Guardians of Ga'Hoole 04 - The Siege

happen.”
    “Just sometimes,” Mist added. “Remember, Soren and Gylfie, I told you that because of the heavy deposits of flecks that run in the streams and creeks of Ambala, owls from that region can be both blessed and cursed.”
    Gylfie nodded.
    “Remember I told you that my wings were small and malformed because of the flecks, and that I had a grand-mother who lost her wits entirely but my own father could see through rock? Well, I cannot see through rock,but sometimes I have dreams that seem to—how should I put it—look into the future. I can see things that sometimes happen in the future.
    “Ever since that night when I saw the owl they call Metal Beak kill Simon, I have had terrible feelings. Glaux, I didn’t realize it was your brother, Soren.”
    Soren blinked. The more he heard about the death of this good pilgrim owl named Simon, a Glauxian Brother, the worse he felt. He felt partly responsible for Simon’s death. For if he had not wounded Kludd so terribly, Simon would have never crossed paths with him and tried to nurse him back to health.
    Hortense continued. “I began to have dreams. And one of my dreams was of a great massing on a promontory that juts out into the Sea of Hoolemere. But it was all so vague. It was hard to understand the meaning of the dream, but then this rogue smith—never did give her name—came to us. And she was so agitated that she could barely tell her story. But it seems that she had heard on good authority that this awful group that chooses to call themselves the Pure Ones is led by your brother, and that they have been gathering Barn Owl recruits from all the owl kingdoms and forests. She said they are massing on Cape Glaux right now.”
    There was silence in the hollow as the owls stared at the faded and fragile Hortense.
    “But Cape Glaux!” Soren finally spoke. “No owls would ever stay on Cape Glaux—not this time of year—unless…”
    “Yes, precisely,” Hortense said. “Unless they were planning an invasion of the Island of Hoole.”
    “We have to get back now!” Soren said.
    “Soren,” Gylfie pleaded. “You’re not strong enough. The winterlies are beginning to blow across Hoolemere. You’re now missing one whole tail feather—those don’t grow back overnight. How will you rudder?”
    “We must go. We must warn the great tree. I’ll make it.” Soren’s dark gaze bore into the little Elf Owl. Gylfie knew him well enough to know he would never be swayed.
    And so that night as First Black gathered in the Forest of Ambala, the seven owls made their preparations to leave. It was not an easy leave-taking, especially for Soren and Gylfie, who had never expected to see Hortense again.
    “I don’t know how to thank you,” Soren said as they perched on the branch of the sycamore. “Streak and Zan, once more you have saved me. Hortense, that you are alive thrills Gylfie and me more than you can imagine. Yourgoodness and your selflessness have been a continuing inspiration for us. We would love for you to come with us to the Great Ga’Hoole Tree, for you have the most honorable of gizzards and a sublime heart. You would make a knight, a guardian most noble.”
    But Hortense just shook her head. “A visit someday perhaps, but my place is here in Ambala,” she said.
    Then Soren turned to Slynella.
    “Slynella, I owe my life to you. You could have chosen not to come. You have spent your precious venom on me. I know that it weakened you. Streak and Hortense have told me that each time a flying snake spends its venom, it takes longer to replenish. That you did so willingly with no delay was a true sacrifice. How can I ever thank you?”
    “Worthy. You are worthy. A friend of Sssstreak, a friend of Zzzzan, and a friend of Misssst issss mossst worthy. Ssssoren is ssuch a friend.” As she spoke, Slynella writhed in and out of her S-shaped designs. She hung glowing in the First Black.
    Then, as the dwenking moon climbed into the sky, the seven owls rose in the night. The Chaw of Chaws was heading home, but not before stopping on the fog-shrouded cliffs of Cape Glaux to see if what the Rogue Smith of Silverveil had reported was true.
    The night was thinning as the black faded to gray. It was twixt time, that minute between the last vanishing drop of gray and the first tinge of the rose of the dawn. But today there would be no rose or pink or any of the pale seashell colors that sometimes stained the morning, for the winterlies were blowing hard.