Monsters Born and Made, page 12
Stormgold’s ears twitch, a gleam running down her antlers.
The Landmaster briefly describes the history of the first Champion. A sanitized, made-up, non-rebellious version of it. Then she finally gets to the main point: today’s inaugural race event.
“For our first race, charioteers will compete for the top spot by capturing one of the nine flags placed at the end of the thoroughfare. In a first-of-its-kind event, they will leave the Drome and their race will be considered complete only when they return home to the finish line.”
Some of the charioteers immediately break out in confusion. At least they weren’t informed of this, and I was left ignorant. Not Dorian, however. He sees me looking.
“Try to fight people way out of your league again? Wouldn’t be the first time.”
I say, “One wrong touch and your maristag will canter away screaming.”
“We both know you won’t hurt a maristag, though.”
It hits me where he intended. I’ve let him know that I still think about us. Still wonder if he ever cared or just wanted my Hunter expertise under the guise of friendship. Clearly he wastes no time on unimportant things. Stupid. “Don’t be presumptuous.”
Dorian smirks. “Well, don’t trip on the tracks.”
I push my breath against my chest, feeling it harden, resisting the urge to get off the chariot and scream. He’s crueler than I ever thought possible.
“People of Ophir,” the Landmaster’s voice interrupts us, “welcome to the 150th Glory Race!”
Roars stamp the stone of the island.
Crane will stay with Liria, and Mama won’t leave their side. I haven’t seen Liria and Mama since I almost drowned. The yearning to see them, to hug them, is fierce. I wonder about Baba—has he come to see my first race? He must know everything I’m doing is for Liria, for them, so that none of us will have to beg again.
For a second, a minute, vast silence fills the world and I’m under the ocean again, locked in a box. I can’t breathe.
The corners of my vision go black. Dorian’s breathing is shallow beside me. Even now, I’m perceptive to the smallest changes in the way he exists.
What is happening to me? I was sure I had moved past Dorian long ago.
Not now, please, I have a race to win.
The countdown starts, and the crowd chants. Every inch of my body is alight with—fear? Anticipation? All I know is that hot blood is pumping through my limbs. Before I have a moment to adjust my grip on the reins with my jelly hands, conch shells blare across the island.
The bars rumble open slowly.
And the 150th Glory Race begins.
Fourteen
Panic seizes me. My vision explodes with a thousand stars. Dust clouds swarm the tracks. Flashing light and incomprehensible screams and the thunder of my heartbeat. The dust needles the back of my throat. My sides slam into the chariot, my ribs pushing forward painfully as if to break free. I pull at the reins and find my footing.
The world is ash. Wind rushes through my hair as I soar.
Shadows emerge on either side of me, large and looming.
Directly beneath the fire lamps, the gold on the chariots is striking.
Stormgold and I are so far behind.
And that’s good.
As we near the arcade gates to get out of the Drome and onto the racing circuit, the maristags are snapping at one another. I check Stormgold, easing her farther back from the warring maristags.
I dip my chin, concentrating on keeping my feet firmly inside my rumbling chariot. The darkness of the arcade converges. All charioteers have streaked out. One is behind me. On my tail. I tug Stormgold straight, away from fighting with the other maristag, and pull her attention to the front.
Several chariots tremble as the maristags pass over the bump outside the arcade.
My chariot leaps over the bump. For a moment, I’m in the air, my hair lashing at my face. The chariot slams to the ground, sending a jolt through me, and I barely avoiding getting knocked out.
Stormgold rushes forward, escaping the narrow exit of the arcade, and then we’re zooming out of the Drome and onto the street.
The spectators roar back in the Drome, their voices carried on the wind. I’m under open skies. The ocean to my right, the city to my left. Beyond the taped borders, crowds throng, cheering the charioteers on. How many people are here? Has all of Ophir descended on Sollonia this year?
