I fix my eyes on the half-rusted railing that fronts the distant wall. It takes effort and concentration—especially after getting run around by Zion—but I bring the whip overhead. The motion is smooth. I hear a satisfying snap. The glass tips graze the edge of the pipe.
“A step closer,” Ayala suggests.
I slide forward and bring the whip up again. My wrist gives a delicate flip and I marvel at how fast the leather snakes out. This time it coils twice around the pipe, glass shards digging, and I almost drop the weapon in shock. “It worked,” I say. “It actually worked.”
“Not bad,” Ayala says. “Let’s try some overheads. Get the whip snapping for closer combat. Honestly, if you can just look like you know what you’re doing, that might be enough to keep a curious rider away from your ashes at night. Remember the motion?”
I nod back to her. For the next fifteen minutes, I run through the three most standard motions. Ayala admits there are twelve other stylings that are just too complex, that we don’t have enough time. It’s an effort to bite back my response to that. Of course there isn’t enough time. I came to Furia with genuine hope. I was excited. The whole city was so bright I thought it was made of gold. This was the opportunity of a lifetime. I had been chosen.
I thought I was destined to win. Just like Martial did all those years ago.
Training has illuminated the reality behind their gold curtains. More and more, I’m learning that my invitation here is a show of Ashlord mercy. My entry—and my performance—are both of little consequence to them. I am the representative Dividian they’ll march out for show. I am not supposed to win. This morning was just another reminder of that.
The Great Display.
All of those horses standing in one place. Ayala prepped me beforehand. She taught me a few strategies for memorizing the rebirths that other riders would start their first leg with. That part was easy. Alchemy has always been my strong suit. Besides, most of the riders went with pretty standard combinations. Not a ton of surprises in the group.
The real surprise was the horses themselves. The Ashlords have gifted me a gorgeous blood bay for the Races. She’s a finer horse than any I’ve ridden on Martial’s ranch, but one circle around the horses my contestants will ride revealed the truth. All of their horses are superior. Magnificent creatures with long ancestral breeding lines. Each one the offspring of former champions. It took me a few clockturns to understand the truth. The Ashlords have given me a finer gift than I could ever afford, and it’s still far less than all the grandeur they enjoy. They have trimmed off their excess for me, offered a splash of leftover gold.
And I am expected to bow in thanks for it.
I am only here to play my part in their brilliant performance.
“Imelda?”
Ayala is staring at me. I look up and realize my whip is firmly tangled around the distant pipe. My grip is secure and my feet are set. I realize I’ve been pulling on it with all of my strength. The pipe has dented inward and the fixed mountings groan on both ends.
“Planning on bringing down the roof?” she asks with a smile.
I take a deep breath and shake the whip loose. A quick squeeze draws the material back into baton form. “Sorry. I’m just tired. And you’re right. Dueling is off the table. If I get cornered by any of the other riders, I won’t stand a chance. No one is going to team up with me, either. So it’s all flight and hiding. I have to steer clear of everyone else.”
She nods again. “It all depends on the course. You’ll see the map tonight. Let’s talk through your strategies for that. How good is your memory?”
We start back toward the hotel. Ayala runs me through breakdowns of old courses. A few days ago, I’d be thrilled to chat about it. We could talk about the year an entire pack of sunwolves dug under the course walls and terrorized the riders each night. Or the year that half the course forced riders down the River of Poems. It was such a spectacle. Horses that could run on water and riders who’d sink straight to the bottom if they got knocked off their mounts.
But I don’t bring up any of my favorite Races.
I’m too deep inside my own head. I’m brooding about all of it. The bright lights and pageantry have faded away. My vision is clear now. I’m finally noticing the details that broadcasted Races have always carefully hidden from our people. Announcers never talk about the fact that Dividian riders don’t own their own horses. They’ll never think to remind the audience that I met my mount less than a week ago, that establishing a proper relationship with a phoenix takes years. I doubt they’ll bring up the lack of military training on my résumé or the fact that I haven’t logged combat classes with famous Ashlord generals.
When we line up in the starting gates, they’ll point out that everyone has a chance. Everyone is dead-even with everyone else. And that’s the illusion.
The audience doesn’t know that I’m starting the Races a hundred paces behind the others. I am not here to win. I am here to be grateful. I am here to give false hope to all those Dividian viewers huddled in their downtrodden villages.
Ultimately, I am here to lose.
“…you’ll definitely want to figure out how many rebirths it will take. And you’re clever as hell with your alchemy. So it might be worth looking at points on the map where you can do something the other riders won’t think to do. You’ll want to map out the routes, so…”
Ayala keeps talking. I nod along until we’re back inside the hotel. It’s a relief when she leaves me in my room and tells me she’ll be back to collect me that night. I close the shutters. In the dark, my mind is drawn back to my family. Father hard at work. How every grinding hour adds up to a grinding day, how days become months, become years, become decades. I think about my fierce mother and the small kingdom she reigns over. No Ashlord will ever recognize that she is a queen. When they look at her, they don’t see anything at all.
And finally I think of Prosper. My little brother will turn on the Races and actually believe I can win. It breaks my heart to imagine Father spending extra money so he can tune into the channel that will feature my riding, not just the general broadcast. Tonight I’ll be led through the ancient and famous Hall of Maps. It’s meant as an honor, but now I can’t help wondering on which day I’ll disappoint my loved ones.
At the start of the Races? On day three? At the very end?
It takes an hour for despair to burn into anger.
And anger breathes life into a new mentality.
I stand up and find the dress Ayala set out for me. I can’t help noticing it’s an Ashlord style and cut. Sliding into their clothes just gives my anger more momentum. Something about it feels righteous. For the next few days, I will smile. I will play their game. I will be their polite model of Dividian inclusion. Right up until the moment the gunshot goes off.