Ashlords

by Scott Reintgen

“Imelda Beru.”

  I smile as I walk to the carriage. It is not forced or fake. I’m seeing the undeniable righteousness of my plan. I’m going to break their rules. I’m going to win their precious spectacle my own way. Maybe then they’ll see just what the Dividian can do.

  I find myself in another box, but this time I’m surrounded by enemies. They seat us in the tightest, most uncomfortable circle imaginable. Not a window in the place. It’s only worse once we’ve started moving, as everyone’s jostled into everyone else. The cabin is heat and hatred and little else. I sit there and smile as the Ashlords take turns staring at me. It’s good to know just how far under their skin I’ve managed to dig.

  The Ashlords put down the Rebellion on the backs of their gods. They’ve always been competent fighters and expert military strategists. But they called for fire to rain down from the skies and buried whole cities in ash. That’s what really won the war. And it took sacrifices, the blood of thousands. In the arena, the riders won’t have gods at their beck and call. It takes effort to push my memory of the Dread’s visit aside.

  No gods now. It’s just me against them.

  Looking around, there’s only one real bruiser in the bunch: Bravos. I’ve seen some of his gladiator vids. He’s strong and quick and brutal, but I still like my odds if it’s a straight-up fight. The problem is it won’t be. The back-end riders are always teaming up. The Races have a strange history when it comes to teamwork. Duos are well loved. Some of the most famous winners worked their way through the first legs together, then split at the end and raced each other for glory. Two is acceptable. Three’s a crowd. Four is a desperation worthy of shame.

  But after my interview with Cassiopia, I know I have a target on my back. Most Ashlords won’t risk being embarrassed in a fight, either. They’ll come, and when they do, they’ll have friends with them. It’s just a matter of figuring out which crew hates me enough to make the first move. As the Longest Ride begins, I drink in all the details.

  There are four racers who never look my way.

  Pippa shut her eyes the second she sat down and hasn’t opened them since. She’s going to that place that only champions can go. Pushing everything else out except for the idea of winning. She takes one breath after the next. Her hair is drawn into a perfect racing braid. I memorize the details because I have a feeling that’s the face I’ll be looking at coming down the homestretch.

  An Ashlord four seats to my right ignores me as well. I recognize him from the amateur circuit: Revel. He’s a burner if there ever was one. Even the purest phoenixes can’t sprint the whole race. Revel pushes up against those limits more than the rest. Fast and reckless, but he looks incapable of true violence. Even if he chases out to a lead, he’ll be lucky to keep it.

  The Dividian sits on Revel’s right. She’s a quiet girl with a wide-set face and a determined look. She was all smiles in her interview, but she’s not smiling now. I can see a patient anger burning to life. I’m not worried about anyone teaming up with her, though. No self-respecting Ashlord would ever let a Dividian share their fire.

  The last person who ignores me is Etzli. The experts describe her as consistent. All my research echoed that. There’s nothing flashy about how she fights or how she rides, but sometimes all you have to do to win is be careful. She picked a spot on the ceiling and has been staring coolly at it ever since. People like her worry me more than most. Not hot and not cold. It’s the lukewarm ones who can swing either direction. It makes them unpredictable, dangerous.

  Once I’ve eliminated those four, I start to assess the other potential teammates in the carriage. Bravos might pair up with someone, but I can’t figure out who. It’s hard not to notice the dynamic happening with a trio to my left. Almost everyone in the carriage is tense. Tight jaws and taut shoulders. Not these three. I find myself blanking on one of their names. He’s from out on the coast. Very precise, good fighter, uncreative. And clearly not very memorable.

  I definitely recognize Capri. A former prodigy who peaked when he was seven. It’s been nearly a decade since he actually did anything impressive on the back of a horse. But the one who really has my attention is Thyma. Her head is completely shaved and her eyes look like dark pits. She answers every glance her way by baring her teeth. The third time she does it, I can’t resist winking. The look she sends back promises blood.

  They’re going to kill you.

  The Dread’s warning echoes. His accusation of Daddy is there, too. I choose to dismiss both. Let them try. I wait and watch and by the time the carriage stops bouncing us into each other, I’ve recalled the names of the riders she’s teaming with. I memorize their faces and try to remember all the pre-race research I did. How do they fight? How did they ride?

  When they come for me on the first night, I’ll be ready.

  The whole group is led out into the scorch. There’s desert for miles in every direction. I breathe it in because it’s the closest I’ve felt to home all week. Every rider carries their ashes, their locked set of first components, and a regulation riding sack full of clothes and gear.

  The riding location treats us to an iconic view of the Gravitas. The mountain chain cuts across the breast of the Empire like a scar, or maybe an open wound. Hundreds of years ago the Ashlords defeated the Dividian. Later they did the same thing to the Reach, but they’ve long ignored the people who call the Gravitas home. The lower mountain villages are full of outcast Ashlords and escaped Dividian rebels. Most of them still bow to the Empire when necessary, but travel deeper in and you’ll start running into the kind of people the world prefers to forget.

