Page 44 of Healer to the Ash King
He’ll be my last one for the day.
But when I glance up, the room is still packed with people—sick people, injured people. People with pained eyes, hungry for my magic, desperate for relief.
“There are so many of them,” I whisper to the barmaid, Herifwen.
She nods. “It is a big city. Lots of pain.”
“Too much pain,” I murmur, blinking. Shadows creep from the edges of my sight, crawling inward, but I grip the threads of my magic and focus as hard as I can.
The man with the heart ailment is healed now. He would have died in mere months without my help—now he’ll live for years, if he takes care of himself.
I’m shaking so hard I can barely speak. I don’t think I can move from the chair I’m sitting on. The only time I’ve been this low was during a plague, when I had to heal many people as fast as possible. After that incident, it took me a few days to refill my healing energy.
Tomorrow is another physical challenge for the Favored. My energy is too low—I’m not going to be ready.
How did I let it go this far? I kept telling myself, “Just one more”—I kept seeing pitiful bodies and sad faces, and I couldn’t stop.
I can’t stop.
Dazed, I stare at the woman who approaches me next. There’s a baby in her arms—its eye is inflamed, leaking pus. She holds the child out to me, her eyes pleading.
“Just one more,” I whisper.
But before I can draw on my magic again, a hasty royal fanfare sounds outside, ending in a screech of strangled notes, as if someone stopped the music by force.
Cold sweat breaks out across my forehead.
The next instant, the Ash King’s tall frame fills the doorway.
He’s dressed in black leather and metal, wearing one of his black-iron crowns, and his eyes are living flame.
Everyone in the public house gasps and cringes, moving out of his way as he strides toward me.
“Healer.” His voice is cold as bones, hot as lava oozing through dark caverns. It cannot be both at once, yet somehow it is.
I blink at him, swaying in my seat.
His rage practically vibrates through the air. “You disobeyed my orders, Healer. You will be punished.”
“Your Majesty.” Herifwen sinks to her knees, lifting folded hands. “Please, she was only helping the injured. Healing the sick.”
“She serves the Favored,” he snaps. “Come, Healer.”
With every bit of my remaining strength I manage to stand. But I collapse at once, my eyes rolling back in my head. My body trembles violently. Weakness, so much horrible weakness, flooding my limbs, turning them to quivering jelly.
Strong arms encircle me, lifting me. I’m clasped to a broad, hard chest—unforgiving plates of metal, stiff leather. I can’t protest—I can’t make a sound. I have to actually think about breathing, force my lungs to push the air in and out. In and out.
I’m being carried somewhere. Can’t see. Sounds are muffled, except for the burning ice of one low voice. “What have you done to yourself?”
I can’t answer him. But I want to.
I think I went too far this time.
I can’t serve the Favored tomorrow—I’m sorry. I failed you.
I couldn’t stop. These people need me.
Darkness swirls around me. Weakness weighs my limbs. And then the shaking starts again—spastic movements I can’t control. The strong arms embrace me, hold me until the fit subsides.
