The Prison Healer (The Prison Healer #1)(24)
Tipp’s mouth was open, Mot was looking dazed, and Jaren’s eyes were wide with shock. Kiva felt better knowing she wasn’t alone in her surprise, but she now felt even more pressure to do the impossible.
Don’t let her die.
Royal entourage or not, it made no difference. Tilda was still very sick and might not make it to the first Trial at all, let alone survive it.
“So, a week?” Kiva said. “That gives us something to work with, at least.”
She looked over at Tilda, her stomach tightening anew at the shackles.
“They mus’ really want to make sure justice is served,” Mot commented, following Kiva’s gaze. “Otherwise they wouldn’t be comin’ all this way, would they?”
“Will you t-tell me the story, Kiva?” Tipp begged. “You’ve shared b-bits and pieces before, but I d-don’t understand why she’s so d-dangerous.”
Kiva looked helplessly at him, then at the others. Her eyes landed on Jaren and, instead of answering Tipp, she asked, “Why are you here?”
He met her gaze. “I came for more of that salve for my hands. But now I want to hear this story.”
Mot nodded his agreement, and Kiva turned to Naari, hoping she would put a stop to this. Instead, the guard just walked over and sat on the nearest bench, as if settling in. Kiva only just kept from gaping at her, and then it turned into a scowl when the others followed Naari’s lead and took their own seats, looking at Kiva in anticipation.
“I’m the prison healer,” she told them. “Not a storyteller.”
“Today yeh’re both,” Mot said.
Kiva looked at Naari again, almost desperately, but it was clear the guard wasn’t going to intervene.
Sighing, Kiva moved to sit in the open space beside Jaren, giving in to their request and sharing the tale she’d begged her mother for every night as a young child.
“Long ago, when magic ruled the land, there lived a man and a woman, Torvin Corentine and Sarana Vallentis, who hailed from two of the most powerful bloodlines of all time.” Kiva looked down at her fingers, imagining what it must have felt like to yield such power. “Torvin had the ability to manipulate the human body, and to this day, he’s considered the greatest healer ever known. Sarana could control the four elements—earth, air, water, and fire—a gift no one has possessed in entirety since her death. Together, they were unstoppable, and after being joined as husband and wife, they were a king and queen the likes of whom the world has never seen.”
I wish I had magic.
Kiva closed her eyes as the voice swept across her mind—her voice, years younger. But even so, she couldn’t keep the memory at bay, nor her mother’s quiet response.
I’d rather you wish for brains or loyalty or courage, my sweet girl. Magic is dangerous, and those who have it are forever looking over their shoulders.
That’s just because they’re royal, Kiva had replied. Only people related to Torvin or Sarana have magic these days. That makes them targets.
Kiva shoved the memory deep, deep down, and forced herself back into the present.
“As is the way of humans, those with great power risk succumbing to it,” she said, her eyes on Tipp, who was eating up the story, just as she had as a young child. “While Torvin ruled with integrity and had a heart for his people, using his magic to help all those who sought his healing, Sarana’s power simmered within her, corrupting her from the inside out. She grew resentful toward her husband, jealous of his generosity and the way their subjects responded to his kindness. The darkness in her built until she decided she didn’t want to share her crown anymore. She wanted their kingdom—Evalon—to be hers, and hers alone. So she turned on Torvin, a surprise magical attack that left him badly injured. She then lied to their people and said he attacked her, seeking to overthrow her, seeking to kill her, their beloved queen.”
“What h-happened?” Tipp asked in a hushed whisper.
“The kingdom revolted, demanding Torvin’s head,” Kiva answered. “Without allies or aid, the wounded king had little choice but to flee. He made it deep into the Tanestra Mountains before he could travel no further.”
Tipp gasped. “He died?”
“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?”