Exile by Kathryn Lasky

Ember of Hoole.”
    “I already got me eye on one down there. But understand that when Pelli flies with this ember, we have to put it in a good strong botkin with some other bonk ones to insulate her from its power.”
    “And do you have the case, the original one that we always kept it in?”
    “Yeah, it’s around here someplace.”
    “Well, you better be prepared. Coryn might come asking for it anytime.” Otulissa felt her gizzard twitch. How had it come to this? She had had so much faith in Coryn. She had been his first teacher in the Beyond. She had taught him how to dive for coals. Of course, he was such a natural that it only took him two blinks to learn. She had been there in the Beyond when he had taken that spectacular dive into Hrath’ghar and came back with the ember. Not even singed. But now he was being singed, so to speak, being weakened, damaged perhaps irreparably, by this strange blue owl.

CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Stink of a Hag
    B ubo had stayed up the rest of the night working in his forge, juicing a coal. He peered out into the breaking dawn. He always thought that first light of twixt time was like a cold ember creeping over the horizon. Then the sun would heat up to a real sizzle, until it was full morning light. Bubo thought of everything in terms of coals and embers and flames. It was his measure, his tool, but when Otulissa had told him about the scraps of burnt paper and the book lift that she and Fritha had been flying, he was shocked. He had never thought of fire consuming parchment or paper before. Iron, metals—those were what one used fire for: to shape it, to make something new, to create something that didn’t exist before. But burning paper? This made no sense whatsoever. It only destroyed. Metals—silver, iron, gold, these noble materials—were equal to the strikes of the hammer, perched on the throne of an anvil, ready to receive blows. But paper and parchment were noble in a different way.Blank, clean, ready to receive the strokes of a quill dipped in ink or a brush tipped with paint. This burning of books was wrong. He had been so absorbed with these thoughts that he had not heard the approaching scratch of talons outside his cave.
    “Bubo!”
    The blacksmith wheeled around. Coryn, already! “Coryn, what brings you here?” Pelli had been right. He had not juiced that coal a moment too soon!
    “Bubo, the time has come for me to have the ember again. I am the king. It belongs with me.” He was speaking rapidly, giving too many reasons. Bubo knew that it would not be wise to give in too easily. It would only arouse suspicion. He must show some resistance.
    “Have you discussed this with the Band?”
    “The Band isn’t here. You know that,” Coryn said somewhat tersely.
    “Well…er…yes…but don’t you think maybe you should wait until they return and discuss it with them then?”
    “No, I don’t see any advantage in waiting.” He shook his head and his eyes seemed a dull, lusterless black. If Bubo hadn’t known better, he’d think this owl was moon blinked.
    “Well, I don’t know, Coryn.”
    “I am your king. It is not for you to know.”
    These words, spoken in a dull, cold voice, stunned Bubo more than anything. Bubo sighed. “All right. Whatever you say.” There was no response from Coryn. Bubo fetched the teardrop-shaped case and then his tongs. He poked down into the coal pit and pretended to search for several seconds and then plucked up the juiced ember. He dared not look at Coryn, but he sent a little prayer up to Glaux. Bubo was not really a praying kind of owl. So it was difficult for him to shape a prayer without some of his usual rough language. His prayers were more like strikes at the anvil then words of great reverence. Racdrops! Let me pull this off, Glaux , he thought. Be a frinkin’ shame were he to see this sprink ember for what it really is . He slipped it into the teardrop-shaped case before Coryn could get a close look at it. It was just