by Lynette Noni
A spark of curiosity flared in Kiva. It sounded as if he and his family were estranged, and she wondered if that was because of whatever had landed him in here. But then she saw that he was still watching her carefully, and she realized what he was doing: distracting her, giving her a moment to regain control, offering her a conversational door that she could choose to keep open or slam shut.
But . . . why would he do that?
This was why she didn’t like doing prisoner orientation. It meant she had to talk with them. Spend time with them. Get to know them. She’d much rather remain alone in the infirmary, seeing them when they were sick or hurt and then sending them on their way again. This was not . . . She didn’t like this.
Closing his offered door, she promptly returned to her role as his guide.
“There’s too much for me to show you tonight, and you’re going to forget most of it anyway,” Kiva said, partly because she wanted to be rid of him, and partly because he was still swaying and she didn’t want to have to carry him all the way to his cell block. “Most of what you need to know will depend on what work allocation you’re given, and you’ll learn that tomorrow.”
Walking a few more paces and coming to a halt in front of a domed building made of mishmashed stone, Kiva slapped her hand against the side and said, “Outside of work hours, prisoners can walk freely inside the grounds, so if ever you get turned around, look for the four inner watchtowers and then head into the center of them. You’ll find yourself here, right at the heart of Zalindov, and you’ll be able to get your bearings again.”
“What is this?” Jaren asked, inspecting the odd-shaped building.
“The entrance to the tunnels,” Kiva said.
“I’ve heard about those.” Jaren raised his unbandaged hand to his head, as if to ease the ache there. “Seems foolish to me. Like an open invitation for an escape attempt.”
Kiva snorted, and Jaren turned to her in surprise. She schooled her face immediately. “It’s a labyrinth down there—miles and miles of tunnels. If anyone were stupid enough to try and escape, they’d never find their way out again. And besides,” she added, “most of the tunnels are submerged, at least partially.”
“Zalindov’s water source,” Jaren said.
“There’s over three thousand inmates here,” Kiva shared. “Without water, we die.” She jerked her head to the domed building. “This doesn’t look like much from the outside, but it’s only an entrance to what’s below. Everything happens deep underground—not just the digging of more tunnels, but also the pumping of water through the aquifer.”
She only just refrained from saying that those two jobs were the worst Zalindov had to offer—the tunnelers and pumpers. Quarriers came in at a close third, followed by lumbersmiths and harvesters.
“Now, forget about the tunnels for the moment and listen closely so you don’t get lost,” she told him, mostly because his eyes were losing clarity the longer they stood there. She turned and pointed. “The infirmary is that way.” She pivoted counterclockwise and pointed again. “Barracks, entrance block, front gate.” Another pivot. “Harvest factory for grain and produce sorting, and the luminium depository behind it.” Another pivot. “Kitchens and refectory.” She paused to add, “You’ll be given a meal schedule with your work allocation tomorrow. Don’t skip meals. Rations are scarce, especially in winter, and you’ll need all the strength you can get.”
She waited for his murmured agreement, then pivoted again. “The cell blocks are beyond the refectory. That’s where we’ll head now. There are ten in total, three hundred or so inmates per block.”
Jaren’s eyes widened. “Three hundred? All sleeping in the same building?”
“Just wait until you see the latrines. You’re in for a treat.”
At his horror-struck expression, Kiva took pity on him. “You’ll get used to it. There are three stories per cell block, so it’s really only a hundred per floor. And, honestly, in a day or two, you’ll be too tired to care, anyway.” Assuming he survived that long.
Jaren pulled a face. “Is that meant to make me feel better?”
This time Kiva did look to Naari, since this was another perfect example of why she shouldn’t be doing orientation. The guard didn’t even try to hide her amusement.
Turning back to Jaren, Kiva attempted to rally some kind of encouragement. “There’s nothing I can tell you that will prepare you for what you’re about to experience. I’m sorry, that’s just the reality of Zalindov. This place will test you to your limits, and beyond. But it’s not impossible to survive it. I’m living proof of that.”
