Guardians of Ga'Hoole 11 - To Be a King

understand, Hoole, these titles are a formof respect. It is important that respect be maintained if you are to lead.”
    “But it is action and words that earns one respect, isn’t it?”
    “Yes, a title is worthless without the gallgrot to back it up. But it is protocol, after all.”
    This word confused Hoole. He guessed it had to do with how a king’s or queen’s retinue paid homage to their monarch; very much about ritual and manners. It sounded incredibly boring to Hoole, and very restrictive.
    Grank, for his part, had to remind himself continually that Hoole was a different kind of monarch. He had been raised about as far as one could be from the elaborate rituals of court behavior. So why bog him down with rigid procedures and detailed codes of manners and ritual?
    Grank looked at the new container for the ember. “The new box is lovely. Very different shape—not square as before. Almost a…” Grank hesitated. He had been about to say “teardrop,” but instead said “berry.”
    “Yes,” Hoole whispered. “Theo took the old one and reshaped it.” Hoole also resisted saying the word “teardrop.” Theo had not known about Hoole’s tears. The Great Horned blacksmith had merely thought the shape of the berries lovely.
    “You know, they say the berries taste like what somecreatures call milk,” Grank added. “Some owls call them milkberries now,” Grank said.
    “Oh, really?” Thank Glaux they’re not Hoole berries or some such nonsense! Hoole thought.
    “Well,” Grank said, “Theo has done wonders with his forge. So lucky he found that cave. He’s got his fires going. And, he has come around to making battle claws.”
    “I know it must have been a hard decision, Theo being a gizzard-resister and all,” Hoole said.
    “It was the battle that changed him,” Grank offered. “And, of course, the idea of hagsfiends and nachtmagen let loose in the world.” He paused. “Well, I think I shall turn in for the day, Your—” He stopped himself. “Hoole, I’ll tell you what: I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll not call you Your Grace or any of those titles that you seem to loathe if you’ll not call me Uncle.”
    “You don’t like being called Uncle?” Hoole blinked in surprise.
    Grank’s yellow eyes softened. “I love it. It stirs my gizzard like no other word, I think. But if you are to be king, it does not suit to call your chief advisor Uncle.”
    “I see,” Hoole replied. “All right, Grank. You shall be Grank and I shall be just plain Hoole.”
    Hardly, Grank thought as he left the hollow. Hardly “just plain Hoole”!

CHAPTER THREE
Meditations on an Ember
    H oole resumed his study of the ember in the iron teardrop. “I am king because of you, ember,” he whispered. It startled him that he had addressed the ember as if it were a living creature. But in a curious way it felt right. The ember was said to have great powers. He had heard in great detail from the wolf Fengo that its powers nearly overcame Grank when he first retrieved it years ago. Hoole thought about magic and why even good magic might not truly be the way to rule. It was disturbing to him that some of the owls of the tree were thinking of him as not only a king but a mage. He disliked the title “mage” even more than that of “king.”
    “How dangerous you can be!” he spoke in that same hushed voice to the ember. It seemed to pulse and the blue glow at its center darkened. “So many want you. Would kill for you. So many think that your magic will grant them all powers, perhaps even immortality, eh?” The ember gave a little hiss and a bit of fiery spittle escapedthe iron teardrop. So, thought Hoole, this ember forces us to balance on a blade’s edge between a kingship and tyranny, between principles of justice and magic. “Somehow I must make all owls of the Great Tree understand this danger.”
    The lovely voice of the Snow Rose, the gadfeather who had fought with them in the Beyond, began to filter through the tree. She had taken to singing ballads toward First Light as the owls nestled in for the day.
Where go the stars,
    where goes the dark,
    the night so black and clear?
    Worry not, worry not,
    night will come again soon.
    Dark, dark, fold me in your wings.
    Dark, dark, let my gizzard sing.
    But now is the time for light —
    let it come, let it come.
    Bring the sun so bright,
    then the shadows beyond the noon
    grow long as day grows old.
    Worry not, my owls,
    the dark will wait for