Lately, Tipp had been bringing her rations directly to the infirmary, but tonight she wanted to be among the other inmates, partly to remember what it was like to be around living, breathing people, but also to get a read on the prison atmosphere and a sense of whether they were at risk of another riot breaking out. Usually it was Cresta and her rebels who incited the violence, but not always. Sometimes it was something small that built into something larger; other times there was no reason at all. Without a proven formula, Kiva was apprehensive about the coming days, especially with the Trials throwing in a new, unknown element that could cause further unrest—or ease it.

Most of Zalindov’s inmates had no stake in whether Tilda lived or died. Only a small percentage of prisoners were rebels, and they alone would care whether Kiva survived the Ordeals, if only for the sake of their queen. But the rest of the populace . . . Were they excited for tomorrow’s Trial, or were they frustrated by the interruption to their routines? Were they jealous that they didn’t have their own chance at freedom? Were they resentful toward Kiva for volunteering in Tilda’s place? Did they want her to succeed, or did they want her to fail? Did they even care? And if they did—or didn’t—care, was that enough to stir them into a frenzy that could turn deadly? Because that was what happened in the riots: people died.

Kiva didn’t have any of the answers, but she hoped that by being around some of her fellow prisoners, she might be afforded some insight.

She’d barely walked halfway along one of the long tables before the hushed conversations made her realize things were worse than she’d feared—but not because of the Trials.

“. . . more and more friends gettin’ sick . . .”

“. . . heard the Rebel Queen is shacking up with the Warden . . .”

“. . . dozens dyin’ every day . . .”

“. . . Corentine bitch will get what’s coming to her . . .”

“. . . hasn’t come out of quarantine . . .”

“. . . snuff out that so-called queen in her sleep . . .”

“. . . a tickle in my throat, do you think it could be . . .”

“. . . healer whore’s doin’ nothin’ . . .”

The last made Kiva’s feet slow, and she couldn’t help but listen closer. While alarmed by the anger she sensed toward Tilda, she was also unsurprised. If what the Warden and Jaren had said was true, the rebels had caused a lot of damage in their quest to reclaim Evalon, and hurt a number of people along the way. It was almost a boon that the Rebel Queen was so ill, since at least she was safe within the bounds of the infirmary, protected from the wrath of her enemies inside the prison. With her being watched around the clock, any anti-rebels eager to hasten her demise would only be courting their own deaths.