Ashlords

by Scott Reintgen

  “Thanks,” she says, and all you can do is stare. “For what you said in the interview.”

  Lips pressed tightly together, you nod once to her. She understands you’re not in the mood to talk, but she doesn’t retreat. She just stands in your space like she’s been invited there. As the delegates file in to witness the revealing of the map, you calmly assess the girl you’ve made famous. Her dress is borrowed. You know this because it hugs her Dividian hips too tightly and runs a little too far down her calves. A nice design, but a Dividian in Ashlord packaging is still a Dividian. She looks focused enough. It shows on the measured creases of her forehead.

  Almost every year it happens the same way. The scholarship for poor Dividian riders was established almost a century ago. The racing boards claim it’s an attempt at equality, but Mother explained that it has a lot more to do with revenue. The Dividian population is almost four times larger than the Ashlord population. Not a well-publicized statistic, but still very much the truth. Having a Dividian scholarship reels in millions of viewers, and even gives them someone to cheer for. Father admitted the board prefers to choose someone who will be competitive enough to keep up interest, but not so competitive that they give the Dividian people too much hope.

  You glance at Imelda Beru and wonder where she lands on that scale. She’s short and compact, naturally quiet. You’re most afraid of her eyes. They’re light green, and as you watch, they never stop taking in the details of the room.

  Your attention is drawn back to the fore as the Brightness enters. Furia’s patron leader, figurehead of the entire Empire, and your people’s direct link to the gods themselves. You know that he is an old man, but it doesn’t show. There’s not a wrinkle on his bright, burnished face. His skin is so bright that it almost glows. And his voice thunders. Every rider and witness lowers their heads instinctually, even you.

  “This marks the thirtieth year I’ve personally unveiled the course for the Races. I’m proud to continue this meaningful tradition and I’m proud to invite each of these riders to take part in it.” He gestures to two servants, who step forward and flank the still-hidden map. “As is our custom, each rider will have exactly ten clockturns to assess this year’s map and memorize what they see. Anyone caught with eye-cameras or recording devices will forfeit their right to participate in the Races and lose their entry fee.”

  The Brightness gestures again and the servants begin folding the veil down. Hills and valleys and canyons are revealed in quiet stages. You and the other riders take a hungry step forward as the Brightness makes his final announcement. “Contestants, I give you the one hundred and forty-first course in the history of the Races. Your ten clockturns begin now.”

  The other riders fade to background. Your eyes narrow. You’ve known how to analyze courses since you were five years old. Father was the famous rider, but Mother is the smartest person to ever claim the crown. She passed on all of her strategies to you.

  First, you determine how many deaths the course will require. Your eyes take in the map’s scale before you begin measuring the length and width of the course. Even in the best possible circumstances, your phoenix horse will have to die four times to get to the finish line. That’s not an overly long course, but still a challenge. So, a five-leg race. It means you’ll have to plan out the locations of four deaths and the components you need for four rebirths.

  Second, you focus on the width of the course. Compared to the other maps, it looks surprisingly slender. You use the scale again and see your instinct’s right. It’s a very narrow course. By your measure, two of the necessary passes will have all the riders within a few hundred paces of one another. The first phoenix death will be an especially crucial one.

  It’s illegal to kill someone in the Races, but it’s never been illegal to taint the rebirthing process of your competitor’s horse. In recent years, tainting’s evolved into one of the main strategies of the Races. Your training focused on protection, rather than sabotage, but you know where you let your horse die and how you defend it is going to really matter in this race.

  Next, you run through every possible route the course offers. There are twenty-three different combinations through the various canyons. Mother’s method has you searching for the safest route, the fastest route, and the most predictable route. You cycle through them patiently.

  Safest is down the right side of the valley. Safest and slowest. It’s not hard to see that the other routes will get you to the finish line more directly. The fastest route stands out as well.

  Gods, that is treacherous.

  It splits from the main valley after the first day of riding. A canyon route through riverways that eventually lead underground. Cave riding. You’ve never enjoyed it. Your phoenix can handle the dark, but you’ve personally never taken to it. You suppose a dollop of Sunscape could give your phoenix’s coat a solid glow? That’d make the caves more navigable, but no less dangerous. You file the route away in a back pocket. It’s not your first choice, and you can only hope the other riders don’t take advantage of your hesitation. Anyone who actually makes it through the cave will have a sizable advantage on the field. It cuts through a plateau everyone else will be forced to ride around.

  The most predictable route is harder to find. You retrace your steps a dozen times and finally determine the way your competitors are likely to go. The path cuts west after the first few river crossings. Forests drape that edge of the map and you like what you’re seeing there. A winding route, but faster than the eastern passes and your horse’s favorite style of riding.

  A glance shows five clockturns have already passed.

  You retrace each of the three routes, memorizing them. When you’re certain you have every obstacle firmly in mind, you begin Mother’s final, suggested task:

  The designers will always hide one thing in plain sight. Every map is meant to draw your eye to something so that their clever trick stays well hidden from the casual observer. Find it and you’ll have an advantage that no one else has.

