Ashlords

by Scott Reintgen

  If something goes horribly wrong, that’s the route you’ll need to catch up.

  “Sunscape. I need Sunscape.”

  The machine obeys your command, adding the final component to your remaining cube. A second later the judge walks over, seals the box, and waves you out of the room.

  “Good luck, contestant.”

  The glass door closes as you return to your quarters. You take a moment to adjust your hair, fix your collar, and then you’re striding into the open stable. It’s a wide, square room without a ceiling. Sunrise lights everything in pinks and golds. On the far end of the room, a narrow break in the walls shows an open-faced tunnel that wasn’t there the night before. It will lead to the starting gates, naturally. Your phoenix stands at center, tethered to an iron stake.

  Never before has there been a more majestic creature. Sleek, gunmetal gray, and a few hands taller than any of the other competing phoenixes. A champion, born and bred. Hearing your footsteps, his ears cock and his eyes roll back toward you. Both irises smolder as he lets out a snort and shakes that lovely silver mane.

  You smile as you dig a hand into your pocket. Most horses love apples or oats, but your phoenix has always favored ripe tomatoes. It’s your tradition, a reminder of all that’s come before and all that will come after. You cross the room and hold the treat out. An answering snort has you laughing. “Hey there, Flicker. Today’s the day, boy.”

  You like the name. It’s the five hundredth title you’ve given the horse, a lucky number. True riders know better than to rely solely on technique and strategy. The evolving relationship between the rider and horse matters just as much. Every time a phoenix is reborn, the connection built in former lives has to be seized again, restored into quick and painless trust.

  Most riders use constants. A saying or a snack or a noise. Something that echoes throughout the many lives and deaths of the phoenix. But you’ve always seen naming as the quickest way to establish trust. A true rider sees the subtle differences as clearly as the surviving similarities in their horses. They use the knowledge to give true names to each new phoenix.

  It all matters, because the slightest distrust can ruin a race.

  You untether Flicker before running a hand lightly down his left flank. The phoenix jigs in place, snorting pleasantly. It has you smiling again. “That’s right, Flicker. Today’s the day.”

  Taking a fistful of silver mane, you slide your left foot into the stirrup, hop twice on your grounded leg, and swing to mount. It takes a moment to shift clothes and adjust your riding belt before you can take the reins. A click of your tongue has the phoenix turning. You start nosing him toward the narrow opening before catching sight of someone else in the room.

  A girl. She wears dark leathers and looks soaked to the bone. Which is strange, because you haven’t seen a rain cloud in days. Ratty hair hangs in dripping tangles across a pale forehead. A very pale forehead. You’ve never seen someone with skin so pale in all your life. Her eyes are like a pair of mismatched moons. You can’t help noticing how chaotically the girl’s chest is heaving, how insubstantially thin she seems compared to the solid wall behind her.

  “Lost, sweetie?” you ask.

  The girl ignores the question. “Who are you?”

  “Pippa, of course.”

  She squints at you. Then notices your horse. The sight of it widens her eyes.

  “This is the world with the horses.”

  All you can do is stare. The world with the horses? What is she, a fool?

  “I’m sorry, but who let you in here?”

  “The gods left the door open. I was the first one through.”

  She grins at that, like she’s done something marvelously wicked. The words make so little sense that you find yourself repeating them slowly. “The gods left the door—”

  But then you cut off as understanding strikes. Whatever your mother did. Whatever deal she struck with the Madness. This girl is the spirit your mother spoke about. She is here to help you if you’re wise enough to guide her into it.

  “What’s your name?”

  She stares back. “Quinn.”

  “How’d you get here, Quinn?”

  “I rode the lightning,” she says, like that makes all the sense in the world.

  You remember the words your mother said. You remember what the spirit wants.

  “Freedom,” you say softly. “Help me win, and I’ll give you your freedom.”

  There’s a flash of bright blue. The girl vanishes from where she’s standing and appears on the back of your horse. She wraps her cold, ghostly arms around you.

  “Deal.”

  I stand, stretching my arms and shaking my legs loose. The attendant is waiting in one corner, gear piled in her arms. I look through my gear before nodding to her with satisfaction.

  “I’m ready.”

  She opens a lacquered wooden box. The inside’s been carved to make space for two particular items. Ayala explained both of them before the Races. One is less familiar than the other. The Ashlord lifts that object up. A sleek, black wristlet. It’s made of some kind of flexible leather. It stretches to slide over my hand before gripping back against my skin. I turn it around my wrist until the digital standings are faceup. Three empty slots glow in the early light:

  ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​

  ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​

  ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​

  “Once the Races begin, you’ll find the leaders’ names listed on your wristlet. Our generators and data should be updated every few minutes. Distances should be listed beside each name, indicating how far ahead of you they are on the course. If you invert the bracelet, the numbers should indicate how far the leaders are from the finish line. Understood?”

  How far ahead of you they are…Naturally. Her assumption is that I will be well behind the leaders. That has been their assumption from the beginning. I bury the brief flash of anger, though, and ask the only question that matters to me.

