Ashlords

by Scott Reintgen

  The word celebrate almost snaps me out of my funk. I watch as he walks over and throws open the food cupboards. Little delicacies line each shelf. There’s even a fresh bucket of ice with two glistening glass bottles on the floor of the closet. Farian’s eyes go wide, because it’s more packaged food than either of us has ever seen. He looks back my way.

  “Tell me this is yours.”

  “It’s free,” I reply, smiling. “It’s all free.”

  “And you haven’t touched any of it?”

  He reaches down and pulls out both bottles.

  “It didn’t feel right. Everything about this place is so…them.”

  Farian plucks up the bottle opener, flicks the cap off with a practiced motion, then grabs the other and repeats the motion. He hands it to me before holding up his own to make a toast.

  “To the Dividian. To Imelda. To doing things our way!”

  I grin and tap the neck of my bottle against his.

  “To doing things our way.”

  Farian slowly resurrects me. We snack and drink and laugh. He throws open the balcony windows, and we call down to people who pass the hotel front. Everything’s so bright. The city never sleeps. At the end of a long night, he heads back to his room. He mentions that Martial’s in the city and wants to help with strategizing. I’m surprised the former victor has traveled all this way, but it makes sense—after all, someone had to escort Farian.

  I eventually sleep, but the dreams start out dark and haunting. I’m playing a board game against the other riders, and they won’t explain the rules. They move each piece flawlessly. When I try to mimic their motions, they laugh, slap my hand away, and say that’s not how the game works. All of them laugh and laugh and laugh until I flip the table.

  And the pieces scatter everywhere.

  I wake up in the middle of the night and know exactly what I’m going to do.

  I spend the rest of the evening alone. Antonio is gone. I have no doubt that he’s preparing some other vital cog in our engines of war. Readying his troops in case all goes to plan. It’s nice to sit in silence. I wait in the hotel’s restaurant area. Other guests see me and decide to make themselves scarce. The waiter finally takes a hint and stops asking if I’d like a refill.

  It allows me a moment to trace back over the map. Rehearse the right rebirths. I’m closer now than ever to starting a war. I’m full of fear and hunger and foreboding. After a few hours of staring through the window and out into the busy Furian streets, I decide to call it a night. I’ll want as much sleep as I can get. It will be scarce during the Races, even scarcer during the war that will follow. The upstairs hallway is empty. I open my door.

  A shiver runs down my spine. Something strange is in the air, but as I stare around the room, the details all look the same. I search the shadows and corners. Nothing. I close the door behind me and I’m halfway into the light of the room when I see the man sitting in the corner.

  He was not there a second before.

  And fear trembles through me, because he is no man.

  “Take a seat,” the creature hisses.

  He is shirtless. Dirt stains the vessel’s upper body. I try to cling to the truth that this is just a man. He’s flesh and blood. But my eyes trace the disturbing scars that start at the base of the priest’s neck. A scaled mask threads directly into the skin. Those protective scales enclose the human head completely. I note slit nostrils, a single gleaming eye, the reptilian profile. Each feature resembles the iron turtles that live along the coast. Creatures known for their caution and their unbreakable shells. It takes a second to remember the name of this particular god.

  “They call you the Dread.”

  The priest spreads both hands. “So they do. Go ahead. Sit.”

  My heart thunders. It was easy to dismiss the gods—and the role they’d play in the war—from a distance. But seeing one in person has my heart beating faster. I take a steadying breath and it’s like his finger is set on the pulse of all my fears. He smirks. The animalistic features look so alive. Is this priest following his god’s command? Or has the Dread actually entered our world for this rendezvous?

  I move to obey his command—taking a seat—but I slide a hand to the knife at my belt as I do. I position myself so that his view of the blade is cut off. I wouldn’t dare face one of their gods without a weapon. Better if it were a sword.

  My people have never worshipped the pantheon. Blood sacrifices disgusted my ancestors. So did the idea of depending on anyone or anything. We’ve paid the price for our rebellion over the centuries. Always the Ashlords have had an edge against us. Their gods turn the tides of war with impossible magic. I take a moment to recall all I know of the Dread.

  He’s the patient one. The safest of their kind. The one who hides and warns and waits.

  “What does the god of caution want from me?” I ask.

  The answer comes in a slithering voice. “I wanted to take a long look at my potential warrior. The very symbol of the war to come. We get glimpses, of course. We have eyes and ears in this world, but I have always tended to trust my own eyes above all others.”

  I stare back at him. “Your warrior? I never agreed to that.”

  The slit eyes narrow. “Not yet. I offered my services to your grandfather long ago. He rejected me. I came to your father before he decided to send you here. I offered my protection. He was hesitant. I thought the son might be wiser than the fathers. Did tonight teach you nothing? You are exposed, Longhand. Do you know why you were sent here?”

  My jaw tightens. “I was sent here to win.”

  “Ideally,” the god replies. “Win the Races and the Reach will march with a boldness this generation has forgotten. But surely you see what your father sees. Losing will accomplish the same that winning would. They’re going to kill you, Adrian Ford. And when they kill the favorite son of the Reach, it will start a revolution. Victor or martyr, your father gets his war.”

