At the start of the Races? On day three? At the very end?
It takes an hour for despair to burn into anger.
And anger breathes life into a new mentality.
I stand up and find the dress Ayala set out for me. I can’t help noticing it’s an Ashlord style and cut. Sliding into their clothes just gives my anger more momentum. Something about it feels righteous. For the next few days, I will smile. I will play their game. I will be their polite model of Dividian inclusion. Right up until the moment the gunshot goes off.
And then I’ll break the whole damn thing.
More of the circus.
I stand in a sea of Ashlord nobles. How they glitter and shine. There’s a high-rise table in front of me. I rest my forearms on it, thankful for the distance it puts between me and the rest of them. Not that they’re here to talk with me. Mirrors run down the full length of one wall. An endless number of chandeliers cast swirling light over everything. I’m sweaty and bored.
My mind is fixed on what comes next. We’re about to walk into the Hall of Maps. All this talk and chatter? None of it matters. But the Unveiling? That does matter.
I am more than muscle. Daddy made sure of that much. Every hour spent on the training floor was matched by an hour doing memory exercises or logic training. He reprinted the last fifteen courses used in the Races and had me break them down and memorize every detail. After, he had them reprinted with slight changes and he made me find the flaws. Hopefully, the Ashlords will look at me and see only muscle. If they make the mistake of underestimating me, it might mean the difference between winning and losing.
The other riders move in and out of sight. Revel stands the closest. A pair of much older Ashlord women swirl their drinks, eyes glittering, as they hang on every word he says. Ashtaki stumbles past their table, already slurring his words. The siblings share a table in the corner. Capri’s posing for pictures with a few young fans. His half sister—Thyma, I think—catches me glancing their way and actually bares her teeth. How charming.
My gaze finally settles on Pippa.
As always, she’s surrounded. The flattering nobles drift apart long enough for me to get a full glimpse of her. I’ve been searching for weaknesses, but I haven’t found one. Her opening rebirth flashes confidence, and looking at her now, why shouldn’t she be confident?
The daughter of champions. It would be one thing if she were just a pretty face. The rider in me sees the truth. She has the perfect build for long distances. The slender frame, the coiled muscles, all of it. Nothing about the girl is wasted. I was half hoping I’d come to Furia and discover that all the rumors were nothing more than myth. She lets out a bright laugh, and it’s clear that she’s very, very real. The thought has me gritting my teeth. Our revolution starts with beating her at a game she was born to win. I force myself to look away.
The bright evening continues mercilessly on.
My eyes keep trailing back to the main entrance. I just want to get on with things. I know we’re waiting on the pleasure of the Brightness, the Ashlord king, a direct link to the gods. He’ll reveal the map himself. What an honor. I lift a forearm to wipe sweat away as someone finally slides free of the crowd. The man makes his way straight for my table, two drinks in hand, like both of us came here together or something.
A Longhand. Most Dividian think we look just like our Ashlord cousins, but if someone grows up in the Reach, they can spot the differences a league away. He sports a fashionable cowboy hat that no Ashlord would be caught dead wearing. His skin is slightly paler, his fingertips slightly rounder, and his eyes a few shades lighter. It’s only as he stops a few feet away that I confirm my guess with the final detail. Ashlords are warm. There’s a heat on their breath, along their skin. They claim it’s a sign of their link to the gods. And this man doesn’t have it.
“Adrian Ford,” he says with a smile. “In the flesh.”
I raise an eyebrow as he sets both drinks down on the table. He slides one across to me. It’s a familiar muddy color that brings a smile to my face. I lift the glass to inspect it in the light.
“You ordered me a Revolver? In this place?”
The stranger lifts his own glass. “Well. It’s their excuse for a Revolver. I highly doubt they got the ratios right, but I figured you deserved a proper drink. Something from the Reach. I know you’re heading for the Hall of Maps. So it’s just a taste. Don’t want your head spinning.”
I nod my thanks. Revolvers are a classic drink. Daddy doesn’t like them, but Antonio has something of a thirst for them. It takes true craft to get right. Each sip should revolve. A taste of ale, a taste of firespice, a taste of ale. On and on until it’s time for the second round. I’m barely old enough to drink, but knowing which drinks are which is a rite of passage in the Reach.
I might recognize the drink, but I don’t recognize the man. “Who are you?”
He sets his glass down again. “Didn’t think you’d remember me. I’m an old friend of your father’s. Ben sent me to this city twenty-three years ago.”
I take in his features again and try to match them with the story he’s telling. An image of an old painting appears. I’ve seen it every time I’ve been inside the capital courthouse. It takes some mental digging but I finally pull the name that appears at the bottom of that placard.
“Emerson.”
That easy smile returns. “You’re Ben’s boy, after all. That man never forgot a name.”
“None worth knowing at least.”
It takes a second to settle all the pieces mentally into place. Lefty Emerson. I’ve heard Daddy talk about him before. Emerson went to Furia on his orders. He’s been the unofficial emissary between the Empire and the Reach for a long time now. It’s not hard to hear it in his half-faded accent. He’s even adopted some of the quickness and fire of Ashlord speech. Daddy’s never spoken ill of the man, but there’s one other detail that stands out above all else.
