Healer to the ash king s.., p.1
Healer to the Ash King: (Standalone) (Dark Rulers Book 5), page 1
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2022 by Rebecca F. Kenney
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author's intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at rfkenney@gmail.com. Thank you for your support of the author's rights.
First Edition: June 2022
Kenney, Rebecca F.
Healer to the Ash King / by Rebecca F. Kenney—First edition.
“King” Lauren Aquilina
“Take What You Want” Emma Blackery
“Eyes on Fire” Blue Foundation
“Fireflies” Binky
“My Type” Saint Motel
“Forest Fires” Lauren Aquilina
“In Flames” Digital Daggers
“Running Up That Hill” Placebo
“Things We Lost in the Fire” Bastille
“King” Foreign Figures
“Slow Poison” The Bravery
“Human” Gabrielle Aplin
“Fire Breather” LAUREL
“Fire” Saint Mesa
“Up In Flames” She Wants Revenge
“Glory” Friday Pilots Club
“Gravity” Sara Bareilles
“The Antihero” Nathan Wagner
“Heavy Is The Crown” Daughtry
“Dance in the Fire” Nemesea
“Empire” Shakira
“Firewall” Les Friction
“I Touched the Fire” Casey Breves
“Chic” Leadley
“Need You to Stay” Thomas McNeice, Janine Shilstone
“Burn” Nathan Wagner
“Cold Cold Man” Saint Motel
“Call You Mine” The Chainsmokers, Bebe Rexha
“Play with Fire” Sam Tinnesz, Yacht Money
“Viva La Vida” Katie Herzig
“Scared Together” Maisy Kay
“MSK” Yellowcard
“Poison & Wine” The Civil Wars
“Casualty” Hidden Citizens, Tash
“Alive” Gabrielle Aplin
“It Is What It Is” Lifehouse
“Wildfire” Marianas Trench
“Burning Heart” SVRCINA
“Me and Mine” The Brother Bright
“Forever & Always” Written by Wolves, Becks
“In My Veins” Andrew Belle
“Soul on Fire” Katrina Stone
SPOTIFY PLAYLIST
Violence, brutal contests and battles, death by fire, torture, threat of rape, monsters, pregnancy of a side character
1
I live in a land full of memories, fossilized and crystallized by time.
Our kingdom of Bolcan was buried a million years ago by the fiery vomit of the volcanoes that encircle our borders. Most of the volcanoes are sleeping now, though a few still whisper, while smoke curls ominously from their peaks.
In the gullies and along the coal seams, we find chunks of trees that grew lifetimes ago. We unearth the pieces gently, polishing them, admiring the variegated colors of the petrified wood—scarlet, soft yellow, pale blue, pearly white. Some of it is opalized, golden and rich with minerals. Some pieces have a speckled or spotted pattern, caused by the drilling of tiny creatures. Our craftspeople hew the largest chunks into tables or seats for the wealthy nobles of the Capital, while smaller pieces are polished for clock faces, jewelry, and sculptures. Our most skilled lapidary worker, Ceardai, took the largest piece of petrified wood ever found in our kingdom and created the throne of the Ash King himself.
We also farm the rich volcanic soil, producing the most bountiful crops on the entire continent. Volcanic ash contains valuable nutrients, and it’s porous, the perfect density to help the earth retain moisture.
I love the volcanoes. I love the way they growl ominously yet give us the fertile ground we need. I love the sleek green slopes, the blue peaks that trail white clouds of steam, and the tall palms with their feathery fronds dotted across the broad landscape.
Though our village is small, I’ve never felt confined here. In this place we are far from the crushing influence of the Capital and our oppressive ruler, the Ash King. We’re far from the Ashlands, the part of our kingdom he razed with fire five years ago, when he was twenty, just before he took the crown.
I have never seen the Ash King, and I don’t wish to. All I want is to live here, in this beautiful village on the slopes of Analoir Doiteain, the “Fire Breather,” the highest peak in this region.
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.
“Cailin!”
Someone is calling me. The distraction makes me frown; I don’t like being interrupted during a healing session, whether I’m treating a plant or a person.
“Cailin!” The voice is young, shrill, insistent. It’s Peach, one of the boys from the village. He lives in the house next to mine. I healed him when he had hibernal fever last winter.
“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. No more fear that he might scorch a giant swath of our kingdom again. Maybe the next ruler will lighten the taxes on our produce, provide funding for more teachers and libraries, encourage advancements in magical learning.
