Flamecaster (Shattered Realms #1)(62)

The king stood amid a small group of noblemen, dressed as if they had come directly from dinner. They hadn’t done any firefighting, since their clothing was pristine. One was a thickset man in an Ardenine army uniform, his hair and eyes the color of razorleaf spit. The braid on his shoulders said he was a high-up.

Marin Karn, Ash guessed, commander of the Ardenine army.

But that wasn’t the biggest surprise. That happened when his vision cleared enough that he could look past the king and see Lila Barrowhill, standing behind and a little to the right of Montaigne. Their eyes met, and for a split second, hers widened in shock and alarm. Then she cleared that away, replacing it with a faint, puzzled frown—the appropriate response to a charred scarecrow like Ash. One you’d never seen before in your life.

Bloody bones, Ash thought. What is she doing here, being all chummy with the king of Arden?

He hastily shifted his gaze to the ground, trying to clear his own face of any telltale expression.

“Who are you?” the king asked.

“Adam Freeman,” Ash replied softly, keeping his eyes fixed on the stones of the courtyard as thoughts bullied their way into his head. If he weren’t so thoroughly wrung out, he could kill the bastard on the spot. In his present condition, he’d be lucky to strangle a gnat. He had no weapons. He’d lost his healing kit somewhere in the cellars, and he’d thrown his only shiv at the bloodsucking priest.

He made a mental note: always carry spare weapons.

“Where did you come from?” the king asked.

“I work in the stables, Your Majesty.” He hoped the king wouldn’t recognize him and recall his display the day Crusher went down. He guessed in his present state he’d be hard to pick out.

“We have a healer working in the stables?” The king’s tone was incredulous. “Are you a healer of horses?”

The rest of the bluebloods chuckled and nudged each other.

Ash shook his head, which was a mistake, since it set his head to spinning again. “When I came here, I applied to work in the healing halls, but they said they didn’t need anyone. So Marshall Bellamy took me on.” He stole a glance toward the kitchen. It appeared that the fire was entirely out.

“We always have a need for healers, Freeman,” Montaigne said. “Especially those who perform miraculous cures. Where did you receive your training?”

Ash looked up, finally able to meet the king’s eye and speak without snarling. “My mother was a healer, my lord. She taught me something of it. My father didn’t approve, so I am also very good at mucking out stalls.”

The nobles chuckled again.

“I see.” The king stared at him thoughtfully, stroking his chin. “It appears you have a gift. In fact, I’ve never seen anything to match it.” He was talking around the issue of sorcery, but it lay there between them, nonetheless.

“I would recommend caution, Your Grace.” This was a new voice, and Ash looked up to see that it was one of the king’s companions, a tall, spare man in dark religious garb. A great rising sun of Malthus was emblazoned on his tabard, and he wore the keys to the kingdom on a heavy gold chain around his waist.

Bloody bones, Ash thought. It’s the principia himself, the spiritual head of the Church of Malthus. Ash racked his brain, trying to recall the man’s name. Ah. That’s it. Cedric Fosnaught.

Do they all drink the blood of mages? Ash wondered. Or is it just the Darian Guild? He sent up a prayer for the latter.

“This healing could be miraculous,” Fosnaught continued, “a manifestation of the Redeemer’s mysterious mercy. But the man may not be a true healer.” He looked around the circle of bluebloods, his expression grave. Making sure he had his audience. “It is possible he is a sorcerer.”

So either Malthus did it, or I’m dead, Ash thought. But he said nothing. He knew he was on very treacherous ground. Malthus could have the credit, as far as he was concerned.

Receiving no response from Ash, the principia gestured toward Hamon. “This healing could be no more than an illusion. The flesh could be corrupt beneath the skin.” He produced a thin blade from within the folds of his robe. “Perhaps we should open him up and see.”

At this Ash tried to lunge forward, but found himself still restrained by the guards. “Don’t lay a hand on him,” he said, forgetting himself in his outrage. “He’s been through enough tonight. Leave him alone.”

“Perhaps the mage fears exposure,” the priest said calmly. “Your Grace, for safety’s sake, I recommend that he be delivered to my office for examination by the Hand.”

The Hand of Malthus was the team of inquisitors maintained by the principia of the church. All priests, and all adept at the art of torture, or so Ash had heard. It was said the Hand could force a confession out of any man, guilty or not. Or, to say it another way, they had never yet interrogated an innocent man. Montaigne often used the red-clad priests of the Hand to punish his enemies, when it suited him politically. At least that was what was said in the Fells.

This church is bound to have my blood, one way or another, Ash thought.

The king shook his head. “Father Fosnaught, I disagree.” The note of warning in his voice was unmistakable. “This boy is no sorcerer. I can always sense the taint when it is present.”

The principia bowed, his face tight and unhappy. Likely he knew better than to contradict the king.