by Lynette Noni
She didn’t dare look back at Jaren, not as Tipp asked for his help reconstructing the rat pen, not as Jaren quietly agreed and asked what supplies they had to work with. Kiva’s mind was racing, racing, racing, until she felt a feather-light touch on her hand and jumped, spinning to find that Naari had stepped up silently beside her.
“You all right?” the guard mouthed, as if aware that Kiva didn’t want any attention drawn to her right now.
Kiva was about to nod, but she couldn’t bring herself to lie to Naari after having spent all day with her. She instead gave an honest, quick shake of her head and held her breath, waiting to see what the guard would do. But Naari only looked between her and Jaren, then turned back with a small, compassionate smile before mouthing, “You will be.”
And Kiva believed her—mostly because she decided that, for her own peace of mind, she would act like her conversation with Jaren had never happened.
Chapter Eighteen
Kiva had intended to head back outside the prison with Naari the next morning to collect samples from the farms, but not only was the guard absent from the infirmary, something else more urgent took Kiva’s attention.
Tilda stopped breathing.
It was pure luck that Tipp happened to be walking past her bed when she started convulsing, pure luck that Kiva was checking on the quarantined patients and close enough to come running when the boy screamed for her, pure luck that she was able to resuscitate Tilda using chest compressions.
Kiva was covered head to toe in sweat by the time the woman was stable again, part from fear, and part from how hard she’d fought to keep Tilda hanging on to life. Tipp was shaking like a leaf and looked as pale as the poppymilk Kiva administered to the sick woman, hoping the drug would relax her system and keep her from slipping into another convulsion.
“What w-was that?” Tipp asked when it was finally over, his voice shrill with residual panic.
“Don’t worry, it’s normal for someone who’s been this sick for so long,” Kiva assured him, gently pushing him onto a stool before he could fall over. “I should have been watching her more carefully.”
In truth, Kiva had no idea why Tilda had just gone into cardiac arrest, because she still had no idea what the Rebel Queen was suffering from. It could have happened for the reasons she’d just told Tipp, or it could be that Tilda was slowly slipping away from them, day by day.
Don’t let her die.
There was nothing, nothing Kiva could do about Tilda’s health, other than keep her comfortable—and protect her from the imminent death of the Ordeals, the next one of which was only a day away. But Kiva couldn’t think about that right now, unable to handle the way her chest tightened and her breath shortened at the very thought of what she was soon to face. As the hours ticked by, she was sure of only one thing: there was no sign yet of her family and the rebels, no evidence that they’d received her note and were conscious that time was of the essence. More and more, it was looking like she would have to trust in the princess’s amulet to keep herself alive.
For the rest of the day, Kiva was afraid to step out of sight of Tilda, remaining close in case she had another episode. When the quarantined patients needed checking, she sent Tipp in to see to them, and when Naari finally showed up, Kiva claimed that her day was better spent testing the quarry rats with Mot rather than gallivanting around the prison for more samples. The last was true, since she did need to test the rats, but it was also an excuse to remain in the infirmary, watching over the ill woman.
When Mot arrived midmorning, Kiva explained the situation, and the ex-apothecary sat in silence for a good five minutes, chewing on his dirty thumbnail and wearing a crinkled brow. Finally, he rattled off a list of ingredients that could help speed up the incubation process, and Kiva pointed him in the direction of the medicinal garden. When he returned with laden arms, he proceeded to take over her workbench, waving her over so he could explain how to create and administer what he referred to as his Augury Elixir.
“This’ll tell yeh what yeh need to know in hours,” Mot said once he was finished, offering a smug, brown-toothed grin as they peered down at the greenish concoction.
“That’s amazing,” Kiva said to the elderly man, inhaling the sweet, floral aroma. “Thanks, Mot.”
