Chapter 39
Magdala awoke in a panic. Her first thought was that they had moved her back into the servants’ quarters — away from Asherton. But when she opened her eyes, it was the same gilded ceiling, the same brocade-curtained bed she’d lost consciousness in.
How could she have fallen asleep? The physician, the chambermaid, the cook in the kitchen far below them — all possible assassins. She needed to be awake and watchful.
A soft grunt pulled her attention, and she found Asherton lying next to her, asleep.
His arm was swollen, marbled purple, and splinted, but it still had that unnatural shape, his hand twisted the wrong direction.
There was a slight crease between his brows, not typical of him when he slept. Her heart stuttered; was he in pain?
“Ash?” she whispered. He didn’t stir, so she turned his good hand palm up and placed two fingers on his wrist. His pulse beat steady and even, and she lay her head on the pillow and indulged in two exhausted sobs.
But there was no time for crying. They were still trapped in a den of wolves, and Asherton was injured.
Magdala wiped her face with her sleeve, steadied her breathing until the lump in her throat eased, and tried to plan, but the odds were impossible. The people still raged outside the palace gates, and the royal guard was still under Huxley’s thumb.
As the sun receded across the floor and faded to darkness, Magdala lay beside Asherton for a second night in silent watchfulness, again counting every flutter of his heart, every rise and fall of his chest. Her terror and guilt twined around her like a cloud of noxious smoke.
You should not have allowed this to happen, a voice whispered in her mind. She did not know if it meant the assassination attempt or her love. Both were true in equal measure.
Zephyr came in with food and tea. Pulling a chair beside the bed, he passed his hand over his eyes and groaned. Even the duck on his blue sweater looked tired.
Magdala refused to make any apologetic movement away from Asherton. For a few gut-wrenching moments that morning, she’d believed she’d lost him. The terror still thrummed in every nerve, and she wanted to find some way to stitch him to her so they could never be parted again.
“Well, you managed to save his life and nearly kill him at the same time,” Zephyr said. “Well done.”
Magdala traced the veins in Asherton’s wrist with her finger. “What did the physician say?”
“He’s alright. Bruised, and his arm is badly broken. Apparently, some very heavy person crushed it under their body.”
Magdala winced. “Why didn’t they set it?”
“You were in a right panic.” Zephyr leaned back, his eyes piercing. “And he insisted the physicians see to you first. By the time they finished, his arm was too swollen to set. They want to wait until it settles.”
“What is the mood of the palace?” Magdala asked. “And the city?”
Zephyr scrubbed his hands down his face.
Magdala sickened. “What? What is it?”
“It’s very bad, Magdala. It’s the worst.”
“What? Tell me.”
He jogged his knee until the floorboards creaked. “For a few hours after the explosion, word spread that Asherton was dead, the people were rioting, and in that brief state of emergency, the council agreed to overturn the law about male rulers and crown Madelaine, officially.”
The muscles in Magdala’s face slackened. “No …”
“And so, the people had a taste of their royalist desires for a few hours before the truth spread. But if Asherton were to die, then the queen would be crowned again, the royal line secured. Magdala”—he planted his elbows on his knees and wrung his hands—“they have never wanted him dead more than they do at this moment.”
She touched her forehead, her calloused fingers snagging on a cotton bandage pasted against her skin. “We need to get him out of the city tonight.”
Magdala felt as though she were shut up in a box, the walls crushing inward. How could she protect him here? What if she couldn’t? She’d already failed once - failed devastatingly. Her confidence was shaken, and her love for Asherton turned to despair.
“I will procure dragons for us,” Zephyr said.
Magdala tried to imagine Asherton riding a dragon with his swollen, twisted arm. It sent a terrible chill all the way to her toes. “A coach would be better.”
“More obvious. Slower.”
He was right, but Magdala wasn’t certain she could manage the bump and jostle and thin air of flight either.
Her head still pounded; the nausea hadn’t relinquished.
Gingerly, she touched the bandage again; even the slight brush of her fingers sent shots of pain from her temple to her jaw.
Her vision in her right eye was blurry, her mind sluggish.
There was no time for this. Asherton was vulnerable, the assassins still at large, and she needed to keep sharp.
“I don’t think he can manage a dragon, and I’m not sure I can either. And they're so exposed. A coach will be less conspicuous.”
