Page 74 of Healer to the Ash King
“Thank you. What’s your name? And please call me Cailin.”
“Well, Cailin, I’m Dottred, or Dot for short. I manage some of the servants, the cleaning staff mostly.”
“Important work,” I say. “That must be quite the job in a big place like this.”
“Oh, it never ends.” She shakes her head, laughing lightly. “This way.”
Dot leads me down a hall. “You know, the King himself used to hang around in the servants’ quarters when he was a child. I was a young maid then, and sometimes I’d be called to tote him back to the nursery. He was just Prince Perish then.”
It’s strange to hear the Ash King’s real name, and stranger still to think of him being a child. “Did he always have the white hair?”
“From birth. Had that temper of his from birth, too. Made for quite the interesting time.” She points to a black smudge low on the wall, and another further on. “He made those when he was about seven years old, when his gift for fire manifested. One time a servant started to paint over the marks, and Mistress Effelin shouted at him to leave it. So there they stay. Fond of him, she was.”
I never thought how it must have been for those who knew the Ash King as a child, when they found out about the Ashlands massacre. It must have hurt them so badly, knowing that the little prince they loved did such a dreadful thing.
Cautiously I venture, “Where were you, when—when you found out about the Ashlands?”
Ahead of me, Dot’s back stiffens.
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I shouldn’t have asked. It’s just—I remember where I was. In the fields. Someone came to get me and the other workers, and we all went to the village square. Our Ceannaire told us what she’d heard, and some people who had relatives in the South cried. There weren’t many details about what happened.”
“Many would like to know more about it,” says Dot. “But the King’s word on it is the King’s word.”
“What did he say, when he came back from the South?”
“He said the rebellion had been quelled, and our enemies were gone. And that was all he said.” Dot mounts half a dozen steps, while I hurry up after her. “We have to trust that he knew something we didn’t. And whether he did or not, the throne was his by blood-right.”
She doesn’t speak aloud what everyone was thinking in those days—that the man who burned so much of the South could have easily destroyed the rest of the kingdom had anyone tried to challenge him. Perhaps if they’d coordinated their efforts, the nobility could have deposed him. What did he promise them to ensure their loyalty?
Dot seems to be done with the subject, eager to hand me off to the old healer. “We put Jonald on this floor because it’s on a level with most of the living areas where he might be needed.” She pauses outside a door, patting a wheeled chair parked nearby. “One of us pushes him around, and sometimes when there are stairs, the guards carry him. This place wasn’t built with the old folk in mind. Too many ups and downs and crooked corners.”
She raps on the door. “Jonald? May we come in?”
A pause, and then a cracked voice says, “Who’s we?”
I recognize that voice. This man pulled me back from the edge of death. It’s about time I thanked him for it. I feel suddenly regretful that I didn’t seek him out before.
“It’s Dot, Jonald,” Dot calls through the door. “And I’ve got the Healer of the Favored here. She’d like to speak with you.”
Something scrapes in the room, and then there’s the rhythmic tapping of a cane or walking stick, approaching the door. It opens, and a thin white-haired man peers at me. He’s toothless, smacking his lips over pink gums. “Healer of the Favored, eh? Good to see you, child. I’ll just put my teeth back in, and we’ll have a nice chat.”
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The Healer’s quarters are cushioned and comfortable, with flames crackling merrily in a small fireplace. Once his teeth are in again, he settles himself in a plump armchair and gestures for me to take the opposite chair near the hearth.
“I can call for more tea,” he offers.
“No, thank you, I’m fine. I wanted to tell you how grateful I am for what you did for me, saving my life.”
“Of course, of course. It’s what we do, isn’t it? Well… most of us.” He watches me with a gaze that’s surprisingly sharp for his age. There’s a film that often covers aged eyes, but he’s had those scaly cells removed for better clarity.
“Can you heal yourself?” I ask.
“No, my dear. That’s a special gift only certain healers possess—you among them.”
I nod, swallowing hard as I prepare to broach the sensitive topic I want to discuss. “When you were healing me, you mentioned that you have some skills as a Ricter.”
“Not exactly,” he says. “The average Ricter can discern someone’s level of magical power, but not the specific gift or its facets. For that, they have to rely on testimony from others who know the gifted person. In my case, my Ricter talent and my healer gift blend, allowing me to read the facets of other healers’ powers.”
