by Lynette Noni
Kiva, however, was stuck on Naari’s mention of the eastern quad. Not only was it the furthest point inside the grounds from the infirmary, but it was also where the gallows stood. Was that what they had in store for Tilda? Was she to be hanged for the Trial by Air, to see if she could survive a broken neck, or the more likely death by suffocation?
Surely not. No one survived the gallows. Prisoners were hung every week, and all of them ended up in the morgue. There was no way that Tilda would—
“We need to move,” Naari said as three more guards appeared at the door to the infirmary, waiting to escort them. “Now.”
Feeling numb, Kiva loosened Tilda’s shackles and the strap over her chest. She wished the woman would fight as she had a week ago, revealing that some kind of spirit remained in her. But there was nothing, just more muttering under her breath and twitching as Kiva and Tipp slung her arms over their shoulders and followed Naari and her fellow guards from the infirmary.
Kiva hadn’t carved Tilda’s left hand. She hadn’t had the heart to do so, not with the woman so ill. That meant Tilda was the only prisoner at Zalindov without a Z scarred into her flesh. She hadn’t even been given a metal identification band, and yet everyone knew exactly who she was. The rumor mill had spiraled in the time since Cresta had confronted Kiva in the shower block, with it now public knowledge that the Rebel Queen was among them. Whispers were circulating around the prison, some resentful, some reverent. The unsettled atmosphere concerned Kiva, the energy in the air similar to what she’d felt in the past before the inmates were tipped over the edge and into another riot. That was the last thing she needed, on top of everything else.
As they dragged the ill woman across the grounds, Kiva’s mind kept traveling back to Tilda’s left hand. Should Kiva have carved her flesh? What if one of the guards noticed she was unscarred? If the Rebel Queen died today without bearing Zalindov’s symbol, was she really a prisoner, or was she still free?
Kiva realized from her scattered thoughts that she was panicking, and made herself inhale deeply. It didn’t help that the closer they stepped to the end of their walk, the more prisoners they had to wade through. Their murmurs grew in volume, at first like the buzzing of insects, but by the time the quad came into view, Kiva could barely hear her own mind. If not for Naari and the three guards pushing the masses aside, they wouldn’t have made it through the crowd at all. It seemed like Zalindov’s entire population was waiting in anticipation for what was coming.
When the gallows rose up before them, Kiva’s stomach lurched so violently that she feared she might vomit. But when she made herself look closer, she saw that there was no noose dangling from the beam, no hangman waiting beside the lever.
What she did see, however, was a small group of people standing atop the platform, safely out of reach from the prisoners below. The Warden was there, his back straight and head high as he stared emotionlessly out at the crowd. No other prison guards accompanied him; instead, there was the unmistakable armor of the Royal Guard glinting silver in the midday sun, the kingdom’s deadliest protectors encircling two distinct figures. They were both dressed in heavy winter cloaks that covered them from head to toe, and from their bearing alone, it was clear they did not belong in a place like Zalindov.
Kiva tried to get a look at their faces, but not only were they surrounded by their guards, they were also wearing masks. She’d heard rumors that the Vallentis heirs concealed their faces during public events, and she wondered if it was a power play of some kind, another way of highlighting just how out of reach they were from commoners. Because of those masks, all Kiva could tell was that the crown prince was taller than his sister, and both of them had fair hair.
Looking at them and their guards, Kiva felt both hot and cold at once. She was shaking, but whether that was from fear for Tilda or outrage at this entire spectacle, she wasn’t sure. All she knew was that they were steps away from the base of the gallows, where Tilda would have to face her first Ordeal—and her almost certain demise.
Don’t let her die.
If she dies, he dies.
Kiva gritted her teeth, sweat beading on her brow despite the icy wind.
Don’t let her die.
If she dies, he dies.
Kiva couldn’t stop the Trial, couldn’t save Tilda from what would happen the moment she climbed those gallows steps, couldn’t save Tipp, couldn’t save herself.
Three lives hung in the balance, all because of one woman.
Don’t.
Let.