“Yeh just let me know if yeh need anythin’ else, luv,” he replied, handing over the ladle and stretching his hunched back, the resulting cracking sounds making Kiva cringe. “These old bones can’t keep up with the dead yeh keep sendin’ my way. Best yeh figure out what this illness is before it takes us all, eh?”
“That’s the plan,” Kiva told him, just as Tipp stepped back through the quarantine door, sealing it behind him. The look on his face meant Kiva knew what he was going to say before he spoke.
“We lost a-a-another one.”
Kiva sighed. “Who?”
“A woman from the w-workrooms. I think she repairs the g-guards’ uniforms.” Tipp’s throat bobbed and he amended, “Repaired.”
Mot ran a hand over his balding head. “I’ll send someone ’round to get ’er.” He exhaled loudly. “Almost feel like I should leave someone ’ere to keep draggin’ ’em over when they drop, since it’s ’appening so often now. Did yeh know Grendel’s been asked to stoke the second furnace? Rooke made the request ’imself, so ’e must think this is enough of an epidemic to plan for extra burnin’.”
The Warden had made the right move, Kiva thought, since the last thing they needed was for the bodies to pile up in the morgue, especially if the illness was infectious. Even if it wasn’t, the dead couldn’t lie around rotting as they waited for their turn to be cremated. Best to get them out of the way and lessen the risk of other diseases beginning to spread because of mass decaying flesh.
“Tipp, can you walk Mot back to the morgue, and then head to the rats’ nest Grendel mentioned? We’ll need more for my next samples, so catch as many as you can carry,” Kiva said, thinking the young boy could use some fresh air and time away from the near-constant cloud of death over the infirmary.
His blue eyes brightened at the idea of hunting for more vermin—something that Kiva couldn’t begin to understand the thrill of, but perhaps that was because she wasn’t an eleven-year-old boy.
To Mot, Kiva gestured to the elixir and said, “Do I just mix this into their food?”
“Yeh can do that, sure, or in their water,” he said. “Or yeh can just shove it down their throats with a dropper.”
Kiva pulled a face at the contact that would require. “I think I’ll keep my distance, thanks.”
Mot laughed, a deep, wheezing sound that should have been repulsive but was instead almost comforting.
“Yeh take care of yehself, Kiva luv,” Mot said, hobbling toward the door with Tipp trailing behind him. “And best of luck tomorrow. If I were a bettin’ man, yeh’d ’ave my gold.” He paused, then added, “Yeh’ve got yehself a plan? To survive?”
Kiva’s insides tightened, a ball of tension settling like a rock in her stomach. She reached automatically for the amulet tucked beneath her tunic, its now-familiar weight offering a hint of reassurance. She still believed—still hoped—that it wouldn’t be needed. There was still time for her family to come. But if they didn’t . . .
She wished she knew what was in store for her the next day, wished she’d thought to ask the princess if she had to do anything to make the elemental magic in the amulet work, wished she didn’t have to face the Trial at all. But wishing had never done her any good before, just as she knew it wouldn’t now.
The look on Tipp’s face kept Kiva from sharing her uncertainty with Mot, and instead she croaked out, “Of course. I’m not at all worried.”
Mot squinted at her, and then looked to Tipp, who was beaming with relief at Kiva’s apparent confidence.
“I see,” the old man said. Without another word, he turned and hobbled back toward the medicinal garden, returning with yet another load and dumping it all on Kiva’s workbench.
; She watched in baffled silence as he measured, sliced, and ground his concoction, before rifling through her supplies until he found a jar of karonut oil that Tipp had spent hours painstakingly collecting. Mot poured the entire jar into his mixture, gave it a stir, and then thrust it toward Kiva.
“Let this sit overnight,” he instructed her.
Inhaling the delicious, fresh scent, Kiva asked, “What is it?”
