Something’s wrong, Pippa.
You see it a second after Quinn speaks. A plume of dust fans out as Revel’s horse collapses. Its shoulders clip the earth, and the riders both go skidding over the rocky soil. There’s a moment of confusion; then the ghost helps Revel back to his feet. The ghost slings Revel’s arm around one shoulder and keeps him moving toward the finish line. They’re on foot, moving much slower, but just one hundred paces from the finish line.
Can they win the race like that?
You ignore the question and urge your phoenix forward. For the first time, you see the finish line looming in the distance. You’re so focused on the sight of it and Revel’s stumbling figure that Quinn’s mental cry is the only warning as Bravos brings his phoenix slamming into yours. A kick of Quinn’s leg is the only thing that saves you. It lands just before impact and lessens the shock of the blow. Her effort keeps the back spikes from finding flesh, but it doesn’t stop the front ones. The collision is a storm of sounds and lightning-bright images:
Blood gushes from a fist-sized wound.
A scream tears from Revenge’s throat.
The familiar mint on Bravos’s breath.
Sweat colors his clothes.
Last, you see his massive hands come to life.
One grips his reins. The other flexes around his switch.
The impact jars your horses apart, but not far enough to keep you safe. Bravos is close enough for a single strike. It’s an off-handed jab. It comes like lightning, but Quinn is quicker. The girl who rode the lightning into your world tugs you down by the shoulders. The blow glances overhead. Bravos looks stunned, but he’s smart enough to stay focused. He takes advantage of Revenge’s broken stride and vaults forward. The sight of him pulling away draws out every instinct. It takes fifteen years of endless training and bottles them into a single grain of time.
Mind and body move in flawless harmony. Your hand brings the whip up and around. Your tongue clicks a command that keeps Revenge moving. Your eyes find the target of your strike, calculate the distance with impossible precision, and force your shoulders to swivel for the perfect range. Revenge steadies his gait as your whip snakes through the air.
The black tongue curls around Bravos’s wrist and snaps. You hear the bones break before he can even scream. Bravos slumps sideways, losing control of his phoenix. Ahead, Revel’s collapsed horse has burst into flames. Revenge slides left to avoid the chaos as Bravos fumbles the reins. He’s too late. Both boy and horse collide with the waiting fire.
There’s a duel of screams. Revenge plunges through the smoke, past both of them. You do not celebrate the sight of Bravos spinning face-first into the sand because there’s no time to glory in his defeat. Not until you’ve claimed your victory. Only Revel and Adrian exist now.
You don’t have to look at the bracelet to see how small the world’s become. The finish line is one hundred paces ahead. Revel’s halfway there. Adrian’s riding twenty paces back.
Time flexes every muscle and you feel like you’re the center of the universe.
You are the lightning.
I am the thunder.
We are the storm.
She strikes, and it’s like the world’s ending. Bravos nearly finished her. I had a good view of their collision. He swung his phoenix over at the perfect time. It should have ended, but then the impossible happened. Pippa kept her horse upright, dodged his switch, and somehow landed a blow with her whip before he could outrange her. I watched as she sent him spinning into the flames, as the dust of his fall clouded my vision.
It was stunning. I wonder if that’s what happens to thunder, if that’s why it’s always a second late. Maybe it gets distracted thinking about how beautiful lightning is and forgets that its job is to make all the noise. The move is so stunning that I have to shake myself out of a trance.
I force myself to remember.
I’m the thunder, and thunder always follows lightning.
Pippa steadies her phoenix as I close the gap. I’m as far from her as she is from the finish line. Revel’s ahead, but he hears the storm that’s about to descend on him and turns. His expression is horrified. A man who knows he is going to lose at the very last second. Hesitation costs him everything. The finish line is too far for something with two legs to beat something with four. I’m riding up Pippa’s left side, the nose of my phoenix even with the back flank of hers, when Revel turns his desperation into action. He leaps at her. Pippa rolls a shoulder and her horse flinches, too, straying just enough to send them both slamming our way. My stallion’s too much of a monster to get put into the wall, so he stands his ground, but it leaves us tangled as we storm past Revel’s flailing body and on to the finish line.
There can’t be more than twenty strides left and our horses trade leads. It’s her and then it’s me and then it’s her and then it’s me. War and revolution wait with breathless anticipation.
We both look up. It’s the unforgivable sin of riding. At the end of a race, riders should never look up. Do not look left. Do not look right. No, a rider’s eyes find the finish line, and stay there until the end.
But we lock eyes instead. The Ashlord and the Longhand. Ruler and Rebel. We’re close enough to spit curses or whisper secrets. Our eyes lock and there’s no mistaking her at this distance. She’s a champion, a queen, a goddess. The truth rides her shoulders like a curse.
And with a single, smoldering look, she ends me.
Blue light scorches the air between us. In the brief and godly glow, I see a face. A girl’s ghostly features darkened by a savage growl. I’m helpless as an invisible arm wraps around my neck, as the impact wrenches my feet from the stirrups, and something tears me out of the saddle.
The whole world spins as I fall.
I get a final glimpse of Pippa’s hood riding the wind like fire.
Then the earth rises up and devours me.
Applause thunders.
You are the winner of the Races.
Revenge collapses over the finish line. And as he falls, you slip your legs free and tuck your body into a roll. All instinct. The impact of the hardpan shakes the breath from your lungs, but a second roll brings you upright. Dust is swirling as officials from the Empire Racing Board start riding out to congratulate you on your victory. But from your crouched position, your eyes swing back to the finish line for an eternal second.
There’s an explosion of flame beside you. Revenge’s body racing its way to ashes. In the distance, Adrian’s horse has fallen to the ground. He’s wedged against the silver-wrought walls of the course, bleeding and shocked. He stares at you and looks completely dazed.
Quinn stands over him. You never asked her to do it, but she leapt anyway. She risked her life in the end so that you could win. The two of you share a look of wild freedom. You notice the cloth in her hand. The same one that carries drops of your blood. Her thought echoes across the distance and it’s as loud as if she were speaking in your ear.