Chapter Ten #2
Kiva didn’t sleep a wink that night, praying Tilda would make a miraculous recovery, and that she would then have some way of surviving the Trial by Air.
As Kiva had told Tipp, the first task wasn’t always impossible to overcome, more often used to tease the offender into believing they stood a chance at survival, which ultimately proved in vain once they reached the second, third, or fourth Ordeals.
And yet, even if the difficulty level was lowered for the first, it would still be a challenge for any able-bodied person, which Tilda currently was not.
Don’t let her die.
The first four coded words from her sister’s note kept swimming across Kiva’s thoughts, the order, the demand. And then there was Cresta’s threat, her hissing voice repeating over and over: Save the Rebel Queen, and you save the boy. If she dies, he dies.
Kiva’s mind was a battleground.
Don’t let her die ... If she dies, he dies ... Don’t let her die ... If she dies, he dies.
Kiva had no idea what to do, no idea how to save Tilda, how to save Tipp. There was only one way she could think of that might work, but ... the risk ... and the cost ...
Don’t let her die.
If she dies, he dies.
When Naari arrived at the infirmary just before midday, her face grim, Kiva’s stomach was in knots.
“It’s time,” Naari said.
“B-But ... she’s still so sick,” Tipp said, his fingers closed around Tilda’s limp arm, as if to comfort the woman.
Tilda was awake, but she wasn’t coherent. She was mumbling to herself and staring out at nothing, her body twitching with a muscle spasm every few seconds.
“I have my orders,” Naari said, unapologetically. “Prince Deverick and Princess Mirryn have arrived, and they don’t intend to stay longer than they have to.”
Kiva fought against rolling her eyes. What a shame it would be for the royals to have to spend any amount of time in this hellhole.
Everworld forbid they saw what really happened behind the walls: the fatal work, the vicious guards, the poor conditions.
The moment they left this place, they’d be headed straight back to their winter palace, giving no further thought to the prisoners and their daily challenges.
And why should they? Kiva mused scornfully. As far as the royals were concerned, everyone in Zalindov was guilty and deserved to be there.
“Can she walk?” Naari asked.
Kiva didn’t want to answer, but the look Naari sent her was clear: today Naari was a Zalindov guard, just like all the others. There would be no yielding, no compassion.
“Yes,” Kiva said, hoarsely. “But she needs help. And she has no idea what’s happening.”
Naari’s jaw tightened, the slightest hint of how she felt about this, but she still nodded. “Get her up. The rest of the guards are assembling the prisoners in the eastern quad.” She paused. “Be prepared, they’ve called everyone in from their work assignments.”
“Guess the r-royals want an audience,” Tipp said, his young face pale.
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.”