C H A P T E R T H I RT E E N
After the royals left the infirmary, Kiva tried to get out of bed, but her aching body wasn’t up to the task. Instead, she tossed and turned until even that caused her too much pain, so she lay there, thinking about all that had happened that day, before the poppymilk finally swept her back to sleep.
When she awoke again, the infirmary was much darker, the low-lit luminium beacons chasing away the worst of the night’s shadows— and revealing that she wasn’t alone.
“What are you doing here?” Kiva croaked, her voice raspy from sleep.
Jaren was sitting on a stool beside her bed, looking down at his hands, but his head shot up at her question, relief flooding his features. “Why do you always ask me that?”
“Maybe it’s because I’m constantly surprised to see you’re still alive.”
A half smile tipped his lips before it faded and his face turned stony. “The same could be said about you after that stunt you pulled today.”
Kiva didn’t want to have this conversation while lying horizontal.
She didn’t want to have this conversation at all, but definitely not in such a vulnerable position.
Pushing herself up, she held in her grimace as pain shot through her arms, torso, and head all at once, and she carefully assumed the same position as she had with the princess, leaning back against the
wall.
“That looked painful.”
Kiva sent a glare toward Jaren. “Looks can be deceiving.”
She didn’t know why she was so defensive around him, why she hated revealing any sign of weakness.
Jaren sighed and ran his hands through his hair. It was sticking out at odd angles, as if he’d repeated the action numerous times.
Peering closer, Kiva noted that he was covered in even more dirt and grime than when she’d seen him out by the gallows, indicating that he’d labored hard in the tunnels both before and afterward. There were shadows under his eyes, and a weariness about the way he held himself. Zalindov was getting to him, she could tell, even if it hadn’t yet broken him.
“Can I . . . Is there anything I can get you?” Jaren asked quietly.
Recalling his strong aversion to pain-relieving drugs, Kiva shook her head, deciding to wait until he left before she took another dose of poppymilk. That, and she didn’t want to risk muddying her wits while in his presence.
“I’m fine,” Kiva said. “Now answer me—why are you here?”
Jaren uttered a disbelieving sound. “Why do you think?” He jabbed a finger toward her and said, with clear accusation, “You nearly died
today, Kiva.”
“So what?”
The two words slipped from her mouth before she could stop them.
“‘So what?’” he repeated, incredulous. “‘So what?’ Are you kidding me?”
She said nothing, startled by his fierce reaction.
“Did you want to die?” he demanded. “Was that your plan?”
Kiva jerked backwards. “Of course not.” She was vaguely aware of the door to the quarantine room opening and closing, but she didn’t take her eyes from Jaren.
“Then why, Kiva? Why would you sacrifice yourself like that? Why risk your life for some woman you don’t even know?” He pointed sharply toward the closed privacy curtain around Tilda’s bed. “Why give up everything for her?”
“Why do you care, Jaren?” Kiva shot back at him. “You don’t know
me well enough to be this upset.”
“No, but I d-do!”
Kiva ignored Jaren’s hurt face and turned to find Tipp standing at the quarantine door. At the sight of tears in his eyes, she instantly
deflated.
“Tipp . . .”
“Why d-did you do it, Kiva?” he asked in a trembling voice, his freckles stark against his pale face. “You told me no one c-can survive the Trials, that they’re a d-death sentence.”
“Tipp, come here,” Kiva said, reaching out her hand. It was shaking slightly, both from this confrontation and also from pain.
Prince Deverick might have slowed Kiva’s descent enough to keep her from dying, but he hadn’t been gentle about it.
Slowly, Tipp approached, tears still pooling in his eyes as he looked at her. “Why, Kiva?” His throat bobbed. “You t-told my mother you’d protect me. You can’t do that if you’re d-dead.”
While Kiva had no intention of telling Tipp about Cresta’s threat to his life, she still wished she could have this conversation alone with the boy. Sending a quick look toward Jaren, he only folded his arms and looked steadily back at her. Naari, too, was watching from just inside the entrance to the infirmary, the guard making no attempt to hide her eavesdropping.
“You’re right, I did tell your mother that I’d look out for you,” Kiva said quietly, taking Tipp’s hand in her own. “And I plan to keep doing that, long after these Trials are over.”
When Tipp turned his face away, Kiva squeezed his fingers to get his attention back, and continued, “Hey, I mean that. I’ve already made it through one Ordeal—how hard can the other three be?” She tried to infuse confidence into her voice, hiding all traces of doubt while also taking care to conceal any hope that she might not have
to face the remaining Trials at all.
