The Prison Healer

by Lynette Noni

  She unconsciously rubbed her thigh, but then froze, willing her hand into stillness. Neither Jaren nor Tipp noticed, but Naari was watching her carefully enough that Kiva swallowed and avoided her observant eyes.

  “So you see,” she went on, “I might not be able to keep everyone alive, but this woman? This patient?” She shrugged carefully. “It was in my power to do something, so I did.” She offered what she hoped was a self-deprecating smile. “Now we just have to wait and see if it’ll make a difference.”

  Kiva wasn’t lying. She believed and meant everything she’d said. But she couldn’t tell them everything, couldn’t share the real reasons why she had claimed Tilda’s sentence—and not just because Naari was listening. Trust wasn’t something Kiva offered easily, especially in a place like Zalindov.

  “So . . . you’re saying you v-v-volunteered because she’s sick?” Tipp asked, his young face puzzled. At least the tears were gone.

  Jaren and Naari looked skeptical, as if they knew there had to be more to it than what Kiva had said, but she avoided their eyes, determined to stick to her story.

  “She would have died today,” Kiva said. “And I know it’s irrational, that it’s just the way of life, especially here, but I’m so tired of people dying on my watch. So, yes, Tipp. If I can save her life, or even just delay her death, then that’s what I’m going to do.”

  Especially if it meant they could both walk free.

  The young boy sucked his lower lip between his teeth, gnawing on it as he considered her words. Finally, he said, “Then I guess we should t-t-try harder to get her feeling better. That way she c-can thank you herself.”

  Relief swept over Kiva, and it only grew stronger when Tipp sent her a gap-toothed grin, tremulous as it was. She reached out to take his hand again, holding it tightly as she said, just for him, “I’m going to do everything I can not to leave you, do you understand? I promised your mother, and I keep my promises. We’re in this together, you and me.”

  Kiva prayed that Rooke would agree to what she planned on asking him, even if it would only be valid in the worst-case scenario of her having to endure all three of the remaining Ordeals. According to the law, they were to be held fortnightly, so she had two weeks before the next one. If her family and the rebels failed to arrive before then, then she was on her own—and if she didn’t succeed, her death would leave Tipp abandoned.

  Looking to Jaren, Kiva found his eyes already on her. She didn’t shy away from his gaze, but instead tried to communicate everything she was thinking, everything she was feeling. If she died, she needed to know that someone would look out for Tipp, for as long as possible.

  Jaren, to his credit, didn’t fight her silent communication. His lips tightened, and his expression intensified, as if willing her not to even consider her own demise, but when she continued looking at him calmly, pointedly, he blew out a breath and gave a terse nod of acceptance. Of agreement.

  Feeling slightly unsettled that they’d just had a conversation without words, Kiva tore her eyes from him and leaned forward to place the back of her hand on Tilda’s brow. Her fever hadn’t returned, but she was restless, moaning in her sleep.

  “Any change today?” she asked, unable to keep from transitioning back into healer mode.

  “Not with h-her,” Tipp said. There was a hesitant note to his voice, and Kiva glanced up at him as he continued, “but the p-patients with the stomach v-virus are getting worse. And it’s still spreading. The guards d-d-dragged in three more while you were sleeping.”

  Sleeping was a very kind word for Kiva’s state of unconsciousness. She turned toward the quarantine door, wondering if she had the strength to go and check on the sick prisoners herself.

  “Don’t even think about it.”

  Kiva swiveled back to Jaren, noting his set features, and she pulled a face.

  “Scrunch your nose at me all you want, but you’re going straight back to bed,” he told her.

  True to his threat, he wrapped his arm around her again and gently eased her up to her feet. This time she bit her tongue to keep from moaning, but the look Jaren sent her made it clear that he knew she was muting her pain.

  The shuffle back to her pallet was more agonizing than she remembered the walk to Tilda being, and while she would never admit it, Jaren was right—there was no way she’d be able to stand long enough to look in on the sick patients.