Her.
Die.
Kiva closed her eyes, her heart thumping in her ears, drowning out the jeers of the crowd.
She knew what she had to do.
Nausea swirled within her as she snapped her eyes open, frantically searching for a familiar face among the sea of prisoners. Mot was nowhere to be seen, nor were Olisha and Nergal. Desperate, her gaze landed on Jaren standing with the rest of the tunnelers near the foot of the gallows, his features so covered in dust that he was almost unrecognizable.
“Jaren!” Kiva screamed over the catcalling masses, ignoring the warning glare Naari shot back at her. “Jaren!”
He looked puzzled by her summons, almost alarmed, his eyes flicking up to the royals and their guards as if fearing their attention.
“What are you d-doing?” Tipp yelled at her from Tilda’s other side, barely audible over the cries and shouts from the prisoners pressing in on them.
She ignored him and slowed their pace, relief and dread coursing through her when Jaren started wading his way through the horde, reaching them mere paces from the gallows steps.
“Stay here,” Kiva ordered both him and Tipp, unwrapping Tilda’s arm from around her neck and unceremoniously swapping places with Jaren, leaving him to help support the sick woman. Without a word of explanation, she forced her way through what remained of the near-suffocating crowd and bounded straight past Naari and the three-guard escort, taking the steps two at a time until she stood at the top of the wooden platform.
Immediately, five sword tips were pointed at Kiva as the Royal Guard leapt into action. Conversely, Warden Rooke became as still as a statue, his diamond-shaped scar almost hidden by how far his eyes had widened upon her appearance.
The audience hushed in an instant.
“Who are you, girl?” the closest guard demanded. “Where’s the Rebel Queen?”
Don’t let her die.
Drawing in a wobbly breath, Kiva straightened her shoulders and looked beyond the guards to the masked prince and princess, declaring in a loud voice the only words that could keep Tilda alive.
“My name is Kiva Meridan, and I claim her sentence as my own.”
Chapter Eleven
A deafening quiet fell when Kiva uttered her words, but it was quickly followed by an uproar from the gathered crowd, the wave of sound so loud that she staggered on the platform.
“SILENCE!”
The amplified roar came from the guard nearest to the prince and princess. Where the other Royal Guards had an emblem over their hearts etched in a darker shade of silver, his was engraved in gold: four quadrants representing elemental magic—earth, fire, water, and air—behind a sword crossed with an arrow and topped with a crown.
The Vallentis family crest.
“Let her through,” ordered the man with the gold emblem—the Captain of the Royal Guard, Kiva realized. Her knees nearly gave out.
The guards lowered their swords, and she stepped forward on shaking legs, her heart galloping in her chest. They didn’t stand down completely, their stance warning of immediate action should she make the slightest wrong move.
It felt like an eternity passed as Kiva made her way to the center of the platform. She didn’t dare make eye contact with the still-frozen Warden, nor did she look up at the hangman’s beam rising into the air above her. She tried to remind herself that the first Ordeal was the easiest, and offenders could—and did—live through it. She refused to think beyond that,
to consider the repercussions of her hasty actions or wonder what the later Trials might bring. The chances of surviving even this one . . . Kiva knew she might have just signed away her own life, all to spare Tilda’s.
Don’t let her die.
In that moment, Kiva hated her sister, hated Cresta, hated Warden Rooke and the Vallentis family and even the Mirraven rulers who had sent Tilda to Zalindov to begin with.
And yet Kiva had made her own choice. And she would live—or die—with the consequences.
When she was only feet away from the captain, he shifted, the movement slight but enough for her to know to come no closer.
Kiva made herself look at him, taking in his salt-and-pepper hair and his trimmed mustache leading to a short, neat beard. His weathered features suggested he wasn’t just a figurehead of the Royal Guard, but that he had seen action, and plenty of it.
As if Kiva didn’t already know.
It’s all right. Everything will be all right.
Her father’s voice slammed into her, tearing open her heart, causing her breath to hitch. But she shoved the memory away, needing to give her full attention to the man before her while offering no indication that she knew who he was, that she remembered him.
