Ashlords

by Scott Reintgen

  Where is the Ashlords’ prophesized champion?

  There’s forest on the western side of the course. My kind of terrain, but it’ll be a hotbed for the other riders, too. I remember the cave route, but I didn’t choose the components for it. Didn’t want to test my luck in a place like that. On the east side of the course there’s the long way around, but I know that anyone who goes that way can’t win the Races. The way forward is west. If I want a chance of surviving on the forest paths, I’ll need to clear out some competitors.

  So I hunt. The pack ahead of me is making decent time, but it’s not surprising when one of them splits into a separate canyon. I think I recognize Revel’s wild ponytail. It’s only a small betrayal, and one that shouldn’t surprise the others. After all, this is the Races. No one can stay friends forever. I direct my phoenix to the right, following what I can only guess is the duo I met the night before. Capri and the coastal Ashlord. They fought well together, but that was with me cornered and facing three of them. Tonight’s story will be written in my handwriting.

  I lean over my horse as the canyons slip past, as the sun sweeps overhead, and I can already taste vengeance in the sun-struck distance, waiting like a promise.

  Where are you, Bravos? Where are you? Where are you?

  You continue shouting his name, stumbling over stones, your voice piercing the rising clouds of dust. There are no trails, though, no flashes of movement on the empty plain.

  He doesn’t come back for you. You’re afraid to look at your bracelet, afraid of what it might show you. Quinn’s voice sounds behind you, but you ignore it. You need Bravos.

  “Pippa.” You hear the unsteady breathing. “Pippa, stop.”

  You don’t turn back to look. “Stop? You don’t get it, Quinn. We need Bravos.”

  “No,” she says. “We don’t.”

  You spin back, a curse on your lips, but the sight silences you. You can’t fathom how, but the girl somehow saddled the blind phoenix. Your eyes run through a standard equipment check. Knots tied correctly along the halter, saddle pad centered perfectly, and even the girth cinched properly. The horse nickers as Quinn traces her fingers lightly along its neck.

  It’s impressive, but all you can do is shake your head.

  “That’s great, Quinn. But we still need Bravos. Another horse is our only chance.”

  Quinn digs in. “He’s not coming back.”

  You want to shout that she’s wrong, that you and Bravos are in love, but instead, you turn around and let your eyes trace the endless plain. He must be waiting for you, ahead somewhere. If you can just make your way to the descending valley, you’ll find him, waiting like he promised he would. What does the spirit know about love? How could she ever hope to understand what you and Bravos have together? He would never leave you behind.

  “You’re right,” Quinn says. “He’s up ahead. We have to ride, Pippa. Catch up to him.”

  You stare back at her. “What if he comes and we’re not here?”

  The girl’s voice is steady. “You said to meet up ahead. Let’s go meet him.”

  Her calm echoes inside of you. Her voice steadies your shaking hands. You nod.

  “Right. You’re right. We have to start. He’s waiting for us.”

  “Good,” Quinn says. “What next?”

  “A name. We need to name him.” A harsh laugh claws out of your throat. “Gods, everything that comes to mind is so bitter. Just look at him, Quinn. Look at what I did. What do you call a horse you’ve betrayed this way? Ruin? Prodigal? Lost?”

  “Trust,” Quinn replies firmly. “You call him Trust.”

  To your surprise, the horse’s coat flickers brightly in response to the name. He nuzzles down at Quinn’s shoulder. “Trust,” you repeat numbly. “Trust works.”

  You reach a hand out, but the horse startles away from your touch.

  “See? He hates me. He knows I’m to blame. He can feel it.”

  Quinn takes your hand gently in her own. She feels cold and ethereal, but she leads you patiently over to the horse. Together, you stroke its neck in small, circling patterns. Over and over the two of you repeat the horse’s name, allowing it to hear your voices, the single-syllable sound. Before attempting a mounting, Quinn casts a sympathetic glance your way.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks.

