Equus

by Rhonda Parrish

  “What exactly do you think you’re doing?”

  He leapt and collided with Sona—he knew that voice, as well as the unnaturally bright blur approaching down the aisle. Terror shot through him, then a vivid image of himself lightless, then worse terror.

  “Go!” he hissed at Phaios, urging Sona toward the arena without a single idea what they’d do when they reached it or why they were bothering to run. But if they could get there, maybe—

  “Not. Another. Step.”

  The empress’ tone was as icy as the deepest sky, the fury in her light rivaled by that in her expression. Stomach roiling, Fulsa squared his shoulders and turned, looping his hands behind his back so he could wring Sona’s reins unseen. Behind him both mares stood quietly, Phaios a conspicuous non-presence beside their gentle glow. A strange entourage, but enough to give him the courage to step forward.

  “Your Maj—”

  “What,” she snapped, “is the meaning of this?”

  “I’m here for the race.”

  She stilled, dark lips parted, and mouthed the words once before speaking them aloud. “The race.” Her eyes narrowed. “You left the tower, you risked showing this—” she flourished a hand at him “—to the entire city, for a race?”

  This. His face burned while his stomach continued to churn. She never named it, never acknowledged the nature of what was happening, and some part of him knew there was more to this than just his fading.

  “And on top of that you’re stealing my team. Dare I ask why?” From beneath her ceremonial headdress she scowled at the horses as though about to accuse them of treason, then tensed abruptly and turned incredulous eyes back on Fulsa. “Unless… You cannot be serious.”

  He clenched his fists and cursed his heart again for the way it faltered beneath her derision. Like she was giving up on him. Like she already had. But determination beat within him, too, stronger than disappointment. Not this time. This time they feared the same thing, wanted the same thing. He had to make her understand.

  “Mother, no one knows why this is happening. I’m not getting better; you bring me light but I’m…I’m fading faster than ever. Why not the Right?”

  “Why n—don’t be a child! The Right of Eos was a ridiculous concession made to those low-lights presumptuous enough to seek a place amidst the nobility. You cannot honestly believe that three laps around the island will do a starspeck of good? That they—” She threw a luminous arm toward Lun, who flattened her ears and ruffled her massive wings. “—will simply judge you worthy and restore your light?”

  “I have to believe it!” Even when she voiced the doubts he’d been trying so hard to ignore. “And if there’s even a chance it could work… Mother, at least let me try.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Sona’s twisted reins bit into his palms. “Why not? I’ll be wearing a mask, no one will recognize m—”

  “That has nothing to do with it.” But that was a lie and they both knew it. “How many Celest have attempted this and perished in starfire? You are a member of the royal family, and I’ll not have you endangering yourself in some ritual that’s guaranteed to fail.”

  “Guaranteed to fail?” Bitter laughter scratched his throat at her false concern for his safety. “Why, Mother? Because it’s me?” The firstborn who’d failed to be a daughter. The prince who failed to be worthy no matter how hard he tried. Behind him Sona stomped a hoof and he jabbed a finger at her. “Or perhaps I’m not the problem this time. Perhaps if you stopped stealing light from them, I’d have a chance!”

  He reveled in the taunt for as long as it took her to reach Phaios, and by the time he realized what he’d done she’d dragged the slave toward Sona, tangled a hand in his hair, and thrust his face dangerously close to the mare’s gleaming coat. Phaios sucked in a ragged breath; Fulsa’s caught in his throat.

  “You heard nothing,” the empress hissed.

  “I heard nothing.” Phaios’ voice was calm but his body trembled and his chest heaved with each short, panting breath. Trapped between Sona and the empress, he seemed to fade beyond lightless, his silvery hair a feeble struggle in a lost battle.

  “You will tell no one of this.”

  “I will not betray Her Majesty’s secret.” The slightest shake of his head while Fulsa watched them in mute horror, swallowing a plea that would only make her angrier.

