Her lips twitched in a moment of gallows humor as she lifted her head, surveying the execution grounds. King Randor sat in a pavilion, Queen Marlena next to him…her face so expressionless that Emily knew she was under a spell. Randor wasn’t a particularly powerful magician, but his magic–combined with the Royal Bloodline–would certainly be strong enough to keep Marlena under control. Nightingale stood beside his master, his face unreadable. He wasn’t fool enough to betray his feelings in front of a massive crowd.
Their eyes met, just for a second. She thought she saw, hidden behind his bland expression, a fear so deep and abiding that it stunned her. Nightingale was terrified. She’d seen the type before, the hangers-on who praised and flattered the bullies for fear the bullies would turn on them, but she thought it was deeper than that. Perhaps Nightingale already feared his time was coming to an end. It might be his head on the block next, if the execution backfired spectacularly. There was no one in the kingdom, save perhaps for his family, who actually liked him.
Her blood ran cold as she saw the steps up to the platform–and, mounted on the top, a single wooden block. A man stood beside it, his face hidden behind a black mask and robe that hid almost everything. The Royal Executioner wouldn’t want anyone to know his identity, not after he’d sent hundreds of men–and a handful of women–to the next world. He probably had more enemies than the Custodian of the Tower of Alexis. Emily wondered, idly, if he was actually a she, but it didn’t seem likely. The figure was too solidly built to be a noblewoman.
And besides, he’s in public even if he is wearing a silly mask, Emily thought. It would be harder for a woman to pretend to be a man under so much scrutiny.
She stopped at the base of the steps, her legs suddenly unwilling to go any further. Matilda gave her a gentle shove, then let go of her arm and stepped back. Clearly, she was expected to make the ascent on her own. Emily tried to look, one final time, for a chance to escape, but there was nothing. An odd calmness descended on her as she climbed the steps, counting one by one. Five…six…seven…she was at the top, looking across a sea of faces and shining armor. It looked as though every soldier in the country was guarding the execution grounds. And yet…
Her eyes drifted across the city. It was quiet and still, as if the entire population was holding its collective breath. And yet…she could hear something in the distance, the sound of battle being joined. Sir Roger had said there was an army marching on the city, hadn’t he? She lifted her eyes to look at Randor, noting the pinched expression on his face. He was wearing a glamour, but the mere fact she knew it was there made it easy to see through it. She couldn’t resist a faint smile. The timing was awful. He couldn’t cancel–or even reschedule–her execution without looking weak, but he needed to split his forces between fending off the Noblest and guarding the execution grounds. No doubt he intended to rush his remaining soldiers to the front as soon as she was dead.
She took a long breath as the executioner gestured to the block. This was it, then. She was going to die. She felt as though she should feel something, but…she felt nothing as she carefully knelt in front of the wooden block. It had been a good run, she told herself, again and again. She’d changed an entire world. And…
And she didn’t want to die.
But there was no way out. She wanted–she needed–to leave behind a legend, a story of a girl who’d walked to her death rather than sell herself to the king. Alassa would take the throne, she was sure, and extract revenge for her death. She wondered, morbidly, if Randor would last a year. He had too many enemies to survive indefinitely.
And he didn’t give me any money, she thought, with a flicker of amusement. I can’t pay the headsman.
The executioner looked down at her, his eyes oddly familiar. Emily tensed as he motioned for her to bow her head, resting it against the hard wood…it felt almost warm, against her neck. The executioner lifted his axe…
…And all hell broke loose.
Chapter Thirty-Six
“GET DOWN,” THE EXECUTIONER SNAPPED.
He shoved Emily, hard. She rolled over, landing roughly on the platform. He landed on top of her a moment later as the ground shook repeatedly, enormous bangs echoing over the city; he pushed her down as the shooting started, bullets flying in all directions. Emily gritted her teeth as the noise grew louder, feeling the entire platform starting to shake. People were shouting and screaming and running in all directions.
The executioner pulled off his mask. “Emily,” Cat said. “We found you!”
Emily stared at him in shock. “You? What are…?”
“Saving you,” Cat said. He rolled her over, effortlessly, and cut through her bonds with a knife he pulled from his sleeve. “We need to be ready to move.”
Emily nodded, stiffly. It was hard to see anything from her position, but it was clear that the Levellers were attacking Randor’s men. The sound of shooting was growing louder, accompanied by explosions that seemed to echo over the city. And…she looked at Cat, feeling a burst of something she wasn’t sure how to describe. He’d come for her, he’d saved her…she wanted to kiss him, caught up in the sheer pleasure of being alive. And yet, they weren’t out of trouble yet.
“Drink this,” Cat said, passing her a small potions vial. “Hurry.”
He stood, whipping up his magic. Matilda flew up into the air, her magic billowing around her, and came straight at him. They crashed together, waves of magic spilling in all directions; Emily heard people screaming as they were caught in the flow. She kept her head down as bullets flew over her head, opening the vial and putting it to her lips. The smell nearly made her think better of it, but there was no choice. She had to restore her magic before it was too late.
The taste tried hard to make her retch, but she kept her mouth closed as she silently counted to thirty before opening her mouth and throwing up, violently. Her entire body convulsed, sweat pouring down her body as it expelled the potion. Normally, it would be better to wait for the potion to wear off, but they didn’t have time. Her fingers were shaking, helplessly, as she forced herself to sit up and cast a spell. The magic responded slowly, still suffering the effects of the potion, but it was there. She hastily removed the spells Matilda had put on the bracelet, then wrapped a set of wards around herself. The entire platform was on the verge of collapse.
A young woman jumped up the steps and ran towards her. Emily blinked in surprise as she recognized Alassa, wearing a shirt and trousers more suitable for a laborer than a princess. She carried a wand in one hand and a flintlock pistol in the other. A faint haze of magic surrounded her, deflecting a handful of bullets as she knelt down beside Emily. Her face was practically glowing with excitement.
“Emily,” she called. She wrapped her arm around Emily’s shoulders and helped her to her feet. “Get up!”
Emily nodded, feeling her legs threatening to give way. She’d been pushed right to the limits even before she’d taken the purgative. It was hard to remain upright, even with Alassa holding her in place. She had to fight to start moving towards the edge, despite the bullets snapping around them. They were far too exposed on the platform.
She looked past the platform edge and shuddered. Dead bodies–civilians and soldiers–lay everywhere, while small groups of soldiers battled an angry mob of armed civilians. The Levellers had brought a lot of weapons to the party, Emily realized numbly; fighting in close quarters, the soldiers had fewer advantages than they might have wished. She sucked in her breath as she saw the largest group of soldiers surrounding the pavilion, where Randor was still seated in his throne. There was no sign of Marlena.
“Father,” Alassa said.