“And we honor that day,” the announcer is saying, “with a Great Display of our own. Behold your riders. Behold their horses. There are placards along each barrier that describe the chosen components for each summoning. As a reminder, these will be the first combinations that each rider has locked in for the opening of the Races. It’s the first hint of what might unfold after the gunshot sounds. Come forward, witnesses! Let’s see how this changes the gambling lines!”
You raise your chin and smile. Money and power have bought each person in the crowd access. It is their chance to ask questions and inspect the horses. The first patrons make a line straight for you. A well-dressed Dividian nods in greeting, pen and notepad in hand. Clearly a journalist. He kneels and inspects the waiting placard. You watch as he scribbles down components and reads the inscription. Others are circling curiously.
“Vibrancy,” he notes with surprise. “That was your father’s opening rebirth, no?”
Your smile widens. He’s done his research. After a long deliberation, you decided to open the Races with the combination your father made famous. It was the one that helped him storm to an opening lead on the first day. You’ve trained with it for months. Vibrancy horses are known for two things: long strides and building speed. The longer they ride uninterrupted, the higher their top speed climbs. It is a summoning that has risks, too, though.
“So you’re hoping to jump out into first?” the reporter guesses.
It’s always better to let them wonder. You’ve learned that much from previous Races.
“Starting first is fine, but it’s finishing first I care about.”
He grins at that. “A summoning like Vibrancy depends on not bumping shoulders with other riders, right? Pretty risky considering the presence of Adrian Ford. Not to mention the recent breakup with Bravos. Tight quarters will slow you down.”
“Nothing slows me down.”
He scribbles that line on his pad before tipping his cap and heading on. The rest of the crowd presses forward. One of your father’s friends waves to get your attention. You shake his hand before answering more questions. You know that the crowd has only a short time to inspect the horses and make their interrogations. Some are just here for fun, but others will report back to newspapers and spread the word for gambling dens to make more informed bets.
You smile, answer questions, and do your best to shine as bright as the sun.
Finally, the announcer calls the crowd back. Some of the royal princes start chants for their favorite riders. You smile a little when your name begins to drown out the rest. The whole crowd weaves back toward the city gates as the announcer turns to address the contestants.
“Riders,” he says. “You now have exactly ten clockturns to inspect rival horses. As is the custom, no writing materials are allowed. Anyone caught with eye-cameras or recording devices forfeits their right to participate in the Races. You may begin.”
And so the Races begin.
You move with methodical precision. You do not spare glances for the other riders, because you only have so much time to take in all the details. Naturally, you head straight for Adrian’s horse first. You’re more sure than ever that he is your greatest threat. And gods, the thing is massive. You ignore the placard and circle the horse yourself. You want to drink it in with your own eyes. It’s a lovely creature. No surprise there. You’ve always wondered if Adrian’s size might work against him. Bravos has always had similar troubles. Both of them are too big. You are the right size and make for a proper rider. Adding thirty more pounds really tests a horse down the final stretches. But on a horse like this one…
“It’s perfect for him.”
Across the clearing, Adrian has made his way to your horse. There’s an intensity to the way he circles and studies, digging for the answers that might help him succeed on the first stretch. Clearly he’s more than a finely carved statue. The thought has you smiling.
You refocus, circling back to the front of his horse. The creature shuffles inside of the barrier and you take note of the almost-hidden claws. There are telling bulges along the backs of the legs, too. Your eyes flick down to the placard, and the written description confirms your guess. He’s chosen to start the Races with a Ravenous rebirth.
Pretty damn clever. It’s the kind of rebirth that’s built for riding tight. His horse will thrive in a more predatory role. It will welcome contact and interlopers, and after his interview, Adrian Ford is sure to have plenty of both. You watch for a few seconds. The unsettled horse pulls back its lips long enough to flash dagger-sharp teeth to match the razor-like claws. Anyone who presses Adrian on the first day is in for a nasty surprise. You know the only weakness to this particular rebirth is that they can be a little rebellious. Weaker riders can’t hold them on a steady course, but you saw Adrian without a shirt on. He’s not going to have a problem reining a horse in.
You nod once before moving on to the others. Etzli is next. You can’t help shaking your eyes when you see it. It’s a protective rebirth. Armored shoulders and neck. It’s such a conservative choice. You thought the girl might break loose in time for the real Races. Make a bold move for once, but clearly you were wrong about that. She’s after second place, again.
Revel’s got a true burner of a horse. Built for sprinting and little else. He’s tested you on a few of the shorter courses. No one gets off the line quite like him, but the Races are almost always four or five legs. You’ll never fear a man who doesn’t know how to finish.
Imelda Beru doesn’t disappoint. Her first rebirth is one you’ve never heard of before. The placard calls it “Changing Skies.” The description is just as enigmatic: “Allows the horse to defy gravity.” It sounds cool, but you’re also thinking it just means the horse can jump high? You look around long enough to find Imelda roaming through the other horses. Most of the group cycles quickly past, memorizing details, but Imelda almost looks like she’s touring a museum. You shake your head again. Poor girl doesn’t stand a chance.
