You planned every single detail to perfection.
And ever loyal, Bravos follows all of it step for step. The night of your tour through the Hall of Maps, he calls you from the mobile he has registered with the city. Your scripted conversation is brief. He says he didn’t want there to be any hard feelings. You say there aren’t any, that you’re too focused on the Races to feel anything else right now. He says that he misses you. You whisper a goodbye. It takes the hackers about five minutes to post the entire conversation onto the Chats.
You know gamblers and fans will devour every word and gossip with their friends about all the nothing. It has you smiling. Some things about Furia are just so remarkably predictable. Fifteen minutes later, you hear a chirping sound from the corner of the room. You retrieve your unmarked mobile and answer it.
“Well done, Bravos.”
“You know me, love. A slave to details.”
“Tell me, did you enjoy your stroll through the Hall of Maps?”
“You know history bores me.”
“How about making history? Does that bore you?”
He laughs. You can’t help but imagine the perfect flash of his smile.
“You’re sure about all of this?”
The question has you rolling your eyes. Ever since you told him you wanted him to win, he’s been fighting against the idea. It’s just like him to act so sacrificial. Like he’s never imagined taking first. You suppose it’s possible that he never has. After all, the Empire has basically crowned you already.
“For the last time, Bravos, I’m sure. I want to marry the winner of the Races.”
You hear him smiling. “You’re seriously amazing. But we still have to win, right?”
“Right. Let’s talk about the course.”
“You saw something? You had that triumphant look on your face.”
It’s your turn to laugh. “Triumphant. That’s the whole point.”
“Very much the point,” Bravos replies. “All right, what did you see?”
“A secret. I want you to let your phoenix startle out of the gate.”
“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.
Mother says, “I would ask the blessing you gave me be extended to my daughter.”
The three wolfish eyes leer in her direction. You fight back a shiver as the Madness inclines his head, taking in the request. A rasping voice echoes, “A drop of your blood.”
She starts forward, bloody palm held out.
The Madness growls at the sight. “A new wound is required.”
She hesitates, then takes up the obsidian blade again. She calmly slits the opposite palm and shows it to the god. He gives an approving nod as she holds it out over the altar. In the light of your candle, blood drips over the stones. The Madness licks his lips, tongue slavering.
You know he is the god of death. He is the way between the worlds. Some call him the Bridgekeeper. Nothing passes up from the underworld without his approval. You cannot fathom why he is here tonight or what Mother could possibly be thinking. This is not a path you ever imagined walking. It is the fool’s way forward.
“The girl now,” the Madness says. “Her blood must surround the altar entire.”
You watch in horror. She cleans the knife and turns. She offers it to you.
“Take it,” she orders. “Pippa. Do as I say.”
There’s no room in her voice for argument. You exchange candle for blade. The Madness has started chanting and moving. He speaks in an inhuman tongue. The words start out as words, before echoing like the rattle of bones, bounding between worlds with dangerous reverberation. And then the Madness dances around the altar, lost in the chaos of his spell. You take the distracted moment to ask the question that burns brightest in your mind.
“What is happening?”
“Trust me,” she whispers. “I’m offering you a gift.”
She shoves you forward. The Madness continues to dance. You step up to the altar, carefully clear of his circling path. Your hands shake as you take the blade and press the black tip to your palm. The sharp pain makes you gasp, but a bloody streak appears.
The Madness stops. “Let it encircle the altar. The spirit must attune to you.”
You eye him before walking in a circle. You let blood drip down in a staggered loop. Twice around before the god lets out a bone-chilling howl. You drop the knife and dart back to the safety of your mother’s arms. His howl does not stop. It grows, pulsing in your chest, and shaking the stones, and calling your spilled blood into the air.
And then the noise cuts off sharply.
Mother gasps as a violent slash of blue light tears through the dark. You watch the bright ball glow, trembling formlessly above the raised altar. It shapes itself into a spirit. You see the face, the torso, the legs. The spirit leaps to the right, but an invisible barrier knocks it back. The Madness watches in fascination as the creature beats blue fists against the walls. He howls again.
