The Prison Healer (The Prison Healer #1)(30)
But when morning dawned, Tilda had slipped back into her delirium. Not even the gumwort worked this time.
The hours trickled by, and Kiva waited to see if the woman would return to herself, but her hope was in vain. Tilda was still too sick, fully at the mercy of whatever ailed her. And when the following day arrived—the day of the first Ordeal—Kiva knew she was out of time.
Don’t let her die.
Don’t let her die.
Don’t let her die.
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?