C H A P T E R E I G H T
Two days passed, three days, four days, and still no sign of improvement in the Rebel Queen—in Tilda. Kiva treated her as well as she could, but without knowing what had led to her current state, it was more a case of trial and error than anything else.
“Her symptoms just don’t make sense,” Kiva complained to Tipp five days after Tilda’s arrival. They were standing over the woman, with her having been moved to a pallet in the far corner of the infirmary. Kiva was confident that whatever ailed her wasn’t contagious, so it was safer to isolate her from those already in quarantine.
“She’s not g-getting any worse,” Tipp said. “That’s something.”
“There’s only two days left before her first Ordeal,” Kiva said, “and I can’t even get her fever to break.” She shook her head. “At this rate, she won’t be able to leave her bed, let alone face whatever they have in store for her.”
“Maybe they’ll change the d-date?” Tipp said. “Give her more t-t- time to recover first?”
Kiva sent him a look that made it clear what she thought of that idea.
“It m-might be for the best,” Tipp said quietly. “If she’s going to d- die anyway, at least this way . . . it’ll b-be quick, won’t it? And she won’t r-r-really be aware?”
Kiva hated that Tipp was asking her that, hated that the sweet, innocent boy was even thinking that. As a healer who was glaringly aware of what horrors the human body could be forced to suffer through, she agreed with him. A quick death was always better in these cases. But . . . ignoring the facts, ignoring what she’d witnessed too many times to count . . . Kiva’s heart ached as she
looked down at the shivering woman.
Don’t let her die.
Kiva was doing her best. But she was failing.
Seeking a distraction, Kiva turned away from Tilda and asked Tipp, “Are you and Mot on speaking terms again?”
“I went and a-apologized like you told me,” Tipp said. “We’re g- good.”
Kiva doubted Mot was so easily appeased. “Can you go and tell him we need a collection?”
“I was hoping Liku would m-m-make it,” Tipp said sadly, his eyes flicking to the closed quarantine door.
“If she’d been allowed to come sooner, she might have,” Kiva stated. She’d long since learned to snuff the burn of resentment toward the guards who didn’t let the prisoners visit the infirmary until it was too late. “Now, go let Mot know so we can clear her bed.”
Tipp took off, and since there was no guard watching the infirmary, Kiva found herself alone with Tilda for the first time since the woman’s arrival.
“Why aren’t you getting better?” Kiva whispered, looking down at the Rebel Queen. She placed her hand on Tilda’s forehead, confirming what she already knew—that she was still burning with a fever.
It was an effort for Kiva to get any fluids into the woman, rousing her from unconsciousness every few hours to force some broth down her throat. Each time, Tilda stared blankly through her unseeing eyes, saying nothing, little more than a limp weight that swiftly returned to sleep.
“You have to stay alive,” Kiva continued whispering as she straightened Tilda’s blankets, tucking them into the sides of the thin
mattress. “You have to.”
Don’t let her die.
Shifting a strand of dark hair from the woman’s face, Kiva was just about to go check on her quarantined patients when Tilda’s sleeping body gave a jerk and her milky eyes shot open.
Kiva jumped before her senses came back to her. “Easy, easy,” she said, her heart racing, unsure if the woman even understood.
“You’re all right.”
Tilda turned toward the sound of Kiva’s voice. In a split second, she lunged upward, reaching blindly, her hands latching first around
Kiva’s shoulders and then shifting inward until they circled her throat —and squeezed.
Kiva was so stunned that she didn’t realize what was happening until it was too late. She tried to fight the woman off, her fingers grasping Tilda’s forearms and shoving with all her might, but the woman’s grip was unyielding.
“Ssssstop,” Kiva tried to say, but she could barely get any air through her windpipe. She dug her fingernails into Tilda’s flesh, but still the woman didn’t release her. Desperate, she tried to scramble backwards, but Tilda came with her, the woman’s full weight now hanging from Kiva’s neck and causing her to lose her balance, the two of them tumbling to the floor.
Dark spots began to flood Kiva’s vision, her lungs begging for oxygen. Frantic, she clawed at the woman’s face, but Tilda dodged her nails as if she had some kind of sixth sense, remaining just out of
reach, her grip tighter than ever.
And then her hands were gone.
One moment, Kiva’s body was turning limp, her eyes rolling into the back of her head. The next, Tilda’s weight had disappeared, leaving Kiva coughing and spluttering on the ground.
