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to whisper out to her now, Mum, what I saw in the fire—this isn’t true. The first time he had looked through the flames, at the Marking ceremony in the cave where his father had died, he had seen a place he did not recognize, a strange landscape where weird creatures with four legs and strangely colored eyes loped through swirling mists and vapors. And then there had been the curious thing like a flame made of stone, orange in color with the lick of deep blue at its center, and between the inner blue and the outer orange what he thought might be the color green. This reminded Nyroc that his mum had promised to take him to see a tree after the Special ceremony if he performed it well. Nyroc’s gizzard gave a sickening twist. A darkness seemed to flood through it as it did every time he thought of the Special ceremony. He quickly pushed all thoughts of it from his mind.
He remembered instead how oddly his mother hadlooked at him when he had told her Oh, Mum, I love you sooo much, almost as if she didn’t know the word “love” or what it meant. And then with dread in his gizzard, he remembered her other words to him: “You must learn to hate, Nyroc. I shall help you learn to hate.”
Gwyndor was right. He must find out the truth for himself. What he had seen in the fire was a strange and bloody history. It began with his father when he was even younger than Nyroc, pushing his brother, Soren, from the nest. And then he saw his mother trying to kill another owl who looked remarkably like Soren, possibly a sister. He had seen quick flashing images of murderous rampages. Finally, Nyroc saw the cave where his father had died, and it was not his uncle Soren trying to kill his father, but quite the reverse, his father trying to kill his uncle Soren. Then another owl had flown in. It looked like a Great Gray and in one powerful stroke with a glittering sword, he had broken his father’s back. The fire had roiled with blood and murder.
He needed to get away from the Pure Ones—and especially his mother—to think about all he had seen. To find out if the flames had lied. He could not go alone, however, for the places he really needed to go to seek out the truth were the other owl kingdoms. Dustytuft was older, more experienced. Dustytuft knew the lay of theland and the way out of the canyonlands to other places. He knew how to navigate through all kinds of weather. Nyroc suddenly realized a new truth: Dustytuft’s skills had been frightfully wasted by the Pure Ones, simply because he was not considered pure enough. He had been given the lowliest tasks and yet he had come here with plenty of experience—he had, after all, escaped a forest fire, navigated through the smoke and poisoned air with his da, and yet he had been treated like some ignorant, useless owl unfit for anything. Sheer stupidity on the part of the Pure Ones. Well, he would not be so stupid. He would take Dustytuft… No, Nyroc thought, I will never call him Dustytuft again. He is Phillip. Together Phillip and I will find the truth.
He had to tell Phillip, and they must leave right now even though the sun was over the horizon. They must risk crows. They must risk the tangled maze of the canyonlands. They must risk his mum’s vengeance.
Just before he stepped onto the ledge to fly off, he looked back at his mum in the morning shadows of the stone hollow. She was a beautiful owl, the most beautiful he had ever seen, despite the scar that ran like a fine line across her face. I am leaving, Nyroc thought, all that I have ever known, and all that I have ever believed in. I am leaving my rock hollow and my bedding, fluffed with the down from my mother’s own breast. I am leaving this cliff’s cool shade in the summer, this cliff’s ledges and overhangs and its shelter against the bite of winter’s wind. I am leaving the colors that stream through the rocks that made me think of sunsets. I am leaving the fat rats that my mum is so good at catching, and the
He remembered instead how oddly his mother hadlooked at him when he had told her Oh, Mum, I love you sooo much, almost as if she didn’t know the word “love” or what it meant. And then with dread in his gizzard, he remembered her other words to him: “You must learn to hate, Nyroc. I shall help you learn to hate.”
Gwyndor was right. He must find out the truth for himself. What he had seen in the fire was a strange and bloody history. It began with his father when he was even younger than Nyroc, pushing his brother, Soren, from the nest. And then he saw his mother trying to kill another owl who looked remarkably like Soren, possibly a sister. He had seen quick flashing images of murderous rampages. Finally, Nyroc saw the cave where his father had died, and it was not his uncle Soren trying to kill his father, but quite the reverse, his father trying to kill his uncle Soren. Then another owl had flown in. It looked like a Great Gray and in one powerful stroke with a glittering sword, he had broken his father’s back. The fire had roiled with blood and murder.
He needed to get away from the Pure Ones—and especially his mother—to think about all he had seen. To find out if the flames had lied. He could not go alone, however, for the places he really needed to go to seek out the truth were the other owl kingdoms. Dustytuft was older, more experienced. Dustytuft knew the lay of theland and the way out of the canyonlands to other places. He knew how to navigate through all kinds of weather. Nyroc suddenly realized a new truth: Dustytuft’s skills had been frightfully wasted by the Pure Ones, simply because he was not considered pure enough. He had been given the lowliest tasks and yet he had come here with plenty of experience—he had, after all, escaped a forest fire, navigated through the smoke and poisoned air with his da, and yet he had been treated like some ignorant, useless owl unfit for anything. Sheer stupidity on the part of the Pure Ones. Well, he would not be so stupid. He would take Dustytuft… No, Nyroc thought, I will never call him Dustytuft again. He is Phillip. Together Phillip and I will find the truth.
He had to tell Phillip, and they must leave right now even though the sun was over the horizon. They must risk crows. They must risk the tangled maze of the canyonlands. They must risk his mum’s vengeance.
Just before he stepped onto the ledge to fly off, he looked back at his mum in the morning shadows of the stone hollow. She was a beautiful owl, the most beautiful he had ever seen, despite the scar that ran like a fine line across her face. I am leaving, Nyroc thought, all that I have ever known, and all that I have ever believed in. I am leaving my rock hollow and my bedding, fluffed with the down from my mother’s own breast. I am leaving this cliff’s cool shade in the summer, this cliff’s ledges and overhangs and its shelter against the bite of winter’s wind. I am leaving the colors that stream through the rocks that made me think of sunsets. I am leaving the fat rats that my mum is so good at catching, and the
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