by Travis Perry
A familiar glint of gold livery caught her eye, and she groaned. Or she could resume her argument with Lee.
But she could tell right away that he hadn’t come to argue. Lee wasn’t smiling, and that shook her to her core.
“What is it?” she asked when he tumbled to a stop, chest heaving. “Has something happened?”
“Yes,” Lee wheezed, doubling over. Tala waited impatiently until he was able to say, “My father.”
Tala didn’t know Lee’s father, but something about his tone made her shiver.
“Did he ask you who I am?” Her gaze sharpened. “What did you tell him?”
“Not…that,” Lee gasped. “He doesn’t care who you are. He only wants to know how he can use you.”
“What did he say?” Tala asked, frightened. “Is it about today’s race?”
“He knows the pilot from Mons Olympus,” Lee said. Were those tears in his eyes? “He’s the son of an important man, more powerful than Father.”
“Can he fly?” Tala said urgently. The son of a powerful man…That explained why the race officials were so prepared to suspend the rule against men racing.
Lee managed a laugh. “Not at all. He’s tolerable, but any woman on this track could fly circles around him.”
A weight lifted from her shoulders. “I wasn’t worried. Stranger comes to town to unseat the champion—it seemed like a tale I’d heard bef—”
“You have to be careful.”
“I’m always careful.”
“This is serious.”
“I’m serious, too.”
“Atalanta!” Lee snapped, and Tala flinched. He never used her full name. No one did. “You have to lose.”
She stared at him. The golden sunlight caught the glimmering dust in the air, stirred by wings. Spectators visited over tea poured by the natives of Mangalia. Tala stared at Lee in numb silence. She would’ve said something, but she couldn’t breathe.
“I’m sorry, Tala,” Lee said, subdued. “You can’t understand how sorry I am about this.” Gingerly, he placed his hand on her arm. It took only a sway, the barest hint of motion, to displace it from there.
“Lose?” she whispered. “Lose the race? To a man of Mons Olympus?”
Lee nodded.
Tala’s voice came back in a rush. “I can’t,” she said. “Don’t tell me otherwise. I can’t deliberately lose a race.” Her voice rose. “Your father can’t do this!”
“Tala. Calm down,” Lee said. “I refuse to talk about this until you take a deep breath.”
“I will not—” She breathed, and somehow, oxygen reached her brain. “I’m calm. And I’m not going to lose this race. Everyone would know I threw it.”
“You have to, Tala. This man—you can’t imagine who he is on Mons Olympus. I think—” He hesitated. “I think my father might kill you if you win.”
“Better to die!” Tala cried savagely, and he flinched. “They’re killing the races of Mangalia, Lee. My races. They die a little more each time an Olympian buys pilots and bribes them to throw their lives away in these pointless suicide races. You’re killing the honor of it. We’re pretty, petted children dressed in livery to amuse nobles. You’ve taken away the only thing we have, and I will not hand any more of it to you.”
“Listen to me, Tala,” Lee said. His voice was familiar, soft, reassuring. “You’re hysterical. In a few minutes, you’ll have to go meet the pilot. Ask for a short race. We have a plan: when you’re in the air, he’ll toss you three golden apples. You’ll have to slow down to catch them…”
Tala watched his mouth move as he described the plan, but she didn’t hear the words. She only heard the soft, buttery clink of gold coins changing hands, like the pilot’s father and Lee’s…like the day Lee had bought her sponsorship as surely as he’d bought her soul…
She interrupted him. “How much did you pay, Lee? To sponsor me?”
She could see he was surprised at her change of topic. “Ten gold coins,” he said. “It wasn’t much. No one thought you could really fly, and they didn’t want to break the rules.”
She nodded, understanding. Then she said, “Some things aren’t worth gold, Lee.”
He wanted to say more. She could see it in his eyes. But the master of races called them over, and she strode ahead. He followed anxiously behind her, and she knew the subject hadn’t been dropped. She didn’t care. She didn’t feel anything at the moment.
