(GoG Book 08) The Outcast (9 page)

Well, now, if I don’t look like a right fine Rogue smith, I don’t know who does! Next stop, Trader Mags!

T
rader Mags, the magpie trader of fine goods and commodities, lived in a section of Silverveil that was particularly rich in churches, castles, and various old ruins from the time of the Others. It was the perfect place for her to find the stock of her trade. For years now, she had lived in the elaborate chapel of an ancient church. From the shards of shattered stained glass she made trinkets, and in the ruins of nearby houses she found old teacups and fragments of saucers. It was only a half night’s flight to a fabulous palace that she had been ransacking for years, collecting remnants of old tapestries, silver goblets, and even scraps of paintings.

She had one of her favorite scraps propped in her nest in the chapel. It had been torn from a painting of an Other’s face. It was just the eye. Mags found the Others’ eyes fascinating and had torn several of them from various paintings. The eyes came in all colors, black, brown, green, a yellowish color that was not as bright as owls’
eyes, gray, and the most beautiful of all—blue. She was hoping to find one someday that was red or purple. So far she had had no luck. Trader Mags herself was missing one eye. It had been plucked out by a crow many years before and this possibly explained her fascination with eyes. She wore a jaunty bandanna over it and she had learned over the years how to adjust her flying to her limited vision.

As Trader Mags sorted and re-sorted her goods with her assistant, Bubbles, she was thinking about revisiting the portrait gallery. She turned to Bubbles, a rather daft magpie, but helpful nonetheless. “Bubbles, it’s a fine night for flying.”

“Oh, yes, ma’am, that it is,” Bubbles answered.

“I have meself a hankering to go to the portrait gallery looking for eyes.”

“Yes, ma’am, and while you be there, it would be ever so good if you’d pick up some of them tassels from the curtains in the main saloon.”

“Salon, Bubbles, not saloon. There be a world of difference between the two.”

“Whatever!” Bubbles murmured.

“You mind the business while I’m gone, dearie. And remember the rules: silver for silver. No silver for glass. Actually, I don’t want any more glass. We’re up to our
beaks in colored glass. And keep a tight talon on the eyes. Only trade them for something really good.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“All right, tally ho!” Trader Mags loved this expression. Madame Plonk, one of her best customers from the Great Ga’Hoole Tree, had told her it was used by the Others in ancient times when they went riding on four-legged beasts. The owls of the great tree knew things like this because they could read, which she could not—or at least not very well. And Mags was fascinated with the lives of the Others, who had not lived on Earth for years. She sometimes wondered where and why they had gone, leaving all this great stuff behind.

It was not long after Trader Mags had flown off that Bubbles heard rather loud wings beats outside the chapel. She was surprised when an owl flew in. Usually, they were much quieter. She knew immediately that it was a Rogue smith. They often tried to trade coals for things.

Nyra awkwardly set down her bucket and the rest of the equipment she was carrying. Bubbles wondered if perhaps she had not been a Rogue smith very long, for usually they did not have such trouble coming in for a landing with all their gear.

“Got no need for coals. Sorry,” she said without turning around from sorting stained glass.

“Oh, it’s not coals I brought,” said Nyra.

“All right, let’s see it,” Bubbles said, putting down the shards of glass.

“Much more interesting than coals. Is Trader Mags about?

“No, she went out on a business trip.”

“Well, I’ve got some lovely silver things—not exactly useful, mind you. More like art.”

“Oooh, art! Trader Mags, she does like the art,” Bubbles said.

“How lucky, then.” Nyra drew out a bright silver spiral-shaped piece.

“Ooooh, lovely. Melted down the silver, did you?”

“Yes. That was the easy part. Getting this shape was the hard part.”

“Oh, yes, I can imagine,” Bubbles replied. Trader Mags’s words streamed through her head.
Silver for silver, no silver for glass.
“I suppose you be wanting to look at our silver collection.”

“Not necessarily. Might I browse?”

“Of course. We got our glass over there, and our fine fabric fragments there. Beads, rocks there. Teacups.” But Bubbles had hardly finished before Nyra had found a basket of scraps torn from paintings.

“These are interesting,” she said.

