Chapter Eight #3
“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.