Chapter Thirty-Three
Kiva lurched backwards, her hands flying from Tipp as she whipped her head toward the door, the golden light disappearing a fraction of a second before Jaren came stumbling into the infirmary, Naari at his heels.
The guard was splattered with blood, her eyes wild as she took in the mess, her gaze flying around the room before landing on Tilda, then finding Kiva and Tipp on the floor.
“Kiva!” Jaren cried again, seeing her at the same time as the guard. The two of them rushed over, Jaren heedless of his own pain as he stared in horror at the young boy surrounded by a sea of red.
“He’s all right,” Kiva rasped. “It’s Tilda’s blood. He just has a small cut on his stomach, and a bump to the head. He’ll be fine.”
She had no idea how the lies were pouring from her so easily. All she could think of was her father’s warnings and the promise she’d made him. She’d already broken that promise, but she knew better than to let anyone know, least of all her present company.
“Can he be moved?” Naari asked.
Kiva’s shaking hands traveled down to Tipp’s stomach, checking the damage. The smallest of cuts remained—he wouldn’t even need a stitch. Kiva nearly sobbed anew, but instead, she croaked out, “Yes. He just needs to sleep it off.”
That part wasn’t a lie. Tipp needed a good, long, healing sleep. And once he awakened, Kiva would have to convince him that his wound hadn’t been as bad as it had seemed. Tipp would believe her. He had no reason not to.
“Good,” Naari said, glancing back at the door with clear unease. “This place is turning into a death zone. We need to leave. Right now.”
Jaren held his hand out for Kiva, and she took it, too stunned by all that had just happened—and was now happening—to remember his injuries.
He uttered only the slightest of pained sounds and immediately steadied her when her legs nearly gave out, the trauma of what she’d just gone through wreaking havoc with her body.
Exhaustion threatened to topple her; the strain of what she’d done was unlike anything she’d ever known.
But even so, when Jaren reached down to collect Tipp, Kiva stayed him with a hand on his arm.
“I’ll take him,” she said, her voice hoarse from crying.
“He’s heavier than he looks,” Jaren warned.
“I’ll take him,” Kiva repeated firmly, knowing that Jaren’s adrenaline might be keeping him standing, but there was no way his injuries would allow him to carry the boy. Plus, Kiva needed to feel Tipp in her arms and the life beating within him, if only to reassure herself that he was still alive.
Unlike Tilda.
Kiva couldn’t look at the woman, not even when she saw Naari and Jaren glance between her and the Rebel Queen with pitying expressions, both knowing how much she’d given to protect Tilda.
If only Kiva could have arrived sooner, she might have been able to do for her what she’d done for Tipp.
But not even she had the power to bring back the dead.
It was too late for Tilda.
It wasn’t too late for Tipp, nor for Jaren, Naari, and Kiva herself.
But it would be, if they didn’t get out of Zalindov before the chaos escalated.
“Hurry,” Naari urged, glancing at the door again.
Kiva didn’t need to be told twice, and pulled Tipp up into her arms. Jaren was right about his weight, and she grunted and stumbled a little, but then steadied herself and looked at the guard.
“Follow me,” Naari said, moving swiftly toward the door, her two swords bloodied and held defensively before her, the prince’s Golden Shield ready to give her life if it meant protecting him. Protecting all of them.
“Don’t worry, she’ll get us out of here,” Jaren told Kiva when he saw her hesitate.
“I know,” she replied, before striding after the guard.
Her hesitation hadn’t been fear of following—she had been summoning the strength to look back at Tilda, one last time.
But she made herself do it.
Made herself whisper a final, “May peace find you in the everworld.”
And then she hurried out the door, never more grateful that the infirmary was close to the prison gates, and equally grateful that the bulk of the fighting remained in the center of the grounds—still too close for Jaren to risk anyone seeing him use his elemental magic to protect them, but far enough away that he didn’t need to.
Before Kiva knew it, they were standing at the massive iron entrance, the gates closed now because of the riot.
“This way,” Naari said, moving toward the base of the watchtower, where a much smaller door was cut into the limestone wall. Kiva hadn’t noticed it before, having never been this close to the gates when they were shut.
Pulling a large brass key from within her bloodied armor, Naari inserted it into the door.
“Stop!”
Dread filled Kiva at the commanding voice, and she turned to find the Warden striding toward them, a contingent of guards at his heels.
He’d come down from his hiding place for her—for Kiva. He wasn’t going to let her go free. Or any of them. Not as long as they knew his secret.