“Are you all right?”
Kiva couldn’t answer, still too busy trying to breathe. But she was aware enough to know that it was Naari who had asked the question, the guard having been the one to pull Tilda away.
Through watering eyes, Kiva saw Tilda wrestling against Naari’s grip, fighting like a rabid creature. The guard had dragged her until she was pressed up against the worktable, and despite Naari being fully armed as usual—two swords strapped to her back and a plethora of weapons attached to and hidden among her leather armor—she wasn’t reaching for any of them, instead holding Tilda at bay with her hands. But Naari didn’t see what Kiva could from the ground: Tilda fumbling blindly on the worktable, before wrapping her fingers around the sharp carving blade.
“Look out!” Kiva rasped, her voice like gravel.
Naari moved fast, but Tilda was faster, striking upward toward the guard’s head. For someone without sight, her aim was scarily accurate, and Naari had barely any time to react. It was all she could
do to release one hand from Tilda and use it to block the blow, the blade sinking into her gloved wrist.
She didn’t cry out or reveal any sign of pain. All she did was fling Tilda around and, in one swift movement, elbow her in the side of the face.
The fight left Tilda in an instant, and she crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
Kiva was still panting for air, startled by how quickly the struggle had ended.
“Are you all right?” the guard asked again.
No, Kiva wasn’t all right. She’d just been attacked by one of her patients—someone she was trying to keep alive, to protect at all costs.
“Are you all right?” Kiva returned, wincing at how much it hurt to talk. She sounded as if she’d swallowed an entire quarry’s worth of luminium dust. Felt like it, too. But still, she was the prison healer, and her focus went beyond her own needs and to the blade sticking out of Naari’s wrist.
Following her gaze, the guard looked down and, showing no emotion, yanked the blade out.
Kiva flinched, even if Naari didn’t. But then she noticed what she’d missed before—there was no blood, not trickling from Naari’s arm, not even on the blade.
Rising, Kiva walked on shaking legs toward the guard and the prisoner. Tilda was out cold, a pinkish bruise blossoming at her temple from Naari’s blow. Kiva wasn’t sure which of them needed her attention first, so she took her lead from the guard, who jerked her head at the prisoner, and together they dragged Tilda back to her pallet.
Kiva wasn’t surprised when Naari reached for the shackles on either side of the mattress, binding both of Tilda’s hands before reaching for the chest strap and tightening it over the woman’s torso.
The restraints were attached to all of the infirmary’s beds, including within the quarantine room, but they were rarely used. Despite what Tilda had done to Kiva, she didn’t like seeing the woman bound, repelled by the idea of trapping someone so completely, even if that someone had just tried to strangle her.
“She’s not going anywhere,” Naari said. “Now see to yourself.”
Kiva looked blankly at the guard until Naari prompted, “Your throat.
Do you have something that will help?”
Unsure why Naari even cared enough to acknowledge it, Kiva nodded slowly and shuffled back toward the worktable. Her lungs burned with every breath, her knees still trembled, but she forced herself to think and reached for a vial of tallowfruit nectar. Tears sprang to her eyes as she swallowed it back, the citrus tang stinging the whole way down, but the nectar was the best remedy for throat and lung damage. Kiva considered a dose of poppymilk to help with the pain, but she quickly discarded the idea, needing a clear head right now.
“Your turn,” Kiva said, her voice already stronger than before.
“I’m fine,” Naari replied, remaining in position over Tilda’s bed, as if expecting the woman to awaken at any moment and burst out of her restraints.
Kiva didn’t want to argue with the guard. Everything in her knew how dangerous that could be. And yet . . .
“You were stabbed,” she said in a careful tone. “You should let me look at the wound.”
“I’m fine,” Naari repeated, more firmly this time.
Kiva bit her lip. Her eyes swung back to the blade on the table, again noting that it had no blood on it. But . . . she’d seen Tilda stab Naari. She’d seen the blade sticking out of Naari’s wrist.
“At least let me give you something to clean the wound,” Kiva said quietly. “You can do it yourself, if you don’t want me to. But you don’t want to get an infection, so—”
Naari turned from Tilda, her dark eyes locking onto Kiva before she stepped forward, her jade earring glinting as she closed the distance between them. Kiva wasn’t sure if she should back away or not. She couldn’t read the guard’s expression and feared she’d been too assertive. Naari didn’t act like the other guards at Zalindov, brutal and unforgiving. But for all Kiva knew, she was exactly like them.