Stay alive.
Don’t let her die.
We are coming.
“But what then?” Tipp asked. “You’ll b-be free, and I’ll be alone.”
Kiva couldn’t tell him the truth, nor could she tell him about her plan—not yet. Not until she’d spoken with the Warden. Even then, she would remain quiet, for fear of getting Tipp’s hopes up in vain.
There was a long road ahead, and Kiva had no guarantees it would end well. For any of them.
Somewhat hoarsely, she said, “That’s not a problem for today, so there’s no point in worrying about it just yet.”
“Then let’s focus on today,” Jaren cut in. “You still haven’t told us why you did what you did.”
Kiva had to count to ten to keep from snapping that it was none of his business and requesting that he leave the infirmary. The truth was, she liked waking up to find him beside her bed. She liked that he was concerned, that he cared enough to be angry. Very few people at Zalindov gave any thought to her welfare—it was always she who was looking after others, not the other way around.
But she’d also meant what she’d said, that he didn’t know her well enough to be so upset. She didn’t understand what was happening between them and wondered if he just felt connected to her because she was the first person he’d met upon waking at Zalindov. It wouldn’t be the first time a prisoner reacted in such a way, even after she’d carved open their flesh. They perceived her as someone familiar during the uneasy transition into their new life. A comfort, almost. But their dependence usually faded after a few weeks, and Kiva rarely interacted with them again unless they had a heath concern—or they turned up dead, and she had to send them to the morgue.
Jaren, however, had already been at Zalindov for nearly three and a half weeks, and showed no signs of disappearing from her life. If anything, it was the opposite, with her seeing more of him as time passed. Part of that was due to the bond he’d formed with Tipp, the younger boy having adopted Jaren, deciding it was his purpose to help the newcomer survive. And Tipp’s connection to Kiva meant Jaren was, by mutual acquaintance, connected to her as well.
But still . . . Kiva was out of her element with this and had no idea how to respond to his request—no, his demand—for answers. While she was touched that he cared, she also dreaded that kind of attention. She’d been at Zalindov long enough to know not to form lasting relationships. Tipp was the only person Kiva allowed even remotely close to her heart, and she was determined to keep it that way.
Nevertheless, seeing the concern on Jaren’s face, the tears still in Tipp’s eyes, even the tight pinch to the listening Naari’s features, Kiva couldn’t muster the antipathy required to keep from answering.
“Help me up, would you?” she asked softly. “I want to show you something.”
While she would have preferred Tipp’s assistance, Jaren was more capable of supporting her, so she pushed aside her pride and allowed him to wrap his arm around her as she rose shakily to her feet.
Kiva couldn’t keep a quiet moan from leaving her lips as bolts of electricity shot up her legs, her very nerves protesting the move.
While nothing was broken, it still felt like everything was.
“You all right?” Jaren asked.
She looked at him, realizing how close his face was to hers, his blue-gold eyes right there, and firmly told herself that she’d never live it down if she blushed while in his arms. “I already told you, I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” he argued, his forehead creasing. “I don’t need to be a healer to know that much.”
“Then why ask if I’m all right?” Kiva shot back, trying—and failing —to keep her temper in check. When she saw a muscle tick in his cheek, she blew out a breath and said, more patiently, “I fell fifty feet, Jaren, and I’m alive—so I am fine, considering the alternative.” She paused, then grudgingly admitted, “But I still feel like I fell fifty feet, so fine is relative.”
Jaren wrapped his arm more securely around her, pulling her deeper into his body as if to make absolutely sure she wouldn’t hurt herself further. “The prince should have caught you sooner,” he said tightly.
Kiva didn’t ask how he knew, guessing word had spread like wildfire around the prison. She only hoped he didn’t know why the prince had saved her. She didn’t need any more humiliation tonight.
“He didn’t have to catch me at all.”
Jaren’s eyebrows rose. “You’re defending—”
“He’s the reason I’m still here,” Kiva cut in, though she was more surprised than anyone to hear the words come from her lips. Never did she imagine that she would be defending a Vallentis.
“But—”
“What do you want t-to show us, Kiva?” Tipp interrupted Jaren.
“You shouldn’t be out of b-bed for long.”
Kiva’s heart warmed toward the boy, and she sent him a small smile. He didn’t return it, still barely meeting her eyes.
Sighing inwardly, Kiva said to Jaren, “Can you help me over to Tilda?”