“Oh, yes, Mags does like them eye paintings,” Bubbles said.

“Oh, my goodness, a green eye.”

“Yes, them Others, why, their eyes came in all colors, you know.”

“But green, how unusual,” Nyra said.

“Oh, sort through them, take your time.”

“Thank you, my dear.”

Bubbles thought how much more soft-spoken this owl was from most Rogue smiths, who tended to be rather rough in their ways.

Nyra remembered that the dire wolves of the Beyond were said to have green eyes. This would be the perfect gift. She began picking through the scraps and sorting out the green ones. After a bit she turned to Bubbles.

“Might I trade you my silver for these green eyes and, say, a bauble or two?”

“You mean, you just want some old painted eyes and not silver? It seems sort of unfair to you. Mags said we should trade silver for silver.”

“Oh, don’t worry about being fair to me, dearie. Just think of it as art for art.”

“Well, yes, I suppose so.” Bubbles paused. “I don’t know. Mags is mighty particular about her eyes.”

Oh, dear,
Nyra thought. She hoped this magpie wasn’t
going to be difficult. She didn’t want to have to kill her. Then she had an idea. Flying with all this equipment was difficult. What if she would trade her the tongs along with the silver? “What would you say if I threw in the tongs?”

“Your tongs? But you need them, don’t you?”

“Oh, I have more back at the forge. And quite frankly, I’m thinking of retiring.”

“Well…” Bubbles cocked her head and tried to think this out. “I guess it’s all right.”

“Then, it’s a deal.”

“Yes, ma’am, it’s a deal.”

“You what?” Trader Mags shrieked when she returned from the palace. “You traded all my green eyes. I only had three sets and they took me forever to collect.”

“And the tongs, we got the tongs, ma’am, along with the silver.”

“Tongs? What kind of Rogue smith trades her tongs?” And then another thought burst into Trader Mags’s head.
What kind of Rogue smith works with silver? Only one!
“Let me see that silver.”

Bubbles flew nervously over to the church pew where she had put the silver spiral. She was certain that when Mags saw how beautiful it was, she would not be so mad.

“It’s art!” Mags said when she had flown back with it.

Bubbles breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes, ma’am, that’s what I say, art for art.” But her relief was short-lived. Mags was shrieking again.

“There is only one Rogue smith who makes art, only one who lives near silver to melt down. And that is the Rogue smith of the Silverveil. She would NEVER trade this for a scrap of painting—never. You ninny! How could you not have seen that something was wrong? Something terrible has happened to the Rogue smith of Silverveil. I must go. Go right away.”

“It warn’t my fault, ma’am. Really, it warn’t my fault!” Bubbles was crying as Trader Mags flew out of the chapel. “Be careful of crows, ma’am, do be careful!”

L
ochinvyrr.” Coryn repeated the strange-sounding word. “So that is what you call it, that moment when a wolf and the dying animal look at each other.”

Hamish nodded. “Our ways are odd, I know.”

“It is odd, but it’s beautiful. It’s as if the animal is giving permission for its death.”

“Yes, and the killer acknowledges that it is a worthy life he asks for.”

“Asks. Not takes.”

“No, we never take. And therefore the spirit of the animal we killed will follow the spirit trail of stars to the cave of souls in the sky.”

“That sounds like our owl heaven. We call it glaumora. But it is just the sky, I think, and not a cave.”

“You are a creature of the sky. So it makes sense.”

And Hamish and his clan, Coryn thought, were creatures of the trail. He had never seen animals move as these wolves did, so swiftly. So steadily and never seeming to
break their stride, even Hamish with his lame leg and his limp could run steadily for hours, although he was not the fastest of the clan.

“Is lochinvyrr another lesson you will teach the little Coryn who shall be king?” Hamish asked.

“I think it would be a good lesson,” Coryn replied.

“Look, the clan is beginning to move. We should get ready.” Duncan MacDuncan, the chieftain, had roused himself from the pile he slept in with his mate and their pups.

