chipmunk.”
“Never cared for them myself,” the Snowy said. “They give me gas.”
“Well, the next ceremony is one I have never heard of.”
“What do you mean, never heard of? The nextceremony after First Prey should be First Moss. That’s always a fun one—going out looking for all the softest mosses for the hollow.”
“Well, there’s no moss now in the canyonlands. So maybe they have to substitute something. I don’t know.”
“What do they call it?” she asked.
“The Special ceremony,” Gwyndor answered.
The Snowy suddenly wilfed and seemed to shrink to half her size. She dropped her tongs. “No!” she gasped.
When the Snowy had recovered herself, she turned to Gwyndor. “Come into my hollow. I have some honey mead. Good for a chilly night. And I’ll try to explain.”
Gwyndor followed the Snowy through a passageway in the stone wall to what had been a courtyard of some sort, and then down steps into a cellar. “This is very nice,” Gwyndor said, looking around.
“I think it was a wine cellar. I make my nest in that barrel over there. Quite sweet-smelling. Care for some vole with the honey mead?” the Rogue smith offered.
“Sure.”
As they ate, the Snowy looked at Gwyndor darkly and began to explain. “I’ve heard bad things. Very bad things, indeed! I have heard that to become a true member of the Pure Ones, an officer, one must kill something. And not in battle.” The Snowy’s voice dwindled off.
A quiver ran through Gwyndor’s gizzard. “You mean to kill without hunger? To kill for no reason?”
“I am not talking about hunting for food. I’m talking about murder.”
“Murder!” Gwyndor whispered. “You mean they kill one of our own kind?”
“Yes. They say that Soren was to be Kludd’s Special years ago. Before he was a Pure One, he shoved Soren out of the nest, thinking that the fall would kill him. Or at least that a ground predator would get him. Kludd hadn’t counted on a St. Aggie’s patrol picking Soren up.”
“You can’t mean he was actually going to murder his own brother?”
“That’s exactly what I mean and they don’t call it ‘murder,’ of course. No, this ceremony is called Tupsi.”
“Tupsi—what in Glaux’s name does that mean?”
“Something like Tytonic Union Pure Special Initiation—Tupsi for short. Murder with a cute name.”
“This is monstrous! I must tell the young’un immediately.” Gwyndor stopped drinking the honey mead from the metal flagon the Snowy had set before him.
“I am not sure if that is such a good idea,” the Snowy Owl replied cryptically.
“What in Glaux’s name do you mean—not a good idea? What am I supposed to do? Stand by and let thisthuggish bunch of owls turn a fine young’un into a worse brute than his father?”
“These lessons are perhaps best learned on one’s own.”
Gwyndor blinked. “I don’t see why.”
Then even more cryptically, the Snowy Rogue smith said, “Truth must be revealed and not simply told.”
This Snowy is just plain yoicks! Gwyndor thought. And he had no intention of withholding from Nyroc the horrific truth about Tupsi.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Hammer and Tongs!
M urder with a cute name! Murder with any name is still murder. Tupsi!
That was all Gwyndor could think of as he flew back to the canyonlands the following evening in the first snowfall of the season.
Normally, Gwyndor would have loved being out on a night like this. The moon was barely newing. Only a sliver of light hung up there in the dark sky, behind the moving snow clouds. Big fluffy snowflakes drifted slowly against the dark blue-gray of night. He loved it when snowflakes fell slowly, spinning, turning to a music all their own. But there was no music in this night for Gwyndor. There was just the one thought: He had to get back and somehow save young Nyroc from this terrible thing called Tupsi. There was a prisoner called Smutty who the Pure Ones were holding. He was accused of cowardice during the
“Never cared for them myself,” the Snowy said. “They give me gas.”
“Well, the next ceremony is one I have never heard of.”
“What do you mean, never heard of? The nextceremony after First Prey should be First Moss. That’s always a fun one—going out looking for all the softest mosses for the hollow.”
“Well, there’s no moss now in the canyonlands. So maybe they have to substitute something. I don’t know.”
“What do they call it?” she asked.
“The Special ceremony,” Gwyndor answered.
The Snowy suddenly wilfed and seemed to shrink to half her size. She dropped her tongs. “No!” she gasped.
When the Snowy had recovered herself, she turned to Gwyndor. “Come into my hollow. I have some honey mead. Good for a chilly night. And I’ll try to explain.”
Gwyndor followed the Snowy through a passageway in the stone wall to what had been a courtyard of some sort, and then down steps into a cellar. “This is very nice,” Gwyndor said, looking around.
“I think it was a wine cellar. I make my nest in that barrel over there. Quite sweet-smelling. Care for some vole with the honey mead?” the Rogue smith offered.
“Sure.”
As they ate, the Snowy looked at Gwyndor darkly and began to explain. “I’ve heard bad things. Very bad things, indeed! I have heard that to become a true member of the Pure Ones, an officer, one must kill something. And not in battle.” The Snowy’s voice dwindled off.
A quiver ran through Gwyndor’s gizzard. “You mean to kill without hunger? To kill for no reason?”
“I am not talking about hunting for food. I’m talking about murder.”
“Murder!” Gwyndor whispered. “You mean they kill one of our own kind?”
“Yes. They say that Soren was to be Kludd’s Special years ago. Before he was a Pure One, he shoved Soren out of the nest, thinking that the fall would kill him. Or at least that a ground predator would get him. Kludd hadn’t counted on a St. Aggie’s patrol picking Soren up.”
“You can’t mean he was actually going to murder his own brother?”
“That’s exactly what I mean and they don’t call it ‘murder,’ of course. No, this ceremony is called Tupsi.”
“Tupsi—what in Glaux’s name does that mean?”
“Something like Tytonic Union Pure Special Initiation—Tupsi for short. Murder with a cute name.”
“This is monstrous! I must tell the young’un immediately.” Gwyndor stopped drinking the honey mead from the metal flagon the Snowy had set before him.
“I am not sure if that is such a good idea,” the Snowy Owl replied cryptically.
“What in Glaux’s name do you mean—not a good idea? What am I supposed to do? Stand by and let thisthuggish bunch of owls turn a fine young’un into a worse brute than his father?”
“These lessons are perhaps best learned on one’s own.”
Gwyndor blinked. “I don’t see why.”
Then even more cryptically, the Snowy Rogue smith said, “Truth must be revealed and not simply told.”
This Snowy is just plain yoicks! Gwyndor thought. And he had no intention of withholding from Nyroc the horrific truth about Tupsi.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Hammer and Tongs!
M urder with a cute name! Murder with any name is still murder. Tupsi!
That was all Gwyndor could think of as he flew back to the canyonlands the following evening in the first snowfall of the season.
Normally, Gwyndor would have loved being out on a night like this. The moon was barely newing. Only a sliver of light hung up there in the dark sky, behind the moving snow clouds. Big fluffy snowflakes drifted slowly against the dark blue-gray of night. He loved it when snowflakes fell slowly, spinning, turning to a music all their own. But there was no music in this night for Gwyndor. There was just the one thought: He had to get back and somehow save young Nyroc from this terrible thing called Tupsi. There was a prisoner called Smutty who the Pure Ones were holding. He was accused of cowardice during the
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