Page 34 of Healer to the Ash King
It’s simple yet scandalous attire, and I voiced concerns about it when my maid handed the outfit to me. But she only said, “These are the clothes you were given for today.” And I’m used to wearing even less in the fields, so I didn’t complain any more.
In contrast with the Favored, I probably look rather plain and provincial, despite the glow of my burnished skin against the white cloth.
The instant the last Favored has taken her place in line, the doors slam shut, and most of the lights in the arena go out. A few people scream.
The Ash King rises, palms up, and sends a ball of red fire to the ceiling where it hangs ominously, bathing the space in crimson light. The entire Réimse Ríoga shakes, thundering and quaking as if a volcanic eruption is imminent. My fists tighten as I fight the urge to scream, to run, to be anywhere but here.
And then, up through the shifting sand, giant structures of iron explode all around me, all across the arena, rising taller and taller before locking into place.
It’s an obstacle course more dreadful than anything I could have imagined. Whirring gears, rotating discs with razor edges, swaying rope bridges, churning spikes.
At the far end of the arena, in front of the Ash King’s balcony, seventeen pillars shoot up from hidden trapdoors. A person stands atop each post. The volunteers I was told about.
The Ash King speaks, and a wind-wielder at his side magnifies his voice, sending it out across the crowd. “Any queen of mine must be willing to take risks, give up treasures, and sacrifice herself for the sake of her people. You must each navigate this gauntlet and rescue one citizen. Move quickly, because the victims are truly in peril, and time is short.”
As he speaks, a viscous black liquid oozes from hidden tanks, pooling around the obstacles, around the pillars where the volunteers stand, and around the base of my platform. I don’t know what the liquid is, but I’m sure the Favored don’t want to find out—especially when somethingalivechurns through the sludge, the ridges on its back appearing briefly before it submerges again. The crowd bellows, and a number of people shriek with delighted terror.
“Begin!” shouts the Ash King.
With a heart-stopping clunk, each volunteer’s post begins to sink slowly into the ooze.
The Favored girls are squealing, gasping with shock as the audience roars at them to move, to act.
Morani is stripping off her gown. She’s down to scanty undergarments, leaping onto the first obstacle, gripping bar after bar with her hands as she swings along above the ooze.
Round, creamy-skinned Leslynne with her beautiful golden hair is taking a different route. She has picked up her voluminous skirts and she’s running, with surprisingly good balance, across a narrow beam. Khloe divests herself of her glittering skirts and follows Leslynne across the beam. Her eyes are even wider than usual—soft dark pools of terror.
Sabre uses her upper-body strength to follow Morani across the row of bars. Not to be outdone, Adalasia swings her lithe frame through a gap between spinning gears. One of them catches her skirts and rips half of them away, treating us all to a view of her long dark legs. Heartsfire, but I’d love to have legs like hers.
The other contestants are jumping into the fray now. Some take the time to strip, while others plunge boldly ahead, allowing their beautiful gowns to be ripped and wrecked by the sharp edges and grinding gears of the gauntlet.
Someone screams, and blood spatters across a metal post. One of the girls has cut her arm down to the bone. The churning machinery is moving faster now, propelled by magic or fuel—I’m not sure which.
The wounded girl is Diaza. She’s still moving through the course, but I keep glancing at her, monitoring her progress. If she shows signs of flagging or serious distress, I’ll need to send lines of magic through the gauntlet to heal her. Since they placed me in the center of everything, I should be able to do it from this distance.
Morani, Sabre, Khloe, and Leslynne are about halfway through the gauntlet now, nearly level with my position. Only one girl is left on the entry platform—a contestant whose name I don’t remember. She’s wailing, fussing about her dress, too proud to strip down and too fond of her gown to charge through the mayhem.
If she doesn’t at least try, she’ll be eliminated. And what will happen to the volunteer she was supposed to rescue?
A yelp of pain catches my ear, and I spin around to see Vanas standing on a beam, holding her head and leaning against a post. Something must have struck her skull; she looks dazed. She tries to move forward and falters, swaying toward the black ooze.
She’s going to fall in.
I can’t help her. Healing magic won’t stop her fall, and I’m not allowed to interfere with water magic.
The crowd gasps collectively, then cries out as Vanas tumbles into the thick sludge.
The fall seems to reawaken her senses. She yells, black muck coating her neck and arms. With slippery fingers she struggles to grip the narrow beam and pull herself up.
A ridge of spikes whips past the edge of my platform, streaking toward Vanas. It rushes by her, brushing against her back, and she screams.
More shrieks from behind me. A couple more of the girls are bleeding now—nothing severe though. When I look back at Vanas, she has finally hauled herself onto the beam. Every part of her body except her face is slicked with oily black. Blood mingles with the ooze, streaming from her shoulder blade, but she keeps moving ahead through the gauntlet.
This is chaos. This is horrible. My whole body is shaking. I’m whirling around and around, trying to watch everything at once, terrified that I’m going to miss something and then someone will die. I want to cry. I want to scream at the Ash King for allowing this, for putting me in the middle of it, for not telling me what to expect. My whole body vibrates with panicked energy, gold light winding around my fingers, ready to be sent where it’s needed. I know my eyes must be glowing too, and I hope the odd effect doesn’t distract any of the girls.
The volunteers atop the pillars are shouting now, their voices growing shrill as they sink lower and lower. That’s when I realize there isn’t just one spiked creature in the ooze; there are many snake-like monsters slithering through it, causing thick, ominous ripples on its viscous surface.
Adalasia has reached her volunteer. The moment she steps onto the pillar, its downward progression stops, and a rope slides down from the stadium ceiling. Adalasia grips it, and her volunteer hangs onto her as they both swing to safety, landing on a walkway right in front of the King’s balcony.
