Chapter 36
“The coronation will be carried out in the traditional way,” Huxley said, leaning over a diagram of the coronation stage.
Magdala stared down at it, a headache creeping from the base of her skull to her eyes.
Tomorrow they would ride through the city of Largotia—oh, how Magdala dreaded that ride—to the public gardens, where Asherton would mount a set of steep stairs leading up a large marble cube.
At the top, in the sight of the whole city and the palace, Asherton would light a basin of oil to symbolize the start of his reign.
Magdala could hardly hear Huxley over the clamor of the crowd outside the gates. News of Asherton’s new policy had spread like a wildfire, and the riots had raged all night and into the morning.
Magdala tried to shut out the clamor, to focus on the scratch of the wooden table beneath her elbows, the cool breeze on her left cheek, but she could not fight the dread roiling in the pit of her stomach.
Queen-Regent Madelaine sat at the end of the table in a cloud of blue silk, the little wrinkles around her pursed lips looking remarkably like a mustache.
Zephyr stood in a shadowed corner, watching in grim silence.
The room was a shark lagoon, and Magdala a stranded swimmer. The queen-regent still held all the power, and Huxley the whole of the royal guard. She could not go any higher for help.
“The prince will ascend the stairs in the sight of the people, holding the torch aloft. Then he will light the basin. It will go up in flame, and he is king. Simple and elegant,” Huxley said cheerfully.
Magdala knew it was pointless, but she said anyway, “I will accompany him up the stairs.”
Huxley bunched his eyebrows. “That’s quite impossible.”
“No, allowing him to go up alone is impossible. And absurd. We all know that there is an assassin after him—perhaps several. He can’t be exposed. We’ll have to rework the ceremony or allow me to go with him.”
“Huxley is right, that’s quite impossible,” the queen-regent said. Until now, she hadn’t spoken or appeared to pay attention to their plans at all. “This is how all the kings have been crowned for generations. There is no other way.”
“But the last time a king was crowned was before the war and shotfires had not even been invented!” Magdala cried. “It’s too dangerous now.”
“So is taking an entire nation to war over a few silly dragons,” the queen-regent said blandly. “But he doesn't seem to mind that.”
“This is how coronations are conducted in Allagesh,” Huxley said. “Either you submit to it, or I can appoint another bodyguard for the prince.”
Magdala gripped the table so hard, her fingernails dug into the wood. “Your Majesty, this is your son,” she said, vainly hoping the queen-regent would relent. “He is in mortal danger walking up those steps. So much danger, in fact, that I very strongly believe he will not come down alive.”
“A king must be able to face danger,” Asherton’s mother replied. “Or else he cannot be king.”
“You are sending your son to his death!” Magdala started out of her seat, planting her hands on the table and leaning toward the queen-regent.
What kind of mother turned so coldly away from her own child?
Surely, the queen-regent didn’t understand.
She was in denial, or had been deluded, manipulated.
The queen’s guards leaped forward and gripped Magdala’s arms, dragging her back. Madelaine turned her eyes down. “Or was this your plan all along?” Magdala demanded, reckless. “So you can squeeze twenty more years out of your reign and see your younger son on the throne?”
“Hold your tongue!” Huxley barked.
A roaring rose in Magdala’s ears. “I will not stand by and watch as the crown prince of Allagesh is cut down pointlessly at his own coronation.”
“Then you will be replaced,” Huxley said calmly.
“Oh.” She turned on him, her voice trembling. “Oh, so you mean to get rid of me, too? Very neat and tidy.”
Huxley plucked a string from his sleeve. “You’re hysterical, Magdala. Now, be quiet, or I will have you removed from the room.”
Had Madelaine’s guards not been holding Magdala’s arms, she would have broken Huxley’s jaw. “At least let me go up the steps with him. Give me a chance.”
“It. Is. Not. Done,” Madelaine said, patting her open, ring-clad hand on the table with each word. “This coronation will be conducted in the traditional way.”