“Step away from the gate, Arell,” Rooke growled. “That’s an order.”
“I don’t take orders from you,” Naari said, moving a step in front of Kiva and Jaren, renewing her grip on her blades. “Not anymore.”
Rooke’s eyebrows shot upward, and he looked pointedly at the guards with him. “What exactly do you think is going to happen here? That I’ll just let you go?” He shook his head. “I can’t do that, I’m afraid.”
“Too bad yeh don’t ’ave a choice, yeh horse’s ass.”
Mot hobbled swiftly into view, his hand clasped around a vial raised like a weapon before him.
“Uh-uh-uh,” the apothecary tutted when the guards moved in his direction. “Did yeh see what ’appened to the watchtower? Unless yeh want a repeat of that right ’ere”—he shook the vial tauntingly—“then yeh’ll let Kiva and ’er friends go.”
Kiva’s heart clutched at his words. Not at his threat, but because he hadn’t said anything about going with them.
“Mot—”
“Get outta ’ere, Kiva luv,” Mot said, his gaze softening as he looked her way, then settled on Tipp in her arms. “Give ’im a good life, yeah? Yeh both deserve to find ’appiness.”
“Come with us,” she begged, even if she could already see the decision in his eyes.
“I’ll only slow yeh down. And besides, I still got work to do ’ere, don’t I?” He winked and sent her a brown-toothed grin.
“Mot—” Kiva tried again, but the Warden cut her off.
“What are you waiting for?” Rooke yelled at his guards. “Do something!”
At his command, they stepped toward Mot again, swords raised, while Rooke himself moved closer to Kiva.
“You’re not going anywhere,” the Warden spat at her.
“No, yeh’re not goin’ anywhere,” Mot said, and before anyone else could speak, he threw the vial at Rooke’s feet.
Fire erupted on impact, enough that Naari swore as she, Jaren, and Kiva scrambled backwards to get away from the immense heat, until they slammed into the limestone wall behind them.
It wasn’t a blast, like that which had brought down the tower, but the inferno was sudden and violent, forming a barricade of flames between them and the Warden, causing Rooke to retreat or risk being burned alive.
“Go, Kiva!” Mot bellowed from the other side of the fire. “I’ll hold ’em off—just go! ”
Naari tugged on Kiva’s sleeve, and she knew she had to follow, knew she had to honor Mot’s sacrifice even if every part of her wished she could save him, free him.
“I’m sorry, Kiva, but we have to—”
“I know,” she interrupted Naari’s warning, her voice breaking. “I’m right behind you.”
And she was.
As Naari turned her brass key and opened the door, Kiva held Tipp tighter and staggered through the exit after her, with Jaren bringing up the rear.
“This way,” Naari said the moment they were all on the other side of the wall, leading them at a fast clip toward the stables.
Kiva swallowed back her questions—and her emotions—as they entered the large building, praying that Naari had a plan.
And then she saw the carriage.
Kiva would have laughed if she hadn’t feared she’d start weeping.
What better way to escape the perimeter guards than in the Warden’s own private transport?
“Jaren, can you—” Naari started, but she was interrupted by another voice.
“What’re you doing in here?”
Kiva whirled around, Tipp’s legs swinging madly in the air, just in time to see Raz step out of an empty stall, a pitchfork held loosely in his hands.
Half a second later, the pitchfork was gone, and the stablemaster was face-down on the ground, Naari’s knee in the center of his spine and one of her blades pressed to his throat.
“Move, and you’re dead,” the guard hissed at him.
“Naari, stop!” Kiva cried.
Raz made an alarming gurgle sound, but still Naari didn’t release him.
“He’s a friend,” Kiva said, stretching the truth but not wanting to see the stablemaster hurt. “Please, he won’t cause us any problems. Will you, Raz?”
Another gurgling sound was all that came in answer, but it must have been enough to satisfy Naari, since she returned to her feet and sheathed her blade.
Slowly, Raz stood as well, rubbing his neck, his face pale as he stared at them.
“There’s a riot happening inside the grounds,” Kiva told him, as Naari and Jaren moved away to begin preparing the carriage for their departure. “It’s a bad one—really bad.”
“I know,” Raz said, his voice trembling slightly, but not from the news of the riot. “They’ve locked the gates. No one in or out.”
Kiva didn’t waste time explaining how she and her friends had made it through the wall. Instead, she said, “We’re leaving. You should come with us.”
Raz took a moment to reply, still recovering from Naari’s attack. “I’m safe enough out here. And I can’t risk losing this job, Kiva.”
