Mother’s advice was straightforward: Actually winning the Races is the hardest part.
You’re first in the gambling lines. Adrian is second. Etzli comes in third. You know there’s nothing exciting or special about the girl because you’ve raced her several times in the amateur circuit. Most of the time, she came in second and you came in first. She makes no mistakes, takes no risks. If the leaders screw up, she’s the rider who wins. If they don’t, she’ll coast to a silver or bronze finish like always.
Surprisingly, Bravos isn’t listed fourth.
Imelda Beru is.
You look for the girl, but she’s hidden somewhere near the front of the line. Too short and too small to be seen in this herd of giants. You want to laugh at the odds for her, but something about the girl is a little unsettling. She reminds you of Mother. Clever contestants usually flash some cool alchemy, then get outraced by the real riders after a few rebirths. Sometimes, though, they’re smart enough to destroy a field, spinning all the other riders in a web of chaos. Sometimes they’re even known to target the favorites. You have your doubts about that. You’re the reason the girl is here. If anything, she should be thankful.
Bravos fronts the line. You can’t see him, but you know he’s grinning and acting cocky. You’ve asked him to do one thing in the pre-race festivities: make noise. Be the loud one in the room. Boast and brag. When you told him you wanted him to win, he laughed it off as a joke. It took some convincing, but he’s finally figuring out how much you love him. You don’t just want him to win. You want every picture and video to look like he called his victory before it even happened. He’s always been cocky, but you need him to burn bright the rest of the week.
The group pauses for a series of portrait pictures. It takes several attempts because Thyma refuses to smile. Eventually the photographer gives up and our group continues down the hall. On either side, maps mark each of the previous courses designed for the Races. One hundred forty maps in total, seventy sets lining each side. Every year, the Empire Racing Board chooses a new canyon for the Races. There’s no need to design or build dangers into the settings they choose. The Empire’s deserts are brutal enough on their own. The designers just decide how long the course will be and which canyons will be within the boundaries they arrange.
No one has seen this year’s map until this very moment.
You reach the end of the hall and the contestants are finally permitted to break rank. The one hundred forty-first map waits there, hidden behind a ragged, gray veil. You wrinkle your nose at the scent of mildew pouring out from the ancient cloth. More unnecessary traditions.
It’s important to position yourself apart, especially free of Bravos and the Longhand. Aside from you, they’re the main story lines entering the Races. Most of the other Ashlord contestants come from royal houses and rich families, but in terms of riding?
They are names that history will soon forget.
You look around and know they’re not like you. Your parents raised you to understand blood and fire. Most of the other Ashlords in the room are only here because their parents could afford the massive entry fees. A few of them can ride, but you are the wind compared to them.
It’s a surprise when the Qualifier appears at your elbow.
“Thanks,” she says, and all you can do is stare. “For what you said in the interview.”
Lips pressed tightly together, you nod once to her. She understands you’re not in the mood to talk, but she doesn’t retreat. She just stands in your space like she’s been invited there. As the delegates file in to witness the revealing of the map, you calmly assess the girl you’ve made famous. Her dress is borrowed. You know this because it hugs her Dividian hips too tightly and runs a little too far down her calves. A nice design, but a Dividian in Ashlord packaging is still a Dividian. She looks focused enough. It shows on the measured creases of her forehead.
Almost every year it happens the same way. The scholarship for poor Dividian riders was established almost a century ago. The racing boards claim it’s an attempt at equality, but Mother explained that it has a lot more to do with revenue. The Dividian population is almost four times larger than the Ashlord population. Not a well-publicized statistic, but still very much the truth. Having a Dividian scholarship reels in millions of viewers, and even gives them someone to cheer for. Father admitted the board prefers to choose someone who will be competitive enough to keep up interest, but not so competitive that they give the Dividian people too much hope.
You glance at Imelda Beru and wonder where she lands on that scale. She’s short and compact, naturally quiet. You’re most afraid of her eyes. They’re light green, and as you watch, they never stop taking in the details of the room.
Your attention is drawn back to the fore as the Brightness enters. Furia’s patron leader, figurehead of the entire Empire, and your people’s direct link to the gods themselves. You know that he is an old man, but it doesn’t show. There’s not a wrinkle on his bright, burnished face. His skin is so bright that it almost glows. And his voice thunders. Every rider and witness lowers their heads instinctually, even you.
“This marks the thirtieth year I’ve personally unveiled the course for the Races. I’m proud to continue this meaningful tradition and I’m proud to invite each of these riders to take part in it.” He gestures to two servants, who step forward and flank the still-hidden map. “As is our custom, each rider will have exactly ten clockturns to assess this year’s map and memorize what they see. Anyone caught with eye-cameras or recording devices will forfeit their right to participate in the Races and lose their entry fee.”
The Brightness gestures again and the servants begin folding the veil down. Hills and valleys and canyons are revealed in quiet stages. You and the other riders take a hungry step forward as the Brightness makes his final announcement. “Contestants, I give you the one hundred and forty-first course in the history of the Races. Your ten clockturns begin now.”
The other riders fade to background. Your eyes narrow. You’ve known how to analyze courses since you were five years old. Father was the famous rider, but Mother is the smartest person to ever claim the crown. She passed on all of her strategies to you.
First, you determine how many deaths the course will require. Your eyes take in the map’s scale before you begin measuring the length and width of the course. Even in the best possible circumstances, your phoenix horse will have to die four times to get to the finish line. That’s not an overly long course, but still a challenge. So, a five-leg race. It means you’ll have to plan out the locations of four deaths and the components you need for four rebirths.
Second, you focus on the width of the course. Compared to the other maps, it looks surprisingly slender. You use the scale again and see your instinct’s right. It’s a very narrow course. By your measure, two of the necessary passes will have all the riders within a few hundred paces of one another. The first phoenix death will be an especially crucial one.