Guardians of Ga'Hoole 14 - Exile

the worst odds imaginable, and had retrieved the Ember of Hoole from the volcanoes in the Beyond. Coryn’s parents, Nyra and Kludd, were the vile, sadistic, crazed leaders of the Pure Ones. It was a terrible, daunting legacy to bear. One that Coryn, in his mind and heart and gizzard, battled with constantly. Secretly, Soren believed that Coryn had never sought a mate because he was terrified of passing on this bad blood.
    And now Soren was again worried about his nephew. There had been bad times before, especially the dreadful time of the Golden Tree. Even though the ember was now safely hidden in Bubo’s forge, ever since the Striga had arrived Coryn had been behaving strangely. Soren knew that Coryn was haunted by his mother, Nyra. It was unfortunate that her body had not been found in that last battle in the Middle Kingdom, but Soren felt that even if her death had been confirmed, it would not have made a difference in the way that Coryn was feeling.
    Soren scanned the deep blue sky around him and pushed troubling thoughts from his mind. This whole business about the Harvest Festival was baffling. Perhapshe should have stood up to his nephew more firmly. Ah, well, too late for that. And this was an interesting expedition.
    “Do you smell that?” Gylfie said as they approached the border between the Shadow Forest and Silverveil. It took them a minute, but then the others also picked up the odor of something burning.
    “Not a forest fire,” Soren noted. “Not the season for them.”
    “It doesn’t smell like trees,” Gylfie said.
    Soren, who had the best hearing of any of the owls, angled his head as he tried to pick up any sound clues. “No sap popping.” Evergreen trees and maples, which were becoming thicker in this region, were full of sap. As the sap in a burning tree heated up, a popping sound could be detected. In certain seasons when the sap was running, a burning tree could actually explode.
    “Do you hear anything?” Digger asked.
    “Not really. There were fires I think, but mostly small ones. And those are just smoldering now. It’s hard to describe.” The sounds of a dying fire were difficult to explain. To Soren, it sounded like a sighing, a slow stirring of ashes, almost expired embers losing their heat, the glow seeping from them. Of course, all it took for the fire to be roused and erupt into new life was a small maverickwind. But these fires, he felt, had been carefully wetted down. Peculiar. Very peculiar , he thought.
    “Funny smell, isn’t it?” Gylfie said.
    “Yeah, I know what you mean,” Digger said. “It’s not like smoke from fires in the wild.”
    “Smells like paper,” Soren said suddenly, then added, “burnt paper.”
    “Exactly!” said Gylfie.
    Dawn was breaking by the time the Band settled into a hollow in a blue spruce. They were familiar with the tree from past visits to this forest. Twilight and Digger went out and hunted down a few ground squirrels because they were all hungry. The ground squirrels of the Shadow Forest were particularly tasty and known for their rich nutty flavor.
    “Mmmm,” said Twilight as he bit off the head of one.
    “Yep, they’re good,” Gylfie said. But no one seemed particularly jovial despite the good food. In fact, there was little talk. They were tired. Just a few words and comments exchanged before they nestled down. This was not due to simple physical exhaustion. The flight had been an easy one. An anxiety seemed to hang in the air, an unspoken concern about what they had left behind at the great tree. It was almost midday before any of them fell asleep.

CHAPTER SEVEN
The Blue Feather Club
    T his is so boring,” Blythe muttered to her sister Bash. The three B’s and several other young owls were in the foul-weather hollow—a play hollow for young owls when the weather was too bad for them to play outside. But tonight, the first night of the Harvest Festival, the weather was beautiful, the moon full, the breezes light. A perfect night for flying. The Striga had been calling off their names for attendance.
    “Hush,” Bell scolded. Blythe glared at her. Her sister had changed so much since the Striga had come to the tree.
    It’s the Harvest Festival, and I was supposed to be singing. Now I am standing here with this dumb blue feather! Blythe thought. Neither she nor Bash had ever heard the great tree so silent during a festival. Punkie Night was only a short moon cycle away. Would it be cancelled, too?
    It better