Page 36 of Healer to the Ash King
“Rule violation!” screeches the King’s herald. “Illegal use of magic in the arena.”
I’m trembling on hands and knees, wrecked and wretched, even as I weave magic over the volunteer’s shredded feet and send more tendrils of healing power out to the contestants on either side of me.
There’s movement above, on the balcony. A scarlet-robed figure.
I look up into the Ash King’s crimson eyes.
I must be a pitiable sight—eyes washed golden, dripping in gore, my clothes torn and wrenched askew, a web of magic spreading from my hands.
The herald is right—I used magic in the arena. Even if it was to save a life, I have no reason to believe the Ash King won’t punish me.
“The Healer is not a contestant, and is therefore exempt from that rule,” the Ash King says, in a loud, firm voice. “She has saved the remaining volunteer from certain death, and for that, she is to be commended.”
And he stretches his hand toward me.
I take his hand in my blood-slicked one, and I kiss his fingertips.
He moves on immediately, giving his hand to the Favored—all except one. Then he announces the elimination of the girl who wouldn’t participate, as well as the girl who fell into the muck with her volunteer. That leaves fifteen Favored women.
The First Challenge is over, and the crowds surge out of the stadium, chattering excitedly. I have no doubt today’s events will be re-enacted over and over in common rooms and on street corners tonight.
While the arena is being drained and the monsters wrangled, contest aides pour from side doors and hustle the volunteers and the Favored backstage. They are all laid out on cots where their servants tend them until it’s their turn to be healed.
I’m ordered to begin with the Favored who finished first, and to proceed by their ranking. But I ignore that directive and start with the worst injuries, whether Favored or volunteer, moving indiscriminately through the lineup. By the time all the cuts and contusions are mended, I’m scarcely able to stand upright.
"You’ll have less strenuous day tomorrow,” one of the contest managers announces to the Favored. It’s the same woman who spoke to me about my responsibilities during the challenge. She barely looks at me; she must be displeased with my actions for some reason. “The next Challenge won’t be as physical,” she continues. “The King requested that we alternate between dangerous challenges and more cerebral ones.”
“Small mercies,” I whisper. At least my magic will have time to recharge.
With their healing complete, the Favored are wrapped in robes and ushered to fine carriages that will transport them back to the palace. I’m given a robe and told to wait, because apparently no one knows where the driver of my phaeton went. I’m tempted to drive the thing myself, but I’ve bent the rules far enough today. So I sit against the wall in the gloomy back room until someone finally takes me to the palace.
By then I’m covered in crunchy crusted blood under the robe. A servant escorts me to my room, where my maid has already prepared a bath.
“We heard what you did today,” she says, taking the robe from my shoulders with almost reverent gentleness. “You’re so brave, my lady, saving that man!”
“Anyone would have done it,” I murmur.
“But anyone didn’t,” she says. “You did.”
She helps me take off the ruined clothes, and then I dismiss her with my thanks. Once she’s gone, I relieve myself quickly, thanking the Heartsfire I didn’t piss in my pants during that ordeal.
As I sink into the tub, my eyes drift shut. The hot water is pure ecstasy.
I have a little healing energy left, and I use it to finish healing my feet and calves. Then I set the water in motion until it bubbles vigorously around me, and I relax into its pounding heat.
Moments later, a voice sounds outside the half-open door. “Healer?”
My weary heart can barely summon the energy for a flutter. “Yes, my Lord?”
He says something unintelligible, and I sigh, sinking further into the churning bubbles. With the water moving like this, he won’t be able to see my body clearly, so I only hesitate for a moment before I call, “I can’t hear you, Your Majesty. I’ll be out soon—or if it’s urgent, you can come in.”
12
The Ash King doesn’t enter my bathing room immediately. Perhaps he’s shocked that I would be so forward as to invite him in. Perhaps Iamforward. But I’m too exhausted to care. I’m even too exhausted to cry, although I want to, desperately. There’s a raw ache in my heart that can’t be soothed by hot water or the softest bed. I want my home, my room, my parents, my family. I want a real hug from someone I know, someone who won’t judge me like Brayda or get distracted by my body, like Rince.
The Ash King appears in the doorway, looking haughty and uncomfortable. Only my shoulders show above the bubbling water, but his cheeks are faintly flushed, a fascinating contrast with the cool flow of his white hair.
“You weren’t supposed to get hurt,” he says stiffly.