  We walk forward until a row of buildings cuts off our view of the mountains. Temporary fences connect the barracks to familiar metal barriers enclosing the entire course. I can’t quite see the starting gates from here, but it’s still nice to get a look at the size of our cage for the next five days. The officials start herding us to our assigned buildings and a chill runs down my spine.

  Everything after this is real.

  No more games. No more practice rounds. Blood is going to spill and bones are going to break. I remind myself that if I go in there and do my job, this will just be the beginning.

  War is coming.

  Generals will look at the Gravitas on carefully etched maps. We’ll consider where to send troops, how many to send, and how many are likely to die in each engagement. A small voice inside of me begs for peace. Daddy’s voice echoes louder. He showed me the truth. The peace the Ashlords offer us is a lie. We exist at their mercy—and the mercy of their gods. My victory will be a sign to every Longhand across the Empire. Rise up and take what is ours.

  The Empire’s fate is in my hands now.

  Time to bloody my knuckles.

  I’m directed by an official to the building on the far right. Bravos and Imelda Beru walk with us. There’s a few sideways glances, but for the most part we’re too focused on our own thoughts to say much to each other. The interior of the building is plain and undecorated. It’s similar to the temporary barracks used during wartime. Something that’s quick and easy to put up and take down. They’re only meant for a night or two.

  Officials flock around us. They take our bags and start rifling through the contents. Our ashes are confiscated for inspection, too. I smile a little, seeing Bravos treated with the same lack of dignity that I am. The Ashlords revere the Races as a sacred event. It is one of the many ways they honor their gods. The only possibility more distasteful than a Longhand winning is one of their own cheating and getting away with it.

  We’re taken into private bathrooms, strip-searched, questioned. The other officials circle like hawks until I’m given the all clear. They look a little disappointed at finding nothing. Like I’d be foolish enough to cheat. Dressed, I return to the main entryway. Imelda Beru stands off to one side. Bravos returns a second later, still tugging his shirt back over his head.<
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  “Bravos, you’ll be on the far left.” The head official points to that door. “Imelda, you’ll enter the center door. Adrian, you’re on the right. Once you enter and close the door behind you, the only way out is forward. Do you understand?”

  We all nod.

  “You’ll find three separate rooms in your section of the building. The first room is your sleeping quarters. The second room is a hallway that provides access to the Powder Room. There you will order the five components you intend to use during the Races. Our officials will be available in that room to you before dawn tomorrow. You just need to knock on the glass.

  “The third room is an open stable for your phoenix. You’ll arrange your ashes now, using the components you’ve previously requested. Sun will strike the ashes at dawn and the Races will begin just an hour after first births. Do not attempt to take any components other than those that you receive from the Powder Room. Any attempts to smuggle components into the Race will result in an immediate disqualification. Do you understand?”

  Again, we nod. The official smiles at us now.

  “Then you may begin. An official will monitor your first alchemical attempt. Once you’re satisfied with what you’ve done, you will be briefed on other aspects of the Race, including the use of your distance bracelets and switches. Enjoy your privacy tonight. Once you’ve passed the starting gates, every move you make will be monitored by the Empire Racing Board. The general public is watching, too. What you do and say can be held against you in a racing tribunal. Thank you for listening and good luck, riders.”

  He looks squarely at Bravos when he wishes us luck. No luck for the hated Longhand or the forgotten Dividian, I suppose. The three of us exchange glances as an official opens each door. I walk forward without looking back. An official follows, closing the door on the others.

  “The ashes?”

  She gestures to a door on the opposite side of the room. I allow her to lead me through consecutive doorways and into the open stable. It’s a simple, square room, roofless to allow sunlight in. The angles are wrong right now, though. The setting sun’s already scaling the walls and half faded to the color of rust. My horse’s ashes sit in their box at the center of the room.

  I make my patient way through the hanging gear first. Officials have slung my saddles and straps over temporary pegs. I carefully inspect all of it. The other riders aren’t the only ones who hate me. Antonio didn’t think officials would try anything, but Daddy taught me to be cautious. Most everything’s in order. Nothing suspicious.

  The official watches as I cross back to the center of the room. Three cubes sit beside my box of ashes. I snap open the lids and inspect the components inside. All three look fresh, clean. But as I dump my horse’s ashes out on the floor, my fears are confirmed.

  The ashes look normal, except for a handful of tiny, crystalline specks. I spread the pile out in a perfect square, my preferred rebirthing shape, and start picking the crystals out.

  I wouldn’t have noticed them if I hadn’t been expecting some kind of sabotage. Powdered glass. Not particularly potent on its own, but combined with the onyx I planned on using for my first summoning, they create a combination notorious for birthing hobbled horses. This isn’t an accident. It’s a carefully planned betrayal, involving officials no less.

  It takes me an hour to find every single crystal. Seventy-three miniscule grains. I stand when I’m sure I’ve plucked the last one. Walking over, I hold the little grain out to the waiting official and smile.

  “Strange,” I say. “I don’t recall putting powdered glass in my ashes.”

  She shifts uncomfortably but says nothing. I wink at her and flick the last grain away. After that, I can’t stop grinning. I set the components for my phoenix’s first birth and retreat to my sleeping quarters, making sure the official retreats with me. She takes her seat in the corner of the room. I guess she’ll just watch me awkwardly through the night? How comforting.