He is not one of the ten faces Antonio showed me in that wine cellar.
I do not know his favorite food.
Which means he is not to be trusted.
“Well, I pulled a few strings to be in this crowd,” Emerson says. “The first time in twelve years that a Longhand rides in the Races? I was thrilled. I’m sure everyone at home…I couldn’t resist coming over to buy you a drink. The Ashlords will hate me for it, naturally….”
As he talks, my eyes drift briefly over his left shoulder. People are laughing loudly, crossing the room, offering toasts. The woman’s stillness sets her apart. She’s a waitress. Her back is set against the wall right near the kitchen entrance. Her eyes are on us.
And unlike Emerson, she’s one of Antonio’s trusted ten.
Elizabeth. Her favorite food is smoked granola. When she’s dead certain that she’s caught my eye, she gives the slightest shake of her head, picks up her tray, and moves away.
My eyes lock back on Emerson. He’s still talking.
“…and that’s the way it always is with their kind, isn’t it?”
His half-heard question hangs in the air. I’m saved from answering by a tray that crashes to the floor. Elizabeth stands over the mess, looking properly embarrassed. It’s the kind of clatter that briefly draws every eye in the room. Emerson turns long enough to inspect things, and I move faster than a slickback snake. It’s a trade. My drink for his. She gave me just enough time to pull it off. I hide the movement by raising his glass into the air and by the time he turns back around, the sight of the drink in my hand brings out a smile.
“I do love when anything they touch falls short of perfection,” he whispers. “Anyway. A Longhand in the Races! Some things are worth celebrating, no? What should we toast to?”
He lifts the glass intended for me. It’s nothing more than a suspicion. Daddy would like my instincts. Antonio would approve, too. This is not one of the face
s I was told to trust. Emerson might be the Reach through and through. We might both sip our drinks, talk quietly for a few minutes, and move on without anything happening. All I know is the unsettled feeling in my chest and the disapproval of someone I was told to trust.
Lifting my stolen glass, I offer a toast. “To standing tall.”
He echoes the phrase and clinks his glass to mine. We both drink. It’s actually not poorly made. The taste dances a little too quickly back and forth—but there’s the trademark revolving nature that the drink derives its name from. I keep both eyes carefully locked on his.
“So,” he says. “How are you liking this pisshole?”
I can’t help laughing. “It doesn’t suit me. I feel like I’ve bumped shoulders with every single person who lives here in the past two days. Who could stand being this trapped?”
Emerson nods. “No farms. No ranges. No manors set on hilltops. It takes getting used to.”
I tilt back my drink again and take a healthy measure. He does the same.
“I’ll pass on getting used to it,” I reply. “I’m here for the ceremonies. Nothing else. Get me back in the open. Give me a bright sky. Give me enough desert to ride all day.”
“Spoken like a true son of the Reach.”
It doesn’t seem like he’s showing any signs of being poisoned at first. His hands look steady. His eyes look focused. But I finally note the glaze of sweat coating his upper lip. It is warm in here. I’m sweating enough for the both of us, but he came over without a speck on him. This time when I take a sip, he doesn’t match me. The veins along his neck have started to rise.
His eyes flick briefly down to my glass.
“What was it?” I ask.
He clears his throat. A rattling noise. “Pardon?”
“In the drink,” I reply. “What kind of poison did you use?”
I watch as the substance digs its claws into him. He’s feeling it now. Suspicion bleeds into outright panic. His eyes dart to the left—I follow his gaze but can’t find the confidant he’s looking for—and then he pinches both eyes shut in pain. It’s a pathetic sight.
“A life of service and you’ll end it like this?” I ask quietly. “What a shame. Only the Ashlords use poison. So you’ll die serving them, using their methods, drinking their poison. I can only imagine how much money they offered. Thanks for the drink.”
I finish off the untainted Revolver and set the glass back down. I can hear his labored breathing. His eyes are almost rolling back. Through sheer will, he keeps his feet for a few more seconds. Whatever he laced my intended drink with was cruel. I leave him in its grip.
I walk away and try not to let anyone see that my hands are shaking. Reality is hammering through me. This man came here to kill me tonight. I have to take a deep breath. As I reach the entrance, I hear the sound of a body hitting the floor behind me.
It’s followed by gasps. Attendants rush forward. I glance back long enough to confirm that Emerson is down. His mouth twitches. His eyes are slammed shut. He might die.
I take another deep breath and remember that could have been me.
A single thought follows: They’re afraid of me. And I smile. They should be.
It takes a few minutes for the mess to get cleared away. A little more intrigue will work its way back through the Chats tonight. You’re not sure what happened, but the Longhand emissary went down about five minutes ago, and you’re close enough to see he’s not exactly moving now.
The man was talking with Adrian. It has you shaking your head. Furia’s elite do love to plot and plan and play with their food. And you’re more than certain that Adrian Ford didn’t come here tonight with poison in hand. It’s not the way Longhands normally do business. So clearly he was supposed to be the victim. Plots upon plots upon plots. You just hope that none of their scheming gets in the way of your plans.
