Flamecaster (Shattered Realms, #1)(67)

Ash saw then that the flesh around Marc’s collar was thickened, rough, and badly scarred, as if it had been repeatedly burned in the past.

Marc noticed him staring. He smiled crookedly and ran a finger under his collar. “I used to misbehave a lot,” he said. “We’d better go. The king is waiting.”

They walked back toward the center of the palace, the council chambers and the king’s apartments. The guards had to slow their pace to match Ash’s faltering gait. Despite the hour, there were many people about, most of them servants. He didn’t draw as many stares as before, because now he was clean and clad in the bark brown of the healers. It seemed the king of Arden liked to sort people by colors.

His escorts stopped before a door that looked much like any other, except that there was a brace of the king’s guards standing in front. “Prepare to kneel to the king, healer,” the outside guard muttered, giving him a rough push through the doorway. Marc followed him in.

He found himself in a small reception room, sumptuously decorated, with tall windows overlooking the gardens. The king sat finishing breakfast at a small table by the fireplace. Eggs and ham, not babies and kittens, as Ash might have expected.

He’s just a man, Ash told himself. He can die, like anyone else.

There were four blackbirds in the room, plus Marc. All of them were gifted. He was definitely outnumbered, even if he hadn’t been collared. Even if the king didn’t wear a talisman.

But you’re in the same room with him, he thought. That’s a start.

This morning, Montaigne was clad in rather plain clothing, black trousers and a black doublet edged in gold, sturdy boots, his gold necklace with its seal of office. An elaborate dagger was belted at his waist.

“Your Majesty, here is Adam Freeman, collared per your command.” Marc took a few steps back, so that Ash stood alone.

Ash went down on his knee before the king. He didn’t rise until Montaigne told him to do so. When he did, Montaigne was leaning back in his chair, toying with the hilt of his dagger, studying him.

“You look much more presentable this morning, healer,” he said. “I trust you suffered no ill effects from your night in custody?” This spoken with the bite of sarcasm.

“No, Your Majesty. It was very comfortable,” Ash replied, chin up, eyes straight ahead. With some effort, he unclenched his jaw.

Montaigne’s lips twitched. “Shall I assume that you were reluctant to take the collar?”

“Do you blame me?”

“A necessary precaution. It shouldn’t interfere with your abilities, as long as they are employed in the interests of the crown. Should you stray from that, you will be punished.”

“So I’m told, sire.”

“Since the clothes appear to fit, ask DeJardin to have another set made so you can wash them now and then.”

“Thank you for the clothes, Your Majesty. They are much finer than the ones I had.”

Montaigne raised an eyebrow and straightened his lace cuffs. “It appears a night in the palace has improved your manners as well as your appearance.”

“I apologize for my behavior last night. I wasn’t myself, as often happens after a difficult healing.”

The king’s eyes narrowed, as if he weren’t entirely convinced by this performance. “I am glad to see that you have recovered your good sense.” He paused. “I was impressed with what you did with the baker last night. I have a number of skilled healers at court, and I’ve never seen any of them heal a man so damaged so completely, and without the use of herbs or tonics.”

“Herbs and tonics are helpful, Your Majesty,” Ash said. “But I hadn’t any.”

“No. You hadn’t.” The king pulled at his earlobe. “Mages have been an integral part of our military for years. Until now, I had not considered the advantages of using them in the healing service—selectively, of course. So. I’m offering you a new position, beginning today. I would have you join my guild of healers.”

So after weeks of waiting, Ash would finally have the access he’d sought in the beginning. But it came at a price. He brushed his fingers over the collar. It was already becoming a habit. Sometimes he imagined it was cutting off his air.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” he said.

“Merrill is my master healer. He’ll put together a kit for you, any supplies you will need, any herbal preparations and tonics you favor. We ought to be able to provide most anything. If there is a specialty item you need, not commonly available in the realm, address it with Barrowhill.”

“We’ve already had that conversation, Your Majesty,” Ash said.

“DeJardin will explain what we expect from mages who serve the crown.” King Gerard gestured to Marc, standing just behind Ash. “Escort Freeman to the healers’ quarters and introduce him to Merrill. Tell him to find the boy space with them.”

The healers were housed in a quiet part of the palace that opened onto the service gardens. There was a small library just off the hallway as well, lined with herbals and apothecaries and surgical texts. Ash made a mental note to return there. He had seen more new books to tempt him in two days in the palace than he had seen in the last six months.

As they walked, Marc filled him in. The infirmary served mostly the palace staff and lower level officials whose quarters would not function well as a sick room. The nobility who fell ill usually insisted on being treated in the privacy of their own quarters.