Guardians of Ga'Hoole 07 - The Hatchling

harshly, and then blinked at Gwyndor as if he were the stupidest creature in the world.
    “Yes. That they do.”
    “Hi, Mum,” Nyroc said as he lighted down next to the spot where Nyra and Gwyndor were talking.
    “What are you doing here? You have no business being out of the hollow at this time of the morning,” his mum said sharply.
    Gwyndor backed away and pretended to be fiddling with something in his blacksmith’s kit.
    “I just wanted to ask you one question, Mum.”
    “What is it now?” Nyra gave him a withering look. Questions again! Always questions. Too many questions, she thought. That is what confounded her, made her uneasy about her son.
    “I was wondering if…maybe you would consider promoting Dustytuft? You know, not to a lieutenant or anything but maybe a sublieutenant.”
    Nyra looked confused for a minute. Then her deep black eyes cleared and a sly sparkle lit them. “Yes, dear.That is a very good idea and actually I was planning that for your Special ceremony—a promotion of sorts.”
    “Oh, Mum, this will be great. I can’t wait to tell him.”
    “Don’t!” she squawked. “It’s to be a surprise. No one is supposed to know until the minute it happens. You keep your beak shut!”
    “Oh, yes, Mum. I will,” he said.
    “I mean it, Nyroc. One peep out of you and the ceremony is canceled.”
    “Madam, I don’t mean to interrupt this important discussion with your son, but I have changed my mind,” Gwyndor said.
    “Changed your mind? Changed your mind about what?”
    “I shall stay on and make the fire claws,” Gwyndor said. As he spoke he flipped his head about so he would not have to look directly into Nyra’s eyes.
    “We deeply appreciate this, Gwyndor,” she said. “What, might I ask, accounts for this change of mind?”
    “I don’t know, madam.” He paused. “Sometimes one just feels that one must do something and is not sure why.”
    “I’ll tell you why you changed your mind. You did it because you knew it was the right thing to do.”
    Gwyndor blinked and then replied, “Yes, I think perhaps you could say that. It is the right thing to do.” When he spoke these words he was not looking at Nyra but ather son, Nyroc. He was staying for the hatchling’s sake and yet he did not know why. “But I must tell you, madam, I shall have to fly off for a brief time before I start the claws. I must collect the right metals and the right embers for this job. It requires special materials.” Even saying the word “special” made a shiver run through Gwyndor’s gizzard.
    It was a lie of course. Gwyndor had all the materials he needed with him. His intention was to contact the nearest slipgizzle and find out all he could about this Special ceremony. Slipgizzles were the secret agents that informed the Guardians of Ga’Hoole of the doings in other kingdoms. Many Rogue smiths also happened to be slipgizzles. The fact was that Rogue smiths were known for being mavericks, slightly eccentric, usually without family ties, and not attached to any particular group—few gave out their true names. But Gwyndor had been raised in a very traditional family and was familiar with all of the customs and ceremonies of owl families and communities. Yet he had never in all his life and wanderings encountered anything called the Special ceremony. It worried him and he felt it was urgent that he learn more about the ceremony planned for Nyroc, which the Pure Ones kept shrouded in such secrecy. Therefore, he had decided to go to the nearest slipgizzle he could find. He had heard there was a new Rogue smith somewhere between the Shadow Forestand the Barrens. He would go search for that smith. He hoped the smith might be a slipgizzle. Slipgizzles knew just about everything. So one of them might know what this Special ceremony was all about.
    As the grays of twilight gathered on the evening of that same day, Nyroc saw Gwyndor packing his kit to leave. “I thought you had already left,” Nyroc said as he lighted down on the ledge.
    “Naw, too many crows around to fly off until it really gets dark.”
    “I’ve heard about crows,” Nyroc said.
    “And I’ll wager that everything you’ve heard about them is true. A frinkin’ awful lot they are. You don’t want to be caught out alone in daylight, believe me. There’ll be a mob of them on you ‘fore you can cry ‘Glaux help!’”
    Nyroc was looking at the tools of Gwyndor’s trade. This Masked Owl, who could draw fire from a