Jaren’s eyes held hers as he quietly asked, “What’s your secret? To surviving, I mean?”
She considered her words carefully before answering, “It helps if you have something to live for. To fight for. It grounds you, gives you a reason to get up every morning. It gives you a reason to want to survive. And sometimes, it’s the wanting that makes all the difference. Because once you give up in here”—she pointed to her heart—“then you’re already as good as dead.”
He cocked his head to the side. “What’s your something? What are you living for?”
Kiva arched a brow. “That is none of your business.” She started walking forward again. “Let’s get you to your cell block. A few hours’ sleep and you’ll wake up feeling much better.”
Dryly, Jaren said, “Forgive me if I have some doubts.”
Kiva was well aware that his bruised and battered muscles would stiffen up during sleep, likely leaving him feeling miserable come morning. But proper rest would still aid his recovery, nonetheless.
“This way,” was all she said, leading him onward.
Jaren and Naari trailed silently behind her for a time, three pairs of footsteps crunching as they moved across dirt and then onto gravel again, their breaths fogging the air as the temperature dropped swiftly. While snow was common in the mountains surrounding Zalindov, it rarely fell as low as the prison. Even so, the cold was relentlessly bitter, with ice often coating the grounds. The worst days would come after the solstice, which was due in just over a week. Kiva was already bracing for all the weather-related ailments she would have to treat before the arrival of spring.
They were close to reaching their destination when Jaren pointed to the northeast wall and said, “You didn’t say what’s in that direction.”
Naari cleared her throat loudly, and Kiva wondered if that meant she wasn’t supposed to answer. But the guard did nothing more, so Kiva said, “That’s where the Abyss is.”
“The Abyss?”
“Zalindov’s punishment block.”
Kiva could hear the incredulity in Jaren’s voice when he said, “So, on top of working us to death, there’s more punishment?”
Jaren didn’t know the half of it, and Kiva really didn’t want to be the one to tell him. But he needed to be warned, so she reached for his sleeve and tugged him to a halt, squinting in the low light to catch his eyes. While the watchtowers had roaming luminium beacons that the guards could pinpoint toward any location of their choosing, the grounds of Zalindov were otherwise pitch-black once night fell in full—and it was very close to that, with them having wasted the last of the light walking from the tunnels.
“No one knows what happens in the Abyss,” Kiva told Jaren in a serious voice. “Just that it’s bad. The guards stationed there are known for their . . . creativity.” She let that sink in. “Most prisoners don’t come out again, and those who do are changed forever. So if you value your life, do whatever it takes to avoid being sent there, understood?”
Jaren, thankfully, didn’t question or argue. “Understood.”
Kiva looked to Naari, and, with as much respect as she could muster, asked, “Which block is he allocated to?”
“Seven. Second floor.”
Kiva gritted her teeth and headed that way. Of course he was assigned to the same cell block as she. At least they were on different floors, with him being a level above her.
Only when
they finally reached the long rectangular building that now housed them both—and three hundred others—did Kiva stop in front of the large entrance doors.
“Head inside and take the stairs to your left, then claim a pallet up on the second floor,” she told Jaren. “Bathing chambers and latrines are at the far end of the ground floor. The water in the shower block isn’t heated, so move fast, and don’t get your clothes wet or you’ll catch a chill.” She made herself meet his eyes as she added, “There’s no gender separation for sleeping or bathing, so there’s an unspoken rule about respect. The guards don’t enforce it, but life here is hard enough without constantly worrying about when you’ll next be assaulted, so prisoners try to look out for each other.”
Jaren’s brows pulled together. “That doesn’t seem foolproof.”
“It’s not,” Kiva confirmed. “But it’s rarely the prisoners you have to watch out for. As I said earlier—everyone’s too tired to cause problems like that.”
Noting her wording, Jaren asked, “What about the guards?”
