Guardians of Ga'Hoole 05 - The Shattering

asked.
    “Definitely,” Otulissa replied.
    “Can you read it?” Gylfie asked.
    “Just barely. There’s one word that looks like ‘quadrant.’”
    “Quadrant?” Gylfie said. “That’s a navigational term.”
    “I know,” said Otulissa. “I can’t imagine why it would show up in a book on fleckasia.”
    “You know,” Soren said, “I’ve seen Ezylryb fix up old books, especially ones where the pages have faded. He takes Ga’Hoole nut oil and soaks it into the page. The writing becomes a lot clearer.”
    “Worth a try.” Otulissa looked up. “If only to prove that Dewlap is a traitor and not in the least shattered or having a nervous breakdown.”
    Soren looked at Gylfie and the same thought went through both their minds. She’s still blaming Dewlap for Strix Struma’s death. Soren wondered if bringing this fragment back had been such a good idea after all. If Otulissa was only using it to get back at Dewlap, it seemed kind of stupid—even wrong—to him. The parliament would never decide to turn her out. It wasn’t the Ga’Hoole way. Boron and Barran, the monarchs of the tree, had said as much: Turn an owl out, and it becomes your enemy. If Dewlap was not a traitor before, she would certainly become one if she were banished.
    Instead, Dewlap would be relieved of her responsibilities. She would be quietly retired. Already she had been removed from the parliament. That was the supreme dishonor. No owl in the history of the Great Ga’Hoole Tree had ever been removed from the parliament. But Soren knew it was useless to talk to Otulissa about this. She was bound and determined to have her vengeance on Dewlapfor the death of her beloved Strix Struma. She had sworn to do so. She had, indeed, changed. He had seen that immediately after the last battle of the siege in which Strix Struma had been killed. He had gone to check on Otulissa in her hollow. She was bent over a piece of paper, writing and drawing something. When he had asked what it was, she had said it was an invasion plan. Even though Strix Struma had been killed, the Guardians of Ga’Hoole had won the last battle. Yet, somehow the leaders of the so-called Pure Ones, Kludd and his terrifying mate Nyra, whose face shone white as a baleful moon, had escaped. Otulissa’s words came back to him:
    “They aren’t finished with us, Soren. And we can’t wait for them to come back and finish.”
    “What do you mean?” he had asked.
    “I mean, Soren, that we can’t fight defensively. We have to go after them.”
    The fury in Otulissa’s eyes had made Soren’s gizzard roil.
    “I’ve changed,” she had said softly. But her voice, Soren remembered, was deadly.
    The invasion might wait, but for Otulissa the vengeance was to begin here, right here in the tree, with Dewlap as its target.
    A silence fell on the group. They all sensed the pent-upviolence in Otulissa, who was normally a reflective, highly intellectual owl. It unnerved them.
    “Well,” said Gylfie a little too brightly, “isn’t it almost time for Trader Mags to arrive? Let’s go wait for her.”
    “Why would I want any of that ostentatious stuff she’s always strutting about with?”
    Aaah, that’s the old Otulissa, Soren thought thankfully.
    “But I guess there’s nothing else to do. I’ll go,” Otulissa said grudgingly.
    Madame Plonk, whose ethereal voice sang them to sleep each morning and roused them in the evening with the accompaniment of the grass harp was, as always, first in line to survey goods brought in by Trader Mags and her assistant, Bubbles, a rather scatterbrained young magpie.
    “Oh, Madame Plonk, as gorgeous as ever,” Mags addressed the large and lovely Snowy. “What have we here to show off the glorious whiteness of your silken plumage?” Mags cast a sweeping, beady-eyed glance over her goods. “Ah, yes. A crimson, ermine-trimmed cape—well, part of a cape.”
    Trader Mags then swiveled her head toward Primrose, who was examining a drop of amber. “Hold it up to the moonlight, dear. It’s got a bug in it. Little, tiny beetle. Theysay it’s a good-luck charm. Not heavy at all. Even a Pygmy like you can fly with it.”
    “Fool’s iron! That’s what I call it.” Bubo the blacksmith had come up. “But pretty.” He nodded toward the amber drop.
    It is lovely, Primrose thought. She didn’t much believe in good-luck charms, but most of the jewelry and pretty things that Madame Plonk sold were too heavy for a small owl like herself.