Page 80 of Healer to the Ash King
“Heartsfire,” I breathe.
“The leaders of every southern city died at once, alongside my friends. And that was not the end of it. The toxin was a magical one, devised in Cheimhold. It crawled from person to person like a plague, and each body it touched served as fuel, enabling it to spread farther. Within hours, the entire city was infected—people dropping and dying in the street, in their houses. Only those with allegiance to the rebels had been given an antidote.”
“How did you survive?”
His fingers close around the bedpost. “I was able to burn the poison out of my lungs. I had to keep doing it over and over, as more toxin seeped into my body—and I was weakening from lack of clean air, but I managed to find one of the surviving rebels. I forced him to show me where he’d hidden a spare dose of the antidote. I wanted more of the antidote to save my people—but he said there was no more, and no time.”
The Ash King picks up his mug of wine again and drinks it all down, despite my earlier warning. “And he was right. I dragged him with me through the city. They were all dead—everyone except the traitors who knew of the attack. The toxin was like nothing I’ve seen before or since. One breath, a handful of seconds, and the victims died in contorted agony.”
I nod, my throat tight with emotion.
“I went back and fetched my horse from the stables of the Lord Mayor,” the Ash King continues. “The magical toxin did not harm the animals—a small mercy. With my rebel prisoner, I rode out of the city. We were nearly shot down by rebels as we rode. Once we cleared the city walls, I saw green fumes sweeping across the land, leaping from farmhouse to roadside inn and to villages beyond. This was a plague designed to destroy all life in our kingdom, leaving it thinly populated by those with allegiance to the Undoing. I could not allow it time to spread any farther. So I rode to the edge of the toxic fog, and then I released my magic.”
“You burned everything,” I whisper.
“A cleansing fire, destroying the bodies, the plague itself, and every traitor, along with their families. All the animals, the buildings, the possessions, the crops—I wiped it all away. Once I began I could not stop. My anger and pain were too great.”
The ceramic mug is heating in his hand, its glaze melting. “I cannot describe the overwhelming power I felt during those hours. I was unleashed, yes—but more than that, I was connected to the land, to the fires of every southern mountain. I could perceive the edges of the magical plague, as you might perceive the edges of a wound. I made sure that I burned it all, and more.”
“Your cousin, Nikkan—he didn’t take the antidote?”
“No. Perhaps he did not wish to live past that single act of manic devotion to his wretched cause.” The Ash King’s jaw tightens, and his eyes glimmer with unshed tears. After a moment he says, “The rebel I took prisoner—he said the poison had taken years to develop and was difficult to make. He said it required the soul essence of many wielders, and he promised that Cheimhold had no more of it. They planned to let it fester within our kingdom, confined by our mountainous borders, until it wore off in a few days—and then they would enter without resistance and take possession of Bolcan.”
“You killed the prisoner, of course.”
“Burned him like a candle, and took immense pleasure in it.” The Ash King’s smile is dark, dreadful. “I’d promised to let him live if he told me everything he knew. I lied.”
“I don’t understand why you didn’t tell everyone else in the kingdom what really happened,” I venture. “Why let them think you slaughtered so many people without reason?”
“Telling the truth would only have caused a panic,” he says. “Think about it. A magical poison that kills within seconds, with no remaining doses of antidote, and no other cure? Imagine the paranoia that would have ensued—a pointless panic, because I eradicated both the toxin and the rebels. The threat was gone.”
“But there’s more to it than that, isn’t there?” I ask softly. “Your cousin.”
“Yes, I wanted to protect his name. To keep anyone from knowing what he did, who he had become. My aunt believes that I killed her sons, and she hates me. Moved out of the palace the day after I returned, and hasn’t spoken to me since. Better she despise me than know the truth—that her son was a traitor. I may have destroyed the cities and killed the rebels, but he was responsible for everyone else. Thousands of our people. Five years later, and I still do not understand why he did it.”
The Ash King sits heavily on the bed. “I didn’t want to leave my friends there, Cailin. You don’t know what it’s like to be dining with your truest comrades, the companions you love most in all the world, and to watch their smiles vanish and their eyes change from humor to terror. I dream about it often. Sometimes I resist sleep for fear of the dreams.”
I shove the tray of food aside and scoot nearer to him, placing my hand on his shoulder. But it’s not enough, so I wrap my arms around him.
“You can’t tell anyone,” he says.
“I won’t.”
“They’re all so frightened of me,” he whispers. “Even the people I’ve known since I was a child. They don’t see me anymore. They only see what I’ve done. I lost everything to that massacre, everything. My people are waiting for me to explode again. And I won’t lie—it’s a possibility. Something was unlocked inside me that day—I drew upon power I should have never accessed, and it changed me, down to my very bones. You saw the proof of that, inside my body.”
I grip him tighter. “You saved the rest of the kingdom. You should tell everyone how it really happened.”
“You think they would believe me after all this time?” He looks down into my face, his eyes sorrowful. “I’ve waited too long now. If I was going to tell the truth, I should have done so after the Ashlands massacre. But I did not. I kept it all to myself. I shut down every avenue of access into this kingdom, and my strategy worked. I am feared, not only by my people, but by our enemies. Word of what I did spread into Cheimhold itself. They do not dare attack us again, by any means, lest the Ash King of Bolcan burn them to dust.”
“I’m not afraid of you,” I tell him.
“You are.” He sighs, setting his chin on my hair. “I’ve seen it in your eyes.”
“Maybe sometimes,” I concede. “Especially at first. Less often now.”
I try to keep the next words back, but they slip out anyway. “Have you told any of the Favored about this?”
He shakes off my embrace and glares at me. “The telling of a tale doesn’t make you special.”
