Guardians of Ga'Hoole 06 - The Burning

mind and she would sooner die than betray the owls of the Great Ga’Hoole Tree. Twilla would not see this brave Elf Owl set out for the wolves.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
An Unholy Alliance
    S oren and the six other young owls faced the members of the great tree’s parliament to give their reports. The bad news about Gylfie had been delivered at once. The mood was quite somber in the parliament hollow, but had been lightened slightly because Otulissa had just dazzled them with her research on cold fire from the library of the Glauxian Brothers’ retreat. But soon it would be Soren’s turn. And he certainly had nothing good to report. No assurances that the Frost Beaks, the Glauxspeed divisions, or the Kielian snakes would be joining the invasion. The ice weapons they had brought that now lay on the hollow floor seemed to mock their entire mission. These few weapons, even if they could train owls to use them, would be enough for two dozen Guardians at most. Soren began to speak, however. He hoped his voice wasn’t too shaky. His report was brief, and he was relieved when he got to the end.
    “And so you see,” he concluded, “we were unable to attain any assurances of support from the Northern Kingdoms. I had hopes that the parliament might convene early. But they would not. It was for this reason that I delayed our return as long as I could.” He then added in a small voice, “It was the delay that caused the loss of Gylfie. She would not have been kidnapped if we had not delayed. I take full responsibility for that.” Soren’s voice broke as he said these last words.
    Ezylryb had simply stared at him, and Boron and Barran had asked him very few questions. What was there to ask? Soren had never felt more miserable in his life. If someone had told him that a few minutes after leaving the parliament he would feel even worse, he would have said they were yoicks.
    But he did feel worse. His talons gripped the perch in the hollow he shared with Twilight and Digger. He was staring at Gylfie’s empty nest below; so tiny, no bigger than one of those teacups that Trader Mags was always trying to sell them, and so perfectly kept in that particular way that Gylfie had. Yes, she insisted that the moss must be layered just so. Soren’s own nest was a haphazard affair at best; a complete mess with moss and twigs and leaves piled up any which way.
    And, as if Gylfie’s kidnapping were not enough, as if it were not enough that Soren had lost his best friend in thewhole wide world, as if it were not bad enough that he had failed to bring back assurances that the Northern Kingdoms would support them in this coming invasion, there was something even worse than all of that. Soren trembled every time he thought of the scene when they had first returned and gone into the dining hollow for tweener. There they were—the ones responsible for snatching Gylfie and Soren when they were owlets—Skench and Spoorn, at the same table as the members of the parliament. To see those two horrendous old owls, Skench, Ablah General of St. Aggie’s, and Spoorn, her first lieutenant, sharing a nest-maid snake table with Boron, Barran, Ezylryb, Bubo, and Elvanryb was enough to make an owl yarp in his milkberry soup. Even the snake at which they gathered seemed to be quivering. She was an older nest-maid snake named Simone who was known for her discretion; thus, she could be trusted to never let slip anything she overheard when the parliament dined together at her table. They did not often dine together except when distinguished visitors came. Distinguished visitors! Those thugs of the canyonlands! It was unthinkable. Soren had quickly left the dining hollow and returned to his perch where he contemplated how his entire world was falling apart.
    He heard a stirring outside the hollow. Then the voice of Mrs. Plithiver called out, “Soren, dear, may I come in?”
    “Sure. Why not?” Soren replied.
    Mrs. P. slithered into the hollow and coiled up directly beneath Soren’s perch and then thought better. “Might I join you on your perch, dear?”
    “Sure.”
    Mrs. Plithiver did not say anything for a minute or two after she had looped herself around the perch and given Soren’s talons a little pat with her head.
    “I know how you must feel,” she said.
    “No, you don’t. And I really don’t want to talk about it, Mrs. P.” All of the blind nest-maid snakes were known for their highly developed sensibilities. Mrs. Plithiver’s sensibilities,