. For some reason, she hesitated to tell Emerilla this. True, only the parliament knew the full extent of Hoole’s mission. But why was she not eager to share everything with her daughter? She suddenly felt her gizzard give an alarming twinge. What is happening? My gizzard should not be doing this. She looked at her daughter again and marveled at how much she resembled her father.

  Twice during that first day’s sleep in the hollow, Strix Strumajen woke up and went over to where her daughter perched in a corner, sound asleep. Strix Strumajen peered at her, blinking, running her eyes over every little tuft, and gently preening her feathers as she had so longed to do. Why am I not happier? she thought. Is there something wrong with me? I love her so much. Why do I have these strange feelings in my gizzard? Finally, Strix Strumajen returned to her perch and fell into a deep sleep.

  “Mum! Mum!” Emerilla was shaking her.

  “What? What is it, dear? What time is it?”

  “Nearly tween time. Can’t you hear the cheering?”

  “Yes! What is it?”

  “The king has been spotted. He is approaching the tree.”

  “Oh, Great Glaux. He’s back! How wonderful!”

  “Yes, and won’t he be surprised?”

  “Why’s that, dear?”

  “Well, I’m here. The object of his search.”

  Strix Strumajen blinked. How odd, she thought, and somewhat immod
est. Emerilla had always been so modest, so self-effacing.

  “And the ember is back now, right? With him?”

  “Why, it never left, dear,” Strix Strumajen replied.

  “Really?”

  “Yes. It would be most cumbersome to carry around.”

  “But is it safe?”

  “Why wouldn’t it be safe?” She paused. “Emerilla, in this tree we have a bond of trust. Trust is really the essence of the Guardians of Ga’Hoole. You do understand that, don’t you, darling? Trust was as much a part of our own family as the spots on our brows.” She reached out and touched her daughter’s brow that now so resembled the spiral of spots of her father’s face. She felt Emerilla flinch slightly at her touch, and a dread began to seep into Strix Strumajen’s gizzard. Emerilla has changed in some way. That blow on her head has joggled something in her. Perhaps she needs a gizzard tonic. I shall consult with Grank.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  An Assassination Attempt

  In the Ice Palace of the H’rathghar glacier, a band of gadfeathers was making music, and a dozen owls led by Philma and Shadyk were dancing a flying quadrille. Servants were delivering piles of lemmings and a great quantity of bingle juice was being quaffed. Standing in the shadows, Theo watched with dismay as his brother roared drunken calls for the dancers.

  Fly your partner round about,

  then spiral up and head on out.

  Flap your wings, then flutter on up.

  Here’s a lemming for your sup.

  He staggered as he tried to land on the melting ice throne. To think that Hoole’s father and grandfather, both such noble owls, had once sat there!

  Sigrid, known only to Theo to be Emerilla, flew by with a lemming in each talon on her way to serve the guests. “Meet me at the northeast parapet when the moon’s full up. News. We leave tonight,” she whispered as she swept by Theo.

  He had not planned to stay this long, but he needed more information to take back to the great tree. It was a race between how fast the Ice Palace was rotting and how fast other troops were approaching to lay siege. But now, finally, the end seemed to be in sight. Emerilla indeed was an owl of extraordinary intelligence and bravery. The risks she took every day, flying out under the cover of daylight to see what Lord Arrin’s troops or the renegade packs of hagsfiends were up to, took enormous grit and daring. Yet here in the Ice Palace, she passed herself off as a most dutiful and diminished servant, enduring abuse from Shadyk and his bullying guards and councillors. The owls who served Shadyk as advisors were by no stretch of the imagination true councillors. They were only required to agree with him, to humor him and lavish praise upon him even when he was in a drunken stupor.