“Startle?” He echoes the word. “Really? Come on, Pippa. I was five the last time my horse startled out of the gate.”
You sigh. “Just do it, Bravos. I’m going to let my phoenix startle, too. The other racers won’t think twice about it. They’ll all thunder off and forget about us. They’ll think the pressure got to me and that I’ve lost my nerve. After the dust settles, follow me.”
Bravos hesitates. “You’re sure it will work?”
“Trust me. We’re going to be first and second. Just like we planned.”
“What about the Longhand? Did you see his interview?”
Of course you did. You watched Adrian Ford unbutton his shirt during a live interview and grin like a fool for the entire Empire. You know he’s the biggest threat, but there’s no point telling Bravos any of that. “You’re as big as he is.”
Bravos laughs. “I’m really not.”
“But the two of us together? He doesn’t stand a chance.”
“Right. Together we win.” Noise sounds in the background. You hear Bravos call a muffled answer back to someone. “Time to go, love. Can’t wait to throw you some brooding looks during the Longest Ride. This is what we’ve been waiting our whole lives for.”
“Good night, Bravos.”
The call ends. You turn off the lights and lie back, eyes searching the dark. You’ve been nervous until now. All the expectation and training and attention. Father’s constant devotion and Mother’s constant affirmation. All of it has built up to a boiling point. Now you’re sinking into the pillows and squirming beneath the blankets. They can have their dreams, and you can have yours. For the first time, you’re starting to believe they’ll actually come true.
It’s all so exciting that you just want to throw your arms around Bravos before the Races start and kiss him for everyone to see. But you’ve been too careful to slip up this late in the game. Everyone else thinks you are blood-sworn enemies. And everyone knows how alliances can impact the Races. There are so many unpredictable twists awaiting the riders. Having someone you trust can absolutely mean the difference between winning and losing.
And no one will expect you to let Bravos win. That will be the brilliant and final twist to the story. You’ll ride hard to the finish line and, at the last minute, your phoenix will fade. Bravos will win by a few lengths because you let him win. You will be the one to crown a new champion. The world will see that you worked together and that the two of you are meant to be. Marriage will guarantee an extension of celebrity. You’ll live happily ever after.
Those are the bright hopes that have you drifting off to sleep. You dream that you are sailing. The sun chases unpredictable patterns over the water. A southern wind stirs the waves. You admire the horizon until arms wrap around your waist. A kiss lands on your cheek.
You look up.
And Adrian Ford is the one smiling at you.
The shock of seeing his face makes the noise that drags you out of sleep even more startling. You’re still blinking away that image of the Longhand as reality’s greedy claws strip away the dream. Why is your door open?
Light pours in from the hallway. A shadow waits there.
“Pippa?”
Your mother’s voice. What’s she doing up this late?
“Are you awake?”
You sit up. “Mother?”
“Come. Quickly.”
You obey her with an urgency you haven’t felt since childhood, rising and following without question. The halls are lit only by spare window candles. Mother leads you down the stairs, careful to skip the step that always groans underfoot. You skip it, too. There are no obvious signs of danger, but she’s moving with such deliberate quiet that you’re drawn to do the same. Past the foyer, the dining room, the kitchen. You realize the servants are all gone. Dismissed for the evening. Mother never does that.
She opens the stone door that leads into the wine cellar. Reaching back, she takes your hand and pulls you into the dark. For the first time in years, you feel like a child. You get a death grip on her hand as she leads you down, one step at a time. A few times you stumble, but she’s there, braced to keep you upright. Sightless, your other senses start to sharpen. There’s a smell like cinnamon. Your mother’s fragrance. Occasionally, your arm rubs against the bracelet of obsidian symbols that always dangles on her wrist. The air is damp.
But it’s the sound that sends a chill down your spine.
Rising up from the very stones, you can hear a distant howl. It sounds like it’s coming from another world. Mother’s grip on your hand tightens, as if she senses your desire to run. She keeps hold of your hand and leads you through a section of the house you never knew existed.
After several more passages, she stops and lights a candle. She sets the light in your trembling hands and kneels. Squinting, you finally see the obsidian knife she’s carrying. She speaks in a whisper. “This way is now yours to travel.”
Your eyes widen as she slips the sharp point over her palm. Blood drips down to the eager stones. Blood sacrifice is common among your people. How often have you seen gods and their vessels walking the streets or crowded around their temples? It isn’t uncommon, but you’ve never heard Mother or Father talk of the gods as anything more than allies. Before you can figure out what’s happening or what all of this means, the stones at your feet groan to life.
The floor—blank just a moment before—blooms with pattern and color.
You nearly drop the candle as your mother moves back to your side. Both of you watch invisible hands finish their ancient pattern. Fractured light shivers over the symbols; then the circle coughs smoke into the air. You watch as the floor vanishes and reveals a secret passage. Mother leads you down it with an undeniable sureness. She has walked this path before.
You also have the sense that the air has gone silent. Just seconds before, it must have been filled with noise, but now the quiet has taken its place, and the quiet is somehow louder than any noise could ever be. You follow her until your candle casts its light on an altar.
A figure waits beyond: The Madness.
You would know the three-eyed god of death anywhere, but down in this deep dark place, he looks like an actual nightmare. A great wolf’s mask sits unnaturally over the proxy’s human head. At the neck, hair weaves itself into skin, sealing the man inside. As the Madness’s chosen vessel, the priest will never show his face again. He wears no shirt, no shoes. His pants are dusty and stained. His entire body looks emaciated, ribs as pronounced as the bars of a cage.
The sight of him redefines your fears. You do not ask why he is here. You do not ask why you are here. All the pieces of this dreaded puzzle are falling into place.