The Ash King doesn’t believe in the study or expansion of magical abilities. His Ricters, officers of magical control, are severe and unrelenting in the performance of their duties, which involve traveling the kingdom and doing a mandatory resonance reading of every citizen, to gauge their abilities. Anyone deemed to possess a dangerous ability is Muted—marked with a tattoo that limits the use of their powers.
If anyone needs a Muting tattoo, it’s the King himself.
Unless he’s dead, and then we might have a chance at a new kind of government—the kind my friends Brayda and Rince want.
“He’s not dead.” Peach leans over, bracing his palms on his thighs. “He’s here, in the village.”
Shock drenches me like cold water. “Here? Why in the Heartsfire would he be here?”
“How should I know? But you’re supposed to come immediately.”
“Me?” My hands drop to my bare thighs. “Now? But—I’m not dressed to meet a king.”
I wear a simple band of blue cloth around my breasts when I work. My pants used to be long, but I cut them to mid-thigh because the more of my skin is touching the ground, the more clearly I can sense the moisture, and discern what needs to be done with it. My skin, naturally a light brown, has darkened to a deeper hue thanks to my daily sun exposure. My dark brown hair is bundled in a frizzy knot, straggly bits trailing onto my sweat-damp neck. My lower legs and my hands are coated with soil.
I can’t meet a king this way.
“Peach, are you sure the Ash King wants me?” I say desperately.
The boy nods. “The King’s herald said, ‘Cailin the Healer.’ That’s you.”
“Rutting ash,” I swear, rising. I use a little of the water I’ve been wielding to bathe my legs and arms. They’re still a bit grubby, but it will have to do.
“Hurry,” Peach urges. “I don’t think he likes to be kept waiting.”
I cast a look at the irrigation stream nearby. My magic will linger with it, keeping it flowing upward as I directed, instead of back down to the river. The effect lasts for a few days, and hopefully this odd meeting won’t take more than an hour at most.
That’s what I tell myself. But my stomach has coiled into a sickening knot, and as I race barefoot across the fields with Peach, I fight the urge to stop and retch.
We pelt across another field and down a slope to the clusters of cottages that make up our village. I’m covered in a light sheen of sweat. The upper curves of my breasts, exposed by the bandeau I’m wearing, are slick with it. I draw some water from a nearby rain barrel, create a fine mist, and walk through it to cool myself. Now I’m even wetter. Wonderful.
“He’s in the square.” Peach is peering around the corner of a house. “There.”
I lean over him to get a peek. Peach is ten, fourteen years younger than me, and much shorter. Since I have no siblings, the younger village children fill that role for me. They look at me with a kind of grateful, loving awe, because I’m the one who can settle their nauseated stomachs, soothe their fevers, ease their coughs, and eradicate the more dangerous plagues that sometimes crawl through our region.
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
Wicked and volatile he might be, but he's fully dressed and clean, which is more than I can say for myself.
I withdraw into the shadow of the house and press my back to the wall, my heart thundering. “I can’t go out there,” I whimper.
“You have to.” Peach grips my wrist. “Maybe he’s going to give you a prize for being such an amazing healer. My mother says you’re the best in the land. She says she’s never heard of anyone else who can heal putrepox or hibernal fever.”
“I’m not the best,” I whisper. “I don’t want to meet the Ash King, Peach. What if he decides I need to be Muted?”
Peach scoffs. “Why would he think that? Come on.”
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.
When I was younger, I tested my darker powers on plants and animals, just twice, and I immediately reversed the damage I caused and vowed never to experiment with that side of my magic again. Instead, I focus on doing all the good that I can. While I cannot completely stop the effects of time on a person, I can help them stay young and healthy longer than they naturally would. The goodwives of my village attribute their long-lasting beauty to volcanic-ash masks and mud baths, but that’s not why the people of my village look so fine and healthy. It’s me.
None of the Ricters who have tested me have commented on the flip side of my powers. I’m not sure any of them realized I could do more than heal people and manipulate water. They mentioned the strength of my resonance and requested the standard three witnesses to testify about the nature of my abilities, but there was no further comment. I’ve never known why, and I’ve never dared to ask.
Surely I’m not the only healer who can also harm. Or perhaps I am. Magic wielders are rare in our kingdom, and few have dual powers like mine: elemental control and healing ability.
What if someone else passing through our village realized the truth about my powers, and told the Ash King? But wouldn’t he just send Ricters to Mute me? Why come here himself?
