Page 4 of Healer to the Ash King
All day we ride, and into the evening. A couple hours after sunset, we approach the gate of Aighda, a city I’ve visited a few times, when they had plague and needed help. This is as far as I’ve ever traveled in my twenty-four years.
“We’ll spend the night here,” says the guard riding beside me. He’s not the one who struck me with his sword-hilt, but he’s clad in the same spiky black armor and horned helmet they all wear. All I can see of his face is a pair of bright blue eyes and a nose whose bridge has been smushed flat, possibly during combat.
He keeps talking, even when I don’t reply. “Tomorrow the King is escorting one of the Favored from Aighda to the Capital.”
Ah yes, the Favored. The eligible daughters of the nobility who will compete to gain the King’s affection and become his bride. It’s an ancient tradition—ancient and ridiculous, in my opinion. But for centuries the “Calling of the Favored” has been held each time a King or Crown Prince turned twenty-five. A few generations ago, we had a Crown Prince who preferred men, and all the favored noble sons were summoned for the competition. That prince found true love, and he and his prince adopted a foundling who became the grandfather of the current Ash King. It’s a beautiful story.
I’m not sure who could love the Ash King. Maybe love isn’t a requirement, though.
The guard beside me seems decent enough, so I venture a question. “Does the King escort every Favored to the Calling?”
“No, but he has a previous connection to this one. They say she’s his first choice, his preferred match—though of course she will have to compete like everyone else.”
If I had to guess, the Favored whom the King is collecting is Teagan, eldest daughter to the Lord Mayor of Aighda. She’s vivacious and attractive, with long red locks that must be a beautiful foil to the King’s white hair. I’ve met her before—healed her, in fact—but I had no idea she was close to the King.
“What is my role for the Calling, exactly?” I ask.
“As you know, the competition can be quite brutal,” the guard replies. “The noble families are eager to ensure that their daughters emerge unscathed. Hence the need for a healer.”
“But surely there are skilled healers in the Capital?”
“Yes, but most of them have political connections, noble sponsors and the like,” the guard says, leaning companionably toward me. “It is said that His Majesty wants an impartial healer. Someone untainted by the machinations of Court politics.”
“That would be me,” I groan. “Oh gods.”
“You’re worried,” said the guard. “Understandable. Your skills will be tested and graded before you’re allowed to touch any of the noble ladies.”
“Oh, it’s not my skills I’m worried about,” I say. “I do flawless work.”
The blue-eyed guard cocks an eyebrow. “You’re very confident.”
“I know my powers and my limits.”
Maybe this won’t be so bad. All I have to do is mend the bumps and bruises of these fine ladies, keep them looking flawless for His Majesty, and return home after he has chosen one of them to be his bride. Poor thing. I pity her already.
Though the King does look rather grand, riding through the gate of Aighda with those pointed epaulets, the black iron crown, and his river of sleek white hair.
“We’ll reside in the house of the Lord Mayor tonight,” says the helpful guard. “And we’ll be dining with him and his family.”
“We? As in, me as well?”
“I’m not sure. As the King’s personal guard, we’re usually offered a seat at the lower table in the hall. I’m not sure where they’ll put you, especially looking like that.” His eyes twinkle with merriment, though I can’t see his smile under the masklike jaw-guard of his helmet.
I smile back without resentment, because he’s right. In my present state, I’m not fit for a high table.
The city of Aighda is softly lit with orange lamps, fragrant with the dark, spicy incense that is always burned for royalty. People have gathered along the main street to make their obeisance to the King. They don’t hail him or cheer him—they merely sink to their knees in a rippling mass as we ride along. Several of them recognize me, though. With the king safely ahead, a few people dare to call out “Cailin!” in cheerful, excited voices. Smiling, I wave to them, feeling as if I should apologize for my disheveled appearance. To their credit, the people don’t seem to care. I saved them from plague, and they remember.
I wonder who recommended me to the king. Was it Teagan, or perhaps her father? I thought my reputation only extended as far as this city and some neighboring villages, but clearly I was wrong. They’ve heard of me in the Capital. I was discussed by name as the candidate for this position.
A little thrill runs through my chest, and for the first time I think of this as an honor, rather than a punishment. A dubious and dangerous honor—but an honor, nonetheless.
When we pass through the wall surrounding the Lord Mayor’s estate, we halt, and grooms rush forward to take the horses’ heads. I dismount easily, unencumbered by skirts or armor.
Teagan is standing with her father, mother, and younger sister, ready to greet the King. Her long red hair is elaborately braided, and she wears a stunning silver gown embellished with tiny white gemstones. She’s smiling, but too widely, and her eyes are overly bright. She’s nervous.
My attention swerves from Teagan as her younger sister Aine sees me. I healed Aine from plague, and we became “best friends,” as she informed me afterward, with all the enthusiasm of a nine-year-old. She rushes forward, arms outstretched. “Cailin!”
I hurry forward to intercept the hug before the child barrels straight into the Ash King, who is swinging off his horse. “Aine!” I sweep her into my arms. “You’re looking well.”
