Guardians of Ga'Hoole 07 - The Hatchling

picking Soren up.”
    “You can’t mean he was actually going to murder his own brother?”
    “That’s exactly what I mean and they don’t call it ‘murder,’ of course. No, this ceremony is called Tupsi.”
    “Tupsi—what in Glaux’s name does that mean?”
    “Something like Tytonic Union Pure Special Initiation—Tupsi for short. Murder with a cute name.”
    “This is monstrous! I must tell the young’un immediately.” Gwyndor stopped drinking the honey mead from the metal flagon the Snowy had set before him.
    “I am not sure if that is such a good idea,” the Snowy Owl replied cryptically.
    “What in Glaux’s name do you mean—not a good idea? What am I supposed to do? Stand by and let thisthuggish bunch of owls turn a fine young’un into a worse brute than his father?”
    “These lessons are perhaps best learned on one’s own.”
    Gwyndor blinked. “I don’t see why.”
    Then even more cryptically, the Snowy Rogue smith said, “Truth must be revealed and not simply told.”
    This Snowy is just plain yoicks! Gwyndor thought. And he had no intention of withholding from Nyroc the horrific truth about Tupsi.

CHAPTER SEVEN
Hammer and Tongs!
    M urder with a cute name! Murder with any name is still murder. Tupsi!
    That was all Gwyndor could think of as he flew back to the canyonlands the following evening in the first snowfall of the season.
    Normally, Gwyndor would have loved being out on a night like this. The moon was barely newing. Only a sliver of light hung up there in the dark sky, behind the moving snow clouds. Big fluffy snowflakes drifted slowly against the dark blue-gray of night. He loved it when snowflakes fell slowly, spinning, turning to a music all their own. But there was no music in this night for Gwyndor. There was just the one thought: He had to get back and somehow save young Nyroc from this terrible thing called Tupsi. There was a prisoner called Smutty who the Pure Ones were holding. He was accused of cowardice during the battle they called The Burning. He had heard some talk that the charges were questionable. He hadn’t thoughtmuch of it because he knew that Sooties, particularly Lesser Sooties, were held in low esteem and the first to be accused of anything in the Union. Was it this Sooty named Smutty who would be the victim in this brutal ceremony? And were they really planning on turning Nyroc, a perfect young hatchling who performed every task put to him so flawlessly, into Smutty’s murderer? And would he become the perfect murderer? The flawless executioner? And coupled with what Gwyndor suspected to be Nyroc’s extraordinary capacity for flame reading would this not become a deadly combination? Gwyndor felt a tremendous shudder pass through his gizzard. Great Glaux, he would be a hundred times worse than his father, Kludd!
    And what exactly was he, Gwyndor, supposed to do about it? He was tempted to turn back, head to Ambala, and find Mist to ask for some instructions. But Mist was strange. She didn’t give instructions.
    The easterly wind had suddenly backed around to south and then southwest.
    “Oh, Glaux! What’s that wind doing?” Gwyndor felt himself losing speed. If this was a real headwind, he would be ramming into it for the next few hours and would never get to the canyonlands before dawn. And he had to! He had no choice but to go on. If Nyroc did have fire sight, if he was a flame reader, and if he in fact had perceivedglimpses of the great Ember of Hoole with the blue flame in its ruby-red heart, then he must not under any circumstances be allowed to go through with the murderous initiation ceremony of the Pure Ones. That a natural flame reader would be trained to murder was unthinkable. Such a power turned to evil would endanger the future of the owl universe. The ceremony must be stopped. But would Gwyndor himself be forced to murder to stop it? The very thought was enough to make one go yeep.
    Gwyndor took a deep breath and somehow found new strength. He carved a turn and headed southwest toward the Great Horns of the canyonlands, battling the ever-increasing headwind. His flight had slowed, and the black was leaking out of the night. Soon it would be dawn. No time for a lone owl to be abroad. But even as he grew more and more weary in his mind, in his gizzard he felt that he must risk daylight flying. There was no choice. So on he flew.
    The morning star was just above the horizon when he heard the first wing beats behind him. Crows! He felt