Kiva looked away, her forearm throbbing in reminder. “They’re not as tired.”
When she turned back to Jaren, his jaw was clenched. “Have they ever— Have you ever—”
“That’s another question you should never ask anyone here,” Kiva interrupted firmly. She was aware of Naari standing only a few paces away, silent and still.
Jaren looked like he was about to argue, but then he raised his good hand and ran it agitatedly through his hair, instead asking, “Is there anything else I should know?”
Kiva faced him dead-on. “There’s lots you should know, but the one thing you need to remember is this: here at Zalindov, the only person you can trust is yourself.”
And with that, she turned on her heel and strode back toward the infirmary, his orientation officially complete.
Chapter Six
“I hear one of the new arrivals survived,” Warden Rooke said, sipping amber liquid from a crystal tumbler. Standing tall and proud, he peered through his window atop the southern wall. While most of the guards had personal quarters within the barracks, the Warden lived high above them all. Watching—always watching. “Not his companions?”
Kiva shook her head, perched stiffly in his sitting room, barely an hour after leaving Jaren with Naari outside their cell block. “Both dead.”
“Hmm,” Rooke murmured, swirling his liquor. With dark skin, cropped hair, and a short beard, he looked like many of the other burly guards. But it was his scar that set him apart, cutting above and below his right eye, like an interrupted diamond. That, and the authority that dripped off him, enhanced by his black leather uniform all the way down to his perfectly polished boots. “The survivor was covered in blood. Is he badly damaged?”
Careful, always so damn careful about the information she shared, Kiva answered, “Nothing permanent.”
Warden Rooke smiled, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. “Good. That’s good.”
Another able-bodied male. That was all that mattered to the Warden. Never mind that Zalindov was already bursting at the seams, even with the excessive mortality rate.
In the ten years Kiva had lived at the prison, she’d come to accept that the Warden wasn’t an evil man, but he was coldly pragmatic. And powerful—so very powerful, with a heavy burden of responsibility on his shoulders. His jurisdiction over Zalindov meant he answered not to one kingdom, but to all of them, since all of their condemned citizens were jailed under his watch. But while he did have to obey direct orders from the rulers of all eight territories, he was mostly left to his own devices, trusted to oversee the day-to-day management of the inmates and guards without supervision. How he did that was his business.
Kiva held little love for Warden Rooke. Her allegiance to him was a means for survival, nothing more. But even so, she knew that she and her fellow inmates could have done a lot worse. Rooke, at least, had a sense of morality, limited as it was. She didn’t want to imagine what might happen if the Butcher or Bones or any of the other more abusive guards were given the position of Warden. Nothing would be left but blood and ashes.
“Have you anything else to tell me tonight, Kiva?”
The Warden was watching her closely. He was smart, she knew. Too smart for her liking. He lived and worked among the worst kinds of people, and had long since learned how to read them. How to read her.
“The prisoners are unhappy,” she answered. “But you already know that.”
Rooke sighed, taking another sip of his drink. “There’s always trouble at this time of year. They’re hungry. Cold. Tired. There’s little I can do about any of that.”
Kiva disagreed, but she remained silent. More food rations, warmer clothes and blankets, shorter work hours—these were all things the Warden could change. But prisoners weren’t supposed to be comfortable. None of them were in Zalindov for a holiday. They were there to work, and then to die.
“What about the rebels?” Rooke asked.
Kiva shifted in her seat, the Warden tracking her every move.
“Is Cresta still leading them?” he prompted.
Licking her lips, Kiva nodded slowly and said, “As far as I’m aware.”
Rooke’s eyes narrowed as he repeated, “As far as you’re aware?”
She forced herself to meet his gaze. “The rebels don’t like me. Especially Cresta.” Kiva couldn’t blame them. As Rooke’s informant—reluctant or not—she’d well earned their scorn. “They don’t keep me apprised of their leaders. Or their plans.”
