Flight (new version)

Chapter 1: Enslaved

The day was warm, azure skies smeared white and brown with clouds and flocks of little birds. A group of sparrows dipped down towards an expansive garden where trees shook their leaves of verdant greens, reds, and oranges in the wind, and man-made streams carved paths through the pastel carpets of soft-petalled flowers.

Another bird watched the sparrows with dark, attentive eyes. This one was different from the rest, its feathers bright and smooth, shimmering yellow as though sunlight had been woven into them. The bird turned its head as the sparrows alighted upon a nearby tree. It shuffled a bit on its perch, as though anxious to join its kin. However, it could not join them. It could only stare at the sparrows through the bars of its cage.

Max studied the gold-feathered creature from the patch of asters that encircled the birdcage's pedestal. The songbird glanced him for a second then returned its gaze to the sparrows in the cherry tree. Max returned to his chore of wrestling with the stubborn weeds.

The bird was kept here as a crowning ornament: the object of the Master's boasting when he showed his guests down this way. The Master had even gone as far as placing the bird's pedestal in the exact center of the gardens, ribbons of flowers and hedges encircling it like ripples in a pond.

The 17-year-old fell back onto his heels as the clump of weeds finally gave up. He added it to the pile on his right, then sought out another patch of spiny green leaves to tackle, dark brown eyes darting back to the beautiful yellow bird in the black wire cage.

It had been bought for its beautiful song, but Max had never once heard it speak. Not that this surprised him—birds only sang when they're free. But maybe only the Elder knew that. The humans certainly didn't.

A scream fractured his thoughts, the wild, agonized cry ripping through the silence of the afternoon. Max winced and pulled at the weeds harder.

He knew he was supposed to ignore the screams, let them channel through him like water in a stream.

But today he couldn't. Not when he recognized the screams.

"Lucy," Max whispered hoarsely, yanking even harder at the weeds as a fresh scream replaced the echo of the first. He drew back a fistful of plants, copper skin whitening as his fingers squeezed the leaves tighter.

Calm down! Max chided himself. If the Task Master catches you slowing down...

Max shuddered and forced himself to relax, biting back the anger that had tensed in his muscles. He continued to work, but he couldn't stop the images from flooding his head as yet another scream punctured the air.

There would be a clearing near the great black wall: a brown patch of grass-less soil. There would be a thick wooden post twice his own height and a man standing in front of it with a whip. His sister would be tied back-out to this post, a child of hardly 7 years with stubborn silver eyes and long, ebony hair. Blood would be trickling down her back, mingling and weaving with the other crimson streams, their tributaries staining dark paths down her copper legs and seeping into the stony dirt of the ground.

Max gritted his teeth and paused to place a hand on his side where the stolen parchment laid hidden beneath his clothes.

I'll get you out of here, Lucy. I promise. Soon we'll both be free.

The tell-tale clopping of horse-hooves drowned out the screams just then, and Max froze, hands suddenly shaking as though they'd been plunged into snow.

The Task Master!

Max lurched forward, scrambling to pull out weeds, any weeds, all the weeds, pulling and clawing and yanking—wildly. Desperately. Prying, tugging, tossing, twisting, jerking...