“That name was Farian’s choice. He says we need a brand if we want it to sell.”
Martial taps the end of his cigarette. Dissatisfied, he starts rolling it again.
“Smart kid,” he says. “I watched your last video. Some twelve thousand views, no?”
“Enough to pay you back, and buy Farian a new lens.”
“What an age,” Martial says. “Getting paid for people to click on a box.”
“The modern world has its charms,” I reply. “Speaking of which, sun’s rising.”
He glances out, nods once. “Seventh stall. Your ashes are waiting.”
I thank him and head that way. He and I both know the sun won’t touch the ranch for another twenty minutes, but talking with Martial makes me nervous these days. He’s a man of hints. Idle comments intended to stir me up. Too often he talks about the Races with Farian. He thinks I have a chance to be chosen as this year’s Qualifier. There’s also a chance I’ll be devoured by wolves, but I’m not betting on either one. Martial was chosen all those years ago, and a man who’s been struck by lightning always thinks it’s likely to happen again.
Opening the seventh stall, I find the ashes piled neatly in a metal box. I lift them up, careful with the lid, and start my search for Farian.
The land stretches north and south of the barns, and even though the estate’s massive, Farian’s been complaining about the shots getting stale. Like me, though, he knows we’re lucky to even have this option. I find him at the south end of the property, navigating the low limbs of Martial’s lonely shoestring tree. He doesn’t like climbing, but by the time I reach him, he’s wedged fifteen feet in the air. The mountains glow with coming gold. I frown up at him.
“You’re going through all this trouble to film a Stoneside rebirth?”
Farian shoots me a furious look. “You serious? Why would you do Stoneside again?”
I grin at him. “Just snacking on you, Farian.”
He flicks me off, laughs, then almost drops his camera. We both gasp, then laugh again when he catches it to his chest. He shakes his head, like I’m the one who almost dropped the thing.
“I hope you have something good for me,” he says, glancing back through the branches. “I think this lighting will be flawless. It’s the only time we’ve ever done a camera angle this high, you know? I’m thinking of doing some crosscutting for this one, if you ride well.”
“Crosscutting,” I say. “Glad to hear that. I was going to suggest…crosscutting.”
He makes a face. “It’s when you—”
When he sees my face, though, he goes quiet. We’ve played this game too many times. He talks like a textbook and I end up…distracted. He gets annoyed; I get mad.
“You film. I ride. It’s simple.”
“Gods below,” he says, eyeing the light again. “Get me to a university already. I’d like to have a proper conversation about montages and backlighting with someone.”
I smile up at him. “I thought you talked about all that stuff with Doctor Vass.”
“For fifteen minutes.” Farian shrugs. “Not his area of expertise.”
“Guess you’ll have to go to university.”
“Guess so,” he says, but his voice is full of doubt.
His family doesn’t send off to school. Neither does mine. Every uncle and cousin is proof enough of that. Education is reserved for Ashlords and city-born Dividian with deep pockets. Out in the rural villages, we’re more likely to inherit trades. Both Farian and I spend most of our time ignoring the trade we’ve been pegged for since birth. Farian knows as much about farming as a chicken. And I know even less about charming and getting married to a boy. My parents are already hinting that I can’t spend my life riding other people’s horses. One day they’ll shrug and say that all we can do is make the best of the world the Ashlords offer us.
But on holy days—while the Ashlords worship their gods—I forget all of that. I walk out to greet the sunrise and become who I really am.
“Ready, Farian?”
He jams an elbow into his lap, turning the lens slightly. At his signal, I start spreading the ashes out over the ground. They’re still warm, so I take quick handfuls and sweep them out in a flat, even circle. I don’t flinch away from the heat, not after Farian claimed my cowardice ruined his shot a few months ago. I am as bright and fiery as the creature I will summon.
Once that’s done, I unclip the cubes from my belt, flipping the individual lids so Farian has a good angle on each stored component. Sunrise isn’t far off. I lift my eyes to Farian, focused on the camera. He’s been walking me through the acting cues, but I always need a deep breath before we start, no matter how many videos we’ve made. He signals, and I begin.
“Good morning.” I offer the camera an unnatural smile. “My name is Imelda Beru, also known as the Alchemist. First, I wanted to thank all of you for watching our recent videos. If you missed our Stoneside or Fearless rebirths, you’ll find the link to those videos below.
“Today, we’re staying with the theme of vintage rebirths. Everyone knows the standard resurrections these days. Those are tired. They’re boring. All we have to do is look back at the pages of history to see just how inventive phoenix rebirths used to be. Since you don’t have time to wade through codices and scrolls, I’ve done your homework for you. Here’s a rebirth I like to call Trust Fall.”
Farian leans out from behind his camera long enough to roll his eyes at my chosen title. I kneel down, hiding my laughter as I take a healthy pinch of locust dust.
“You’re going to start with an outer ring of locust,” I explain, letting the powder feed between my fingers and highlighting the circle’s border with a deep tan color. “Keep the circle unbroken. You want your locust to burn hard and quick. You’ll know you did it right if there’s the faintest trace of sandstone coloring just as sunrise hits.
“Next: gypsum and limestone.” I empty those containers into a central pile on my ashes, mixing them slowly with both fingers. “You’ll want to lightly mix them, but don’t spread them out too far. Three fingers of height will guarantee your mixture doesn’t burn away.”
As I hold up the last cube, I throw a wicked grin at the camera.
“Now, unborn ashes are as vintage as it gets. Our ancestors lived in a crueler world. Blood sacrifices every month and gods roaming the land. Unborn ashes aren’t the cheapest component in the storeroom, but they’re what you need if you want to call on the powers of old. Make another circle.” I take a handful of the dead ashes. They’re so cold that the hairs on that arm start to rise. “Place them inside the locust powder, but ringed outside the mixture of gypsum and limestone. Make the circle thick and add them just before sunlight hits.”