Page 85 of Healer to the Ash King
Everyone else must know I’m doomed to fail, too. But the Favored are furious, nonetheless, and though most of the crowd is wild with excitement, and some of the finely-clad folk in the front rows look highly displeased.
I stare up at the King, there on his balcony above me, toying with our lives like he toys with his fire orbs—idly, thoughtlessly. Whatever happened to him proving that he hates me? He has just given me a strange mark of his favor, opening a chance for me to compete—I can hardly think the words—to be hisbride.
But is it really a mark of his favor, or something far worse?
What if he hurts me? Scorches me? Humiliates me by winning the match in the first few seconds?
Unpredictable as this move may seem to everyone else, I know him better now. He always has a plan, a strategy, some plot to manipulate everyone. Naïve he may have been five years ago, but he’s had half a decade to become the clever serpent of a man that he is now.
I won’t know what his play is until we face each other in the center of the Réimse Ríoga.
30
My fingernails dig into my palms as contest aides carry barrels of water into the arena. I stand in front of the three tall wooden posts, set in a triangular formation. Beaori, Morani, and Samay are bound to those posts, and judging by their faces, they’re furious about it. None of them are entirely healed yet, and in addition to the humiliation of being eliminated, they’re being forced to endure this spectacle, this added danger.
The Ash King is cruel. His reputation for swift retribution and fiery punishment is well known. They were fools if they expected anything else from him.
Maybe I’m a fool too. A worse fool, because I thought he and I were building something, and this plan of his doesn’t make any sense. The whole thing is pointless if he intends to beat me quickly anyway.
What if he lets me win? My foolish heart does a tiny twirl at the thought, at the idea that he might actually entertain the idea of placing me in the contest. It would be proof that he thinks me worthy of his heart and throne.
But he can’t let me win the match, not with everyone watching. The nobles wouldn’t allow me to join the Calling, and despite his power, he has to consider what the high-born citizens and his advisors say.
And do I really want to be one of those women, struggling and sweating, seducing and simpering, trying to claw past each other and grasp the crown? I prefer what he and I have right now. It’s private, special, tender—at least I thought it was.
Maybe he regrets telling me his secrets.
The servants leave the arena, and the Ash King strides in through a side entrance. He has stripped to the waist, every muscle glowing in the light from his own swarm of fire-orbs drifting far overhead, near the arena ceiling.
The King is greeted with a royal fanfare and with worshipful cries from thousands of throats. He inspires reverence the way only a young, merciless ruler can. His blend of beauty, magic, and cruelty is what makes him so powerful, so unassailable.
In his hand he wields his sword, Witherbrand. It’s already alight with orange flame, and that makes me nervous. Surely he wouldn’t strike me with it. He can’t damage me too much, or I won’t have enough energy to fix myselfandfinish healing the girls.
I draw water from the nearby barrels, slightly reassured by how much there is. At least I’ll have plenty to work with.
The King is putting himself at risk here too, because as we both learned, if I intend to hurt him, and I mingle my water with his fire, I can cause damage. That’s a vulnerability he probably doesn’t want disclosed to the kingdom. He’s trusting me to defend only, not attack—to keep my intent pure and harmless.
Last time we fought, we were in close quarters. This time, he stops a good thirty paces away from me and nods to the timekeeper and the herald.
“Ready,” the herald calls. “And—begin.”
A streak of fire races from the tip of Witherbrand, streaming toward me like water shot through a reed. I intercept it with a wall of liquid, recapturing and condensing the droplets after they hiss into steam. I need to conserve every bit of water if I’m going to have a chance.
Next the Ash King opens his palm, releasing dozens more of those little fiery orbs he favors. They come whizzing through the air, missiles aimed straight for the three captive women, but I form a sphere of glimmering water around them, and the tiny orbs hammer harmlessly against it.
Blades of spinning fire, writhing snakes of flame, more fiery pellets, great churning orbs of blue heat—he sends them all at me, one after another. The air is acrid with the sting of magic. Sweat films my bare limbs. Tendrils of my hair have come loose, sticking to my neck and shoulders.
I can tell the Ash King holding back, giving me time to defend against each attack. Tempting me to believe that maybe, somehow, I can win.
I wasn’t asked whether I wanted to participate or not. I was simply escorted onto the field by one of the contest managers, the sour-faced woman who already disapproves of me.
What if I yielded? I could give up the match and bow before the Ash King, murmuring some nonsense about how I’m not worthy to face him like an equal.
But I discard the thought instantly. Village girl though I am, I’m his equal—maybe not in magic, but in every other way.
I won’t relent. He will have to take this victory from me.
My arms are toned from long days of wielding water in the fields, so exhaustion isn’t a problem for me. But the King doesn’t use his magic often; he is constantly restraining it. Maybe his stamina isn’t as great as mine. Maybe I can outlast him.