The captain’s brown eyes locked with hers as he said, “Explain yourself, Kiva Meridan.”
Just hearing her name in his gravelly voice had her struggling to keep from bolting off the platform and disappearing into the watching crowd. But she couldn’t do that—she wouldn’t do that. She’d made her decision, and now she would see it through.
“As I said, Captain,” Kiva said in a clear voice, relieved when it didn’t reveal her inner turmoil, “I claim the Rebel Queen’s sentence as my own.”
“And what gives you the right to do that?” he countered, arching a dark gray eyebrow.
Kiva was aware of how many eyes were on her, the collective audience straining to hear her words—prisoners, guards, royals. She could feel the Warden’s gaze, burning in its intensity. Somewhere in the crowd, Cresta and her rebels were watching. Jaren and Tipp and Naari were watching. Everyone was watching.
Sweat trickled down Kiva’s spine, while goose bumps pricked her chilled skin.
Praying that she recalled the correct wording and the whispers she’d heard about it were accurate, Kiva declared, “The fifth rule of the Trial by Ordeal, as written in the Book of the Law, states that, ‘Should another claim the accused’s sentence as their own, then he or she shall face the Trials as the accused’s Champion.’” Kiva held the captain’s eyes, noting the look of surprise—perhaps even respect—on his face. It made her more confident that what she’d said was true, enough that she continued, “I’ve made my claim. By the laws you uphold, I’m hereby Tilda Corentine’s Champion.”
A sudden bark of laughter had Kiva’s neck swiveling toward the royals.
“I like her,” the crown prince said, amusement clear in his voice even if the mask hid his expression. “She’s got spirit.”
“She’s got a death wish,” the princess countered, though she too seemed entertained.
Kiva burned with resentment toward them both, and swiftly turned back to the captain. But not before seeing the stormy look on Warden Rooke’s face. She swallowed, realizing her interference must have inconvenienced his plans for the Rebel Queen. He’d claimed not to care whether she lived or died, but Kiva knew his life would be easier if Tilda perished in today’s Trial. Her sentence would be delivered by her failure, her execution legal in the eyes of the law. Zalindov held little regard for justice, but with all of Wenderall watching, Rooke was being careful. His dark look told Kiva one thing: if she survived the first Ordeal, she would be answering to him.
“I don’t think you understand the ramifications of your claim, girl,” the captain said, folding his massive arms over his armored chest. “The second half of that rule states that your fate will be tied to hers. If you fail to pass all four Trials, both of you die.”
A murmur rippled over the listening crowd.
“NO, KIVA! D-DON’T!”
Kiva blocked out Tipp’s cry. She was doing this not just for Tilda, but also to save Tipp’s life, and her own. She would not be swayed, even as she felt the lightheaded sensation of panic gripping her, pins and needles prickling at her fingertips, her vision blackening at the edges.
Mustering courage she did not feel, Kiva dug her fingernails into her palms, the pain helping her focus as she declared, “And if I succeed, both of us will be granted freedom.”
She saw no point in admitting how the odds were against her. Everyone already knew. But if Kiva could make it through this first task . . .
We are safe. Stay alive.
Don’t let her die.
We are coming.
We.
Are.
Coming.
Kiva had to believe this was what her sister’s note had meant: that now, after ten years, they finally were coming, ready to fulfill their promise. Especially now that Tilda was here—an added incentive for her followers to risk making a move against Zalindov, freeing Kiva in the process. That was what Cresta’s threat had implied: that a rescue attempt was in motion.
The Meridan family—Kiva’s family—had a complicated history with the rebels. Young as she’d been when she was taken from them, she still remembered. Her parents had tried to stay removed from the political unrest growing within Evalon, their little village tucked away at the base of the Armine Mountains, largely forgotten by outsiders. But things had changed in the ten years since Kiva had been imprisoned. Just as she had done what was needed to survive, so, too, it seemed, had her family.
