Chapter Thirteen #3
Jaren, to his credit, didn’t fight her silent communication. His lips tightened, and his expression intensified, as if willing her not to even consider her own demise, but when she continued looking at him calmly, pointedly, he blew out a breath and gave a terse nod of acceptance. Of agreement.
Feeling slightly unsettled that they’d just had a conversation without words, Kiva tore her eyes from him and leaned forward to place the back of her hand on Tilda’s brow. Her fever hadn’t returned, but she was restless, moaning in her sleep.
“Any change today?” she asked, unable to keep from transitioning back into healer mode.
“Not with h-her,” Tipp said. There was a hesitant note to his voice, and Kiva glanced up at him as he continued, “but the p-patients with the stomach v-virus are getting worse. And it’s still spreading. The guards d-d-dragged in three more while you were sleeping.”
Sleeping was a very kind word for Kiva’s state of unconsciousness. She turned toward the quarantine door, wondering if she had the strength to go and check on the sick prisoners herself.
“Don’t even think about it.”
Kiva swiveled back to Jaren, noting his set features, and she pulled a face.
“Scrunch your nose at me all you want, but you’re going straight back to bed,” he told her.
True to his threat, he wrapped his arm around her again and gently eased her up to her feet. This time she bit her tongue to keep from moaning, but the look Jaren sent her made it clear that he knew she was muting her pain.
The shuffle back to her pallet was more agonizing than she remembered the walk to Tilda being, and while she would never admit it, Jaren was right—there was no way she’d be able to stand long enough to look in on the sick patients.
“Thank you,” she made herself say quietly once she was settled again. Her whole body was throbbing, but she continued to give no outward indication. Even so, she was hyperaware that she must look as terrible as she felt.
Jaren nodded, then strode away, heading toward the wooden cabinet at the end of the workbench on the far side of the room.
Kiva shared a puzzled glance with Tipp, who shrugged and fluffed her pillow behind her back.
Neither had to wait long before Jaren returned to them, a stone tumbler in his hands.
“Drink,” he said, passing it to Kiva.
She blinked stupidly down at the white liquid. “You ... got me ... poppymilk.”
She didn’t phrase it as a question, but surprise caused her voice to trill upward at the end of her broken statement.
“Drink,” Jaren said again. “It’ll help.”
“But ... you don’t ...” she trailed off, looking at him and trying to understand.
His mouth twitched at the edges, and he shook his head as if finding her reaction amusing. “Just because I don’t like to take it doesn’t mean others shouldn’t. You said it yourself—you fell fifty feet today. If ever someone needs to be drugged, it’s you.”
The dose he’d poured her was more than what Mirryn had given—half a tumbler’s worth. Definitely enough to knock her out.
Frowning slightly, Kiva said, “I—”
“Just drink it, Kiva,” Jaren said, albeit gently. He placed his hand over her free one, the calluses on his palm rough against her flesh, yet oddly comforting. They were the proof that he was surviving the tunnels, that he hadn’t given up, unlike so many others. “You need to rest.”
“Olisha and Nergal will b-be here soon,” Tipp said. “I’ll m-make sure they know about the new p-patients and promise to look after them. Sleep, Kiva. They c-can survive a night without you.”
The young boy leaned over and kissed her on the forehead, before pointedly tapping his finger against her hand holding the tumbler.
Tipp had never shied away from affection before, but the forehead kiss was something new. Blinking back tears at the tender gesture, Kiva raised the poppymilk and swallowed it down, handing the empty tumbler to Jaren.
“I’m sure I’ll be back on my feet tomorrow,” she told them, yawning as the drug began to take effect.
“And then we c-can figure out how to get you through the next Ordeal,” Tipp said, tucking her in.
Kiva didn’t reply, only snuggled deeper into her bed, relieved when she felt the cool metal of the amulet still hidden beneath the blanket. If Princess Mirryn was to be believed, Kiva didn’t have to worry about the next Ordeal. But the two after that ...
Not for the first time, Kiva wondered what she had been thinking, taking Tilda’s place.
She prayed that she was right about the coming rescue, but even if she was wrong .
.. as her eyes closed and the poppymilk pulled her under, she still couldn’t bring herself to regret her actions.
Not with the memory of Tipp’s forehead kiss on her brow.
“Sweet dreams, Kiva,” Jaren’s whisper came as if from far away. A squeeze of his hand made her realize he was still holding hers, and that was the last she felt, the last she heard, before she drifted off into blissful sleep.
It was the dead of night when Kiva awoke next, sitting up with a startled squeak when she saw the shadow standing over her. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the low light of the infirmary, and when they did, her trepidation only increased when she recognized the looming figure.
“What in the name of the gods were you thinking?” Warden Rooke demanded, his hands fisted on his hips, his dark eyes flashing.
“I—”
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” he spat. “Any idea how reckless, how foolish —”
“Cresta was going to kill Tipp,” Kiva interrupted, unwilling to let Rooke talk down to her. Not while the poppymilk was still in her system, giving her a hearty dose of courage.
