Rebel Fires

by Tara Omar

  “You’re flying beautifully, my girl. Keep at it,” called Liza. La Cloche’s faulty wing meant she was slower than the other falcons on the rising part of the course. Liza positioned La Cloche behind an amethyst-coloured falcon, riding the slipstream of the falcons in front as they ascended diagonally toward the top. An emerald falcon nudged at her tailfeathers from behind, but La Cloche managed to stay ahead. They circled around and again plummeted down the course.

  Catherine whooped and cheered from her place in the descending grandstand, which was slowly sliding downward as to be aligned with the finish line on the final lap. She shouted as Liza passed her on the second lap.

  “Whooh! Take ‘em down, Closhie! You know you can!”

  As La Cloche circled round the start of the third lap, Liza decided it was time to test her flying. She angled La Cloche just off the amethyst falcon, and seeing a gap, gently tapped the tailfeathers with her whip. La Cloche responded and soared past the falcon to fifth off the lead, while the crowd erupted in cheers.

  Gabe followed their moves through his binoculars from the Royal Enclosure, clearly impressed. “It looks like La Cloche is flying her race today,” said Gabe to Dominic, but Dominic wasn’t listening. He was eyeing a lady who was chatting with a group of friends and watching the race from near the rail. It was Beatrice, one of the more outspoken and rebellious Temple maidens, and she looked surprisingly seductive without her veil and religious dress. Beatrice noticed his gaze and grinned.

  “I’m sorry, Gabe. What were you saying?” asked Dominic.

  “Just that La Cloche is flying well today. We expected her to be dead last, but at the moment she’s fifth off the lead.”

  The falcons swooped around and began ascending toward the top. Liza saw Rebel Fires surge with energy and pass in front of the falcon holding third. She knew he made his biggest moves on the ascent when the other birds couldn’t match his power. If she was going to catch him, she’d have to manoeuvre a lead on the plummeting part of the course, and she was running out of laps. She could feel the joints tightening underneath her and hear the crunching grind of several gears. La Cloche was straining and there were falcons on all sides of her with no gaps to be had. Liza glanced around her, feeling a tiny surge of panic as another falcon began to gain on them from behind.

  They’re boxing me in, she thought.

  Liza knew she had to act fast. The birds circled around and dropped into the fourth descent. Liza let go of the controls and rolled onto her back on the left side of the bird, throwing La Cloche off balance. The surrounding falcons panicked, just as Nick had predicted, and broke formation. The falcon to her right swerved back; Liza took the gap and pushed herself into third position. The crowd roared. With one barrel roll, La Cloche had gone from the joke of the King’s Cup to the popular favourite. Catherine screamed from the Grandstand.

  “Whoooh! That’s it, Closhie! You show ‘em what you’re made of!!” she shouted.

  The sudden turn of events sent a shock wave through the jockeys. Of all the ones racing, none had prepared a race plan should La Cloche contend for the lead. An orange falcon tried to manoeuvre past her in the fifth descent and ended up slamming into the rail, falling out of the sky in a firework-like display of broken glass. The emerald and amethyst falcons, caught in the fray of the falling peregrine, collided in another shower of sparks. Rebel Fires, sensing a commotion behind, moved into an early lead, while La Cloche gained on Dominic’s royal blue falcon, Glory Rider, which was currently holding second. The falcons began the ascent for the final lap three birds down, with Rebel Fires, La Cloche and Glory Rider the main contenders for the win. The crowd thundered with anticipation. As one announcer called through gasping breaths, “Never, in the history of racing, have we seen a sight like this.”

  “Almost there, La Cloche,” whispered Liza. Hunger pulsed through her arms as they turned into the final dive toward the finish line. She wanted this win and so did La Cloche. She tapped the tailfeathers with the whip and La Cloche pushed harder, edging her beak farther and farther past Glory Rider, with Rebel Fires an arm’s length ahead.

  “You’re doing well, my girl. Keep going,” called Liza. Then Liza felt something that sent fear through her wiry frame—something dangerous that could cost her the race and so much more.

