The Prison Healer (The Prison Healer #1)(32)
The guards lowered their swords, and she stepped forward on shaking legs, her heart galloping in her chest. They didn’t stand down completely, their stance warning of immediate action should she make the slightest wrong move.
It felt like an eternity passed as Kiva made her way to the center of the platform. She didn’t dare make eye contact with the still-frozen Warden, nor did she look up at the hangman’s beam rising into the air above her. She tried to remind herself that the first Ordeal was the easiest, and offenders could—and did—live through it. She refused to think beyond that, to consider the repercussions of her hasty actions or wonder what the later Trials might bring. The chances of surviving even this one . . . Kiva knew she might have just signed away her own life, all to spare Tilda’s.
Don’t let her die.
In that moment, Kiva hated her sister, hated Cresta, hated Warden Rooke and the Vallentis family and even the Mirraven rulers who had sent Tilda to Zalindov to begin with.
And yet Kiva had made her own choice. And she would live—or die—with the consequences.
When she was only feet away from the captain, he shifted, the movement slight but enough for her to know to come no closer.
Kiva made herself look at him, taking in his salt-and-pepper hair and his trimmed mustache leading to a short, neat beard. His weathered features suggested he wasn’t just a figurehead of the Royal Guard, but that he had seen action, and plenty of it.
As if Kiva didn’t already know.
It’s all right. Everything will be all right.
Her father’s voice slammed into her, tearing open her heart, causing her breath to hitch. But she shoved the memory away, needing to give her full attention to the man before her while offering no indication that she knew who he was, that she remembered him.
The captain’s brown eyes locked with hers as he said, “Explain yourself, Kiva Meridan.”
Just hearing her name in his gravelly voice had her struggling to keep from bolting off the platform and disappearing into the watching crowd. But she couldn’t do that—she wouldn’t do that. She’d made her decision, and now she would see it through.
“As I said, Captain,” Kiva said in a clear voice, relieved when it didn’t reveal her inner turmoil, “I claim the Rebel Queen’s sentence as my own.”
“And what gives you the right to do that?” he countered, arching a dark gray eyebrow.
Kiva was aware of how many eyes were on her, the collective audience straining to hear her words—prisoners, guards, royals. She could feel the Warden’s gaze, burning in its intensity. Somewhere in the crowd, Cresta and her rebels were watching. Jaren and Tipp and Naari were watching. Everyone was watching.
Sweat trickled down Kiva’s spine, while goose bumps pricked her chilled skin.
Praying that she recalled the correct wording and the whispers she’d heard about it were accurate, Kiva declared, “The fifth rule of the Trial by Ordeal, as written in the Book of the Law, states that, ‘Should another claim the accused’s sentence as their own, then he or she shall face the Trials as the accused’s Champion.’” Kiva held the captain’s eyes, noting the look of surprise—perhaps even respect—on his face. It made her more confident that what she’d said was true, enough that she continued, “I’ve made my claim. By the laws you uphold, I’m hereby Tilda Corentine’s Champion.”
A sudden bark of laughter had Kiva’s neck swiveling toward the royals.
“I like her,” the crown prince said, amusement clear in his voice even if the mask hid his expression. “She’s got spirit.”
“She’s got a death wish,” the princess countered, though she too seemed entertained.
Kiva burned with resentment toward them both, and swiftly turned back to the captain. But not before seeing the stormy look on Warden Rooke’s face. She swallowed, realizing her interference must have inconvenienced his plans for the Rebel Queen. He’d claimed not to care whether she lived or died, but Kiva knew his life would be easier if Tilda perished in today’s Trial. Her sentence would be delivered by her failure, her execution legal in the eyes of the law. Zalindov held little regard for justice, but with all of Wenderall watching, Rooke was being careful. His dark look told Kiva one thing: if she survived the first Ordeal, she would be answering to him.
“I don’t think you understand the ramifications of your claim, girl,” the captain said, folding his massive arms over his armored chest. “The second half of that rule states that your fate will be tied to hers. If you fail to pass all four Trials, both of you die.”
A murmur rippled over the listening crowd.
“NO, KIVA! D-DON’T!”
Kiva blocked out Tipp’s cry. She was doing this not just for Tilda, but also to save Tipp’s life, and her own. She would not be swayed, even as she felt the lightheaded sensation of panic gripping her, pins and needles prickling at her fingertips, her vision blackening at the edges.
Mustering courage she did not feel, Kiva dug her fingernails into her palms, the pain helping her focus as she declared, “And if I succeed, both of us will be granted freedom.”
She saw no point in admitting how the odds were against her. Everyone already knew. But if Kiva could make it through this first task . . .
We are safe. Stay alive.
Don’t let her die.
We are coming.