Jaren’s lips pressed together, a clear sign of how he felt toward the other woman. But he did as Kiva requested and helped her shuffle painfully across the room, where he drew back the curtain to reveal the sleeping Rebel Queen.
Throughout all this, Kiva tried to ignore the firmness of his body, the reassurance of his strength supporting her. She wouldn’t let herself be comforted by his touch, no matter how safe, how protected, she felt in his arms.
Pushing away from him to take a seat on the stool beside Tilda’s bed—and breathing easier now that there was more space between them—Kiva waited until Tipp approached before she pointed at the woman and said, “When you look at her, what do you see? What does she represent?”
Naari moved closer, as if not wanting to miss what Kiva was about to say. Kiva didn’t pay her any mind—after having gone head-to- head with the Princess of Evalon and then dealing with the rakish crown prince, the prison guard didn’t seem so intimidating anymore.
What could she do? Sentence Kiva to death? She was already facing that with the Ordeals; there was little else left to fear. And besides, Naari had proved that she wasn’t one of the guards whom Kiva needed to worry about. If the amber-eyed woman wanted to listen in, so be it.
“What d-do you mean?” Tipp asked, brushing his red fringe from his eyes. “It’s just T-T-Tilda.”
“Look closer,” Kiva encouraged him. “Who is she?”
Tipp looked confused. “The R-Rebel Queen?”
Jaren’s body turned solid, his eyes shooting from Kiva to Tilda and back again. As if wary of her answer, he slowly asked, “Are you . . . sympathetic to her cause? Is that why you saved her?”
Kiva weighed her response, thinking over her family’s complicated history with the rebels and where she fit into it, what she believed.
With each second that passed, Jaren became more tense, until
finally Kiva said, “I’m not some rebel underling, if that’s what you’re
asking.”
Jaren visibly relaxed.
“That said, I’m not unsympathetic,” Kiva admitted, causing him to turn rigid again. It was obvious where his own sentiments lay. Given his outburst after Tilda’s arrival, Kiva knew he was solidly in the anti-
rebel camp.
“How can you—”
“I’ve been in here long enough to hear both sides of the argument,” Kiva interrupted him. “You were all there the night we spoke of Evalon’s history, how Torvin Corentine and Sarana Vallentis became enemies, how the rebels were formed. As Mot said, they do have a right to the crown.” Kiva looked down at Tilda and quietly
added, “She has a right to the crown.”
“But—”
Once more, Kiva spoke over Jaren, “Again, I’m not saying I’m a rebel.” She wasn’t about to admit to her family’s ties with them, or her hopes that Tilda’s followers would save her from Zalindov—best to give the answer that would ease his concerns. And Naari’s, since the guard was just as tense. “I was only seven when I arrived here, remember? They were hardly going to try and recruit me before that.” She offered a hint of a smile, urging the two of them to relax.
“If you’re not with them, how can you be fine with what they’re doing? With the unrest they’re causing?” Jaren asked, clearly frustrated. “You’ve been in here for ten years, so you don’t know what it’s like out there, how dangerous it is. Evalon is all but breaking apart. Most of the allied kingdoms have closed their borders, fearing the rebel movement will spread into their lands. In some, it already has. And our enemies . . . Caramor and Mirraven are frothing at the bit to launch an invasion, waiting for the slightest hint of weakness. If not for the Tanestra Mountains making it difficult for them to move their armies . . .” He trailed off, shaking his head.
Kiva smarted at the reminder of how little she knew about the outside world. The coded notes she received didn’t offer any political news, so the best she could hope for was when she treated new prisoners who happened to be talkative or when Rooke gave something away during their private meetings. But . . . it wasn’t
Jaren’s fault that she was so uninformed, so she forced patience into her tone as she said, “I’m not saying I support any of that, just that I understand their motives—that they believe the kingdom is rightfully theirs, and they want it back. But,” she hurried on when Jaren opened his mouth again, “in my experience, people who get mixed up with the rebels usually end up imprisoned or dead. I’m already
imprisoned—I don’t want to be dead.”
“I still don’t—”
“Let’s not argue about this,” Kiva cut Jaren off. Again. This was clearly something he was passionate about, enough that she wondered if he had deeper, more personal reasons for being so opposed to the rebels. If he had family or friends who had been hurt —or worse—because of them, his reaction not only made sense, but was justified. While Kiva wouldn’t be swayed from her own opinion, she didn’t want to cause him further distress, so she went on, “If you’re still worried about where my loyalties lie, think of how useless I’d be to any of them, especially in here.” She waved a hand, reminding him of where they were. “The prison rebels actively despise me, so they’re hardly going to ask for my aid.” Ask, no.