Bravos’s horse draws your eye next. Its coat has darkened to a midnight purple that verges on black. Razor-sharp spikes rise from each shoulder. You can’t help smiling. Bravos is such a brawler. His first instinct has always been to lower a shoulder, hit someone hard, and trust that he’ll be the one standing when the dust settles. You’re pleased to see that he’s taken your advice, though. This horse combination isn’t just a bruiser. It’s a hunting horse. Designed to follow a trail—even your trail. It’s actually perfect.
Beyond his phoenix, you find the horses that belong to the only two relatives in the Races—Thyma and Capri. The siblings have disappointed on the amateur circuit. Capri was heralded for years as a riding prodigy. He snuck into an amateur event when he was seven years old and was leading the first two legs until his mother figured out where he was. The officials pulled him from that race, but not before his face was made famous on the Chats. Like you, he entered the amateur circuit with a crown already half on his head. The only difference is that you’ve worked hard to make sure yours still fits.
Thyma is his violent half sister. She just finished serving a one-year suspension after breaking the contact laws on the amateur circuit. You remember the race well. It was one of your fastest times, overshadowed by the fact that she’d shoved some unfortunate soul off a cliff.
Unsurprisingly, the two of them have elected to go with the exact same stamina rebirth. You’ve assumed they would team up ever since they announced their eligibility. An identical summoning just acts as confirmation. They’ll work together. Pairings are common enough.
You lift an eyebrow, though, when you inspect Darvin’s horse. He’s from out on the coast. The son of a famous general in the Helio Wars. Too bad his father didn’t teach him the basics of the Races. His combination is the exact same as the siblings. Teams of two? Normal. But three riders all working together? That borders on embarrassment.
Last is Nelli. Her paper-brown horse looks the same way it always does. It’s a thin thing built for a much slower burn because Nelli is the only slow-rider in the field. Really, she’s the only slow-rider in decades. She’s beloved by some of the alternative newspapers as the only rider who does not sprint. Instead, she’ll marathon her way through each night. A slow pace. No deaths. No rebirths. No switches. She treats the phoenix like it’s a lesser breed, carefully observing the limitations that their magic allows the rest of us to break. Too bad her method has been disproven. Her own record proves that. You know she’s never finished higher than fourth.
You circle back to your own horse and smile. It’s nice of Nelli, you suppose, to donate one hundred thousand to the winner. Bravos is already back by his horse. Same for Adrian and Etzli. Some of the others are still memorizing details when the announcer steps forward.
“The time has ended,” he says. “Teams are standing by to collect your horses and return them to the proper stables. You are free until this evening. Tonight you will join us in the Hall of Maps for the Unveiling. Rest well until then!”
The adrenaline in your chest pulses. Eleven riders. Eleven horses.
You briefly lock eyes with Bravos.
Only one winner.
I slide to the right, arms tired. Zion senses weakness. I’ve been sparring with Ayala’s cousin for six days now. I’ve learned to set my feet before parrying a blow. I’ve learned to ignore the ringing sensation in my hands after a particularly sharp contact. The hardest lesson has been in humility. I thought this would be a matter of will. I thought I could just clap my hands and outdance other Ashlords the way I outdanced Oxanos. But for six days I’ve been completely outclassed in our makeshift dueling arena.
Zion is just twelve years old.
Compared to the riders I will face, he is a child.
He jabs the tip of his switch forward. I bat the weapon to one side, but he turns the reflected blow smoothly into a second swing. Instinct has me backpedaling. My own raised arm barely deflects his attack. Reverberation shakes me from elbow to hip.
He cuts forward again, resets his footing, and brings in a blow from overhead. This time my weapon spirals from my grip. I stand there helplessly, and the only thing that stops Zion from cracking my skull in is Ayala’s voice. “Stop.”
Zion steps back. He glances to her and then back to me.
“You did better that time,” he says.
Like Ayala, he’s kind enough to lie.
“Let’s take a break,” Ayala says. “Come back in an hour, Z.”
He nods and ducks out. My chest is heaving. It takes effort to pick myself back up as Ayala fetches the fallen switch. She sets the thing back in my hand and shrugs it off.
“Dueling isn’t your thing. Let’s try the whip again. You’re more natural with it.”
Dueling isn’t my thing. What an understatement. I can feel the bitterness building. Each new day adds to the foundation of my doubt. I am not ready for what awaits me in the arena. Still, I force myself to follow her across the sunlit room. She paces off the appropriate distance and I loosen my switch into whip form.
“Remember your stance,” she coaches. “Steady body. Firm arm. Flicks first.”
I fix my eyes on the half-rusted railing that fronts the distant wall. It takes effort and concentration—especially after getting run around by Zion—but I bring the whip overhead. The motion is smooth. I hear a satisfying snap. The glass tips graze the edge of the pipe.
“A step closer,” Ayala suggests.
