Ashlords

by Scott Reintgen

  Farian leans out from behind his camera long enough to roll his eyes at my chosen title. I kneel down, hiding my laughter as I take a healthy pinch of locust dust.

  “You’re going to start with an outer ring of locust,” I explain, letting the powder feed between my fingers and highlighting the circle’s border with a deep tan color. “Keep the circle unbroken. You want your locust to burn hard and quick. You’ll know you did it right if there’s the faintest trace of sandstone coloring just as sunrise hits.

  “Next: gypsum and limestone.” I empty those containers into a central pile on my ashes, mixing them slowly with both fingers. “You’ll want to lightly mix them, but don’t spread them out too far. Three fingers of height will guarantee your mixture doesn’t burn away.”

  As I hold up the last cube, I throw a wicked grin at the camera.

  “Now, unborn ashes are as vintage as it gets. Our ancestors lived in a crueler world. Blood sacrifices every month and gods roaming the land. Unborn ashes aren’t the cheapest component in the storeroom, but they’re what you need if you want to call on the powers of old. Make another circle.” I take a handful of the dead ashes. They’re so cold that the hairs on that arm start to rise. “Place them inside the locust powder, but ringed outside the mixture of gypsum and limestone. Make the circle thick and add them just before sunlight hits.”

  I stand back, wiping my hands clean and gesturing past the camera.

  “Which is about…right…now.”

  Sunlight spills over the plain. I take a step back and hear the obvious gasp of a creature coming to life. My piled ash stirs with movement. The wind turns the ashes in quick circles before raising them up, where they howl into a sudden dust devil. In all that chaos, I see my phoenix starting to take form, a dark, inconsistent mass. Then sunlight fractures against the growing magic, sudden and blinding.

  I shield my eyes as a glorious figure staggers free of the storm. Farian keeps the film rolling, but I know the phoenix is still too bright to see. I can’t even look at it without squinting and shielding my eyes with both hands. The horse itself isn’t all that marvelous. As the light begins to fade, I note that it’s Martial’s gray pinto with the steel-tipped tail. Stand her up next to any Ashlord-bred stallion and you’d think she was a miniature horse, but Farian’s filming will make her look twenty feet tall, and my alchemy will add what his filming can’t.

  “Our ancestors used the Trust Fall rebirth to leap off cliffs,” I say, raising my voice above the phoenix’s unsettled stamping and snorting. “I suggest starting with ten- or fifteen-foot drops, and keep in mind this is a dangerous rebirth. Even if you’re an experienced rider, use caution.”

  Farian hates disclaimers, thinks they’re boring. But I’m not going to have some rookie breaking their neck and blaming me for it.

  As quietly as possible, I approach the horse’s left shoulder. I keep my voice soft and patient. Most riders would just use constants. They’re with their horse through every death, every life. Feed them a certain apple, whisper a certain word. That’s all it takes for the Ashlords who can afford to own their own horses. It’s a little more difficult when you’re trying to convince a creature you haven’t seen in months to trust you again.

  She trembles beneath my fingertips, but she’s quiet when I stand at her side. Still whispering, I start sliding a saddle over her back, fumbling at the buckles that attach the girth on both sides. As I slide forward to work on the bridle, Farian’s moving, too, adjusting his angle. We’ve got instructional videos up for saddles and harnesses, so he never films this part. Our viewers subscribe for the new rebirths, and for Farian’s brilliant production values.

  “Trust Fall?” he says, starting to climb down from the tree. “We need to have a conversation about your creative decision making.”

  I ignore the dig, knowing the horse will feed off any anger or nerves this early in the connection. She huffs once and settles back into calm.

  “What does the mix even do?” Farian asks. “I don’t see anything different about this one.”

  “Just keep filming.”

  He’s right, though. She looks plain as sand. But that’s the beauty of alchemy and phoenixes: They’re like an ace hidden up a sleeve, magical if you know how to make the trick work. I finish with the saddle and move up to look the sweet thing in the eye. She’s not nervous now. She likes my hands and the sound of my voice.

  “Let’s do this,” I say, eyes back on Farian. “What do you say, Catcher?”