  “Swear it.” And before he could speak, she pressed the slave’s cheek against Sona’s neck.

  His vow rose on a gasp of pain and a desperate wail. “I swear, I swear!”

  As quickly as it had happened, she jerked him back and steered him before Fulsa, the glass beads on her sleeves clattering harshly. The lightless swayed in her grasp, one hand caressing his scorched face, tears welling in his dark eyes. With a jolt of nausea, Fulsa realized far too late what “losing yourself” meant to someone like Phaios.

  Aithra’s cool voice cut into his guilt. “So determined to be rid of one secret that you would expose another.”

  He wrenched his gaze from the slave and glared at his mother, prepared to meet her wrath, but though her features were sharp, there was something else—recognition again. Anger, but acknowledgment. Finally she appreciated his resolve, and he found he no longer cared.

  “I will have my light back.” But not for her. For himself. And now, for Phaios.

  She held him in a hard, unblinking stare, as though she could drain his remaining aura with no more than her will and be done with it. At last she tilted her head toward Phaios. “Reveal your identity, and he’ll be only the first thing you lose.”

  By the time he’d bowed in thanks she was halfway down the aisle, Phaios trailing along at her unspoken command. As they rounded the corner the lightless turned and looked back at Fulsa, and for once his silence was empty.

  He’d raced so many times it didn’t occur to him to be nervous, not until they pulled up to the starting line and he faced the reality of what he was about to do.

  Drivers on either side glanced at him, eyes curious behind their ceremonial masks. Even the brightest of the Celest nobility wore racing armor to guard against the horses’ intense heat at high speeds, yet there stood Fulsa, bare from the waist up, pale beside their gleam. No one had witnessed it in years, but he could tell from the murmurs—some sharper than others—that everyone knew why he was there.

  The mares jostled one another and he jerked from his reverie to gather the reins. Aithra was careful never to sap too much light at once, always waited until they’d regained their usual luster before taking more, and even subdued by the subtle theft, the team had power and purpose. Whatever the legends said, whether there was any truth to the Right or not, he felt tested in the empress’ chariot, judged by the luminous selphoroi shifting eagerly ahead of him.

  He could only hope their judgment was kinder than hers.

  “Drivers, on your marks!”

  There was no arena; instead, a towering semicircle of seats faced out into the vast, star-studded darkness, decorated for the festival with pennants and banners. Through its center ran a track just wide enough to accommodate the teams, just long enough for a running start and a leap.

  He’d hardly processed the thought when a gong sounded and they careened forward, twenty-two chariots and twice as many shining horses all bearing madly toward the edge of the island. Fulsa crouched in the car, feet spread wide across the platform as it rattled beneath him. Soon, soon, a few more lengths, already he could feel starfire streaming off the horses, one moment to wonder whether he was mad to do this, and then they vaulted into the darkness.

  His stomach lurched as it always did, and for several thunderous heartbeats he was lost in the thrilling nausea of rising wildly into space, caught amidst darkest black and dizzying streaks of white and the sensation of falling even as they flew. The sky rang with the shouts of drivers and thousands of cheers and the crackling of applause, then a rush of air as a chariot tore so close he could have touched it. Above it all he shouted encouragem
ent, first to the mares, then to himself.

  His hope returned and he let it blaze.

  They banked a hard left and sailed past the empress’ box, perched at the highest point in the stands beneath another mosaicked statue. From here the imperial seat was merely light, a court of unbroken splendor and a beacon for the drivers.

  Fulsa’s finish line.

  The stands vanished and they shot off along the curved southern arm of the island. Below ran the shoreline, as full of spectators as the stands—cut off from view as they pulled past a stocky man in a yellow mask and chariot to match, then a woman in red with horsehair braided into her own. With every advance the knot in his stomach eased. At least half the teams were still ahead of them, but that meant the other half was behind. The Right did not require him to win, only finish, but the fewer teams ahead, the less starfire he’d have to endure.

