Chapter Nineteen #2
That night, Kiva left the infirmary, her eyes bleary from spending the late afternoon hours writing down everything she could think of about the illness.
Her hand ached, her fingers still twitching from how vigorously she’d worked them, but she was satisfied that if she were to suddenly leave Zalindov—or die—then someone would be able to take up her research.
She wished her father had thought to document his findings, or even Thessa before him, but there was nothing.
Kiva had checked every inch of the infirmary, and the only parchment she’d found was her predecessor’s secret recipe for a more potent version of angeldust. Fury had simmered within her at the discovery, since his job had been to help prisoners, not turn them into addicts.
She hoped he was rotting in the everworld, reaping what he’d sowed.
Muttering under her breath about the abysmal nature of humankind, Kiva entered the refectory, a large building filled with long wooden tables, most of which were currently populated by hungry, tired prisoners being served by other hungry, tired prisoners.
Lately, Tipp had been bringing her rations directly to the infirmary, but tonight she wanted to be among the other inmates, partly to remember what it was like to be around living, breathing people, but also to get a read on the prison atmosphere and a sense of whether they were at risk of another riot breaking out.
Usually it was Cresta and her rebels who incited the violence, but not always.
Sometimes it was something small that built into something larger; other times there was no reason at all.
Without a proven formula, Kiva was apprehensive about the coming days, especially with the Trials throwing in a new, unknown element that could cause further unrest—or ease it.
Most of Zalindov’s inmates had no stake in whether Tilda lived or died.
Only a small percentage of prisoners were rebels, and they alone would care whether Kiva survived the Ordeals, if only for the sake of their queen.
But the rest of the populace ... Were they excited for tomorrow’s Trial, or were they frustrated by the interruption to their routines?
Were they jealous that they didn’t have their own chance at freedom?
Were they resentful toward Kiva for volunteering in Tilda’s place?
Did they want her to succeed, or did they want her to fail?
Did they even care? And if they did—or didn’t—care, was that enough to stir them into a frenzy that could turn deadly?
Because that was what happened in the riots: people died.
Kiva didn’t have any of the answers, but she hoped that by being around some of her fellow prisoners, she might be afforded some insight.
She’d barely walked halfway along one of the long tables before the hushed conversations made her realize things were worse than she’d feared—but not because of the Trials.
“... more and more friends gettin’ sick ...”
“... heard the Rebel Queen is shacking up with the Warden ...”
“... dozens dyin’ every day ...”
“... Corentine bitch will get what’s coming to her ...”
“... hasn’t come out of quarantine ...”
“... snuff out that so-called queen in her sleep ...”
“... a tickle in my throat, do you think it could be ...”
“... healer whore’s doin’ nothin’ ...”
The last made Kiva’s feet slow, and she couldn’t help but listen closer.
While alarmed by the anger she sensed toward Tilda, she was also unsurprised.
If what the Warden and Jaren had said was true, the rebels had caused a lot of damage in their quest to reclaim Evalon, and hurt a number of people along the way.
It was almost a boon that the Rebel Queen was so ill, since at least she was safe within the bounds of the infirmary, protected from the wrath of her enemies inside the prison.
With her being watched around the clock, any anti-rebels eager to hasten her demise would only be courting their own deaths.
For now, Kiva was more concerned by the whispers about the sickness—and the newest conversation she was overhearing, specifically about her .
“Why would she do somethin’?” replied another man, with only the back of his bald head visible. “She’s too busy spreadin’ her legs for the guards, ain’t she? Havin’ too much fun to be bothered keepin’ the rest of us alive, am I right?”
A guffaw came from his companion as flames spread across Kiva’s cheeks.
Neither of them was aware of her presence, and she hurried onward before they realized, but not before hearing the original speaker say, “I’d be up for a bit of fun with ’er, you know what I’m sayin’?
What cell block’s she in again? Or maybe I’ll just pay a visit to the infirmary, tell ’er I’m sick and need some good quality nursin’. ”
Kiva’s stomach lurched as both men laughed, and she stopped moving forward, instead spinning on her heel, having heard enough.