  Farian stands over his tripod and signals for me to say the name again. Not my most creative work. He looks annoyed that I didn’t consult with him first, but names matter with phoenixes. If Farian knew what kind of stunt I’m about to try to pull off, he’d understand why it’s the perfect name for the horse.

  “All right.” I raise my voice. “You won’t see much difference in Catcher until I leap from her back. I’m going to ride along that upper ridge there. Keep your eyes on the screen once I’m in the air. And say a little prayer for me that this actually works.”

  I can tell Farian’s eyes are wide behind the camera. He’s adjusting his lens and prepping the tripod for a perfect shot of the ridge off to our right. I wait for his signal before turning Catcher around and making sure my face is visible before our first gallop. A normal horse might need the warmup, but phoenix horses run hot, always ready for that first sprint.

  “Get, get! Let’s ride, girl!”

  I dig in my heels, and she shoots forward. She opens up quick, trying to take control from me, so I rein her in and make sure she knows that where I’m heading is where she’s heading. Both of us taste the wind for a few seconds, galloping in a dead straight line away from Farian. When she’s got the swing of me, I loop us back around. Martial’s property has a handful of little ridges and hollows. Good spots for practicing elevation changes or learning how to bail. The ridge I’m aimed at isn’t much higher than Catcher, but it’s high enough for what I’m planning.

  Farian has us locked in his sights as we nose toward the first rise. I start to stand up in the saddle, freeing my feet from the stirrups and tightening my grip. Catcher’s a little unnerved by the change, but the ridge is smack up against a second rise, so there’s nowhere for her to scare to. She holds the path I’ve chosen as I push onto my knees, then onto my feet. I crouch on her back like a statue, waiting for the right moment. When we reach the crest, Catcher’s in full frame for Farian.

  Fear slips away. I become something more.

  I release the reins and leap to my left.

  There’s nothing but air and ground. The sudden drop steals my breath. I can feel my stomach twisting as I turn in the air, widening my stance, falling to the ground below. The earth rushes up to devour me. Only it doesn’t, because Catcher appears beneath me.

  From ridge to ground level in an impossible blink. I land hard against her back, nearly slip off the saddle, and scramble for the reins. She snorts with delight when I manage to hang on. Farian’s already got one fist raised in triumph. I’m lost in the glory of it, that the rebirth actually worked, as I yank her to a stop right in front of him, grinning my wildness down at the camera.

  “Trust Fall,” I say breathlessly. “That one’s called Trust Fall.”

  Sixteen hats on the table, set down in front of their owners, each as meaningful as words on a page. There’s Maggie and Maggie, snipers both, with their black and white brims. Trick is knowing which Maggie’s which. The one with the black hat’s sweet as pie. One in white has the devil parading around her twisted little heart. Knowing is living. Daddy has taught me that much.

  Beside them, Antonio Rowan. Looks like he spent all morning kicking his hat through the sticks to get it properly dusted. The man is a legend, as good at talking as he is at keeping the right people quiet. He’s even going at it now. Telling a story about a time and a place.

  The hat across
from his is as pristine as its owner. Gale Gusto doesn’t have a speck of dirt on her. I wonder how she got here, which street she asked them to shake the dust out of before she agreed to sidesaddle her way into town for a meeting. She doesn’t smile, but when you’re as rich as she is, there are only so many folks you have to play nice with.

  I know all their names, their favorite drinks, too. These are our people, every rotten one of them. And, of course, there’s Daddy. The only one in the room who sits taller than me.

  His hat is a brown brim with a leather braid snaking quietly around the crown. There’s a little tear right of center, noticeable, but no one knows the story. The brim edges up on one side because of how often he lifts that eyebrow in curiosity. That’s how he’s always been. A man of questions. He sat me on his lap when I was five and said the man who asks the most questions gets the most answers. Knowing is living. I stopped being so quiet after that.

  “Well,” he says, and that one word gives Antonio Rowan’s story a new ending. The man falls quiet. Everyone else follows suit. Daddy sets a hand on his hat. “Shall we get started?”