  The left wing jerked.

  C h a p t e r 4 7

  It took every last bit of Liza’s self-control to keep herself from panicking when she felt the twitch in La Cloche’s left wing. The finish line loomed nearer, and La Cloche was flying within a hand’s width of Rebel Fires with a real chance of taking first in the King’s Cup. First, a small jitter and then a spasm erupted. The left wing snapped several degrees out of place and refused to respond. The peregrine shook. Liza recovered quickly by driving all her strength into the right controls. La Cloche flew straight but had lost half a metre on Rebel Fires. Liza pushed hard on the controls to balance the faulty left wing, echoes of Nick’s training played in her mind.

  You gotta pull up. La Cloche is going to throw you.

  “I can’t pull up. This is for the win,” said Liza.

  Damn it, Chix. Slow up.

  “No, a jockey doesn’t throw away the King’s Cup. Nick would never slow up,” said Liza. “Come on, my girl, we’re almost there.”

  Liza’s arms burned as she struggled to hold the jerking controls, which pushed against her weakened body with tremendous force. The finish line was in sight. La Cloche crept nearer, gaining again on Rebel Fires. Dizzy from fatigue and undernourishment, Liza breathed through the pain, her hands trembling from the exertion.

  “Almost there. Almost—”

  Like a catapult releasing, the controls flew from Liza’s grasp as the strength in her hands gave way. La Cloche’s wing snapped violently, throwing Liza from her back. Liza somersaulted through the air and deflected her parachute, but they were too near the end to be avoided by other riders. A chasing falcon slammed into her chest, throwing her against the rail. La Cloche soared ahead of Rebel Fires and past the finish line without a rider, disqualifying her from the race, while Liza floated to the ground. She was slumped in her harness, unconscious. The crowd gasped.

  Dominic jumped in one of the displayed pteroducks and flew it over the rail, racing to the ground ahead of the floating parachute. He skidded to a stop and ran across the field in Liza’s direction, catching the floating Queen in his arms. He fell to the ground with her, holding her head in his lap as he sobbed.

  “Liza! Damn it, speak to me, Liza! Wake up and speak to me! Why did you race? Oh, Avi, why did I let you race?”

  Liza shifted, and her eyes fluttered open, her breathing shallow.

  “Ah-nih. Wha…uh—”

  Dominic wiped his nose. “Nick?” he asked.

  “MOVE!” shouted Catherine, pushing him out of the way. She saw Liza crumpled at her feet, a mess of tattered, gold threads across her chest. Catherine shrieked.

  “Biy’avi, you wore the breastplate. Thank Avi you wore it!” She leaned forward and touched Liza’s forehead, reciting a prayer to Avinoam into her ear. Several paramedics and doctors hurried toward them with a stretcher in hand. They strapped her in and carried her toward a waiting ambulance, while the doctor ran beside them.

  Dominic stared ahead, dumbfounded.

  Nick, he said to himself. She called for Nick.

  “Where is she?” asked Gabe, running to his side.

  “She’s in the ambulance,” said Dominic. “Catherine’s going with her to the hospital.”

  “You must follow them.”

  “What?” asked Dominic.

  “You must follow them to the hospital,” said Gabe. “Come, I’ll take you.”

  A crowd of journalists pushed against the ring of Ibex guards separating them from the King, all shouting questions over the clamour of snapping flashbulbs.

  “Any reaction from the King
?”

  “Is any foul play suspected?”

  “What’s the extent of the injuries?”

  Gabe shielded Dominic with his suit coat and ushered him to the pteroduck Dominic had taken from the Royal Enclosure. He closed the hatch and took the controls, sending the aircraft into the sky behind the speeding ambulance.

  Several hours later, Dominic still sat in a private waiting room in Dear Stream Public Hospital, watching the clock tick away like a demonic battering ram. Each minute felt like an hour; each hour seemed slower than the last. The King jumped in his seat when the doctor finally knocked and opened the door. Dominic didn’t wait for a response.

  “She’s dead. Liza’s dead, isn’t she?” asked Dominic.

