Page 40 of Healer to the Ash King
I turn, and there he is—the Ash King. But he’s walking past me, arm in arm with one of the Favored, telling her the stories behind the engravings. It’s Morani on his arm—the spiky-haired girl with the olive complexion, the one I healed of venereal disease. She laughs and squeezes his bicep as they walk, an intimate gesture that makes my stomach twist.
Something in my soul has shifted. I don’t know when it happened—maybe when the Ash King held out his hand to me on the finalists’ platform. I can’t even define my feelings—there are too many of them spiraling and clashing in my heart, too many protests and counter-arguments clamoring in my mind.
I can’t try to sort it out now. I simply have to be kind and poised while I get through this dinner. My focus must be on staying quiet and unnoticed. I can’t do anything stupid, or anything that will draw attention.
All of which would be easier if the center of my back didn’t still prickle with the memory of the Ash King’s palm.
13
The banquet seems to last forever. I’m seated at the far end of the hall with the Calling officials and some of the contest staff. All of them seem either nervous or resentful around me at first—but throughout the many courses of the meal, I wear them down with smiles, jokes, and gentle questions about their personal lives.
By the time we’re dismissed from the table, I feel good about the connections I’ve made, and two men have asked me to dance. One of them is a physik I noticed working behind the scenes after the challenge, keeping the contestants and volunteers comfortable until I could tend their wounds. He’s a big fellow, perhaps ten years older than me, quiet and slow-spoken, with kind eyes. The other is a sharp, earnest little man about my age, with a blond mustache. He says he’s part of the financial team for the competition—a bookkeeper.
The hall has become a little warm and stuffy during the meal, so a wind-wielder enters and cools the space with a fresh breeze. During our city tour, Owin told me that wind-wielders are in high demand in the city, especially during the heat of summer. Apparently the Ash King doesn’t protest too loudly over their use in the mansions of the nobility or in the palace. I’m surprised he doesn’t insist on a non-magical way to combat the summer heat, but maybe the breeze helps him keep his fire under control.
While the wind-wielder plies his talent, servants open three sets of tall doors into a ballroom with the same petrified wood flooring as the banquet hall. The wind-wielder’s breeze flows through the doors, cooling that space as well.
The guests drift into the golden glow of the ballroom, where chandeliers cluster at the peak of the domed ceiling. One entire wall is a series of pointed windows with beautifully carved frames and stained-glass panes. Guards line the walls, and there are two people in Ricter uniforms, probably there to detect the presence of unexpected wielders who might wish harm to the King. At the far end of the room is a cluster of musicians playing a lovely dance tune.
Inwardly I bless the Ceannaire for giving me a few lessons in Capital-style dancing. Thanks to her, I can maneuver through the steps without making a fool of myself.
After my first two dances, another gentleman requests my hand for a dance, and then another. They all want to talk of my powers, where I came from, and how I came to be chosen for this role. Dance after dance, on and on it goes, until their faces, voices, and questions blur together in my mind. My heart is pounding and my brain is spinning.
“I need a moment,” I murmur to my current partner, and I wander blindly through the crowd until I reach the wall of windows. Of course they are all locked tight, for the King’s safety.
Desperate, I retreat to a dimly lit corner and lean against the back side of a pillar.
I press a hand to my chest, pushing against the ache of homesickness. So many people, so many eyes and hands and voices, yet I’ve never felt more alone.
When my heartbeat slows a little, I become aware that not far away, in an alcove half-draped by curtains, two people are sitting on a cushioned bench. My gaze traverses the length of a male leg—boots and pants of creamy leather embroidered with gold.
The King’s back is angled toward me. He’s holding the hand of the girl in the alcove with him. As I watch, he leans in and kisses her.
I suck in a tiny sharp breath.
His broad back stiffens under the fall of his white hair, and he breaks the kiss—starts to turn around.
I slide swiftly to the opposite side of the pillar and stand perfectly still, hoping it’s wide enough to conceal me and my skirts.
I wait, breathless, watching the mesmerizing swirl of the dancers.
“Spying, are we?” That voice—fire beneath layers of ice.
The Ash King stands beside me, bracing a forearm against the pillar. The edge of his cloak brushes my bare shoulder.
“I’m not sure what you mean, Your Majesty. I was simply resting.”
“No wonder you need a rest,” he mutters. “You’ve been dancing with every low-born man at this infernal gathering.”
He’s been watching me. And this time, I can’t pretend the shiver passing through my heart is fear. Nor can I let him guess what I’m feeling.
“Have you enjoyed your dances with the Favored?” I ask primly. “I assume your Queen will need to possess ballroom poise as well as bedroom talent. Do you plan to test both sets of skills before you choose a wife?”
“Are you asking if I plan to sleep with the Favored?”
“It’s tradition, isn’t it?” I keep staring at the swirl of colorful couples. “When there are five girls left, you get to bed all of them—one at a time, of course. I’m sure you’re looking forward to that.”
“Very much so. Too bad it’s so far away.” His fingertips trail up my arm, from wrist to elbow—a swift touch, gone in a moment. “I shall need release sooner than that.”