There are Renters in the crowd. Wearing scarves and jackets and headcovers over tattooed faces—a distinctly Renter crowd among the blur of Landers. Fist-pumping and cheering as I pass.
Far ahead, the top of the Terrafort looms over us. The sun is high, casting a golden-white glow on the peak.
The others start falling in my line of sight. Judas and one of the other charioteers, Saran Minagi, race within a wire. Saran’s spiked wheels glisten dangerously. Arlene, Isidore Grae, and another charioteer are a few paces behind them. The huge antlers on Arlene’s maristag sway dangerously toward the other beasts. There’s a space between two of the charioteers. Too narrow. Too much of an invitation to death.
Behind me, I hear the others pulling up. Wind snaps at my ankles, lashing like whips. The ocean roars all around us, filling the air with salt.
Stormgold’s frillfin flare, and she screams. In response, another maristag howls far ahead. A scuffle breaks out amid two chariots running too close. As they split and a path clears for me, I see him.
Far ahead, leading us all: Dorian.
My priority is staying alive. But if I keep pulling back, I’ll never catch up with the others. I release the reins.
Stormgold bursts forward. I can feel her powerful muscles thumping against the ground. Her jaw drops in a roar. We hurtle around the skirmishes of other maristags. Saran’s chariot nears mine. The ocean is loud in my ears and the dark of death looms in my eyes. Saran glances at me over his shoulder. The next instant, he races ahead, and Isidore slows to match my speed.
As if Saran ordered him to take over.
But Stormgold regains her stride, antlers held high. My eyes begin watering. It’s dangerous to wipe my face. We’re so close to a skirmish between three of the others, one of them Arlene. Their chariots clang and someone shouts.
If I’m hit—no.
“Steady, Stormgold!”
Arlene splits from the thoroughfare and takes a left. I watch her chariot vanish behind a corner as I hurtle by. Of course—there’s no rule that mandates staying on the thoroughfare, we’re only meant to grab a flag and return to the finish line.
I know a shortcut around the Terrafort. I whirl to the left, too, into a steep terrain of crumbling gray pillars. The chariot slips, wobbles, but bangs right in place. It’s so old that I fear it might shatter, leaving me splattered on the ground.
Stormgold races ahead, even as the black and gray surroundings narrow to the point I’m scared they’ll squash me to a pulp. But just as soon, the network of alleys gives way to a rocky square. A small, empty fountain at its center. Children in dirty clothes, adults loitering.
These people don’t care what’s going on in that Drome.
“GET AWAY!” I yell as people jump out of Stormgold’s path, screaming. The windows on the stone houses on either side of the street are thrown open. Carts screech to a halt.
I turn the corner and my chariot slams in a rugged wall. A shower of golden sparks erupts from the clash between the chariot and the ancient black stone of the island. My hands burn. I swerve, cutting the contact. The street narrows again, going two separate ways. Three groups of people stand at the mouths, a cart jammed across the way, staring at Stormgold in frozen horror.
We’re going to crash. We’re going to kill someone. Or I’ll be the one battered against a wall.
It’s too late to stop Stormgold.
I pull at the reins.
Stormgold leaps in the air.
And as if time stops in the moment, I’m flying, suspended in infinity. The force of Stormgold’s fins blast open the copper-wire lead around her neck and she surges over the shocked crowd.
When we land, the impact jars my bones. Despite the years of hunting, despite practicing balancing.
The twists and turns of the coiled neighborhood end abruptly, and we’re on a broad street, the terrain smoothed into submission. In the distance, I hear the roars of the other maristags again.
The street veers right and suddenly we’re charging through a pile of broken crates. I spit out dust as the turn throws us right back onto the thoroughfare. We’re far past my house and nearing the edge of the island. Right as we break through, Arlene charges at me.
“Get the hell out of my way!” she screams. I lean backward, trying to go straight instead of breaking the yellow-tape border and jumping off toward the beach. Arlene’s chariot slams into mine.