  His words wash over me in waves. Briefly, I imagine Daddy sitting at his desk, swirling his drink, accepting my death like the first piece in his great game. It hits so hard and so deep that I realize it’s the only thing I have no defense against. I’ve built walls for every other threat. Everything but him. Then I remember who I’m speaking with.

  “A clever lie,” I reply. “Like I’d ever believe one of their gods.”

  The Dread smiles. “Am I? The Ashlords grow bold. They reach for the future. The Striving gives them whatever they please. They adore things that move or flash or buzz. The other deities are well attended, but my people neglect caution. Walk by my temple. Note the empty ramparts. My priests in this realm are few. But I assure you that it is not my intention to simply go away. I am not like the Veil. I will not lie down and die. I will not accept defeat.”

  My mind races again.

  The Dread continues. “I seek new worshippers. Whether you live or die, war is coming. Do you imagine your fight will be against the Ashlords alone? No. You will face all the power the gods can summon across the barriers and into this world. Surely you know this?”

  I nod. “We are ready this time.”

  The god’s face twists into a smile. “So your father thinks. Let me add my strength to yours. Let us see how ready you are, then.”

  “In exchange for blood? Servitude? I haven’t come this far to bow to you.”

  “Partnership,” the god corrects. “Between equals.”

  That pulls a laugh up my throat. “I don’t trust you. None of our kind do.”

  “Allow me to offer the first sign of faith between us. Your father has thrown you into the fire, Adrian. He did not accept my trade. So allow me to offer my protection freely.”

  He unfurls his left hand. My grip on the knife tightens, but before I can do more than unlatch it from my belt, he blows powder from his palm. It flashes out like smoke and fills
the room in less than a second. I hold my breath, but the substance coats my skin, tingles down my spine. I do everything except pinch my eyes shut. I don’t want to lose sight of him in the haze.

  “Calm down,” the god says. “It is a boon. This will help you survive the Races.”

  I wave my free hand to clear the air. It slowly starts to thin until I can see him again.

  “What did you do to me? What is this?”

  “Caution,” he answers simply. “You think they come to bruise and break you. You’re wrong, Adrian. They are coming to kill you. The blessing I just offered will bring swift healing. Sturdier bones. Less bleeding. It will keep you alive. You’re welcome.”

  My eyes sharpen. “I didn’t ask for your boon. We have no agreement. Understand?”

  “For now.” The god nods a concession. “But you’ll see the truth in a few nights. This is just a fraction of my magic. If you find it is useful, imagine what else might exist between us. I am a patient god, Adrian. You might not want me today. You may not even want me a year from now. But I will wait for that fateful day to arrive, because I know I’m your best chance of winning the war that’s coming.”

  He starts to rise. Instinct brings my knife around. He’s already violated me. I have no idea if he’s telling the truth, or if the spell he’s put over me will ruin everything. I’m not about to risk a second mistake. The knife flicks from my hand and shivers through the air. My aim is true. It hits right where the beating heart of his priestly vessel should be. I’m expecting the tear of flesh, the spurt of blood.

  Instead, the Dread vanishes. Like he was never there.

  The smoke clears. I sit there staring, and it’s like I imagined the whole thing. My eyes turn back to the door. It’s closed. The windows are shut, too. It takes a while to steady my breathing and shake off the effects. I am not here to parley with gods. I am here to start a rebellion. I am here to change the face of the Empire.

  I’m here because Daddy sent me.

  A shiver runs down my spine. The Dread lied to me. Nothing but lies.

  It takes a little muscle to pull the knife free from the upholstered chair. I go through my normal routine before dousing the lamps and crawling into bed. I pretend to be calm—just in case the gods are still watching—but inside, my heart hammers in my chest. It takes hours to finally fall asleep. I drowse with one hand under my pillow, tight around the grip of my knife.

  When I finally sleep, I dream of the sea.

  You planned every single detail to perfection.

  And ever loyal, Bravos follows all of it step for step. The night of your tour through the Hall of Maps, he calls you from the mobile he has registered with the city. Your scripted conversation is brief. He says he didn’t want there to be any hard feelings. You say there aren’t any, that you’re too focused on the Races to feel anything else right now. He says that he misses you. You whisper a goodbye. It takes the hackers about five minutes to post the entire conversation onto the Chats.

  You know gamblers and fans will devour every word and gossip with their friends about all the nothing. It has you smiling. Some things about Furia are just so remarkably predictable. Fifteen minutes later, you hear a chirping sound from the corner of the room. You retrieve your unmarked mobile and answer it.

  “Well done, Bravos.”

  “You know me, love. A slave to details.”

  “Tell me, did you enjoy your stroll through the Hall of Maps?”

  “You know history bores me.”

  “How about making history? Does that bore you?”

  He laughs. You can’t help but imagine the perfect flash of his smile.

  “You’re sure about all of this?”

  The question has you rolling your eyes. Ever since you told him you wanted him to win, he’s been fighting against the idea. It’s just like him to act so sacrificial. Like he’s never imagined taking first. You suppose it’s possible that he never has. After all, the Empire has basically crowned you already.