For several days now, Coryn had been traveling with the clan, for they had offered him sanctuary. And he was learning much from them. The wolves, like owls, preferred for the most part to travel and hunt at night and they often slept during the day. The caves they found were large, and Hamish and Coryn usually settled in their own little cranny toward the back because Hamish always stayed on the fringes of the clan. It was a useful arrangement. It allowed the two of them to talk privately.

The clan was as strategic about their travel formation as they were about their hunting. The traveling configuration was called the byrrgis. And the shape of this byrrgis varied according to weather conditions. The clan would string out if the wind was down and begin their trek with their tails slightly raised, their ruffs swept back. The females were faster than the males, so they were often in
the front. But if the snow was thick on the ground, the males, who weighed more, would be in the lead to break the track. They would also be in the lead if there was a stiff headwind. In this way they could protect the fast runners from the wind, so that if there were caribou to be hunted, these females could put on a burst of speed unequaled by the males. The strategy of protecting the females and saving their energies for when it really counted was ingenious, Coryn thought.

He had seen this happen time and again. He was intrigued by the whole notion of the byrrgis and often wondered if it could in some way be used by owls.

He had learned a lot so far, but had he learned what he needed to teach a future king? And he had yet to see the Sacred Volcanoes. There was one subject that Hamish seemed reluctant to discuss: his role as gnaw wolf. Coryn realized that he, too, had been unwilling to discuss certain things. He had told Hamish how he felt it was his mission to come to the Beyond so that he could learn many things and become the teacher for young Coryn. But there was much he had left out. For example, he had neglected to tell Hamish that he had fire sight. He had betrayed no interest in going anywhere near the volcanoes. It would have been easy to fly high over them and look down into their fiery mouths. Why had he held back?
Perhaps he was frightened of what he might see. He was not even tempted to try his luck at being a collier and collect live coals from the streaming river of embers that poured from the volcanoes. And here he had thought he was going to be following in the footsteps of Grank, the first collier!

They had been steadily moving west, toward the ring of Sacred Volcanoes. Coryn was not sure why the volcanoes were considered sacred, but he did know that there were many gnaw wolves there. So he thought he might ask Hamish about the region. When they had settled down after their long trek, he noticed Hamish diligently gnawing on a caribou bone. He felt that this was the perfect opportunity.

“Hamish, are you practicing gnawing because we are going to this place?”

Hamish grunted a response, which Coryn took to mean yes but he didn’t want to talk about it. Still Coryn persisted. “Hamish, can I look at the bone you are gnawing?”

“Sure, take a look.” The wolf tossed it in his direction.

“Hamish, are you angry with me or something?”

Hamish sighed. “No, not you. I’m angry with myself.”

“Why?”

“I’m not any good at this.”

“At bone gnawing?”

“It’s complicated to explain. Gnaw wolves lead strange lives. You see how I am not accepted, even scorned by my clan?”

Coryn nodded.

“Gnaw wolves are felt to have powers. We gnaw the bones with designs that tell stories of our history here. The gnaw wolves then pile these bones into huge mounds, or cairns, and these cairns—along with the gnaw wolves of our clan—guard the Sacred Volcanoes.”

“Why do the volcanoes need to be guarded?” Coryn asked. But even as he asked, he felt an awful twinge in his gizzard.

“You really don’t know, Coryn?” Hamish looked up, his green eyes seeming to bore right into Coryn’s gizzard.

“No.” Coryn’s voice shook. “No, I really…” His voice dwindled off.
Don’t say it. Don’t say it!
He shut his eyes tight as if he could keep out the truth.

“They guard the Ember of Hoole,” Hamish said in a low voice thick with the MacBurr.

There. It was out!
thought Coryn.
Why do I keep resisting this?

“You know,” Hamish continued, “on that day when we first met at the carcass of the moose?”

“Yes,” Coryn said.

“When you came that night and we all ate together, the wolves and the bear ate from the moose. Well, that had never happened before. Wolves, we’re a superstitious lot. So talk began that your coming had something to do with the old stories. And because you befriended me, they now think it is my turn to go there, to leave the clan, and join the gnaw wolves who guard the ember.”

“But it is a great honor, isn’t it?” Coryn asked.

“Honors are lonely things. I would much rather have friends than honors.”

“But I can still be your friend, can’t I?”