Flamecaster (Shattered Realms, #1)(58)
His hand struck a tall wooden vessel standing at the top of the stairs with a round, indented top. Another barrel. Apparently someone had brought it up the steps, but had not bothered to move it to wherever it was to be used. Ash grabbed its top, lifting and manhandling it into position. He gave it a shove and heard it bumping down the steps. The assassin screamed and then there was the sound of the barrel exploding as it hit the stone floor at the foot of the stairs. Ash sent what he hoped were balls of wizard fire rolling down after it.
He heard a whoosh! as if all the air had been sucked away around him. The heat was suddenly blistering, and he staggered away, in what he prayed was the direction of the door.
The door to the outside had been left open to release some of the heat of the kitchens, and the cool draft of air guided him. He crossed the threshold and felt the dirt and stones of the courtyard under his feet. The well would be ahead, at the center. Although he knew he should just keep moving, should try to get as far away from his attacker as possible, he just had to wash the awful dust away and hope. He had heard of blind healers, those who used only the gift, but he didn’t want to be one if he had a choice.
He almost stumbled over the low wall around the well. There was always a bucket of water sitting on the ground beside it with a gourd for drinking. He groped for it with both hands. When he found it, he dropped to his knees next to it, grasped each side of the bucket, and plunged his head into the water.
The water was icy cold, and there was almost immediate relief, although his eyes and face still burned. He scrubbed at his face with his hands, rinsing it again and again, opening his eyes to allow the water to sluice the burning powder away. When he lifted his head, the cold water sliding down his neck, he found that his vision was returning. He could see the shapes of the buildings that surrounded the courtyard, the bright bloody haze around the torches in the niches along the wall. Shuddering with relief, he immersed his face once again.
He felt rather than heard a concussion, like an earthquake under his feet, and then another. He sat back on his heels, shaking his head like a dog, flinging water everywhere, and looked back toward the palace in time to see one wall of the kitchen slowly collapse into shards of stone. In his panicked state of mind, he thought at first it was the work of the Darian priest, bent on vengeance.
Then he realized what was happening. He could picture all those barrels of lubricant in the basement, the barrel he’d shattered at the foot of the stairs, the wizard fire he’d sent after the assassin. When he saw the bright flicker of flame in the kitchen windows, he knew the conflagration was of his own making.
Then, incredibly, a figure appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, a dark outline against the brightness behind. It can’t be, Ash thought desperately. The priest was impossible to kill. Ash found a metal rod on the ground next to the well, and wrapped his fingers around it. At least now he could see who was coming after him, and he would have something to turn the knife. He charged toward the man.
The man stumbled and fell on his face, his back in flames. He was wearing cook’s whites, not a black robe. It was Hamon, the night baker.
Ash dropped the club and sprang forward. When he reached Hamon, he ducked his face away from the flames and slid his hands under him, heaving him over onto his back. Hamon cried out in agony, but the weight of his body smothered the fire. Ash looked up to see Rolley standing over them, staring in mute shock.
“Bring water from the well, and hurry!” Ash turned the baker back onto his stomach and tore away the charred strips of cloth that covered his back. Hamon’s flask rolled out onto the ground. He must have been passed out somewhere in the kitchen when the fire broke out.
There was very little fabric left unburnt, and the flesh beneath was charred as well, with patches of black and pink like poorly roasted meat. Rolley was hovering with a bucket of water, and Ash took it and poured it over Hamon’s blistered back. The cook screamed out again, and then went limp and didn’t say anything more, which was a blessing. Ash sent Rolley for more water while he struggled with himself.
He wanted more than anything to disappear. He had no idea if the assassin was alive or dead. If he was alive, the Darian priest knew his identity. If he talked, Ash would never leave the city alive.
He didn’t know what the baker had seen, either, and might talk about later. But he also knew Hamon would die without treatment, and it was his fault. Rolley had seen him, too, and would ask questions if he disappeared.
It wasn’t like he had a real choice.
Ash squatted at Hamon’s head and put one hand on his shoulder, where an area of skin was still whole. He grasped his amulet with the other. He hoped the lingering effects of the Darian stone wouldn’t interfere with what he had to do. Healing a serious injury was less a matter of expending power than of absorbing Hamon’s pain and injury into himself. He closed his eyes, concentrated, searched Hamon for the pain, embraced it, stopped the flow of fluids to where they didn’t belong, redirected them, found the discontinuity that heralded an injury, began to reestablish the connections. This was healing at its most basic, healing without tools, reserved to those with the gift.
Time passed. He didn’t move. He was vaguely aware of the commotion around him, people shouting, carrying water from the well, fighting the fire. Later, he sensed rather than saw an accumulation of people, watching, but he didn’t open his eyes. Hamon was doing his best to cast off his ruined flesh. Ash knew if he became distracted and lost control of his patient, he wouldn’t get him back.