Page 81 of Healer to the Ash King
I should be hurt by that caustic comment, but instead a smile spreads over my face. I can’t stop grinning. “I’m the only one you’ve told.”
“Don’t look so damn pleased with yourself.” He’s trying to be stern, but I can tell he’s fighting a smile, so I let my whole heart shine through my eyes. For a moment, I’m as vulnerable with him as he has been with me. His gaze brightens, a tender glow suffusing his eyes.
This conversation is far more intimate than anything physical we’ve done, and we both know it.
“I want you beside me,” he says, and my heart leaps. “In my bed,” he hastens to say. “I want you to sleep beside me tonight. I think you could keep away the dreams.”
I take a moment to breathe through my disappointment, to separate my affection for him from my personal pride.
Delicately I shift away from him, so our bodies are no longer touching. “I had a stuffed fire-weasel when I was a child. I used to cuddle it whenever I was frightened in the dark. An inanimate thing, without heart or feelings. Strange how it gave me so much comfort.”
The King stares at me as if he thinks I’ve gone mad.
“If you need comfort,” I say crisply, “may I suggest your Majesty finds a pillow to hug? Or perhaps the palace seamstress can sew you a stuffed fire-weasel. I only sleep beside men who are committed to me—heart, soul, and body.”
He rises abruptly and walks to the door between our rooms. “But our other arrangement remains?” he asks, without turning around.
“Sex and secrets,” I murmur with a smile. “Yes. It remains. But I’m not sure I despise you quite as passionately as before.”
“A pity,” he replies. “I shall have to reawaken your hatred somehow. It’s so refreshing.”
“I’m sure you’ll find some way to anger me,” I say dryly.
“Rest well, Healer. My potential brides are battling each other tomorrow, and it will be bloody. You’ll need your full strength.”
And with the swiftest of fleeting smiles over his shoulder, he leaves my room.
Once he’s gone, I eat far too many crackers with cheese and drink another two mugs of wine. Without the wine’s soothing influence, I’m sure I would not be able to sleep. My mind has broadened, my perspective has changed, and I’m left with a multitude of important questions.
Should I keep the King’s confidence, or should I find a way to contact Rince and tell him what I’ve learned? If he knew the truth, surely he would realize, as I have, that the King is far less menacing than we thought. His strict laws have reasons behind them, and most of the people he burned in the southern lands were already dead, killed by the Undoing, with the shadow of Cheimhold behind it all.
But why should Rince believe me? What proof do I have beyond the word of the very King who has the power to destroy an entire region? Brayda would deny it all, and claim that it was a trick. She’d say the King told me that story just to soften me up, to secure my loyalty.
But it was no trick. He was holding back powerful emotions the whole time he spoke to me—genuine emotions of sorrow, betrayal, anger, and pain.
Does he make all the right choices? No. Were each of his decisions without fault? Also no. Is he sometimes arrogant, cruel, reactive, and harsh? Certainly. But he does not deserve the death that the rebels want to give him. He’s doing his best to protect the kingdom.
I can’t break my ties to the Undoing. Rince warned of possible consequences if I tried—and I need to keep my ear to the door, to find out if they are still being supported by our enemies in Cheimhold. If I can prove that, I’ll have something with which to convince my friends. Maybe I can get Brayda and Rince away from the rebels before they are manipulated into killing themselves for a false cause.
And before any of that, I need to find out which of the ten remaining contestants is an anarchist sympathizer. Because I’ll throw myself in the fires of Analoir Doiteain before I let her assassinate the man I’m beginning to love.
28
I thought I’d learned not to underestimate the Favored—their skill, their savagery.
But watching them battle each other in the Réimse Ríoga is a revelation.
They fight one on one, and they are allowed to request any weapon they please. The first two matches are already over—Sabre bested Morani after a long fight, and Adalasia beat Samay easily. Sabre, Morani, and Samay came out of the matches with terrible wounds—I’m still working on reconstructing the slab of flesh that was sheared off Sabre’s shoulder by Morani’s scythe. Sabre and I stand together at the edge of the arena so I can keep an eye on the fight between Teagan and Beaori.
Beaori plays dirty, and I suspect she’s going to try something nasty before the match is done. Technically there are no rules—anything goes, short of actually killing your opponent. But I’ve noticed the other girls behaving with honor—giving the other fighter a moment to pick up her weapon if she drops it, not biting or pulling hair, that sort of thing.
I don’t expect Beaori to show such mercy.
My fingers hover near Sabre’s wounded shoulder, the golden light doing its work while I try to divide my focus between healing and watchfulness.
Teagan is fighting with a long, thin sword and a short knife. I remember the skill with which she fought during the rebel attack on our way to the Capital. On her own two feet, with enough freedom to move, she’s even more talented—graceful, ruthless, with technique that looks perfect to my untrained eyes.
But Beaori is equally dangerous. She wields a long chain with a curved knife at each end. The two women are shining with sweat, clad in little more than leather vests and pants cut to mid-thigh. My maid, Enna, brought me similar attire this morning—a blue bandeau and blue shorts, with a leather vest that’s a size too small for me and deepens my cleavage dramatically.
