The Keepers of the Keys

by Kathryn Lasky

  Until they become conscious they will never rebel, and until after they have rebelled they cannot become conscious.

  —George Orwell, 1984

  Title Page

  Epigraph

  Northern Kingdoms Map

  Ga’Hoole!

  Prologue

  Chapter 1: An Old Spy Reflects

  Chapter 2: The Keepers

  Chapter 3: Blades and Blood

  Chapter 4: The Mystress of Nothing!

  Chapter 5: The Great Tree

  Chapter 6: A Parliament of Owls

  Chapter 7: Wings in the Moonlight

  Chapter 8: The Yinqui’s Nook

  Chapter 9: Twixt Time

  Chapter 10: A Bear with a Plan

  Chapter 11: The Skylblad’s Last Stab

  Chapter 12: Lago

  Chapter 13: The Lessons Begin

  Before the Beyond

  Chapter 14: “My Own Kind”

  Chapter 15: “I Am Who I Am”

  Chapter 16: Ambush in Ambala

  Chapter 17: A Code Is Cracked!

  Chapter 18: Of Scrooms and Moonlight

  Chapter 19: The Greenowls of Ambala

  Chapter 20: The Residue of a Bear

  Beyond the Beyond

  Chapter 21: In a Strange Land

  Chapter 22: The Gadderheal

  Chapter 23: Third Dreamwalks

  Chapter 24: Cell Block Six

  Chapter 25: A Figure in the Mists

  Chapter 26: Fracture

  Chapter 27: Weeping at the Star Ladder

  The Namara

  Chapter 28: A Secret Language

  Chapter 29: Svenna Carries On

  Chapter 30: Two Old Warriors

  Chapter 31: The Namara

  Chapter 32: The Shadow of War

  Chapter 33: A Reunion

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Copyright

  In distant Ambala, in a very tall tree, a dying tree, a tiny spotted owl teetered on the edge of a hollow, crying out into the night. “Maaa … maa … Mama!” The owl listened for her mother’s wing beats. She would recognize them, she was sure. Even though she had hatched out no more than ten days before, when the moon began to dwenk. Rags—for that was what her mum called her—had heard those wing beats signaling that her mum was coming home each night with a worm or a fat Ambala caterpillar or a small snake. She had looked forward to meat. The real meat like her mum ate—a nice plump vole or mouse.

  And when that first bit of mouse had arrived, her mum had dumped it unceremoniously, saying, “That should do you,” and flown off.

  “But, Ma,” Rags had called into the darkness. “I’m not sure how to eat meat. What about my first fur-on-meat ceremony?”

  Her mother had twisted her head around as only an owl can and replied, “You’ll learn on your own just fine. No need for all that nonsense.”

  The owlet had gasped as her mother, a beautiful owl with luminous spots on her wings, vanished without a good-bye in the gathering gloom of the night.

  I am supposed to love the night, Rags thought. But I don’t. Not now!

  All owls loved the night and the coziness of the dark. But there was nothing cozy when an owlet like Rags was left featherless—for her wings had not fledged—cold, and alone.

  “Maaaaaaa!” she cried. And then the night swallowed the moon and the darkness began to swallow the owlet and the owlet swallowed nothing.

  On an island in the far west of the Everwinter Sea, a bear by the name of Svern huddled in his Yinqui den. He pressed the stubble of what used to be his port ear against the peculiar ice. This particular ice was known for its singular properties, which allowed it to transmit sound and coded messages. Thus, Svern, a seasoned Yinqui, the old Krakish word for listener or spy, would know if the cubs—his daughter, Jytte; his son, Stellan; and their two friends Third and Froya—had safely made the passage to Ga’Hoole. And when they did, Blythe, a barn owl and the code cracker, would tap out the news of the cubs’ safe arrival. Not on ice, however. For such ice did not exist there. She would tap her message on the roots of the Great Ga’Hoole Tree.

