Page 66 of Healer to the Ash King
“Try to do better,” says the Ash King grimly.
She pulls the bow again.
Watching the arrow speed toward me is the most terrifying thing I’ve experienced. My heart is racing, and a nervous sweat breaks out over my body.
The third arrow slices my cheek, nicking my ear and ramming into the wood beside my head. I suck in a sharp breath, sending magic to heal the wounds. But the blood still coats my cheek and wets the side of my neck, under my ear.
“Nothing above the shoulders,” snarls the King. “Axley, you’re disqualified from winning the prize.”
“My humble apologies, your Majesty.” She sinks into a docile curtsy. “I don’t know what happened.”
Despite her apology, it’s clear she is a skilled markswoman. She proved it with her first shot, so I would know that the next two were purposeful.
It doesn’t make sense for her to antagonize me like this. I’m the Healer, for the gods’ sake. What if she’s injured in the next challenge and I decide to leave part of the job undone, to let her suffer or die?
Or maybe she knows I wouldn’t do that. Maybe she and the others are counting on my healer’s vow to protect them. I suppose they’re right. I’m not sure I could find it in my heart to leave any of them in pain or danger when it was in my power to help.
But everyone is a mountain, as the Ceannaire said—even me. Anyone can be pushed too far. Perhaps I need to remind them of that.
Samay steps up, preparing for her first shot. Mentally I search for water, but there’s been no rain for a couple of days, and the most I can sense is a little dew, nearly dried. I can’t use sweat, tears, or blood—it’s too blended, not pure enough for wielding.
There is one other defense I could use. The reverse side of my healing power. I can make these women hurt whenever they hurt me. I can corrode them, make blisters erupt on their bodies, reverse the healing magic I’ve done for them.
But I won’t. I can’t let these people change me.
Samay’s first arrow thunks near my elbow. Her second skims my thigh, drawing blood, and she swears. She’s actually trying for the private lunch with the King. Her third arrow goes wide, missing my hip by a hands-breadth.
I notice Axley whispering to a few of the other girls, and as the next one steps up to take a turn, Axley smiles, serpentlike.
I stand helpless against the target as arrows whistle toward me, slicing my leg, my hip, and my elbow. One scrapes along my ribs. Another slits the flesh of my upper arm. The worst ones actually sink into my flesh—my calf, my hand, my stomach, my shoulder.
I can heal the lacerations and scrapes, but the ones where an arrow is actually lodged in my flesh—those I can’t fix until the arrows are out. I grit my teeth, soothing my own pain each time it flares up, trying to hold the blood at bay.
Teagan and Khloe shoot carefully, attempting to win the time with the King, but the others are more intent on making me hurt—even Sabre and Leslynne. There’s a desperate hunger in their eyes, the look of cornered prey. It’s as if they don’t see me anymore—they see everything standing between them and the crown. With these arrows, they’re pinning their fears, their anxieties, all the pressure and pain, onto me, onto the target.
Meanwhile the Ash King stands with his arms folded across his bare chest, his handsome face hard as stone and his hair a white halo in the sunlight. No hint of what he’s thinking or feeling.
So far, since Axley was disqualified, Teagan’s arrow is the one most likely to win. It’s lodged against my right breast, and it didn’t break the skin. I hope she wins.
The only person left to shoot is the last woman of Axley’s toxic trio—the only one who hasn’t been eliminated yet. She’s called Beaori.
She nocks an arrow and exchanges a look with Axley.
Her first arrow sings through the air and slashes my leg. I seethe through the pain for a second before sending more magic to calm and heal it. I’m holding nearly a dozen threads of magic in place at once now, easing the pain and staunching the blood around the embedded arrows. I need time and space to get these arrows out and make myself whole again.
Beaori aims, anchoring the bowstring near her mouth, and lets the second arrow fly.
It sails toward me and strikes right between my spread legs, narrowly missing some very tender parts. The other girls gasp and I look up at Beaori, incensed.
She grimaces like she’s mad that she missed, and she readies another arrow.
Beaori plans to shoot me in the crotch—that much is clear. And even though I could heal myself afterward, I’m not about to allow that.
I gather what little dew I can access, creating a fine mist. My hands are bound, but with a twitch of my finger I whisk the moisture across the archery lane just as Beaori’s third arrow flies. I’m no wind-wielder, but the mist is just enough to push the arrow off course. It thumps into the wood by my hip.
“The punishment is over,” says the King.
“It isn’t fair,” Beaori says. “She can ease her own pain, so it wasn’t really a punishment at all.”