A giant staff smashes against the loosening contraption on Stormgold. I duck in time. Arlene has a damned weapon. Is that even legal? She snatches her reins in one hand and attacks me again. This time, I grab at it and yank.
With a shout of surprise, Arlene loses her grip and falls into her chariot. For a wild moment I think she fell off it. But she rises, protected by her straps.
The weight of the staff slows me. Arlene races ahead. We’re at the edge of the island. Nine poles stand hundreds of meters from us, at the very end of the cliffs, waving with the Glory Race flags.
There are only four left.
I can hear another chariot behind me, closing the gap. Something inside me tells me to be afraid of what Arlene might do if she reaches the flags first. Take them all off? Leaving me with no flag to take?
I don’t care if it’s just paranoia. I pull at the reins, only slightly so Stormgold doesn’t skew off the path, and jump. My feet land on the rim of the chariot. I flail, but I stay standing. Blue skies are above me, the ocean roiling on all sides—the thundering rumbles traveling from the soles of my feet to the bones in my skull. I hold the quarterstaff like a spear.
I lean back and gather tension at my waist, aiming at Arlene.
And I throw.
The staff flies in the air in a perfect arc, the metal shining brilliantly as it catches the light of the sun. It goes right through the gap between Arlene’s carriage and her maristag, angling against the shaft of the chariot. She crashes into it. The maristag screams. They go tumbling to the side.
I snatch one of the flags and turn my chariot around, dashing through the thoroughfare, back to the Drome. To the finish line.
As the charioteers surge toward the gates at the same time, a maristag tumbles and pulls its entire chariot down.
Screams wring out from the scene.
I fly by the fallen rider—Ozcivit Sasha. His black shock of hair peeks out from beneath the broken chariot—sparking chariot.
There’s nothing I can do for him. The skies close behind me, and I sweep back into the Drome. Stormgold swings us toward the left of the tracks divided by the Spine. Colors flash in and out of the corner of my eye. Dorian.
He’s catching up but I’m still ahead by several inches.
I’m going to win the first race of the Glory Race. I’m closer to winning the entire thing. Closer to providing safety for Mama and Liria.
The thought urges me on—
Something slams into my chariot.
Dorian’s chariot rams against mine. And sparks fly from the wheels.
My hands shoot out, scrambling for grip, fingers crushed around the flag. The raised side of the chariot catches in my hands. I writhe with pain, but drag myself up, wind cutting my dangling feet. Had I been one second later, the maristag behind us would have trampled me.
“What are you doing?” I scream, terror in my voice. “You’ll kill me!”
Dorian lifts his gaze from the wheels of my chariot, and we lock eyes.
“Afraid of the Glory Race yet?” he shouts, and swerves at the last moment to avoid slamming into me. He cuts Stormgold off and races ahead.
Stormgold skids.
And suddenly I’m facing the wrong way. The chariot groans under the pressure. Sand gets in my eyes. I try to rub them, but it’s futile. My eyes burn, the grains points of knives against the membrane. The stands are roaring, I hear the thumps of feet against the stone, the slaps of palms against the balustrades. I tighten my grip to the point that the circulation in my arms slows to an echo, pulse booming in my ears, desperately trying to pull Stormgold back the right way.
She’s so close to the divider Spine, her antlers strike it. One wrong move, my chariot will catch fire.
Then the scree of wheels against the Spine rends the air.
Warmth flares to my left, sparks stinging the back of my hand. Instinct makes me want to snatch back my hands, but I hold on.
One after the other, the chariots bolt past me.
I open enough distance so as not to burn against the Spine—the image of Ozcivit Sasha’s chariot sparking still in my mind—and I let Stormgold go.
With a huge spurt of speed, Stormgold pushes herself against gravity. My splintering chariot hurtles, wheels loud, sparks flying everywhere.
Wind screeches in my ears. Blood pumps fast through my heart.
I urge Stormgold on.
