You remember they’re attending a play tonight.
“A little late, Pippa.”
“Sorry, Father. I had an interview arranged. I wanted to watch the responses.”
He nods. “I’m certain Zeta has everything sorted out.”
“She has. All I have to do now is win.”
“That’s the easy part,” he replies with a smile.
Mother’s more sympathetic. “It’s not the easy part. It’s the hardest part, but you think like me and you ride like him. If it wasn’t illegal, I’d throw a few thousand legions down on you.”
Father offers a roguish smile. “Who says I haven’t already done just that?”
You can’t help but smile. You love it when they joke. A butler sets a plate in front of you. Flamed merepeck, encircled by roasted greens and dappled in a boiled rose sauce. It’s the first thing you’ve eaten since breakfast, and gods is it better than the rest of your day. You catch your mother winking at your father. You’ll never get tired of seeing how in love they are.
“Tell me the story of how you met again.”
It’s always been your favorite, because it never gets old. Besides, you’re still fighting the butterflies Bravos gave you just by sending a text. In a way, you’ve always held your romances up to theirs. For the first time, it feels like you have something that can stand its ground, because for once you’re actually in love with someone who feels worthy.
Father laughs. “Well, I was in my room, going through my morning routine.”
“Late for class,” Mother corrects. “He was in a dorm that should have been empty. I volunteered that year to help with the gardens around the property. One of them was just outside the men’s dormitory. Some of the windows…looked into the baths.”
You love how Mother always blushes at this part and how loud Father always laughs.
“A fact that’s always made me curious,” he says.
Mother raises a single, perfect eyebrow. “It helped clarify the claims of hopeful suitors.”
You groan at that confession. “Mother.”
She laughs, which makes you laugh. You don’t ask what needed clarification.
“So there I was,” Father says. “Wearing only my long underwear and my riding cap. Shirtless and shaving in front of a mirror. I’d gone to the sink nearest the window, because it was just so stuffy that day. I opened it a tick and started. Wanted to look fresh for class.”
“To make up for how late you were?” Mother asks.
“Exactly,” he replies. “And then I heard this noise. I swear, the blade almost slipped across my neck and ended me, then and there. I turned, though, and there was this beautiful woman at the window. It was so unexpected. I couldn’t think of anything to say. So instead, I turned to her, tipped my cap in that old-fashioned way, and went back to shaving.
“And though this next part is unproven, I believe your mother stood there and stared a little longer, because she liked what she was seeing. Certainly, accounts of the event differ.”
Mother shakes her head. “I ran, Marcos. You know I ran.”
“But you couldn’t run forever,” he adds, smiling. “When I submitted my name for the Races, she was the clerk working the Empire Board’s front office. I handed her my papers and when I realized who she was, I just sort of went speechless in front of her.”
“You should have seen his reaction.” Mother laughs. “It was adorable.”
“I asked her on a date. You know what she said, Pippa?”
Of course you know, because this is your favorite story.
“She said she didn’t date riders.”
Father nods. “And I asked, ‘Not even if you’ve seen them half naked?’ She reconsidered after that. We went for drinks at the Beguiler. She told me she was glad I was entering the Races that year, because she planned on winning them the next. I remember laughing, but gods, you should have seen just how serious she was. I knew then and there I’d marry her.”
They smile at each other again. You and Bravos met at a bar, so you won’t have some classy shaving story to tell your children, but you think it’s more than enough that they’ll see the two of you smile at one another like your parents are smiling at one another now. You’re so hopeful for that future that you ask the one question you’ve always been too afraid to ask.
“What would have happened if you had raced the same year?”
They both smile at the question. Mother’s the first to answer.
“I would have won, obviously.”
It’s such a quick, direct response that you all laugh, but Father can’t hide his first reaction to it. There’s a flash of something on his face and you recognize it instantly. He wants to object, to beat his chest, to call himself a champion again. That burning and competitive part of him snaps back to life at your mother’s words. He takes a long swallow of wine before answering.
“I would have raced like hell,” he says eventually, with false humility. “And she still would have waltzed across the finish line before me.”
You smile at him, but you’re startled by the lie, the pride he’s still breathing out like smoke. For years, you’ve been watching the old Races on vintage chat-casts. And you’ve always favored your mother’s chances in an imaginary race between the two of them.
Watching Father was like watching a storm. Fast and reckless and vengeful.
But watching Mother? That was like watching whatever person, whatever god, had summoned the storm into being. She moved every competitor like a piece on a game board. Her phoenix rebirths were masterpieces, her chosen route flawless. No one in the history of the Races has ever won by such a wide margin.
As they head to the theater and as you return to your room, it takes a long time to figure out the real question you wanted to ask, the one hiding beneath the words you spoke aloud:
Would you have ever married if one of you had lost to the other? Would I even exist?
You didn’t ask the question because you think you know the answer. Your father’s pride would have never borne such a burden. He couldn’t have ever faced the prospect of a life with someone who bested him. Fate favored him enough to let him ride in his own year, leaving the question of who was the best a permanent mystery.
