The Prison Healer (The Prison Healer #1)(62)

Kiva pulled a face at the contact that would require. “I think I’ll keep my distance, thanks.”

Mot laughed, a deep, wheezing sound that should have been repulsive but was instead almost comforting.

“Yeh take care of yehself, Kiva luv,” Mot said, hobbling toward the door with Tipp trailing behind him. “And best of luck tomorrow. If I were a bettin’ man, yeh’d ’ave my gold.” He paused, then added, “Yeh’ve got yehself a plan? To survive?”

Kiva’s insides tightened, a ball of tension settling like a rock in her stomach. She reached automatically for the amulet tucked beneath her tunic, its now-familiar weight offering a hint of reassurance. She still believed—still hoped—that it wouldn’t be needed. There was still time for her family to come. But if they didn’t . . .

She wished she knew what was in store for her the next day, wished she’d thought to ask the princess if she had to do anything to make the elemental magic in the amulet work, wished she didn’t have to face the Trial at all. But wishing had never done her any good before, just as she knew it wouldn’t now.

The look on Tipp’s face kept Kiva from sharing her uncertainty with Mot, and instead she croaked out, “Of course. I’m not at all worried.”

Mot squinted at her, and then looked to Tipp, who was beaming with relief at Kiva’s apparent confidence.

“I see,” the old man said. Without another word, he turned and hobbled back toward the medicinal garden, returning with yet another load and dumping it all on Kiva’s workbench.

She watched in baffled silence as he measured, sliced, and ground his concoction, before rifling through her supplies until he found a jar of karonut oil that Tipp had spent hours painstakingly collecting. Mot poured the entire jar into his mixture, gave it a stir, and then thrust it toward Kiva.

“Let this sit overnight,” he instructed her.

Inhaling the delicious, fresh scent, Kiva asked, “What is it?”

Mot placed his wrinkled hand on her shoulder. “It’s for yer Trial, Kiva luv. To help protect yeh.” When she stiffened with shock, he gave her a gentle squeeze and nodded to the pot. “It’ll turn waxy by mornin’. Make sure yeh smear it good and proper all over yer skin, do yeh hear me? It won’t save yeh if they plan to set yeh up on a pyre, but it’ll do more than any other salve yeh can think of. Might give yeh a fightin’ chance, extra time to get free or somethin’.” He paused. “Don’t get it in yer eyes, though. It’ll sting like a bitch.”

Kiva didn’t know whether to laugh or cry—or vomit—at the thought of a pyre. It seemed as if Mot, like her, assumed it was an option she might have to face.

Surprising them both, she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him, an unprecedented display of affection from her, and enough to startle him so much that he failed to return the embrace before she stepped away again.

“Thank you, Mot,” she said, with feeling. “Truly.”

“Yeh can thank me after the Trial is over and yeh’re still alive,” he said, his ruddy cheeks slightly pink. He then turned to Tipp, who was smiling even wider than before, as if certain Mot had given Kiva a foolproof way to survive. “Come on, boy. Time’s a-wastin’.”

The two of them exited the infirmary, leaving Kiva with only her thoughts for company. Soon enough, her fears about the next day began to scream for attention. She needed a distraction, something to keep her from spiraling into panic. She had the amulet, and if the magic in it failed, she now had Mot’s protection, even if he’d warned of the mixture’s limitations. There was nothing more she could do. She needed to stop thinking about it, since that was only making it worse.

Glancing over at Tilda, Kiva made a snap decision. Aside from the guard at the door, the two of them were alone, so she walked over to the Rebel Queen’s bedside and peered down at her. She was deathly pale, even more so than when she’d first arrived, her tan having slowly faded as if all the life had leached out of her during her weeks spent in bed. Kiva again wondered how long she’d been sick before arriving, if it was a new ailment or something she’d been fighting for some time. She had so many questions, more than she’d ever be able to ask, even if Tilda were to miraculously recover.

“What are you doing here?” Kiva whispered to her. “How can I make you better?”

Tilda, of course, didn’t answer.

Kiva wondered if it was a fluke that they’d managed a semi-lucid conversation before the first Ordeal. Perhaps it had been nothing but luck and timing that she’d heard her awaken that night. She wished Tilda’s cloudy eyes would open again and that she’d say something—anything—to help Kiva remember why she was fighting so hard to keep her alive. Not that she needed the reminder, but she longed for some small comfort.

Comfort from a dying woman—a woman that Kiva was risking everything to save, and yet still failing.

Stay alive.

Don’t let her die.

We are coming.

Sighing loudly, Kiva sat beside Tilda’s bed and, being careful to remember that the guard was within hearing distance, picked up her hand, holding it gently in her own.

“If my father were here, he’d say it’s possible that you can hear everything that’s happening,” Kiva said quietly. “He’d say it’s important that you know someone is watching over you, wanting you to live.” Kiva squeezed her hand. “He’d probably tell you a story. He used to do that for me, whenever I was sick. Him, and my—and my mother.” Kiva choked on the word. Just as memories of her father pained her, so too did those of her mother, but for different reasons. Kiva knew there was nothing her mother loved more than their family. She would have done anything to protect them. Ten years ago, her youngest son had died, and her youngest daughter and husband had been carted away to Zalindov. Kiva couldn’t imagine what her mother must have gone through after that, or how she must have felt upon receiving Kiva’s note bearing news of Faran’s death. A husband and son, both gone forever. A daughter imprisoned. Half of their family, ripped apart.