Guardians of Ga'Hoole 07 - The Hatchling

It’s the best place for a smithy in the Southern Kingdoms. I didn’t want to give it up because of those bullies. Only the ragtag ends of them left now, and I understand they are down in the canyonlands somewhere.”
    “That they are,” Gwyndor replied. The Snowy looked up with interest.
    “You say that as if you know for sure.”
    “I do. That’s why I’m here.”
    “Don’t ask me to make anything for them numbskull owls. The war’s over. I’m finished with war, as a matter of fact. I’m into”—she paused for dramatic effect—“more artistic things.” She held the tongs up in the air. There was an oddly twisted thing pinched between the two parts of the tongs.
    “What’s that?”
    “It’s free-form, abstract. You know, I come from a very artistic family.” Gwyndor had heard something of this. It was said that this Snowy’s sister was the famous singer of the Great Ga’Hoole Tree.
    “What does it do?”
    “It pleases me,” the Snowy said simply.
    “It pleases you?”
    “That’s reason enough to make something. Not everything has to be useful.”
    “Yes, I suppose so,” Gwyndor replied, but he had not come here to be lectured by an artistic blacksmith. “Look, the reason I came—well, it’s hard to explain.”
    “Start by explaining why you were mucking around with those frinkin’ owls.”
    Gwyndor was relieved. This sounded like the old Rogue smith he knew. She was known for her salty language. SoGwyndor explained as best he could and when he finished the Snowy stared at him for several seconds before speaking.
    “Let me get this straight—you went there because you felt that Mist somehow sent you, without ever saying to do it?” Gwyndor nodded. The Snowy continued. “She has a way of doing that, I know. And you say you think this hatchling might have fire sight, could be a flame reader?” Again Gwyndor nodded. “Well, my friend, other than Orf, there hasn’t been a flame reader in more than one hundred years. They are extremely rare. But go on. You haven’t gotten to your very important question.”
    “Yes,” Gwyndor sighed. “You see, this little fellow…They call him Nyroc.”
    “Figures,” the Snowy said disdainfully. “Mum’s name is Nyra, right?”
    “Yes. And let’s hope this one doesn’t grow up to be like his mum—or his da. But as I was saying, Nyroc has gone through all the usual ceremonies a young owlet has to do by now. Just had his First Prey ceremony. He got himself a nice plump little chipmunk.”
    “Never cared for them myself,” the Snowy said. “They give me gas.”
    “Well, the next ceremony is one I have never heard of.”
    “What do you mean, never heard of? The nextceremony after First Prey should be First Moss. That’s always a fun one—going out looking for all the softest mosses for the hollow.”
    “Well, there’s no moss now in the canyonlands. So maybe they have to substitute something. I don’t know.”
    “What do they call it?” she asked.
    “The Special ceremony,” Gwyndor answered.
    The Snowy suddenly wilfed and seemed to shrink to half her size. She dropped her tongs. “No!” she gasped.
    When the Snowy had recovered herself, she turned to Gwyndor. “Come into my hollow. I have some honey mead. Good for a chilly night. And I’ll try to explain.”
    Gwyndor followed the Snowy through a passageway in the stone wall to what had been a courtyard of some sort, and then down steps into a cellar. “This is very nice,” Gwyndor said, looking around.
    “I think it was a wine cellar. I make my nest in that barrel over there. Quite sweet-smelling. Care for some vole with the honey mead?” the Rogue smith offered.
    “Sure.”
    As they ate, the Snowy looked at Gwyndor darkly and began to explain. “I’ve heard bad things. Very bad things, indeed! I have heard that to become a true member of the Pure Ones, an officer, one must kill something. And not in battle.” The Snowy’s voice dwindled off.
    A quiver ran through Gwyndor’s gizzard. “You mean to kill without hunger? To kill for no reason?”
    “I am not talking about hunting for food. I’m talking about murder.”
    “Murder!” Gwyndor whispered. “You mean they kill one of our own kind?”
    “Yes. They say that Soren was to be Kludd’s Special years ago. Before he was a Pure One, he shoved Soren out of the nest, thinking that the fall would kill him. Or at least that a ground predator would get him. Kludd hadn’t counted on a St. Aggie’s patrol