The spirit panics. Lashing out again, failing again. But the walls are closing in around it. As the Madness continues to wail his horrible noise, you realize that it’s your blood that is pinning the spirit to the altar. There’s a horrible writhing and everything goes black.
The world dances away from you.
Until it stops dancing. You’re back in your room, safely under the covers. You have no idea how you got here, or what’s happening, until Mother sits down on the edge of your bed. The secret room and the Madness and the summoned spirit burn back into your mind.
You wait for her to speak.
“The gods move between our world and the one below,” she says. “You have always known this, dear. You were not born into war, but you were created for it all the same. The gods derive their power from a trade between worlds. In the underworld, our blood gives them power. They take our sacrifices and use them to rule those forsaken lands. In return, they offer us the powers of their world. Invisible armies. Fire that rains from the sky. The Madness, as you know, controls the passage of spirits into our realm. That has always been his trade. He has the ability to bring souls from that world into ours.”
You nod mechanically. Your head feels ready to spin from your shoulders.
“One of those spirits will be gifted to you. For the race.”
Hearing her words, a truth settles into your mind, a realization about her brilliant performance in the Races all those years ago. Your mother was not simply the most talented rider. No, the truth is far less pretty than that. She cheated to win.
“You had a spirit for your year, didn’t you?”
She catches the accusation in your tone. “As did many of my competitors. I was the only one who understood the power I wielded. By the time the others realized what could be done, I’d already run circles around them. It is not cheating to use the tools you’ve been given.”
“Then…the years of the Madness…”
“Are the years in which the god of death and passage involves himself. He offers gifts in exchange for blood. The gift will come at the start of the race. Command it well.”
Your heart is pounding. The Madness is something you’ve always dismissed. It’s only happened four times in the history of the Races. The odds were against it until Mother invited the fickle god into your year. Now everything feels like it’s slipping from your grasp. The Madness will bring events you cannot predict or control. Those under its effect have won the Races easily, but others imbibing on his power have lost the Races just as tragically. Your jaw clenches as you realize the risks Mother’s created with her meddling.
It could ruin everything.
“Others will benefit from this?”
She nods. “The Madness will seek more deals tonight. He favors no one.”
“Then you are a fool.”
Your mother flinches. Even you are surprised by the venom in your voice. She has invited chaos where you had created order, but what is worse is that she treated you like a child.
“Think,” she replies desperately. “Who is the one rider the Madness will never help?”
Realization washes over you. The burning rage fades ever so slightly. You know that she’s right. There is one rider that no Ashlord deity would ever consider helping. The only rider who belongs to a group of people who refuse to worship any of the pantheon.
“Adrian Ford.”
Mother nods. “We’re not in front of the cameras now. Be honest with yourself: He’s the greatest threat you will ever face. Before he joined, I would have never dreamed of inviting the Madness. It’s possible you could have won. Consider the spirit another tool in your arsenal.”
The final realization hurts most of all. She didn’t trust you to win on your own. The daughter of champions, destined to follow in their footsteps. It doesn’t matter that you’ve won every single amateur race or that you train harder than she ever did. At the end of the day, your mother thinks that Adrian Ford could beat you.
Driven by that unnamed fear, she might have ruined everything. It takes effort not to shout at her or to dismiss her coldly. The die has already been cast. There’s no fighting it now.
Your voice is iron. “Tell me what will happen.”
“The spirit that comes will want one thing from you: freedom. It has lived its entire life bound to the gods in the world below. The Madness transferred that ownership. It is bound to you. All you must do is make a deal with it. Offer freedom in exchange for victory.”
You nod to her. “And then what?”
“Then you ride, sweet girl. Use the spirit wisely. Beat the Longhand.”
She pauses meaningfully before taking your hand.
“And win the Races.”