Guardians of Ga'Hoole 14 - Exile

were ferreted out from the surrounding burrows. The owls of this Blue Brigade came out with scrolls, books, and the occasional sparkly bauble.
    “Kalo, let go of it. It’s not worth it,” Burrowing Owl shouted. “Please, Kalo.”
    A lovely-looking Burrowing Owl stood in the center of the clearing, clutching a book in her talons. “I just got this book! It is worth it,” Kalo protested. A Great Horned with a blue feather stuck right between his horn tufts was wrenching the book from her.
    “What’s the problem here, Field Marshal Cram?” The Striga lighted down.
    “Oh, we get one of these book huggers now and again. Won’t let go.”
    “What sort of book is it?” the Striga asked, wondering if it might be a study of something useful like metallurgy and worthy of sparing.
    “Looks like a legend of sorts,” Cram said.
    “Take it away from her,” the Striga ordered harshly. “What about fripperies?”
    “Some pearls. They look valuable,” Field Marshal Cram said, holding up a strand of pink pearls.
    “They are!” the owl named Kalo said. “Genuine saltwater pearls. Take them. Just leave me my book!”
    “Books, pearls, it makes no difference!” the Great Horned said.
    “Let her keep her book,” another owl said. He was younger than Kalo, but not young enough to be her son.
    “Coryn, stay back,” Kalo commanded.
    “Did you say ‘Coryn’?!” The blue owl wilfed, as did his companions.
    “Yes,” replied Kalo. “Although sometimes we call him Cory.” Planting her long, slender, featherless legs in the ground, she drew herself up to her full height, which wasimpressive. “My brother was named for our king.” The nearly horizontal band of white feathers across the top of her brown head framed her yellow eyes, giving them a powerful intensity. Doc was impressed with this Kalo. She could certainly stand up to a threat.
    “That’s blasphemy—using the name of our revered king,” the Striga spat.
    “I knew the king when he was but a lad and I was a lass. We were both young’uns.” A quiet had settled on the owls. “When he was not a king but an outcast.” Kalo extended her wing and gently touched her brother’s shoulder with the tip. “He saved my mother’s egg. And from that egg came Coryn.”
    “Da, what is happening to Mummy?” a little hatch-ling screeched from where she crouched between her father’s legs.
    “Hush, Siv,” Kalo said.
    “Siv?” The blue owl blinked. “I’ve heard that name. Who is she?”
    “A queen. A queen from long, long ago in the time of the legends and these are her stories.” Kalo was standing on one leg, balancing perfectly as Burrowing Owls could, and with her other talon she clutched to her breast the book entitled Siv, a Queen’s Tale .
    Doc blinked away tears. This was some owl, this Kalo!
    The Striga opened his beak wide and cried out, “Ignite!” There was a great explosion and the creosote bush erupted into a ball of fire. The Striga ripped the book from Kalo’s talons.
    “Who ordered this…this insanity?” Kalo cried above the roar of the flames.
    “Your precious king, madam, your precious king!” the Striga said.
    What! Doc Finebeak thought. Has the entire world gone yoicks? And as if to confirm this, he heard a triumphant, maniacal hooting overhead. A formation of owls from the Blue Brigade was flying over the pyre. Each owl carried a book and dropped it into the fire. The flames seemed to reach up for the books, craving them, thirsting for them, and as each book dropped, the fire raged more fiercely. Random white pages fluttered up like scorched doves, the edges of their wings turning black and curling up until the page was consumed and disintegrated into a swirl of ash.
    Doc Finebeak observed it all. He could not tear his eyes away, he felt that he should not. There must be a witness to this horror. His gizzard was in turmoil as he noted every sickening little detail. Just before a book caught the flames, when it was still fresh to the fire, it wasseized with a series of odd little movements. Its pages, stirred by the heated wind, began to turn by themselves. The glue in the spines burbled and thin tendrils of dark smoke rose. And finally the edges of the pages darkened to amber. The amber turned to black, and then the book consumed itself. Some books, perhaps newer ones in which the glue was fresher, simply exploded.
    Doc Finebeak finally turned his gaze from the fire and looked in a mixture of horror and curiosity upon