The Phoenix Unchained by James Mallory

Bisochim’s people, like all the peoples of the world, followed the teachings of the Wild Magic.
    Wildmages plotted the routes the nomadic herdsmen took through the great dune sea of the Isvai; Wildmages told them when the Sandwind would blow; Wildmages led their herds to new pastures when old ones failed; and when the deep wells that meant survival in the arid desert ran dry, Wildmages led them to new ones.
    Bisochim had never expected to become a Wildmage.
    The Three Books had come to him when he was a child. Like all the other boys and girls too young to perform any more useful tasks, his duty was to guard the flocks of the Adanate Isvaieni, for the hardy desert sheep and goats were both their wealth and the life of their tribe. But Bisochim had ambitions to become a hunter someday, and a hunter must have a falcon, both to take small game, and to drive larger prey into the waiting jaws of the hunter’s fleet-footed Ikulas. And so he had left the sheep and the goats to the care of the other children one morning and climbed the rocks where he had seen a pair of nesting falcons. If he were careful, and lucky, he could take one of the chicks for his own and raise it himself, taming it to his hand.
    But when he reached the nest, it was empty, though he’d been watching it for many days and had been certain that the young falcons were all far too young to fly. The only thing that had been in the nest were three small books bound in brown leather. He’d recognized them at once.
    The Book of Sun .
    The Book of Moon .
    The Book of Stars .
    He’d stuffed them into his tunic and scrambled back down the cliff with a lot less care than he’d taken getting up. He hadn’t dared look into them, nor had he told any of the other children what he’d found. It wasn’t until that evening, when he had returned to the camp, that he had even dared think about what he’d found. The Books of a Wildmage.
    He’d taken them from his tunic and wrapped them carefully in his best shirt, and gone off to tell his father.

    BISOCHIM’S father was seated at the loom in the main room of the tent, working while there was still light to see. Nedjed’s bodywas small and twisted; what had once been strong muscle was now gaunt sinew, and skin was stretched tight over bone.
    Nedjed was a man only in his middle years, but the desert life was hard. He had been one of the tribe’s greatest hunters until a battle with a desert lion had left him lamed and crippled. The tribe could support none who could not earn their keep, so Nedjed had learned a new skill, weaving the yarn that his wife spun from the hair and wool of the flocks into the heavy sturdy cloth from which Bisochim’s people made so many things. He was neither good nor fast, having come to the trade so late in life, but the work was enough to earn him life, and the respect of the tribe.
    “Father,” Bisochim said, kneeling beside his father’s weaving-stool. “A thing has happened today, and I seek guidance.”
    “Instruction is the only gift freely given,” Nedjed replied. “Tell me what is in your heart, son of my heart.”
    “Today I found the Three Books of the Wild Magic,” Bisochim blurted out after a long agonized pause. “And I do not know what to do.”
    Nedjed pulled the shuttle to rest and sat back, reaching for his crutch to steady himself. “And is it truth that you did find them, or did you take them from the hands of another?”
    “They were in a falcon’s nest. I had hoped to take a fledgling. I found the Books instead,” Bisochim answered honestly. Theft was not unknown in the Isvai, but the greatest crime possible was to steal from your own people.
    “Bring them here,” his father said.
    When Bisochim had returned with the Three Books, Nedjed regarded his son for a long moment.
    “Open one and tell me what you see.”
    Hands trembling, Bisochim did as he was told, tilting the page toward the sunset light streaming in through the open tentflap.
    “It is filled