“I—” Kiva opened her mouth to apologize, but Naari stopped her
with a look.
And with an action.
The guard was tugging the glove off her left hand, the one that had been stabbed. As the black leather came free, Kiva’s eyes widened.
There was no blood, because there was no wound. And there was no wound, because there was no flesh.
Naari had a prosthetic hand. And there, at the joint where the skin of her forearm met the prosthesis, was an indented mark where the blade had sunk in.
“Oh,” Kiva said stupidly. Even more stupidly, she added, “That’s convenient.”
Naari’s lips twitched. “It comes in handy.”
A startled laugh left Kiva at the pun, and she swiftly turned it into a cough, which prompted bolts of pain to shoot up her throat.
Seeking a distraction, as Naari pulled her glove back on, Kiva couldn’t resist asking, “Do you mind if I ask how it happened?”
She held her breath, wondering if she should have remained silent, but Naari didn’t seem upset by the question.
“I was protecting someone I care about,” the guard said, flexing her regloved hand. “They made sure I was taken care of afterward.”
“And now you’re here,” Kiva said.
She regretted the words instantly, but again, Naari didn’t show any
signs of anger.
“And now I’m here.”
It explained a lot, Kiva thought. While still relatively new, Naari had already stayed at Zalindov for longer than most of the other female guards. Despite the high quality of her prosthetic hand, she would be challenged to find another position, let alone be allowed to work her way up through the military ranks. A prison guard was at the bottom of the ladder, and yet, because of her limb difference, still one of the best options Naari had if she wanted to serve the kingdom in a protective capacity.
“Does it hurt?” Kiva asked, switching to healer mode.
“Sometimes,” Naari admitted.
Kiva held her eyes and offered, “If you ever need anything for the pain . . .”
Naari remained silent for a moment before she finally said, “I’ll let you know.”
Something strange was happening, Kiva knew. A shift in the dynamic between them. The line between guard and prisoner had blurred, and not just because Naari had now saved Kiva more than once.
“Thank you,” Kiva said quietly. “For helping me. Again.”
Naari arched a brow at Kiva’s words, knowing full well that she’d done more than “help,” but she didn’t correct her. “Just be grateful I arrived when I did.”
Kiva was. Very much so. But still she said, “There hasn’t been a guard here all day. Why come now?”
Before Naari could answer, Tipp skipped back through the infirmary door, and close behind him were both Mot and Jaren.
The mortician was no surprise, but Kiva couldn’t keep from looking at Jaren in question. He, in turn, came to a sudden halt when he caught sight of her, with Mot and Tipp both gaping as well.
“Kiva, luv, what ’appened?” Mot asked, anger blotching his cheeks as he looked accusingly at Naari.
The guard just crossed her arms, meeting his stare.
Kiva didn’t understand at first, but then she saw where Jaren’s gaze was focused. Tipp’s, too. She touched her fingers to her neck, guessing that it was already blossoming into an alarming rainbow of color.
“Tilda woke up, and we . . . had a bit of a tussle,” Kiva said, trying to play it off as nothing. Her scratchy, hesitant voice wasn’t helping.
“Naari arrived in time to . . . intervene.”
At her choice of words, Kiva could almost hear the guard rolling her eyes.
“I shouldn’t have l-l-left you alone,” Tipp said, his freckled face pale as he looked toward the now-shackled prisoner. “I’m s-sorry, Kiva.”
“I told you to go,” she said. She looked at Mot and added, “Thanks for coming so fast.”
His eyes, too, were on the shackled prisoner. “That’s ’er, then?
The one they’re all talkin’ about?”
“The Rebel Queen,” Jaren said, the first words he’d uttered since arriving. His tunneling duties were finished for the day, so he was free to roam where he wanted within the walls of the prison. Even so,
Kiva assumed he was there for a reason, so her eyes scanned him for injury, finding nothing outwardly wrong.
“So she really is a q-q-queen?” Tipp asked, his face shining with wonder, as if he hadn’t truly believed it until now.
“Not yet,” Jaren said. “But that’s what she and her people want—to overthrow Evalon, to take the crown as their own.”