With an air of heavy finality, she rose and rustled from the room. Her guards released Magdala and she stumbled, bumping the table.
“I will be hiring mercenary guards,” Zephyr said. It was the first time he had spoken, and Magdala had forgotten he was in the room.
“The crown will not pay for them,” Huxley began, but Zephyr cut him off.
“I will pay for them myself. Know that they will be stationed at every tower, armed with long-range shotfires. I will have them astride dragons watching from the sky, and at each corner of the dais, watching the palace and the city. They will be stationed in the crowd. Whatever you have planned, know that it will not go unchecked.”
“Do you not think that such a show of force would weaken the prince’s image in the minds of the people …”
“What image?” Zephyr slammed his hand down, jarring the diagram. “Enough of your thwarting and excuses, Huxley! Asherton didn’t kill Julian, and it’s time you accepted that. I will have my guards, and you cannot stop me. Do you understand?”
A flicker of worry crossed Huxley’s face. “You didn’t give him the amenite, did you, Magdala? You saw a position of power for yourself, and you took it.”
Magdala sank into a chair. “You meant for me to hang for murder. My loyalties have changed.”
“Your father will be ashamed of you,” he spat. His boots clicked across the floor, but Magdala kept her eyes fixed on the little diagram of the staircase. She wanted to hurl it out the window.
The door slammed. Alone, Zephyr and Magdala sat in heavy silence.
“I need to get back to him,” Magdala said. “I’ve already been away too long.”
Zephyr laid his hand on Magdala’s shoulder. “Perhaps your trick with the flour will work. Perhaps the shotfire won’t fire.”
“Where is the money coming from for the mercenaries?”
Zephyr sat across from her and tapped his knee with his finger. “I was bluffing. I have no money.”
“But don’t you get a salary as Asherton’s valet?”
He shook his head. “I took Asherton in of my own accord, because no one else wanted him. I am not paid for it.”
“Why don’t you tell him that?”
Zephyr lifted one shoulder. “I don’t want him to think I felt sorry for him.”
“But everyone in his life is paid to be with him. Even me. He needs to know that you love him, just for him. Because, in a way, you’re his father.”
“I’m not his father. His father was an immoral alley cat who seduced that stupid woman who just left the room and then cast his son away like an old shoe. I am much better than a father.”
“Tell him.”
“Not now. There’s already too much on his mind. And you know how loud his mind can be. We need him to be focused tomorrow.”
The moon shone through the tall casements, casting silver patches on the carpet as Magdala passed down the hall, checking the windows, behind the curtains, inspecting doors and behind portraits. Her skin itched from anxiety.
Assured that the hall was secure, Magdala slipped into Asherton’s room and lay on her cot to wait out the night.
But her covers were too heavy, the room too warm, Asherton’s breathing too loud as he slept.
The coronation tomorrow was a field she must run through in a lightning storm.
What if she froze? What if her father noticed the flour in the powder horn?
She pictured Asherton sprawled on the stairs, his blood dripping down the steps, and she pictured herself standing helpless and stunned, a fool and a failure.
The door creaked and Magdala jerked up with a gasp, snatching her shotfire from the windowsill, but it was only Zephyr with a new shirt from the tailor.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “The tailor brought his clothes, but I doubted you would let him in.”
“You were right,” Magdala said, wiping her hands down her face.
Zephyr took a horsehair brush from the dressing table. “I know you have grown …” He brushed the coat slowly. “I know you have grown closer than is typical for a bodyguard and their charge, but I did raise him to be quite charming, so I can’t fault you for that.”
Magdala offered him a wan smile. “He loves you very much.”
“I wish I had done better. I wish I had been softer. I wish …” He let out a tremulous sigh, tightened his lips, and left the room.
Magdala lay down again and tried to sleep.
She needed to be at her best tomorrow. But every sound in the corridor sent an electric shock through her.
Twice, she went into the washroom and was sick in the sink.
Finally, she padded softly to Asherton’s bed.
She hesitated a moment before quietly climbing into the empty space beside him.