  You’re combing back through the details when movement on your right pulls your attention. Adrian Ford is bowing before the officials. They look down on him with hooded eyes.

  “Thank you,” the Longhand says, louder than necessary. “I’ve seen all I need to see.”

  He gives another bow and starts walking back through the Hall of Maps. As he passes you, he glances over and winks. The act has you gritting your teeth. How could someone be so arrogant? You know it’s probably just a power move. He wants you to think he’s figured out something important, and far faster than the rest. The display digs under your skin.

  Taking a breath, you return your attention to the map.

  Four clockturns remain.

  All right, you think, to what did the designers hope to draw our eye?

  You don’t have your mother’s skill, but the answer to that question is obvious. Every rider will reach the second pass at the end of the first day. It’s incredibly narrow and you know the designers are hoping for tight racing, even a few falls. The well-bred phoenixes, like yours, will be able to ride for another five minutes if they get through the clustered valley cleanly. Even then, it’ll be a nightmare trying to secure a good position on the plain to let a phoenix die. The answer’s clear: The designers want havoc at the end of the first day.

  So if that’s what they’re drawing our attention to, what are they trying to hide?

  “Contestants,” an official announces. “You’ve one more clockturn. Use it wisely.”

  You shake yourself. What is it? What secret does the map hide? Your eyes trace hills and valleys, creeks and dead ends. As the seconds tick away the final clockturn, you finally see it.

  There, at the very beginning of the first leg, is an almost invisible trail. It hooks left and up the plateaus, into a separate section that feeds into a completely different canyon. While everyone else is
hunting for a place to protect their phoenix, you and Bravos will be taking a path none of them ever noticed. It will give you an advantage most people wildly underestimate in the Races, the advantage of sleep.

  Satisfied, you smile as the officials begin covering the map and the other contestants take their positions once more. Bravos glances back at you once and you give him a tight, imperceptible nod. An advantage doesn’t guarantee victory, but it will separate you slightly from the rest. It will give you and Bravos exactly what you need to win the Races, together.

  I’m pacing the hotel room like the world’s coming to an end.

  “What else?” Ayala asks. “Come on, while it’s still fresh in your mind.”

  “It’s not fresh. It was never fresh. I don’t remember any of the map. There were…creeks? Three of them, maybe? And another one running down the right side. I don’t know. It—it was hard to take all of it in. I told you I got distracted. The land around the highlighted course looked so familiar. So I sat there staring and forgetting and staring and forgetting.”

  Ayala takes a measured breath. “How many rebirths?”

  I shake my head. “Four? I don’t even know that. I forgot everything you told me to do.”

  “That’s okay,” she says calmly. “But you need a plan. You have to use what you have and at least make a plan, Imelda. The other riders walked out of that room knowing what they were going to do, where they would ride.”

  “Good for them. I don’t have a plan. I just don’t.”

  Ayala heaves a sigh but doesn’t say anything. The tension between us has been growing. I’m thankful to her, and I know she means well. She’s taken me under her wing since the moment I was named Qualifier. She might not speak it aloud, but I know she sees the same thing that I do. I’m not ready for the Races. My bond with my horse isn’t where it needs to be. I can’t defend myself or my ashes if push comes to shove. And now this?

  The whole week has been a long string of flashing lights and loud noises. I’ve learned more about the Ashlords this week than I have in the past sixteen years. Their greatest strength isn’t their physical prowess or their height. It’s not the way their bodies have adapted perfectly to the desert landscape of the Empire. It’s their exposure to noise, their poise under pressure.

  I saw it in Pippa tonight.

  Everyone calls her name. Hands reach toward her. Lights flash to capture that perfect stride as she walks the carpeted world for which she was born. All the pressure just makes her shine like a diamond. Her whole life has been a preparation for this event, while I’ve been given one week to pull it all together. And she’s not the only one. Etzli and Adrian are the same way. All of them are ready to dance circles around me.

  Unless I change the steps. I have to figure out a different way to win.

  There’s a knock at the door.

  Ayala smiles at me and rises to answer it.

  “Let’s talk more tomorrow. You’ve got a surprise tonight.”

  There’s a little click as the door opens, and a series of loud booms as someone comes barreling into the room. Ayala laughs as Farian trips into my line of sight. He’s wearing his favorite cardigan and his best pants, with his hair styled like he’s hoping to visit a few clubs. He’s even got his handheld camera pressed to one eye, and it’s pointed at me.

  “And here she is. The Alchemist, Imelda Beru, a rising star from the corner of the Empire. Clearly, the fame hasn’t gone to her head yet. Not if she’s still wearing those boots.”

  And for the first time in days, I laugh. Down deep in my gut.

  “You’re here for two seconds and already snacking on me, Farian?”

  Ayala heads for the door and waves her goodbye.

  “We’ll talk in the morning. Good night, you two.”

  Farian puts the camera away long enough to give me a hug. I can feel the burdens of the week falling off my shoulders as he sits down and gestures to his feet.

  “Can you believe these slippers? They’re so comfortable.”