“Or to take back the crown,” Mot cut in, “dependin’ on which story yeh believe.”
“Whatever you believe,” Naari interrupted, her eyes moving to Kiva, “you now have another week to get her on her feet. That’s what I came here to tell you.”
“I thought we only had t-two days left?” Tipp asked, scratching his nose.
“The royal family has decided to come and witness the first Ordeal,” Naari shared. “They need the extra time for travel.”
For a long moment, there was no sound in the infirmary. But then
— “What?”
Kiva wasn’t sure who the loudest exclamation belonged to; all she knew was that she wasn’t the only one who had uttered the cry.
“King Stellan and Queen Ariana are comin’ to Zalindov?” Mot asked, one hand pressed to his balding head. “Blimey.”
“No, not them,” Naari said. “They’re too far away, still in Vallenia.
But the crown prince and the princess have been wintering in the Tanestra Mountains. They’ve been ordered to come on behalf of their parents.”
Tipp’s mouth was open, Mot was looking dazed, and Jaren’s eyes were wide with shock. Kiva felt better knowing she wasn’t alone in her surprise, but she now felt even more pressure to do the
impossible.
Don’t let her die.
Royal entourage or not, it made no difference. Tilda was still very sick and might not make it to the first Trial at all, let alone survive it.
“So, a week?” Kiva said. “That gives us something to work with, at least.”
She looked over at Tilda, her stomach tightening anew at the shackles.
“They mus’ really want to make sure justice is served,” Mot commented, following Kiva’s gaze. “Otherwise they wouldn’t be comin’ all this way, would they?”
“Will you t-tell me the story, Kiva?” Tipp begged. “You’ve shared b- bits and pieces before, but I d-don’t understand why she’s so d- dangerous.”
Kiva looked helplessly at him, then at the others. Her eyes landed on Jaren and, instead of answering Tipp, she asked, “Why are you here?”
He met her gaze. “I came for more of that salve for my hands. But now I want to hear this story.”
Mot nodded his agreement, and Kiva turned to Naari, hoping she would put a stop to this. Instead, the guard just walked over and sat on the nearest bench, as if settling in. Kiva only just kept from gaping at her, and then it turned into a scowl when the others followed Naari’s lead and took their own seats, looking at Kiva in anticipation.
“I’m the prison healer,” she told them. “Not a storyteller.”
“Today yeh’re both,” Mot said.
Kiva looked at Naari again, almost desperately, but it was clear the guard wasn’t going to intervene.
Sighing, Kiva moved to sit in the open space beside Jaren, giving in to their request and sharing the tale she’d begged her mother for every night as a young child.
“Long ago, when magic ruled the land, there lived a man and a woman, Torvin Corentine and Sarana Vallentis, who hailed from two of the most powerful bloodlines of all time.” Kiva looked down at her fingers, imagining what it must have felt like to yield such power.
“Torvin had the ability to manipulate the human body, and to this day, he’s considered the greatest healer ever known. Sarana could control the four elements—earth, air, water, and fire—a gift no one has possessed in entirety since her death. Together, they were unstoppable, and after being joined as husband and wife, they were a king and queen the likes of whom the world has never seen.”
I wish I had magic.
Kiva closed her eyes as the voice swept across her mind—her voice, years younger. But even so, she couldn’t keep the memory at bay, nor her mother’s quiet response.
I’d rather you wish for brains or loyalty or courage, my sweet girl.
Magic is dangerous, and those who have it are forever looking over their shoulders.
That’s just because they’re royal, Kiva had replied. Only people related to Torvin or Sarana have magic these days. That makes them targets.
Kiva shoved the memory deep, deep down, and forced herself back into the present.
“As is the way of humans, those with great power risk succumbing to it,” she said, her eyes on Tipp, who was eating up the story, just as she had as a young child. “While Torvin ruled with integrity and had a heart for his people, using his magic to help all those who sought his healing, Sarana’s power simmered within her, corrupting her from the inside out. She grew resentful toward her husband, jealous of his generosity and the way their subjects responded to his kindness.
The darkness in her built until she decided she didn’t want to share her crown anymore. She wanted their kingdom—Evalon—to be hers, and hers alone. So she turned on Torvin, a surprise magical attack that left him badly injured. She then lied to their people and said he attacked her, seeking to overthrow her, seeking to kill her, their beloved queen.”
