Guardians of Ga'Hoole 11 - To Be a King

streaks but the rest of the feathers were still blue-black. She peered into Kreeth’s eyes and gasped at the reflection she saw in them. There were smears of white on her head, but again the feathers were not the tawny browns and ambers of a Spotted Owl. She was, in fact, half hagsfiend and half Spotted Owl. The owl part of her winced now at her own malodorous breath.
    “You’re not doing it!” Kreeth cursed and dark spittle ran from her beak.
    “I know! I know! I don’t know why—I don’t understand.”
    But in truth, Lutta did understand. She was sick; sick of being half: half crow, half owl, both hagsfiend and Spotted Owl. She was, she realized, nothing. She was nothing and yet she loved. “I have a gizzard!” she screamed at her creator.
    “You do not have a gizzard, you fool, you idiot. I created you.”
    “You created me, but I created this gizzard.”
    Kreeth was stunned. “No!” she exploded and gave Lutta a thwack that nearly sent her tumbling from the peak. Lutta rose up in pain and hovered above Kreeth. “You don’t understand, Kreeth! I feel pain. Real pain.”
    “It’s a phantom gizzard.”
    “What difference does it make, be it phantom or real? I love him. I love him.”
    “You must kill him,” Kreeth hissed. Then a narrow beam of yellow light sprung from her eyes. Lutta felt herself go yeep.
    “Down you go, dearie. Down, down, down. Right here by my talons. Nice soft landing.”
    On a distant ridge, the eyes of a large Great Horned Owl and his hagsfiend consort were fixed on the scene that was transpiring.
    “She used the fyngrot on Lutta. I can’t believe it!” Ygyrk gasped. “It’s wrong. Wrong to use it on one”—she hesitated and then said the next words with great vehemence—“one of your own.”
    Pleek blinked at her in surprise, which for some reason irritated Ygryk. “Yes, Pleek, she is ours,” she hissed. “Even monsters can have some honor.”
    “You’re not a monster, my dear,” Pleek replied. Ygryk’s hard black eyes bore into him. She knew exactly what was going through his mind, which he was too afraid to say: You are not a monster. Lutta is. She’s a freak.
    “No, Pleek.”
    “No what?”
    “The problem is not with Lutta. The problem is with us.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “She is not the freak. We are.” She paused. “We don’t know how to love.”
    When Lutta woke up, she looked down and saw the tawny brown feathers of a Spotted Owl. So she’s done it. Made me Emerilla again. Cast a spell, I suppose. But what am I really?
    She watched as Kreeth rose in the night; beneath the moon a yellow glare began to spread. The H’rathian Guard felt their wings still, then the Sivian guard wavered in flight. Hundreds of troops were brought to ground—to ground for slaughter. Hoole suddenly sensed the quietness on the glacial battlefield. He turned and flinched. This indeed was a powerful fyngrot. He rose, holding high the scimitar of his father, King H’rath, of his mother, Queen Siv. He knew that he must fly directly into the yellow glare. He had done it before. He would do it again. The hagsfiend who hovered as she cast her light was immense and old and ragged. He saw her wing feathers stirring with half-hags, and then he thought he saw a Spotted Owl flying close to her, but he was not sure. Hoole’s gizzard clenched as he saw the noble Lord Rathnik fall in flight and a swarm of half-hags fly from thehagsfiend’s plummels to nibble on the falling lord. He was dead by the time he hit the ground.
    Not one more owl of honor must die, Hoole thought. He raised the scimitar and charged the light. He cut through it, but weakly. Glaux, this is a tough fyngrot, Hoole thought.
    Suddenly, there were slits of green in the night. The wolves! Hundreds of wolves raced to the top of the ridge and though not commanded, the green of their eyes began to crisscross the fyngrot, weaving through the warp of the yellow glare like a shuttle with threads of green. It’s breaking up! It’s breaking up! Hoole silently rejoiced. At last, the fyngrot ripped. And the black trail of the Long Night ran through it. All over, feathers began to rustle and stir—spotted, tawny, pure white. Primary feathers began to stiffen, and owls who had been brought to ground spread their wings to rise, and those who had begun to go yeep regained altitude. The fyngrot was no more.
    Then out of the unsullied darkness a Spotted Owl flew.
    “Emerilla!” Hoole gasped.
    A shriek