Guardians of Ga'Hoole 11 - To Be a King

the smaller owls, who could not hold their bingle juice, fell from the tree and, though half Trufynkken, managed to recover flight before slamming into the ground.
    “Do you recall his name?” Hoole asked.
    “Uh…uh…” She shook her head in short little jogs as if trying to rearrange her brain. “Wyckber, I think. Either Wyckber or Berwyck.”
    “Berwyck!” Hoole said. “A Boreal, right?”
    “Yes, yes. That he be. A Boreal.”
    “Where can we find him?”
    “Oh, dear, now—that could be a problem.” Again she jogged her head around. “Let’s see. I was pretty tired when I finally made it out of the N’yrthghar, but luckily hadtailwinds. But I imagine…oh, yes, I probably made it well into Silverveil. ’Cause I wouldn’t want to stop on the cape for long. No real trees, you know. Oh, it’s coming back to me!” Lolly’s amber eyes brightened, and she looked slightly less tipsy. “It was near that place where the Others done lived before they vanished. One of them whatchamacallits.”
    “Church?” Alastair the Barred Owl prompted.
    “Yes, that be it.”
    “Lovely old place.”
    “There be ruins from the Others all through Silverveil,” the Great Gray spoke up.
    When Hoole had first come to the S’yrthghar, there had been no time to linger. They had had to fly straight to the Beyond, but he had always longed to see these strange hollows of the Others.
    “Well, we’d best be on our way if we hope to find him,” the Snow Rose said.
    “Not before a song you don’t.” The Great Horned, the perch warrior who had been expounding on his wartime experiences in the N’yrthghar, spoke up. “You know, before we went into battle, old King H’rath always had some gadfeathers in to give us a rousing tune.”
    “What a bunch of rubbish,” the Snow Rose muttered.
    “What are we going to do?” Phineas whispered desperately.
    “Leave it to me.” The Snow Rose stepped out on the branch where she perched. “My two friends here are not in voice right now, having just come through their mid-season molt with slight sore throats.” There was a murmur of understanding that swirled through the tree. It was, of course, a bit of nonsense, but these tipsy owls were ready to believe almost anything. “And I myself know few battle tunes. But I might sing you a song of ice and sky.” This met with great approval, and the night swelled with hurrahs and cheers.
    The Snow Rose began to sing. Her lovely voice flowed into the night of liquid moonlight and wove through the grog tree, making everything seem to shimmer.
Where the ice meets the sky,
    where the trees never grow,
    where the water is locked,
    so still, forever slow.
    Where the wind scours the land,
    carving bridges, spires, and peaks,
    listen closely, my friend,
    and you’ll hear the ice speak.
    It speaks of times gone by,
    creatures frozen in the deep.
    Of a place where time grows still,
    a place of long eternal sleep,
    where the ice never melts
    and the trees never grow.
    That is where I long to fly—I have ice crystals in my soul.
    The last notes had hardly floated into the air before the three owls had taken wing.
    “Phew! That was a close one!” Phineas sighed as he felt the sweet billow of a warm thermal curl under his wings.

CHAPTER TWELVE
Theo Pushes On
    T he polar bear sat on her haunches and regarded the Great Horned Owl. He was an honest fellow if there ever was one and, though this spying business did not appeal to her, she knew it was for a good cause. Her loyalty to the memory of Siv required that she do everything in her power to support Siv’s son, the young king who seemed so good. “Theo,” she began, “I will keep an eye out for you here. But the bear you really need to meet is Svarr, the father of my cubs. He lives up near Lord Arrin’s stronghold in the eastern side of the Firth of Fangs. He knows a lot. He might know where to find this spotted owl, Emerilla, whom you seek.”
    “Where is this stronghold of Lord Arrin?”
    “When you leave this inlet, head north and continue flying up the Firth of Fangs. It will grow narrow, then widen again, and just before it reaches a large lagoon, it narrows a second time. At this second set of narrows, fly east, following a tickle.”
    “A tickle?”
    “Well, a firthkin is a small firth, and a tickle is even smaller than a firthkin. Polar bears call it that because when we swim such narrow passageways, it is barely wide enough for us to pass through and it tickles our