He stirred, and she lay still so as not to wake him, watching his chest rise and fall, rise and fall.
She noted the brush of his eyelashes on his cheeks, his smooth, tanned skin, and his hair curling over his brow.
Love was cruel, and Magdala hated it
The room faded from cobalt to gray as the sun rose, and found Magdala still awake, still watching Asherton, trying to somehow memorize him.
Dark clouds rolled in the sky, and a steady rain pattered against the windows.
Magdala noted it grimly. Rain made everything worse—reduced visibility, slippery ground, everything.
She waited until breakfast was announced before she got up to wake Asherton. She didn’t want him to know she had slept beside him — didn’t want to distract him with confusing emotions.
“Ash,” she whispered. He rolled his head on his pillow, his eyes clamped shut, like he was having a bad dream. “Asherton,” she said, louder, gripping his arm. He started awake with a sharp inhale and pulled away from her, then looked around the room frantically.
“Mags?” he sat up. “Is it the day?”
“Yes,” she replied.
He leaned against the headboard, his eyes bright, almost wild. He studied her, the muscle at the hinge of his jaw working, the way it did when he was angry. “Would you stay here, if I asked you to?” he asked quietly.
Magdala shook her head. “I would not.”
He nodded. “I didn’t expect you would. What if I dismissed you from my service?”
“I would follow you anyway. I will follow you anywhere.”
His gaze rested on her face, then her lips. “You’re so lovely,” he said. “Has anyone else ever told you that?”
“No,” she replied, straightening and tucking a wayward lock of hair behind her ear. “And neither should you.”
“I know, but it’s true.”
“What’s this?” she asked. “Are you losing confidence in me?”
“You’re very good at your job, Mags,” he said. “But even you can’t stand against the best-laid plans. Whatever happens today, know that it’s not your fault.”
“Nothing is going to happen today,” she assured him, but her chest was lead-heavy. “And if it does, it would be your fault, actually, for ignoring Zephyr’s and my advice and making everyone hate you.”
He smiled. “That’s the Mags I want to see.”
“Come and dress,” she said stoically, holding out her hand. “We’ll face the day together.”
Asherton grasped her hand and she drew him out of bed, then pushed him to the mirror where Zephyr set to dressing him.
Asherton’s face was pale and placid, except for a slight ticking in his cheek.
A horrible calm settled over Magdala as she watched the little spasm.
Or, worse than calm, a settled despair. It was too late now, and she hadn’t done enough.
Zephyr was alight with anxiety, brushing Asherton’s jacket threadbare and fussing over his boots. He bumped a table, jarring a china tea set. It crashed to the floor, spilling hot tea on the carpet. Zephyr barked out a string of curses and hurled the brush against the wall.
“It’s alright, Zeph,” Asherton said, straightening his long green cloak and stepping out of sight of the mirror. “Let’s just get through …”
“Why didn’t you listen to me?” Zephyr cried. “We had a plan, and it was working! What was the point of all those years, looking after you, if this is how it is to end?”
“Nothing is ending.” Asherton slid his ceremonial cutlass into the scabbard. “Gracious, you’re both so dramatic! No one is bold enough to shoot me in front of the whole city. Besides, it’s raining, and visibility will be terrible.”
His face paste-white, his lips tight, Zephyr gripped Asherton’s shoulder and exhaled, like he meant to speak, but the words must have died because he only shook his head.
After a long summer getting used to Asherton in his loose cotton shirts, his curls disordered, no shoes on his feet, seeing him dressed in state stole Magdala’s breath.
He looked taller, his shoulders broader.
The cloak brought out the green in his eyes.
He was beautiful and regal and all wrong.
She liked him much better with dirt on his hands, his jaw unshaven.
Magdala beckoned for them to come toward the door. “It’s time.”
“Perk up, both of you,” Asherton said. “Everything is going to be fine.”
He was lying. Magdala knew him well enough to know when he lied. But she appreciated that he wasn’t trembling and cowing. That he was putting on a brave face for Zephyr, at least.