Page 12 of Healer to the Ash King
Teagan herself has that pained brightness in her eyes again. “An eventful journey,” she says.
I vent a half-sob, half-laugh. “That’s an understatement.”
She glances over at me. “Stop antagonizing him,” she says under her breath, so low I can barely hear it. “Stay quiet, be respectful, and you’ll find he can be pleasant company.”
There are two guards between us and the Ash King, so I feel safe enough to reply, “Is that what you want in a husband? Pleasant company, as long as you don’t make him angry? And if you do, an explosion of fire? Whiplashes and scorch marks?”
“There are advantages to being his bride,” she says. “And you have to admit, he’s nice to look at. A thorough lover, I’m told.”
“Are you sure he doesn’t spew lava when he comes?” I whisper behind my hand. Her eyes flare wide, and her lips pucker like she’s holding back a grin.
“Watch yourself, Cailin,” she says. “I like you. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
My mouth relaxes, my smile fading as I stare at the Ash King’s back several paces ahead. I think of his flaming eyes and mouth, of the fire streaming from his hands, scarring the slender trees. I think of his palm searing my chest.
Teagan is kind. But she doesn’t realize I’ve already been hurt.
The capital city of Cawn is even more glorious than I anticipated. Its outer walls with their pointed guard-towers are impressive enough, but the city’s most dominant feature is the Triune Arch, three magnificent arches of white stone embellished with gold. They soar into the sky, so tall they seem to touch the clouds, and I feel minuscule as we ride nearer to them. Technically there are only two full arches now—the northernmost arch was broken during the Cheimhold Invasion six years ago.
I remember that time—the fear creeping through the land, the way we trembled as we went about our business in the fields, because the war was coming uncomfortably close to our peaceful home. I was eighteen at the time, and I narrowly escaped being drafted into military service for the Ash King’s father. The Ash King himself was a nineteen-year-old Crown Prince back then.
Our army drove the invaders out of our lands, back across the volcanic mountains into their own territory. But there were several mages among the enemy’s forces, and one of their wind-wielders broke the third arch. Another mage wounded the king—I’m not sure how. There was never a public announcement as to the nature of the king’s wound, but he clung to life for another year before dying and leaving the throne to his son.
A month before the king died, the Crown Prince committed his great atrocity, scorching part of the kingdom and creating the Ashlands. With that memory so fresh in everyone’s minds, there was plenty of opposition to his taking the throne, but with no other heir available to challenge him, he stepped into the role anyway. He had just demonstrated his cataclysmic power—no wonder everyone was too scared to seriously oppose him.
When he assumed the throne, the Ash King closed our borders to most trade and diplomacy and turned us into the insular, fortified kingdom we are today. The Undoing, the underground rebels my friends joined, want to open the borders again and resume international trade. And they want other things—various kinds of political and economic change—I heard Brayda and Rince talk about the rebels’ goals many times before they left to join the cause. Personally I didn’t care quite so much, as long as I was left alone to enjoy my preferred way of life.
As I ride through the streets with the Ash King’s company, under a black band of shadow cast by the Triune Arch, I shrink inside, though I keep a smile on my face. I’ve stepped into the middle of a world far different than the one I know and love. This is a world of nobility and commerce, of favors given and exchanged, of political machinations and marriages of convenience. A world of assassinations and poison, of cutthroat competition between families and utter domination by one all-powerful man.
I’m so far out of my depth.
Throngs of people line our route, waving pennants of scarlet and deep gray. Unlike the citizens of Aighdas, these people cheer for the King, shouting louder whenever he graces them with a brief wave. They’re gluttons for his favor, and after what I’ve seen of his terrible deeds, the blatant pandering disgusts me.
My eyes skip from one side of the street to the other, trying to gobble up all the sights, read every shop sign, scan every window full of fascinating wares. It’s the only way to distract myself from the raw ache of homesickness that’s starting to gnaw at my gut.
By the time we reach the gates of the Ash King’s ancestral fortress, I’m sick of the smell of royal incense. It’s dark, thick, overly sweet, and nauseating. I’m relieved when we’re done with the city streets and we pass into the fortress by way of a long, torchlit tunnel. The immense thickness of the fortress walls astounds me. No wonder invaders have never been able to break through.
We cross the outer courtyard of the fortress, then travel briefly through an area of fresh-smelling lawns and gardens. By now the sun has set completely, and despite the tall posts bearing lanterns to light our way, I can’t see much of the grounds.
The ride from the outer gates to the inner ones is longer than I expected. The guard I’m riding with seems afraid to talk to me lest he anger the King, so I have no one to show me any points of interest or explain the layout of the place.
At last we enter the inner gates, and I see the royal palace uplit in all its glory—white stone and gilded ornamentation, just like the arches. There seem to be a hundred pinnacles and turrets and gables, a thousand windows and arches and balconies. Kings and queens have added onto the place for generations, and though it’s a bit haphazard and asymmetrical, it still manages to retain a monumental, regal beauty.
I dismount, and the mare is led away. I’m sorry to see her go; other than the belongings in my bag, she was my last piece of home. Servants and guards appear, ushering our party up the sprawling white steps. The servants focus on Teagan, since she’s one of the Favored. They don’t seem to notice me.
The gigantic doors of the palace are inlaid with glossy, multi-hued panels of petrified wood, probably from my region. I sidestep out of the flow of people and brush my fingers against them, just to feel a piece of home.
Everyone else is inside now, and one of the four door guards approaches me, stern eyes peering through the slit in his black helmet. “Please enter. We need to close the doors.”
“Where did this wood come from?” I ask impulsively.
“I’m not sure, my lady. If you would enter.”
“Of course.” Hitching my bag higher on my shoulder, I walk further into the creamy gold luxury of the entry hall. The walls are encrusted with beautiful carvings, some of stone, some of wood. Elaborate tapestries and paintings depict scenes from our kingdom’s history. Ahead, a broad triple staircase leads to upper floors and different wings of the palace. Candelabra and chandeliers lend a soft glow to the space, but it’s still too grand to look homelike.
The servants are guiding Teagan, her maids, and her guards up the left-hand staircase, explaining that all the Favored contestants will be staying in the East Wing. “Bedrooms and privies are on the second floor. Parlors, breakfast rooms, and garden access are on the first floor,” explains a tall, crisp woman with a bunch of keys hanging at her waist. Her voice and the voices of the others fade as they reach the top of the stairs and disappear down a hallway.
I’m left alone in the entry hall. Alone is a relative term, because there are at least eight guards standing motionless, in full armor, at different points around this room. That’s in addition to the four guarding the palace doors, and I spotted more guards along the route from the outer gates to the inner ones.