It was just as she’d feared—the prisoners were angry, afraid, uncertain.
Word about the sickness was spreading, and there was plenty of unrest because of Tilda.
And what those two disgusting men had said—
“... they doubled the guards at the outer perimeter. Rumor has it that the rebels tried to come for their queen ...”
All thoughts of the two men fled Kiva’s mind, and she came to a dead halt, whirling around to find a trio of prisoners whispering together, two women and a man. It was one of the women who had spoken, her words all but stopping Kiva’s heart.
“What did you just say?” she breathed, forcing her way into their conversation.
The second woman and the man both sneered at Kiva, but the first woman only eyed her warily, before sharing, “Some of the lumbersmiths said there was a disturbance where the forest meets the perimeter fence, said it was a group of rebels trying to break in.” She tilted her head to the side and added, “You’d better watch your back, healer.
If they get in and you’re in their way, they’ll slit your throat to get to their queen. ”
Kiva’s mouth was so dry that she struggled to speak. “Did they— Did they make it through the fence?”
The second woman scoffed and said, “Of course not. No one makes it.”
Kiva’s vision began to blacken, fearing the worst, until the man jumped in and said, “The guards are furious that they didn’t catch any of ’em. That’s why they’ve doubled the watch, in case they try again. They won’t, though. The rebels aren’t fools.”
Kiva couldn’t listen to any more. On shaking legs, she retraced her steps and hastened out of the refectory, her appetite gone.
The rebels had come.
The rebels had come .
And they had failed.
Had her family been among those who had risked their lives? If the guards had caught them ... Before the man had spoken, Kiva had feared they’d been captured—or killed. Her relief in knowing they’d fled to safety was overwhelming. And yet ...
That’s why they’ve doubled the watch, in case they try again. They won’t, though. The rebels aren’t fools .
The man was right. The rebels weren’t fools. But ... what did that mean for Kiva?
We are coming .
They had come. Would they do so again? Did they have another plan to get to Tilda, to free both her and Kiva?
For the first time ever, Kiva contemplated seeking out Cresta in the hope of gleaning more information.
But the risk—it wasn’t worth it. The prison rebels were unpredictable, especially their leader.
If Cresta decided to take her anger out on Kiva, it was Tipp who would suffer, Tipp who could die if Cresta lost control. No, for now, Kiva had to wait.
Anxiety churned within her as she walked along the path between the refectory and the cell blocks.
More than ever, she longed for an easier way to communicate with the outside world.
Surely the rebels had other plans; surely they would try again.
Perhaps even now they were searching for a different entry point, a weakness in the perimeter, a means to slip in and out again.
Their queen was imprisoned—they would come for Tilda, no matter what.
And Kiva’s family would come for her.
No matter what.
Feeling slightly more confident, Kiva was nearing the first of the cell blocks when someone called out to her.
“You, healer!”
Sucking in a sharp breath, Kiva halted on the path. She turned slowly, having already recognized the voice, dreading what it could mean.
Bones was striding toward her, his long legs eating up the distance, his crossbow draped casually over his shoulder, his black eyes like death.
“We need you at the barracks,” he said, a clear order.
Kiva swallowed and nodded, then trailed quickly after him when he beckoned her to follow.
Bones was like a wild animal. Sometimes he was temperate.
Sometimes he was not. Every week, she treated prisoners who had suffered his wrath—broken fingers, wrists, ribs.
Anything that made a hearty snap sound, that was his preference.
Kiva had long since trained herself not to feel sick in his presence, though there were times when she still had to force down bile.
She feared that, whatever he was leading her into tonight, it might be one of those times.
Kiva couldn’t stop thinking about Naari’s warnings of late, how she’d been deliberate in staying back at the infirmary with Kiva, or making sure Kiva knew not to leave on her own.
It was winter. The guards were agitated.
It happened every year, and every year, Kiva managed to survive the worst of it.
Just as she would survive tonight.
“In,” barked Bones once they reached the entrance to the barracks.