Mot placed his wrinkled hand on her shoulder. “It’s for yer Trial, Kiva luv. To help protect yeh.” When she stiffened with shock, he gave her a gentle squeeze and nodded to the pot. “It’ll turn waxy by mornin’. Make sure yeh smear it good and proper all over yer skin, do yeh hear me? It won’t save yeh if they plan to set yeh up on a pyre, but it’ll do more than any other salve yeh can think of. Might give yeh a fightin’ chance, extra time to get free or somethin’.” He paused. “Don’t get it in yer eyes, though. It’ll sting like a bitch.”
Kiva didn’t know whether to laugh or cry—or vomit—at the thought of a pyre. It seemed as if Mot, like her, assumed it was an option she might have to face.
Surprising them both, she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him, an unprecedented display of affection from her, and enough to startle him so much that he failed to return the embrace before she stepped away again.
“Thank you, Mot,” she said, with feeling. “Truly.”
“Yeh can thank me after the Trial is over and yeh’re still alive,” he said, his ruddy cheeks slightly pink. He then turned to Tipp, who was smiling even wider than before, as if certain Mot had given Kiva a foolproof way to survive. “Come on, boy. Time’s a-wastin’.”
The two of them exited the infirmary, leaving Kiva with only her thoughts for company. Soon enough, her fears about the next day began to scream for attention. She needed a distraction, something to keep her from spiraling into panic. She had the amulet, and if the magic in it failed, she now had Mot’s protection, even if he’d warned of the mixture’s limitations. There was nothing more she could do. She needed to stop thinking about it, since that was only making it worse.
Glancing over at Tilda, Kiva made a snap decision. Aside from the guard at the door, the two of them were alone, so she walked over to the Rebel Queen’s bedside and peered down at her. She was deathly pale, even more so than when she’d first arrived, her tan having slowly faded as if all the life had leached out of her during her weeks spent in bed. Kiva again wondered how long she’d been sick before arriving, if it was a new ailment or something she’d been fighting for some time. She had so many questions, more than she’d ever be able to ask, even if Tilda were to miraculously recover.
“What are you doing here?” Kiva whispered to her. “How can I make you better?”
Tilda, of course, didn’t answer.
Kiva wondered if it was a fluke that they’d managed a semi-lucid conversation before the first Ordeal. Perhaps it had been nothing but luck and timing that she’d heard her awaken that night. She wished Tilda’s cloudy eyes would open again and that she’d say something—anything—to help Kiva remember why she was fighting so hard to keep her alive. Not that she needed the reminder, but she longed for some small comfort.
Comfort from a dying woman—a woman that Kiva was risking everything to save, and yet still failing.
Stay alive.
Don’t let her die.
We are coming.
Sighing loudly, Kiva sat beside Tilda’s bed and, being careful to remember that the guard was within hearing distance, picked up her hand, holding it gently in her own.
“If my father were here, he’d say it’s possible that you can hear everything that’s happening,” Kiva said quietly. “He’d say it’s important that you know someone is watching over you, wanting you to live.” Kiva squeezed her hand. “He’d probably tell you a story. He used to do that for me, whenever I was sick. Him, and my—and my mother.” Kiva choked on the word. Just as memories of her father pained her, so too did those of her mother, but for different reasons. Kiva knew there was nothing her mother loved more than their family. She would have done anything to protect them. Ten years ago, her youngest son had died, and her youngest daughter and husband had been carted away to Zalindov. Kiva couldn’t imagine what her mother must have gone through after that, or how she must have felt upon receiving Kiva’s note bearing news of Faran’s death. A husband and son, both gone forever. A daughter imprisoned. Half of their family, ripped apart.
Blinking back tears, Kiva refocused on Tilda, not allowing her mind to wander any further.
“I don’t know many stories. But—” She paused, bit her lip, then went on, “My father used to tell me one when we first arrived here, repeating it over and over again. The story of how he met my mother.” Kiva wasn’t sure if she could do this, not while the memories of her family were so fresh, so painful. But she also needed this—she needed the distraction. So she made herself continue, “He’d whisper it to me at night when I couldn’t sleep, and it would chase away the sounds of the other prisoners and the barking of the dogs and the noises of the guards. Do you want to hear it?”
