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same color as the sky. Everything seemed incredibly crisp and clear. It was a blue-white world and, although Soren had never thought twice about the color of his feathers, he felt almost dingy compared to the Snowy Owls and Svall, who fit in so perfectly. Not only did he feel dingy, he felt completely devastated at his failure to gain any assurances from Moss. What was to happen to all of them? The great tree, owlkind? He looked down at Svall, so powerful as he stroked through the icy sea. But for how long would this beautiful white bear be powerful, be free?
CHAPTER TEN
Gragg of Slonk
G ood light. See you in a bit, Matron. You take good care of him,” the elderly Kielian snake said to Ifghar’s attendant and he slipped off, just as the sun was rising. The Short-eared Owl who took care of the ailing Ifghar blinked her eyes in contempt. “The old sot,” she murmured under her breath. “Off for his beloved bingle juice, he is!” She often thought how convenient it had been for Gragg to accompany Ifghar to the retreat. The Glauxian Brothers were known for brewing fine bingle juice, which they rarely imbibed themselves except for special ceremonies.
But this morning, Gragg did not slither down in the tree trunk and out to the bingle brewery in the neighboring birch tree. Instead, he began a long ascent toward the top of a tree. There was a particularly sonorous branch that was slightly vented, and which was just above the hollow of the two Hoolian owls that had arrived from the famous great tree. He wanted to hear more of theirconversation. This was his chance. And he did not plan to botch it with bingle juice.
These two young owls, the Spotted one and the little Elf Owl, interested him. They came from the Great Ga’Hoole Tree, supposedly to do research. But there was something more, he just knew it. He had once had dreams of glory. But now neither the Kielian League nor the Ice Talons would have him and Ifghar. He was tired of life in the retreat. He was tired of living like an outcast between two worlds, sustained only by bingle juice, minding a dimwitted owl whom he had once thought was the most courageous owl in the entire Northern Kingdoms. He had given up everything for Ifghar. He had loved Ifghar the way only a snake who had flown atop his commander’s back feathers in battle could love another species. But at this glory-forsaken retreat, Ifghar had become more and more lost in his thoughts, his gizzard, like a guttering candle, giving a flicker only now and then, his brain growing duller and duller, the light in his yellow eyes dimmer and dimmer.
And Gragg himself had given in to the juice. The old matron, the Short-eared Owl, more or less took care of them both. But she was a poor excuse for an owl herself. She hardly ever flew, except for meditation flights, because of a damaged wing. Not the sharpest claws in the cupboard, as the old saying went.
Battle claws! How long had it been since he had seen a gleaming pair of honest-to-goodness battle claws? He felt a tingle of joy as he wound his way up the tree to hang on a branch just above the hollow of the two young owls. Yes, he thought as he was approaching the branch, I’m sober, I’m still strong despite the years of juice, and these two owls might just be our way out of here and on to glory, the glory that should have been ours. He wondered briefly if Ifghar could still fly with him aboard. Oh, well, I won’t worry about that now, Gragg thought and looped himself in a double-knotted twist from the branch, then pressed his head against a knothole in the tree to listen.
“Invasion? But why an invasion? Can’t you talk to them?”
Invasion! A shiver ran through Gragg, causing his blue-green skin to shimmer with an eerie iridescence.
“No, you don’t understand, Cleve.”
Cleve, the prince from the hollow of Snarth, that lemming-livered, gizzardless… But Gragg broke off the thought and pressed his ear closer to the hole.
“You see…” It was
CHAPTER TEN
Gragg of Slonk
G ood light. See you in a bit, Matron. You take good care of him,” the elderly Kielian snake said to Ifghar’s attendant and he slipped off, just as the sun was rising. The Short-eared Owl who took care of the ailing Ifghar blinked her eyes in contempt. “The old sot,” she murmured under her breath. “Off for his beloved bingle juice, he is!” She often thought how convenient it had been for Gragg to accompany Ifghar to the retreat. The Glauxian Brothers were known for brewing fine bingle juice, which they rarely imbibed themselves except for special ceremonies.
But this morning, Gragg did not slither down in the tree trunk and out to the bingle brewery in the neighboring birch tree. Instead, he began a long ascent toward the top of a tree. There was a particularly sonorous branch that was slightly vented, and which was just above the hollow of the two Hoolian owls that had arrived from the famous great tree. He wanted to hear more of theirconversation. This was his chance. And he did not plan to botch it with bingle juice.
These two young owls, the Spotted one and the little Elf Owl, interested him. They came from the Great Ga’Hoole Tree, supposedly to do research. But there was something more, he just knew it. He had once had dreams of glory. But now neither the Kielian League nor the Ice Talons would have him and Ifghar. He was tired of life in the retreat. He was tired of living like an outcast between two worlds, sustained only by bingle juice, minding a dimwitted owl whom he had once thought was the most courageous owl in the entire Northern Kingdoms. He had given up everything for Ifghar. He had loved Ifghar the way only a snake who had flown atop his commander’s back feathers in battle could love another species. But at this glory-forsaken retreat, Ifghar had become more and more lost in his thoughts, his gizzard, like a guttering candle, giving a flicker only now and then, his brain growing duller and duller, the light in his yellow eyes dimmer and dimmer.
And Gragg himself had given in to the juice. The old matron, the Short-eared Owl, more or less took care of them both. But she was a poor excuse for an owl herself. She hardly ever flew, except for meditation flights, because of a damaged wing. Not the sharpest claws in the cupboard, as the old saying went.
Battle claws! How long had it been since he had seen a gleaming pair of honest-to-goodness battle claws? He felt a tingle of joy as he wound his way up the tree to hang on a branch just above the hollow of the two young owls. Yes, he thought as he was approaching the branch, I’m sober, I’m still strong despite the years of juice, and these two owls might just be our way out of here and on to glory, the glory that should have been ours. He wondered briefly if Ifghar could still fly with him aboard. Oh, well, I won’t worry about that now, Gragg thought and looped himself in a double-knotted twist from the branch, then pressed his head against a knothole in the tree to listen.
“Invasion? But why an invasion? Can’t you talk to them?”
Invasion! A shiver ran through Gragg, causing his blue-green skin to shimmer with an eerie iridescence.
“No, you don’t understand, Cleve.”
Cleve, the prince from the hollow of Snarth, that lemming-livered, gizzardless… But Gragg broke off the thought and pressed his ear closer to the hole.
“You see…” It was
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