“What h-happened?” Tipp asked in a hushed whisper.
“The kingdom revolted, demanding Torvin’s head,” Kiva answered.
“Without allies or aid, the wounded king had little choice but to flee.
He made it deep into the Tanestra Mountains before he could travel
no further.”
Tipp gasped. “He died?”
“No one knows for sure.” Kiva shrugged. “While the queen went on to rule until her death much later in life, Torvin never returned to reclaim the crown that was rightfully his. But there were whispers of those who sought him out, of those who didn’t believe Sarana’s lies and rebelled against her. Some were executed, others imprisoned, but many were said to have escaped, fleeing just like Torvin.
Whether those rebels ever found their exiled king or not . . .” Kiva shrugged again.
“So that’s how the rebels c-c-came into being,” Tipp said, a hint of awe in his voice.
“If the rumors are true,” Mot said, “then Tilda Corentine is Torvin’s great-great-great-somethin’ daughter, right? With a few more greats thrown in?”
“Supposedly,” Kiva said, her eyes flicking to the woman.
“But if yer story is correct, then she’s not really a rebel, is she?
None of ’em are,” Mot said. He ran his fingers over his stubbled jaw.
“The way I heard it, Sarana and Torvin never had any heirs together, but went on to ’ave their own children after they’d been separated.
Both bloodlines continued. That means any Corentine heirs ’ave a rightful claim to Evalon’s throne. They’re not rebels at all. Assumin’ they ’ave magic, o’ course, since that’s the real proof, innit?”
They all looked toward Tilda, realization hitting them at once.
“The r-royal family all have elemental powers, like Sarana,” Tipp pointed out. “So if Tilda really is T-Torvin’s descendant, shouldn’t she have his healing p-power? She wouldn’t b-be this sick, would she?”
Kiva found them all waiting for her to answer, so she made a helpless gesture and said, “I don’t know—maybe she can only heal others, not herself? Maybe magic skips generations? Maybe she’s not related to Torvin at all, and this is a case of mistaken identity?”
“That’s a lot o’ maybes,” Mot muttered. “But I like yer origin story, so I’m gonna go on thinkin’ she’s Torvin’s great-whatever-daughter and all that other stuff ’appened back then like yeh said.”
“Don’t believe everything you hear, Mot,” Jaren said, an indulgent
but still wry smile on his face.
Kiva arched a brow at him.
Jaren caught her look and shrugged. “I’ve heard a thousand different versions of the Torvin and Sarana legend. Who’s to say which is true?”
“The king and queen must think there’s some substance to it, or they wouldn’t be so threatened by what she represents,” Kiva noted, tilting her chin toward Tilda.
“The king and queen come from the Vallentis line,” Mot mused.
“They’re direct relations of Sarana—or, the queen is, at least. They’d ’ave to look into any rumors, wouldn’t they? ’Specially ones about a Rebel Queen who could take their throne out from under ’em.”
Kiva pinched the bridge of her nose. “Can we please stop talking about this? I need to get back to work.”
“I have a q-question,” Tipp said, bouncing in his seat. “It’s quick, I p-promise.”
“Put your hand down, Tipp,” Kiva said wearily.
He did so, but continued bouncing as he asked, “How does their m-magic work? T-Torvin’s and Sarana’s? And the V-Vallentis family —they all have elemental p-powers. Well, not the k-k-king, but the queen and their heirs. How d-do they”—he made a flicking gesture with his fingers, as if imagining sparks shooting from them —“summon the m-magic?”
Kiva squinted at the boy. “How am I supposed to know?”
“It’s not just the royals,” Jaren jumped in, a small, contemplative crinkle between his brow. All eyes turned to him, and his expression cleared swiftly. “I mean . . . I’ve heard there are anomalies, too. Born outside the royal bloodline, just like in ancient days. They’re rare, but still—”
Kiva snorted. “We’ve all heard about those ‘anomalies.’ They’re nothing more than wishful stories for children, something they can dream about but never attain.”
“No, luv, Jaren’s right,” Mot said, scratching his bald patch. “I saw
one, once.”
Kiva straightened. “What?”
“I was travelin’ around Mirraven, years ago, and that’s when I saw ’er,” the mortician said. “A little girl, maybe five or six, wavin’ ’er hands and makin’ water leap from a fountain.”
“Really?” Tipp said, wonder in his eyes.