  It was worst in his hands, thrust forward and gripping the reins so tightly his arms throbbed. Since his first days of racing he’d been foolishly afraid that dropping the reins would somehow free the horses and send his chariot tumbling into space, but now he clutched them as much to distract from the heat as anything. It snaked up his arms and down his chest, a searing taunt that he was fading, an urgent reminder how much was at stake. His light, his attendant, his whole life—

  “Out of the way, low-light!”

  The woman he’d passed flew by, her laughter swallowed by the roar of the crowd and a sweltering burst off her team’s wings which caught in his throat and sent him reeling.

  By the time he finished coughing they’d turned at the southern point and passed three more pairs, then another and another, just blurs now through a cloud of tears. Any moment his hands might catch fire; he shifted the reins into one and let the other dangle behind the wall of the chariot, thinking of Phaios and his scorched face, the empress’ threat, and everything he so desperately needed to fix.

  “Come on,” he whispered to his hands, or the horses, or himself. Three laps. Just three laps and everything would be right.

  The world was a haze of brilliant starfire, flashes of light off nearby chariots and spreading wings, scorching wind filling his eyes with more tears and his ears with its roar, the leather blistering his hands, and still he felt no different. Tradition required him to finish the race, but how long before he would sense a change?

  How long before he knew if there would even be one?

  Please, please…

  They arced at the northern point. Fulsa steered high and outside, pulling from the pack seconds before two teams below collided in a burst of silver and shrieks and the clatter of metal. He flinched and the mares’ ears flicked, but on they flew, manes streaming as they tore into the stretch.

  Heat and pain and no new light.

  One lap, complete. The stands were a blur come and gone, the shore a gleaming batik of color and luster. If he squinted he could almost see individuals waving, children jumping up and down in excitement, banners bearing the names and crests of the drivers. Their cheers were a buzz in his ears caught up in the rush of starfire and the heartbeat pounding its way through his head and the inner voice chanting something like my light my light that never quite made it to his lips.

  The teams stretched out along the southern arm, and the crowds thinned and then vanished as level ground gave way to jagged cliffs. Ahead a selphoros balked and the chariot pitched—Sona and Lun darted around it, and as they banked clear, Fulsa spotted two glowing balls at the base of the cliffs, near the very edge of the island.

  His throat constricted. No one came this far south, not willingly, and it rattled him to imagine someone being flung to his death in the midst of the festivities.

  One ball of light was a team hitched to an empty chariot. The second split into two as Lun and Sona thundered nearer—two guards.

  Two guards and a dark figure between them.

  Two guards and Phaios.

  He didn’t realize he’d jerked on the reins until the team lurched in response, jostling one another as they tried to respond to their driver’s unexpected command. He slammed into the side of the chariot and scrambled to maintain both balance and control, but his eyes remained on the figures, squinting and blinking and squinting again, and every time, the same sight.

  Phaios, perilously close to that endless expanse of sky.

  Guilt and horror gnawed through him. Why? The lightless had sworn his silence and the empress had well and truly seared it into him. Was this a test? Some cruel distraction? Mockery?

  Or simply Aithra, whose ancestors had tamed the selphoroi, whose grandmother had united the islands at last, disposing of a threat to her light and rule and legacy while the only person who cared a starspeck about the slave was occupied with something more—

  No. He tightened the leather in his sweaty hands—and faltered. There were his arms, a gut-wrenching reminder of his unaccomplished goal, throbbing and paler than ever.

  Or were they? A closer look, daring hope. Was it the mares’ glow, or his own? Was the pain less severe, or was he growing numb?

  No, they were brighter. Not by much, but it was there, and that meant—

  He loosened his hold and the horses surged back into the pack. They blazed past another team and banked north while his mind thundered ahead, mapping out a plan, weaving in between the remaining chariots with renewed determination. Another lap and a half to reclaim his light, then back to this spot to find Phaios in the sky. Not long, not far. He could do it, save Phaios and himself. He had to—it was working, and if he left the race now…what good would he be without his light?

