Page 105 of Healer to the Ash King
“Is he awake?” I ask a passing servant, but she doesn’t appear to hear me.
A guard grips me by the elbow. Owin. “I thought you were fetching Jonald,” he says.
“I got lost,” I murmur. “And then when I found Jonald’s room, he wouldn’t answer the door. His hearing isn’t good, I think. Old age, you know?”
Owin accepts the lie, nodding. “You should check on the King. He still seems weak.”
“I will.” A lump rises in my throat, and I swallow it down. “Can you clear his room? I’m drained pretty low, and I need space to concentrate and complete the healing.”
“Of course.” Owin nods again, eagerly. “Anything you need.”
As he speaks to the other guards and servants, I enter Perish’s room, drifting to his bedside like someone walking in a dream. He is splayed against silken sheets, their dark-gray sheen a startling contrast to his pale skin and moon-white hair.
The room has been cleared, and Owin shuts the door, leaving me alone with my decision.
I can’t kill him, because I love him. I love him more than I love my parents. Which sounds strange and wrong, but it’s inescapably true.
But I love my parents as well, so much. They are gentle people, fervent in their art, generous to others. They love me. They love our mountain and its gifts. They don’t deserve to die simply because their daughter was stupid enough to get tangled in a web she didn’t fully understand.
I can’t allow them to die.
But Perish—the kingdom needs him. Without him, our enemies might rise against us once more, and this time they might win.
There has to be another way. But time is so short. Rince will have sent the messenger back to his overseers by now. They will be counting the minutes until they can shed my parents’ blood. I have to kill the King quietly, leave the palace, and go back to the Undoing with Rince.
I won’t do that. My heart would never survive it.
What is wrong with me? Am I really prioritizing the life of a man I recently met over the lives of the man and woman who birthed me and loved me for years? My parents would be so hurt, so disappointed to know that I would spare the Ash King and let them die.
What sort of despicable daughter am I?
I could kill the Ash King right now, and save my family.
As if my magic is responding to my thoughts, black tendrils unfurl from my fingertips, slithering across the prone form on the bed. I barely have to flex my will at all, and those dark ribbons begin to coil around the Ash King’s hand, writhing along his wrist, corroding his skin. They lace around his neck, rotting through flesh until I can see the tendons, the red muscle blackening. Magic crawls across his mouth, eating away his lips down to his teeth.
I should not have used this magic at all. It’s at the surface now, too eager, too powerful, like a gnawing, clawing creature wrenching at its chains, slavering for death and for blood.
What am I doing?
I’m hurting the man I love.
Frantically I drag the magic away from him, hauling it back inside me.
I’m still trying to retract it when the Ash King’s eyes flare open.
He sees the blackness flowing from my hands. Lifts his own rotted fingers, jointed bones with rags of glistening flesh and withered skin. A faint gasp issues from his ruined jaws.
“No,” I whimper. “No.” And with a mighty effort I suck it all back in—all the corrosion. I’ve used nearly all my healing magic—using any more will hurt me, but I don’t care. I thrust every last bit of my energy into his body, repairing his perfect lips, his strong throat, his precious fingers. Pain wracks my nerves, and my vision gutters, blackness crawling at its edges.
“I’m sorry,” I gasp. “I’m sorry, Perish, I’m sorry.”
The look in his eyes shatters my heart. Shock, horror, and the agony of betrayal—he has every right to feel them all.
I am the thing that he hates. A Rotter, like the one who killed his father.
And I tried to kill him just now. Or my magic did, which is the same thing.
I am, and have always been, his enemy.
