That was all she came up with before one of the carriage windows exploded inward with a rain of glass and—a powder bomb? No. A sort of waterskin that burst open when it hit the opposite wall, spraying water all over the interior of the carriage, including Ayla. But the water felt strange on her skin, too thick, and that smell . . .

“Get out!” one of the guards cried. “Get out now!”

Through the window, a flaming arrow. It struck the wall just as the waterskin had and fell to the floor. One of the guards stamped it out immediately, but the velvet curtains had already ignited, and the first arrow was quickly followed by a second and a third. Ayla scrambled to her feet as the flames spread across the carpeted floor, the velvet benches. She understood now. They hadn’t been sprayed with water. They’d been sprayed with oil. The interior of the carriage soaked with it, pure tinder. Within seconds, everything was burning. Ayla coughed, eyes watering, as one of the guards hauled her up by the back of her shirt and practically tossed her out the carriage door. She hit the ground hard, slipped in the mud and fell again, hard enough to knock the breath out of her. For a moment Ayla sat there, her entire spine lit up with pain, gasping for air, blind in the sudden darkness.

Behind her, the fire roared, and she heard the pop of the other windows shattering from the heat. Ayla dragged herself upright, a wall of blistering heat at her back, and tried to keep her breathing steady. She closed her eyes and saw another fire imprinted on the backs of her eyelids, as if burning inside her skull: the fire that had raged through her village, devouring whole homes and families, her parents. A wall of orange-gold, the ends of her hair catching like tinder just from being too close. The air wavering, smoke in her lungs, in her throat, her skin so hot she remembered being terrified it would melt right off her bones. She hadn’t even witnessed the worst of it, not after Storme shoved her into the outhouse. But she’d listened. To the roar. The wood of her family’s home splintering, collapsing. Distant screams.

No. She couldn’t lose herself to memory. Ayla forced her eyes open and tried to make sense of the chaos laid out before her. Lit by the burning carriage, it was a riot of movement, a tangle of bodies: maybe ten bandits, human, in leather and furs, some on foot wielding short curved swords, three on horseback with crossbows. The source of the flaming arrows. All of them were converging on the queen’s guards, who moved with superhuman speed, darting in and out of reach, blades catching the firelight and flashing gold like an Automa’s eyes. The guards were holding their own, but Ayla could see one of them was clutching her side and another was favoring her right leg, though not slowing down. They were skilled warriors, stronger and faster than the human bandits, but still . . . it was ten against four, and the bandits on horseback, having succeeded in setting the carriage on fire, now had their crossbows trained on the guards, following their movements. Why weren’t they shooting? Were they waiting for something?