One after another, the chariots cross the finish line. The first spot is gone, so is the second, and onward. Dorian’s silver headband glints as he brings his chariot to a stop and faces the tracks.
The last thought that echoes in my head is: I hate you.
I wrap the flag securely around my fingers and at my signal, Stormgold bounds ahead, skirting around the chariot in front of us.
The laser of the finish line turns from red to green for the fifth time.
And finally, as if someone turned the volume all the way up, I hear the cheers and screams of the Drome.
Fifteen
Fifth is better than eliminated. Fifth is better than dead. There are still two races left, I try to tell myself.
But I’m trembling. It should have been me at the top, the first one to cross that line. I wanted to prove that I’m here to win. Not for simply playing a game of chance and blood.
But it’s Dorian Akayan for whom the crowd cheers. It’s for him that the silver and gold fireworks trail the edges of the skies.
Back in the Charioteer Hall, I catch sight of Dorian. He looks away coolly as if he doesn’t even recognize me, as if he didn’t attempt to derail me. I can’t stop myself. I push my way through the handlers wrestling with the maristags, trying to get the leads back in order, and limp my way up.
I don’t know what I’m going to say to him.
But he tried to kill me. Twice. I need to say something.
Dorian strides down the row of corridors at the back of the Hall. The first one leads to the tunnel connecting the Drome to the Terrafort, the next is lined with small rooms used for stocking emergency supplies for the maristags, another is fitted with linoleum-floored medical stalls. The smell of dried seagrass and chemicals pervading the area is so strong that I stop in my tracks, which is when I hear raised voices. In the chaos of the post-race wrap-up, nobody else notices. The maristags are still too loud, the handlers trying desperately to calm them, and the medical staff is patching up the charioteers who have already arrived.
“What do you mean you don’t know how?” I recognize Solomon Akayan’s voice.
Why’s he back here? And if he had to talk to his son after the race, why are they hiding?
“I’m not the only charioteer on the tracks, Father,” Dorian says. “It’s a professional race.” His words are low but firm.
There’s a loud thud. I peek in.
Solomon has Dorian slammed against the wall. He grips his son’s arm and presses him back, practically breathing on Dorian. “You let that girl distract you, didn’t you? Do you think me blind, boy?”
“Please, Father,” Dorian snaps. “I did exactly what you said. Her maristag pulled them off. That’s neither in my control nor my fault. Should I have chased them or finished my race?”
Stormgold hadn’t pulled us off. It was Dorian who veered his chariot away at the last moment.
But Solomon shakes his head, seemingly mollified. “I trusted the Landmaster for too long. I will not stand by as she brings us all to ruin.”
“But she said—”
“Those are long odds with the way this girl raced today. Fifth! While a Lander boy got his face burned off.”
Ozcivit.
“Fifth is nothing to worry about. She can finish second and it wouldn’t matter. Only one Champion, Father. That’s going to be me. We know that.” After an uncomfortable silence, Dorian adds, “Father, the Landmaster was very clear. She wields too much power. Don’t defy her. We cannot take her head-on yet.”
Solomon shoves away Dorian’s arm. “Who is this girl? Made of dust and nothing!” He huffs, then turns to face his son again. In a softer, deadlier voice, he says, “You have always weakened yourself by wanting to see the good, even in those who will rip us apart. But never forget that we cannot share this world. Not unless we wish to die. For you, and your children after. For our family.
“If that girl wins Glory Race, everything we built will be for nothing.”
Maybe it’s a good thing the Lander Father did not bring up Crane. I wouldn’t want to lose my best friend to a man like this.
“She can’t win anything, Father. Can you imagine talking so big in front of everyone and having this to show for it? A barely there passing? She’d be too humiliated to even come out for the First Celebration, let alone the next race.”
“Have you talked to her?”
“No, Father.”
Solomon growls with frustration. “That Warden boy turned out to be useless. His audacity at demanding we help him get reinstated as if he were chosen at all—only to do nothing on his end.”
