Ashlords Read online

  ALSO BY SCOTT REINTGEN

  Nyxia

  Nyxia Unleashed

  Nyxia Uprising

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2020 by Scott Reintgen

  Cover art copyright © 2020 by Sammy Yuen

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Crown Books for Young Readers, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  Crown and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

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  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Reintgen, Scott, author.

  Title: Ashlords / Scott Reintgen.

  Description: First edition. | New York: Crown, [2020] | Summary: Follows alchemists Imelda, Adrian, and Pippa as they reach for their dreams of glory riding phoenix horses at The Races, the modern spectacle that has replaced warfare within their empire.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019009360 | ISBN 978-0-593-11917-4 (hc) | ISBN 978-0-593-11918-1 (glb) | ISBN 978-0-593-11919-8 (ebook)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Alchemy—Fiction. | Racing—Fiction. | Horses—Fiction. | Fantasy.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.R4554 Ash 2020 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  Ebook ISBN 9780593119198

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  v5.4_r1

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  For the Reintgen boys, who have torched me in every video game, sport, and board game in existence. I am who I am today because you taught me how to get back up and try harder the next time.

  Contents

  Cover

  Also by Scott Reintgen

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Part One: Lightning

  Chapter 1: The Alchemist

  Chapter 2: The Longhand

  Chapter 3: The Favorite

  Chapter 4: Birthday Dance

  Chapter 5: True Freedom

  Chapter 6: Dreams and Nightmares

  Chapter 7: The Qualifier

  Chapter 8: Ten Faces

  Part Two: Thunder

  Chapter 9: In the Morning Quiet

  Chapter 10: Bright and Loud

  Chapter 11: The Great Display

  Chapter 12: Sounds Like the Truth

  Chapter 13: Clatter

  Chapter 14: Making Noise

  Chapter 15: Disharmony

  Chapter 16: A Quiet Corner

  Chapter 17: Scream

  Chapter 18: Whisper

  Chapter 19: Silence

  Chapter 20: A Door Left Open

  Chapter 21: Distraction

  Chapter 22: The Beginning

  Chapter 23: Changing Skies

  Chapter 24: Ravenous

  Chapter 25: Vibrancy

  Chapter 26: Noises at Night

  Chapter 27: Blinding

  Chapter 28: Wormwood

  Chapter 29: Hunting Grounds

  Chapter 30: Blindsided

  Part Three: Storm

  Chapter 31: Enemies

  Chapter 32: Barriers

  Chapter 33: Setbacks

  Chapter 34: Caves

  Chapter 35: The Mountain Rebels

  Chapter 36: The Wraith

  Chapter 37: Thief

  Chapter 38: Gig’s Wall

  Chapter 39: A Small Request

  Chapter 40: The Ashlord Way

  Chapter 41: The Final Stretch

  Chapter 42: The Storm

  Chapter 43: Victory

  Chapter 44: The Battle of Gig’s Wall

  Chapter 45: One Face

  Chapter 46: The Brightness

  Chapter 47: The Price of War

  Chapter 48: Home

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Our people’s history is written in great bolts of lightning. Clear skies for a century or two, and then a single remarkable moment strikes. It illuminates a new way, even as it kills the old.

  —The Brightness, An Address to Patriots

  Farian wakes me at some ungodly hour.

  He comes in like he lives here, drags me out of bed, and gets me into a pair of boots. My corner candle’s out, so I can’t even see which cloak he throws around my shoulders or which hat he slaps on my head. Farian would say that’s for the best. According to him, fashion and I were never properly introduced. He’s always threatening to throw away my favorite dresses. It is a point of contention between us.

  We stumble through the dark. Someone’s asleep on the couch. An uncle, but I couldn’t say which one. They all snore the same. Empty bottles spin away from my clumsy steps. Farian keeps a steady hand on my back until we’re in the candlelight of the kitchen. He sets a cup of coffee in my hands, lets me take a few sips, and then pushes me out the door.

  It should be black at this hour, but the sky’s cloud-clear, and the stars recognize a stage when it’s there. Dueling nebulas slash over the dark, rolling mesas. I hear Doctor Vass explain, “Each light is a sun. To each sun, planets. To each planet, moons. How endless it all is….”

  Farian looks back. “You awake yet?”

  “No talking until I can see what color your clothes are.”

  He laughs. Farian has always laughed easily. Doesn’t know his way around a joke, but he always makes you feel like you do. My best friend and confidant lopes ahead, his limp barely noticeable, a satchel full of camera gear tucked under one thick arm. He’s always been big. Fourth son in a family of farmers, with three older brothers that have all grown even bigger than he is. But that’s because Farian’s made his world more than digging irrigation pits. He skips out on his chores to enhance photographs or edit our film series. He’s bound for an education if he keeps at it, as long as his parents don’t disown him before he can get there.

