Magdala’s nostrils flared, her eyes darkened, and Julian sensibly strode to the armory room. Magdala followed him, her stomach in knots.
After arming herself with a rusty shotfire loaded with rubber pellets, Magdala sorted through the cracked and dented forearm shields before she found one that was stillmoderately sturdy. Julian took a long, hollow dragon bone and shoved a fizzing mushroom into the end. Sparks flickered on the mushroom’s head.
Magdala’s anxiety rose. What if Julian did let the crowd break through the line of guards? All he had to do was unloop his arm from hers. What if his reckless hatred got her killed?
“Your armor,” the armorer said, handing Magdala a domed wooden helmet and a leather vest stuffed with cork. Magdala slipped on the vest first. The helmet concealed her face, with just a rectangle for her eyes, her peripheral vision obstructed. Her breath turned to water droplets on the musty wood.
Without waiting for Julian, Magdala pushed through the mass of damp, muscular bodies back toward the door.
Outside, the distant crowd hummed like cicadas on a summer night. Heat lightning strobed in the clouds, and the heavy air was acrid with smoke and human sweat. Magdala crossed the narrow bridge over the palace moat. The river sparkled as it slid slowly below her. She shuddered.
Shoving men, women, and even children out of her way, she made for the line of guards blocking off the main road. A few villagers resisted, but most of them took one look at her broad frame, made bulkier by the padded leather, and shied away.
A small gap formed in the line and she stepped into it, linking arms with the men to her right and left. Julian caught up to her and slipped in beside her, his arm looped through hers.
She couldn’t see his face, but his eyes glinted in the torchlight through the slit in his helmet.
“Hold, Julian,” Magdala said.
His body was board-stiff, his knees locked.
“Relax,” she hissed.
Wheels clattered on cobbles, and the crowd surged forward. Shouts and jeers swept over them like an advancing storm, a rumble that fell into a chant:
“Royal blood for Allagesh! Down with the bastard! Royal blood for Allagesh! Down with the bastard!”
A fizz and a yelp cut the commotion, and Magdala glimpsed one of her colleagues prodding a villager with his sparkstick, the mushroom at the end a confetti of blue in the flashing dark. The man spasmed and fell and crawled away, one arm hanging limp.
Julian’s elbow pinched Magdala’s bicep. She dug her fingers into his arm, holding him in place, hoping to keep him from faltering.
Heat rose from the mob in oily waves. The chanting crescendoed until it thrummed in Magdala’s chest. Villagers strained against her. A man and a woman filled her vision—all angry eyes and flashing teeth. She could smell sourdough on their breath and wondered if it was from the same bread she’d made hours before. The man reached over her shoulder, pumped his fist, and shrieked, “Royal blood for Allagesh! Down with the bastard!”
The woman tried to lean between Magdala and Julian, her voice shrill in Magdala’s ear. Magdala held her ground. The bodies shifted, compressed, crashing into the line of guardsand then falling back, crashing again and falling back again, like the relentless rhythm of ocean waves.
Magdala felt rather than heard the coach as it rolled behind her. The vibration tickled the soles of her boots. The villagers grew more frantic, their voices a roar.
Julian wavered.
“No,” Magdala gasped, tightening her arm on his. “Hold!”
Someone knocked into her, and her helmet was jostled from her head. It fell to the ground with a thud and disappeared in the forest of legs.
Julian’s grip weakened.
“NO!” Magdala commanded. Her hair stuck to her forehead, and stinging sweat dripped into her eyes. She bared her teeth, braced her stance, and meant to hold like a stone bastion.
But Julian’s arm relaxed and then, all at once, slipped from her grasp.
The villagers slid through the crack like water from a broken pitcher. Magdala’s instincts drowned out her father’s voice in her head and her own hatred. Trying to stop them, she grabbed arms and shirts, yanking desperately, but her feet lifted from the ground. Her back struck something solid and hollow. Hands tore at her, bodies crushed her. She could not breathe. She was being smothered. Panicked, Magdala groped along the smooth wood behind her until her fingers found a metal handle. She pulled on it. It held, locked, but Magdala was frantic. She drew her knife, jammed the blade into the crack in the door, and slammed it downward. The latch clicked and the door gave. Magdaladrew her sparkstick and zapped the nearest body. For an instant, the pressure relented. Wrenching the coach’s door open, she scrambled inside.
Magdala gasped, her lungs inflating again. The door clicked shut behind her, muffling the screams and jeers. Before she could turn and apologize to the prince and his valet, fingers buried in her hair and wrenched her head back. A clammy hand closed over her mouth. Why were they treating her like this? She was a royal guard. She was here to protect them.
Magdala tried to shout, “I’m a royal guard,” but someone stuffed a grimy cloth in her mouth. It tasted of salt. It was dark in the coach—so dark she couldn’t make out their faces, and they could not see her uniform.
“Hold her! Don’t let her go!” said a deep voice from across the carriage.
“What do we do with her?” rasped the man holding her. He sounded younger than the first man, and he was strong. Stronger than Magdala, which frightened her.
