He makes a thoughtful noise. “Well, you’ll just have to win.”
“Is that all?” I ask. “Would you like me to travel to the underworld afterward?”
He laughs. “Come on, Imelda. This is your chance to make history. And if you don’t, so what? You’re racing in an event that most Dividian will never even come close to seeing.”
I give him a nod, but none of it feels right. It’s more clear than ever that I’m a carefully constructed sideshow. An example of their kindness to my people. The Ashlords know exactly how good I’d have to be to beat their bright and shining stars. And their money is on the fact that I can’t rise to that challenge. Never could.
Ideas are churning now. There has to be a way to change the game.
Farian sees the look on my face and switches tunes. “Forget the Races,” he says. “We’re in the biggest city in the Empire. Let’s celebrate.”
The word celebrate almost snaps me out of my funk. I watch as he walks over and throws open the food cupboards. Little delicacies line each shelf. There’s even a fresh bucket of ice with two glistening glass bottles on the floor of the closet. Farian’s eyes go wide, because it’s more packaged food than either of us has ever seen. He looks back my way.
“Tell me this is yours.”
“It’s free,” I reply, smiling. “It’s all free.”
“And you haven’t touched any of it?”
He reaches down and pulls out both bottles.
“It didn’t feel right. Everything about this place is so…them.”
Farian plucks up the bottle opener, flicks the cap off with a practiced motion, then grabs the other and repeats the motion. He hands it to me before holding up his own to make a toast.
“To the Dividian. To Imelda. To doing things our way!”
I grin and tap the neck of my bottle against his.
“To doing things our way.”
Farian slowly resurrects me. We snack and drink and laugh. He throws open the balcony windows, and we call down to people who pass the hotel front. Everything’s so bright. The city never sleeps. At the end of a long night, he heads back to his room. He mentions that Martial’s in the city and wants to help with strategizing. I’m surprised the former victor has traveled all this way, but it makes sense—after all, someone had to escort Farian.
I eventually sleep, but the dreams start out dark and haunting. I’m playing a board game against the other riders, and they won’t explain the rules. They move each piece flawlessly. When I try to mimic their motions, they laugh, slap my hand away, and say that’s not how the game works. All of them laugh and laugh and laugh until I flip the table.
And the pieces scatter everywhere.
I wake up in the middle of the night and know exactly what I’m going to do.
I spend the rest of the evening alone. Antonio is gone. I have no doubt that he’s preparing some other vital cog in our engines of war. Readying his troops in case all goes to plan. It’s nice to sit in silence. I wait in the hotel’s restaurant area. Other guests see me and decide to make themselves scarce. The waiter finally takes a hint and stops asking if I’d like a refill.
It allows me a moment to trace back over the map. Rehearse the right rebirths. I’m closer now than ever to starting a war. I’m full of fear and hunger and foreboding. After a few hours of staring through the window and out into the busy Furian streets, I decide to call it a night. I’ll want as much sleep as I can get. It will be scarce during the Races, even scarcer during the war that will follow. The upstairs hallway is empty. I open my door.
A shiver runs down my spine. Something strange is in the air, but as I stare around the room, the details all look the same. I search the shadows and corners. Nothing. I close the door behind me and I’m halfway into the light of the room when I see the man sitting in the corner.
He was not there a second before.
And fear trembles through me, because he is no man.
“Take a seat,” the creature hisses.
He is shirtless. Dirt stains the vessel’s upper body. I try to cling to the truth that this is just a man. He’s flesh and blood. But my eyes trace the disturbing scars that start at the base of the priest’s neck. A scaled mask threads directly into the skin. Those protective scales enclose the human head completely. I note slit nostrils, a single gleaming eye, the reptilian profile. Each feature resembles the iron turtles that live along the coast. Creatures known for their caution and their unbreakable shells. It takes a second to remember the name of this particular god.
“They call you the Dread.”
The priest spreads both hands. “So they do. Go ahead. Sit.”
My heart thunders. It was easy to dismiss the gods—and the role they’d play in the war—from a distance. But seeing one in person has my heart beating faster. I take a steadying breath and it’s like his finger is set on the pulse of all my fears. He smirks. The animalistic features look so alive. Is this priest following his god’s command? Or has the Dread actually entered our world for this rendezvous?
I move to obey his command—taking a seat—but I slide a hand to the knife at my belt as I do. I position myself so that his view of the blade is cut off. I wouldn’t dare face one of their gods without a weapon. Better if it were a sword.
My people have never worshipped the pantheon. Blood sacrifices disgusted my ancestors. So did the idea of depending on anyone or anything. We’ve paid the price for our rebellion over the centuries. Always the Ashlords have had an edge against us. Their gods turn the tides of war with impossible magic. I take a moment to recall all I know of the Dread.
He’s the patient one. The safest of their kind. The one who hides and warns and waits.
“What does the god of caution want from me?” I ask.
The answer comes in a slithering voice. “I wanted to take a long look at my potential warrior. The very symbol of the war to come. We get glimpses, of course. We have eyes and ears in this world, but I have always tended to trust my own eyes above all others.”
I stare back at him. “Your warrior? I never agreed to that.”
The slit eyes narrow. “Not yet. I offered my services to your grandfather long ago. He rejected me. I came to your father before he decided to send you here. I offered my protection. He was hesitant. I thought the son might be wiser than the fathers. Did tonight teach you nothing? You are exposed, Longhand. Do you know why you were sent here?”
My jaw tightens. “I was sent here to win.”
“Ideally,” the god replies. “Win the Races and the Reach will march with a boldness this generation has forgotten. But surely you see what your father sees. Losing will accomplish the same that winning would. They’re going to kill you, Adrian Ford. And when they kill the favorite son of the Reach, it will start a revolution. Victor or martyr, your father gets his war.”