  The roots of that immense and legendary tree in which the Guardians of Ga’Hoole dwelled also had the odd attribute of transmitting sound. Svern would wait patiently, but he was not a patient bear when it came to those four cubs who had taught him how to be a father. And he had taught them, or rather advised them, how to penetrate the Den of Forever Frost. That den was where the key to the deadly Ice Clock had lain for centuries. And it was the key that would stop the clock, the source of the Grand Patek’s authority. These four cubs had accomplished the unimaginable, and they were now on their way to deliver the key to where it would be safe until the owls of Ga’Hoole could be convinced to launch a flight force to take the key, slip it into the tumblers of the keyhole, and stop the clock once and for all. Those creatures were the only ones who could fly high enough to reach the keyhole. Svern had been cautious, however, when he spoke to the cubs. His mind now flashed back to the somewhat awkward conversation he had had with the cubs, in which he tried to avoid the subject of the possibility of war. With the key, he’d told them, the ultimate control of the clock is ours … for centuries no one has ever possessed the key. They did not know where it was, and without it, the Grand Patek’s power is nothing but a pretense.

  But then of course Jytte, impulsive and insightful as only Jytte could be, had parried. “But it doesn’t seem a pretense. The Grand Patek has complete control of the Ice Cap. He is worshipped by the Timekeepers.”

  Svern’d tried to ignore his daughter’s argument. He’d just wanted the cubs to focus on delivering the key. Let King Soren and the parliament speak of war. Your sole mission, he’d thought. Get the key to the owls. The owls will take care of the rest. “I must stop calling you cubs. You are nearly full grown now. You are yosses.”

  “Yosses?’ Third had said with more than a hint of disbelief.

  “It’s not just about size, Third,” Svern explained. “It’s about experience.”

  Svern would have liked to go with the cubs on this mission. He knew the owls. He knew the Hoolian ways. But the times were simply too dangerous for him to be abroad. He was too well-known for one thing. His very presence might attract Roguer bears and endanger the cubs. He had to stay hidden. That was how he could most effectively help in the fight against the Timekeepers of the Ice Clock.

  Svern had been captured once by Roguer bears and been tortured. They had burned off his ears with hot coals. But in spite of that, he could still hear if he pressed his ear holes close enough to the ice. And he himself was an expert coder like Blythe. He had to keep track of any enemy activity in the region. Therefore, he remained in his den on Stormfast, an island strategically placed to pick up communications from not just the Great Ga’Hoole Tree, but his paw master, Blue Bear, stationed on the Hrath’ghar Glacier, and another Yinqui bear named Long Ice to the north and slightly east on the same glacier. The points of the three dens of these Yinquis formed a triangle that allowed them to pinpoint any enemy movements within that space. It was vital that he remain at his post.

  Svern thought back to the moment he saw his daughter triumphantly holding aloft the key as she came out of the Den of Forever Frost. It was a moment he would never forget. The four cubs had done what no bear had ever done. They had even slain the unslayable, those monsters from the past who had been sleeping for thousands of years and were awakened when the cubs had trespassed the death pits in the den known as the hyrakiums.

  Svern had taught them how to use ice weapons with which they had killed the hagsfiends and the dragon walruses that had emerged from those pits—and perhaps killed them once and for all. But for the task ahead, he kne
w different skills would be required. The cubs had to learn the ways of the owls, and they had to convince these owls to stop the clock. Wings—wings were required, but not just wings. The entire kingdom of all the creatures of Ga’Hoole was needed. And this would be hard for the cubs to understand. For the world of Ga’Hoole was a complex one. Much more so than the ice-locked land of the Nunquivik. But they would have to learn quickly, for much depended on the cubs. They were now the Keepers of the Key.

  “Oh, and here’s one last joke for you! Why did the puffin cross the Ice Narrows?” a strange-looking bird with a chunky orange beak and a very plump body called out from a high cliff as the four cubs swam out of the Ice Narrows. They had been traveling from Svern’s den for the better part of a moon against prevailing winds and currents. They had all become used to Svern’s company. Jytte in particular had treasured his patience. She always had so many questions—about his own life as a cub; how he met their mum, Svenna; the weapons he had taught them to use. But the one thing she never asked him about was his time in the black orts, the torture chambers of the Roguer bears.

  Her brother, Stellan, did not ask nearly as many questions and sometime chastised her for doing so. But Stellan didn’t need to ask questions. He was a riddler. He could riddle a creature’s mind and often plucked the thoughts right out of them. It was Stellan who had warned her to never ask their father about the black orts.

