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.
Finally, he sensed that there was no more pain and discord to gather, and Hamon seemed securely resettled in his body once more. Ash shuddered, let it go, sat back on his heels, and opened his eyes.
Hamon’s back was bright pink, the color of skin that has been too long exposed to the sun, but the blisters and the charring were gone. The cook was breathing, slowly and evenly, like a man asleep.
The light and heat of the fire had diminished, and Ash realized there was still a crowd of people around him. Without raising his eyes, he could see expensive boots, and the well-worn, sturdy boots of soldiers.
“Well done, healer. Miraculous, even.” The voice came from behind and above him. “Only I wonder why you and I have never met before.” Ash turned and looked up, and found himself gazing into the cold blue eyes of the king of Arden.
20
ESCAPE FROM DELPHI
Again and again, over more than a month of hunting and haircutting, the king of Arden’s words came back to Destin. Perhaps they were looking for a place to hide, and Delphi would do nicely, don’t you think?
So far, it had done well enough. The month of grace he’d allowed was over. Destin had moved his operation into the Lady of Grace full-time. His guardsmen had scoured the city and now it was exceedingly rare to spot an uncut woman on the street. When they did find someone, she was in for a hard time. No one could claim ignorance, not anymore. Any unshorn woman was intentionally defying the order of the crown.