“I’ve seen them do that with blind horses before. They use mates or companion phoenixes. They trust the scent and follow. We just have to slow the pace a little, but not by much. We can make decent progress before nightfall that way.”
You’ve been distracted, so you haven’t been watching. As you stumble past the staggered rock formations, you get a clear view of the empty plateau. And even as you strain your eyes, there’s no sign of Bravos. You blink, trying to clear that impossible vision, but he’s still not there when the dust and sunlight settle.
So you call out his name. Again and again, ignoring the sudden clench in the pit of your stomach. You shout your voice raw, stumbling through the scorch and ignoring the truth:
Bravos is gone.
I claw my way back into the waking world. My breath comes heavy and it feels like something’s been sitting on my chest all night. I stare at the approaching light, the rock formations, and none of it makes any sense. I was doing my first mixture….
The Longhand. I scramble to my feet and go light-headed. Weak-limbed, I stagger right into the nearest outcropping. Pain lances through my hip, then connects to the pulse at my temple, and all I can do is let out a groan. It’s like I’m still getting hit by the blow.
“Dammit.”
At the end of the first day’s ride, I had let myself dream for just a second. I thought that maybe I really could win the Races outright. Now I have a knot on my head that’s the size of an apple. I rub at it and wince. Still light-headed, I stumble over to my ashes. Morning light’s coming on quickly, reaching its claws across the valley, and I realize I’m way too late to do anything. The Longhand scattered flakes of green through my ashes. I lower my head, wincing with the pain, and take a whiff. The smell is one that I know well.
“Wormwood,” I say to no one. “That jackass used wormwood.”
I stand, noticing the bloodstains for the first time. That’s strange. They streak the entrance to the recess in dark and faded pools. I have a wicked bruise, but there are no signs of blood. My mind starts playing detective, but I know I don’t have the time for mysteries.
Furious, I turn back to my things. They’re piled in the opposite corner and I’ve got about twenty seconds to prepare for the rebirth that the Longhand saddled me with. I start sorting through my gear as the dust swirls.
Sunlight creeps across the entrance. Bright fingers grasping for my ashes. My mind is racing. Wormwood. It’s a psychedelic poison. The symptoms are straightforward. With a heavy dose, a phoenix starts to see visions. Some people think the visions are real, that the phoenix is getting glimpses of the veiled underworlds controlled by the Ashlord gods. I couldn’t care less about the philosophy behind it. All that matters is that when my horse is born, it’s going to be seeing demons and monstrosities. It will smell them, too. I can soften the fear at the start, but there’s only one eventuality for a horse that’s been poisoned by wormwood.
They run and they run and they run until they die.
I curse, hearing the rebirth begin. Dust spins violently around the recess, sudden wind knocking me back a step. I brace myself and keep rooting through my packs. When everything’s arranged, I shove the sack over one shoulder and lift my saddle from the ground.
A glance shows the chaos settling. A bloodred horse strides out of the scattering dust, new to the world and not. I unlatch the third container and dip two fingers into my stores of Revelrust. I didn’t want to use any of the stuff—every gram of it is worth a fortune—but I know the addictive substance will buy me the time I need to saddle the phoenix.
She’s already stomping, testing her new legs and snorting wildly. She starts toward the entrance and I dart forward. Three strides have me in front of her, cutting off the exit, hands raised and fingers powdered with Revelrust. She huffs at me, but then catches a whiff of what I’m offering. There is no component more addictive for a phoenix. Her whole body shudders and I sprinkle a pinch of it down to the ground. She can’t resist. Lowering her head and sniffing, her eyes go wide and unfocused. I slip past as she tries to gauge the strange substance, confused by how badly she wants the stuff.
I’m quick on the saddle and with the straps, slipping around her frame with as much precision as I can manage. I have to go fast, but if I miss something, I’ll break my neck just the same. She finishes the Revelrust and turns, sniffing and searching for more of it. I let her snort against my fingers, and use the other hand to work on the harnesses, getting everything in place. She gets bored with me and starts moving toward the entrance again. This time, when I get in her way, she snorts and stomps. I stand firm until she settles; then I slide past to tighten the final buckle.
Sack still bouncing against my shoulders, I swing up to mount. My head spins with pain, but I keep a tight grip on the reins as she begins forward. I know the visions will start soon. Wormwood starts fast and stays strong. Its effects won’t fade until her heart bursts.
I’ve never used the stuff, but I’ve read about it a few times now. She’ll smell the blood and the rot and the ruin. She’ll see twisted demons. All of it is in her head, but she’ll bolt the second she notices any of them. I set her on a northeast path. The edge of the course, and the mountains beyond, are in that direction. Once she bolts, I’ll have no control over where she goes. All I can do is hold on for dear life.
The day’s warm and the sun’s bright. I send a little curse in the direction of the Longhand, wherever he is, and then remember I need to name the horse. It’s better to die on a horse I named than on one I didn’t.
“Burn,” I say as calmly as I can. “That’s what you’ll do, isn’t it? You’ll burn bright and hard and fast before you go out. Just try not to take me with you, all right, Burn?”
Her coat shivers with light. She snorts pleasantly, too, like she likes the name. But before I can take much pride in getting that part right, she flinches. A second flinch is followed by stamping. Her head shivers, eyes swinging and rolling wildly, and then she breaks.
I tighten my grip and she’s from trot to gallop in heartbeats. Her hooves thunder against the packed hardpan and wind comes howling from all sides. I try to match her rhythm with my body, but it’s a jolting and terrified sprint. I end up more focused on not being thrown from her back. The sprint doesn’t stop, because the demons that Burn is seeing don’t stop, either.
The course looks empty. This route isn’t one the real riders will choose. It’s the long way around, winding on the eastern side nearest the mountains. Before the Longhand poisoned my ashes, I intended on taking this path, flanking the barrier, and executing my own plan.
Now I just have to hope Burn doesn’t run us off a cliff or right into a wall.
It’s not a pace that can last, but a phoenix pushed by fear and powered by the sun can still perform miracles. A glance at my bracelet shows we’re in the lead after an hour.