Attendants carry the fallen Longhand through a back door. The second it swings shut, the great entrance into the Hall of Maps groans open. All the gossip dies away.
An escort appears. “Riders step forward.”
You wink at a few of the surrounding royals before gliding forward. The rest of the contestants cut through the crowd. Ashtaki has to be redirected after stumbling into the kitchen. You roll your eyes. The board’s escort takes painstaking care to line up all of you. Cameras frame the waiting hallway. You take a deep, steadying breath. It’s important to put on a good show, of course, but tonight is the second step toward winning the Races.
Once more, you feel the weight of your competition as the escort leads you and the other ten riders forward. On into the Hall of Maps. Polished hardwood floors echo back each rider’s footsteps. Mirrors fill the spaces between the hanging tapestries and you catch glimpses of yourself in the glass. Naturally, you look more stunning than ever.
Annoyingly, you’ve been relegated to the back of the line of contestants. The camera crews flanking each side can barely get a good shot of you in this position. It’s an Ashlord habit to cling to outdated traditions like alphabetical order. The rules are upheld, even if it would make so much more sense to feature you at the front, the bright jewel of this year’s event.
The gambling lines have fluctuated all day. You’re still the favorite, but yesterday some footage of the Longhand leaked. He’s an absolute monster. Bigger than Bravos and more than competent in a duel. He rides like storms are chasing him. Maybe they are. A quick glance shows he’s walking two spots ahead of you. Ashlords are naturally tall, but Adrian Ford’s got a few inches on everyone in the room, and it’s hard not to notice he’s even more muscular than Bravos.
It’s actually very easy to notice that fact.
You smile. A rider like him doesn’t bring fear out in you. That’s not the way you’re built. Instead, adrenaline kicks to life. You want a worthy challenge. You want to beat the best.
Quietly, you run back through the math again. Eleven competitors have entered the Races. The Qualifier, who you practically chose, won’t pay the entry fee. Everyone else will have deposited their hundred-thousand-dollar minimums by now. The Empire Racing Board matches all entries, which leaves the total purse somewhere north of two million legions. If you and Bravos take the top spots, 75 percent of that will funnel into your accounts. Added to your sponsorships, that’s enough to start a real life together. You haven’t given much thought to what you’ll do after the Races, but that’s because you can’t afford to think about anything beyond these next few weeks.
Mother’s advice was straightforward: Actually winning the Races is the hardest part.
You’re first in the gambling lines. Adrian is second. Etzli comes in third. You know there’s nothing exciting or special about the girl because you’ve raced her several times in the amateur circuit. Most of the time, she came in second and you came in first. She makes no mistakes, takes no risks. If the leaders screw up, she’s the rider who wins. If they don’t, she’ll coast to a silver or bronze finish like always.
Surprisingly, Bravos isn’t listed fourth.
Imelda Beru is.
You look for the girl, but she’s hidden somewhere near the front of the line. Too short and too small to be seen in this herd of giants. You want to laugh at the odds for her, but something about the girl is a little unsettling. She reminds you of Mother. Clever contestants usually flash some cool alchemy, then get outraced by the real riders after a few rebirths. Sometimes, though, they’re smart enough to destroy a field, spinning all the other riders in a web of chaos. Sometimes they’re even known to target the favorites. You have your doubts about that. You’re the reason the girl is here. If anything, she should be thankful.
Bravos fronts the line. You can’t see him, but you know he’s grinning and acting cocky. You’ve asked him to do one thing in the pre-race festivities: make noise. Be the loud one in the room. Boast and brag. When you told him you wanted h
im to win, he laughed it off as a joke. It took some convincing, but he’s finally figuring out how much you love him. You don’t just want him to win. You want every picture and video to look like he called his victory before it even happened. He’s always been cocky, but you need him to burn bright the rest of the week.
The group pauses for a series of portrait pictures. It takes several attempts because Thyma refuses to smile. Eventually the photographer gives up and our group continues down the hall. On either side, maps mark each of the previous courses designed for the Races. One hundred forty maps in total, seventy sets lining each side. Every year, the Empire Racing Board chooses a new canyon for the Races. There’s no need to design or build dangers into the settings they choose. The Empire’s deserts are brutal enough on their own. The designers just decide how long the course will be and which canyons will be within the boundaries they arrange.
No one has seen this year’s map until this very moment.
You reach the end of the hall and the contestants are finally permitted to break rank. The one hundred forty-first map waits there, hidden behind a ragged, gray veil. You wrinkle your nose at the scent of mildew pouring out from the ancient cloth. More unnecessary traditions.
It’s important to position yourself apart, especially free of Bravos and the Longhand. Aside from you, they’re the main story lines entering the Races. Most of the other Ashlord contestants come from royal houses and rich families, but in terms of riding?
They are names that history will soon forget.
You look around and know they’re not like you. Your parents raised you to understand blood and fire. Most of the other Ashlords in the room are only here because their parents could afford the massive entry fees. A few of them can ride, but you are the wind compared to them.
It’s a surprise when the Qualifier appears at your elbow.
Ashlords Page 10