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Tales of the Phoenix

By Kristen Stieffel

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Astrid put away the grooming tools and rubbed her hands, massaging away the cold. Outside, the cloudless dome of the sky sat empty, awaiting the competitors. “Good day for a race, Ragnar.” Astrid caressed the bird’s neck, and he made a low, rumbling squawk. If only she could fly with him. “You show those dragons what you’re made of.”
He stared at her with a beady black eye and cocked his head.
“Let’s see your pinions.” She stood in front of him and stretched her arms to either side. “Spread.”
With an abrupt caw, he stood, talons digging into his straw nest, and stretched his wings to their full nine-meter span.
“Hold.” He remained still while she walked along each wing, inspecting the ebony flight feathers for irregularities. She fetched the saddle from the rack in the corner and slid it in place. She was a tall woman, unfortunately, and Ragnar’s body was even longer than hers. Leather saddle straps ran around his wings, front and back, joining into a V at the girth. She carefully snugged the belt around his breastbone. “Good boy.” She ran her hand over the feathers of his head and neck, which she had groomed to a glossy sheen. The bridle slipped around the hooked beak as long as her arm. “Let’s go find your jockey.” She took the reins and led him outside.
The sun had not yet risen in the east, where the land sloped down toward Puerto Santa Lucia on the coast of the Melas Sea. In the west, light glinted off something metallic in the sky. Impossible. Huh. Unless one of the dragon riders had fitted his beast with armor. No, armor would only slow a creature down. Even dragon riders weren’t that stupid.
Master Breiner, the pot-bellied head trainer, finished barking at the groom in the next stall and arrived to drill Astrid. “Is the old boy fit to fly?”
“Fit as ever,” Astrid replied. “Those dragons will see nothing but his tail feathers.”
As if he knew he was being spoken of, Ragnar squawked and ruffled the feathers around his bridle.
Astrid reached up and smoothed them with one hand. “Who’s riding him today?”
The trainer looked across the field, where other birds and grooms were lined up. “Chaya. Haven’t seen her yet this morning.” He turned back to Astrid. “Wait here while I find her.”
“Yes, sir.” On the opposite side of the field, the dragon riders and their beasts lined up, much like the birds and their jockeys. For days, nobles had been arriving with their jockeys and mounts. Every cycle, they gathered from all over the Kingdom of Marineris for this competition.
To Astrid’s right rose empty bleachers, ten ranks high, from which the nobility would watch the races. A few nobles strolled on the field. She spotted Lord Samuel Dubois, govnor of Melas, Ragnar’s owner and, for all practical purposes, hers. She dusted the hay from Ragnar’s nest off her tan twill trousers and ran hands over her braid to ensure she was presentable. Not that he ever noticed her anymore.
Again she glanced westward. The metallic thing had drawn closer. Squinting, she tried to make it out. A big fat bag, with some kind of cargo slung underneath. How could it possibly fly?
Breiner, huffing and stony-faced, returned with Chaya. “Give her a good briefing.” He walked on without receiving her answer.
Not that she could have said anything other than, “Yes, Master Breiner.”
Chaya kneaded her hands.
“Don’t be nervous,” Astrid said. “Ragnar’s done this eight times, and won five, so he knows what he’s doing, don’t you, fellow?”
The low rumble in his throat was akin to a cat’s purr. If a cat were thrice the size of a horse.
Chaya was a slim, short girl, only about seven cycles old. Prepubescent. Even shorter and more sticklike than Astrid had been at that age. A braid of blonde hair darker than Astrid’s snaked over her shoulder.
“Have you your map?” Astrid asked.
“Uh, yes, ma’am.”
“Not ma’am. I’m just the groom.”
“But you…” Chaya fumbled with the buckles of her leather flight jacket. “You’re a champion.”
Astrid flushed hotly. “Ragnar is the champion, as Master Breiner would soon tell you. I only had the privilege of riding him for a few cycles.” She took a deep breath and released it slowly. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to snap.”
“No offense, ma—miss?”
“Astrid.” She smiled.
Chaya smiled in return and pulled the map from her inside pocket.
“Now, the course is marked out for the long-distance race.” The checkpoints were marked in red ink on the otherwise blue, green, and tan hand-drawn map. “What this doesn’t show is the easiest way to reach the first checkpoint.” She tapped the spot on the mesa atop the mountains to the northwest that marked the border between Melas and Candor, the great chasms at the heart of the largest valley ever known. “As you approach the mountains, go up the eastern slopes and see if you can catch a thermal. That will allow Ragnar to soar to altitude instead of flapping, as the dragons do. Don’t worry if the dragons get ahead of you there. The thing is, they wear themselves out getting to altitude. Once you’ve passed the checkpoint, turn south and head for the second checkpoint at cruising speed.” She tracked the southeasterly path back to the lowlands. “Then turn and head home at top speed. The last leg is the key. Ragnar can put on a sprint after flying so far at those altitudes. Few others can.”
At the sound of his name, he gave a grunt that might have been a chirp had it come from a songbird instead of a giant carrier bird.
Astrid folded the map. “Where is the first checkpoint?”
Chaya turned and pointed. “Eighty kims north northwest.”
“And the second?”
“Ninety kims south southwest of the first.”
“And then?”
“Then sixty kims eastward to get home.”
“Very good.” She handed the map back. “Study that as much as you can on the ground, but in a race, leave it behind. There’s no time for it.”
“Kay, Astrid.”
“Give him his head. You’re just there to navigate. Trust Ragnar, Chaya. He knows what to do.”
“Kay.”
For another half hour, while nobles filled the bleachers, Astrid continued giving Chaya advice on form and answering her questions.
They reached a lull, and Astrid groped for anything she might have forgotten.
“Um…Astrid?”
“Yes?”
“Why don’t you fly anymore?”
The girl might as well have jabbed a dagger into her heart. “Are you joking?” Astrid spread her long arms and pulled her shoulders back. “Look at me! I’m too enormous to fly. I was grounded as soon as I topped a meter and a half and these showed up.” She gestured to her breasts, which stretched out the fabric of her blue and white snowflake-patterned sweater.
Chaya, blushing, ducked her head. “I—I’m sorry.”
Astrid patted her shoulder. “No, I shouldn’t have shouted. It’s just…I still sort of resent having grown up.”
Chaya nodded. “I suppose that’ll happen to me, someday.”
“Happens to everyone. You, me, Master Breiner…”
Chaya giggled.
Astrid frowned. Oh. She had rather implied that Master Breiner was hampered by breasts. “No, his weight is around the middle, not up top.”
Chaya’s childlike laugh was refreshing, and Astrid joined in for a moment.
Ragnar let out a great crow, and soon the other birds and half the dragons did the same. A couple of birds tried to bolt back into the aerie.
“What in the name of Lowell…” Astrid muttered.
A vast shadow, like that of a dragon flying low overhead, spread across the field. She turned to see what had cast it.
“What is that?” Chaya squealed.
“No idea.” Pleated half-circle wings extended from the sides of a sailing ship, which carried a puffy bag atop it in a silver bowl. This was the metallic craft she’d seen flying out of the west.
But how could it fly? Its wings didn’t flap. Miracle? Magic?
“Focus, jockeys, focus!” Master Breiner marched down the line. “Calm down! Just some mechanical…thing. Nathan, get that bird under control.” He passed Ragnar. “Steady as a rock. Good.” Then on to the next. “She can’t race like that, Antonio, get her settled down!” And on he went.
Astrid could not take her eyes off that great, gleaming, flying…miracle.

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