  “Thank you,” she made herself say quietly once she was settled again. Her whole body was throbbing, but she continued to give no outward indication. Even so, she was hyperaware that she must look as terrible as she felt.

  Jaren nodded, then strode away, heading toward the wooden cabinet at the end of the workbench on the far side of the room. Kiva shared a puzzled glance with Tipp, who shrugged and fluffed her pillow behind her back. Neither had to wait long before Jaren returned to them, a stone tumbler in his hands.

  “Drink,” he said, passing it to Kiva.

  She blinked stupidly down at the white liquid. “You . . . got me . . . poppymilk.”

  She didn’t phrase it as a question, but surprise caused her voice to trill upward at the end of her broken statement.

  “Drink,” Jaren said again. “It’ll help.”

  “But . . . you don’t . . .” she trailed off, looking at him and trying to understand.

  His mouth twitched at the edges, and he shook his head as if finding her reaction amusing. “Just because I don’t like to take it doesn’t mean others shouldn’t. You said it yourself—you fell fifty feet today. If ever someone needs to be drugged, it’s you.”

  The dose he’d poured her was more than what Mirryn had given—half a tumbler’s worth. Definitely enough to knock her out.

  Frowning slightly, Kiva said, “I—”

  “Just drink it, Kiva,” Jaren said, albeit gently. He placed his hand over her free one, the calluses on his palm rough against her flesh, yet oddly comforting. They were the proof that he was surviving the tunnels, that he hadn’t given up, unlike so many others. “You need to rest.”

  “Olisha and Nergal will b-be here soon,” Tipp said. “I’ll m-make sure they know about the new p-patients and promise to look after them. Sleep, Kiva. They c-can survive a night without you.”

  The young boy leaned over and kissed her on the forehead, before pointedly tapping his finger against her hand holding the tumbler.

  Tipp had never shied away from affection before, but the forehead kiss was something new. Blinking back tears at the tender gesture, Kiva raised the poppymilk and swallowed it down, handing the empty tumbler to Jaren.

  “I’m sure I’ll be back on my feet tomorrow,” she told them, yawning as the drug began to take effect.

  “And then we c-can figure out how to get you through the next Ordeal,” Tipp said, tucking her in.

  Kiva didn’t reply, only snuggled deeper into her bed, relieved when she felt the cool metal of the amulet still hidden beneath the blanket. If Princess Mirryn was to be believed, Kiva didn’t have to worry about the next Ordeal. But the two after that . . .

  Not for the first time, Kiva wondered what she had been thinking, taking Tilda’s place. She prayed that she was right about the coming rescue, but even if she was wrong . . . as her eyes closed and the poppymilk pulled her under, she still couldn’t bring herself to regret her actions. Not with the memory of Tipp’s forehead kiss on her brow.

  “Sweet dreams, Kiva,” Jaren’s whisper came as if from far away. A squeeze of his hand made her realize he was still holding hers, and that was the last she felt, the last she heard, before she drifted off into blissful sleep.

  * * *

  It was the dead of night when Kiva awoke next, sitting up with a startled squeak when she saw the shadow standing over her. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the low light of the infirmary, and when they did, her trepidation only increased when she recognized the looming figure.

  “What in the name of the gods were you thinking?” Warden Rooke demanded, his hands
fisted on his hips, his dark eyes flashing.

  “I—”

  “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” he spat. “Any idea how reckless, how foolish—”

  “Cresta was going to kill Tipp,” Kiva interrupted, unwilling to let Rooke talk down to her. Not while the poppymilk was still in her system, giving her a hearty dose of courage.

  “So?” Rooke threw out his arms. “He’s just one boy. Let him die.”

  The thought made Kiva’s blood turn cold. “He’s important to me.”

  “Then you’re a fool,” Rooke said, pointing a finger at her. “Because what happens now? Even if you survive all the Trials, which you won’t, what then? You’ll leave, and Tipp—”

  “Will come with me.”

  That brought the Warden up short. He leaned back on his heels, squinting down at her. “I beg your pardon?”

