C H A P T E R T E N
Tilda’s fever broke four days later.
Kiva was both relieved and concerned. Relieved, because it meant the woman might survive the sickness that was still flooding her immune system. Concerned, because there were now only three days left before the crown prince and princess arrived to witness the
Trial by Air.
She was running out of time.
Even though Tilda no longer sweated through her sheets every hour and was waking up for longer periods, Kiva still couldn’t figure out what was wrong with her. The woman couldn’t—or wouldn’t— speak, and not even Kiva’s gentle encouragement could get her to shed any light on her illness. At times, she appeared lucid, but then moments later she would be overcome by delirium, wrestling against her bindings, frothing at the mouth, and screaming loud enough to have guards sprinting for the infirmary.
Kiva didn’t know what to do or how to help her. And on top of that, she was exhausted not only from the increased cases of the stomach virus, but also from helping prisoners who were seeking her out for other troubles, a growing number of which stemmed from altercations with the guards.
This deep into winter, with very few new arrivals, the guards were ill-tempered and bored. They sought entertainment in the form of women prisoners, sometimes men. After ten years, Kiva was used to it, but that didn’t stop the burn of hatred she felt when fearful women came in droves asking for barrenbark to stave off their cycles. The grueling nature of the labor and limited rations meant that most of the female inmates didn’t bleed at all, but for those who did . . . The last thing anyone wanted in Zalindov was to fall pregnant. It happened, of course, and in the rare cases when a woman had gone to full term, Kiva had assisted with the delivery. But not once in her
decade at the prison had a mother and newborn child survived for long.
Kiva took precautions herself, but thanks to her work hours being longer than most and her assumed loyalty to the Warden, she usually avoided the attention of the guards. She wasn’t always immune—as had been the case a few weeks earlier when Naari had intervened. But while she’d suffered through being their plaything a handful of times over the years, they’d always stopped before going too far, as if aware that they might need medical aid from her in the future. It was both a blessing and a curse—a blessing, since she was saved from complete violation, but a curse, because she could do nothing to protect others. Sometimes she slept in the infirmary, not only to avoid the restless guards, but also to be available around the clock for those in need of her.
It was on one of these nights, in the early hours of the morning, that Kiva was awakened by a low, keening sound. She’d sent Olisha and Nergal away when they’d arrived for their shift, claiming that she wanted to monitor some of the quarantined patients. In truth, Naari had warned Kiva not to walk back to her cell block alone that night, and since the guard had been needed elsewhere, she couldn’t provide an escort.
Kiva had reeled for hours after her warning. She’d wondered if it was because Naari was a woman, or if it was simply because she was a decent human being, despite her role at Zalindov. Whatever the reason, Kiva was grateful, and after sending Tipp away earlier than usual and telling him to stay close to Jaren, she had remained inside the infirmary and curled up on a pallet when she could no longer keep her eyes open.
The low, keening sound came again, and Kiva stirred more fully, fighting the sleep that tried to pull her back under. But when she realized the noise was coming from Tilda and that it wasn’t just an incomprehensible sound but, rather, a moaned word, she sat up, shoving her legs over the side of the bed and shuffling over to the
woman.
“Waaaater. Waaaaaaaater.”
Tilda was straining against her bindings, shaking her head from side to side, staring blindly into the low-lit room.
“I’m here,” Kiva told her, placing a calming hand on her shoulder.
“I’ll get you some water.”
Kiva’s heart was pounding in her ears as she rushed to collect a tumbler and dunked it into a pail of fresh water. Vaguely, she noted that a guard was stationed at the door to the infirmary, someone she didn’t recognize. The armed man was peering curiously toward Tilda, no doubt listening closely.
Discomforted by the thought that he’d been watching them both sleep, Kiva avoided eye contact with him and hurried back to her charge, gently raising the ill woman’s head and holding the tumbler to her lips.
Tilda drank eagerly enough that some of the water trickled down her chin, and once she was finished, Kiva dabbed it dry.
“Thaaaan— Thaaaaaaaannnk—”
“You’re welcome,” Kiva said, swallowing a lump in her throat.
Only one full day remained before the first Ordeal, and despite her fever having broken earlier that week, there had been little improvement in Tilda’s condition. Seeing her finally try to communicate now . . . Kiva had to swallow again, a wave of emotion rising up within her.