  But then, what good had he ever been with it? In what galaxy had radiant Prince Fulsa ever stood up for anyone, so long as Aithra’s displeasure and the far-off hope of her favor held him in such sway?

  His heart wrenched and so did his hands.

  The mares snorted, tossing their heads and beating their wings with increased vigor as the chariot’s furious momentum tried to pull them off their sudden new course. Someone screamed; four pairs of hooves and two wheels sailed directly over his head while the driver shouted obscenities and threats that Fulsa hardly heard.

  “Go!” he cried, staring beyond their starry manes to the point ahead where three figures were about to become two. So close but so impossibly far. How could their speed of moments ago now be so insufficient, their powerful wing-strokes so sluggish?

  “Go!”

  Faster they surged, closer and closer—and then they folded their wings and dove.

  His stomach heaved and he seized the edge of the car as they plummeted, still on course but falling faster by the second. Everything hurt, his hands and arms and chest and his throat when he screamed. Their light enveloped him in a blistering embrace and he squeezed his eyes shut and gave up all hope of steering, and just when he was certain he’d burst into flame and leave Phaios to die, the chariot struck the ground and skidded along the stone-strewn shore. Somewhere beyond rose a shout and a clatter, then an indignant whuff when he dragged on the reins. At long last they shuddered to a halt.

  Raw and throbbing but somehow alive, Fulsa hauled himself to his feet to see two shining figures prone on the ground and one blurred shape staring in utter disbelief.

  “Get in!”

  Phaios staggered into the car and reluctantly allowed Fulsa to embrace him before sliding to the floor and slumping against the curved wall, shielded from the guards and the horses’ heat. His body quivered and the side of his face was red, blotched darker here and there and blistered along his cheekbone, but when he raised his eyes they were clear, full of relief and a silent thank-you. Fulsa nodded, a hundred apologies and a single promise. He deserved every bit of astonishment in the lightless’ expression, and he knew it.

  “Phai, I—”

  “Stop right there!”

  Lun shied before he even saw the guard lunge. She collided with Sona and the chariot jerked backward, forward, then up as they lurched into the sky. Somewhere below the guards were
shouting, but Fulsa was too busy clinging to the rail to care what they were saying. The sensation of falling returned, Phaios yelped and grabbed his leg—and then they rounded the point and a massive mosaicked statue rose up to meet them.

  He screamed and yanked on the reins, but already it was too close, too late—the horses were still scrambling to recover from their sudden launch, and even if they swerved they’d still—

  The chariot slammed into the statue and all around was noise and debris, sharp stones and pain and Phaios screaming and light light light. Far away echoed a shriek that might have been a whinny, and the heat of the starfire vanished abruptly.

  When at last he opened his eyes, his heart stopped.

  Swirls of white poured from the remains of the statue and streaked in every direction, like the brilliance from a thousand of Aithra’s pendants swelling into a tempest. Some collided with his team, some sailed toward the pack of chariots peeling northward, and some crashed over the guards who’d risen to pursue them. But no longer—brimming with new light and energy, their horses balked and threw their heads, tore the reins from the driver’s hands, and dragged the chariot and its occupants into the sky, further and further from the island and those who’d stolen far more than Fulsa had ever realized.

  Not just Lun and Sona. Not just occasional draughts of light.

  Heart thundering, he watched a moment more, horrified by the truth and dreading the moment his team, too, would careen into the darkness with their helpless passengers in tow. He’d deserve that as well, though poor Phaios would not.

  But the mares had stopped. Wings folded, they perched atop the cliffs, huffing quietly, brighter now than any tame selphoroi he’d ever seen yet radiating serenity. Hardly daring to hope, Fulsa gave the reins a cautious twitch and watched with relief as two sets of ears flicked in response. Attentive, listening. And maybe it was simply years of experience hearing resonance in Phaios’ silence, but somehow he felt they were not just listening, but offering.