Lying down, you let your eyes trail the dark walls. You think about Bravos. How often has he said second place would suit him just fine? How long has he been hiding his own pride? He’s not quite as competitive as your father, not really, but you know that when the Races begin and eternal glory is on the line, people change. Could Bravos really live with second place? Or would it eat him alive over the years?
You hate the answer to that question. Deep down, you know Bravos would not suffer second place. Not for long. Champions wear their crowns for life. It would always be you stepping into the spotlight, always you giving interviews, and always you smiling at the crowd.
All while Bravos withered in your shadow.
It would break him, and eventually break the two of you. As you trace the inevitable steps, it’s not hard to see where that road would lead.
He’s not strong enough to be second, but you are.
You already know that you’re the best. You’ve already pulled all the necessary strings to arrange a victory, so now all you have to do is hand him the crown and live happily ever after. Your parents will think it a grand disappointment. Zeta—and maybe the rest of the world—will call it a disaster, but stubbornly you remind yourself that this is your life, it’s your future.
And you want that future to be with the man you love at your side.
The knock at our front door comes early in the morning.
I stare at the ceiling, listening to house sounds. Someone is on the couch, stirring sleepily. Someone else is at the table. I’d guess Father, sipping coffee. The door creaks open and I can imagine my mother smili
ng out at whoever’s waiting there.
Farian wouldn’t knock. Anyone who really knows us wouldn’t. I’m scared it’s Oxanos. Last night was his fault. He asked for the dance, and we all know how he intended it to go. He wanted to press his hips to mine for a few minutes. He wanted to make my father’s skin crawl, to bury my family’s honor with a smile. All I did was beat him at his own game.
The dread doubles when I hear the voices. Several people introduce themselves to my mother. City-bred voices. None of them are Oxanos, but all of them are Ashlords. I’m terrified; then I hear my mother’s voice calling my name through the paper-thin walls.
“Imelda.”
I don’t bother putting on proper clothes. It’s not our clothes the Ashlords look down on. It’s our skin, our height, our everything. I fix the strap of my overalls and walk out to face them.
Father’s at the kitchen table. He looks up, worried and helpless, as I walk past. I don’t know how to tell him it’s all going to be okay. Mother holds out a protective arm and wraps it around my shoulders. The three Ashlords stand just outside the door. They’re all tall and graceful, skin so polished they’re almost shining in the sunless dawn.
“Imelda Beru?” One is a woman. She steps forward and eyes me. “The Alchemist?”
I nod, a little surprised she’s using that nickname. “That’s me.”
“My name is Ayala,” the woman says. “You’re to come with us. You’ve been chosen as a possible candidate for the scholarship position this year. We’ll escort you to the capital to be interviewed. There’s a chance you’ll be competing in the Races as the Qualifier.”
Mother’s staring at me. Back in the kitchen, Father chokes on his coffee. I hear Prosper’s voice and my uncle quieting him from the couch. Ayala’s words have woken everyone up but me. I still feel like I’m walking through a dream world, grasping at impossibilities. I stare at her and say the only thing in my head that sounds rational.
“How many will be interviewed?”
One of the male Ashlords stiffens, like a Dividian asking a question offends him. Ayala doesn’t mind at all, though. She just smiles a little wider. “Seven others.”
Seven others? If Farian heard that, he’d freak. My odds of being the Qualifier have just increased dramatically. Thousands of applicants and hopefuls spread out across the Empire. Now there are only eight people left? I want to ask about the kinds of tests they’ll use, what kind of etiquette I’m expected to show. Instead, I let those questions drift away on the wind. I’m not going to start off by looking ignorant in front of the Racing Board’s hired officials.
“When do we leave?” I ask.
“Once you’ve packed your things,” Ayala replies. She turns to my mother now. “We’ll arrive before nightfall. Your daughter will stay in one of the finest hotels in Furia. An attendant will accompany her and keep her safe at all times. Tomorrow, she’ll be interviewed. After the interviews, there will be a dinner for all the candidates. She’ll be sent home if she isn’t chosen.”
“And if she is?” Mother asks.
“Training. Publicity telecasts. Then the Races await.”
Mother nods absently. She’s imagining Maxim or Gavriel or Cassiopia sitting down with me to ask interview questions. All the shows she pretends not to watch every morning.
I speak softly, not trusting my voice. “Thank you. I’ll get ready.”
Mother closes the door. She hooks her arm in mine, kisses me on the forehead, and leads me back inside. The room’s almost spinning. Father stands. Coffee’s spilled all over the table behind him, but he ignores it. Only Prosper has a voice.
“Is this serious? Are they serious? This can’t be serious!”
They sit me down on the couch because my legs are starting to shake violently. Mother rushes into my room, pulling clothes out of corners, stuffing whatever’s clean into a travel sack. Uncle Manu stands in the corner, reciting names of racers with Prosper and laughing like he’s a kid again. Father comes back with a glass of water and makes me drink it.
“You’re going to be okay.”
I try to give some sign that I hear him, but everything’s still spinning.
“Imelda,” he says. “You are Imelda Beru. Last night, you proved you’ve got as much fire as any of them. Be respectful, be careful, be yourself. You can do this.”