“So?” Rooke threw out his arms. “He’s just one boy. Let him die.”
The thought made Kiva’s blood turn cold. “He’s important to me.”
“Then you’re a fool,” Rooke said, pointing a finger at her. “Because what happens now? Even if you survive all the Trials, which you won’t, what then? You’ll leave, and Tipp—”
“Will come with me.”
That brought the Warden up short. He leaned back on his heels, squinting down at her. “I beg your pardon?”
Kiva licked her lips, hoping she could pull this off. She wished her mind was less muddled from the medicine, and yet was simultaneously grateful for how bold it was making her. Never before had she felt so fearless in the Warden’s presence.
“You told me that Tipp could leave Zalindov if he had a guardian on the outside to collect him,” she said. “If I survive the Trials and go free, I’ll be his guardian. He’ll leave with me.”
The Warden said nothing for a long moment. Kiva shuffled painfully higher in her bed, her hands turning clammy as she waited for his answer.
Finally, he spoke. “You have to survive the Trials for that to happen.”
Kiva wanted to smile, to laugh, to get up and dance in celebration.
Rooke didn’t argue— couldn’t argue, since she’d used his own words against him.
But still, she’d worried about him finding a loophole, some way of denying her claim.
Instead, he’d only brought up the likelihood of her failure. That she could handle.
“I’ve beaten the odds before,” Kiva replied. “Ten years in here, and I’m still alive. That has to count for something.” She recalled what Mirryn had said about her being a survivor, how it was Rooke who had told the princess as much in the first place.
“You’re alive because I’ve protected you,” Warden Rooke hissed, the anger returning to his face. “You’re alive because your father saved my life, and in return, I promised I would keep an eye on you. How else do you think you’ve lasted so long?”
Kiva recoiled at the mention of her father, but couldn’t keep from answering, somewhat bitterly, “Because people know I’m your informant, and since no one trusts me and everyone hates me, they leave me alone.”
“Wrong,” Rooke gritted through his teeth. Kiva had never seen so much emotion from the normally stoic man. “It’s because everyone in here—inmates and guards—knows that if they lay a hand on you, they have to answer to me.”
Kiva nearly snorted. She’d been mistreated too many times to count over the years, especially by the guards.
And then there was Cresta and her threat against Tipp, something the Warden didn’t care a whit about.
So much for the protection he claimed was upon her.
Her perceived allegiance to him had brought Kiva nothing but trouble, along with the constant anxiety of having to deliver enough information to remain useful to him.
But ... he was right in that nothing truly awful had ever happened to her, unlike what many of the other prisoners had endured, especially at the hands of the guards.
She’d suspected that Rooke’s attentiveness acted like a warning to them, she’d just never considered if it was because he’d wanted to protect her, that he was repaying the debt he owed her father for saving him from a near-lethal case of sepsis almost a decade ago.
Perhaps Rooke did care about her, in his own unconventional way.
The thought sat strangely within her, as if she couldn’t reconcile the idea of him keeping her alive while at the same time frequently threatening her with death.
“You couldn’t have just let it lie, could you?
” Rooke finally said when Kiva remained silent.
He sounded weary now, the anger bleeding from his voice.
“If you hadn’t interfered, Tilda Corentine would have died today, and life would have gone back to normal.
No more royal orders, no more sending updates about her condition or answering demands about whether she’s cognizant enough to communicate. ”
Kiva bit her tongue to keep in a sarcastic reply about inconveniencing him.
“Thanks to you, we have to see out the rest of the Trials,” Rooke continued. “Or as many as you can survive.” His brow furrowed. “And when you fail—and you will fail, Kiva—you’ll be leaving me without a competent prison healer.”
“You have Olisha and Nergal,” Kiva said, though her throat was tight at how easily he dismissed the thought of her surviving.
Care was evidently too strong a word for what he felt toward her, unconventional or not.
She was just a tool to him. A healer, an informant.
“And you’ve told me before—many times—that you can easily find a replacement for me. ”
Rooke ran a hand over his short hair and ignored the accusation in her words. “You made a grave mistake today. I’ve done all I can for you. I can’t help you with these Ordeals—you’re on your own now.”
Kiva had been on her own for nearly ten years, even with his supposed protection. She could survive another six weeks—or less, if her family arrived in time.
The Warden spun on his heel and strode away from her. Only when he reached the door to the infirmary did he pause near the guard on duty and turn back to offer his parting shot.
“Your father would be so disappointed in you.”
And then he was gone, leaving Kiva with eight words that repeated through her mind, over and over, until the poppymilk began to pull her back under once more.
As her eyes drifted shut, she couldn’t help thinking that the Warden was wrong. Her father would have been the first person to encourage her to save a life. Her mother, on the other hand ... Her mother would have had strong words about Kiva’s actions today.
But neither of them had been able to stop her.
And so, Kiva would just have to live with the consequences.
Or die from them.