Page 84 of Healer to the Ash King
If Teagan hadn’t offered me a bribe, I might have considered keeping her secret. But the bribery suggestion offended me deeply. The Ash King is depending on me to be fair and objective. He wants me to tell him everything I learn about the girls, and so far I haven’t been forthright enough with him.
After this challenge, I’m going to tell him everything.
In the remaining matches, Diaza triumphs narrowly over Axley, and Khloe surprises everyone by knocking Leslynne out cold within a few minutes. Axley and Diaza are both badly wounded, so I heal them enough to get them on their feet.
Then all ten of the Favored line up before the King’s balcony.
“You fought well today,” he says. “And I know some of you are still suffering. I will not make you wait for my decision. You may all remain here until you are completely healed, but afterward, Beaori, Morani, and Samay must leave the Calling and return to their homes. They are no longer counted among the Favored.”
Murmurs of shock, disappointment, or joy ripple through the audience. Each onlooker has a favorite contestant, and for some of them, their favorite lost her chance at the throne today. People in the crowd shout the names of the remaining women, an endless echo of “Khloe” and “Teagan” and “Axley” and “Cailin” —
Wait. Cailin?
I listen harder, certain I must be mistaken.
There is no mistake. Voices in the crowd are shouting my name, most of them coming from the upper tiers of the arena, where the cheapest seats are. The common folk are calling for me. I’m not sure why—perhaps because I didn’t perform any magic before this round? Maybe they’re disappointed about that.
Ever since the first few shouts of my name, more people seem to have been emboldened to speak it. In fact, so many are shouting “Cailin” now that the heads of the Favored women begin to turn toward me. And their expressions are not favorable.
Gracious gods. I want to crawl under something. I want to huddle in the shadow of the arena wall, slip through the exit into the back room and hide.
But a secret part of me is darkly delighted, too. My pulse quickens, racing through my veins like an ash-burrower through its tunnel. Instead of cowering I straighten my shoulders, smile, and lift my head.
And I risk one glance at the Ash King.
He’s looking at me, eyes scarlet and narrowed. Then he surveys the crowd before lifting his hands, signaling for quiet.
The audience falls silent.
“What would you have of the Healer?” he asks. “A display of water magic? Or perhaps—a show of her combat skills?”
I stifle a sharp gasp. I have no combat skills.
But the King isn’t done. “Perhaps both?” He gives his people a rare smile, and their roar of approval pummels my ears. “Ah, but our Healer is sworn to help and not harm, except in defense of herself or others. She cannot engage in offensive combat.”
A hum of disappointment from the crowd.
“Shall we provide her with the proper motivation then?” The Ash King’s smile is wider, crueler, and I remember his words to me:I shall have to reawaken your hatred somehow. It’s so refreshing.
What the Heartsfire is he about to suggest?
“My guards will tie the eliminated Favored to three posts in the center of the arena,” says the King. “The Healer will defend them from my attacks. If she can do so successfully for a half-turn of the hourglass, she wins a most enviable prize…”
The crowd quiets, anticipation hovering thick in the air.
“If a single flame of mine touches any of the three women, the Healer loses the challenge,” says the Ash King. “But if she protects them effectively, she may replace one of them as a Favored contestant in the Calling.”
Silence coils through the arena, thick and deadly as smoke.
I can’t breathe.
A frantic sweat breaks out over my entire body. My stomach is dipping, rolling.
Mutters slither through the audience, surging to a roar of astonishment, anger, and approval, all mingled. Two men and a woman in the King’s box rise abruptly and step forward, murmuring to him. Advisors, most likely, suggesting that he rethink this.
Not that any of them imagine for one second that I could win. The idea is laughable. This is the Ash King, maker of the scorched Ashlands, wielder of fires beyond scale or comprehension.
He knows I’m going to lose. He risks nothing by this, because I have no chance at defeating him.