  “About time,” Gale Gusto replies. “I’ve business to attend to.”

  Daddy smiles a trademark at her. “That you do, Gale. We all do. Welcome, friends.” That word is a stretch, but he makes it sound fitting enough. “I imagine you’re awfully curious about such a gathering. Deposed generals, oil magnates, sharpshooters. What a crew we make.”

  “We’re breaking a few laws, aren’t we?” Old Trent asks.

  “Two very specific ones,” Daddy answers. “But it’s not much off our noses if word doesn’t make its way to the wrong ears. I’m sure what’s spoken here won’t leave the room.”

  Hearing that settles the group. Daddy’s word is the steadiest currency in the Reach. And even if they’re afraid of what he might say today, they’ve spent most of their lives waiting for someone to say it. I look around the table again and know these are the Rebellion’s children. Each of them grew up hearing stories about Gold Man Jones or the Running Rabbits. But their parents told those stories like they were tragedies. That’s what you do after losing a war. You tell your histories at the fire and you make them as quiet as you can.

  Daddy’s never liked quiet. “It’s time for the Reach to rise,” he says. “Our war debt has been absolved. The population has more than recovered from the Purge. Between Gale, the Foresters, and myself, we have enough money to mobilize at least half the troops we’ll need. The state treasury is ticking its way to heaven in spite of Ashlord sanctions. We’re far more formidable than we were at the start of the first Rebellion.”

  “A rebellion? To what end?” Grayson asks from my left. “You’re right. The Reach has flourished, but it has done so in peacetime. What happens if we go to war? How many of our boys will we lose to battle? I’ve read Paxon’s latest book on the matter….”

  A few snorts sound. Gale Gusto rolls her eyes. Only Daddy doesn’t react to the name. Paxon is too liberal by half, but Daddy makes me read all of his books. It’s always harder to defeat an enemy you don’t know. I’ve even read the book that Grayson’s mentioned.

  The Grave Illusion.

  In it, Paxon examined the idea of a second Rebellion, and the inevitable war that would follow between the Reach and our current rulers: the Ashlord Empire. His analysis of the economics was surgical. There wasn’t much to argue with, honestly. His conclusion was that a second war would be bad for everyone.

  “I’m just saying,” Grayson goes on. “There are consequences to war.”

  Daddy nods at that. “You’re not wrong. I imagine we all lived through the consequences of war for a time. Felt like I ate nothing but potatoes one year. Our parents reached for glory and couldn’t quite get a hold of it. This time will be different. You know I’ve read Paxon’s book, too. The economics in it are staggering, aren’t they? Can’t say I like the man, but he’s got an entertaining perspective on things. There’s one word he doesn’t mention even once in the text, though, Grayson. Do you know which one it is?”

  Grayson frowns, quiet now. The others are leaning forward, licking their chops. It’s a dysfunctional family that likes seeing its members laid low, but none of them know that Daddy talked with Grayson months before the meeting. Asked the man to stick his boots in the mud and brace himself for a good drag through it. He’s played his part well. Now it’s time to play mine.

  “Freedom,” I say, letting them hear the deep certainty in my voice. Daddy wanted me to be visible today, memorable. “He doesn’t talk about freedom.”

  Daddy nods. “Not once.”

  “You can’t evaluate the cost of freedom,” Grayson complains.

  “Agreed.” Daddy’s moving quick now, everything rehearsed. “Freedom is invaluable. Paxon ignored the idea because it weighs too much. We all know how much a drum of oil costs, Grayson. We can sell you a horse for the right price, too. But freedom? Too dangerous to set that on the scales. Paxon knew the men and women of the Reach would set every oil field on fire if it removed the chains the Ashlords still have around our wrists. It’s been centuries. Our ancestors came up here after the Dividian War and asked for one thing: freedom. And it’s the one thing that we still don’t have.”

  Antonio Rowan raps his knuckles on the table in agreement. The Maggies are grinning like murderers, and even Gale Gusto’s wearing her little crease of a smile. Old Trask has war in his eyes, and the rest of the generals look like they can hear the sound of soldiers marching. Daddy has the room in thrall. They wanted to rise; he just needed to remind them they could.