  “Yes, I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

  “You’re crying. In our world…”

  You nod. You can feel the tears sliding down your cheeks.

  “Bravos is really gone, isn’t he?”

  Quinn’s face is a mirror of your sorrow. “Yes,” she says. “He’s gone.”

  She flashes into the saddle and helps pull you up. You’re not sure you could have managed it without her help. You don’t object either when she sits in front, taking the reins. It’s hard to think straight because it feels like your whole world has slipped mercilessly out of reach.

  A glance at your bracelet shows Bravos’s name in third. The distance between you grows with each passing second. He’s gone. He left you. He betrayed you. In this condition, you’re not sure you could direct any horse, blind or not. Besides, it’s clear to you that Quinn has a better bond with this rebirthing. You search the blurring plains, but each time you find them excruciatingly empty. How did Quinn know?

  How could Bravos do this?

  Understanding comes slowly as you cover the plodding, sunlit miles. The first realization is that you never messed up the components. It isn’t your fault. Bravos must have poisoned the ashes. You trace back through his words: I figured a few doses of Absolution might be useful.

  In the concealing darkness, he baited you into believing his fifth component was something it wasn’t. You knew Absolution isn’t a dark powder. Any other rider and you would have questioned that fact. But it was Bravos, spinning pretty lies through pretty lips.

  He poisoned your ashes.

  Everything feels broken now.

  The phoenix stutters forward and you ride lifelessly with your hands grasping Quinn’s waist. The girl clicks her tongue, mimicking your invented commands. You feel admiration for her for picking it up so quickly, but that dies away a few seconds later.

  There’s little room for anything but the looming defeat.

  It’s clear why he did it. He didn’t trust you. Even though you made promises, time after time, he didn’t trust you enough to hold to your word. He chose to betray you and destroy his strongest competitor. All for a taste of glory. All to cross the finish line alone.

  Trust picks his cautious way through the canyons. The girl’s not the smoothest rider, but Trust isn’t exactly the ideal horse for learning how to ride. Changes in elevation startle him. Missteps cause him to snort and cower. Quinn’s quick to stop the phoenix’s progress, whisper firmly, and prod him back into motion. An admirable effort, but you know the truth. You’ve fallen too far behind. The distances will only increase. There’s no way of getting Trust up to a full gallop. By the time night comes, the Races will be all but lost.

  Eventually, the plateau narrows into a winding descent. Trust gains a rhythm as the sun starts to sink, broken only once by the anxious flight of a pair of dark desert birds.

  You hate how often you find yourself searching the distance, looking for some sign of Bravos. It’s a foolish and pitiful hope. Especially with the numbers ticking on your wrist. You hate how accurate the measurements are, how Bravos’s name appears there next to them:

  Etzli: 1,803 paces

  Bravos: 1,502 paces

  Revel: 1,238 paces

  For the first time, you imagine your parents reacting to what they’re seeing. The hidden alliance likely surprised them, but now you’re certain this failure is a crowning embarrassment for them. How will you ever face them again? The perfect little girl who made a perfect little mistake. T
oo long you’ve imagined how this race would be the foundational piece in a prosperous future. You never imagined a failure so full, so final.

  “Pippa.”

  Quinn’s voice drags your eyes to the present. A river flanks your path, dirty and sluggish. Ahead, the rust-red walls of the canyon divide. Two paths slither their separate ways.

  “Which way?” she asks.

  Unbidden, the map rises in your mind. You see all the trails and rivers and passes. Go left and you’ll follow the course most of the other riders will choose. The forests wait that way. You’re sure Bravos is already halfway there, and any other rider worth their weight will follow.

  Go right and you’ll end up traveling almost due east, across the face of massive canyons, and eventually around to the safest roads the course has to offer. The safest and slowest.

  “Left,” you say. “He—The rest of the riders will be that way. Go left.”