Peach is pulling me out of my hiding place, and I’m letting him, because I’ve heard what happens to those who don’t obey the king. They disappear into dungeons, and their family’s possessions are confiscated. Sometimes they’re beaten, mutilated, or executed.
The king doesn’t permit rebellion in any form. And I don’t wish to anger him, so I follow Peach out of the alley, into the village square. Everyone who wasn’t in the fields is here, waiting in curious clusters. The Ash King sits silent on his horse, surrounded by a retinue of half a dozen guards and a herald. Not that he needs the guards—he could level our village and all our fields in one burst of fiery rage.
Another reason I shouldn’t resist him or try to run, though every instinct I have is shrieking at me to flee.
My bare feet scuff the stone pavers of the town square. I’m disheveled, damp, soil-stained, barely dressed.
My knees are shaking, so it’s easy to kneel in front of the Ash King. I’m not sure how I’ll get back up.
Head bowed, I address him.
“Your Majesty,” I say. “You asked for me?”
2
I wait on my knees, while the sun presses warm on my head and the fresh breeze whispers across my heated skin. The musky smell of horse mingles with the bitter tang of smoke from the nearby forge, abandoned so our blacksmith can watch my humiliation.
My people won’t glory in this, though. Sensing emotion isn’t one of my abilities, but I can practically feel their sympathy and concern surging around me, supporting me. These people love me, and I love them. Nothing the Ash King can do will erase that truth.
“Is this a joke?” says a voice somewhere above me—a cold voice with a hissing undercurrent of rage, like red-hot iron plunged into icy water.
Louder the voice speaks. “Is this your healer? The Cailin of whom I was told?”
A throat is cleared, and our village leader, the Ceannaire, speaks. “Yes, Highness,” she says. “This is Cailin, our healer. She is a blessing to our village and to those nearby. Her skills irrigate the fields, soothe our elderly, strengthen our—”
“I didn’t ask for her biography,” interjects the cold-hot voice. “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.”
Trembling, I drag myself back into my kneeling position. I don’t dare look at the king again.
“Cailin the Healer,” drones the king’s herald. “You are hereby conscripted into His Majesty’s service for the duration of the ‘Calling of the Favored,’ or as long as he sees fit to employ you. In return for your full cooperation, you will be provided with lodging, food, a clothing allowance, and a monthly stipend. Gather your possessions immediately. Should you refuse to comply, your village will be razed to the ground and your fields burned.”
A gasp rushes through the crowd of villagers, and a child begins to cry.
I look up again, desperate. “You can’t do this,” I say. “These people need me—I’m the only healer in this sector. And I irrigate the fields—”
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.”
“Your pardon, Majesty.” The guard’s voice cracks with fear, and the change is so dramatic I want to laugh. I pull myself to my knees again, smiling through the blood trickling from my nose.
But when I risk a glance up, my smile vanishes.
Tiny flames dance at the tips of the Ash King’s ring-laden fingers. The flames trickle into his palm, joining into a ball of fire which he snuffs out by closing his fist.
“Gather your things, healer,” he says.
The Ceannaire comes to my side, helping me to my feet. She throws a baleful look at the guard who hit me. With her support, I stagger along the street to my parents’ cottage. They are both skilled lapidaries, and they left two days ago on an expedition to a ravine famed for its yield of petrified wood.
I wish they were here, so I could say goodbye.
But maybe it’s a good thing they aren’t here. They might try to interfere, and that would be disastrous.
“My irrigation magic should last a few days,” I tell the Ceannaire. My voice is thick and hoarse, unrecognizable to me. I’m stuffing items into a cloth bag—underthings, soap, a few clothes, a book of poems, a hair comb. “You can get Evan from Kuisp to help with the irrigation until I return. He can’t heal, but he’s a fair hand at shifting the water. And you’ll have to get the midwife from Ranis to deliver Elisse’s baby.”
Tears cluster in my eyes as I think of all the things I won’t be able to do for these people—from mending scraped knees to curing more serious ailments. “Ceannaire, I can’t go. I can’t do this.”
The Ceannaire enfolds me, pulls me against her warm breast. She’s a big woman, strong and kind. One of the best people I know, and she smells like home, like potsava root and sae-flowers, like earth and baked bread.
“You are our miracle, Cailin, sent by the Heartsfire,” she says. “And I know the Fire will guide you in the Capital and bring you back safely to us.”
“You can’t know that,” I mutter through sniffles.
“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.”
