Page 1 of Healer to the Ash King
1
I live in a land full of memories, fossilized and crystallized by time.
Our kingdom of Bolcan was buried a million years ago by the fiery vomit of the volcanoes that encircle our borders. Most of the volcanoes are sleeping now, though a few still whisper, while smoke curls ominously from their peaks.
In the gullies and along the coal seams, we find chunks of trees that grew lifetimes ago. We unearth the pieces gently, polishing them, admiring the variegated colors of the petrified wood—scarlet, soft yellow, pale blue, pearly white. Some of it is opalized, golden and rich with minerals. Some pieces have a speckled or spotted pattern, caused by the drilling of tiny creatures. Our craftspeople hew the largest chunks into tables or seats for the wealthy nobles of the Capital, while smaller pieces are polished for clock faces, jewelry, and sculptures. Our most skilled lapidary worker, Ceardai, took the largest piece of petrified wood ever found in our kingdom and created the throne of the Ash King himself.
We also farm the rich volcanic soil, producing the most bountiful crops on the entire continent. Volcanic ash contains valuable nutrients, and it’s porous, the perfect density to help the earth retain moisture.
I love the volcanoes. I love the way they growl ominously yet give us the fertile ground we need. I love the sleek green slopes, the blue peaks that trail white clouds of steam, and the tall palms with their feathery fronds dotted across the broad landscape.
Though our village is small, I’ve never felt confined here. In this place we are far from the crushing influence of the Capital and our oppressive ruler, the Ash King. We’re far from the Ashlands, the part of our kingdom he razed with fire five years ago, when he was twenty, just before he took the crown.
I have never seen the Ash King, and I don’t wish to. All I want is to live here, in this beautiful village on the slopes of Analoir Doiteain, the “Fire Breather,” the highest peak in this region.
I ambeireoir uisce, bringer of water. My magic guides the water from the great river in the valley, up to the fields on the slopes. Which is where I am today, with my bare knees pressed into cool, damp soil, siphoning a trickle of water from the stream running between the potsava beds, coaxing it to curl around a diseased plant so I can cure its ailment and ease its growth.
“Cailin!”
Someone is calling me. The distraction makes me frown; I don’t like being interrupted during a healing session, whether I’m treating a plant or a person.
“Cailin!” The voice is young, shrill, insistent. It’s Peach, one of the boys from the village. He lives in the house next to mine. I healed him when he had hibernal fever last winter.
“Can it wait?” I call.
“No!” He’s coming closer; I can hear him panting. “Cailin, it’s the Ash King.”
“Is he dead?” I ask brightly. What a glad day that would be. No more fear that he might scorch a giant swath of our kingdom again. Maybe the next ruler will lighten the taxes on our produce, provide funding for more teachers and libraries, encourage advancements in magical learning.
The Ash King doesn’t believe in the study or expansion of magical abilities. His Ricters, officers of magical control, are severe and unrelenting in the performance of their duties, which involve traveling the kingdom and doing a mandatory resonance reading of every citizen, to gauge their abilities. Anyone deemed to possess a dangerous ability is Muted—marked with a tattoo that limits the use of their powers.
If anyone needs a Muting tattoo, it’s the King himself.
Unless he’s dead, and then we might have a chance at a new kind of government—the kind my friends Brayda and Rince want.
“He’s not dead.” Peach leans over, bracing his palms on his thighs. “He’s here, in the village.”
Shock drenches me like cold water. “Here? Why in the Heartsfire would he behere?”
“How should I know? But you’re supposed to come immediately.”
“Me?” My hands drop to my bare thighs. “Now? But—I’m not dressed to meet a king.”
I wear a simple band of blue cloth around my breasts when I work. My pants used to be long, but I cut them to mid-thigh because the more of my skin is touching the ground, the more clearly I can sense the moisture, and discern what needs to be done with it. My skin, naturally a light brown, has darkened to a deeper hue thanks to my daily sun exposure. My dark brown hair is bundled in a frizzy knot, straggly bits trailing onto my sweat-damp neck. My lower legs and my hands are coated with soil.
I can’t meet a king this way.
“Peach, are you sure the Ash King wantsme?” I say desperately.
The boy nods. “The King’s herald said, ‘Cailin the Healer.’ That’s you.”
“Rutting ash,” I swear, rising. I use a little of the water I’ve been wielding to bathe my legs and arms. They’re still a bit grubby, but it will have to do.
“Hurry,” Peach urges. “I don’t think he likes to be kept waiting.”
I cast a look at the irrigation stream nearby. My magic will linger with it, keeping it flowing upward as I directed, instead of back down to the river. The effect lasts for a few days, and hopefully this odd meeting won’t take more than an hour at most.
That’s what I tell myself. But my stomach has coiled into a sickening knot, and as I race barefoot across the fields with Peach, I fight the urge to stop and retch.