She wasn’t supposed to become attached to her patients. That was the first rule of being the prison healer. Any healer, for that matter. But especially one at Zalindov. And yet, this woman . . . Kiva
couldn’t help feeling connected to her.
Don’t let her die.
“Do you know where you are?” Kiva asked quietly, dragging over a stool and sitting beside Tilda’s bed. She wasn’t sure if the woman understood her words, but she had to at least try. Even with the guard listening in and likely reporting everything back to the Warden.
She would just have to be careful. Both of them would have to be
careful.
“Zallll— Zaaaaaalllll—”
“Zalindov, that’s right,” Kiva said encouragingly. She noted that Tilda was having trouble with her speech, adding it to the list of symptoms that might help her find a cause of the illness. An idea came to her, and she said, “I’ll be right back.”
Jumping up, Kiva hurried across to her supplies and pulled out a pot of gumwort that Tipp had already ground into a paste. The sludgy brown color was unappealing, but it smelled like fresh herbs and aided with relaxation and clarity.
Hoping it would loosen Tilda’s words, Kiva returned to her side and asked her to open her mouth. The woman hesitated, and Kiva feared she would resist—possibly even try to fight her around the restraints —but after a beat, Tilda did as asked, and Kiva smeared some of the gumwort onto her tongue.
After giving the paste enough time to take effect, Kiva asked, “Can you tell me your name?”
The woman’s lips opened and closed before she finally said, “Tilda. I’m . . . Tilda.” Her throat bobbed, as if she was trying to swallow but the effort pained her. “Where . . . am . . . I?”
A breath whooshed out of Kiva, even while her heart sank.
Hearing Tilda say her own name made Kiva feel like she was finally getting somewhere, at least until Tilda questioned where she was— right after having already answered that herself.
“You’re in Zalindov, remember?” Kiva asked slowly.
The woman blinked sightlessly up toward the ceiling. “Zalindov?
Yes. Yes . . . where?”
Kiva’s heart continued to shrivel. “You arrived ten days ago,” she shared, unsure what else to say. Tilda gave a small, surprised jerk.
“You’ve been very sick. I’m—I’m trying to make you better.”
“Why?”
One sharp word, and Kiva found she didn’t know how to answer.
There were so many reasons, most of which she couldn’t say.
Especially with the guard listening in.
Don’t let her die.
“Because I’m— Because you’re— Because we’re—”
“The . . . Trials,” Tilda interrupted, her voice beginning to sound weaker again. “My . . . sentence. Why—” She inhaled a rattling breath, and with visible effort, continued, “Why keep me . . . alive . . . only so . . . I can . . . die?”
The broken words had Kiva fisting her hands in her lap, her nails digging into her flesh. Of all the things for Tilda to know, to remember
. . . why did she have to ask about the Trials? What was Kiva to say?
Too many answers sprang to her mind.
Because it’s my job.
Because the Warden ordered me to.
Because my sister wrote me a note.
Because Cresta will kill Tipp if I don’t.
Because I won’t be able to live with myself if— “Where . . . am . . . I?” Tilda asked again, interrupting Kiva’s thoughts.
Slumping in on herself, Kiva was just about to repeat that Tilda was in Zalindov, but then she paused, wondering if perhaps that wasn’t what Tilda was really asking. With a quick look at the guard, Kiva weighed her words and, seeing no harm in it, answered, “You’re in the infirmary. Zalindov’s infirmary.”
A moment of silence fell, until Tilda asked, her voice a mere whisper now, “Who . . . are . . . you?”
With another quick look at the guard, Kiva offered the most honest reply that she dared. “Someone who wants you to survive this—all of this.” She reached out and, impulsively, gave Tilda’s hand a squeeze before coming to her senses and releasing her quickly. “You should rest. We can talk again tomorrow.”
But when morning dawned, Tilda had slipped back into her delirium. Not even the gumwort worked this time.
The hours trickled by, and Kiva waited to see if the woman would return to herself, but her hope was in vain. Tilda was still too sick, fully at the mercy of whatever ailed her. And when the following day arrived—the day of the first Ordeal—Kiva knew she was out of time.
Don’t let her die.
Don’t let her die.
Don’t let her die.
