Page 3 of Healer to the Ash King
A hard metal object strikes the side of my face, and I crumple onto the dusty pavers, pain blazing through my cheekbone.
“You will not speak to the king unless directly addressed,” says the guard who hit me. “You will not use that tone with His Majesty.”
Trembling, I drag myself back into my kneeling position. I don’t dare look at the king again.
“Cailin the Healer,” drones the king’s herald. “You are hereby conscripted into His Majesty’s service for the duration of the ‘Calling of the Favored,’ or as long as he sees fit to employ you. In return for your full cooperation, you will be provided with lodging, food, a clothing allowance, and a monthly stipend. Gather your possessions immediately. Should you refuse to comply, your village will be razed to the ground and your fields burned.”
A gasp rushes through the crowd of villagers, and a child begins to cry.
I look up again, desperate. “You can’t do this,” I say. “These people need me—I’m the only healer in this sector. And I irrigate the fields—”
Slam!Another blow, this time to the back of my head, and I’m flung forward, prostrate on my face.
“Do not speak to the king unless directly addressed,” drones the same guard, sounding bored. “You will not resist or rebel—”
“Enough.” The cold-iron voice is hotter now. “Do not strike the healer again, fool.”
“Your pardon, Majesty.” The guard’s voice cracks with fear, and the change is so dramatic I want to laugh. I pull myself to my knees again, smiling through the blood trickling from my nose.
But when I risk a glance up, my smile vanishes.
Tiny flames dance at the tips of the Ash King’s ring-laden fingers. The flames trickle into his palm, joining into a ball of fire which he snuffs out by closing his fist.
“Gather your things, healer,” he says.
The Ceannaire comes to my side, helping me to my feet. She throws a baleful look at the guard who hit me. With her support, I stagger along the street to my parents’ cottage. They are both skilled lapidaries, and they left two days ago on an expedition to a ravine famed for its yield of petrified wood.
I wish they were here, so I could say goodbye.
But maybe it’s a good thing they aren’t here. They might try to interfere, and that would be disastrous.
“My irrigation magic should last a few days,” I tell the Ceannaire. My voice is thick and hoarse, unrecognizable to me. I’m stuffing items into a cloth bag—underthings, soap, a few clothes, a book of poems, a hair comb. “You can get Evan from Kuisp to help with the irrigation until I return. He can’t heal, but he’s a fair hand at shifting the water. And you’ll have to get the midwife from Ranis to deliver Elisse’s baby.”
Tears cluster in my eyes as I think of all the things I won’t be able to do for these people—from mending scraped knees to curing more serious ailments. “Ceannaire, I can’t go. I can’t do this.”
The Ceannaire enfolds me, pulls me against her warm breast. She’s a big woman, strong and kind. One of the best people I know, and she smells like home, like potsava root and sae-flowers, like earth and baked bread.
“You are our miracle, Cailin, sent by the Heartsfire,” she says. “And I know the Fire will guide you in the Capital and bring you back safely to us.”
“You can’t know that,” I mutter through sniffles.
“It’s what I hope for. Sometimes belief is all we need to make a thing real. Hold us in your heart as we hold you in ours, and you will be safe.” She pushes me back, holds me at arm’s length. “Look for the smoke,mo stoirín. It will guide you to the truth that lies buried under the mountain.”
I half-smile, half-wince at the platitude, a familiar one in this land of sleeping volcanoes. “There will be no mountains in the Capital, Ceannaire.”
“Ah,mo stoirín.” She smiles back, the wrinkles deepening at the corners of her eyes. “Everyone is a mountain.”
3
When I return with my bag of belongings, one of the King’s guards has “conscripted” a horse. Apparently the Ash King would rather steal a mount for me to ride, instead of bringing along a spare steed from his overflowing stables.
I’m immensely annoyed by the theft of the horse, more than anything else. It’s Maken’s horse, and once I’ve mounted I look to him and nod, a wordless promise to bring the mare back as soon as I can.
“Tell my parents I love them,” I say to the Ceannaire, but my words are half lost in the thunder of hooves as the Ash King, his retinue, and I ride out of our village.
We ride two by two—a pair of guards, then the Ash King and the herald, then another pair of guards, then me and one guard, while the last guard takes up the rear. I didn’t take the time to change, and I’m glad of my scanty clothing because the day is hot. I can’t imagine riding in full regalia like the Ash King does. He must be sweltering. I hope he’s wretchedly uncomfortable.
As we travel, I siphon water from the air to cleanse my face of the blood, and I heal the bruises the guard inflicted. It’s handy, being able to heal myself. Not every healer can, I’m told. But then again, I don’t have nearly enough information about my own abilities. Everything I know, I’ve learned on my own, with some guidance from Evan, the water-wielder from Kuisp. He’s twice my age—not a healer, and not as powerful as I am—but he’s a good man. He will do his best to serve my village in my absence.
