Page 110 of Healer to the Ash King
I’m falling, I am—severed.
The Ash King screams.
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I have heard that a person’s brain remains active even when the head is cut off. I’ve seen it happen with chickens.
With my head separated from my body, I can’t speak, but I am stillhere.
Two people are screaming—one in mortal agony, the other with boundless rage. Against my brow and my hair, I feel the heat from a blast of streaming fire somewhere nearby.
My head has rolled aside, my eyes fixed with shock. I’m gazing at the face of Wirtun, the Cheimhold spy whose tortured body I once healed. He is partly Rotted, his face sagging and seeping, but he’s moving, crawling toward me.
He reaches out—what is he doing? He is cupping my head with his corroded fingers. Setting my severed neck against my body—gods, my body, I can sense my body again. Now that I’m nearer to it, I can feel the wound, the gap between me and—the rest of me.
My healing power usually flows through my fingers, but it is centered in my mind, connected to my eyes. I focus my last spasming thoughts, calling upon the well of healing power that’s still there inside my consciousness—not fully recharged, butthere, thanks to the few hours I was unconscious. With every bit of force I can muster, I push healing magic into that narrow gap in my neck.
I fuse the spine first. Then I reattach the veins, the arteries. Each restored connection strengthens and speeds the healing. Rapidly I sew the nerves together, link the tendons and tissues, restore the windpipe. I’m repairing the skin now, replenishing the blood I lost, spurring my heart to pump and my lungs to haul in air.
I’m working faster than I’ve ever worked in my life. I’ll be exhausted after this—nearly depleted again—but I’ll be alive.
There’s fire spewing through the room, streams of it arching across my body. One stream catches the Cheimhold spy’s half-rotted corpse and he burns to ash. The flames from his carcass singe the skin of my arm.
He saved me, and I will never be able to thank him.
Only one voice is screaming now, cold fury and tormented rage. That single mighty voice is the source of all the fire. The Ash King is burning everything in the room, because he thinks I’m dead. He might end up burning me, too, unless I can get his attention.
I still can’t speak. Can’t scream. My body is in a shocked state, paralyzed, all energies focused on healing.
I repair my vocal cords last of all, and I manage to force one tiny word out.
“Perish.”
He stops roaring, and the streaming fire gutters, falters.
Praise the gods for his enhanced hearing.
“Perish,” I whisper again.
“Cailin?” He crashes to my side, sweeps an arm outward to extinguish the remaining flames. “Guards!” he roars.
Cautiously his guards enter the room and cluster around us. He must have told them to wait while he dealt with the rebels. It’s a small comfort that none of them witnessed my terrible magic.
“Cailin. Cailin.” The Ash King keeps repeating my name in a voice that is raw from screaming. His hands hover over my neck and face, as if he fears my head will fall off at a mere touch.
“Open the windows,” says one of the guards—Owin’s voice. “Let’s get some fresh air in here, clear the smoke.”
Some of the guards hurry away to help him.
Gingerly the Ash King lifts my head onto his lap, touching the healed skin of my neck. “How?” he says. “He killed you. You were—gods, Cailin, you were gone.”
“Not quite,” I whisper. “Perish—what I did to you—I—I’m sorry—”
“You helped me destroy a threat to the crown,” he says tightly. “It was well done.”
“I can’t control my magic, Perish,” I murmur, so low only he can hear me. “It’s out now, and I can’t—I can’t—”
“Kitten.” He takes my hand in his, lifts it to his mouth. “I know.” His voice is deep, sincere, tinged with anguish. “I know. I understand, better than anyone.”
