Page 16 of Healer to the Ash King
“Yes, I let my Head Inquisitor do whatever he liked this time, since the man would eventually be repaired," says the King. “He may have gone a bit further than I intended.”
I throw him a scathing look. “A bit? This is monstrous.”
The Ash King takes a step toward me, eyes flaring red. “Remember yourself, Healer.” He jerks his head slightly toward the two guards in the room.
“My humblest apologies, my lord.”
After inspecting me for a moment, he turns to the guards. “One of you call a servant to clean up this mess,” he says. “And the other fetch a strong drink for the healer. Apparently she needs it.”
The guards hurry from the room.
“Begin, Healer,” the King orders.
“I’ve never done such extensive repairs to a body before,” I falter.
“The Ricter who measured you this morning assures me you are more than capable. You have the highest power reading he’s ever seen in a healer. In fact, if your abilities were anything but healing and water work, I’d have you Muted. Even now, I’m wondering if I should call a tattoo mage to Mute the water side of your magic.”
“Please.” I swallow the panicked lump in my throat. “When I return home, I’ll need my powers to irrigate the fields.”
“Your people have become too dependent on you. That’s the trouble with magic, you see. People rely on it, and they fail to innovate other methods of doing the work.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he’s not wrong. I’ve had similar thoughts myself—what if something happened to me, and my people had no failsafe, no backup plan, no technology to bring water to the crops when rainfall is scarce?
“You are right, Your Majesty,” I concede.
His pale eyebrows rise. “How kind of you to admit it. Now get to work.”
I glance at the agonized man. He’s almost not a man anymore—just a body full of pain. I’m the only one who can restore him, bring him back to himself.
I start with his penis. Picking it up, I hold it against the stump and lace threads of golden healing magic through it, binding the flesh back together, restoring blood flow, smoothing the skin. My magic soaks into his bruised balls as well, easing the pain, repairing them.
As I’m working, the servant enters quietly and cleans my sick off the floor. One of the guards brings a cup of something and sets it on a nearby table. I ignore everyone and everything, entirely focused on my work, dimly aware of the King dismissing the servant and telling the guards to stand outside.
With one hand continuing the work on the victim’s penis, I splay my other hand in midair over his chest and begin winding threads of gold light around each rib, pulling them back into place, filling the cracks. I calm the inflamed flesh and replenish the blood supply. When the penis is finished, I hold both hands over the chest cavity and devote my full attention to its repair.
“Interesting choice, starting with his dick,” says the King.
“Men prize their dicks highly, don’t they?” There’s a bite to my tone, and I omit any honorifics. As I suspected, the King doesn’t reprimand me for it now that we’re alone. Interesting. He doesn’t mind a little insolence from me when no one is around to witness the challenge to his authority. And the tortured man doesn’t count—he’s unconscious now.
“If someone cut your dick off, you’d want it reattached as soon as possible,” I say.
“Not before my tongue,” the King answers. “Though I’m equally skilled with both of them.”
The suggestive heat in his words sends a tiny ripple of arousal through my lower belly. And then I’m immediately sickened by myself, for feeling that sensation in the face of such horrific torment.
“Of course the women you bedhaveto say that,” I muse aloud as I reconstruct the layers of tissue, nerves, and blood vessels for the man’s chest.
“The women I bed are not faking their pleasure.” The Ash King sounds offended, and maybe a little uncertain.
“How would you know? They’d be too afraid to say otherwise. Now please—I need quiet to do my work.”
He grumbles, but I’m too deep in my work to care.
When I finish the man’s chest an hour later, I drink a little from the cup the guard brought. Just a single burning gulp, to ease the tightness of my nerves.
When I approach the victim again, the Ash King is leaning over him, inspecting the results. “Impressive attention to detail. Seamless, truly. And he is whole inside, as well?”
“I’ll multiply his blood cells at the end and do a last scan of him, just to be sure,” I reply.
