Healer to the Ash King (Dark Rulers, #5)

by Rebecca F. Kenney

I am beireoir uisce, bringer of water. My magic guides the water from the great river in the valley, up to the fields on the slopes. Which is where I am today, with my bare knees pressed into cool, damp soil, siphoning a trickle of water from the stream running between the potsava beds, coaxing it to curl around a diseased plant so I can cure its ailment and ease its growth.

“Can it wait?” I call. “No!” He’s coming closer; I can hear him panting. “Cailin, it’s the Ash King.” “Is he dead?” I ask brightly. What a glad day that would be.

Over Peach’s messy brown hair I catch my first glimpse of the King. He’s sitting on a horse the color of volcanic ash, and his long white hair flows unbound in the breeze. Set across his forehead is a crown of black-iron leaves. He’s young, pale, and handsome, dressed heavily in a black coat of brocade and velvet with dramatically pointed epaulets of metal and leather. At his side hangs a black sheath, from which rises the elaborate gilded handle of his famous sword, Witherbrand. A dark name for a very pretty weapon.

Peach doesn’t know the true extent of my powers—the other side of what I can do. In addition to weaving torn flesh together or reversing its decay, I can also unwind flesh and hasten its corrosion. I can rot, atrophy, and disintegrate as easily as I can cure, renew, or rejuvenate.

“I’m aware of her powers. I wasn’t aware she’d be a beggarly orphan.” My head whips up before I can stop it, and my eyes lock with the dark eyes of the Ash King. His upper lip is hitched in a sneer. “I am neither a beggar nor an orphan,” I say. A hard metal object strikes the side of my face, and I crumple onto the dusty pavers, pain blazing through my cheekbone. “You will not speak to the king unless directly addressed,” says the guard who hit me. “You will not use that tone with His Majesty.”

Slam! Another blow, this time to the back of my head, and I’m flung forward, prostrate on my face. “Do not speak to the king unless directly addressed,” drones the same guard, sounding bored. “You will not resist or rebel—” “Enough.” The cold-iron voice is hotter now. “Do not strike the healer again, fool.”

“It’s what I hope for. Sometimes belief is all we need to make a thing real. Hold us in your heart as we hold you in ours, and you will be safe.” She pushes me back, holds me at arm’s length. “Look for the smoke, mo stoirín. It will guide you to the truth that lies buried under the mountain.”

I didn’t take the time to change, and I’m glad of my scanty clothing because the day is hot. I can’t imagine riding in full regalia like the Ash King does. He must be sweltering. I hope he’s wretchedly uncomfortable.

He keeps talking, even when I don’t reply. “Tomorrow the King is escorting one of the Favored from Aighda to the Capital.” Ah yes, the Favored. The eligible daughters of the nobility who will compete to gain the King’s affection and become his bride. It’s an ancient tradition—ancient and ridiculous, in my opinion. But for centuries the “Calling of the Favored” has been held each time a King or Crown Prince turned twenty-five. A few generations ago, we had a Crown Prince who preferred men, and all the favored noble sons were summoned for the competition. That prince found true love, and he and his prince adopted a foundling who became the grandfather of the current Ash King. It’s a beautiful story.

“As you know, the competition can be quite brutal,” the guard replies. “The noble families are eager to ensure that their daughters emerge unscathed. Hence the need for a healer.” “But surely there are skilled healers in the Capital?” “Yes, but most of them have political connections, noble sponsors and the like,” the guard says, leaning companionably toward me. “It is said that His Majesty wants an impartial healer. Someone untainted by the machinations of Court politics.” “That would be me,” I groan. “Oh gods.” “You’re worried,” said the guard. “Understandable. Your skills will be tested and graded before you’re allowed to touch any of the noble ladies.”

“We’ll reside in the house of the Lord Mayor tonight,” says the helpful guard. “And we’ll be dining with him and his family.” “We? As in, me as well?” “I’m not sure. As the King’s personal guard, we’re usually offered a seat at the lower table in the hall. I’m not sure where they’ll put you, especially looking like that.” His eyes twinkle with merriment, though I can’t see his smile under the masklike jaw-guard of his helmet.

“I will need time to change,” I murmur. “Something else to wear.” “Perhaps that would be best,” says the Ash King. “Though this look is growing on me.” He nods to my skimpy attire.