  First they tried to poison me. Now they’ve tried to poison my ashes. I turn my back to the watching judge and like my chances of winning more than ever. The Ashlords don’t want me in the Races because they know I might actually win. I am something to be feared.

  Good.

  In the morning, I’ll give them a few more reasons to tremble.

  You don’t sleep well. You’re still hearing the howls.

  The benefits of the sacrifice ritual haven’t manifested. You wanted more of an explanation from Mother about what to expect, but Father’s presence the following morning made that impossible. You’re left with a lack of sleep and an empty feeling inside. It took most of the night to figure out that you’re not even mad that she cheated. A tool is a tool. Mother is right. Other riders in her year had the same benefits that she did. No, the part that makes you angry is that she didn’t give you a choice. She forced you to play the same hand that she did.

  You deserved better than that.

  The unfairness of her decision has you leaning more than ever toward Bravos. A new life is waiting in the distance for both of you. It feels like the only way forward now is together.

  It’s a blessing when the official knocks on your door to announce the coming dawn.

  You dress in sponsored racing gear and head for the second room. On your left, a glass partition reflects back your image. You cross the room and knock twice. There’s a flicker of movement behind you in the mirror. Ghost and gone. You look back, but no one’s there.

  Before you can start feeling like you’re going insane, the glass wall grinds to life. It lifts, revealing a second official who’s haloed in blinding light. “Step forward, contestant.”

  White briefly scalds your pupils. You blink through the blind and find yourself staring into a room of white walls, white lights, white storage units. Seven cameras watch you step into the Powder Room. The feeds go straight to a vigilant team of infraction judges. It’s their job to make sure no one cheats during the crucial moments before the Races begin.

  The official waits at the edge of a silver barrier. When you’re in position, she offers you the race-standard cubes. Five black boxes linked together, each about the size of a clenched fist. You inspect the container and nod your approval. The official takes it from you and inserts the plastic into fitting grooves along the fixed, circular railing. As it clicks into place, a series of automated systems hum to life inside the room.

  “Five powders,” the official says. “You have five clockturns to decide.”

  In the white cabinet grid behind the official, vibrant colors stare back at you. Thousands of powders sit in thousands of compartments. Every imaginable substance in the Empire can be found in the Powder Room. Each one collected, ground, and refined. You step up to the barrier and inspect the seemingly endless list inscribed upon the surface.

  Some are so common you can find them in fields outside the city, but others are so rare that they’re nearly worth the cost of the entry fee. Endless combinations and endless rebirths. It makes the competition even more unpredictable. You know that the alchemy will matter as much as the riding. A rider can’t just be a horseman and a warrior. They have to be a scientist, too.

  In spite of your anger, it’s Mother’s advice that echoes in your head: You get five choices. I’ve always believed in combination riding. Pick the two component combinations that make the most sense to you. I’d choose something reliable and consistent, something that fits the challenge of the course. But the fifth component should be your wild card. If all hell breaks loose, what’s the one component that could turn the tide in your favor? That’s your fifth choice.

  You’ve doubted your combinations all morning. You calm yourself by quietly going back over the facts. There will be four rebirthings. And you know the route you intend to take if everything goes as planned. All you have to do now is trust you’re making the right choices.

  “Gaspi
ng Mercies and Lingerluck.”

  A grinding click sets the rows of components into motion. Compartments shift in and out of gridlocked patterns until a baby-pink powder appears in front of you. The sealants of the container whisper open as the entire shelf frees itself from the surrounding compartments. It tilts, pouring fine powder until the first cube in your utility belt’s filled to the brim.

  Those choices won’t surprise anyone. They’re the most reliable components for long-distance riding. Gasping Mercies grow healthier lungs and a healthier heart in a phoenix. Lingerluck pushes horses past their natural limitations. It’s the kind of combination that will have you carving out an excellent pace on what you’re hoping will be an unexciting second leg of the race at Bravos’s side. You wait as a golden powder filters into the second compartment.

  When it finishes, you give the next order. “Fearfell and Rainroot.”

  The mechanisms rumble to life again. Those two will raise a few eyebrows. Separate, neither substance is very powerful. Combined, however, they create the most sure-footed phoenix imaginable. The path you want to take Bravos down on the third and fourth legs is far from straight. It will require consistency. You want to feel fearless as you forge a path to the finish line.

  The first four choices were easy. It’s the last one that has your stomach turning. Mother’s advice makes sense, but it’s hard to imagine what possible disasters can strike. You let your eyes wander through the lists of components and you feel more unsure than ever.

  Waterlily? But how useful will it be for your horse to run on water? Most of the rivers you saw ran left to right, not forward. Onyx is interesting. Scaled armor might prove useful against the Longhand. There’s Nocturne, too, but a horse with night vision? Useless.

  “You have one clockturn remaining, contestant.”

  Closing your eyes, you draw on the memory of the map. You see the twisting roads and slashing rivers, the narrow forests and open plains. What do you really need? Your eyes open at the memory of the caves. The fastest route in this year’s Races goes straight through the dark underground.