I stand back, wiping my hands clean and gesturing past the camera.
“Which is about…right…now.”
Sunlight spills over the plain. I take a step back and hear the obvious gasp of a creature coming to life. My piled ash stirs with movement. The wind turns the ashes in quick circles before raising them up, where they howl into a sudden dust devil. In all that chaos, I see my phoenix starting to take form, a dark, inconsistent mass. Then sunlight fractures against the growing magic, sudden and blinding.
I shield my eyes as a glorious figure staggers free of the storm. Farian keeps the film rolling, but I know the phoenix is still too bright to see. I can’t even look at it without squinting and shielding my eyes with both hands. The horse itself isn’t all that marvelous. As the light begins to fade, I note that it’s Martial’s gray pinto with the steel-tipped tail. Stand her up next to any Ashlord-bred stallion and you’d think she was a miniature horse, but Farian’s filming will make her look twenty feet tall, and my alchemy will add what his filming can’t.
“Our ancestors used the Trust Fall rebirth to leap off cliffs,” I say, raising my voice above the phoenix’s unsettled stamping and snorting. “I suggest starting with ten- or fifteen-foot drops, and keep in mind this is a dangerous rebirth. Even if you’re an experienced rider, use caution.”
Farian hates disclaimers, thinks they’re boring. But I’m not going to have some rookie breaking their neck and blaming me for it.
As quietly as possible, I approach the horse’s left shoulder. I keep my voice soft and patient. Most riders would just use constants. They’re with their horse through every death, every life. Feed them a certain apple, whisper a certain word. That’s all it takes for the Ashlords who can afford to own their own horses. It’s a little more difficult when you’re trying to convince a creature you haven’t seen in months to trust you again.
She trembles beneath my fingertips, but she’s quiet when I stand at her side. Still whispering, I start sliding a saddle over her back, fumbling at the buckles that attach the girth on both sides. As I slide forward to work on the bridle, Farian’s moving, too, adjusting his angle. We’ve got instructional videos up for saddles and harnesses, so he never films this part. Our viewers subscribe for the new rebirths, and for Farian’s brilliant production values.
“Trust Fall?” he says, starting to climb down from the tree. “We need to have a conversation about your creative decision making.”
I ignore the dig, knowing the horse will feed off any anger or nerves this early in the connection. She huffs once and settles back into calm.
“What does the mix even do?” Farian asks. “I don’t see anything different about this one.”
“Just keep filming.”
He’s right, though. She looks plain as sand. But that’s the beauty of alchemy and phoenixes: They’re like an ace hidden up a sleeve, magical if you know how to make the trick work. I finish with the saddle and move up to look the sweet thing in the eye. She’s not nervous now. She likes my hands and the sound of my voice.
“Let’s do this,” I say, eyes back on Farian. “What do you say, Catcher?”
Farian stands over his tripod and signals for me to say the name again. Not my most creative work. He looks annoyed that I didn’t consult with him first, but names matter with phoenixes. If Farian knew what kind of stunt I’m about to try to pull off, he’d understand why it’s the perfect name for the horse.
“All right.” I raise my voice. “You won’t see much difference in Catcher until I leap from her back. I’m going to ride along that upper ridge there. Keep your eyes on the screen once I’m in the air. And say a little prayer for me that this actually works.”
I can tell Farian’s eyes are wide behind the camera. He’s adjusting his lens and prepping the tripod for a perfect shot of the ridge off to our right. I wait for his signal before turning Catcher around and making sure my face is visible before our first gallop. A normal horse might need the warmup, but phoenix horses run hot, always ready for that first sprint.
“Get, get! Let’s ride, girl!”
I dig in my heels, and she shoots forward. She opens up quick, trying to take control from me, so I rein her in and make sure she knows that where I’m heading is where she’s heading. Both of us taste the wind for a few seconds, galloping in a dead straight line away from Farian. When she’s got the swing of me, I loop us back around. Martial’s property has a handful of little ridges and hollows. Good spots for practicing elevation changes or learning how to bail. The ridge I’m aimed at isn’t much higher than Catcher, but it’s high enough for what I’m planning.
Farian has us locked in his sights as we nose toward the first rise. I start to stand up in the saddle, freeing my feet from the stirrups and tightening my grip. Catcher’s a little unnerved by the change, but the ridge is smack up against a second rise, so there’s nowhere for her to scare to. She holds the path I’ve chosen as I push onto my knees, then onto my feet. I crouch on her back like a statue, waiting for the right moment. When we reach the crest, Catcher’s in full frame for Farian.
Fear slips away. I become something more.
I release the reins and leap to my left.
There’s nothing but air and ground. The sudden drop steals my breath. I can feel my stomach twisting as I turn in the air, widening my stance, falling to the ground below. The earth rushes up to devour me. Only it doesn’t, because Catcher appears beneath me.
From ridge to ground level in an impossible blink. I land hard against her back, nearly slip off the saddle, and scramble for the reins. She snorts with delight when I manage to hang on. Farian’s already got one fist raised in triumph. I’m lost in the glory of it, that the rebirth actually worked, as I yank her to a stop right in front of him, grinning my wildness down at the camera.
“Trust Fall,” I say breathlessly. “That one’s called Trust Fall.”
Sixteen hats on the table, set down in front of their owners, each as meaningful as words on a page. There’s Maggie and Maggie, snipers both, with their black and white brims. Trick is knowing which Maggie’s which. The one with the black hat’s sweet as pie. One in white has the devil parading around her twisted little heart. Knowing is living. Daddy has taught me that much.
Beside them, Antonio Rowan. Looks like he spent all morning kicking his hat through the sticks to get it properly dusted. The man is a legend, as good at talking as he is at keeping the right people quiet. He’s even going at it now. Telling a story about a time and a place.
The hat across from his is as pristine as its owner. Gale Gusto doesn’t have a speck of dirt on her. I wonder how she got here, which street she asked them to shake the dust out of before she agreed to sidesaddle her way into town for a meeting. She doesn’t smile, but when you’re as rich as she is, there are only so many folks you have to play nice with.