The Landmaster briefly describes the history of the first Champion. A sanitized, made-up, non-rebellious version of it. Then she finally gets to the main point: today’s inaugural race event.
“For our first race, charioteers will compete for the top spot by capturing one of the nine flags placed at the end of the thoroughfare. In a first-of-its-kind event, they will leave the Drome and their race will be considered complete only when they return home to the finish line.”
Some of the charioteers immediately break out in confusion. At least they weren’t informed of this, and I was left ignorant. Not Dorian, however. He sees me looking.
“Try to fight people way out of your league again? Wouldn’t be the first time.”
I say, “One wrong touch and your maristag will canter away screaming.”
“We both know you won’t hurt a maristag, though.”
It hits me where he intended. I’ve let him know that I still think about us. Still wonder if he ever cared or just wanted my Hunter expertise under the guise of friendship. Clearly he wastes no time on unimportant things. Stupid. “Don’t be presumptuous.”
Dorian smirks. “Well, don’t trip on the tracks.”
I push my breath against my chest, feeling it harden, resisting the urge to get off the chariot and scream. He’s crueler than I ever thought possible.
“People of Ophir,” the Landmaster’s voice interrupts us, “welcome to the 150th Glory Race!”
Roars stamp the stone of the island.
Crane will stay with Liria, and Mama won’t leave their side. I haven’t seen Liria and Mama since I almost drowned. The yearning to see them, to hug them, is fierce. I wonder about Baba—has he come to see my first race? He must know everything I’m doing is for Liria, for them, so that none of us will have to beg again.
For a second, a minute, vast silence fills the world and I’m under the ocean again, locked in a box. I can’t breathe.
The corners of my vision go black. Dorian’s breathing is shallow beside me. Even now, I’m perceptive to the smallest changes in the way he exists.
What is happening to me? I was sure I had moved past Dorian long ago.
Not now, please, I have a race to win.
The countdown starts, and the crowd chants. Every inch of my body is alight with—fear? Anticipation? All I know is that hot blood is pumping through my limbs. Before I have a moment to adjust my grip on the reins with my jelly hands, conch shells blare across the island.
The bars rumble open slowly.
And the 150th Glory Race begins.
Fourteen
Panic seizes me. My vision explodes with a thousand stars. Dust clouds swarm the tracks. Flashing light and incomprehensible screams and the thunder of my heartbeat. The dust needles the back of my throat. My sides slam into the chariot, my ribs pushing forward painfully as if to break free. I pull at the reins and find my footing.
The world is ash. Wind rushes through my hair as I soar.
Shadows emerge on either side of me, large and looming.
Directly beneath the fire lamps, the gold on the chariots is striking.
Stormgold and I are so far behind.
And that’s good.
As we near the arcade gates to get out of the Drome and onto the racing circuit, the maristags are snapping at one another. I check Stormgold, easing her farther back from the warring maristags.
I dip my chin, concentrating on keeping my feet firmly inside my rumbling chariot. The darkness of the arcade converges. All charioteers have streaked out. One is behind me. On my tail. I tug Stormgold straight, away from fighting with the other maristag, and pull her attention to the front.
Several chariots tremble as the maristags pass over the bump outside the arcade.
My chariot leaps over the bump. For a moment, I’m in the air, my hair lashing at my face. The chariot slams to the ground, sending a jolt through me, and I barely avoiding getting knocked out.
Stormgold rushes forward, escaping the narrow exit of the arcade, and then we’re zooming out of the Drome and onto the street.
The spectators roar back in the Drome, their voices carried on the wind. I’m under open skies. The ocean to my right, the city to my left. Beyond the taped borders, crowds throng, cheering the charioteers on. How many people are here? Has all of Ophir descended on Sollonia this year?
There are Renters in the crowd. Wearing scarves and jackets and headcovers over tattooed faces—a distinctly Renter crowd among the blur of Landers. Fist-pumping and cheering as I pass.