  “If you want war so you can line your pockets,” he says, “go on home. The war we start will cost us everything. The world will burn. We have to be brave enough to put the torch to it.”

  Gale Gusto nods. “I know where you can get some oil.”

  The room shakes with laughter, but it’s plain as day they’re still on the fence. Most of them have whispered rebellion into their cups, at their dinner tables, in their beds. Daddy knew they needed more than words. It’s easier to trust a man who stands to lose as much as you do.

  “Adrian,” he says. “Stand up.”

  I rise. Most of them remember the boy I was, but Daddy wants them to leave in awe of the man I’ve become. Standing is a good place to start. I’m a hand or two taller than any of them. I inherited broad shoulders, but the arms and chest are my own. I’ve spent the past few years making power into an art form. They all see it now. I am everything the Reach could be.

  I am endless possibility.

  “Adrian’s heading south,” he says. “He will be the first Longhand in twelve years to compete in the Races. When he wins, our people will remember. They will rise to war. My son will remind the Ashlords who we are, what we can do. Their world will tremble.”

  They look from me to him, more convinced than ever. No one objects to the plan, or to the war, but there’s still a fear that they’ll leave today and have their throats slit within a week. The Ashlords have faced insurrections before, and they always put them down in fire and blood.

  Luckily, we’ve got one more show for them.

  I unsheathe a blade from my hip, take two steps, and let it swing. The metal shines a silver arc before stopping an inch shy of Sweet Maggie’s throat. The room takes in a breath. The other Maggie stands, pistol rising to my temple, her eyes a storm.

  “You’ve got that aimed at the wrong person,” Daddy tells her. “Sweet Maggie’s been sliding secrets back to the Empire. Informing for the Ashlords since the incident in Vivinia. I always did wonder how you slipped your charges on that nightmarish expedition.”

  Bad Maggie’s still got her gun to my temple, close enough that I can smell the loaded powder. But I was taught to show no weakness. Give them nothing. So my blade hangs steady over Sweet Maggie’s blotchy throat. After a second, Daddy stands, angry at this show of distrust.


  “Unless you are her accomplice in this betrayal,” he says, “set the gun down.”

  Bad Maggie’s reply is mostly spit. “Like hell. She wouldn’t.”

  “She would. She did,” Daddy says. “Set it down.”

  “He’s right.” Sweet Maggie can pick someone off from a hundred paces, but she’s too honest to carry a lie. “Ashlords snagged me. I should have told you, Mags, but I thought it’d be easier this way. All I sent them was a few notes. The information wasn’t even that good.”

  There’s a few seconds where the tension holds. Bad Maggie makes a noise, no doubt feeling fouled by it all, then lowers her gun. My eyes flicker to her for a second, and that’s as long as Sweet Maggie needs to go for her knife. It’s off her hip and driving toward my stomach, but I’m quicker. I slam the grip of my sword down and crush her at the wrist.

  She fumbles the knife and I bring my elbow up and across. The blow sends her staggering to the ground. Before she can even think to reach for her fallen weapon, I have the sword at her neck again. She goes still, her chest heaving, eyes wide and defeated.

  “It was confusing enough having two of you,” Daddy says. “Get her out.”

  Antonio Rowan sweeps up from his chair. Bad Maggie’s still fuming, like she’s angry at the whole world, but her pistol’s back on her hip and she’s punishing the back of her chair instead of me. I sheathe my sword as the traitor is escorted out. Daddy nods approvingly at the decision before turning back to a room full of rebels and warlords.

  He sets his hat on his head and smiles recklessly.

  “Well,” he says. “Who wants to go to war?”

  You hit the replay button again. Stylists are arranging your curls and fussing over your makeup, but you’re too fixated on the screen to care. The Chats lit up this afternoon. Everyone and their mother’s sharing the Alchemist’s video. It’s not hard to understand the obsession. You watch the girl leap from the horse’s back. She vaults through the air like a dancer. The horse vanishes from the ridge and appears beneath her. She sticks the landing, and gods does she look shocked when she does, then grins at the camera like a fool.