  Quinn clicks her tongue, and Trust allows himself be pulled in that direction.

  You watch the canyon faces grow nearer, towering to block out an already setting sun. The other riders will reach the forest paths soon. Bravos has a head start on most of them. If he rode well today, he’ll have the advantage as night falls and the second rebirthings begin.

  Not too many surprises in that section of the course. And Bravos has the ability to hold his own whenever night comes. The winner will need to race hard and have an iron will. It’s more clear than ever that Bravos possesses both.

  “Wait,” you call suddenly. “Go to the right. Quinn! Go right.”

  The sudden shift and shouting unnerves the blind phoenix. You slow, cutting across the rising face of the canyon and slipping into the shadows of the second valley. You see now that you were right. Only one other pair of tracks leads this way. A backward glance shows a chaos of footprints heading the other direction.

  “Why this way?” Quinn asks. “Why’d you change your mind?”

  For the first time all day, you smile.

  “The caves are this way.”

  “Caves?” Quinn calls back in confusion. “And?”

  “And it’s the only way to catch up.”

  Quinn glances back. An understanding passes between the two of you.

  This isn’t over. Not yet.

  As the sun sets, you hold your pace. There’s one unintended advantage to Bravos’s betrayal. Riders can push a phoenix in sunlight, recklessly so. Something about daylight regenerates and renews the physical body of a phoenix. Hearts that should burst don’t. Bones that should break remain whole. Most riders still pace their horses, trading gallops for trots, because even ancient magics have their limitations.

  But Trust hasn’t worked up to a gallop all day. So even as the sun sets, you know he’ll be able to ride well into the night. Somewhere on the course, Nelli is doing the same thing. You haven’t seen her name in the standings, and strategists have long refuted any benefit to slow-riding. The pace that resurrection riders can set is impossible for a slower horse to recoup in those brief hours of ashes and stars. Tonight, though, you’ll slow-ride as far as you can. You’re pretty sure you can at least reach the entrance to the caves.

  “I like that idea,” Quinn says. “It’s a good plan.”

  You blink, a little startled. “Was I saying that out loud?”

  The spirit shakes her tangled hair. “No…I…I somehow heard it, though.”

  “Good. That’s the plan. I hope you’re not afraid of the dark.”

  Quinn grins back. “Afraid of the dark? The dark is all I’ve ever known.”

  You return a grim smile. Darkness comes, a hanging black that’s pinpricked by glinting stars, a darkness made soft by the fading glow of day. What waits for you in the caves will be more complete. You measured the route carefully in the Hall of Maps. You know a solid run will have you through the caves and out the other side with plenty of time to spare.

  But that’s the danger in cave riding. A phoenix can’t be reborn without sunlight. So if it dies in a cave, it’s up to the rider to carry out the ashes and let it be reborn again. There’s always a risk in going somewhere that’s cut off from the sun’s light. But at this point? Risk is all you have left. You follow the stars for hours until the canyon begins to narrow and the path grows more treacherous. Rather than risk the footing, the two of you dismount.

  You set up camp as Quinn removes Trust’s saddle. When the phoenix is stripped bare, you see the spirit hesitate for the first time. It’s easy to read her thoughts.

  “I’ll do it if you don’t want to.”

  Quinn shakes her head. “It should be me. He followed my lead all day.”

  Nodding, you dig into a pouch and hand her a helping of fellfall seeds.

  “Feed him those. It will take a clockturn or two.”

  She rolls the little seeds in her hand before turning back. Trust snuffs at the offered treat, ignoring them until Quinn whispers quietly, her opposite hand stroking his neck softly.

  It doesn’t take long for him to die.

  Once the fire’s gone out and the ashes have cooled, you set out the components. This time you carefully explain how it all works to Quinn, just in case.