Far ahead, the top of the Terrafort looms over us. The sun is high, casting a golden-white glow on the peak.
The others start falling in my line of sight. Judas and one of the other charioteers, Saran Minagi, race within a wire. Saran’s spiked wheels glisten dangerously. Arlene, Isidore Grae, and another charioteer are a few paces behind them. The huge antlers on Arlene’s maristag sway dangerously toward the other beasts. There’s a space between two of the charioteers. Too narrow. Too much of an invitation to death.
Behind me, I hear the others pulling up. Wind snaps at my ankles, lashing like whips. The ocean roars all around us, filling the air with salt.
Stormgold’s frillfin flare, and she screams. In response, another maristag howls far ahead. A scuffle breaks out amid two chariots running too close. As they split and a path clears for me, I see him.
Far ahead, leading us all: Dorian.
My priority is staying alive. But if I keep pulling back, I’ll never catch up with the others. I release the reins.
Stormgold bursts forward. I can feel her powerful muscles thumping against the ground. Her jaw drops in a roar. We hurtle around the skirmishes of other maristags. Saran’s chariot nears mine. The ocean is loud in my ears and the dark of death looms in my eyes. Saran glances at me over his shoulder. The next instant, he races ahead, and Isidore slows to match my speed.
As if Saran ordered him to take over.
But Stormgold regains her stride, antlers held high. My eyes begin watering. It’s dangerous to wipe my face. We’re so close to a skirmish between three of the others, one of them Arlene. Their chariots clang and someone shouts.
If I’m hit—no.
“Steady, Stormgold!”
Arlene splits from the thoroughfare and takes a left. I watch her chariot vanish behind a corner as I hurtle by. Of course—there’s no rule that mandates staying on the thoroughfare, we’re only meant to grab a flag and return to the finish line.
I know a shortcut around the Terrafort. I whirl to the left, too, into a steep terrain of crumbling gray pillars. The chariot slips, wobbles, but bangs right in place. It’s so old that I fear it might shatter, leaving me splattered on the ground.
Stormgold races ahead, even as the black and gray surroundings narrow to the point I’m scared they’ll squash me to a pulp. But just as soon, the network of alleys gives way to a rocky square. A small, empty fountain at its center. Children in dirty clothes, adults loitering.
These people don’t care what’s going on in that Drome.
“GET AWAY!” I yell as people jump out of Stormgold’s path, screaming. The windows on the stone houses on either side of the street are thrown open. Carts screech to a halt.
I turn the corner and my chariot slams in a rugged wall. A shower of golden sparks erupts from the clash between the chariot and the ancient black stone of the island. My hands burn. I swerve, cutting the contact. The street narrows again, going two separate ways. Three groups of people stand at the mouths, a cart jammed across the way, staring at Stormgold in frozen horror.
We’re going to crash. We’re going to kill someone. Or I’ll be the one battered against a wall.
It’s too late to stop Stormgold.
I pull at the reins.
Stormgold leaps in the air.
And as if time stops in the moment, I’m flying, suspended in infinity. The force of Stormgold’s fins blast open the copper-wire lead around her neck and she surges over the shocked crowd.
When we land, the impact jars my bones. Despite the years of hunting, despite practicing balancing.
The twists and turns of the coiled neighborhood end abruptly, and we’re on a broad street, the terrain smoothed into submission. In the distance, I hear the roars of the other maristags again.
The street veers right and suddenly we’re charging through a pile of broken crates. I spit out dust as the turn throws us right back onto the thoroughfare. We’re far past my house and nearing the edge of the island. Right as we break through, Arlene charges at me.
“Get the hell out of my way!” she screams. I lean backward, trying to go straight instead of breaking the yellow-tape border and jumping off toward the beach. Arlene’s chariot slams into mine.
