Page 45 of Healer to the Ash King
We’re in a jolting carriage for a long time… maybe forever…
Now there’s something soft under me, over me.
And then, through the blur, a bloom of golden light, and an old man’s cracked voice murmuring, “There, there, sweet child, you’ll be all right. Took yourself down too low, that’s all.”
“You have to fix her.” The second voice is familiar, but I’ve never heard it so full of fear. The Ash King’s voice. I want to help him, to soothe his anxiety. I try to lift my hand, to reach out, but I can’t move.
The aged voice again. “I will give her a little of my own energy. I can’t spare much, but it should be enough to get her through this. Has she been trained?”
“From what I was told, she had no mentor in the healing craft,” says the Ash King. “She is self-taught.”
“She is extremely powerful,” continues the aged voice. “As you know, my Lord, I have some skills as a Ricter as well as a healer. This girl’s healing ability has a facet I’ve seen only twice before, one that is—”
The old man hesitates, and even in my weakened state I can sense that he’s on the verge of telling my most dreadful secret. With every particle of strength I possess, I fight through the weakness, and I whisper, “No. No.”
A wrinkled hand smooths my forehead. “All right, girl, all right. Hush now, don’t distress yourself. You did a good thing today, but you need training and self-control. You have to know when to stop. I can teach you that.”
The Ash King cracks a laugh. “Can you teachmethat skill while you’re at it, Jonald?”
“Your magic and motives are entirely different, my boy,” says the ancient voice. “She did this because her heart is much bigger than her powers. Sweet child.”
The old man presses his hand more firmly to my forehead. Something trickles into my body—warm liquid energy drizzling into my bones, slithering into my mind, strengthening my consciousness.
I’m still too weary to move, or to open my eyes, but my thoughts have clarified again, and my body isn’t quaking.
“That’s all I can spare,” says the old man. “She needs rest.”
“She won’t be able to serve the Favored tomorrow, will she?”
“Certainly not,” replies the old man. “You’ll have to postpone the challenge.”
The Ash King sighs. “Many of the girls already hate her. This won’t help matters.”
“I think she gained more friends than she lost today,” replies the old man. “Loyal, grateful friends who are, perhaps, more worth having than a flock of twittering throne-seekers.”
“You always put things into perspective, Jonald,” says the Ash King.
“And Your Majesty permits an old man’s bluntness, for which I’m grateful.” The wrinkled palm leaves my forehead. “Perhaps this can be a secret challenge—observing which women of the Favored react charitably to your young Healer, and which ones treat her poorly.”
There’s a swishing of robes, a series of quiet footfalls, and the sound of a door closing.
Then the Ash King says, “Leave us,” to someone.
“But my Lord,” says a voice—a servant or a guard? “The Favored ladies who won special time with you are awaiting your presence.”
“I’ll be there shortly. Go.”
More retreating footsteps, and the door closes again.
Cold rings and warm fingers brush against my forehead, stroking my hair.
And then, as I’m drifting into sleep—a soft press of lips just below my hairline.
15
The next morning I’m able to move and speak normally again, though my body is still weakened. I sit up in bed and eat the breakfast I’m brought. But I feel slightly sick every time I think about what I did.
I nearly died. I almost killed myself for those people.