  “I always flatten the ashes. An even spread, and almost always in a circle. People have some ridiculous theories about placing components and how to do it. The only thing that matters is what mixes and how much.” You pinch two components between your fingers and let them trickle into the ashes. “Gasping Mercies and Lingerluck. They’re the main components we used in the last rebirth, although the poison Bravos used negated both of them when he put it in the ashes. I’m just using a few dollops this time, because they’re not the main component.”

  Quinn nods. “What is?”

  “When you’re going in a cave, only one component helps.” You pour out the pure-white substance, watching as it suffuses the night with a gentle glow. “We call it Sunscape.”

  The best way to weather a storm is to become a mountain.

  —Dividian proverb

  They make camp along a raised ridge.

  It’s an almost flawless position. It nestles against a second, higher ridge that looks like it can only be accessed from some other section of the course. The only safe path up to them is narrow and straight, which means they’ll get a good look at anyone who’s trying to join their party. It’s such a defensible location that I actually consider leaving them be, but I know I owe them for the night before. It’s time to eliminate some of my opponents.

  Once I’ve got my own ashes settled and safe, I start the climb. In daylight it’d be hard enough, but in moonlight it’s about impossible. Twice I lose my footing and almost go flailing back into the valley below. Once I reach the point of no return, a new focus grips me. I wedge myself up one ridge, then a second, slowly working my way back over to where they’re camped.

  There’s a pair of uncomfortably large gaps to leap, but I make the jumps and go quiet as I reach the section of stone that I know borders their camp. Moonlight hangs above everything. I flatten myself to the stones and start crawling. Wind snags at my hair and cloak, but at least it hides the sound of my progress as I work slowly over to the ledge. A glance over the lip shows the two of them are there, eyes on the valley below, hands ready on their switches.

  “Bravos made an appearance.”

  One nods. “Revel’s up there, too, the traitor.”

  “But no sign of Pippa?”

  The other makes a noise.

  “She has to be up to something. She’s too smart to fall back.”

  “Well, if she’s out of it for some reason, I like our chances.”

  “Bravos will fade, but Etzli? You know she doesn’t make mistakes.”

  They go on talking like that for a while. Daddy taught me patience. I didn’t risk my life climbing up here to waste my cha
nce. They’re both competent fighters. Maybe I could take them together, but it’ll be far easier if I can isolate one of them, quick and clean.

  The conversation drags. One starts to nod off before the other slaps his shoulder.

  “No sleeping, Capri,” he says. “Not tonight.”

  “I’m going to take a look at the valley, then.”

  I watch as Capri takes his feet, eyes the two piles of ashes, and steps toward the precipice. My moment comes so quickly that I’m almost not fast enough for it. Both forearms flex as I push up, a silent shadow in the midst of other shadows. The one sitting sees the movement, but there’s nothing he can do as I get a firm grip on my switch and leap.

  The impact shakes my legs hard enough that I stumble. The motion sends me sprawling into Capri’s back. It’s clumsy contact. My lowered shoulder shoves him accidentally toward the edge. He screams and I reach for him in a panic, trying to keep him from falling, but his riding scarf slips through my fingers. He vanishes into the night with a scream.

  Cursing, I turn to face the other. My baton barely catches his first strike, and his second, and his third. He’s good, and this time he’s on higher ground, but with each new blow I can see his forearms trembling more and more. I am too strong for him.

  My switch starts to move faster as his moves slower, and he opens himself up with a wide and tired strike. I sweep the blow left with my off-hand and punch my own baton into his throat. The wood catches him hard and folds him in on himself. My second swing takes out his legs and the third has him raising his hands for mercy.

  “Please,” he says. “Please don’t.”

  He wants what he would never give. That’s the way of all Ashlords.

  I bring the switch down on his knee, then his hip, then his nose. There’s no mercy in the strength of my arm or in the accuracy of each strike. I don’t take pleasure in giving pain, but this is a necessary message, to him and to all of his kind. I’m playing by their rules in the Races, but there will come a day when we are no longer at their mercy.