Page 24 of Healer to the Ash King
I’m naturally lovely—I don’t falsely pretend not to know that. But in this attire, I’m stunning. I’m a goddess of water and healing.
“Thank you,” I whisper to the maid and the tailor. “Really, thank you. You’re both geniuses.”
They smile, but before either one can answer, a garishly dressed man with lavender hair and lots of eyeliner pops his head into the room. “Time to go, time to go! Is the Healer ready?”
“She’s ready,” my maid replies.
“Good, good.” He surveys me, two fingertips resting against his mouth, and then he waves his hand, indicating my entire ensemble. "Marvelous. Just marvelous. Come along, dear. Mustn’t keep the Ash King waiting. He set my hair on fire last time I did that. I’m just kidding, darling, don’t look so scared. No, he did, he really did set me on fire. Got me the best healer afterward, though. Come along.”
I’m hurried through hallways out to the courtyard, popped into a phaeton pulled by a single horse, and escorted by mounted guards through both the inner and outer gates of the royal fortress. Once we’re in the city, we take a street lined with more soldiers, one that leads to the Réimse Ríoga, the arena where all public events in the Capital are held.
This place is as old as the tradition of “the Calling of the Favored,” built centuries ago when the first contest was held. At that time, it was a fight to the death, with the winner gaining the king’s hand. These days the results are less lethal, although injuries can be severe. Last time it was held, during one of the challenges, two women died before they could be healed.
The Réimse Ríoga has a brutal, monstrous look to it. Windows like blank, dead eyes. Stubby towers like hunched stone shoulders. My phaeton rolls through a back entrance, into the lower level beneath the arena itself. I’m hustled out and hurried onto a lift, which is then cranked upward by a man who looks as if he’s magically gifted with muscle.
“Just stand quietly in your place, darling, and wave when you’re introduced,” the lavender-haired man calls up to me. “It’s better if you don’t speak.”
I nod, but he’s already bustling away.
I stand on the lift alone, my skin stippled with goosebumps. There’s a stale draft of musty-smelling air wafting through the shaft I’m ascending. Through the stone walls I can hear the incessant rumble of the crowd, like the warning growl of a volcano before it vents steam.
And then I’m at the top. The noise crashes over me like an explosion. I’d expected a rush of light, too, but the arena is fairly gloomy—poorly lit.
Shakily I step off the lift. Someone takes my arm, guides me to a spot, tells me to stand there.
The interior of the Réimse Ríoga is a gigantic oval with a flattened end. The egg-shaped floor is thick with sand, but a T-shaped platform has been built across it. The long stem of the T leads from a faraway entrance at the arena’s opposite end, all the way to the royal balcony. The top of the T runs parallel to the balcony. That wooden walkway, draped in black fabric, is where the contestants will stand and wait to be welcomed by the King. They’ll be slightly below him, but close enough to touch his hand if he advances to extend it.
Banks of seats slope upward from the arena floor, studded with lavishly decorated boxes and booths where the wealthy and privileged can relax and enjoy special treatment while they watch the show. I only know this because the Ceannaire visited the Capital once and told me of it afterward. But I had a child’s view of what she described. The reality is far more overwhelming and awe-inspiring.
A few other officials and important people involved with the Calling are standing on this balcony too, poised in front of padded chairs, waiting for the occupant of the largest chair—a seat hewn from an enormous chunk of petrified wood. It’s not the actual Throne of Bolcan, but it’s almost as impressive.
In moments, the King will take his place there, and the Welcoming of the Favored will begin.
Music rushes through the arena—deep, thrumming music with a hot, sinuous melody slithering along its surface. The music is rivers of lava and boulders of dark stone, scintillating sparks and molten whispers.
Into the swell of that enticing song strides the Ash King, wearing a tall black crown whose spiked tips are sheathed in actual flame. His eyes are scarlet, too, and his lashes are alight. His sleek white hair pours forward over his shoulders, and a great black collar of interwoven antlers flares from his nape. His thick black robes trail from his wrists and torso, sweeping the ground.
As he passes me, his head angles sharply, suddenly, and his scarlet eye sweeps me from head to toe.
Then he’s swirling away, his back to me, facing the crowd. From his outstretched palms he releases small orbs of bright flame—a hundred, a thousand, a million—they keep pouring from his hands, rising to cluster beneath the domed roof of the arena, lighting the entire space so dramatically my eyes almost can’t bear it.
The crowd roars its approval, kneeling collectively before him. When he sits, they take their seats as well, and so do I.
There’s a long welcome speech, during which the King’s herald introduces everyone on the balcony. When he comes to me, he says, “The Healer of the Favored, Cailin Roghnaithe, of the village Leanbh near Analoir Doiteain.”
I rise and smile, with a little wave. And then, impulsively, I lift my hands and let ribbons of healing light unfurl from my fingers. They have no purpose, no goal, but they snake through the air, dozens of them floating upward, separating from my fingertips as I release them. They spiral and curl aimlessly, twining with the King’s orbs of flame in a way that I hadn’t anticipated—that I didn’t intend. It’s a beautiful, mesmerizing dance of magic, and a murmur of appreciation and awe rolls through the audience.
When the ribbons dissolve, their essence sifts down to the crowd in a shower of golden motes. Each person here will feel a little of my healing influence. I’ve done this before at home, but never on such a large crowd, and never with someone else’s magic at play. I can feel the tug of weariness in my soul, the expenditure of my energy. It will be replenished in plenty of time for the first challenge.
As I turn to resume my seat, I glance at the Ash King. His lips are parted, his eyes fixed on me with an intensity that makes my stomach flip.
I need to get close to him and learn his habits, his secrets. He trusts me. He doesn’t believe I’m his enemy. But I am. I will see him undone.
More music swells, a sweeping processional, and the women begin to appear, one at a time, from the doors at the far end of the arena.
First comes Teagan, daughter of the Lord Mayor of Aighda, red-headed and regal in a green gown. She’s my favorite. If I wasn’t cooperating with the Undoing to kill the king, I’d want her to win. But no—I wouldn’t wish that fate upon her. Marriage to the Ash King would be miserable.
I picture it for a moment—marriage, to him. Sleeping beside that tall, fit body. Sharing rooms and meals with him, enduring his cold demeanor and fiery eyes and terse words every day. Submitting to his pleasure, lying limp under him while he pushed himself into my body, while he surged against me, his snowy hair brushing my breasts, his striking face contorting with passion, with pleasure—
