Page 106 of Healer to the Ash King
“You’re one of them,” he wheezes. “Aren’t you? You’re—a Rotter. And a rebel. You want me dead. You’ve wanted me dead—all this time—spying for them—”
“No.” A jumble of words pours out of me. “No, I’m not one of them. My friends are, and they asked me to spy on you, but only after I got here. I told them I wouldn’t be their assassin. I thought they were right about you, about the kingdom—but then you told me your secrets, and I realized they were wrong about everything. As for my Rotter magic—it saved you from the poison. Khloe poisoned both of us with the lip stain, and then she tried to stab you—you can ask the guards. I don’t use my Rotter magic, Perish, Iwon’tuse it—Ican’thurt you. I love you.”
He reaches for me.
I move closer with a sob of relief, placing my hands in his.
With a clawing wrench, he tears the rings from my fingers—the palace ring he gave me, and the wooden ring from the Ruse Wake.
Sparks flicker deep in his cavernous dark eyes. “This is over.”
My face crumples. “No.”
His breathing is labored, his voice faint. “It would have been bad enough rejecting all the noble daughters for a barefoot village girl—but how can I marry the anarchist sympathizer who tried to kill me?”
I cup both hands over my mouth, tears streaming down my cheeks. I’m breaking apart. Dying, corroding, rotting inside.
“Go,” he says. “No one else has to know of this. I will not kill you or imprison you—I could not bear that—but you must go. Leave, and do not return. I never want to see you again.”
“Perish,” I whisper.
But he drags himself up on his elbows and speaks one more word on a hot gust of angry breath. “Go!”
I’m barely conscious of what I’m doing. But I manage to keep my face calm as I leave the king’s quarters and make my way to the hall where the Favored reside. Khloe’s room is empty—her maids are sleeping in their own chambers. I wonder if they knew of her true allegiance to the Undoing. I wonder if her family knows, or if, like Perish’s cousin, she kept it secret from everyone. She would have had to conceal it, or she could not have made it this far in the competition. Once word of her treachery gets out, her family’s reputation will be ruined.
In the back of a drawer full of underthings, I find the container with the melting acid. I leave the palace’s inner walls by a different route this time, and I hurry to the sluice gate, stumbling with exhaustion. My eyes are dry. I have no more energy for tears. As I limp along the dark tunnel toward the gate, my vision keeps clouding over.
Rince is still there, a black silhouette in the gloom. “Is it done?”
“Yes.” I push the bottle of acid through the bars. He catches it as I collapse, and my vision finally fades into darkness.
My mouth tastes terrible. Like the skin of a potsava root before it has been washed. Dry and mealy, with a hint of sourness. I’m not sure how long I was unconscious; I’ve regained some of my healing energy, but certainly not all of it.
Pain thrums at the side of my skull, near my temple. Maybe I hit my head when I passed out—when I collapsed in the tunnel near the sluice gate, with Rince—
My eyes fly open.
There’s a face peering into mine—pale, lightly freckled, with piercing pale-blue eyes. An attractive man, not quite to his fortieth year. Red hair waves across his brow and reddish scruff colors his jawline. His lips are thin, and the edges of his coat’s high collar are worn and frayed.
“Cailin,” he says, smiling far too widely. “Healer to the Ash King. Welcome to the Capital headquarters of the Undoing.”
I suck in a sharp breath and struggle to a sitting position.
“You’re lovely, aren’t you?” He laughs lightly, running a knuckle along a lock of my hair. “I’ve seen the sketches, but in person—mygods.”
“Why am I here?”
He doesn’t answer. Keeps smiling. “You can try to water-wield. It won’t work. We’re on the third floor of this building, and we cleared the place of water. That was a job, let me tell you. Very inconvenient. Troublesome. Like most of what you’ve done for our cause, eh? Which is very little.” His grin widens.
I don’t like him. He’s talking in a friendly, conversational tone—bright eyes and a sunny expression. But there’s a tightness around those eyes, fangs concealed behind that smile.
I scan the room—a large one, studded with wooden support posts and lamplit tables. The twenty or so people I can see are hurriedly packing a few crates and some bundles. There’s litter scattered across the floor, as if more items and supplies were here, but they’ve already been packed up and carried away. At the far end of the room are four narrow windows. It’s still black night outside.
The red-haired man—whom I assume is the leader of the anarchists in this city—is right. There is no water that I can sense, anywhere around. Everything is dry as dust. How I wish I could wield mixed or impure liquids—tears, sweat, wine, piss, or even blood. But my magic will only work with water. If there was some mud around, I could possibly lift some water particles from it as long as it was recently dampened—but there is nothing. Not a drop I can use.
I look to my right, and there, bound and kneeling, are my parents. They’re horribly thin, and their wrists are raw from the ropes. They’ve been tied like this for a while, maybe for days. How long has the Undoing been holding them here?
Sickening realization strikes at my heart. I’ve been lounging in the palace, dancing, doing magic, sleeping with the King, while my parents were in the hands of the anarchists.