Tilda remained silent, and since Kiva was beginning to tremble at what was coming the next day, she decided that she might as well tell the story, if only for her own sake. Once upon a time, it had helped bring her peace; perhaps it would now, too.
Closing her eyes, Kiva continued to hold Tilda’s hand as she recited, “My father was raised down south in Fellarion, while my mother was born in Lamont, way up in the north, close to the border of Mirraven. They were so far from each other that there was no reason why they ever should have met. Papa used to say it was fate that brought them together, or destiny, or—when he was feeling poetic—the alignment of the stars.” Kiva smiled, even as she used her free hand to wipe a tear from her eye. “But it was chance more than anything, since they both happened to be in Vallenia for the celebration of King Stellan and Queen Ariana’s nuptials. Papa was an apprentice healer at the time, and he couldn’t resist sneaking away to visit the most renowned apothecary in the capital. Unbeknownst to him, the store was a hot spot for thieves and pickpockets. Before Papa knew what was happening, his purse had been cut, and suddenly he was chasing the perpetrator down the streets of Vallenia, only to corner her in an alleyway and demand the return of his gold.”
Kiva continued smiling as the story played out in her mind. “That was when the thief turned around and lowered her hood, and Papa saw her properly for the first time.” Her smile widened. “He said it was love at first sight—at least on his part. I never got to ask Mama what she thought.” A lump rose in Kiva’s throat, and she held Tilda’s hand tighter, as if doing so could ease the pain inside her.
In a husky voice, Kiva went on, “Papa was so love-struck that he stood there gaping like a fool, and Mama was smart enough to take advantage. She’d been living in Vallenia for a couple of years at that point, having run away from her family in Lamont after—” Kiva halted when she realized she was getting off track, and started again. “She’d been in the capital for long enough to know those streets well, so it was easy for her to get past my dullard father, then disappear into the crowd. Papa was devastated—not for his coin purse, but for the greater treasure he was certain he’d just let slip through his fingers.”
Kiva was smiling once again as she continued, “He searched for her, and asked everyone he could think of, but none of his reputable acquaintances knew how to find a thief. So in an act of desperation, Papa headed to the docks in the dead of night, aware that it was a hive for criminal activity, especially after dark.” She shook her head. “As an affluent young man who was clearly visiting from out of town and wandering around in a bad neighborhood, he was asking for trouble. Sure enough, he was attacked and left for dead. But luckily for him, my mother had been watching from a distance after stealing his gold, waiting for him to replenish his coin, since he’d already proved to be such an easy mark. Instead of stealing more from him, she ended up saving his life.”
But, Papa, the endings are the best part.
Sometimes, sweetheart. But other times, the beginnings are.
Kiva released Tilda’s hand so she could use both of hers to wipe her cheeks. She didn’t know why she was hearing her father’s voice so much lately, why the memories were coming to her so often. It was both painful and soothing, like part of him was still with her, a reminder that she wasn’t alone.
“So,” Kiva said in an overbright tone, standing to her feet. “That’s how my mother and father met.” Looking down at the ill woman, she went on, “I hope that wherever your mind is right now, you can hear me. I hope that you dream about that story and the love they shared, and I hope it reminds you that there are so many reasons for you to fight whatever ails you, but the biggest one is that there are people out here who love you and need you to wake up. People who you love in return. So if you can’t do it for yourself, do it for them.” Kiva leaned in closer and whispered into her ear, “Fight, Tilda. You’re stronger than this. And they’re coming for you.”
Then she straightened and walked back over to her workbench to clean up the mess she and Mot had made, ready to dose the rats with the elixir and begin mentally preparing for the next day. Her father’s story had done what she’d needed—brought peace to her soul. And her words to Tilda were just as much to herself.