A giant staff smashes against the loosening contraption on Stormgold. I duck in time. Arlene has a damned weapon. Is that even legal? She snatches her reins in one hand and attacks me again. This time, I grab at it and yank.
With a shout of surprise, Arlene loses her grip and falls into her chariot. For a wild moment I think she fell off it. But she rises, protected by her straps.
The weight of the staff slows me. Arlene races ahead. We’re at the edge of the island. Nine poles stand hundreds of meters from us, at the very end of the cliffs, waving with the Glory Race flags.
There are only four left.
I can hear another chariot behind me, closing the gap. Something inside me tells me to be afraid of what Arlene might do if she reaches the flags first. Take them all off? Leaving me with no flag to take?
I don’t care if it’s just paranoia. I pull at the reins, only slightly so Stormgold doesn’t skew off the path, and jump. My feet land on the rim of the chariot. I flail, but I stay standing. Blue skies are above me, the ocean roiling on all sides—the thundering rumbles traveling from the soles of my feet to the bones in my skull. I hold the quarterstaff like a spear.
I lean back and gather tension at my waist, aiming at Arlene.
And I throw.
The staff flies in the air in a perfect arc, the metal shining brilliantly as it catches the light of the sun. It goes right through the gap between Arlene’s carriage and her maristag, angling against the shaft of the chariot. She crashes into it. The maristag screams. They go tumbling to the side.
I snatch one of the flags and turn my chariot around, dashing through the thoroughfare, back to the Drome. To the finish line.
As the charioteers surge toward the gates at the same time, a maristag tumbles and pulls its entire chariot down.
Screams wring out from the scene.
I fly by the fallen rider—Ozcivit Sasha. His black shock of hair peeks out from beneath the broken chariot—sparking chariot.
There’s nothing I can do for him. The skies close behind me, and I sweep back into the Drome. Stormgold swings us toward the left of the tracks divided by the Spine. Colors flash in and out of the corner of my eye. Dorian.
He’s catching up but I’m still ahead by several inches.
I’m going to win the first race of the Glory Race. I’m closer to winning the entire thing. Closer to providing safety for Mama and Liria.
The thought urges me on—
Something slams into my chariot.
Dorian’s chariot rams against mine. And sparks fly from the wheels.
My hands shoot out, scrambling for grip, fingers crushed around the flag. The raised side of the chariot catches in my hands. I writhe with pain, but drag myself up, wind cutting my dangling feet. Had I been one second later, the maristag behind us would have trampled me.
“What are you doing?” I scream, terror in my voice. “You’ll kill me!”
Dorian lifts his gaze from the wheels of my chariot, and we lock eyes.
“Afraid of the Glory Race yet?” he shouts, and swerves at the last moment to avoid slamming into me. He cuts Stormgold off and races ahead.
Stormgold skids.
And suddenly I’m facing the wrong way. The chariot groans under the pressure. Sand gets in my eyes. I try to rub them, but it’s futile. My eyes burn, the grains points of knives against the membrane. The stands are roaring, I hear the thumps of feet against the stone, the slaps of palms against the balustrades. I tighten my grip to the point that the circulation in my arms slows to an echo, pulse booming in my ears, desperately trying to pull Stormgold back the right way.
She’s so close to the divider Spine, her antlers strike it. One wrong move, my chariot will catch fire.
Then the scree of wheels against the Spine rends the air.
Warmth flares to my left, sparks stinging the back of my hand. Instinct makes me want to snatch back my hands, but I hold on.
One after the other, the chariots bolt past me.
I open enough distance so as not to burn against the Spine—the image of Ozcivit Sasha’s chariot sparking still in my mind—and I let Stormgold go.
With a huge spurt of speed, Stormgold pushes herself against gravity. My splintering chariot hurtles, wheels loud, sparks flying everywhere.
Wind screeches in my ears. Blood pumps fast through my heart.
I urge Stormgold on.