That was about as close as Kiva ever dared to show any kind of backbone, but after years of these meetings with the Warden, she felt safer with him than any of the other guards. She had reason to, even if she knew her allegiance didn’t guarantee her safety.
The Warden rubbed his temple. “Kiva, you know I respect you. Care for you, even. You’ve proved your skills as a healer time and time again, and you’ve earned my regard through your years of service. Because of that, I must warn you.”
Kiva braced herself.
“The day is coming when I’m going to need more from you,” Rooke continued. “The rebels within the prison are becoming a problem. I can only assume it’s because their movement outside is advancing, with rebel numbers growing every day as that queen of theirs leads them to slaughter. The fools.” Rooke shook his head, as if pitying them.
Kiva’s heart rate doubled. Any mention of the outside world had her aching for more. In the last decade she’d only managed to hear snippets of what was happening beyond Zalindov’s walls. When she’d first arrived at the prison, the rebel movement had been little more than a group of impassioned nomads searching for their long-lost queen, whispering about how she had a legitimate claim to the throne of Evalon—treasonous words with grave consequences for those caught by the Royal Guard. It was only after Kiva’s imprisonment that she heard their queen had come out of hiding and was now leading their cause, seeking one thing: vengeance. Not justice, not a chance to debate why the crown belonged to her. No, the Rebel Queen wanted revenge for all that had been taken from her. For all that she’d lost. For the kingdom and its power that should have been hers at birth.
From what Kiva had gleaned over the last few years, the Rebel Queen was slowly—very slowly—beginning to take ground.
Rooke called them fools. Kiva wasn’t so sure.
“They have an energy, a spark, that’s building,” the Warden went on, still talking about the imprisoned rebels. “It might not be much yet, but the smallest spark can cause a flame, and I want to avoid that. For their sakes.”
Kiva shuddered at the look in his eyes. The rebels inside Zalindov would meet a swift death if Rooke or any of the guards caught so much as a hint of them plotting anything. Whether it was escape on their minds, or something simpler like stirring up the other prisoners, or even rallying more numbers to their side, it didn’t matter. If they acted out—in any way—their lives would be forfeited.
It was difficult for
Kiva to feel compassion for them. They should have been smarter, should have kept their heads down, rather than being careless enough to draw the Warden’s attention. They’d dug their own graves, as far as she was concerned. Her expression must have told Rooke as much, since he sighed again, louder this time.
“Just . . . see what you can learn before I next summon you,” he said. Throwing back the last of his liquor, he locked eyes with her and finished, “Skilled healer or not, I can find others to work in the infirmary. Your worth lies in what you can tell me. I need more information, Kiva. Better information.”
He turned to look out the window again, his dismissal clear, leaving Kiva to be escorted down from the wall by another guard, her heart heavy and her stomach knotted.
She couldn’t give Rooke what he wanted. She hadn’t lied to him; Zalindov’s rebels loathed her, seeing her as little more than the Warden’s spy. Their assumed leader, Cresta, was the last person in the world who would ever trust Kiva with information.
And yet, Kiva would do as she always had—she would find a way to meet Rooke’s demands. She would live another day. She had to, if she ever wanted to see her family again. One way or another, whatever it took, she would figure out how to glean the knowledge he desired.
Chapter Seven
Jaren was allocated work in the tunnels.
It was Tipp who told Kiva; Tipp who had left the infirmary in a hurry upon Kiva’s return that night, hastening back to their shared cell block to make sure Jaren snagged a pallet next to his; Tipp who had whispered Zalindov’s secrets to the newcomer, all the warnings and hints that Kiva had failed to offer.
Kiva told herself that Jaren was just like any other prisoner, that she didn’t want or need Tipp’s frequent updates. With Jaren’s work allocation, there was no way she was going to invest time or energy into getting to know him further, even if she’d wanted to—which she didn’t. She had enough to worry about, and he had a clock ticking down to his death now. Kiva knew the odds: thirty percent of tunnelers didn’t survive their first six weeks, and fifty percent didn’t live longer than three months.