Kiva didn’t sleep a wink that night, praying Tilda would make a miraculous recovery, and that she would then have some way of surviving the Trial by Air. As Kiva had told Tipp, the first task wasn’t always impossible to overcome, more often used to tease the offender into believing they stood a chance at survival, which ultimately proved in vain once they reached the second, third, or fourth Ordeals. And yet, even if the difficulty level was lowered for
the first, it would still be a challenge for any able-bodied person,
which Tilda currently was not.
Don’t let her die.
The first four coded words from her sister’s note kept swimming across Kiva’s thoughts, the order, the demand. And then there was Cresta’s threat, her hissing voice repeating over and over: Save the Rebel Queen, and you save the boy. If she dies, he dies.
Kiva’s mind was a battleground.
Don’t let her die . . . If she dies, he dies . . . Don’t let her die . . . If she dies, he dies.
Kiva had no idea what to do, no idea how to save Tilda, how to save Tipp. There was only one way she could think of that might work, but . . . the risk . . . and the cost . . .
Don’t let her die.
If she dies, he dies.
When Naari arrived at the infirmary just before midday, her face
grim, Kiva’s stomach was in knots.
“It’s time,” Naari said.
“B-But . . . she’s still so sick,” Tipp said, his fingers closed around Tilda’s limp arm, as if to comfort the woman.
Tilda was awake, but she wasn’t coherent. She was mumbling to herself and staring out at nothing, her body twitching with a muscle spasm every few seconds.
“I have my orders,” Naari said, unapologetically. “Prince Deverick and Princess Mirryn have arrived, and they don’t intend to stay longer than they have to.”
Kiva fought against rolling her eyes. What a shame it would be for the royals to have to spend any amount of time in this hellhole.
Everworld forbid they saw what really happened behind the walls: the fatal work, the vicious guards, the poor conditions. The moment they left this place, they’d be headed straight back to their winter palace, giving no further thought to the prisoners and their daily challenges.
And why should they? Kiva mused scornfully. As far as the royals were concerned, everyone in Zalindov was guilty and deserved to be
there.
“Can she walk?” Naari asked.
Kiva didn’t want to answer, but the look Naari sent her was clear: today Naari was a Zalindov guard, just like all the others. There would be no yielding, no compassion.
“Yes,” Kiva said, hoarsely. “But she needs help. And she has no idea what’s happening.”
Naari’s jaw tightened, the slightest hint of how she felt about this, but she still nodded. “Get her up. The rest of the guards are assembling the prisoners in the eastern quad.” She paused. “Be prepared, they’ve called everyone in from their work assignments.”
“Guess the r-royals want an audience,” Tipp said, his young face pale.
Kiva, however, was stuck on Naari’s mention of the eastern quad.
Not only was it the furthest point inside the grounds from the infirmary, but it was also where the gallows stood. Was that what they had in store for Tilda? Was she to be hanged for the Trial by Air, to see if she could survive a broken neck, or the more likely death by suffocation?
Surely not. No one survived the gallows. Prisoners were hung every week, and all of them ended up in the morgue. There was no way that Tilda would— “We need to move,” Naari said as three more guards appeared at the door to the infirmary, waiting to escort them. “Now.”
Feeling numb, Kiva loosened Tilda’s shackles and the strap over her chest. She wished the woman would fight as she had a week ago, revealing that some kind of spirit remained in her. But there was nothing, just more muttering under her breath and twitching as Kiva and Tipp slung her arms over their shoulders and followed Naari and her fellow guards from the infirmary.
Kiva hadn’t carved Tilda’s left hand. She hadn’t had the heart to do so, not with the woman so ill. That meant Tilda was the only prisoner at Zalindov without a Z scarred into her flesh. She hadn’t even been given a metal identification band, and yet everyone knew exactly who she was. The rumor mill had spiraled in the time since Cresta had confronted Kiva in the shower block, with it now public knowledge that the Rebel Queen was among them. Whispers were circulating around the prison, some resentful, some reverent. The unsettled atmosphere concerned Kiva, the energy in the air similar to
what she’d felt in the past before the inmates were tipped over the edge and into another riot. That was the last thing she needed, on top of everything else.
As they dragged the ill woman across the grounds, Kiva’s mind kept traveling back to Tilda’s left hand. Should Kiva have carved her flesh? What if one of the guards noticed she was unscarred? If the Rebel Queen died today without bearing Zalindov’s symbol, was she really a prisoner, or was she still free?
