A second hour passes, and even though she’s sweating and frothing, Burn never slows. We tear through the vast, clay-caked valleys and it’s pure luck that most of the way is straight and safe. I glance at the standings on my bracelet and see the impossible: I’m leading the Races.
Imelda: 0 paces
Etzli: 573 paces
Bravos: 701 paces
Naturally, that’s when Burn’s heart gives out.
I feel it a second before her forelegs snap, and her front end drops. Momentum whips my feet out of the stirrups and sends my body straight over her lunging shoulders. I scrape my way, rolling and cussing, some ten paces past her. Pain sears along my waist and arms and shoulder. I’m still groaning and spitting out dust when the flames course over Burn’s sides. It was a short life, haunted and unfair, but she’ll work her way to ashes and rise stronger. I glance up at the sun and know the other riders will keep moving for another few hours.
My lead will vanish. They’ll be so far ahead that I’ll never have a chance to close the gap.
“You were never in the lead,” I remind myself. “You came to break the Races.”
It helps to say the words out loud. It was nice to flash a little alchemy the day before. It was nice to hold the lead for a few hours, but the ease with which Adrian poisoned my ashes echoes the truth of things. I was never going to win the Races. Not their way.
Eyes to the east, I measure the distance to the course’s metal barrier. A little over half a mile. The sun’s moving, but I have time to get where I need to go. There’s a danger in moving ashes after sundown. As long as the sun’s still up, I can keep moving.
The spectators will wonder what I’m doing, what I’m thinking, but they won’t figure out the plan until it’s too late to stop it. As long as they keep believing in the myth of the Alchemist, the girl with the magic plan, I’ll be fine. So I carefully scoop my ashes into an empty, race-standard container, and when I’m sure I’ve got them all, I start jogging east.
The silver bars of my cage are waiting.
The second and third days of the Races are about separation and distance.
The Racing Board defines each course by rhythms. Yesterday, they had us snaking through a narrow valley, fighting for room in the most cramped section of the course. Today, there are seven different routes forward, each with its own advantages and pitfalls.
I always knew which way I would go.
A hunter follows its prey.
Instead of riding off at first breath, I waited. Saw the Dividian first, hurtling off on her poisoned horse. Heading down the longest and slowest trail—to the east—but that’s not something she could have helped if she wanted to. Wormwood’s nasty stuff. I find myself praying she doesn’t get herself killed. Honestly, I’m impressed she even decided to mount the thing. That took iron sides.
Next off was Etzli. She’s building on her day one lead. I sat there waiting, horse tethered and settled, until I see three riders make their way into the yawning canyons.
Thyma isn’t with them. I smile at that and follow. I made the switch from the Ravenous rebirth to a hunting combination. I actually saw Bravos was going to use the same one for his first day of riding. Today is all about the chase.
As the pace picks up, I’m still a little stunned at how completely my pain has faded. I’m a long way away from trusting the Dread, but at least his magic works. It would have been a long day’s ride after the beating I got last night. The thought has me eager to pay them back.
It’s not hard to shadow them. I ride faster and harder than they do, but pull back on the straightaways, keeping out of sight. This section of the map has us fording a few rivers, cutting through the heart of everything, and moving gradually into territory where the most important decisions will come into play.
I’m not surprised to see Imelda rush out to an early lead. Riding breakneck like that can’t last forever, though. Behind her on the bracelet is Etzli, followed by Bravos. That’s a surprise. I didn’t even see him yesterday. It has me wondering if he went a different route altogether, but I don’t remember one on the map. It also has me curious about Pippa.
Where is the Ashlords’ prophesized champion?
There’s forest on the western side of the course. My kind of terrain, but it’ll be a hotbed for the other riders, too. I remember the cave route, but I didn’t choose the components for it. Didn’t want to test my luck in a place like that. On the east side of the course there’s the long way around, but I know that anyone who goes that way can’t win the Races. The way forward is west. If I want a chance of surviving on the forest paths, I’ll need to clear out some competitors.
So I hunt. The pack ahead of me is making decent time, but it’s not surprising when one of them splits into a separate canyon. I think I recognize Revel’s wild ponytail. It’s only a small betrayal, and one that shouldn’t surprise the others. After all, this is the Races. No one can stay friends forever. I direct my phoenix to the right, following what I can only guess is the duo I met the night before. Capri and the coastal Ashlord. They fought well together, but that was with me cornered and facing three of them. Tonight’s story will be written in my handwriting.
I lean over my horse as the canyons slip past, as the sun sweeps overhead, and I can already taste vengeance in the sun-struck distance, waiting like a promise.
Where are you, Bravos? Where are you? Where are you?
You continue shouting his name, stumbling over stones, your voice piercing the rising clouds of dust. There are no trails, though, no flashes of movement on the empty plain.
He doesn’t come back for you. You’re afraid to look at your bracelet, afraid of what it might show you. Quinn’s voice sounds behind you, but you ignore it. You need Bravos.
“Pippa.” You hear the unsteady breathing. “Pippa, stop.”
You don’t turn back to look. “Stop? You don’t get it, Quinn. We need Bravos.”
“No,” she says. “We don’t.”
You spin back, a curse on your lips, but the sight silences you. You can’t fathom how, but the girl somehow saddled the blind phoenix. Your eyes run through a standard equipment check. Knots tied correctly along the halter, saddle pad centered perfectly, and even the girth cinched properly. The horse nickers as Quinn traces her fingers lightly along its neck.
It’s impressive, but all you can do is shake your head.
“That’s great, Quinn. But we still need Bravos. Another horse is our only chance.”