Page 76 of Healer to the Ash King
“It would be a pleasure,” I tell him. “I owe you, remember?”
I angle myself more fully toward him in the chair and extend my hands, letting my eyes drift shut while my magical senses expand, seeking out any pain or malfunction in his body. I can feel the slowing of organs and cells, the unstoppable march of time carrying him toward the end. There’s nothing I can do to halt that systemic, natural progression, but I can ease his way, extend his time a little.
With my magic, I calm the inflamed joints, ease the function of bowels and kidneys, strengthen the heart muscle. In the process I discover several spots of mutated cells in his body—small tumors that are bound to grow rapidly. I’ve encountered this kind of disease in people before. It’s not something my healing magic can fix, but suddenly I wonder if the other side of my ability might be useful here. With it, I could potentially erode those tumors, erase the mutating cells.
As I’m considering the possibility, I can feel something shifting, changing inside me. When I open my eyes, I’m horrified to see the lines of my golden magic darkening to black. Quickly I withdraw all my power, sucking it back into myself.
Jonald’s eyes were closed—he didn’t see the dark magic uncurling from my hands.
I leap up, forcing a bright smile. “I have to go, but I hope that helps! Thank you again, so much!” I pick up the lamp I brought with me, and I bolt from the room.
I stand in the hallway, trembling so hard I can barely hold the lamp. It’s been so long since I used that side of myself—I forgot how it felt. My corrosion magic is a rush of sweet darkness through my veins, and addictive, vindictive potency. What did Jonald call wielders of my kind? Rotters. I am a Rotter.
I don’t like it. It’s a disgusting name for a disgusting power. Why did I think, even for a moment, of using it on Jonald? What if I’d destroyed more than just the tumors? What if it had gone too far? I could have accidentally killed him, in the horrible way King Prillian was killed.
How awful it must have been for Perish, watching his father’s decayed body struggle to cling to life, watching the healers try in vain to save him for all those months. And then the mysterious incident in the Ashlands—Perish was the only one to come back, which means he lost his cousins and his friends in that inferno, along with many of his citizens. And when he returned, his father died as well.
The sheer loss he suffered—loss of his magical control, loss of his loved ones—no wonder he’s so guarded. No wonder he has erected so many shields between him and everyone else. The shields are there to protect others from his magic, yes—but they’re also in place to guard a wounded heart.
Still pondering what I’ve learned, I wander the corridors until I find a major artery of the castle again. I follow it slowly, lost in thought, passing the occasional guard along the way. It must be so boring to be a guard in a place like this. Hours of standing still with nothing to do. Sometimes I wonder if all the suits of armor really have guards in them, or if some of them are just for show. I suppose I should figure that out, for the benefit of the Undoing.
I’m becoming increasingly certain that I don’t want to help the rebels at all. But Rince hinted there might be some sort of retaliation if I back out now. And I can’t keep making excuses and stringing Rince along, because eventually his contact inside the palace will make a move. Before she does, I must figure out who she is so I can protect Perish—the Ash King—from her.
Or I could tell Perish everything. But if I do that, he might want me to turn informant against Rince and Brayda. He’ll want to use me to trap them. I won’t allow that—I won’t permit my friends to be caught and tortured for information.
Which means I’m stuck between the throne and the anarchists, and I have no idea what to do.
Unexpectedly, my stomach rumbles. I ate early, and it’s quite late now—besides which, I tend to get hungry when I’m worried.
A couple days ago my maid told me there’s a secret pantry in the central wing. It’s in the upstairs hallway at the very end, past my room, past the King’s suite, and beyond several other chambers that used to house royal family members. The servants store dry goods there—crackers, cookies, candied fruit—so they don’t have to go all the way to the kitchens when a royal wants a snack.
It takes me a while to find my way back to the right corridor, but when I do, I walk past the shadowy figures of the guards and head straight for the secret pantry. It’s exactly where my maid said it would be—right behind a portrait of the Ash King’s great-grandfather and his husband.
The door is narrow, but the room beyond is larger than I expected, big enough for several people to stand comfortably. I set my lamp on a half-empty shelf and inspect the contents of the place—wrapped cheeses, crisp crackers, bottles of wine, tins of cookies, boxes of tea. A wholesome scent of cinnamon and herbs pervades the room, and my stomach growls again. I pry open a tin and sneak a cookie. It’s delicious—crumbly and buttery.
The door of the pantry creaks, and I whip around, startled and guilty, brushing cookie crumbs from my lips.
A hooded figure stands in the doorway.
26
“I’m so sorry,” I say to the shadowy stranger. “My maid told me about this pantry—I thought it would be all right if I—if I…” My voice trails off as the figure advances. The glow of the lamp glimmers on a dark, velvety robe. The person’s face is in shadow, but the fingers are male, strong and lined with rings. A wisp of silver-white hair slips from beneath the hood.
“Your Majesty,” I say, relieved. But my relief dissipates when he grips the neckline of my dress and yanks me closer to him. His eyes burn orange in the recesses of the hood.
“We had an arrangement,” he hisses. “You said you’d meet me tonight. You weren’t in your room.”
“I was exploring the castle.”
His hood falls back, his beautiful, harsh face bared to me. His voice is hoarse with rage. “What else were you exploring?”
Why is he so angry? Desperately I search for water—there’s some in jugs on one of the shelves. If I can get over there and unstopper one of them, I’ll have something to protect myself.
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” I say. “I walked through some older parts of the castle, found the servants’ quarters, talked to Jonald—”
“Jonald? Why?”
“He’s a healer, I’m a healer—we have things to talk about—gods!” I whimper as he hauls me closer still. His fingers are smoking, burning through the fabric of my dress.