  “So you use these to track us?”

  She nods. “The same energy field we use to broadcast the Races is used for keeping your locations up to date. It tracks all movements inside the boundaries of the course.”

  When I don’t respond to that, the official reaches inside the box again. The second item is painfully familiar. Polished and flexible wood about the length of my arm. It rests in the shape of that baton the Ashlords are so deadly with. One end is padded with fine leather.

  “Your switch.” The official watches me for a moment. “Do you require an explanation?”

  I give the grip a quick double-squeeze. The Ashlord magic snakes through the material and the wooden frame retracts as a leather whip shakes out to the floor. I give the tongues a dance before squeezing the grip again. There’s a zip noise as the whip returns to baton form. I show the Ashlord the standard weapon.

  “I think I’ve got it.”

  The Ashlord nods. “The Powder Room is open.”

  She leads me forward, knocks twice on the glass door, and leaves. There’s another Ashlord waiting to give instructions from within a bright, blinding room. I can barely pay attention to a word she says. Something about holding the switch in my hand and slapping the bracelet on my wrist has added a new weight to my shoulders. The burden of what comes next hovers overhead like a death sentence. The plan is the plan. I know it’s the right thing to do, but my life will never be the same. There will never be a chance to go back to normal.

  Anger thrums in my chest. I can never go back to less. I can never go back to being buried before I’m born. I can never go back to bowing and scraping for what they give us. I will not be their pretty pawn in this year’s Races. I will show my people that we are more than that.

  “You have five clockturns to make your decisions.”

  I st
are at the woman. Five clockturns? I barely need five seconds.

  “Ivory of Earl, Gold, Revelrust, Kisspowder, and Silvertongue.”

  The official eyes me with curiosity as the machines start fetching the powders and dumping them in my waiting cubes. I resist the temptation to glance over at her, or clear my throat, or scream at the top of my lungs. This is the beginning of everything.

  Some small part of me expects Ashlord officials to enter the room, shake their noble heads, and disqualify me from the Races. It’s an irrational fear. I am allowed to pick whatever components I want to pick. Those are their rules. I wait for the woman to comment on my choices. She doesn’t speak, though. And no one comes to arrest me.

  Five of the most priceless powders in the world slowly siphon into boxes that will soon be strapped to my belt. I just hope the officials and the gamblers look past how much my cubes are now worth. I’m sure they’ll have the value listed somewhere on the Chats, but I need them to focus on the idea that I’ve got some ancient and brilliant alchemy planned for each substance. In every interview, I pretended to have something up my sleeve. It’s not a lie, but it’s not the truth, either. They think I’ll be making my horse teleport between canyons, race through walls. I can already imagine the gamblers discussing all those sparkling possibilities.

  Once the cubes are full, the official walks over and seals them. She hands the belt to me. Her silence is a dismissal. I glance up at the cameras, nod once for Martial, and leave.

  My phoenix is waiting in the open stable. She’s a gorgeous blood bay, prettier than any of the horses I’ve seen on Martial’s ranch. Even after a week, the two of us are still far too new to each other. More acquaintances than friends. She’s almost ready to trust me, but I still waste a good fifteen minutes getting her settled and fitted. It’s just one more sign I never could have won. In the Races, Ashlord riders need a minute at most to settle their rebirths. Their restarts are quick because every minute counts.

  The unfairness of it digs under my skin.

  I take a deep breath and remember my purpose has changed.

  I’m not here to win the Races. I’m here to break them.

  I mount when she’s finally calmed, sliding feet into the stirrups and urging her toward the opening. She’s the biggest horse I’ve ever ridden, but we find our rhythm as the path funnels out into a wide, red powdered canyon. In the bright morning sun, everything looks vibrant.

  The rumps of seven other horses are already waiting. I catch sight of Adrian on my right. His horse is a massive thing, several hands bigger than the one I’ve been gifted. Each rider is positioned in separate, silver gates. The course stretches out in front of us, winding like a red-bellied snake into a blinding dawn. As I trot to my numbered starting gate, my eyes flick over to our right. A silver barrier borders the course. They built the wall fifty feet high. It would look impossibly tall if not for the looming Gravitas beyond it. Those familiar iron-scaled mountains rule the western sky. Seeing them gives me hope.

  It starts here. It starts now.

  A new world is waiting for me with open arms.

  You’re expecting the girl to slow you down, to be an uncomfortable burden, but she fits to your back like a summer cloak. There’s a here-and-not quality about her that unsettles you.

  “So,” you say quietly, “you’re not the only spirit.”

  The other riders wait inside their silver gates. You spy two horses that are sitting more than one rider. On each one, a solid figure holds the reins and a ghostly one clings to their waist. It’s a lower number than you expected. You have to squint to figure out who else traded the Madness their blood for this favor. One is Etzli. That worries you. If Adrian is the loudest threat, Etzli is the quietest. Your eyes find Adrian next. He’s mounted in the gate on the far right, but as your mother predicted, no spirit rides with him.

  “They’re from my world,” Quinn says. “The brave ones.”