The Olympian pilot was exactly what Tala had expected, which was almost nothing at all. He was fair-skinned and fair-haired and light-eyed, with a weak chin and a vaguely kind face. He was positively tiresome to dislike.
“Mistress Phoenix,” he said with a smile, sweeping a low bow. “My name is Matteo. I’ve come a long way to race against you.”
“Charmed,” she said, then ignored him. “Where is the master of races?”
“Here, Pilot Phoenix,” he said. A clerk beside him held a quill poised above a sheet of parchment, ready to record their decision.
“We want a short race,” Lee began. “No farther than—”
Tala rested her hand on his arm when she said, “A suicide race.”
Gradually, she became aware of pale faces staring at her in shock. Mouths forming protests, hands reaching for her. She repeated herself firmly.
“I’m afraid—I can’t—” The master of races stuttered to a halt. “I can find no rules against it. Unless—the gentleman objects?”
Please do it, Tala thought, watching Matteo. Be wise, and survive. Live to race another day.
“I do not,” Matteo said, sealing their fates. He saluted Tala. “I will follow you to the end of the sky.”
She hadn’t thought he would back down. She recognized something behind those light eyes, something that she had previously seen only in a mirror. Darker than daring, purer than recklessness. A need. A biological requirement to race. She saw that in Matteo’s eyes, and she knew that they were kindred spirits.
“We’ll go farther than that,” Tala said, her voice a dry rustle. “I’ll race you to Mons Olympus and back.”
“I will try,” Matteo said seriously. He hesitated. “But I do not know if I can fly that far.”
“That’s okay,” Tala assured him. She felt oddly kind towards him. “Neither do I.” She smiled at the pilot. He had ruined her life in one swift dash. But he seemed a decent sort. She was sorry he chose to follow her and hoped that his mount would refuse to go as far as she had in mind. She didn’t know if even Arene would go that far.
“I have to tell the audience,” the master of races said unhappily. Tala had come to know him over the past six months. He had a wife and two children. She hoped they would be all right after this. “They won’t be pleased.”
She couldn’t look at Lee. She didn’t want to see his face.
“To Mons—Olympus—and back,” the clerk muttered, scratching it down. Her words were set in stone now, too late to change. Had she ever been able to change after the day Lee had bought her loyalty? After the first time she flew on a bird?
“Go to your mounts,” the master of games said brusquely. “And don’t blame me for the consequences.”
He and the clerk retreated, and Matteo strode to his bird. They left Tala and Lee alone. She still couldn’t look at him.
Mons Olympus and back?” Lee asked. His voice cracked with something she couldn’t recognize, and his shoulders shook. It took her a long moment to realize he was laughing.
The pressure in her chest cleared like clouds over the desert. A rusty laugh escaped her mouth, and they were laughing together on the last day, the Olympian and the Mangalian.
A clear bugle sounded across the racing grounds, bringing with it still, eerie silence. Tala’s smile fell away. She was silent when a groom pressed Arene’s lead rope into her hand and prodded her in the direction of the starting line.
Mechanically, as he always did, Lee laced his hands into a stirrup to give her a leg up. The familiar hollow behind Arene’s wings felt the
same as it always did. Tala ran her shaking hands through the smooth feathers and couldn’t believe this was the last time.
“Leandro,” she said. “I’m afraid.”
She was staring miserably down at the feathers when Lee took her hand.
“Now you’re just being silly,” said Lee. Dear, familiar Lee. She had never appreciated what a good friend he was. “You’re the Phoenix, Tala. And the Phoenix never loses.”
She smiled for him as she watched the flag-bearers ascend their towers, carrying the rolled-up golden flags beneath their arms.
“What happens next, Lee?” she asked.
“You’ll win,” he said with quiet ferocity. “Arene will lead right from the start, and Matteo won’t ever catch up. You’ll be so swift and light that you’ll spin circles above Mons Olympus. And you’ll come racing back just as fast as you can, and I’ll laugh myself silly at the look on Father’s face. Then we’ll blow all the money I have in my pockets on sweet buns in the bazaar, and you’ll never, ever race again.”