Kiva realized from her scattered thoughts that she was panicking, and made herself inhale deeply. It didn’t help that the closer they stepped to the end of their walk, the more prisoners they had to wade through. Their murmurs grew in volume, at first like the buzzing of insects, but by the time the quad came into view, Kiva could barely hear her own mind. If not for Naari and the three guards pushing the masses aside, they wouldn’t have made it through the crowd at all. It seemed like Zalindov’s entire population was waiting in anticipation for what was coming.
When the gallows rose up before them, Kiva’s stomach lurched so violently that she feared she might vomit. But when she made herself look closer, she saw that there was no noose dangling from the beam, no hangman waiting beside the lever.
What she did see, however, was a small group of people standing atop the platform, safely out of reach from the prisoners below. The Warden was there, his back straight and head high as he stared emotionlessly out at the crowd. No other prison guards accompanied him; instead, there was the unmistakable armor of the Royal Guard glinting silver in the midday sun, the kingdom’s deadliest protectors encircling two distinct figures. They were both dressed in heavy winter cloaks that covered them from head to toe, and from their bearing alone, it was clear they did not belong in a place like Zalindov.
Kiva tried to get a look at their faces, but not only were they surrounded by their guards, they were also wearing masks. She’d heard rumors that the Vallentis heirs concealed their faces during public events, and she wondered if it was a power play of some kind, another way of highlighting just how out of reach they were from
commoners. Because of those masks, all Kiva could tell was that the crown prince was taller than his sister, and both of them had fair hair.
Looking at them and their guards, Kiva felt both hot and cold at once. She was shaking, but whether that was from fear for Tilda or outrage at this entire spectacle, she wasn’t sure. All she knew was that they were steps away from the base of the gallows, where Tilda would have to face her first Ordeal—and her almost certain demise.
Don’t let her die.
If she dies, he dies.
Kiva gritted her teeth, sweat beading on her brow despite the icy
wind.
Don’t let her die.
If she dies, he dies.
Kiva couldn’t stop the Trial, couldn’t save Tilda from what would happen the moment she climbed those gallows steps, couldn’t save Tipp, couldn’t save herself.
Three lives hung in the balance, all because of one woman.
Don’t.
Let.
Her.
Die.
Kiva closed her eyes, her heart thumping in her ears, drowning out
the jeers of the crowd.
She knew what she had to do.
Nausea swirled within her as she snapped her eyes open, frantically searching for a familiar face among the sea of prisoners.
Mot was nowhere to be seen, nor were Olisha and Nergal.
Desperate, her gaze landed on Jaren standing with the rest of the tunnelers near the foot of the gallows, his features so covered in dust that he was almost unrecognizable.
“Jaren!” Kiva screamed over the catcalling masses, ignoring the warning glare Naari shot back at her. “Jaren!”
He looked puzzled by her summons, almost alarmed, his eyes flicking up to the royals and their guards as if fearing their attention.
“What are you d-doing?” Tipp yelled at her from Tilda’s other side, barely audible over the cries and shouts from the prisoners pressing in on them.
She ignored him and slowed their pace, relief and dread coursing through her when Jaren started wading his way through the horde, reaching them mere paces from the gallows steps.
“Stay here,” Kiva ordered both him and Tipp, unwrapping Tilda’s arm from around her neck and unceremoniously swapping places with Jaren, leaving him to help support the sick woman. Without a word of explanation, she forced her way through what remained of the near-suffocating crowd and bounded straight past Naari and the three-guard escort, taking the steps two at a time until she stood at the top of the wooden platform.
Immediately, five sword tips were pointed at Kiva as the Royal Guard leapt into action. Conversely, Warden Rooke became as still as a statue, his diamond-shaped scar almost hidden by how far his
eyes had widened upon her appearance.
The audience hushed in an instant.
“Who are you, girl?” the closest guard demanded. “Where’s the
Rebel Queen?”
Don’t let her die.
Drawing in a wobbly breath, Kiva straightened her shoulders and looked beyond the guards to the masked prince and princess, declaring in a loud voice the only words that could keep Tilda alive.
“My name is Kiva Meridan, and I claim her sentence as my own.”
