by Lynette Noni
It was Naari who answered as Kiva drew the rags away, revealing the woman’s features.
“It’s believed that she’s Tilda Corentine,” the guard said. “The Rebel Queen.”
Kiva’s heart stopped as she stared down at the middle-aged woman.
Straight nose, thick lashes, dark hair and brows. Her tanned skin had an unhealthy tinge to it, and when her eyes opened for a brief second before fluttering shut again, they were milky white. The woman was blind, and, with her both shivering and sweating at once, it was clear that she was very ill.
All of this Kiva took in within the space of half a breath, because that was how long it took for the shock to hit her.
“King Stellan and Queen Ariana want to make an example out of her,” Naari went on, “especially since she was captured while recruiting more followers in Mirraven, and Evalon doesn’t have an extradition treaty with them, given the tenuous relationship between our two kingdoms. The best the king and queen could do was petition to have her sent here, where justice could be served, even if it meant they couldn’t interrogate her beforehand.” Naari looked at the sick woman. “Though . . . in this state, I doubt she would have been able to reveal anything, even if they’d been able to intercept her before arrival.”
Kiva was having trouble drawing air into her lungs. This blind, sick woman—the most wanted person in Evalon—was now in Kiva’s care. The Rebel Queen. And not only that, but—
“W-What’s this?”
Tipp’s voice drew Kiva back from her panicked thoughts. She spun to find him plucking something from the ground—a small scrap of parchment.
“I think it f-fell out of her blanket when they m-moved her off the stretcher,” he said, unfolding the parchment and squinting at it. He turned it on its side, then upside down, and a sinking feeling hit Kiva’s stomach.
“Let me see,” she said, her voice croaking slightly in the middle.
“It’s nothing. Just some d-doodles,” Tipp decided, but he handed it over as requested.
Kiva’s heart rate skyrocketed as she saw the familiar coded symbols and translated what they said.
The message was clear:
Don’t let her die.
We are coming.
Kiva’s breath caught as those final three words repeated in her mind.
We are coming. We are coming. We are coming.
No longer a vague promise of one day, but imminent.
Her family was coming. Finally, after waiting so long, they were coming. For Kiva—but also for Tilda.
They were coming for the Rebel Queen.
Kiva swore inwardly. The woman might very well not last the night, and even if she did . . .
For ten years, Kiva had followed her coded orders. But for the first time ever, she had no idea how to do what she was told. Because even if she could save Tilda from her illness, there was no way to keep her from her fate.
Her death was coming, one way or another. And there was nothing Kiva could do about it.
Chapter Eight
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, meetin
g 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.