by Lynette Noni
“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 ju
mped 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.
Chapter Nine
Olisha and Nergal were late, as always, but they finally arrived in the infirmary close to midnight, ready to relieve Kiva. Yawning, she instructed them to keep checking on the quarantined patients, and explained why Tilda was in shackles, asking them to come and get her if the woman regained consciousness.
Stumbling back to her cell block, Kiva shivered against the crisp winter air and reveled in the peacefulness of the prison at night. Aside from the watchtower guards using their roaming luminium beacons, her path was almost entirely dark, lit only by the overhead moonlight. Once, the walk had petrified her. Now she was used to it, finding comfort in the isolated stillness after the long day she’d endured. But even so, she picked up her pace, desperate for a quick shower so she could fall into bed and sleep away her worries.
Arriving at cell block seven, Kiva slipped inside and hurried straight toward the bathing chambers at the far end. Her cellmates were snoring as she passed them, pallet after pallet of exhausted prisoners, many of them trembling under their thin blankets.
The shower block was empty, as it almost always was by the time Kiva arrived. She didn’t tarry, stripping quickly and gritting her teeth in preparation for the icy water. A gasp left her at the frigid sting of it touching her flesh, but no sooner had she stepped into the spray than she was yanked out again, her head snapping back from a vicious tug to her hair, a hand slapping over her mouth and dragging her out from under the water, her naked body slipping and sliding on the limestone floor.
Kiva screamed, but the sound was muffled by the hand at her mouth, the one in her hair moving to snake around her stomach, squeezing tight enough that the air was forced from her lungs.
“Shut it, healer whore,” a cold voice hissed into her ear. “Scream again, and you’ll regret it.”
Kiva stopped struggling, recognizing the voice. The moment she did, the arms released her, and Kiva stumbled away from her captor—Cresta, the leader of the prison rebels.
“Uh-uh, not so fast,” Cresta said, her tone threatening enough to halt Kiva in her tracks. “You and I need to have a chat.”
Trembling all over—and not just from the cold water pebbling her skin—Kiva straightened to her full height. Heedless of her nakedness, she placed her hands on her hips and demanded, “What the hell do
you think you’re doing?”
Cresta tossed her red hair over her shoulder, the matted twists no longer hiding the full outline of the serpent tattoo coiling down the left side of her face. “I told you, we need to talk.”
Kiva weighed up her options before realizing she had none. Cresta was a quarrier, one of the rare exceptions who had arrived as a teenager and lived longer than anticipated, having survived Zalindov for five years so far. With arms as thick as Kiva’s thighs and the rest of her body rippling with muscle, the young woman was built like a bull—and she acted like one, too. Other prisoners might be too exhausted to cause much trouble, but Cresta reveled in it, actively going out of her way to whisper rumors and start fights. Almost all of the riots that had transpired in the last five years had been incited by her, though she was smart enough to make sure someone else always took the blame. Just as she was smart enough to keep from being outed as the leader of Zalindov’s rebels. While it was assumed she held that position, there was no evidence, nothing the guards could act on.
Warden Rooke needed information. If Kiva played her cards right, maybe Cresta would slip up and give something away, something Kiva could use to continue proving her worth as an informant.
“Talk about what?” Kiva asked, her trembles turning to full-body shakes in the freezing air.
“For pity’s sake, put your clothes on,” Cresta said, sneering. “I don’t need to see”—she waved her hand and pulled a face—“all that.”
Kiva bit her tongue to keep from pointing out that Cresta could have wrestled her before she’d entered the shower, or even after she was done, but she didn’t want to risk angering the woman. If it came to a physical fight, Cresta would win, with ease.
Quickly dressing, Kiva felt only slightly more comfortable as she turned back to the quarrier. She opened her mouth to demand an answer, but Cresta beat her to it.
“Word around the prison is that the Rebel Queen is here, and that she’s sick.”
Kiva said nothing, unsurprised that Cresta knew. She had almost as many spies as the Warden.