He nodded. “Alright then.”
At that moment, Magdala knew that falling for him was a fatal mistake.
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.”
