Page 82 of Healer to the Ash King
When I raised my eyebrows, Enna offered me an alternative outfit with more coverage; but I decided to wear the scanty outfit after all. The clothes the King selected for me are reminiscent of the ones I wore when I first met him. Perhaps I should despise him for dressing me to his pleasure; but I find it charming.
I risk taking my eyes off the fighting pair and glance in the direction of his balcony. He’s standing at its edge, leaning eagerly forward. What man wouldn’t enjoy watching two strong, beautiful women fight for him?
He made it clear at the beginning of this challenge that at least two of the Favored—possibly more—would be leaving the competition afterward. That declaration has made the matches even more frenzied. Which was no doubt his intent.
A cry startles me. When I look back at the fighters, my lungs constrict and my blood runs cold.
One of Beaori’s knives has hooked into Teagan’s back. It’s lodged in her spine. She’s choking, white-faced. Her hand loosens, and her sword falls to the sand.
Beaori doesn’t hesitate. She jerks on the handle of her other knife, yanking the chain short, wrapping it around and around her own arm as she pulls Teagan closer. Teagan falls—she’s being dragged through the dirt by the blade in her spine.
Beaori hauls her nearer, right to her feet. She reaches down and grips Teagan’s red braid, jerking her head up.
But Teagan still grips her knife, and she slashes across the back of Beaori’s ankle. Beaori screams with rage and pain. She nearly falls, but she manages to stand on one leg, and her second blade whips toward Teagan’s neck.
I yell, leaping forward—but Teagan rolls out of the way just in time.
Sabre catches me with her good arm. “You can’t interfere, Healer.”
“She’s going to kill Teagan!”
“Maybe not. And if she does, she’ll be eliminated.”
I jerk against her grip. “Is that all you care about? One less rival?”
Sabre lets me go, fixing me with a stern look. “I didn’t come to the Calling to make friends. I came to win the throne.”
“Why?” I resume healing her, pushing frantic energy into her muscles so I can finish the task and focus on the fighters, who are both tangled in the dirt, stabbing at each other. Sooner or later one of them will secure a killing hold, at which point they are supposed to stop and wait for the match to be called.
“Why?” Sabre scoffs. “Why would anyone want a throne? Renown and riches for me, power and prestige for my family, a handsome husband in my bed, a legacy of children who will continue to reign. And there are things I want to change.”
My ears perk up at that. I finish the healing of Sabre’s shoulder and watch Teagan slash Beaori’s cheek before trying to crawl away. It’s a miracle Teagan is still fighting. More than a miracle, really. With a blade lodged in that part of her spine, she shouldn’t be able to move at all.
My stomach drops.
Not a miracle. Magic.
Heartsfire.
Is Teagan hiding a special power?
She did survive a massive wound to the neck during the gauntlet challenge. I considered it luck that I reached her in time before she bled out, but maybe it was more than that. Maybe any other girl would have died within seconds, not minutes.
Teagan’s parents are wealthy—they could have paid a Ricter to look the other way and not report any latent abilities. They also could have paid off the Ricters who have circulated through the palace parties during the Calling, though that seems less likely.
I can’t say anything, not without proof. I will investigate later.
Right now, I have more questions for Sabre. “What things do you want to change if you become queen?”
“Everything is too restricted,” she mutters. “Magic, commerce, taxes. I want to loosen all the laws and border restrictions.”
Does Sabre realize how treasonous her words are? How close they sound to the philosophy of the Undoing?
When I questioned the girls before, Sabre was diplomatic in her answers. And when the Ash King spoke of her, he mentioned her firm loyalty to the crown. But she comes from the South, near the Ashlands. Perhaps she expressed exaggerated loyalty so he wouldn’t suspect her of any anarchist leanings.
Whatever the reason, she’s being a little too open about her political views now, probably because of the blood loss and the blow to the head she suffered during her match. Those injuries will have to wait until all the fights are over. I can’t spend all my healer power on one person, when I have no way of knowing the extent of the other injuries I’ll have to treat.
“Go lie down in the back room, please,” I tell her crisply. “I’ll take care of your blood loss and head wound later.”
