Lost Tales of Ga'Hoole

Tree in—
    They know all that, my dear. I was thinking you’d talk about what happened before that. What about your clan? Don’t forget to talk about your ancestors, it’s important, you know, for posterity.
    So the page is mine, you say?
    Yes. But the book is still mine, and I will get the final word.
    All right then. I guess I can say a few words about my clan. Mine is called the Clan of Krakor, one of the most ancient in the Northern Kingdoms. The Krakish language was named for it. In fact, the clan is known for its rich history and colorful lore. Many writers, poets, and historians have come out of my clan.
    Like the great Strix Emerilla, the renowned weathertrix of the last century.
    Yes, I was getting to that, but now I don’t have to.
    Oh, and you’re a prince, don’t forget that.
    Otulissa, may I begin?
    Oh, of course. That was my last interruption, I promise.
    The story I tell is a sad one, one that I have carried in my heart and gizzard all my life. It’s about my brother, Clay, may Glaux keep his soul. Many have wondered why I have renounced violence and war. Now, you’ll learn the reason.
    My brother, Clay, short for Claymore, was hatched moments before I was. In old northern families like ours, hatch order was very important. The first hatched would be named the rightful heir, and claim titles and ownership of hollows. In my family, the heir also inherited a collection of rare and ancient weapons that served as important symbols of our clan’s accomplishments in the earliest ages of the Northern Kingdoms.
    Among these was a pair of battle claws called Unguis Montania, or Mountain Claws in Hoolian. It’s one of two pairs of ancient battle claws that belonged to the Clan of Krakor. The Unguis Oceania was the other, but those did not belong to the Hollow of Snarth. Those belonged to some distant cousins of ours who had a hollow on the other side of Firthmore, the Hollow of Kyran. The two pairs of battle claws were forged a long time ago by two brothers from our clan. They had been through many historic battles. And even though they would be practically useless in combat up against modern battle claws, they were passed from generation to generation in Firthmore. They were very valuable to our clan.
    There was a saying among the aristocratic clans in the Northern Kingdoms: Each family had to have an “heir and a spare.” So there was Claymore, egg tooth at the ready, hatching only seconds before I did. The ancient Mountain Claws were ceremoniously brought into the hollow nights before the hatching. And it was under the gleam of those battle claws that Claymore was hatched. Clay was the heir. I, the second to hatch, was just the spare.
    As with all the firstborns in our part of the world, certain expectations were placed on Clay from a very young age. He was supposed to be strong in body and in spirit, and smart in aca demics and in life. He was to be trained to become a great warrior as well as an able leader. Da had an entire staff of reputable owls to ensure his son’s success—a master of arms, a flight instructor, a master of the hunt, a political strategist, tutors in every subject, you name it. There was even a young squire whose sole task was to keep the Mountain Claws polished for Clay. Jak was his name: I’ll never forget Jak. Jak was just a fledgling when he became our squire. He was from a common family, who thought it a great honor to send their son to the Hollow of Snarth as a squire. He saw Clay and me as big brothers, I suppose. He followed us around every where, and copied every thing we did. One time, I even found him trying on my practice battle claws.
    Mum and Da’s expectations of me were never that high. As the “spare,” I supposed I really could have led a life of leisure if I had wanted. Da thought it best for Clay, however, that I be brought up by his side, to provide a bit of brotherly competition. But Clay was always small for his age, and had trouble with all those Firsts. I was younger, but I was bigger and stronger. Early on, we had some of our First ceremonies on the same night, but by the time we reached First Flight, I had mine long before he had his. Those of you who know my reputation as a pacifist might be surprised to know that I was the first to wear battle claws and the first to wield an ice sword.
    You know that I am not a fighting owl. I practiced with weapons as a young’un, sure, but I never fought in a real battle. The Northern Kingdoms were