  “Oh, no, quite the opposite, Your Majesty,” said the doctor with a smile. “At least it appears so. Maiden Catherine won’t let us examine her.”

  “What?”

  “She’s being quite forceful about it…says it’s not proper, and that prayer will be enough.”

  “Is she out of her mind?” asked Dominic.

  “We’ve tried to persuade her otherwise, but she’s adamant,” said the doctor.

  “Then forcibly remove her!” he shouted.

  “We would’ve if it was any other patient, but since she’s also the High Priest, we thought it best to respect her assistant’s wishes. We’ve had her under observation and are releasing her this evening, provided nothing dramatic materialises.”

  Dominic gaped at him. “Liza was slammed unconscious by a racing falcon. How can you be releasing her?”

  “The Lady doesn’t appear to be injured, Your Majesty. To be honest, I don’t even see a scratch on her.”

  “She should’ve been dead!” said Dominic.

  The doctor shrugged. “Spider’s silk is stronger than steel; perhaps it was enough to protect her from the impact.”

  “Do you really believe that was enough—a bit of spider’s silk for a crash like that?” asked Dominic.

  “It might have been,” said the doctor. “Accidents are funny things. I’ve seen people survive some pretty horrific-looking situations in my day—not quite as spectacularly as the Lady has—but it does happen. Perhaps her station also helped.”

  “In other words, Avinoam saved her,” said Dominic.

  “I believe so, yes,” said the doctor. “You can go see her if you’d like. The Lady’s awake now.”

  “No, it’s fine. I just needed to know how she is,” said Dominic, rising to leave. “Good day.”

  He hurried down the hospital corridor, lost in thought. An Ibex guard turned the corner into his path; he chased after the King, his onyx blade banging awkwardly at his side as he tried to keep up.

  “Sir, we have an urgent report from Kakapo in the taps.”

  “Not now,” said Dominic.

  The guard grabbed Dominic’s arm, stopping him in the corridor. Dominic stared at his hand.

  “Trust me, Sir,” said the guard, “you’re going to want to take this.”

  C h a p t e r 4 8

  Catherine strolled into Dominic’s study, humming cheerfully as she looked for a book on the shelf. The room, now darkened by twilight, made it difficult to read the titles. She turned on a light and jumped in surprise.

  “Oh, begging your pardon, Your Majesty. I didn’t see you there,” said Catherine.

  Dominic didn’t answer. He was sitting behind his desk and had a troubled look about him; he stared at his Uncle’s painting, brooding.

  “Are you okay, Your Majesty?” she asked.

  “Fine, fine, just thinking,” said Dominic. “How’s Liza?”

  “Shaken, but she should be fine; all praise and thanksgiving to Avinoam for that,” said Catherine.

  “Is she in her room?”

  “She’s gone to the nesting boxes to visit with La Cloche,” said Catherine, grabbing her book. “Shame, I think she’s saying goodbye. Jakobson Racing already sent word that they’re coming for the falcon tomorrow.”

  Dominic nodded. Catherine paused by his desk.

  “Sir—if you don’t mind me saying—I know you’ve had your differences, but it might do her well if you’d go visit her at the nesting boxes. I’m sure she’d appreciate it a lot.”

  “Oh, I doubt that, all things considering,” said Dominic.

  “Liza’s a very forgiving person, Your Majesty,” said Catherine, “and with a bit of time and a bit more effort, your marriage could turn into something quite special. I truly believe that.”

  Dominic nodded. “Have a good evening, Catherine.”

  “Very well, Your Majesty,” said Catherine. “Same to you.”

  “Miss Catherine,” said Gabe, nodding as he passed her in the doorway. Catherine greeted him quickly before leaving with her book, singing to herself as she left. Gabe took a seat near Dominic, who was still staring at his uncle’s portrait.

  “Do you think I can take down this painting? I’m tired of looking at it,” said Dominic.

  “You can do what you wish. You are the King,” said Gabe.

