Page 40 of This Dark Descent
“But he won’t be able to prove it, and that’s all that matters,” Damien replied as he joined them.
Mikira looked up into Atara’s dark gaze and grinned. “Either way, he’s going to lose.”
MIKIRA’S CONFIDENCE DISINTEGRATEDinto nausea on the way to the race in the Houndswood. She wasn’t ready for this. What had she been thinking? Attending the showcase ball, competing in the Illinir, conning Rezek Kelbra—this wasn’t her. That life belonged to someone who didn’t ruin everything she touched.
It didn’t help that she’d only had time for a brief trot around the front drive with Atara before they were off. She knew nothing about how thehorse ran or what she responded to. Ari had barely woken from her sleep long enough to wish her luck, leaving no time for questions.
“Mikira? Mikira!”
She snapped back to herself. Damien frowned at her from across Atara’s back, her hands still tangled in the stirrup she’d been adjusting. They were in a cordoned area off to the side of a grass field at the edge of the Houndswood Forest, the site of the first race. The chatter of other jockeys and sponsors filled the air with a tangible buzz, tightening her stomach into knots.
“Did you hear a word I said?” Damien’s bare fingers tapped once, twice on his leg, the only sign of his annoyance.
She winced. “Sorry.”
“Remember what we discussed. You want to end up in the middle of the pack, not win outright. The first race is a straight shot. You’ll start on one side of the Houndswood and end on the other, where I’ll meet you.”
“I remember everything I’m supposed to worry about,” she replied more sharply than she intended.
Damien continued unperturbed. What did it take to get under that man’s skin? “I’ve made some arrangements to find you alliances. They—”
“No.”
His eyes narrowed. “No?”
Creating race alliances was common practice. Riders would band together to watch each other’s backs, but eventually, those alliances had to break, and you never knew when someone was going to turn on you preemptively.
“I have enough to think about without fretting over when they’ll betray me,” she said. “It’s easier if everyone is my enemy from the start.”
“Do you know the odds against you winning?” Her expression must have been answer enough because he continued, “You’re the greatest underdog in this race. Anyone betting on you is about to make a fortune. They have as vested an interest in you crossing that finish line as their own riders.”
Mikira’s nails dug into her palms. It had been a long time since she’d relied on other people. In her experience, everyone walked away eventually. All of her father’s friends, her family’s connections, Talyana, even her father himself, though he hadn’t meant to. It was hard enough for her to rely on Reid, Ari, and Damien—now he wanted her to put her faith in complete strangers?
She shook her head. “I’m not leaving my fate in the hands of your house of cards. The answer’s no.” She freed Atara of her halter and guided her out of the makeshift stables.
Spectators streamed along the main thoroughfare, dressed in suits with colorful waistcoats and flowing dresses that stopped above the ankle and wide-brimmed hats. Milling vendors sold meat pies and popcorn, hard candy and cups of cold ale and spiced wine. Makeshift stalls and tents had been erected along a nearby embankment, peddling everything from Skylis wings and Lyzairin tails to enchanted looking glasses to watch the race with, and she caught snippets of people discussing bets and odds.
All of it tugged on memories she’d almost forgotten. Evenings spent with her best friend and brother, eating rock candy until they were sick, Lochlyn narrating the races under his breath while she and Talyana rattled off stats. How distant those moments felt, as though someone could simply brush them away like dust off a forgotten shelf.
The starting line was a flurry of activity as horses began to gather. Cameras flashed, voices calling for the riders to pose and wave. The shouts of fans and vendors rose over them, melding into the clanging of metal gates and the wet thud of horse hooves in soft grass.
One of the gate crew guided them toward the starting line, where horses jumbled and jostled for space. The other racers all looked older than Mikira, and most were hardened, gruff-faced men that looked plucked straight from the Anthir’s cells. Atara’s ears flicked in all directions, and she pawed the ground restlessly. Mikira fiddled with the knives strapped to her forearms beneath her sleeves. Not for the first time, she wished she knew if they were truly enchanted. If ever she could use a little magic on her side, it was now.
“Miss Rusel?” a crewman asked. “It’s time to mount up. The race is about to start.”
Mikira laid a hand on Atara’s neck. The mare stood taller than any other horse there, her coat the pure black of a starless night. She watched Mikira with obsidian eyes that felt too keen, as if she were staring into her soul. “I snuck you a treat,” she whispered, pulling a couple apple slices from her pocket. The mare gobbled them up with delight, then snuffled her hand for more. “Please don’t throw me.”
Wiping her sweaty hands against her pants, she swung up into the saddle.
Atara started forward at an easy clip. Her gait was incredibly smooth, and Mikira fell into the rhythm of it with ease. But by the time they’d slipped into the tumult of horses and riders, her anxiety had swelled once again. Only fifty of them would progress to the next race, and somehow she had to survive long enough to be one of them, all without doingtoowell, lest she draw attention.
She scanned the riders, surprised how many she recognized. Alren Zalaire, who came in second place at the last Illinir, in which he’d lost his left arm. There was Arabella Wakelin, the dark skin of her forearm tattooed with the names of the famous races she’d won. She was shaking hands with Dezaena Fyas, the Yaroyan prodigy who’d traveled kingdoms to be here. Mikira wanted to ride over and talk to them, to tell them she was a racer too, but the idea felt laughable. Her father’s name could only take her so far—she had no merits of her own to support her here.
“You’re quaking where you sit,” grumbled a jockey in silver and white—House Kelbra colors.
With a start, she realized she recognized him: Gren Talyer. He’d been a legend once, one of the youngest jockeys in history. Until her father had exposed him for sabotaging his competitors’ horses. He’d been banned from the races for ten years, and from the way he was looking at her, she had a feeling his fury hadn’t dulled the slightest in that time.
“What can I say?” Mikira ground out. “I’m excited.”