Zephyr shrugged his consent and left her to her anxiety. Her gaze drifted back to Asherton, and she bent over him, stroking his hair. He opened his eyes and blinked at her. “Mags? What’s wrong? Are you alright?”
“You need to get up,” she whispered. “We’re leaving.”
“You look better.” He brushed her cheek with his curled fingers.
“I’m well. Head wounds are dramatic, and I was frightened. I’m back to normal now.”
He sat up stiffly. “Do you have a dragon?”
“Zephyr is getting a coach.”
Asherton sat on the edge of the bed and Magdala gripped his arm, steadying him as he stood. He was uncertain on his feet, dizzy and sore, but so was she. They were like two sticks leaned together, each holding the other up.
Magdala couldn’t bend over without her vision blurring, so Asherton knelt and slipped her socks and boots onto her feet. Then she helped him get his good arm into his jacket’s sleeve.
Hands clasped, they walked down the corridor and through the shadowy palace.
Magdala took a back staircase through the kitchens and then out into the dark courtyard.
A few palace guards tried to stop them, but Magdala brandished a knife, and what were they to do?
Asherton was king now. They could not stand in his way.
They found Zephyr in the gravel drive behind the kitchen, waiting with a boxy little coach, pulled by two plodding land dragons.
Magdala placed her hand on Asherton’s back and nodded at the coach. “Go on.”
But with his fingers twined in Magdala’s, he stepped to the open door. “You first, my lady,” he said.
Magdala rolled her eyes, but let him hold her hand as she climbed in, like she was a fine lady leaving a ball. She spared him a quick smirk as she ducked into the dark interior.
“Sit on the floor,” she said as he struggled, one-armed, inside. His teeth were on edge, his face ashen. The door shut and Zephyr slapped the reins on the dragons’ backs. They clattered over the gravel and onto the cobblestone street.
Asherton hugged his arm against his body and inhaled sharply.
“You alright?” Magdala asked.
He nodded, but the floor rocked and bumped, and Asherton tried to brace against the wall to steady himself. He ground his teeth. Hoping to absorb some of the jolts, she hugged him from behind and rested her aching head on his shoulder.
Magdala questioned her decision to leave so quickly.
Clearly, Asherton was in pain. If he developed a fever, or one of his bruised ribs proved worse than they imagined, what then?
It was a long journey home, and the accommodations were poor.
What if one of his ribs was cracked, it punctured a lung, and filled his chest cavity with air?
But they could not stay in Largotia. By morning, they would be safe again. And that’s all she wanted—for him to be safe.
“Alright, MoCrida?” She choked on the word, and it came out as a squeak.
“I’m just being dramatic,” Asherton said. This annoyed her—why couldn’t he admit he was in agony and let her comfort him? “What does that word mean?”
“Nothing.” She smiled to herself. Her head injury must be softening her brain.
The coach’s wheels grated on the dirt, and it lurched to a stop. Zephyr’s voice sounded at the front, but a cacophony of angry voices drowned him out. They rumbled like water rolling over boulders, and then one rose above the others.
Huxley.
Magdala gripped Asherton’s hand.
“Listen to me, Ash,” she said, hurried and frantic. “Don’t fight them. They’ll kill us both if you do. Do what they say and I can talk our way out of this. If you get the chance to run, do it. Don’t wait for me.”
Asherton nodded and untangled his fingers from hers. In the darkness, she couldn’t see his face, but his fingers brushed her jaw. “I don’t regret that kiss in the cave. I would kiss you again if you let me, and every day for the rest of my life.”
Boots scuffed outside. The latch caught, then shattered.
“I can’t live without you,” he went on, more to himself than to her. “I won’t.”
“Stop it,” Magdala breathed. “Please, not now.”
“I need to say this.” The words rushed out of him like spilled wine. “I love you more than my own soul—infinitely more than my own life.”
The door swung open and torchlight spilled across his face. The settled determination in his eyes struck terror to her marrow.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” Magdala pleaded. “Remember who you are, remember who I am.”
Asherton let out a quick breath, and she saw in his expression that she was no more just a bodyguard to him than he was just a charge to her.
The bone-white barrel of a shotfire shone in the flashing light. Huxley’s sneering voice cut through the clamor. “There’s our new king,” he sneered. “Out for a drive, I see. Come out, and let’s crown you.”