  You don’t know what the girl means, but you note that Revel is the other rider with a spirit. In the amateur circuit, he’s always been the one to get a lead and lose it. You can’t help wondering if the guidance of a spirit will force him to be more disciplined. It makes him more of a threat. On your right and left, towering metal barriers narrow the course to a handful of twisting canyons. Applause and shouts thunder even louder as you trot to the starting gate.

  Quinn tenses. “What is that noise? Where’s it coming from?”

  You nod to the barriers flanking the course. “See the faces there?”

  Circles cover the entire surface of the massive metal barrier. It’s almost like looking into thousands of glass mirrors. Instead of reflecting back the canyon, each circle features the face of an individual spectator. Supposedly the simulation gear makes the audience feel like they’re standing right on the course and watching the Races. All the highest bidders appear on the top row. Only good money gets full access. Those spectators can cycle from rider to rider with less than a click. Some of the recent riders have claimed to feel a skin-tingling sensation as thousands of viewers move through the digital air around them. Just one more distraction to consider.

  “Are they demons?” Quinn asks. “Bound for eternity for their sins?”

  You can’t help laughing as you turn a curious glance back to her.

  “Demons? No, those are all my fans.”

  You wave once and the roars boom even louder, the cheers grow even more obscene. Flicker noses into position and a series of metallic snaps lock in around you. Inside the silver stall, bright-red numbers tick their dramatic way down to zero. Quinn’s breathing heavily. You can almost feel the panicked thoughts as they whip through her head.

  You lower your voice to a whisper. “Hey. I’m not sure how all of this works, but follow my rhythm and movements, all right? Leave the riding to me. It’s what I do best. Hold on tight at the start. I’m going to startle our horse out of the gate.”

  Quinn grunts an affirmative, but the noise is swallowed as thunder roars out from every direction. The sound refines and snaps into the crisp boom of a gunshot. Metal catches release all eleven horses into the dusty mouth of the desert. Your horse jolts clear of the gate, but a quick tug of the reins stutters him, and you hold on tight as Flicker rears up on his hind legs.

  Quinn’s nails dig into your side as his legs kick wildly. And then you land back on the earth. Ahead, there’s horses and dust and distance. Except for one other rider. Bravos’s horse comes out of the gate frantic and unsettled, too. He leans over and whispers to calm the creature. When he rights himself, you can’t help but grin. He’s done up his hair for the event. Intricate braids on one side of his head, all clasped with silver jewelry. He looks so perfect it hurts.

  None of the other riders will see that you’ve both stayed behind and that you’re riding together now, but the fans certainly will. It’s the only thing any of them will be talking about after the first day. They’ll see you working together, and how well you’ve hidden your plan, and the crowds will obsess over every single detail.

  “Convincing enough?” Bravos calls.

  “More than enough! Let’s ride.”

  Eyes along the metal barriers follow the interaction hungrily. There’s anger and astonishment and triumph. You gather the reins and urge your horse into motion. Bravos follows. You can feel Quinn shifting her body against yours, falling into your rhythm. The first hundred lengths give you a view of the valley below. The other riders have a massive lead on you.

  “We’re losing,” Quinn points out.

  “For now,” you reply. “Watch and learn.”

  Ahead, there’s a pair of towering weathered stones. Quinn’s grip tightens as you pull Flicker into a sharp turn. Tucked just behind the boulders is the hidden trail you spotted at the map unveiling. Mother’s advice is already paying dividends. It winds you closer to the metal barrier along the course’s wester
n flank, close enough to see the curious expressions and hear the hungry cheers. You can’t help smiling. Is there anything better than leaving people stunned?

  It takes half an hour to reach the open plains and increase your speed. The pace you set is far from gentle, but you know it’s not enough to just find the secret trail. A champion takes advantage of every stretch, every second, every opportunity.

  Once the path widens, you urge your horse into a full gallop. It’s an easy route that winds slightly uphill. Untouched, your horse starts to build momentum. Your father’s favorite alchemical combination—Vibrancy—is working exactly as planned. It’s just you and Bravos out here. No one’s harassing your flank and you can feel the top speeds getting faster and faster. Bravos would fall behind, but his horse is designed for the hunt. As long as there’s something to chase, it can burn hard and fast. Take the lead and the horse gets bored.

  You glance back. He looks so stark and handsome in action. Dark strands of his hair catch and toss in the wind. You can’t help loving how much he looks like a champion.

  The first leg couldn’t have started any better.

  One thought pulses in the front of my mind: survive.

  I remember enough of the map to know that the first day has us winding down a single, narrow valley. The riding was always going to be tight, but the presence of so many other riders has the first few sprints feeling claustrophobic. Adrian shouldered into a lead right away. Even through the growing cloud of dust, I’m close enough to see Etzli and Revel nipping at his heels. I do my best to follow all the little rules Martial has taught me over the years. Tight on the turns. Pressing my horse out of the shade and into the sun to increase endurance. It’s a little harder, though, with company on your heels. A trio of riders have started closing in.