  Kiva licked her lips, hoping she could pull this off. She wished her mind was less muddled from the medicine, and yet was simultaneously grateful for how bold it was making her. Never before had she felt so fearless in the Warden’s presence.

  “You told me that Tipp could leave Zalindov if he had a guardian on the outside to collect him,” she said. “If I survive the Trials and go free, I’ll be his guardian. He’ll leave with me.”

  The Warden said nothing for a long moment. Kiva shuffled painfully higher in her bed, her hands turning clammy as she waited for his answer.

  Finally, he spoke. “You have to survive the Trials for that to happen.”

  Kiva wanted to smile, to laugh, to get up and dance in celebration. Rooke didn’t argue—couldn’t argue, since she’d used his own words against him. But still, she’d worried about him finding a loophole, some way of denying her claim. Instead, he’d only brought up the likelihood of her failure. That she could handle.

  “I’ve beaten the odds before,” Kiva replied. “Ten years in here, and I’m still alive. That has to count for something.” She recalled what Mirryn had said about her being a survivor, how it was Rooke who had told the princess as much in the first place.

  “You’re alive because I’ve protected you,” Warden Rooke hissed, the anger returning to his face. “You’re alive because your father saved my life, and in return, I promised I would keep an eye on you. How else do you think you’ve lasted so long?”

  Kiva recoiled at the mention of her father, but couldn’t keep from answering, somewhat bitterly, “Because people know I’m your informant, and since no one trusts me and everyone hates me, they leave me alone.”

  “Wrong,” Rooke gritted through his teeth. Kiva had never seen so much emotion from the normally stoic man. “It’s because everyone in here—inmates and guards—knows that if they lay a hand on you, they have to answer to me.”

  Kiva nearly snorted. She’d been mistreated too many times to count over the years, especially by the guards. And then there was Cresta and her threat against Tipp, something the Warden didn’t care a whit about. So much for the protection he claimed was upon her. Her perceived allegiance to him had brought Kiva nothing but trouble, along with the constant anxiety of having to deliver enough information to remain useful to him.

  But . . . he was right in that nothing truly awful had ever happened to her, unlike what many of the other prisoners had endured, especially at the hands of the guards. She’d suspected that Rooke’s attentiveness acted like a warning to them, she’d just never considered if it was because he’d wanted to protect her, that he was repaying the debt he owed her father for saving him from a near-lethal case of sepsis almost a decade ago. Perhaps Rooke did care about her, in his own unconventional way. The thought sat strangely within her, as if she couldn’t reconcile the idea of him keeping her alive while at the same time frequently threatening her with death.

  “You couldn’t have just let it lie, could you?” Rooke finally said when Kiva remained silent. He sounded weary now, the anger bleeding from his voice. “If you hadn’t interfered, Tilda Corentine would have died today, and life would have gone back to normal. No more royal orders, no more sending updates about her condition or answering demands about whether she’s cognizant enough to communicate.”

  Kiva bit her tongue to keep in a sarcastic reply about inconveniencing him.

  “Thanks to you, we have to see out the rest of the Trials,” Rooke continued. “Or as many as you can survive.” His brow furrowed. “And when you fail—and you will fail, Kiva—you’ll be leaving me without a competent prison healer.”

  “You have Olisha and Nergal,” Kiva said, though her throat was tight at how easily he dismissed the thought of her surviving. Care was evidently too strong a word for what he felt toward her, unconventional or not. She was just a tool to him. A healer, an informant. “And you’ve told me before—many times—that you can easily find a replacement for me.”

  Rooke ran a hand over his short hair and ignored the accusation in her words. “You made a grave mistake today. I’ve done all I can for you. I can’t help you with these Ordeals—you’re on your own now.”

  Kiva had been on her own for nearly ten years, even with his supposed protection. She could survive another six weeks—or less, if her family arrived in time.

  The Warden spun on his heel and strode away from her. Only when he reached the door to the infirmary did he pause near the guard on duty and turn back to offer his parting shot.

  “Your father would be so disappointed in you.”

  And then he was gone, leaving Kiva with eight words that repeated through her mind, over and over, until the poppymilk began to pull her back under once more.

