Guardians of Ga'Hoole 05 - The Shattering

Island—the very same battle claws that Gylfie and Soren had first seen the previous autumn when Ezylryb had disappeared, and they had gone into his hollow to snoop for possible clues. Except at that time the claws had been rusty with age and were hung in a secret compartment of the hollow. Now they had been polished to a shimmering radiance. They absolutely glowed on the table. It was almost as if they were a living, breathing thing and not just finely tempered metal.
    Soren was dumbfounded. He had thought no one was to know about these battle claws. He cautiously moved around the table, almost mesmerized by the gleaming claws. “What is this all about?”
    “It is about you, lad.”
    “Me?” Now he was genuinely bewildered.
    “They are for you, Soren. Call it, if you will, a passing of the claws.”
    “But why me, Ezylryb?”
    “For many reasons really, but first and foremost, you are the leader of the band.”
    “But when we go to the Northern Kingdoms, it’s really Otulissa’s mission. She is the one who knows the most. She even speaks their language.”
    “There are many kinds of knowing, Soren. Otulissa has one kind and you have another. With these claws, Moss, Hoke of Hock, and the smith on Dark Fowl will all know that you are truly an emissary from Ezylryb, once known as Lyze of Kiel. They are your passport, your safe-conduct permit. The claws are, if you will, the keys to the Northern Kingdoms.”
    “The keys to the Northern Kingdoms,” Soren spoke in a whispery voice.
    “Every owl will know that you are my ward.”
    “Ward?” Soren tore his eyes from the radiance of the claws and looked up at Ezylryb. “Your ward?” Soren wasn’t even sure if he knew what the word meant.
    “You are under my protection as a son would be.”
    “As your son?”
    “It is not that complicated, Soren. You have no parents. I have no children. You are my ward now, but with that comes certain responsibilities, one of them being to not only represent me but also the other owls of the Great Ga’Hoole Tree.”
    “Ready for tea, sir? And I managed to snitch some milkberry buns from Cook.” Octavia slithered into the hollow with the tea things on her back.
    “Yes, do come in. I think our Soren here is a bit overcome.”
    “Oh, my, my.” Octavia flicked her tongue. “Oh, dear lad, how hard I worked polishing those claws for you. They were a bit rusty, as you might recall.” She slid her head sideways toward Soren, and Soren gasped. Had she told Ezylryb how he and Gylfie had snooped around last autumn? The old snake laughed, and Ezylryb joined her.
    Soren blinked. Well, if she has, I guess no one thinks it’s that awful.
    Soren ate his tart and sipped his tea in a bewildered state, unable to take his eyes off the battle claws. It suddenly occurred to him that he had no place to keep them.
    “Sir, we don’t leave until the eve after this one. Where shall I keep them?”
    “I shall keep them for you until then. Don’t worry.”
    But he was worried. How would he explain all this to the rest of the band, and Otulissa and Eglantine? Suddenly, however, he was quite sleepy. Too sleepy to worry. He tried to stifle a yawn.
    “Getting sleepy, dear?” Octavia said.
    “Yes, a bit I guess.”
    “Well…”—Ezylryb peered out the sky port—“the sun is still pretty high. I would say that you have a good several hours until dusk and tween time. Why don’t you fly along and get some rest?”
    “Yes, I think I will, sir.” Soren flapped up to the sky port and just before taking off, he turned and said, “Thank you, Octavia, for the tea and tart. And thank you, Ezylryb.” He paused. “For everything.”
    Octavia had cleared up the tea things and slithered out of the hollow. She knew when her master wanted to be alone. It was not the gollymopes this time, however, at least not exactly. The old Whiskered Screech just needed to be alone. That was all.
    The arthritis in his starboard wing was kicking up again. Always did this time of year. He’d pluck himself a quill from his port wing although the starboard one always offered the best. He winced as he pulled a new pinfeather. He sat down at his desk and took out a piece of his finest parchment, dipped the quill in an inkwell and began to write.

The time has come,
The claws are passed.
An old owl rests,
A die’s been cast.
It is a war for heart, gizzard, and mind.
The weapons they wield, more deadly than mine.
    A blade draws blood,
A fire burns.
But with