More quickly than I’d have thought possible, I’ve been cleaned up and crushed into a gown that flares out from my waist in a swirl of sparkling blue. Blue leaves encrust the bodice, and more leaves climb over my shoulders and along my arms by way of sleeves. It doesn’t fit perfectly—it was clearly designed for someone with a smaller chest than me—but I’m not bulging out of it too indecently, and with my hair braided and pinned, I look fancier than I ever have in my life. My tanned skin fairly glows against the pale blue of the dress.

That is, until the Lord Mayor says loudly, “Good gracious, my water goblet is empty.” A servant hurries forward with a pitcher, but the Lord Mayor angrily waves him away. “Oh my, how thirsty I am,” the Lord Mayor says again. Once more, the poor servant, looking distressed, edges forward with the pitcher, only to be rebuffed. I smirk, catching on. My fingers barely twitch as I guide water out of the pitcher in a sparkling arch and let it trickle into the Lord Mayor’s goblet. He raises it, triumphant, and everyone at the table claps.

By a stroke of the same terrible fortune that has followed me through this day, the Ash King turns around and catches me smirking at his back. There’s a flicker in his eyes—a real flicker of actual fire—and my smile disappears. But he doesn’t shoot flames at my chest and burn me to a crisp. He only narrows his eyes and glides out of the room.

“Once the house is in bed, someone will come to fetch you. The King would speak with you alone.”

“Not on your knees,” he says, unbuttoning his black pants. “Though it’s good to know you are willing. No, I’ll have you on the bed, I think.” I look up at the Ash King, shock searing along my nerves. “What?” His frown deepens as he takes in my expression. “I thought you knew why you were called here.” “I thought I was summoned to—to answer your questions, or to have my magic tested—” “This late at night?” He arches an eyebrow. “I called you for sex. Why else would a king summon a woman to his quarters at this hour?” “I—forgive me, my lord, I did not understand.”

“Oh, but they only washed my arms and legs,” I say quickly. “I’m very dirty in other places.” And then my face flames. Because I said that. To the Ash King. Again his dark eyes spark orange, and this time there’s the barest quiver at the corner of his mouth. I have the strangest urge to coax that quiver into a smile. “You’re beautiful,” he says, and my heart jolts. “And you’re amusing. I want you.” “If I say no, are you going to burn me?” I whisper. “If I answer yes to that question, will you still refuse me?”

My mother always tells me that one mark of a good man is taking responsibility for his body’s reactions, and not placing that blame on a woman’s choice of clothing.

There’s water in a bucket across the room—I can sense it as surely as if I could see it. I pull the water and it races to me, coiling around the Ash King’s fingers, dousing his fire with a hiss of steam. The Ash King’s lips pull back in a snarl and I startle, because flames are licking through his clenched teeth. It’s as if his throat is full of fire and it’s all he can do to hold it back. Quickly I splash some of the water across his mouth, pressing the liquid between his teeth and down his throat, quenching the flames.

The fire in his gaze dies, and he stares at me, lips wet. He peels his hand from my chest, and I can’t help voicing a small pained cry as the contact breaks. My skin is blistered and swollen where he touched me. So the stories are true. He is every bit as dangerous and wicked as they say. I release the water-wielding part of my magic and tap into my healing ability. The two skills are different, and I can’t use them at the same time. It’s one or the other. Golden curls of light emanate from the handprint on my chest, swirling through my skin, repairing the burnt cells. I can’t quite see it happening, but I can sense when it’s done, and I can see the effect on the Ash King. His dark eyes are wide, his face gilded in the glow of the magic. Mine is a far gentler light than his.

He’s been making me laugh frequently, but this time the Ash King glances over at us, glowering. The next second Owin’s sandwich explodes into ash and sparks. Soot puffs across his face, and he looks so comically surprised that instead of being frightened, I giggle. He reminds me of some of the boys back home; he can’t be more than nineteen.

“I’m sorry,” I gasp, wiping laugh-tears from the corners of my eyes. “I’m anxious, and that makes me prone to nervous fits of laughter. Is His Fiery Highness still watching us with that doomful look?”

Around mid-afternoon, we enter a belt of shimmering green trees—a dense forest brimming with abundant life. I can sense the dampness of the ground, the sap running liquid through the trees, the dew collected in the hollows of gnarled roots. Birdsong ripples intermittently from the foliage overhead. All of it delights me deeply. In spite of what happened with Owin, I smile. The Ash King turns around in his saddle at that moment and catches my expression. I wipe the smile from my face as quickly as I can, but it’s too late. He has already seen it, and he’s frowning, because he hates all happiness and good things. He pulls his horse up short and falls back to ride beside me.