  As her eyes drifted shut, she couldn’t help thinking that the Warden was wrong. Her father would have been the first person to encourage her to save a life. Her mother, on the other hand . . . Her mother would have had strong words about Kiva’s actions today.

  But neither of them had been able to stop her.

  And so, Kiva would just have to live with the consequences.

  Or die from them.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Despite Kiva’s best efforts, she wasn’t back on her feet the next day. It took four days before she was able to stand without assistance, and even then, she still felt as if one of Zalindov’s rail carts had run her over with a full load of luminium on board.

  Lingering aches or not, Kiva stopped taking the poppymilk after her second day in bed. Part of that was to avoid building up a dependence on it, which was a risk given its addictive qualities. The other part was to save what was left of her dignity, since she’d had the unfortunate timing of taking a large dose just before one of Jaren’s increasingly regular visits. When he’d sat beside her and asked how she was feeling, she’d said, apropos of nothing, “You have the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen. Like sunlight on the sea.”

  His mouth had curled up at the edges, and he’d leaned in closer. “Have you been to the sea before?”

  “Once,” Kiva had answered. “My father took me.”

  Jaren had misread the emotion flooding her face. “I bet he’s out there waiting for you. Get through these Trials, and you’ll be free to see him again.”

  “No,” Kiva had replied softly, “I won’t.”

  Tipp had skipped into the infirmary then, something for which Kiva had been incredibly grateful after the poppymilk finally wore off.

  It took a whole week before she began to feel more like herself again. With every day that passed, she grew more and more uneasy. At first, it had just been a restless desire to get out of bed, since Kiva was used to taking care of patients, not being one herself. As time went on, however, she began to struggle with her inaction, especially when Tilda remained unresponsive and an increasing number of prisoners kept falling victim to the stomach virus that was going around. Leaving Olisha and Nergal in charge of their care didn’t fill Kiva with confidence, with the pair doing the least work possible to treat the sick—while keeping their distance to lessen the risk of catching the virus themselves. It frustrated her to no end eve
ry time she had to remind them to check on Tilda or the quarantined patients, knowing that without her pushing, they would do nothing.

  If not for Tipp, Kiva would have been pulling her hair out. Jaren, too, had been an unexpected helper, especially since he found an excuse to visit the infirmary every day, both before and after his work shifts, always under the guise of collecting various remedies for his fellow tunnelers. Even though prisoners were allowed to move freely within the walls of Zalindov outside of their labor hours, Kiva still thought he was spending an excessive amount of time in the infirmary. Whenever Naari was stationed at the door, she almost always rolled her eyes at Jaren’s arrival, clearly aware that he was just making up reasons to check in on Kiva.

  Glaringly obvious or not, Kiva made sure to put Jaren to work, both because she needed someone other than Tipp ensuring that the ill patients were as comfortable as possible, and also to keep Jaren at an arm’s distance. As long as he remained busy, he wouldn’t be sitting by her bed and engaging her in conversation; he wouldn’t be subtly encouraging her to dislike the rebels; he wouldn’t be hearing her spout unintentional sonnets about the color of his eyes.

  That she would be happy to forget, and sought to bury it deep into the recesses of her subconscious.

  By the time the week came to an end, while Kiva was capable of moving around on her own again, her restlessness only continued to grow. No matter how much work she had keeping her occupied, she couldn’t help wrestling with anxiety over the next Ordeal, aware that if her family didn’t free her in time, she would have to complete it. She tried to envision what she might face, as if doing so would make her more prepared. Some of the scenarios weren’t so bad, like having to walk over hot coals or hold a red-hot iron. Neither would be pleasant, of course, but they were more survivable than being tied to a wooden pyre and set alight. That hadn’t been seen at Zalindov for a while, with hanging considered a faster, cleaner death, but there had been a time a few years back when a spate of prisoners had been burned alive. Whenever Kiva recalled the memories, she broke out in a nervous sweat, and her hand would automatically clutch at the princess’s amulet hidden beneath her tunic.