Her eyes were unfocused as she saw the vision he’d painted. “I’d like that, Lee.”
“Me too, Tala.”
Only pilots on the field!” the master of races shouted, and Lee obeyed without a backward glance. She leaned forward and gripped Arene’s feathers.
She’d been wrong earlier, when she’d told Lee some things weren’t worth gold. This moment, and the events that had led up to it, were worth all the treasures of Mons Olympus. She raced for the gold of sunlight across broad wings in the sport that was her birthright. When she could feel her mount’s quiet breathing beneath her, and her feathers ruffled in the wind of Mangalia that carried, just maybe, a hint of her family’s aromatic spices. When the flag bearers raised their banners of glistening golden silk that fluttered in the wind for a long, steady heartbeat, then two.
Tala slipped the golden mask from her face and let it glide to the dust like a bird’s wing. The wind brushed against her face. She reached down to pat Arene.
“This is worth it,” she whispered.
Then the flags crashed down in an arc, and a scream rose in the throat of every spectator as the mounts’ wings slashed the air into flame. Tala saw gold, and she flew.
The End
Allison Rohan is a high school student from North Carolina. In addition to writing, she studies music, drama, and ballet. Her short fiction has received five regional honors from the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. This is her first published story. You can follow her at www.AllisonTheArtOfStorytelling.blogspot.com.
Lynessa’s Curse
by Adam David Collings
Lynessa’s Curse: Chapter 1
Alastair plunged the blade of his shovel into the ochre Martian soil. Heave. He dumped the soil in a pile to his left and bent low to retrieve the uncovered treasure.
“See this one, Waleran. It’s a beauty.”
The tall man smiled. “Never have I seen a finer potato, young Alastair.”
Alastair smiled and dropped the potato into a sack. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and surveyed the ground before him. Would he be able to finish this line before nightfall?
Waleran leaned on his shovel. “I’ve finished my row. Allow me to offer you some help.” Waleran’s row stopped shorter than Alastair’s due to the presence of the water pump. Driven by the old draft horse, it drew water from the nearby Nirgal River up to the plateau. Its innovation had made Lord Gareth a wealthy man.
Alastair shook his head. Waleran had already shown him up by finishing his row first. The last thing he needed was to be further humiliated by having the tall man do part of his row for him. “No thank you, Waleran. I can finish this myself. I am sure there are other tasks you could find to occupy yourself.”
“So stubborn, Alastair. Accepting help is not a dishonor. We are hands. We’re supposed to help each other.”
Alastair snorted quietly. Waleran did not carry himself like a hand. The man’s bearing was meant for grander things. Unlike Alastair, Waleran had not grown up on the manor. He’d come here some fifteen years ago—from where, Alastair did not know. The tall man never gave complaint though. There was not a man more dedicated to working Lord Gareth’s lands.
From across the field the wind carried a distant voice. “Alastair! Alastair.” Percy charged toward them from the direction of the village.
“What does that fool want?” Waleran stroked his neatly trimmed beard.
Alastair shrugged. “Percy’s not so bad.”
Despite Percy’s awkward gait, he reached them quickly. He bent forward, drawing gasps of air.
Alastair laughed. “Percy, you ran so fast you’re too out of breath to speak. If you’d run slower you might have delivered your message more quickly.”
Percy straightened. “Alastair,” he gasped.
Alastair crossed his arms.
“You must come back to the manor quickly.”
“Why, does Lord Gareth have a different task for me?”
“It’s Lynessa.”
Alastair’s heart clenched. “What about Lynessa?”
“There is something wrong. I know not what. Please come quickly.”
Alastair’s face cooled as the blood drained from his cheeks. Waleran placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “Don’t panic, Alastair. Go. I will finish here.”