Maybe . . . just maybe . . . if she could live through the first Trial . . . if she could buy Tilda more time, long enough to keep Cresta off her back, for the rebels to come, for Kiva’s family to come . . .
Maybe she would finally see her freedom.
Don’t let her die.
We are coming.
The princess stepped forward, her fur-lined red cloak rustling with the movement, pulling Kiva from her hopeful—if desperate—thoughts.
“Why risk your life?” Princess Mirryn eyed Kiva from behind her mask. “Why make such a claim, knowing that it can only have one outcome?”
Kiva didn’t waste her breath arguing that there could be a second outcome—that she could live. Instead, she simply said, “The woman you’ve sentenced is deathly ill, unable to stand on her own, let alone attempt today’s Ordeal. You’ve traveled a long way to be entertained, Princess. Rather than ask my reasons, why don’t you just sit back and enjoy the show, as intended?”
Unlike the prince, whose golden mask fully hid his expression, the princess’s mask was like melted silver, flowing from one half of her face diagonally to the other. As such, her red lips were visible enough to be seen twisting into a smirk moments before she stated, “Definitely a death wish.”
And then Kiva was shooting into the air.
One moment, her feet were on the wooden gallows platform; the next, there was nothing beneath her, nothing holding her as she flew upward, yanked by an invisible chain. The bitter wind slapped at her face, her breath catching in her lungs and trapping a scream in her throat. She had barely seconds to wonder what was happening—was this the Ordeal? What was she supposed to do? How was she to survive?—before her upward momentum halted and she came crashing down again.
Sheer terror took hold in the single second that passed before her feet slammed into a solid surface, her body crumpling into a pile when her legs were unable to hold her weight.
She wasn’t dead.
But she wasn’t safely on the ground, either.
Instead, as Kiva rose, dread coiled within her when she realized that she was atop one of the freestanding watchtowers that overlooked the eastern quad, perpendicular to the outer wall.
She was so high. So high.
A thump behind her had Kiva whirling to find the Captain of the Royal Guard landing nimbly mere paces away, having a
lso been delivered by the princess’s elemental magic.
“Be thankful Princess Mirryn didn’t drop you from much higher, or you wouldn’t be standing right now,” the captain said, noting Kiva’s full-body trembles.
Kiva feared she was going to be sick. She hoped that, if her dignity fled in such a manner, she could at least ruin the captain’s polished boots in the process.
“The prince and princess have agreed to accept your claim, transferring Tilda Corentine’s sentence to you, as per rule five in the Book of the Law,” the captain continued. His gaze was steady on her when he added, “If the reports of her ill health are true, you’re sacrificing your life for no reason. So I’m giving you one last chance to rescind your claim.”
Kiva said nothing, partly because she was afraid that if she opened her mouth, she would do exactly what the captain had offered. But, she reminded herself, all she had to do was take the Trials one step at a time. She could do this. She would do this.
Don’t let her die.
This was the only way Kiva knew how to keep the Rebel Queen alive. If—when—Kiva survived the Trial by Air, then Tilda would have more time to recover, and Kiva would have bought more time for the rebels to come for her—for both of them.
But . . . if Kiva did die today . . . the dead didn’t suffer the censure of the living. Tilda’s fate would no longer be her responsibility.
“So be it,” the captain said when she remained silent, though he seemed displeased. Kiva wondered if he knew who she was, if he remembered her, but then she realized he would be treating her much differently if that were true.
It’s all right. Everything will be all right.
Kiva breathed deeply through her nose and forced the memory away again.
“Kiva Meridan,” called the amplified voice of the crown prince, prompting both her and the captain to look down from the watchtower balcony. “You have volunteered to undertake the Trial by Ordeal in place of the accused Rebel Queen. Today you shall face the Trial by Air. Do you have any last words?”
Kiva had many, none of which would allow her to live if she managed to survive the Trial, so she held her tongue and shook her head. She didn’t dare look toward where she’d last seen Tipp, Jaren, Tilda, and Naari, nor did she look for Mot or any other familiar faces in the crowd, lest she lose her nerve.