  We’re not the only ones awake at this hour. The door to Amaya’s bar bangs open, and three ranch hands slide out into the slick shadows, laughing and singing the wrong words to “The March of Ashes.” Farian hums the tune long after we’ve passed them.

  Down the road, a pair of postmen trot past on slender mounts. Both tip their brims, looking like any other riders but for the government-issued gloves threaded with gold and the sacks full of letters strung to their saddles. We arrive at the ranch well before sunrise. It’s dead and dark, quiet-like. The stars are fading.

  “Looks empty,” Farian says. “Only Martial is out there.”

  I squint, but Farian’s eyes have always been better than mine. I can’t make out much beyond the nearest row of fence posts, but there’s nothing surprising about the quiet. It’s a holy day. “The Ashlords only bow to the gods,” I remind him.

  He snorts but says nothing. We’ve caught hell for skipping Gathering the past few years, but we both know it’s the only way to get any respectable riding time. Martial owns the
only Dividian-friendly ranch in the district. He won the Races about twenty years ago and used the prize money to build his own ranch and buy his own herd of phoenixes. He promised it would be a training ground to hopeful Dividian riders who couldn’t afford their own horses. Like him.

  It was a stunning kindness.

  Until the money started running out. It always does. Gold is worth less when it’s in Dividian pockets. Not to mention they tax Dividian landowners twice as much. A few years back, Martial opened the ranch to some of the lesser Ashlord nobles. Carved out just a few days of the week at first, but it wasn’t long until he was booked solid. I don’t blame him, either. Ruling-class gold pays too well to turn down.

  “What’s it going to be today?” Farian asks, glancing back again. “Something new?”

  “Something old,” I reply with a smile. “Something long forgotten.”

  We head in different directions. Farian strides out to talk with Martial. He’s been working up to asking the old champ to do a biopic, but Farian’s about as careful as thunder. Won’t make any noise until he’s sure lightning’s already struck. I leave them to it, heading for the stalls.

  Martial might have sold out to the Ashlords, but there’s still no ranch like his. As a Dividian, I get to ride his phoenixes free of charge. And he slashes component prices by half. He even lets us pay off all the expenses through a little side work. I’m pretty sure there’s no better setup in the Empire, at least not for a Dividian like me.

  His barn is a fine thing, too. All stone, with slightly sloping roofs and lamps dangling every few paces. I walk the outer courtyard, hearing horses occasionally stomp in their stalls on my left, seeing columns and arches running on my right. Martial sank most of his winnings into the place. People called it a mistake, but the quality of the facility is the only reason gold keeps moving from Ashlord pockets into his accounts. He has seven city-bred families boarding horses here, and more on the waiting list. I’m just glad he hasn’t turned the whole place in that direction. He’s still got about eight of his own horses, and they’re the closest I’ll ever come to calling one my own.

  At the end of the yard, a great red door waits. I lift both latches and put my whole body into a shove. The door opens into the dark. I smile as a great smash of scents carry through the opening. I follow them inside. Practiced hands find the lamp thread and I give it a pull. The bulb takes its time, warming the room with light, brightening until I can see the endless containers with all their precious powders. All those possibilities…

  I remove a half-ripped theater poster from the pocket of my riding jacket. Proper paper is too expensive, but street litter and old playbills are always free. I copy ingredients from the poster to one of Martial’s inventory forms. I cringe, though, when I see the price he has listed for unborn ash.

  “Seventy legions. Pick my pockets, why don’t you, Martial.”

  After a second, I scribble the component down. I know today’s video will make up for the cost eventually. It still stings to use anything that costs that much. I haven’t taken on a component with a price that steep since my disaster last year with powdered gold. Burned through a hundred fifty legions in less than two clockturns. But I won’t make that mistake again.

  After noting each component, I take five racing containers and link them up. Martial’s cubes are a cheaper version, about a fourth the size of the Race-regulation ones, but I’m only doing one rebirth anyway.

  It takes a few minutes to locate each component, measure out what I’ve purchased, and strap the cubes to my riding belt. I lock the door behind me and find Martial rolling a cigarette outside. He keeps his thinning hair long and pulled back in a knot. His eyes are bright and blue, so shockingly Dividian that it’s like looking across oceans, a few hundred years into our past. I can almost see our ancestors arriving on the shores of the Empire for the first time, eyes bright with desire.

  He nods once. “Imelda Beru,” he says. “The Alchemist.”

  “That name was Farian’s choice. He says we need a brand if we want it to sell.”