Threaten Tipp’s life, yes, but Kiva decided against mentioning that.
“Even outside of Zalindov, I’d be a terrible recruit. My healer code would mean I’d have to help anyone who came to me, including those loyal to the Vallentis family. I doubt that would go over well— with either side.”
Jaren’s tension dissolved, and his eyes finally lightened, as if he too realized just how preposterous such a circumstance would be.
“I still d-don’t understand,” Tipp said, the emotion in his voice tugging at Kiva’s heart. She’d become distracted, seeking to keep Jaren—and Naari—from scrutinizing her motives, forgetting the reason she’d dragged them all over to Tilda’s side and the explanation she’d intended to offer, misleading as it was.
Turning to the young boy, Kiva said, “I asked what you think when you look at Tilda. You see a woman, Rebel Queen or otherwise. But I look at her and see someone who is deathly ill and needs my help.”
Kiva returned her gaze to the bed, continuing to provide the only justification Tipp would accept, with him having known her long enough to see it as truth. “She represents everyone I’ve tried to save
over the years. Everyone I’ve failed to save over the years. It’s not just one life to me—it’s all of them, and they all matter.”
She unconsciously rubbed her thigh, but then froze, willing her hand into stillness. Neither Jaren nor Tipp noticed, but Naari was watching her carefully enough that Kiva swallowed and avoided her observant eyes.
“So you see,” she went on, “I might not be able to keep everyone alive, but this woman? This patient?” She shrugged carefully. “It was in my power to do something, so I did.” She offered what she hoped was a self-deprecating smile. “Now we just have to wait and see if it’ll make a difference.”
Kiva wasn’t lying. She believed and meant everything she’d said.
But she couldn’t tell them everything, couldn’t share the real reasons why she had claimed Tilda’s sentence—and not just because Naari was listening. Trust wasn’t something Kiva offered easily, especially in a place like Zalindov.
“So . . . you’re saying you v-v-volunteered because she’s sick?”
Tipp asked, his young face puzzled. At least the tears were gone.
Jaren and Naari looked skeptical, as if they knew there had to be more to it than what Kiva had said, but she avoided their eyes, determined to stick to her story.
“She would have died today,” Kiva said. “And I know it’s irrational, that it’s just the way of life, especially here, but I’m so tired of people dying on my watch. So, yes, Tipp. If I can save her life, or even just delay her death, then that’s what I’m going to do.”
Especially if it meant they could both walk free.
The young boy sucked his lower lip between his teeth, gnawing on it as he considered her words. Finally, he said, “Then I guess we should t-t-try harder to get her feeling better. That way she c-can thank you herself.”
Relief swept over Kiva, and it only grew stronger when Tipp sent her a gap-toothed grin, tremulous as it was. She reached out to take his hand again, holding it tightly as she said, just for him, “I’m going to do everything I can not to leave you, do you understand? I promised your mother, and I keep my promises. We’re in this together, you and me.”
Kiva prayed that Rooke would agree to what she planned on asking him, even if it would only be valid in the worst-case scenario of her having to endure all three of the remaining Ordeals. According to the law, they were to be held fortnightly, so she had two weeks before the next one. If her family and the rebels failed to arrive before then, then she was on her own—and if she didn’t succeed, her death would leave Tipp abandoned.
Looking to Jaren, Kiva found his eyes already on her. She didn’t shy away from his gaze, but instead tried to communicate everything she was thinking, everything she was feeling. If she died, she needed to know that someone would look out for Tipp, for as long as possible.
Jaren, to his credit, didn’t fight her silent communication. His lips tightened, and his expression intensified, as if willing her not to even consider her own demise, but when she continued looking at him calmly, pointedly, he blew out a breath and gave a terse nod of acceptance. Of agreement.
Feeling slightly unsettled that they’d just had a conversation without words, Kiva tore her eyes from him and leaned forward to place the back of her hand on Tilda’s brow. Her fever hadn’t returned, but she was restless, moaning in her sleep.
“Any change today?” she asked, unable to keep from transitioning back into healer mode.
“Not with h-her,” Tipp said. There was a hesitant note to his voice, and Kiva glanced up at him as he continued, “but the p-patients with the stomach v-virus are getting worse. And it’s still spreading. The guards d-d-dragged in three more while you were sleeping.”
Sleeping was a very kind word for Kiva’s state of unconsciousness. She turned toward the quarantine door, wondering if she had the strength to go and check on the sick prisoners herself.