One after another, the chariots cross the finish line. The first spot is gone, so is the second, and onward. Dorian’s silver headband glints as he brings his chariot to a stop and faces the tracks.
The last thought that echoes in my head is: I hate you.
I wrap the flag securely around my fingers and at my signal, Stormgold bounds ahead, skirting around the chariot in front of us.
The laser of the finish line turns from red to green for the fifth time.
And finally, as if someone turned the volume all the way up, I hear the cheers and screams of the Drome.
Fifteen
Fifth is better than eliminated. Fifth is better than dead. There are still two races left, I try to tell myself.
But I’m trembling. It should have been me at the top, the first one to cross that line. I wanted to prove that I’m here to win. Not for simply playing a game of chance and blood.
But it’s Dorian Akayan for whom the crowd cheers. It’s for him that the silver and gold fireworks trail the edges of the skies.
Back in the Charioteer Hall, I catch sight of Dorian. He looks away coolly as if he doesn’t even recognize me, as if he didn’t attempt to derail me. I can’t stop myself. I push my way through the handlers wrestling with the maristags, trying to get the leads back in order, and limp my way up.
I don’t know what I’m going to say to him.
But he tried to kill me. Twice. I need to say something.
Dorian strides down the row of corridors at the back of the Hall. The first one leads to the tunnel connecting the Drome to the Terrafort, the next is lined with small rooms used for stocking emergency supplies for the maristags, another is fitted with linoleum-floored medical stalls. The smell of dried seagrass and chemicals pervading the area is so strong that I stop in my tracks, which is when I hear raised voices. In the chaos of the post-race wrap-up, nobody else notices. The maristags are still too loud, the handlers trying desperately to calm them, and the medical staff is patching up the charioteers who have already arrived.
“What do you mean you don’t know how?” I recognize Solomon Akayan’s voice.
Why’s he back here? And if he had to talk to his son after the race, why are they hiding?
“I’m not the only charioteer on the tracks, Father,” Dorian says. “It’s a professional race.” His words are low but firm.
There’s a loud thud. I peek in.
Solomon has Dorian slammed against the wall. He grips his son’s arm and presses him back, practically breathing on Dorian. “You let that girl distract you, didn’t you? Do you think me blind, boy?”
“Please, Father,” Dorian snaps. “I did exactly what you said. Her maristag pulled them off. That’s neither in my control nor my fault. Should I have chased them or finished my race?”
Stormgold hadn’t pulled us off. It was Dorian who veered his chariot away at the last moment.
But Solomon shakes his head, seemingly mollified. “I trusted the Landmaster for too long. I will not stand by as she brings us all to ruin.”
“But she said—”
“Those are long odds with the way this girl raced today. Fifth! While a Lander boy got his face burned off.”
Ozcivit.
“Fifth is nothing to worry about. She can finish second and it wouldn’t matter. Only one Champion, Father. That’s going to be me. We know that.” After an uncomfortable silence, Dorian adds, “Father, the Landmaster was very clear. She wields too much power. Don’t defy her. We cannot take her head-on yet.”
Solomon shoves away Dorian’s arm. “Who is this girl? Made of dust and nothing!” He huffs, then turns to face his son again. In a softer, deadlier voice, he says, “You have always weakened yourself by wanting to see the good, even in those who will rip us apart. But never forget that we cannot share this world. Not unless we wish to die. For you, and your children after. For our family.
“If that girl wins Glory Race, everything we built will be for nothing.”
Maybe it’s a good thing the Lander Father did not bring up Crane. I wouldn’t want to lose my best friend to a man like this.
“She can’t win anything, Father. Can you imagine talking so big in front of everyone and having this to show for it? A barely there passing? She’d be too humiliated to even come out for the First Celebration, let alone the next race.”
“Have you talked to her?”
“No, Father.”
Solomon growls with frustration. “That Warden boy turned out to be useless. His audacity at demanding we help him get reinstated as if he were chosen at all—only to do nothing on his end.”