  “Last joke?” Stellan said in response to the puffin. “I’m sure it’s a good one.”

  “Stellan, don’t encourage them!” Jytte growled. Svern had warned the cubs about these somewhat stupid birds and their stupid jokes. They didn’t need jokes now. They needed to focus on delivering the key in a pouch that Stellan wore around his neck. That was the only way to stop the clock and rescue their mother.

  Jytte felt a wave of pain as she thought of Svenna. Would she even recognize them? How terrible not to be recognized by one’s own mum. They were certain now that she was a prisoner at the Ice Clock. But was she still alive? Jytte remembered so vividly that horrible twilight when the Roguer bears had come for Svenna. One on either side of her, with their badges of a prey’s blood emblazoned on their chests. The disbelief in their mother’s eyes as she was forcefully dragged away. This horrible image filled her head as the cursed puffins cackled on.

  The bird had not been discouraged in the least. “The puffin crossed the Ice Narrows to … to … Oh, I forget the punch line.”

  “I don’t,” said another puffin. “Here it is!” A smaller puffin knocked the first one with his bulbous head. The punched puffin went spinning through the air toward the water. The bears stopped swimming and treaded water.

  “Great Ursus, I hope it’s not hurt,” Stellan gasped. The four cubs, Stellan, Jytte, Third, and his sister, Froya, scanned the surface. In another two seconds, the puffin bobbed up. The cubs blinked. Clamped in the puffin’s beak were a dozen small fish perfectly lined up. Stellan believed the small, slim fish were called capelin. All the cubs’ eyes opened wide in wonder.

  “How’d you do that?” Stellan asked.

  “Lemme tell you …” But of course as soon as the odd bird opened her mouth, the fish fell out.

  “Oh, Stellan, look what you made the poor bird do,” Froya said.

  “Not to worry, madam.” The bird dived beneath the water and in a matter of seconds was back with some more.

  Another puffin flew down. “Dumpette, you idiot! That’s the second time I pulled the punch on you.” The bird, who appeared neckless, swiveled his head toward the bears. “Get it? Pulled a punch?”

  “Don’t speak!” Stellan warned. “Not with your mouth full. You’ll lose them again!”

  Dumpette—for that appeared to be the creature’s name—seemed to be concentrating very hard on swallowing the fish. As she swallowed the last one, she belched. “There it goes. The last one. Number forty.”

  “Forty?” Froya said. “I thought I only saw ten in your beak.”

  “Forty’s her favorite number,” the other puffin said.

  “But last week my favorite number was twenty-two. I like twos.”

  “We like twos!” the friend squawked.

  “Oh, Dumpster!” Dumpette giggled.

  “Those are your names?” Third inquired. “Dumpette and Dumpster?”

  “The Dumpster!” said the puffin, and puffed out his chest a bit.

  “He thinks it makes him sound more important,” Dumpette offered.

  “You’re brother and sister?”

  “Yes, and there are two of us. That’s as far as we can count. But that doesn’t mean we don’t like other numbers.” He paused. “I myself have a special fondness for eight.”

  Jytte’s head was spinning. We have got to get out of here! “Come on,” she said to Stellan, Third, and Froya. “It’s time to go.”

  Ga’Hoole was their destination, or more specifically the island of Hoole, where the Great Ga’Hoole Tree grew. It was from the immense tree that an order of knightly owls would rise each night to perform noble deeds.

  They left the puffins, and Stellan felt the pleasant weight of the key pouch made from old sealskin around his neck as they swam on. As they passed out of the Ice Narrows into the sea of Hoolemere, they found the favorable current Svern had told them about, which would carry them to the island of Hoole. But as they grew closer, Stellan’s worries mounted. Would the owls even believe that this was the legendary key? Could they imagine that bears as young as they were had actually found their way to the very center of the Den of Forever Frost? Slain the unslayable? He turned to Jytte. “You know, Jytte, I think we should avoid telling them about the hagsfiends and all that.”

  “Why ever would you say that, Stellan? We did it.”

  “I mean, they are supposedly very reserved creatures. They might think we’re bragging or something.”

