Page 97 of Healer to the Ash King
“Not officially. It is a long-standing festival in Cawn, dating back over a century. The idea is to release so much joy that we frighten away the spirits of death and decay, with the goal of prolonging the summer warmth and the growing season. A silly superstition.”
“But a charming one. Oh, look! Petrified wood!” I tug Perish toward a booth featuring glossy carvings, unhewn chunks of marbleized wood, and gleaming slabs engraved with images.
The booth owner is a wizened old woman with a cheery smile. “I’m about to pack up for the night, dears. These old bones be aching. But take a quick look, if you like.”
The impulse to soothe her pain rises in me, natural and inevitable. “Can you keep a secret?” I ask.
Her eyes narrow, but then she smiles again. “You don’t get to be as old as I am without picking up a few secrets along the way, sweetkin.”
Cautiously I send a couple threads of golden healing magic toward her. They soak into her body, seeking out inflammation, calming the nerves that spark with pain.
The old woman’s eyes widen and soften. “A healer?” she whispers.
“Hush.” I press a finger to my lips. “Your wares are beautifully crafted and polished. And I’ve never seen these hues before—streaks of green and blue in the wood. Where do the materials come from?”
“From the Ashlands,” she says. “There are hidden crevices where special varieties of this wood may be found. I know all the places, since my family has lived in the Southern mountains for years. They’re all dead now, of course, thanks to the Ash King.”
The King’s fingers twitch in my hand.
“Surely you don’t gather the wood yourself,” I say.
“Ah no, my dear. My apprentices make the journey to obtain these materials. They do most of the polishing, too. But I still do the carving.”
“It’s lovely work.” I run a fingertip over the smooth surface of one piece, tracing the dark etchings, reveling in the rough, familiar texture of the fossilized bark at the edges.
“Since you gave me a secret, I’ll give you a story.” The old woman points to a piece of polished wood, daintily etched with six tall, spindly figures with their hands upraised. Over their heads are symbols—a flame, a drop of water, a curl of air, a forklike design, a sun, and a pattern of dots and leaves.
“They say the gods once roamed the mountain ranges of the world—the high places,” the old woman continues. “Hlín,Hœnir, Eostra, Macha, Diancecht, and Nehalennia. They loved humans and gave some of them special powers which live on in the wielders of this land. On rare occasions they bred with mortals and produced new wielders with fresh divine blood, more powerful than others—the Numenai.”
Her wrinkled finger moves to another slab of petrified wood. This one features a figure bowed over, holding its head in its hands.
“The Numenai appeared as normal wielders until some significant event in their lives,” she says. “A great loss or a great love could awaken the divine strength of a Numen, causing them to become supremely powerful and volatile. When that happened, tragedy often followed. As in the case of the Numen Kyr-sharis. When her children were slaughtered, she felt her powers growing beyond her control, so she wandered beyond the Altagoni Mountains and released her magic. That place is still cursed and broken to this day, down to its very bones. It is called the Bloodsalt.”
My heart is beating so loudly I’m sure the Ash King must be able to hear it. “How long ago did that happen?”
“Oh, centuries ago, my dear. That sort of thing doesn’t happen anymore—in fact, some claim it never did. The gods are long gone, if they ever existed. And I haven’t heard anyone speak of the Numenai in years. Only my grandmother, and she is long dead, gods bless her.”
“I have certainly never heard such a tale,” says the Ash King. His voice is low and hollow. It doesn’t sound like him.
“Was there anything that could help a Numen control their powers?” I ask. “Did your grandmother speak of talismans, tattoos, perhaps some meditative practice?”
The old woman’s bleary eyes narrow. “It’s a story, dear. Even if it was once true, there are no such beings now.”
“Really?” I raise my eyebrows, shocked that she doesn’t see it. “You can’t think of one? Not one person with enough power to ruin an entire section of land?”
“Time to go,” says the Ash King. “Thank you, madam.” He places two coins on the woman’s table.
“My grandmother used to say that a crystallized memory could stabilize magical resonance,” says the craftswoman, picking up the payment. “I have no idea what she meant. Where does one find a crystallized memory?” She laughs, testing the edge of a gold coin with her teeth. “Here, have one each.” She hands me two rings of polished petrified wood, one small and one large.
“Thank you,” I call back to her as the Ash King pulls me away.
He’s walking fast, towing me through the crowd of gaudily masked faces.
“You didn’t have to be rude,” I protest. “She clearly didn’t make the connection.”
He yanks me aside, into the mouth of an alley. “Why has no one told me of this before?” He’s breathing hard, teeth clenched.
“Maybe because it sounds like a children’s bedtime story. Or maybe because approaching you and asking if you are part god sounds rather silly.”
