Page 75 of Healer to the Ash King
“So,” I draw a deep breath. “You know. About me.”
He nods. “As well as healing others and yourself, you can do the opposite. You can corrode and destroy. You can return healed wounds to their damaged state. It’s an ability I’ve only seen twice before. One of those men was permanently Muted by the Ash King’s grandfather.”
“They did Mutings that long ago? I thought it was a recent thing.”
“The Ash King’s Ricters are much harsher with Mutings,” says Jonald. “In the old times, there was more magical freedom. But after everything His Majesty endured, you can understand why he would want to curtail magic.”
“That’s what Dot said.” I lean forward in my chair. “She told me he’s suffered from the effects of strong, uncontrolled magic. His own, obviously, but she seemed to hint there was more to it.”
The old man sighs, picking up his teacup with a tremulous hand. I wait while he sips from it and sets it back down with a rattling chink. “You grew up in the borderlands, yes? Far west of here?”
“Yes.”
“Then you were spared the horror of the Cheimhold Invasion.”
“I knew of it,” I say. “I was eighteen. We were scared, in my village—scared that the trouble would come our way.”
“The trouble came here.” Jonald jabs his chair with a bent-knuckled finger for emphasis. “It came from the North mountains. It came from our closest ally and strongest trading partner. There was no warning, no hint of animosity or greed on their part. No sign that they wanted to overtake our country and absorb us into theirs. We were unprepared.”
“It must have been horrible,” I murmur.
His wrinkled lips shake for a moment, and tears shimmer in his eyes. “You cannot understand,” he says, “what it means for a young prince to have his home city torn open. The Triune Arch was broken by magic. Parts of the city were destroyed. Whole villages between here and the northern border were slaughtered. People forget…”
His voice trembles, and he takes a moment to steady himself, lips working. “They remember the fire of the young prince. But they forget what destroyed him, inside. They forget the true enemy.”
I wait, tense and listening with all my might. I feel as if I’m on a cliff’s edge, poised on the brink of some awful truth.
“I’ll tell you something.” Jonald lifts a shaking hand. “I’m not supposed to tell, but you’ll keep this secret, because I know yours. Among the invaders was the second man I’ve met with your kind of power. A Rotter, a man who could corrode bodies. He wielded lines of black magic, not gold, and he killed many of our soldiers. He worked his way through the fray to King Prillian, Perish’s father. And he rotted him. Rotted him, child, do you understand? You cannot conceive the horror I felt seeing my king, my oldest friend, with parts of him corroded and seeping, as if he was a living corpse. His bones, so brittle they would snap at the slightest impact.”
“Gods,” I choke.
“I kept him alive as long as I could. For nearly a year I tried to mend him, and other healers tried as well. But that kind of magic can only be reversed by the healer who wrought it.”
“I didn’t know,” I breathe.
“No one was told the King’s true condition, or what had produced it. That was the young prince’s decision. He did not want the healers of our kingdom to be suspected of concealing such dark power. He was afraid people might panic and hunt down healers out of fear. But because of that incident, and the breaking of the arch by the Cheimhold wind-wielders, Prince Perish changed the levels of permissible magic, forbid its study or expansion, and extended the powers of the Ricters.”
Jonald sips from his cup again. “As King Prillian lay ill, the prince took the reins of the kingdom. He was not alone—he had his two cousins and seven of his closest friends to support him. A band of ten they were, inseparable. Strong. They rode together to quell the unrest growing in the South. Our kingdom was fragile, still recovering from the invasion. We could not afford attackers from withoutandwithin.”
“What happened?” I breathe. “Do you know why he did it? Why he burned everything?”
“When he came back, he would only say that our enemies were defeated. It was obvious he’d lost control, but he would never admit to that. He wants to seem strong, you see. Like his father.” Jonald’s watery eyes lift to mine. “We never told his father what he’d done. The king was suffering enough—he’d been lingering on the brink of death for almost a year by then. He died shortly after the Ashlands Massacre. After Perish took the crown, he closed the borders. Ended most of the trade, focused on becoming an insular, self-sustaining nation, with very little help from magic or other countries.”
I’ve never heard the tale told like this. I’ve never been able to connect the invasion, the former King’s illness, and the tragedy in the South the way Jonald does.
“It’s fascinating,” I say slowly, “how a person’s perspective on something changes the memory of it. Does that make sense? I’m not sure I’m saying it right.”
The old healer nods. “Memories are fragile things, most fickle when they stem from a collective consciousness. Yet they are also the foundation on which we construct our truth. When a warped memory is crystallized into stone, and people build upon it, the future is skewed as well.”
After several moments of quiet thought, during which we both stare into the flickering fire, Jonald and I talk of healing magic. I’ve barely spoken to anyone else who possesses my ability, and I realize I have a voracious appetite for learning more about my powers. But there’s too much to discuss in one night, and I can tell that the elderly man is tiring. He’s beginning to struggle to find his words, and that seems to frustrate him.
“I should go,” I tell him, rising. “But thank you so much for speaking with me. I wonder if I could return sometime? I have so much more to learn, and you are a treasury of wisdom.”
“Silver-tongued girl.” He smiles. “Of course you may come back. I’d be delighted.”
“Thank you!” Impulsively, I hug him. “Anything I can do for you before I go? I’d be happy to soothe any aches you may feel.”
His wrinkled face brightens. “That would be a delight. The King will hire me a healer whenever I need it, of course, but I don’t like to bother him. And there’s only so much that magic can do for this old body anyway. But I won’t say no to a little treatment.”
