“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 smiling 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.