Mot nodded. “It sure was somethin’. I’ve never seen anythin’ like it, before or since.”
Tipp turned to Kiva. “Do you think I c-could have magic? Maybe I just d-don’t know it yet?”
Kiva felt wholly unqualified to have this conversation. In the gentlest voice she could manage, she said, “I’m sorry, Tipp, but even if anomalies are real, Jaren’s right when he says they’re rare. We’re talking one in every hundred years. If that.”
“But Mot s-saw—”
“That one,” Kiva said, still gently. Though she wondered when Mot saw his magic-wielding child and if perhaps he’d been on the spirits that day.
She jumped down from the bench, ready to put this discussion to bed. “It’s getting late, and I have patients to check on, so story time’s over.” She looked at Tipp and, ignoring the pang she felt at seeing his disappointed face, said, “Can you help Mot with Liku?”
The boy hesitated, as if wanting to ask more questions, but whatever he read in Kiva’s expression had him nodding and sliding off the metal bench. Mot, too, looked like he wanted to continue talking, but wisely followed as Tipp led the way to the quarantine room.
Kiva walked over to her supplies and dug through them for another small jar of aloeweed to give Jaren, ready for him to leave. She didn’t realize he’d followed until he spoke up from right behind her.
“Why are you helping her?”
Kiva spun around. “Sorry?”
Jaren looked toward Tilda. “If she really is the Rebel Queen, then she’s responsible for everything they’re doing. For all the unrest within Evalon.” He turned back to Kiva. “People are dying because of her and her followers. Lots of people.”
“You’re exaggerating,” Kiva said dismissively.
“I’m not,” Jaren said firmly. “Things are changing out there, Kiva.
What started as peaceful protests has become a bloodbath, the rebels moving from village to village, recruiting people and killing the guards who try to stop them. Not to mention the innocents who are hurt along the way.” He held her eyes as he finished, “And here you are, trying to save their leader’s life.”
Don’t let her die.
“That’s my job,” Kiva replied defensively, even as ice clutched at her heart.
“She hurt you.” Jaren’s eyes moved to her throat, his voice low with concern. “And by the looks of it, I’m guessing she was trying to do more than that. What would’ve happened if Naari hadn’t arrived when she did?”
Kiva recalled the darkness that had been spreading across her vision, the suffocating burn as she’d struggled to breathe, the panic of being unable to free herself.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, turning back to continue searching for the aloeweed, now even more desperate for him to leave.
“How can you say that?” he asked, exasperated.
Kiva finally spotted the small jar and reached for it triumphantly.
Only then did she face him again and say, “Because it doesn’t.” She waved her free hand, indicating beyond the walls of the infirmary.
“This place is full of murderers and rapists and kidnappers, but I can’t think of them that way. If they come to me with a problem, then I have to treat them. It’s not my job to judge them, only to heal them.”
Kiva’s gaze shifted to Tilda as she finished, “Whether she’s the Rebel Queen or not, whether she wants to overthrow the kingdom or not, whether she tries to kill me again or not, it doesn’t matter. I have to help her anyway. Do you understand?”
Jaren studied Kiva’s face for a long moment before he blew out a breath and nodded. “I understand. But I don’t like it.”
“I never said I liked it,” Kiva returned. “How do you think it feels to help a man who chopped up his own children and claimed he was selling pork offcuts to his local tavern when it was really human flesh?”
Jaren pulled a face. “Please tell me you’re making that up.”
Kiva jerked her thumb toward the quarantine room. “He’s in there right now, vomiting his guts up. And despite what he did, I have to do what it takes to help him survive.” She held Jaren’s gaze as she added, “For all I know, you did something similar, and I helped you without question.” She shoved the jar toward him. “I’m still helping you.”
“I can guarantee that I didn’t butcher my own family,” Jaren said, with clear disgust. “Or anyone, for that matter.”
“That still leaves a lot of options,” Kiva said, stepping away from him. “Now excuse me, but I have to go and make sure the child butcherer is still alive. And you know why?”
“Because that’s your job.”
“Now you’re getting it,” Kiva replied, before bidding him good night, sending a quick, respectful nod to the solemn-looking Naari, and then slipping through the quarantine door as Tipp and Mot stepped out, the limp weight of Liku carried between them.
Another night in Zalindov, another dead prisoner.