I nod.
Mother calls, “Where are your socks? Why don’t you have clean socks?”
I don’t answer. The room’s stopped spinning, but my mind’s racing ahead to Furia. I have to beat out the other scholarship kids first. I wonder who they are and what they’ve done to make the final cut. Even if I do manage to get myself chosen, it won’t matter if I’m not ready for the actual Races. Every year there’s a Qualifier, a Dividian rider like me. We always cheer for them to do the unthinkable. They rarely do. Only two have ever won.
I can be the third.
Fear and dread rise up in my chest, threatening to choke me.
“Hey.” Father’s voice cuts through the noise. “You can do this.”
He offers a hand and pulls me to my feet. Prosper nudges up against my side. I push back his hair and smile down. Mother’s there, too, pressing the travel bag into my hands. I kiss them all before shouldering the bag and heading for the door.
“Tell Farian what happened,” I call over one shoulder. “If I’m chosen, the exclusive is his!”
They call out their love and I force myself to turn, to walk, to not look back. Ayala’s up in the saddle, one hand on the reins of the gorgeous horse she’s leading toward me. It’s more finely groomed than most of the phoenixes in Martial’s barns. She hands him off to me and waits until I’m up in the saddle to start trotting back to the road. Ayala wears her hair short for an Ashlord, but she rides a horse the way they always do, like a straight-backed statue.
“Why was I chosen?” I ask.
A few faces sneak glances from behind curtains. The other two Ashlords lead us north, through the last section of village and into the waiting desert.
Ayala turns back to me. “You didn’t see the video?”
I frown at her. “I made the video.”
“Not that video.” Ayala smiles. “That one was impressive, but I meant Pippa’s interview. This year’s favorite. She stood up for you. Accused the Empire Racing Board of favoring men. She said if they let someone in who had less skill than you, it’d prove how sexist the board members are. Don’t tell anyone I told you this, but you’re pretty much a lock.”
I’m stunned. Pippa. If there’s a name everyone knows in this year’s Race, it would be hers. The daughter of Prama and Marcos, both former champions in their own right. It has me thinking of all those famous Ashlords and their catchy, singular names. Which echoes into a second thought about all the Dividian with their reduced four-letter surnames, entire histories erased by the very people who are inviting me to their glorious Races.
The newscasters have been treating this year like it’s Pippa’s inheritance, like she’s destined to win. I’m surprised someone of her status has even heard of me.
“Why would she stand up for me?”
“She likes you?” Ayala suggests. “Or she wanted the spotlight off her own scandal?”
The road twists, rising up and around. The sun’s diving down at us out of the clouds. I slip my riding hood overhead and tug at the chin until it fits comfortably. Ayala and the other Ashlords don’t do the same until a few hours later, when they finally feel the heat of the day. We ride hard as we make our way to the city.
Not a racing standard pace, but fast enough to have us tearing across the terrain, passing towns and villages. It doesn’t feel like a normal, twelve-hour day. Time speeds up, slows down. The six hours become six seconds or six eternities, I can’t decide which. The sun sets and mountains loom to our right, cutting through clouds to break the sk
y into great, smoky sections. Ayala talks freely with me, but the other two Ashlords don’t say a word the entire trip.
I learn that she works for the Empire Racing Board. In fact, she turned down a bunch of other jobs so she could help with the scholarship program. She’s passionate—almost too much—about the Dividian people. When she asks me personal questions, my other escorts glance back their disapproval, but she outranks them and doesn’t seem to care what they think, either.
“There it is,” she says as night falls around us. “Furia.”
A distant brilliance lights the valley. The glow dances between the bordering mountains like a lake of gold. Ayala leads us down and it’s hard not to stare at everything. Even the buildings along the outskirts tower above us. The nearest city to us—Avass—has a few high-rises and temples, but nothing like this.
It’s like the Ashlords are bridging their way to heaven.
We pass the first of several pyramids. Surrounded by glass-and-steel buildings, the temples look more like god-sized fists punched up through the earth. Great tiers of mortared stone slabs, all rising and narrowing to the flat-roofed prayer rooms in the upper temples. Stairs run up each side like rib cages. Each god’s servants flock in the shadowed interiors.
Somehow the world stops moving at an impossible speed. As we dismount, stable boys come forward to collect our horses. We stand before a dark-bricked building. It sits squarely between much larger buildings, but Ayala assures me it’s the finest and most historic hotel in the city. She says this like I might somehow be disappointed by it. And only as we stand there, waiting for a bellhop to answer the door, do I notice the people. We’re on a main drag and it looks like everyone’s gathered for a parade. Except there’s no parade. Just thousands of folks living their lives.
There are plenty of Dividian. The women wear fine business dresses. The men too-tight suits. They weave in and out of everything like this is their city, but every time an Ashlord strolls down a sidewalk, or prowls into a bar, they fade to background noise. I listen as the owner of a nearby restaurant tries to lure a passing couple in with the promise of the finest food in Furia. They smile their no to him with divine elegance.
Ashlords Page 6