Alastair nodded. The potatoes no longer mattered. He took off with Percy on his heels. They crossed the field, passed the pump, and charged through the village, dodging between the hand houses. They emerged onto the village green.
Percy stopped, almost skidding on the damp grass. “Lord Gareth bids us wait here.”
Alastair took a moment to catch his breath. The village green was surrounded on all four sides. On one the manor house. Opposite it the church. Behind him lay the hand village and before him the common. It was here on this green that Alastair had fallen in love with Lynessa. She’d caught his eye the first day she’d arrived at Garibaldi Manor—so named after Lord Gareth’s father—but they’d only recently started courting. Still, Alastair knew he loved her. He would soon make her his wife if she’d have him. Assuming she was all right. What could be wrong that Percy had dragged him all the way over here before the workday was finished?
Percy shifted and pointed toward the church. “There, Alastair.”
Alastair turned. Pastor Bryan was strolling across the green toward them. Alastair’s throat closed. No, was Lynessa dying? Was Bryan here to pray her peacefully into the arms of Jesu?
“Alastair!” Lynessa’s voice.
He spun around. She was making her way slowly from the manor house where she worked. The Lady Celestine was by her side. She looked fine. No blood. Alastair heaved out a lungful of breath. At least she wasn’t hurt. So what was this all about?
He strode forward to meet the two women
“Alastair.” Lady Celestine spoke softly. Sympathy tinged her every word. “I am very sorry to have to tell you this, but Lynessa has come under the curse. She is going to have to leave the manor.”
Alistair’s mouth went dry. He looked into Lynessa’s intoxicating eyes as his own brimmed with tears. The curse was a death sentence. Everybody knew it.
• • •
Alastair flopped down onto a wooden seat. Lynessa descended slowly beside him. How could this be happening?
“Lady Celestine says you have been cursed.”
“The mark of the curse is visible on my hand,” Lynessa said, her eyes downcast. “I tried to hide it but my lady saw it today.”
“May I see?” Alastair asked, not sure what else to say.
Lynessa met his eyes briefly. She unfolded her arms and displayed the back of her hand. There was a bright red welt about three centimeters across. The skin edging the welt was crinkly. In the center of the welt was a crusted point. The mark of the curse. Alastair had never seen it but he’d heard it described.
“Pastor Bryan says I must leave the manor before sundown.” Lynessa’s eyes shifted to the ground again.<
br />
Alastair shook his head. “I don’t understand. Why should he make you leave?”
“This is what is done, Alastair,” she said.
He placed his hand on hers, not caring about touching the mark. “But I don’t want to lose you.”
Lynessa jerked away. “You must accept it. I am cursed.”
“It makes no sense. You’re a good woman—one of the finest I’ve ever known. Why would God curse you?”
“I wish I knew. I’ve tried to live in a way that is honoring to Jesu Christu. I can think of no sin I have committed to bring this upon myself.”
Alastair’s mind was whirling around in a frenzy. He was about to lose everything that mattered most to him, and what would become of Lynessa? He knew very little about this curse.
“What will happen to you?”
“The curse takes away the life of the one who has it. I will need to travel to a cursed camp.” She sniffed and wiped away a tear. “Apparently it becomes very painful before the end.”
Alastair took a deep breath. “Where is this camp?”
“I’m told the closest is in a village on the Valles Marineris trade route, near the Eos Chaos Mountains.”
Alastair squeezed her hand. This time she did not pull away. He placed an arm around her and held her tightly. “I will not let this happen. If this curse is going to cause you a painful death, then you will not suffer it among strangers. You will be right here surrounded by the people who love you.”
“If only that were possible,” she said.
Alastair stood. “I’ll go and speak to Lord Gareth immediately.”
• • •
Alastair had never been inside Garibaldi Manor House before. His mouth opened at the opulence of it all. He knew that the Lord and Lady lived comfortably. Lynessa had told him many stories—but seeing it with his own eyes was something else. The inside walls were paneled with planitia redwood. Alastair ran his fingers over the deep rich timber. So smooth.