I slide forward and bring the whip up again. My wrist gives a delicate flip and I marvel at how fast the leather snakes out. This time it coils twice around the pipe, glass shards digging, and I almost drop the weapon in shock. “It worked,” I say. “It actually worked.”
“Not bad,” Ayala says. “Let’s try some overheads. Get the whip snapping for closer combat. Honestly, if you can just look like you know what you’re doing, that might be enough to keep a curious rider away from your ashes at night. Remember the motion?”
I nod back to her. For the next fifteen minutes, I run through the three most standard motions. Ayala admits there are twelve other stylings that are just too complex, that we don’t have enough time. It’s an effort to bite back my response to that. Of course there isn’t enough time. I came to Furia with genuine hope. I was excited. The whole city was so bright I thought it was made of gold. This was the opportunity of a lifetime. I had been chosen.
I thought I was destined to win. Just like Martial did all those years ago.
Training has illuminated the reality behind their gold curtains. More and more, I’m learning that my invitation here is a show of Ashlord mercy. My entry—and my performance—are both of little consequence to them. I am the representative Dividian they’ll march out for show. I am not supposed to win. This morning was just another reminder of that.
The Great Display.
All of those horses standing in one place. Ayala prepped me beforehand. She taught me a few strategies for memorizing the rebirths that other riders would start their first leg with. That part was easy. Alchemy has always been my strong suit. Besides, most of the riders went with pretty standard combinations. Not a ton of surprises in the group.
The real surprise was the horses themselves. The Ashlords have gifted me a gorgeous blood bay for the Races. She’s a finer horse than any I’ve ridden on Martial’s ranch, but one circle around the horses my contestants will ride revealed the truth. All of their horses are superior. Magnificent creatures with long ancestral breeding lines. Each one the offspring of former champions. It took me a few clockturns to understand the truth. The Ashlords have given me a finer gift than I could ever afford, and it’s still far less than all the grandeur they enjoy. They have trimmed off their excess for me, offered a splash of leftover gold.
And I am expected to bow in thanks for it.
I am only here to play my part in their brilliant performance.
“Imelda?”
Ayala is staring at me. I look up and realize my whip is firmly tangled around the distant pipe. My grip is secure and my feet are set. I realize I’ve been pulling on it with all of my strength. The pipe has dented inward and the fixed mountings groan on both ends.
“Planning on bringing down the roof?” she asks with a smile.
I take a deep breath and shake the whip loose. A quick squeeze draws the material back into baton form. “Sorry. I’m just tired. And you’re right. Dueling is off the table. If I get cornered by any of the other riders, I won’t stand a chance. No one is going to team up with me, either. So it’s all flight and hiding. I have to steer clear of everyone else.”
She nods again. “It all depends on the course. You’ll see the map tonight. Let’s talk through your strategies for that. How good is your memory?”
We start back toward the hotel. Ayala runs me through breakdowns of old courses. A few days ago, I’d be thrilled to chat about it. We could talk about the year an entire pack of sunwolves dug under the course walls and terrorized the riders each night. Or the year that half the course forced riders down the River of Poems. It was such a spectacle. Horses that could run on water and riders who’d sink straight to the bottom if they got knocked off their mounts.
But I don’t bring up any of my favorite Races.
I’m too deep inside
my own head. I’m brooding about all of it. The bright lights and pageantry have faded away. My vision is clear now. I’m finally noticing the details that broadcasted Races have always carefully hidden from our people. Announcers never talk about the fact that Dividian riders don’t own their own horses. They’ll never think to remind the audience that I met my mount less than a week ago, that establishing a proper relationship with a phoenix takes years. I doubt they’ll bring up the lack of military training on my résumé or the fact that I haven’t logged combat classes with famous Ashlord generals.
When we line up in the starting gates, they’ll point out that everyone has a chance. Everyone is dead-even with everyone else. And that’s the illusion.
The audience doesn’t know that I’m starting the Races a hundred paces behind the others. I am not here to win. I am here to be grateful. I am here to give false hope to all those Dividian viewers huddled in their downtrodden villages.
Ultimately, I am here to lose.
“…you’ll definitely want to figure out how many rebirths it will take. And you’re clever as hell with your alchemy. So it might be worth looking at points on the map where you can do something the other riders won’t think to do. You’ll want to map out the routes, so…”
Ayala keeps talking. I nod along until we’re back inside the hotel. It’s a relief when she leaves me in my room and tells me she’ll be back to collect me that night. I close the shutters. In the dark, my mind is drawn back to my family. Father hard at work. How every grinding hour adds up to a grinding day, how days become months, become years, become decades. I think about my fierce mother and the small kingdom she reigns over. No Ashlord will ever recognize that she is a queen. When they look at her, they don’t see anything at all.
And finally I think of Prosper. My little brother will turn on the Races and actually believe I can win. It breaks my heart to imagine Father spending extra money so he can tune into the channel that will feature my riding, not just the general broadcast. Tonight I’ll be led through the ancient and famous Hall of Maps. It’s meant as an honor, but now I can’t help wondering on which day I’ll disappoint my loved ones.
Ashlords Page 9