  “For the last time, Bravos, I’m sure. I want to marry the winner of the Races.”

  You hear him smiling. “You’re seriously amazing. But we still have to win, right?”

  “Right. Let’s talk about the course.”

  “You saw something? You had that triumphant look on your face.”

  It’s your turn to laugh. “Triumphant. That’s the whole point.”

  “Very much the point,” Bravos replies. “All right, what did you see?”

  “A secret. I want you to let your phoenix startle out of the gate.”

  “Startle?” He echoes the word. “Really? Come on, Pippa. I was five the last time my horse startled out of the gate.”

  You sigh. “Just do it, Bravos. I’m going to let my phoenix startle, too. The other racers won’t think twice about it. They’ll all thunder off and forget about us. They’ll think the pressure got to me and that I’ve lost my nerve. After the dust settles, follow me.”

  Bravos hesitates. “You’re sure it will work?”

  “Trust me. We’re going to be first and second. Just like we planned.”

  “What about the Longhand? Did you see his interview?”

  Of course you did. You watched Adrian Ford unbutton his shirt during a live interview and grin like a fool for the entire Empire. You know he’s the biggest threat, but there’s no point telling Bravos any of that. “You’re as big as he is.”

  Bravos laughs. “I’m really not.”

  “But the two of us together? He doesn’t stand a chance.”

  “Right. Together we win.” Noise sounds in the background. You hear Bravos call a muffled answer back to someone. “Time to go, love. Can’t wait to throw you some brooding looks during the Longest Ride. This is what we’ve been waiting our whole lives for.”

  “Good night, Bravos.”

  The call ends. You turn off the lights and lie back, eyes searching the dark. You’ve been nervous until now. All the expectation and training and attention. Father’s constant devotion and Mother’s constant affirmation. All of it has built up to a boiling point. Now you’re sinking into the pillows and squirming beneath the blankets. They can have their dreams, and you can have yours. For the first time, you’re starting to believe they’ll actually come true.

  It’s all so exciting that you just want to throw your arms around Bravos before the Races start and kiss him for everyone to see. But you’ve been too careful to slip up this late in the game. Everyone else thinks you are blood-sworn enemies. And everyone knows how alliances can impact the Races. There are so many unpredictable twists awaiting the riders. Having someone you trust can absolutely mean the difference between winning and losing.

  And no one will expect you to let Bravos win. That will be the brilliant and final twist to the story. You’ll ride hard to the finish line and, at the last minute, your phoenix will fade. Bravos will win by a few lengths because you let him win. You will be the one to crown a new champion. The world will see that you worked together and that the two of you are meant to be. Marriage will guarantee an extension of celebrity. You’ll live happily ever after.

  Those are the bright hopes that have you drifting off to sleep. You dream that you are sailing. The sun chases unpredictable patterns over the water. A southern wind stirs the waves. You admire the horizon until arms wrap around your waist. A kiss lands on your cheek.

  You look up.

  And Adrian Ford is the one smiling at you.

  The shock of seeing his face makes the noise that drags you out of sleep even more startling. You’re still blinking away that image of the Longhand as reality’s greedy claws strip away the dream. Why is your door open?

  Light pours in from the hallway. A shadow waits there.

  “Pippa?”

  Your mother’s voice. What’s she doing up this late?

  “Are you awak
e?”

  You sit up. “Mother?”

  “Come. Quickly.”

  You obey her with an urgency you haven’t felt since childhood, rising and following without question. The halls are lit only by spare window candles. Mother leads you down the stairs, careful to skip the step that always groans underfoot. You skip it, too. There are no obvious signs of danger, but she’s moving with such deliberate quiet that you’re drawn to do the same. Past the foyer, the dining room, the kitchen. You realize the servants are all gone. Dismissed for the evening. Mother never does that.

  She opens the stone door that leads into the wine cellar. Reaching back, she takes your hand and pulls you into the dark. For the first time in years, you feel like a child. You get a death grip on her hand as she leads you down, one step at a time. A few times you stumble, but she’s there, braced to keep you upright. Sightless, your other senses start to sharpen. There’s a smell like cinnamon. Your mother’s fragrance. Occasionally, your arm rubs against the bracelet of obsidian symbols that always dangles on her wrist. The air is damp.

  But it’s the sound that sends a chill down your spine.

  Rising up from the very stones, you can hear a distant howl. It sounds like it’s coming from another world. Mother’s grip on your hand tightens, as if she senses your desire to run. She keeps hold of your hand and leads you through a section of the house you never knew existed.

  After several more passages, she stops and lights a candle. She sets the light in your trembling hands and kneels. Squinting, you finally see the obsidian knife she’s carrying. She speaks in a whisper. “This way is now yours to travel.”

  Your eyes widen as she slips the sharp point over her palm. Blood drips down to the eager stones. Blood sacrifice is common among your people. How often have you seen gods and their vessels walking the streets or crowded around their temples? It isn’t uncommon, but you’ve never heard Mother or Father talk of the gods as anything more than allies. Before you can figure out what’s happening or what all of this means, the stones at your feet groan to life.