You nod once before moving on to the others. Etzli is next. You can’t help shaking your eyes when you see it. It’s a protective rebirth. Armored shoulders and neck. It’s such a conservative choice. You thought the girl might break loose in time for the real Races. Make a bold move for once, but clearly you were wrong about that. She’s after second place, again.
Revel’s got a true burner of a horse. Built for sprinting and little else. He’s tested you on a few of the shorter courses. No one gets off the line quite like him, but the Races are almost always four or five legs. You’ll never fear a man who doesn’t know how to finish.
Imelda Beru doesn’t disappoint. Her first rebirth is one you’ve never heard of before. The placard calls it “Changing Skies.” The description is just as enigmatic: “Allows the horse to defy gravity.” It sounds cool, but you’re also thinking it just means the horse can jump high? You look around long enough to find Imelda roaming through the other horses. Most of the group cycles quickly past, memorizing details, but Imelda almost looks like she’s touring a museum. You shake your head again. Poor girl doesn’t stand a chance.
Bravos’s horse draws your eye next. Its coat has darkened to a midnight purple that verges on black. Razor-sharp spikes rise from each shoulder. You can’t help smiling. Bravos is such a brawler. His first instinct has always been to lower a shoulder, hit someone hard, and trust that he’ll be the one standing when the dust settles. You’re pleased to see that he’s taken your advice, though. This horse combination isn’t just a bruiser. It’s a hunting horse. Designed to follow a trail—even your trail. It’s actually perfect.
Beyond his phoenix, you find the horses that belong to the only two relatives in the Races—Thyma and Capri. The siblings have disappointed on the amateur circuit. Capri was heralded for years as a riding prodigy. He snuck into an amateur event when he was seven years old and was leading the first two legs until his mother figured out where he was. The officials pulled him from that race, but not before his face was made famous on the Chats. Like you, he entered the amateur circuit with a crown already half on his head. The only difference is that you’ve worked hard to make sure yours still fits.
Thyma is his violent half sister. She just finished serving a one-year suspension after breaking the contact laws on the amateur circuit. You remember the race well. It was one of your fastest times, overshadowed by the fact that she’d shoved some unfortunate soul off a cliff.
Unsurprisingly, the two of them have elected to go with the exact same stamina rebirth. You’ve assumed they would team up ever since they announced their eligibility. An identical summoning just acts as confirmation. They’ll work together. Pairings are common enough.
You lift an eyebrow, though, when you inspect Darvin’s horse. He’s from out on the coast. The son of a famous general in the Helio Wars. Too bad his father didn’t teach him the basics of the Races. His combination is the exact same as the siblings. Teams of two? Normal. But three riders all working together? That borders on embarrassment.
The final two riders are barely worth the effort, but Mother would insist on thoroughness. Everything a rider doesn’t know is a potential weakness waiting to be exploited. So you circle around to get a look at Ashtaki’s horse. He’s finished last in every single amateur race to date. The favorite cousin of the Brightness himself. Entering the Races is more a fashion statement for him, and sure enough he’s gone with a flashy rebirth that will make him invisible on the horse’s back. It’s about the most useless idea you’ve ever heard.
Last is Nelli. Her paper-brown horse looks the same way it always does. It’s a thin thing built for a much slower burn because Nelli is the only slow-rider in the field. Really, she’s the only slow-rider in decades. She’s beloved by some of the alternative newspapers as the only rider who does not sprint. Instead, she’ll marathon her way through each night. A slow pace. No deaths. No rebirths. No switches. She treats the phoenix like it’s a lesser breed, carefully observing the limitations that their magic allows the rest of us to break. Too bad her method has been disproven. Her own record proves that. You know she’s never finished higher than fourth.
You circle back to your own horse and smile. It’s nice of Nelli, you suppose, to donate one hundred thousand to the winner. Bravos is already back by his horse. Same for Adrian and Etzli. Some of the others are still memorizing details when the announcer steps forward.
“The time has ended,” he says. “Teams are standing by to collect your horses and return them to the proper stables. You are free until this evening. Tonight you will join us in the Hall of Maps for the Unveiling. Rest well until then!”
The adrenaline in your chest pulses. Eleven riders. Eleven horses.
You briefly lock eyes with Bravos.
Only one winner.
I slide to the right, arms tired. Zion senses weakness. I’ve been sparring with Ayala’s cousin for six days now. I’ve learned to set my feet before parrying a blow. I’ve learned to ignore the ringing sensation in my hands after a particularly sharp contact. The hardest lesson has been in humility. I thought this would be a matter of will. I thought I could just clap my hands and outdance other Ashlords the way I outdanced Oxanos. But for six days I’ve been completely outclassed in our makeshift dueling arena.
Zion is just twelve years old.
Compared to the riders I will face, he is a child.
He jabs the tip of his switch forward. I bat the weapon to one side, but he turns the reflected blow smoothly into a second swing. Instinct has me backpedaling. My own raised arm barely deflects his attack. Reverberation shakes me from elbow to hip.
He cuts forward again, resets his footing, and brings in a blow from overhead. This time my weapon spirals from my grip. I stand there helplessly, and the only thing that stops Zion from cracking my skull in is Ayala’s voice. “Stop.”
Zion steps back. He glances to her and then back to me.
“You did better that time,” he says.
Like Ayala, he’s kind enough to lie.
“Let’s take a break,” Ayala says. “Come back in an hour, Z.”
He nods and ducks out. My chest is heaving. It takes effort to pick myself back up as Ayala fetches the fallen switch. She sets the thing back in my hand and shrugs it off.
“Dueling isn’t your thing. Let’s try the whip again. You’re more natural with it.”
Dueling isn’t my thing. What an understatement. I can feel the bitterness building. Each new day adds to the foundation of my doubt. I am not ready for what awaits me in the arena. Still, I force myself to follow her across the sunlit room. She paces off the appropriate distance and I loosen my switch into whip form.
“Remember your stance,” she coaches. “Steady body. Firm arm. Flicks first.”