Tinder Stricken Read Online Free Page A

all. “Don’t kill
it,” she told Gita. Some fools thought phoenixes were more valuable
alive.
    “I won’t.”
    Esha took a final glimpse around and saw no
guards, no witnesses at all. Grass clump held tight, she crept away
from her friend around the bamboo stalks.
    The field slid into view, more dusty leaves
and sun-bleached air — then a sliver of orange feathers, bright as
fire. The phoenix faced away from Esha, bent and focused on the
soil. Its long neck lifted.
    Esha held still, avoiding its gaze.
    The phoenix paused. Its feather crests
lifted, then fell back into three sleek points. It shuffled its
feet, and its wingtips. Then, warily, it bent again toward the
earth.
    That would be the last mistake this bird
made. Esha lunged and threw, and her root clod sailed wide but the
phoenix startled all the same, hurrying onto its wings. It flew
past Gita and there was a hard whip of movement as a rock struck
the bird’s wing. It screeched and faltered, its knotted
stringfeathers grazing the grass tops — but it still flew, limping
airborne toward the worldedge fence.
    “No!” Gita cried. She ran and was gone past
the bamboo.
    Esha hurried the opposite way around the
bamboo stand and caught a glimpse of Gita running so her blue sari
edges flew, toward the phoenix that whisked over the worldedge
fence like a torn-free flag.
    “Ah, gods’ spit,” Gita sighed, her voice
like dust on the wind. She slowed, rubbing at the edge of her
headwrap. She had always sweated a lot under her head coverings;
Esha felt a prickling at her own hairline in this fallen
moment.
    “Come on, sister,” Esha called. “It can't be
helped.” She walked the chasmic distance between them, gumgrass
crackling under her sandals. “Did you loose any feathers from it?”
They might at least get a few rupees for good wing quills, or for
durable stringfeathers with the phoenix's fire-striking metals tied
in.
    “Don't believe so. Damnit! I struck it true
and it still flew away.” She reached the fence and laid both hands
on the bamboo rail’s curve. “Like the cursed thing had— Esha! Esha , look! It’s still here!”
    Esha hurried to the fence, and with the wind
moaning around her she looked down — where Gita pointed, at the
vanishing, concave rock face. Down there was the phoenix, clinging
to the craggy rock and staring up with eyes like hot embers. One of
its wings fanned rough, like it could no longer close.
    “We can still get it!”
    Esha eyed her friend; the doubts surged
back. “You think so?”
    “If it could fly, it wouldn’t be simply
sitting there — isn’t that true?”
    “You didn't bring a net, did you?”
    “I haven't owned a net in years. We've got
our ropes — what if we snare it? At that angle, though ...” Her
face as determined as ever, Gita unwound her selfrope from the
loops strung diagonal around her body.
    “Here.” With hope heavy in her gut, Esha
bent for a small stone. “Weight the string. If anyone can catch
this thing, it's you.”
    They spent long moments bent over that
fence, squinting into the wind. Yam Plateau was the second-largest
plateau on all the tiers of Tselaya, built wide by the gods and
expanded even wider by metalworkers; the plateau's underside
receded so deeply toward the mountain's core that the phoenix was
sheltered underneath. Gita threw and threw her makeshift snare,
grumbling oaths to herself. Holding fistfuls of Gita's sari and
bearing some of her friend's weight, Esha watched the clouds and
craned sometimes to see the fallows behind them, once again fearing
guards' colours.
    “Is it even still there?” she asked in a
breathless grunt.
    “Still clinging.”
    “Amazing that it's got a grip at all.”
    “They've got good claws,” Gita said. “Harder
than steel. Part of why the whole bird gets a good price.” She
wound her throwing arm back, and paused, and threw with limp
resignation. “Let go, sister — thank you for holding on.”
    Esha didn't hear her own replying