“Ah. So a personal torture session with the Ash King is a special privilege.” “That depends on what kind of torture we’re discussing. Some torture can be—pleasurable. In that case, yes—it would be a privilege. A privilege rejected too easily by those who don’t realize what they are missing.”

“Attackers!” shouts one of the guards. The King’s soldiers and the Lord Mayor’s guards close around me and Teagan, but the King leaps from his horse and shoves his way between our protectors, striding toward the forest. He lifts his hands, and fire streams from his palms, engulfing the beautiful trees in searing flame. I scream, agonized. The Ash King’s head whips toward me. His teeth are bared, flickering with fire again, and his eyes are ablaze. He’s frightening enough in broad daylight; I can’t imagine facing him in the woods at night.

I’m sobbing, crying for the pretty forest, for the burning woman, and for Owin who was nearly killed. The Ash King saved him. And I saved the Ash King. The King swings up onto his horse again, but instead of riding forward he leans over and grips my jaw. “Can you do anything? About that?” He jerks his head toward the blazing trees.

“Are you sure he doesn’t spew lava when he comes?” I whisper behind my hand. Her eyes flare wide, and her lips pucker like she’s holding back a grin. “Watch yourself, Cailin,” she says. “I like you. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

Are all kings this well-protected, or is there really a danger to the Ash King’s life? The assassination attempt on the road seemed clumsy, poorly planned. If those attackers were part of the Undoing, and that was their best effort, there’s no way they could ever make it into the palace itself. Not without someone on the inside.

“I neglected to give the servants instructions regarding you,” he says. “My fetching of you was unplanned, so they were not expecting your presence, and they did not recognize your importance to the competition. This oversight will not be repeated.” It’s almost an apology. “Shall I follow Teagan to the East Wing?” I ask. “It would make sense for you to be near the women you’ll be treating,” he muses. “And yet I do not want you interacting too closely with them after hours, lest you become partial to certain contestants. No, I think I will place you elsewhere.”

One of the guards hurries ahead, stopping at a pair of doors a short distance down the hall. He opens the doors for the Ash King, then bows and stands aside. Ice forms in my stomach, chilling my nerves. Is my room next to the Ash King’s chambers? Right before going through the open doors, the Ash King looks at me, and the corner of his mouth twitches. The bastard put me on the same hall as him. I’m going to be living next door to the Ash King.

It’s beautiful, with satiny, scrunchy, rose-colored covers trimmed with tassels. And there are so many deep squishy pillows. I fling myself face-down onto it, thanking the Heartsfire aloud. “You should be thanking me,” says a familiar voice. “I take it you like your room.”

“How did you get in here?” And then I remember myself and gulp, “Your Majesty,” with a clumsy half-bow. With his thumb, he indicates a door nearby, half-concealed by a damask curtain. “There is a door from my room to yours?” I ask. “Why?” “This room used to belong to my father’s mistress.”

“Your Majesty,” I say crisply. “Again, I was not trying to seduce you during our journey, nor will I ever attempt such a thing.” “That is fortunate, because I am no longer interested in your body or your personality, only your magic.” “Well, that’s—that’s perfect. I’m glad.” Because I was never interested in your body or personality, you pompous, cruel asshole. I can’t help smirking a little at my inner monologue, and he narrows his eyes, the scarlet glow brightening. “There it is again,” he murmurs. “That smile. You cannot tell me that’s an innocent smile. It’s too full of secrets.”

The Ash King leans forward a little, and a strand of his white hair slips over his shoulder and brushes against my hand. “Have the maid bring some food to your room. It has been a long day, and you must be hungry. Good night, Healer.” He leaves the room, closing the curtained door just as the maid enters. How odd. Did he hear her coming?

“The Ricter who measured you this morning assures me you are more than capable. You have the highest power reading he’s ever seen in a healer. In fact, if your abilities were anything but healing and water work, I’d have you Muted. Even now, I’m wondering if I should call a tattoo mage to Mute the water side of your magic.”

“If someone cut your dick off, you’d want it reattached as soon as possible,” I say. “Not before my tongue,” the King answers. “Though I’m equally skilled with both of them.”

“Your eyes,” he says quietly. “They turn gold when you work.” “Apologies, my lord. It is a strange effect.” He hesitates, his gaze averting from mine. His lips part for a second before he says, “It’s beautiful.”