She’d known he would say as much, but she’d had to offer.
“I won’t stop you from going,” Raz continued, his voice lowering, as if he feared the Warden would hear. “You of all people deserve a chance at freedom.”
A renewed surge of emotion welled in Kiva, but she shoved it down. Now wasn’t the time, not when she had to focus on escaping, and then on everything that came next. “If you truly mean that,” she said, “can I ask for one last favor?”
Raz sighed, already knowing what she was going to request. “Be quick about it.” He jerked his head to where Naari and Jaren were coaxing a pair of horses toward the harness, the latter wincing with pain but working swiftly despite his injuries.
Aware that she was short on time, Kiva carefully lowered Tipp onto a hay bale, then searched the area for a scrap of parchment and something to write with.
Finding nothing, she looked to Raz, but he made a helpless gesture.
Clenching her teeth, Kiva ripped a patch from the bottom of her filthy tunic, dipped her finger in the wet blood coating her body, and began to pen her final letter as a prisoner of Zalindov.
“We’re ready to—what are you doing?”
Jaren’s voice was close enough that Kiva jumped, the last symbol of her coded note smudging across the material, but it was still legible.
“I’m writing to my family,” she answered, seeing no point in lying. She was about to tell him more, to explain about Raz playing messenger for years, but Naari called out to them, warning them to move faster, so Kiva tore her gaze from Jaren and handed the bloodied material to the stablemaster.
“Please get this to them as soon as you can.”
Kiva didn’t care whether he sent it off as it was or if he transposed her code onto parchment first, as long as her family received the message.
“I will,” Raz promised as she drew Tipp back up into her arms. “Take care, Kiva.”
“You too,” she whispered, before turning on her heel and following Jaren toward the carriage where Naari was waiting, shifting impatiently from foot to foot.
“Quick, get inside,” the guard said, leaping up front to drive them. “We need to pass through the perimeter fence before Rooke sends word to the guards there. We’ll be free after that—they won’t risk leaving their posts to chase us.”
Urgency thrummed between them as Naari prepared for them to leave and Jaren opened the carriage’s side door, holding a hand out to help Kiva.
Together, they maneuvered Tipp inside, both panting when they were finally secured, with Jaren yelling out the window to Naari once they were ready to go.
Seconds later, they were moving, bursting out of the stables and leaving Raz behind them, racing down the dirt road to their freedom.
Part of Kiva wanted to look back, just for a moment, to see if the Warden had retreated to the safety of his wall, watching the pandemonium far below. Or perhaps he was watching the small horse-drawn carriage as it passed safely through the perimeter fence and continued out of sight.
But she didn’t look back.
Not even for the man who had killed her father.
Zalindov was behind her now.
She was free.
Tears prickled her nose as realization swept over her, all that had just happened hitting her anew. Tilda’s death. Mot’s sacrifice. Everything that came before and after.
Glancing down, she rearranged Tipp in her lap, the young boy sleeping off what should have been a fatal wound, his gentle face at peace, oblivious to their escape. He had no idea that he wasn’t a prisoner anymore. When he woke up, he’d have a completely new life.
Just as Kiva would.
“What did you write to your family?” Jaren asked. He was sitting across from her, his hands holding his abdomen, his face deathly pale. But he was alive.
They both were.
Despite the odds, they’d survived.
And they were out.
“I let them know that I’m safe. That I’m free.” Kiva swallowed, looking down at Tipp, thinking of Tilda, whose body remained at the prison, and finished, “I told them where they can find me, if they want. That I’ll be in Vallenia. With you.”
The look Jaren sent her warmed the numbness that had overtaken her ever since she’d walked into the infirmary and found Tilda’s blood-soaked body.
Kiva would never recover from that moment, as long as she lived.
But as the cold began to ease and she leaned back against the wagon, she called to mind the note she’d written, how she’d made sure it said everything her brother and sister needed to know.
Even now, the code translated in her mind, repeating over and over:
Mother is dead .
I’m on my way to Vallenia.
It’s time to reclaim our kingdom.
And as Kiva combed her fingers through Tipp’s hair, the boy still fast asleep on her lap, she glanced up to meet Jaren’s blue-gold eyes once more, his gaze impossibly soft. She smiled shyly back, offering no indication as to who he was leading to his city ... who he was welcoming into his home.
Kiva Meridan.
Born as Kiva Corentine.
The Rebel Queen may have perished at Zalindov, but her daughter was alive and well, and free of Zalindov after ten long years.
The Rebel Princess was finally ready to rise.