“Don’t even think about it.”
Kiva swiveled back to Jaren, noting his set features, and she pulled a face.
“Scrunch your nose at me all you want, but you’re going straight back to bed,” he told her.
True to his threat, he wrapped his arm around her again and gently eased her up to her feet. This time she bit her tongue to keep
from moaning, but the look Jaren sent her made it clear that he knew she was muting her pain.
The shuffle back to her pallet was more agonizing than she remembered the walk to Tilda being, and while she would never admit it, Jaren was right—there was no way she’d be able to stand long enough to look in on the sick patients.
“Thank you,” she made herself say quietly once she was settled again. Her whole body was throbbing, but she continued to give no outward indication. Even so, she was hyperaware that she must look as terrible as she felt.
Jaren nodded, then strode away, heading toward the wooden cabinet at the end of the workbench on the far side of the room. Kiva shared a puzzled glance with Tipp, who shrugged and fluffed her pillow behind her back. Neither had to wait long before Jaren returned to them, a stone tumbler in his hands.
“Drink,” he said, passing it to Kiva.
She blinked stupidly down at the white liquid. “You . . . got me . . . poppymilk.”
She didn’t phrase it as a question, but surprise caused her voice to trill upward at the end of her broken statement.
“Drink,” Jaren said again. “It’ll help.”
“But . . . you don’t . . .” she trailed off, looking at him and trying to understand.
His mouth twitched at the edges, and he shook his head as if finding her reaction amusing. “Just because I don’t like to take it doesn’t mean others shouldn’t. You said it yourself—you fell fifty feet today. If ever someone needs to be drugged, it’s you.”
The dose he’d poured her was more than what Mirryn had given— half a tumbler’s worth. Definitely enough to knock her out.
Frowning slightly, Kiva said, “I—”
“Just drink it, Kiva,” Jaren said, albeit gently. He placed his hand over her free one, the calluses on his palm rough against her flesh, yet oddly comforting. They were the proof that he was surviving the tunnels, that he hadn’t given up, unlike so many others. “You need to rest.”
“Olisha and Nergal will b-be here soon,” Tipp said. “I’ll m-make sure they know about the new p-patients and promise to look after
them. Sleep, Kiva. They c-can survive a night without you.”
The young boy leaned over and kissed her on the forehead, before pointedly tapping his finger against her hand holding the tumbler.
Tipp had never shied away from affection before, but the forehead kiss was something new. Blinking back tears at the tender gesture, Kiva raised the poppymilk and swallowed it down, handing the empty tumbler to Jaren.
“I’m sure I’ll be back on my feet tomorrow,” she told them, yawning as the drug began to take effect.
“And then we c-can figure out how to get you through the next Ordeal,” Tipp said, tucking her in.
Kiva didn’t reply, only snuggled deeper into her bed, relieved when she felt the cool metal of the amulet still hidden beneath the blanket.
If Princess Mirryn was to be believed, Kiva didn’t have to worry about the next Ordeal. But the two after that . . .
Not for the first time, Kiva wondered what she had been thinking, taking Tilda’s place. She prayed that she was right about the coming rescue, but even if she was wrong . . . as her eyes closed and the poppymilk pulled her under, she still couldn’t bring herself to regret her actions. Not with the memory of Tipp’s forehead kiss on her brow.
“Sweet dreams, Kiva,” Jaren’s whisper came as if from far away. A squeeze of his hand made her realize he was still holding hers, and that was the last she felt, the last she heard, before she drifted off into blissful sleep.
It was the dead of night when Kiva awoke next, sitting up with a startled squeak when she saw the shadow standing over her. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the low light of the infirmary, and when they did, her trepidation only increased when she recognized the looming figure.
“What in the name of the gods were you thinking?” Warden Rooke demanded, his hands fisted on his hips, his dark eyes flashing.
“I—”
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” he spat. “Any idea how reckless, how foolish—”
“Cresta was going to kill Tipp,” Kiva interrupted, unwilling to let Rooke talk down to her. Not while the poppymilk was still in her system, giving her a hearty dose of courage.
“So?” Rooke threw out his arms. “He’s just one boy. Let him die.”
The thought made Kiva’s blood turn cold. “He’s important to me.”
“Then you’re a fool,” Rooke said, pointing a finger at her. “Because what happens now? Even if you survive all the Trials, which you won’t, what then? You’ll leave, and Tipp—”
“Will come with me.”
