Page 19 of Healer to the Ash King
“Thank you,” he whispers. “For my tongue, and my thumbs, and my—for everything.”
“I’ll come and visit you if I can,” I tell him, laying a palm on his forehead.
He catches my hand and presses my knuckles to his mouth. “I am in your debt.”
“You’ll have no chance to repay her, lad,” says the Ricter. He calls in the guards to take the prisoner away. I sidestep them as they enter, then make my way out of the torture room.
I’m not sure whether I should meet the Favored—who will probably turn up their noses at a simple healer—or go into the city with some surly guardsman. Both options have their perks and disadvantages.
The guard who’s been assigned to escort me is standing in the hall, helmet in hand. When I see him, I forget my weariness, and a smile breaks over my face.
The guard is Owin.
The Ash King gave me my reward—an afternoon of sightseeing. And he gave me Owin.
8
Magic-wielders are few and far between in Bolcan, but they pop up randomly, regardless of bloodline or age, which is why the King’s Ricters are constantly traveling, testing whole villages at a time. Most abilities surface around the age of seven, like mine—but they can bloom as early as seven months or as late as seventy.
Since the King discourages magical study or advancement, and prefers to rely on non-magical technologies, there’s no noticeably high concentration of wielders in the Capital. As Owin and I wander the city, I spot two people with a Muting tattoo on their left wrist, and I see a plump wind-wielder using her air powers to dry her laundry as it hangs on the line. She has no tattoo, so her abilities must be fairly mild. I smile at the chubby toddlers clinging to her skirts and send a thread of magic to heal one child’s skinned knee. He stops crying, watching the line of golden light sweep over his injury.
A little farther along the same street, booths and tables cluster at the edges of the road, between the shop doorways. There’s a rattle of dice, a merry twang of street music, the smell of hot spun sugar and the cloying essence oftobaksmoke.
Street performers are everywhere, including a half-naked male fire-swallower whom Owin pauses to ogle. Maybe he thinks his admiration is concealed by the helmet, but I notice, and it makes me smile. The fire-swallower seems to have a low-level wielding ability, but he doesn’t produce the fire—he pulls it from several candles arranged in a ring around him, and the flame goes out fairly quickly once he has it in hand or in his mouth. There’s a box of matches near his feet so he can relight the candles.
After watching his show, we continue along the street. I pause under one colorful awning to inspect the woven jewelry the craftswoman has laid out, but I have no coin with me. The King’s herald mentioned a clothing allowance and a monthly stipend, but no one has discussed such things with me yet.
“Take a look at this fellow, Cailin.” Owin tugs at my elbow. I relent and follow him to another shadowy booth, where a man draped in heavy, hooded robes is creating portraits with pebbles. His fingers fly over the array of tiny multi-colored stones on his table, arranging and rearranging them to create the likenesses of the onlookers. It’s an ever-changing work of art, morphing seamlessly from one face to the next. Murmurs of astonishment circulate through the gathered crowd, and coins chink into the man’s collection mug.
As I draw nearer, my focus shifts from the portraits to the fingers creating them. And my heart jerks.
I’d recognize those slender ebony fingers anywhere. Those fingers used to hold my hand as we ran barefoot through the potsava fields. They dragged me away from an ash-burrower nest filled with newborn monsters. There’s a pink scar across the back of the dark right hand—my first healing attempt, imperfect. And those fingers were the first ones to nudge between my legs and tease me into a throat-searing, back-arching climax.
Rince is the portrait-maker.
Rince is here.
I want to push back the heavy hood he’s wearing and shout his name, but I stop myself in time. Rince and Brayda went off to join the Undoing. They are anarchists now, possibly living with false names and identities. Which means I need to approach him carefully. Is Brayda here too? I glance around, but I don’t see her.
“Do you have coin?” I nudge Owin’s arm.
“Coin? Oh, yes—and the King said you were to buy whatever you wanted, in his name. Here.” He tugs a small object from his pocket and passes it to me. “He gave me this, for you. I forgot about it.”
I raise my eyebrows at him. “Do you forget the King’s orders often?”
I can see his shamed grimace despite the helmet. “Sometimes,” he admits.
For a moment I wonder if the King’s punishment of Owin was—perhaps not deserved, but justified, in part? Owin is charming and fun, but he does seem careless. He’s new to this role, though. He will learn, and hopefully not because of more fiery lashes.
The object he gives me is a silver ring, set with a small disc of glossy petrified wood. A tiny pair of antlers has been etched into the surface—the Ash King’s symbol, reminiscent of the fire stags of the South. Those creatures have always lived among the active volcanoes along our southern border, and now I’m told they roam the Ashlands as well, ever since the King scorched that part of the world.
I slip the ring onto one of my fingers. It’s a perfect fit, and I’m disturbed by how much I love it. I shouldn’t be wearing any gift of the Ash King’s. For a second I close my eyes, letting the phantom pain of the burning handprint sear my chest again. I can unwind wounds that I’ve healed, returning the flesh to its damaged state. I don’t dare perform that kind of magic now, but perhaps I’ll do it later, just for a moment, to help me remember why I need to hate him.
“The ring is lovely,” I tell Owin. “But what I need right now is coin, to get that artist’s attention. I’ll pay you back when I’m given my stipend.”
“All right then.” He digs in his pocket and produces five coins, which I snatch eagerly.
I shoulder my way forward until I’m right in front of the table, and I hold out the coins. “Payment for a portrait?” My voice trembles a little.