“When you smile, I feel as if there is happiness quivering on your lips, just here.” He brushes my mouth with the tip of his thumb. “And if I want it, all I have to do is…”

I’d recognize those slender ebony fingers anywhere. Those fingers used to hold my hand as we ran barefoot through the potsava fields. They dragged me away from an ash-burrower nest filled with newborn monsters. There’s a pink scar across the back of the dark right hand—my first healing attempt, imperfect. And those fingers were the first ones to nudge between my legs and tease me into a throat-searing, back-arching climax. Rince is the portrait-maker. Rince is here.

I shoulder my way forward until I’m right in front of the table, and I hold out the coins. “Payment for a portrait?” My voice trembles a little. The movement of those quick fingers stutters briefly. “Perhaps you’d sit for a private portrait?” The hooded man’s voice is deep, rich velvet, the words rolling smooth and rounded from his lips. It’s not quite the voice I remember, but he could be altering it to suit his persona. My pulse flutters.

“Why are you here, mo stór? Was that a palace guard with you?” He presses soft kisses along my neck, moving down toward my shoulder. “I’ve been conscripted as a healer for the competition,” I gasp. “Heartsfire, Rince—this is quite the welcome. I wasn’t sure you’d be happy to see me.” He cups my face, his eyes burning into mine. Always so intense, those eyes, with the rabid light of purpose in them. “I had to leave you. You understand why. My beliefs are everything. The cause is everything.” “So you and Brayda—you’re not—” “Together? Sometimes. We share rooms, and occasionally beds. But I haven’t forgotten you, or this.” He cups his hand between my legs, and I release a soft whimper in spite of myself. I reach out, running my fingertips along the black braids clustering over his head.

“Cailin, listen to me.” Rince grips my hands. “You are a beautiful gift from home. The Heartsfire has sent you to join our cause—” he leans in and whispers, “to kill the King.” I jerk my fingers away from his. “You can’t ask me to do that. You know the oath I’ve taken.” “An oath to heal the helpless and protect the defenseless. By doing this, you’d be saving countless lives. The Ash King has killed so many people, love—it’s only a matter of time before he does it again. And you could save them all—you, a miracle straight from the bosom of Analoir Doiteain, from our beloved mountain.”

“Heartsfire, Brayda.” I rise from the table and reach for her. She hugs me briefly, rigidly, a performative act, not the heartfelt squeeze she used to give me. “What happened to you?” “Your Ash King happened,” she says in a low tone, taking a seat on a bench. “You should know—you were there. I told you, Rince,” she snaps at him. “I told you I saw Cailin in the King’s traveling party.”

“Your instinct should have been to kill him as soon as you had the chance, with a knife, water powers, whatever you had at hand. At the very least you should have let that arrow go through his head. We had him, Cailin. We had him, and you ruined our one shot. The archer whose arrow you blocked was our best markswoman, and she’s dead now. A lot of people are dead because of what you did. And more will die if you don’t make the right choice.” “I’m sorry,” I gasp. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. But your face—don’t you have healers among the anarchists?”

Damn Brayda

“You think we do?” she bursts out. “You think I wanted this face? It’s called sacrifice, Cailin. We’re devoting ourselves to the greater good. But of course you wouldn’t understand that. Your pacifism is just another word for laziness and weakness.”

Goddamn Brayda. Youre so angry

As he passes me, his head angles sharply, suddenly, and his scarlet eye sweeps me from head to toe.

I rise and smile, with a little wave. And then, impulsively, I lift my hands and let ribbons of healing light unfurl from my fingers. They have no purpose, no goal, but they snake through the air, dozens of them floating upward, separating from my fingertips as I release them. They spiral and curl aimlessly, twining with the King’s orbs of flame in a way that I hadn’t anticipated—that I didn’t intend. It’s a beautiful, mesmerizing dance of magic, and a murmur of appreciation and awe rolls through the audience.

As I turn to resume my seat, I glance at the Ash King. His lips are parted, his eyes fixed on me with an intensity that makes my stomach flip.

Swiftly I rise and move forward to the Ash King’s side. I reach out to the girl. “Embri’s your name, isn’t it? Take my hand, Embri.” Whimpering, she obeys, and golden wisps twine her fingers with mine. I can’t alter her emotions, but I can soothe the nausea in her stomach, slow her heart rate a bit, ease the panicked fight-or-flight responses of her body. Within a few seconds, she stops trembling. Cautiously I glance up at the Ash King. And in the violence of his scarlet eyes, I see my doom.