Page 86 of Healer to the Ash King
Or maybe I should put him on the defensive.
He sends another volley of fireballs my way, and this time, in addition to shielding the girls, I send whips of water snaking across the arena toward him—not to harm him, but to restrain him. The liquid ropes coil around him faster and faster, whirling into a funnel that blurs his form. The crowd shouts with surprise, and I smile.
But the next second he walks out of the hurricane, surrounded and shielded by a firestorm of his own. He tosses Witherbrand down and lifts both palms.
The arena fills with fire—flames racing along its edge, spreading, rushing inward toward the three bound women and me. I soak the sand around us and raise a thick shield of protective water, but the fire is too hot, too fierce. Blue flames soar high over our heads, pressing against the ever-shrinking sphere of my liquid magic.
I’ve helped the King control his fire before. Perhaps that gave me a false sense of my own power compared with his. During those moments, he was fighting to control himself, and my magic was just the extra bit of help he needed for the task. I was able to curb the fire only because he wanted me to, because he was already exercising a monumental amount of self-control against it. When he willingly unfetters his power, nothing can stop him. Not me, not anyone.
There is no defense against a man like this, against power like this. But I fight him anyway, until all my water is scorching steam. My eyes sting with the heat, and I feel as if I’m boiling in my own skin.
The oncoming fire halts, and a quivering tongue of flame stretches out and lashes Beaori across the arm. She squeals sharply at the pain.
The Ash King has won.
Immediately all the flames withdraw, lowering like servants succumbing to their master. This time, at least, they are completely in his control, and they dissipate into smoke.
The crowd expresses thunderous approval for the King’s triumph. His pants are smoke-stained, spattered with tiny holes from his own sparks, but somehow he still manages to look regal. He picks up Witherbrand and lifts a hand for silence—and when the audience doesn’t immediately obey, he sends up a shower of explosive orbs that shatter with hissing violence over the heads of the people.
A repentant hush falls immediately.
“Lest you all believe that I did this lightly or thoughtlessly,” he says, “Let me be clear—the outcome of this match was never in question. I do not place bets with the throne.”
He strides rapidly along the center of the arena, Witherbrand flaming in his hand. “The Calling is not a game to be won. It is a grueling test of worthiness. The women here are suffering on your behalf, striving to prove themselves worthy ofyou, the people of Bolcan. Do not diminish their birthright, their strength, and their competence by praising their names alongside the names of others who are not part of the Calling.”
Others like me.
Those words—it feels as if he has wrapped my heart in fiery fingers and squeezed.
He keeps walking, right up to me, smelling of smoke and fire. “There is a time, however, for praising the dutiful servants of the crown. And this moment is such a time.” He grips my wrist, raising it high. “The Healer of the Favored,” he shouts. “She did not win, but she did well.”
At his nod of permission, the crowd applauds.
It’s torture standing beside him, inhaling the raw masculine scent of his bare skin, feeling the strength of his grip, the heat of his body.Not mine, not mine.
I want to cry. So I let a few tears escape, and I smile through them.
The crowd will think they are joyful tears because my King has acknowledged my efforts. Not heartbroken tears because the man I love will not love me back.
Yes, I love him.
I love him, I love him…
I love you…My heart cries after him as he releases me and strides away.
My heart keeps bleeding those words while the three eliminated women are unbound, while we all return to the recovery room. I mend the wounds of the Favored, replenish their blood, and make them flawless. Like the volcano concealing a pool of lava at its core while green fields grow on its shoulders, I keep my face placid, pleasant, calm—and still my heart cries.
I love you.
Not mine, not mine.
31
I’m exhausted yet again. Drained nearly empty, though not as dangerously low as I was after my healing session with the people of the city. I don’t spend long in the bath because I’m afraid I might fall asleep in the warm water.
After staggering from the bathing chamber into my room, I tug the covers down and collapse on my bed, still wrapped in the towel. My maid brought food, but I don’t touch the tray at my bedside. I’m too heartsore to eat.
And now there is no activity to distract me, nothing to keep the events of the day from spinning through my head, over and over, the way I’ve watched my parents polishing stones or pieces of petrified wood over and over until their gloss is perfect.
