Page 33 of Healer to the Ash King
When I’m done, the Ash King unfolds his long limbs and stretches his lithe, muscled body while I try not to watch.
“Earlier you spoke of scanning the Favored with your magic, and you mentioned it again just now,” he says. “Does it help with the healing?”
“The better I know the person’s body before their injury, the more quickly I can heal them, yes.” I hesitate, seeing my opportunity—a chance to get information for the Undoing. “Speaking of which, I should probably scan you, Your Majesty.”
Caution flares in his gaze. “No.”
“But what if you—”
“I said no.” Abruptly he returns to his room and locks the door.
11
The next day, we’re back in the Réimse Ríoga—only this time I’m standing on a small square platform in the center of the arena, halfway between the Ash King’s balcony and the narrow platform where the Favored will enter the stadium. The arena floor is carpeted with sand, a perfectly smooth expanse. Music thrums through the building, sending vibrations up through my toes and legs.
The Ash King is already on his throne, one long leg hitched over the other. He’s wearing deep crimson today, with a shimmering black cloak and his tall black crown on his head. At this distance I can’t see his features very well.
Before I was ushered out to this platform, one of the backstage handlers pulled me aside and said, “You are only allowed to intervene if one of the Favored is seriously wounded to the point of death. Otherwise you wait until after the challenge to tend their injuries.”
“I understand.”
“Good. And you may need to heal more people besides the contestants today. There are other participants in this challenge, but the wellbeing of the Favored is your priority.”
“Other participants?”
“Well-paid participants who know the risks,” the woman said impatiently.
Moments after that conversation, I was taken to the platform, which rises about a man’s height above the floor of sand.
It’s awkward, being the only point of interest in the arena. The stands are teeming with even more onlookers today, and they’re shouting something—I can’t quite hear it at first. Then I notice a man in one of the front rows leaning over the rail and bawling, “More magic! More magic!”
I can’t use my healing energy, since I have no idea how much I’ll have to expend on the Favored if they’re wounded. But I can do a little water-wielding, since my energy well for that ability is separate. My magical senses tell me there are water pipes and spigots throughout the Réimse Ríoga, probably for the privies, or perhaps in case of fire. I can also feel barrels of water positioned here and there throughout the stands, with levered taps so thirsty audience members can get a drink. I center my focus on the barrel nearest me, drawing the water out through a small hole in its top.
As the stream of water glides upward in a graceful arc, the audience begins to hum with excitement. They’ve seen water-wielding before, I have no doubt, but probably not on this scale, since water wielders as powerful as me are usually Muted.
Since I’m a healer sworn to help and not harm, the Ricters who passed through my village simply gathered testimony of my character and let me remain unMuted. But as the King threatened, that could change at any time. Since my powers are separate, he could have one Muted and not the other.
I should enjoy the full extent of my abilities while I can. Why stand bored and idle when I could be having fun and entertaining everyone?
The sensation of the water, its undulating movements, its potential and power—it’s so dearly familiar that tears of homesickness sting my eyes. I siphon water from a second barrel and pool it all into a shining liquid globe, floating high above the sandy floor. Then I unravel the globe, creating loops and spirals of glittering water, weaving them into increasingly complex patterns.
Next I flatten the liquid into a sheet and raise transparent mountains from the surface, an imitation of the horizon back home. The water swirls and reforms into dozens of galloping horses, then a school of shimmering fish, then a herd of Ashland fire stags. I send each group of creatures around the entirety of the stadium, over the heads of the enraptured audience, before calling the water back to me.
Last of all, I create something else—someoneelse. A tall figure in rippling robes, with features unmistakable despite their watery surface. A stories-high liquid sculpture of the Ash King.
The crowd roars with delight, rising in their seats while I make the figure of the Ash King spread his arms and wave.
A burst of pulse-pounding music resounds through the arena. The Favored are about to appear.
Quickly I whisk the water back into its barrels and resume my calm, subservient stance. I wish I knew what the Ash King thought of my display. Perhaps he’ll rebuke me for it later. A delicate shiver passes over my body as I picture him bursting into my room, enraged and steaming, positively volcanic.
Am I actually looking forward to a conflict with him? Heartsfire, what is wrong with me?
“For this first challenge,” booms a herald’s voice, “the Favored have been asked to wear their finest and most luxurious attire. They will traverse the arena from end to end, and they will stand before the Ash King. Whoever receives his hand to kiss will remain in the competition. Those who do not receive his approval will be sent home.”
That’sit? They’re just going to walk the length of the arena in their fanciest dresses? Not much of a challenge.
The seventeen Favored come out, one by one, a long procession of extravagant ballgowns and priceless jewels. I’m dressed in stark, pure white today—a one-piece garment that consists of flowing pants and two broad bands of material that travel diagonally from my hips to shoulders. The crisscrossed bands cover my breasts while exposing my cleavage and most of my lean stomach. My arms are lined with plain gold bracelets.