  “I know it’s hardly a matter to think about—what paintings hang in an office—still, you don’t think it would show any great disrespect to my uncle, would it? If I took it down?”

  “I don’t think Saladin was one to concern himself with interior decorating.”

  “No,” chuckled Dominic, “he was not.”

  Gabe smiled. “It is wise to remember our elders and their example. Still, there comes a time when one has to become his own man, and it is that moment of which I believe our elders are most proud.”

  Dominic nodded.

  “If I may, you look like you’re troubled by more than this painting,” said Gabe.

  “I just have a lot on my mind, that’s all,” said Dominic.

  “Is it Liza?”

  “Yes,” said Dominic, “I think I want you to do it.”

  Gabe stared at him. “You mean…?”

  “I’ve tried to be patient with her, but some things you just can’t forgive,”

  “Are you sure?” asked Gabe.

  “Yes,” said Dominic, his face turning as hard as stone. “Do what needs to be done.”

  Liza sat cross-legged in La Cloche’s stall at Cliffside, looking tired and defeated. For once, her falcon lacked the personable qualities that made her so endearing; La Cloche stared at her rider blankly as Liza burst into tears.

  “I’m sorry, my girl,” cried Liza. “I’m so sorry.”

  La Cloche squealed uncomfortably as Liza held the bird’s neck tight between her arms. La Cloche wiggled her head so as to break free from the Queen’s grasp. As she strutted away, her left wing twitched. Liza huffed.

  “Why couldn’t the mechanics fix this once and for all?” she asked.

  La Cloche’s wing twitched again, this time accompanied by a faint sound. Intrigued, Liza moved nearer and put her hand on the wing as it twitched again.

  “Hmm, the twitch doesn’t actually feel like it’s near your coracoid. It’s almost like the humerus is…vibrating.”

  Liza leaned her head toward La Cloche as she felt the wing with her hand. As the falcon twitched, she thought she heard a sound coming through the glass feathers like a rush of air. Liza paused.

  “The humerus is a pneumatic bone, meaning it’s filled with air. I wonder if maybe…ow!”

  La Cloche gave her a hard peck on the head. Liza pulled her hand away as the annoyed falcon strutted toward the other end of the stall and started preening. Liza rubbed her head, thoughtful.

  “How are you so lifelike? No other machine in Aeroth has even a hundredth of your qualities. The pteroducks certainly don’t. What makes you so different?”

  La Cloche’s wing twitched again, accompanied by a faint sound like a sneeze. Determined, Liza grabbed a hood and threw herself at La Cloche;
the peregrine screeched and snapped, but Liza was too quick for her. She pulled the hood over La Cloche’s head and secured it tightly. The falcon instantly quieted. Liza grabbed the hood and gently pulled her falcon into a lying position on the ground, eyeing the peregrine’s chest like a predator ready to strike. She rubbed the glassy feathers on La Cloche’s stomach, a pair of pliers in her opposite hand.

  “I’m sorry, my girl, but I just have to know.”

  C h a p t e r 4 9

  Liza’s heart beat through her chest as she lowered the pliers toward La Cloche’s stomach; her hand as tense as though she was a surgeon preparing to cut into her child. Sensing what was coming, La Cloche writhed and screeched through the hood as Liza struggled to hold the falcon in place with her knees.

  “It’s just a machine,” Liza whispered. “It’s just a machine.”

  La Cloche continued to twist and buck; just as Liza was about to lose control. She snipped a glass feather near the frame. La Cloche instantly went limp. Liza tore the hood from her falcon’s head.

  “La Cloche,” called Liza. “La Cloche!”

  There was no response. The fire in La Cloche’s eyes faded to nothing, and her glass feathers dulled. Liza sat back, horrified. La Cloche looked dead.

  “Biy’avi, what have I done?”

  She stared at the heap of clouded glass and metal. what moments before had looked like a majestic racing peregrine now seemed ready for the scrapyard. Liza lowered her head to the falcon’s stomach, hugging its middle with her arms. La Cloche twitched, bumping Liza’s temple with her feathers. Liza sprang back.

  “La Cloche?”