Guardians of Ga'Hoole 14 - Exile

again about what he had glimpsed in the torn fabric of his dream. His dear Pelli not recognizing him. It was too much for Soren.
    “Ah, there’s Braithe!” Hortense waved one of her stubby wings.
    The Whiskered Screech ceased his recitation and landed on a stump beside the rock where they were perched. He looked incredibly young to the Band.
    “So you’re the young’un who organized all this,” Gylfie said.
    “I love to read, that’s all,” the young Screech replied.
    “He’s very modest,” Hortense offered. “Explain to my friends about this place and why we now call it the Brad.”
    “Well.” Braithe sighed. “When the reports of these book burnings came in, our first thoughts were to hide the books. But then I thought better. Yes, we could hide the books, but what if they were found? Then what?”
    The four owls of the Band blinked at each other.
    “Precisely.” Braithe continued, “But what if each owl who loved to read became a book? Memorized every word on every page.” He paused. “That’s just what we did. Think of each of us as not a collection of feathers but book covers.” He puffed up his beautiful plumage. He was a handsome tawny gray with a generous sprinkling of white in his coverts. He looked in that instant so much like Ezylryb that it almost took the Band’s breath away. But they said nothing. “The idea is not mine. Not at all. Yousee, I was inspired. My inspiration is, or rather was, an Other.”
    “An Other?” they all gasped.
    “Yes, a writer I discovered when the first volume of the Fragmentum was completed. Only scraps of his writings were found—wherever it is that they find these things.” The Band exchanged nervous looks. It was more important than ever that the whereabouts of the Palace of Mists be kept a secret.
    Braithe continued, “The author’s full name is not known. We call him Ray Brad. We think it’s only scraps of his name but what is important is that he wrote about book burning. I think the Others went through a time similar to ours. To save their books, the Others began to memorize them. So that is how I got the idea. And that is why we call this place the Brad. It is the Place of Living Books, named for a dead author.”
    “A dead species,” Twilight added.
    Gylfie closed her eyes. “Twilight!” She was mortified. How did the Great Gray just come out with these things at such inappropriate moments?
    “Extinct,” Digger said quietly.
    “Well, gone is gone,” Twilight grumped.
    “But you see, that’s just the point.” Braithe spoke with a new intensity. “Ray Brad isn’t gone. At least notcompletely. His work remains, right here!” He raised his foot and tapped his handsome head with a talon. “And here.” He tapped his talon now lightly on his belly indicating roughly the spot of his gizzard.
    “So welcome to the Brad. The books shall survive!” Braithe spread his wings and flew off. The Band strained to hear the words he was reciting, but fog swirled down into the Brad, and Braithe seemed to be swallowed by its vapors.
    For Soren, the entire world suddenly felt very fragile. Did Digger, Gylfie, and Twilight feel this way, too? He must get back to the great tree. Punkie Night was just a short time off. The moon was almost full again. They had been gone for nearly an entire moon cycle. And what had they accomplished with their weather experiments? Practically nothing. But what had they seen? Something that they could have never imagined—the burning of books, a violation that struck at the very gizzard of the principles of the great tree, ordered by its king!

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
This Is Hagscraft!
    S croom, you say?” The Striga thrust his puckered face closer to Tarn, the Burrowing Owl. “You saw those four consorting with a scroom in Ambala?”
    “Yes, high in an aerie where two eagles live.”
    “Did you follow them any farther?”
    “No, sir. They rested there for the day. I felt I should report to you as quickly as possible. Your wisdom, your profound insights…”
    But the Striga cut him off. “Don’t flatter me!” he said sharply. The Striga was an expert in matters of flattery, adept with fawning, honeyed words. But he felt a deadly squirm in his gizzard when he was on the receiving end of such blandishments and adulation. For he knew that the core of all flattery was deceit. This Tarn was smart. He would have to watch him. However, he did not know that much about him. He came from some place in the Desert of