Page 6 of Healer to the Ash King
I smirk, catching on. My fingers barely twitch as I guide water out of the pitcher in a sparkling arch and let it trickle into the Lord Mayor’s goblet. He raises it, triumphant, and everyone at the table claps.
Showing off my powers in small ways doesn’t bother me. I enjoy delighting people with my magic. But then the Lord Mayor says, “His Majesty’s cup is nearly empty too. Cailin, if you would be so kind?”
I try to keep the antagonism out of my expression as I guide water into the Ash King’s cup. But I let the last bit fall a little too suddenly, and several drops splash his doublet. His eyes flick up to mine.
“How clumsy of me,” I say softly. “My deepest apologies.”
“I hope you will be less clumsy when you are caring for our kingdom’s most treasured daughters,” he answers.
“Oh, her skills as a healer are unparalleled,” says the Lord Mayor hastily. “I am thrilled that you’ve chosen her. I would have recommended her myself, but I wanted to avoid all appearance of favoritism or prejudice.”
“Not that there’s a chance of that with Cailin!” his wife puts in. “She has a heart as pure as the clearest lake, my lord.”
“So I’ve been told,” says the Ash King dryly.
My cheeks flush, both at the compliments and at his seeming disdain for them. I’m beyond thrilled when the meal is finally over and the guests trickle out of the Lord Mayor’s house.
“Any other night I would suggest dancing, drinks, and some entertainment,” the Lord Mayor says apologetically. “But Your Majesty indicated that you wished to retire early and get an early start, so…”
“Yes,” says the Ash King, rising from his chair. “I will retire now.”
He stalks away from the table, trailed by the herald and two guards. I wonder if any of them double as servants, helping him dress and undress, or if he does all of that himself. It would feel strange and awkward to me, being handled by other people every day, helped through the most menial tasks as if they were beneath my dignity. I wonder if his servants wipe his ass for him.
By a stroke of the same terrible fortune that has followed me through this day, the Ash King turns around and catches me smirking at his back. There’s a flicker in his eyes—a real flicker of actual fire—and my smile disappears.
But he doesn’t shoot flames at my chest and burn me to a crisp. He only narrows his eyes and glides out of the room.
As I’m rising from my own seat, intending to go to the guest chamber where I left my bag, one of the King’s guards returns and approaches me. He speaks low and quick in my ear. “Once the house is in bed, someone will come to fetch you. The King would speak with you alone.”
5
The King wants to speak with me alone?
I pace the guest room I’ve been given for the night, scrunching the material of the lovely borrowed dress in my hands.
I am truly terrified, no humor left in my heart. I’ve heard what the Ash King does to people who displease or dishonor him. Even small infractions are punished with terrible, scarring burns. Underneath the armor, his guards probably have burn marks everywhere. I’ve heard he brands his palace servants with the print of his scorching hand.
I can’t heal old scars. Once a few weeks have passed, my powers can’t alter the regular healing process of a wound. Nor can I repair certain deep-seated conditions, the kind people have suffered with since birth, or the kind that grows and mutates within the body. I can help in some cases, but I can’t repair systemic bodily failure or continuous damage.
If the Ash King tries to brand me, I can heal myself later so it won’t scar. But it will hurt. And after being wrenched from my home and forced into the King’s service, I’m not sure I can bear the additional pain.
There’s a tap on my door, and I nearly leap for the narrow window. I doubt I could break the thick glass though—I would only end up bruising myself and not escaping the Ash King at all.
“Coming,” I say faintly. When I open the door, there’s a man outside—the same guard who spoke to me in the dining hall. Mutely I follow him out of my room and through the quiet hallways of the Lord Mayor’s house.
My gown swishes loudly against the thick carpet. Maybe I should have changed out of this dress into something simpler. No, best to meet the King in rich attire, just to be safe.
What if he questions me about the extent of my powers? How much should I tell him? Maybe he has summoned a Ricter and I’m to be measured right now…
My anxious thoughts keep swirling until the servant pauses outside a door. “Go on in. He is expecting you.”
My fingertips feel ice-cold, and the sodden weight of my fear drags at my lungs when I try to breathe.
I open the door.
The room I enter is elegantly appointed, probably the best guest chamber the Lord Mayor has to offer. There’s a somber patterned duvet on the bed, turned back to reveal six fat pillows. Near it is a small fireplace, unlit, and a side table with a glowing bronze lamp. There’s another lamp on the dresser, also glowing.
On the cushioned bench at the end of the bed sits the Ash King, wearing a black fitted shirt that tightens across his chest when he moves. His long white hair is secured in a sleek knot at the back of his head. He’s taking off his boots.