That brought the Warden up short. He leaned back on his heels, squinting down at her. “I beg your pardon?”
Kiva licked her lips, hoping she could pull this off. She wished her mind was less muddled from the medicine, and yet was simultaneously grateful for how bold it was making her. Never before had she felt so fearless in the Warden’s presence.
“You told me that Tipp could leave Zalindov if he had a guardian on the outside to collect him,” she said. “If I survive the Trials and go free, I’ll be his guardian. He’ll leave with me.”
The Warden said nothing for a long moment. Kiva shuffled painfully higher in her bed, her hands turning clammy as she waited for his answer.
Finally, he spoke. “You have to survive the Trials for that to happen.”
Kiva wanted to smile, to laugh, to get up and dance in celebration.
Rooke didn’t argue—couldn’t argue, since she’d used his own words against him. But still, she’d worried about him finding a loophole, some way of denying her claim. Instead, he’d only brought up the likelihood of her failure. That she could handle.
“I’ve beaten the odds before,” Kiva replied. “Ten years in here, and I’m still alive. That has to count for something.” She recalled what Mirryn had said about her being a survivor, how it was Rooke who had told the princess as much in the first place.
“You’re alive because I’ve protected you,” Warden Rooke hissed, the anger returning to his face. “You’re alive because your father saved my life, and in return, I promised I would keep an eye on you.
How else do you think you’ve lasted so long?”
Kiva recoiled at the mention of her father, but couldn’t keep from answering, somewhat bitterly, “Because people know I’m your informant, and since no one trusts me and everyone hates me, they leave me alone.”
“Wrong,” Rooke gritted through his teeth. Kiva had never seen so much emotion from the normally stoic man. “It’s because everyone in here—inmates and guards—knows that if they lay a hand on you, they have to answer to me.”
Kiva nearly snorted. She’d been mistreated too many times to count over the years, especially by the guards. And then there was Cresta and her threat against Tipp, something the Warden didn’t care a whit about. So much for the protection he claimed was upon her. Her perceived allegiance to him had brought Kiva nothing but trouble, along with the constant anxiety of having to deliver enough information to remain useful to him.
But . . . he was right in that nothing truly awful had ever happened to her, unlike what many of the other prisoners had endured, especially at the hands of the guards. She’d suspected that Rooke’s attentiveness acted like a warning to them, she’d just never considered if it was because he’d wanted to protect her, that he was repaying the debt he owed her father for saving him from a near- lethal case of sepsis almost a decade ago. Perhaps Rooke did care about her, in his own unconventional way. The thought sat strangely within her, as if she couldn’t reconcile the idea of him keeping her alive while at the same time frequently threatening her with death.
“You couldn’t have just let it lie, could you?” Rooke finally said when Kiva remained silent. He sounded weary now, the anger bleeding from his voice. “If you hadn’t interfered, Tilda Corentine would have died today, and life would have gone back to normal. No more royal orders, no more sending updates about her condition or answering demands about whether she’s cognizant enough to communicate.”
Kiva bit her tongue to keep in a sarcastic reply about inconveniencing him.
“Thanks to you, we have to see out the rest of the Trials,” Rooke continued. “Or as many as you can survive.” His brow furrowed.
“And when you fail—and you will fail, Kiva—you’ll be leaving me without a competent prison healer.”
“You have Olisha and Nergal,” Kiva said, though her throat was tight at how easily he dismissed the thought of her surviving. Care was evidently too strong a word for what he felt toward her, unconventional or not. She was just a tool to him. A healer, an informant. “And you’ve told me before—many times—that you can easily find a replacement for me.”
Rooke ran a hand over his short hair and ignored the accusation in her words. “You made a grave mistake today. I’ve done all I can for you. I can’t help you with these Ordeals—you’re on your own now.”
Kiva had been on her own for nearly ten years, even with his supposed protection. She could survive another six weeks—or less, if her family arrived in time.
The Warden spun on his heel and strode away from her. Only when he reached the door to the infirmary did he pause near the guard on duty and turn back to offer his parting shot.
“Your father would be so disappointed in you.”
And then he was gone, leaving Kiva with eight words that repeated through her mind, over and over, until the poppymilk began to pull her back under once more.
As her eyes drifted shut, she couldn’t help thinking that the Warden was wrong. Her father would have been the first person to encourage her to save a life. Her mother, on the other hand . . . Her mother would have had strong words about Kiva’s actions today.
But neither of them had been able to stop her.
And so, Kiva would just have to live with the consequences.
Or die from them.