  “Or worse,” Third replied ominously.

  “Worse?” Jytte turned her head to look at little Third, who could barely keep his own head above the breaking waves as they swam.

  “Yes, they might think we’re … you know … making stuff up.”

  “Lying?” Froya asked. “Why would they think we’re lying?”

  “Because,” Third replied, “grown-up creatures often don’t believe youngsters.”

  Jytte fought down the desperation that seemed to swell within her with each passing second. Not to be believed after everything they had gone through? That was unthinkable. She gritted her back teeth as if she were chomping down on a seal bone for its marrow. Never! she thought. She would make them believe.

  “We should be able to see the Great Tree soon,” Jytte said. She held her head high above the choppy waters and scanned the horizon. “Urskadamus!” she muttered, for a thick fog had suddenly rolled in, smudging the horizon. It was as if the bleak, sunless sky were slamming down upon them, pressing them into a blind world between sky and sea. Not only that, the waves were kicking up higher. Jytte heard Third begin to cough.

  “Got a mouthful,” Third said, and then began gagging and sputtering.

  “Are you all right?” Jytte said. There was no answer. Third was the smallest of them all, and the waves were building.

  “Third? THIRD!!! Stellan, I think Third is in trouble,” Jytte shouted as the water stirred around her. There was a wild splashing. Without thinking twice she dived under the choppy surface. Reaching out with her paw, she grabbed some fur and dragged up a lump of something.

  “Urskadamus! Is he breathing?” Stellan was by her side. Jytte could hardly believe her ears. Her brother never swore but often chastised her for using Great Ursus’s name in vain.

  “He’s breathing. He just up-gutted on me,” Jytte replied.

  “Sorry about that,” Third said in a chipper voice. “I thought there might be something off about that last seal we got before we left.” Stellan looked at his sister. Her head and shoulders were drenched in vomit. “Not good to wash down a nice seal spleen with salt water, I guess.” The spleen was Thi
rd’s favorite part of a seal.

  “Well, to avoid swallowing more of the Sea of Hoolemere, I suggest that you ride on my shoulders,” Jytte offered, then stooped down to let Third climb onto her back.

  It was only a few minutes later that they heard a fluttering over their heads. At first, all they could see stuttering through the fog were two large black dots, almost like eyes, that stood out against the thick gray.

  “At your service!” a voice rang out quite clearly.

  A tiny owl flew out of the dense fog and hovered just above the cresting waves.

  “Who are you?” Third asked.

  “And what are you doing here?” Jytte tipped her slimy head toward the small bird.

  “Function-wise, I am your guide to the Great Tree, Rosie. Named after my great-great-grandma Primrose. Species-wise, I am a pygmy. Ideal for guiding. Please note the two identical spots on the back of my neck. A blessing from Great Glaux to fool attackers or mobbers. Confuses them entirely.

  “But—but—” Froya stammered. “How did you know to come find us?”

  “Eyes in the sky, I am tempted to say. But actually more like ears in the sky.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, a barn owl picked up your convo.”

  “Convo?”

  “Conversation. Convo is militaryspeak. The Guardians often use shortened forms of words for efficiency. Now, my hearing compared to, say, a barn owl’s isn’t worth two racdrops. It was a barn owl who picked your chatter up.”

  “How?” Jytte asked. She wanted to be careful here. This was, in fact, their first ever conversation with an owl. They all needed to act mature and serious.

  “Ear slits.”

  “Not ears?” Stellan asked.

  “Not exactly. Barn owls, like the rest of us, have two ear slits. One on each side of their heads. One higher, one lower. But the barn owls’ faces curve in a bit, perfect for scooping up sounds. So the barn owl located you, and now you just follow the dots on my neck through this fog, and I’ll guide you to the Great Tree. I can fly low and slow, skim just over the tops of these waves.” The little pygmy owl Rosie was doing that now while occasionally turning loops and carving the air with her tiny wings. “And you won’t lose sight or sound of me. I am noisy compared to most owls. You see, pygmies don’t have fringe feathers on their primaries. ‘Plummels,’ we call them. Most owls have them. They soften the sound of flight. But just follow me. I’ll get you there.”