“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. Bythe 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 wasuncertain 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.