  I laugh again. “Slippers I can believe. But you? Here? Impossible.”

  “I got in this afternoon,” he says. “Ayala said you were resting before the Hall of Maps. Not that I minded. Spent all day filming. The light here is unbelievable. And the people. I love this place.”

  “A new documentary: Farian in the City.”

  “Doesn’t sound half bad,” he says. “But you’re deflecting from the fact that you’re about to ride in the Races. Is this serious? Is this really happening? When you end up winning this thing, just promise to take me with you. And then promise me you’ll buy some new boots.”

  I throw a stray slipper at his head. He ducks it, laughing.

  “I like these boots. They’re comfortable.”

  “I can see one of your toes.”

  “Shut it. These are the boots that got us here.”

  “Fair enough.” He sits up, looking around. “So they’re clearly hooking you up?”

  I nod. “With everything. They actually offered new boots. Gave me a riding jacket. A handful of companies sponsor the Qualifier every year. All the money goes into a fund to help search for Qualifiers the next year. More scholarships, too. Ayala’s been training me.”

  And with that thought, all the bitterness returns.

  “Not that it’s helped.”

  He doesn’t hear the last sentence. “It’s a dream come true.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “You guess? Enthusiasm’s not your strong suit, but this is the Races, Imelda.”

  “Exactly, this is the Races. I’m going to ride against the best competition in the Empire, Farian. They’ve trained their entire lives for this. They’ve been with their phoenixes since they were little kids. Don’t you ever wonder why the Qualifiers always lose? Martial won his year because he was the best Dividian duelist in history. I can’t beat my way out of a sack. All I’ve gotten in training so far is bruises.”

  “You’re not that bad.”

  I raise an eyebrow.

  “Okay, you’re pretty bad, but some past winners never fought, you know?”

  “I know that, but all it takes is one mistake and I’m done. None of the Ashlords are foolish enough to kill me, but a few broken bones?” The anxiety creeps in. Farian shifts in his seat and I can tell he’s surprised to hear me say that I’m afraid of anything. “Have you seen the Longhand? Everyone says he’s got a target on his back. Good luck with that! He’s a monster. Most of them are that way. I’m pretty sure that girl named Thyma growled at me tonight.”

  “Wow,” he says. “Thyma actually growled at you? It’s kind of an honor—”

  My glare cuts off his sentence.

  “Right. Let’s talk through it all.”

  He crosses over to Ayala’s abandoned desk. The map she was drawing from my descriptions is there, but it’s incomplete to the point of uselessness. Incomplete because my eyes were drawn to the other parts of the map. I knew I recognized them, but couldn’t confirm it until I got back to look at the Empire’s official atlases, the ones Ayala borrowed for me.

  They’re not as exact as the course drawing, but more than detailed enough to find the strip of mountains I knew I recognized. The course is near the village my cousin Luca lives in. One I know of only because we went in secret to his wedding. His father was a rebel soldier in the war. He acted as a double agent for the Longhands, and the only safe place for people who stood up to the Ashlords in the war is the mountains. If the scales are right, we’re racing half a day’s ride from the Gravitas Mountains. I just wish I’d been as focused on the map as I was on placing the familiar surroundings. Now I’m left with next to nothing.

  “Check out these components,” Farian says, whistling from the desk.

  He holds up one of the random papers I was handed at tonight’s ceremony. I glanced at it on
ce, but realized not knowing the course’s layout means I don’t even know what alchemy will help me win. I’m riding into the fire of the Races with a few blindfolds on.

  “Wow,” Farian says. “They have Ivory of Earl.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “I didn’t even think that still existed.”

  “Welcome to the Races,” he says. “Some of this stuff is high-end. I bet Martial would kill to get a few of these powders in his stockroom. You have any mixtures in mind?”

  Before I can reply, his eyes go even wider.

  “They’ve got Kisspowder! No wonder the entry fees are so steep. Five containers of Kisspowder would sell for, what, seventy-five thousand legions? If the entry fee was any lower, you could just sign up and cash out on the components for a profit. I could start my own videography business with that kind of money.”

  The idea has my attention, but after a second I shake my head.

  “They don’t let you keep components.”

  “No?” he asks, still scanning the sheet. “I’ve never seen the officials confiscate them.”

  “Rules are on the back,” I reply. “Only the winner keeps what’s left in their belt.”

  He makes a thoughtful noise. “Well, you’ll just have to win.”

  “Is that all?” I ask. “Would you like me to travel to the underworld afterward?”

  He laughs. “Come on, Imelda. This is your chance to make history. And if you don’t, so what? You’re racing in an event that most Dividian will never even come close to seeing.”

  I give him a nod, but none of it feels right. It’s more clear than ever that I’m a carefully constructed sideshow. An example of their kindness to my people. The Ashlords know exactly how good I’d have to be to beat their bright and shining stars. And their money is on the fact that I can’t rise to that challenge. Never could.

  Ideas are churning now. There has to be a way to change the game.

  Farian sees the look on my face and switches tunes. “Forget the Races,” he says. “We’re in the biggest city in the Empire. Let’s celebrate.”