  Martial taps the end of his cigarette. Dissatisfied, he starts rolling it again.

  “Smart kid,” he says. “I watched your last video. Some twelve thousand views, no?”

  “Enough to pay you back, and buy Farian a new lens.”

  “What an age,” Martial says. “Getting paid for people to click on a box.”

  “The modern world has its charms,” I reply. “Speaking of which, sun’s rising.”

  He glances out, nods once. “Seventh stall. Your ashes are waiting.”

  I thank him and head that way. He and I both know the sun won’t touch the ranch for another twenty minutes, but talking with Martial makes me nervous these days. He’s a man of hints. Idle comments intended to stir me up. Too often he talks about the Races with Farian. He thinks I have a chance to be chosen as this year’s Qualifier. There’s also a chance I’ll be devoured by wolves, but I’m not betting on either one. Martial was chosen all those years ago, and a man who’s been struck by lightning always thinks it’s likely to happen again.

  Opening the seventh stall, I find the ashes piled neatly in a metal box. I lift them up, careful with the lid, and start my search for Farian.

  The land stretches north and south of the barns, and even though the estate’s massive, Farian’s been complaining about the shots getting stale. Like me, though, he knows we’re lucky to even have this option. I find him at the south end of the property, navigating the low limbs of Martial’s lonely shoestring tree. He doesn’t like climbing, but by the time I reach him, he’s wedged fifteen feet in the air. The mountains glow with coming gold. I frown up at him.

  “You’re going through all this trouble to film a Stoneside rebirth?”

  Farian shoots me a furious look. “You serious? Why would you do Stoneside again?”

  I grin at him. “Just snacking on you, Farian.”

  He flicks me off, laughs, then almost drops his camera. We both gasp, then laugh again when he catches it to his chest. He shakes his head, like I’m the one who almost dropped the thing.

  “I hope you have something good for me,” he says, glancing back through the branches. “I think this lighting will be flawless. It’s the only time we’ve ever done a camera angle this high, you know? I’m thinking of doing some crosscutting for this one, if you ride well.”

  “Crosscutting,” I say. “Glad to hear that. I was going to suggest…crosscutting.”

  He makes a face. “It’s when you—”

  When he sees my face, though, he goes quiet. We’ve played this game too many times. He talks like a textbook and I end up…distracted. He gets annoyed; I get mad.

  “You film. I ride. It’s simple.”

  “Gods below,” he says, eyeing the light again. “Get me to a university already. I’d like to have a proper conversation about montages and backlighting with someone.”

  I smile up at him. “I thought you talked about all that stuff with Doctor Vass.”

  “For fifteen minutes.” Farian shrugs. “Not his area of expertise.”

  “Guess you’ll have to go to university.”

  “Guess so,” he says, but his voice is full of doubt.

  His family doesn’t send off to school. Neither does mine. Every uncle and cousin is proof enough of that. Education is reserved for Ashlords and city-born Dividian with deep pockets. Out in the rural villages, we’re more likely to inherit trades. Both Farian and I spend most of our time ignoring the trade we’ve been pegged for since birth. Farian knows as much about farming as a chicken. And I know even less about charming and getting married to a boy. My parents are already hinting that I can’t spend my life riding other people’s horses. One day they’ll shrug and say that all we can do is make the best of the world the Ashlords offer us.

  But on holy days—while the Ashlords worship
their gods—I forget all of that. I walk out to greet the sunrise and become who I really am.

  “Ready, Farian?”

  He jams an elbow into his lap, turning the lens slightly. At his signal, I start spreading the ashes out over the ground. They’re still warm, so I take quick handfuls and sweep them out in a flat, even circle. I don’t flinch away from the heat, not after Farian claimed my cowardice ruined his shot a few months ago. I am as bright and fiery as the creature I will summon.

  Once that’s done, I unclip the cubes from my belt, flipping the individual lids so Farian has a good angle on each stored component. Sunrise isn’t far off. I lift my eyes to Farian, focused on the camera. He’s been walking me through the acting cues, but I always need a deep breath before we start, no matter how many videos we’ve made. He signals, and I begin.

  “Good morning.” I offer the camera an unnatural smile. “My name is Imelda Beru, also known as the Alchemist. First, I wanted to thank all of you for watching our recent videos. If you missed our Stoneside or Fearless rebirths, you’ll find the link to those videos below.

  “Today, we’re staying with the theme of vintage rebirths. Everyone knows the standard resurrections these days. Those are tired. They’re boring. All we have to do is look back at the pages of history to see just how inventive phoenix rebirths used to be. Since you don’t have time to wade through codices and scrolls, I’ve done your homework for you. Here’s a rebirth I like to call Trust Fall.”