The Prison Healer

by Lynette Noni

  She feared that, whatever he was leading her into tonight, it might be one of those times.

  Kiva couldn’t stop thinking about Naari’s warnings of late, how she’d been deliberate in staying back at the infirmary with Kiva, or making sure Kiva knew not to leave on her own. It was winter. The guards were agitated. It happened every year, and every year, Kiva managed to survive the worst of it.

  Just as she would survive tonight.

  “In,” barked Bones once they reached the entrance to the barracks.

  Kiva stepped through the wooden doorway into the stone building, even as everything within her wanted to run screaming in the other direction. She couldn’t risk Bones seeing her reluctance, or what he might do to her because of it. If he caught so much as a whiff of rebellion from her, he would revel in making her pay. His black eyes told her as much, the anticipation gleaming in them as he watched her like a hawk eyeing its prey.

  “This way,” he said, moving past her close enough that their bodies brushed.

  Kiva stopped breathing, dread rising within her, before she forced her heartbeat to settle. Nothing had been done to her yet. There was no reason to believe anything would be done to her. The guards needed her alive—not just as their entertainment in the Ordeals, but as their prison healer. Especially with this sickness spreading. She was their best hope, and they knew it. They would not risk breaking her, physically or mentally.

  Bolstered, Kiva followed Bones down a hallway, past closed doors that she knew led into private quarters, and toward a large communal room at the end of the long corridor. Someone was playing music, which Kiva rarely heard at Zalindov, and while she couldn’t pinpoint the source, she recognized the song as an old lament her mother used to sing when she was a child.

  Nostalgia washed over her with the force of a wave, but as her eyes scanned the room, the comfort of the memory was swept away in an instant.

  The guards were having a party—or the Zalindov equivalent of one.

  Opened bottles of spirits lined the wooden tables, food piled up beside them, mostly untouched despite the drink being almost all gone. Guards were at ease around the room, all of them men. Curled up in their laps were prisoners in various states of undress, all with glossy, fevered eyes and rosy cheeks.

  Kiva had an inkling of why she had been brought here. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or not, her initial fear being that she was to become a plaything, but now . . .

  “That one had a bit too much fun,” Bones said, pointing to the far corner where the Butcher sat leaning back in an armchair, a half-naked prisoner draped across his legs.

  Kiva didn’t know the prisoner, but she could see that the woman was unconscious. Just as she could see that the Butcher didn’t care—or perhaps didn’t realize, his own eyes out of focus, his head lolling to the side, a watery smile on his lips as he nuzzled the woman’s hair, his hands—

  This time, Kiva did have to swallow back bile.

  Mustering her courage, she walked over to the two of them, aware that Bones was shadowing her. The other guards barely glanced their way, too distracted by their own prisoners to care what was happening in the corner.

  Upon reaching the Butcher, Kiva took stock of the situation. She’d thought it was just spirits in the room, that the guards and prisoners alike were inebriated, but up close, she saw the golden powder glittering on the woman’s fingers, under her nose, on her lips. She saw the same on the Butcher, his eyes half lidded, his hands still roaming, unaware that the prisoner he held wasn’t responding.

  Because she couldn’t.

  Kiva didn’t need to check her pulse. It was obvious.

  The woman was dead.

  Overdosed.

  On angeldust.

  Rage rose in Kiva, strong and true. These guards, they didn’t care—they just wanted their playthings, their entertainment, and then they would discard them again. The prisoners meant nothing to them, even their favored ones. Live or die, it was all the same to people like Bones and the Butcher.

  “Well, healer?” Bones prompted. “Can you wake her up? We’re not done with her yet. It’s time for round two.”

  “You mean three!” called another guard.

  “Four!” came a different voice.

  Bones chuckled, and this time Kiva feared she wouldn’t be able to swallow back all she was feeling. Fisting her hands tightly enough for her nails to pierce skin, she used the pain to ground herself. Only when she was certain she could open her mouth without risk did she answer, “I can’t wake her. She’s dead.”

  The song of lament was still playing, the chorus echoing in the wake of Kiva’s declaration.

  “My love, my love, I’ll wait for you, until we meet at last in the everworld.”

  “What do you mean, dead?” Bones demanded.

  Kiva’s voice was flat as she replied, “Dead, as in lifeless.”

  “I know what dead means, you little—”

  “What’s going on in here?”

  Kiva could have fainted with relief at the sound of Naari’s voice, and she turned to find her standing at the entrance to the room, her eyes narrowed as she took in the space.

  “What’s it look like?” slurred an unknown guard in the back, stroking the arm of the giggling woman wrapped around him. “We’re having a party. You should join us, Arell. Let down your hair.” He hiccuped a laugh and pointed to Naari’s cropped locks. “Oh, wait, you don’t have enough.”

  There was nothing even remotely funny about what the slurring guard had said. Or what he was doing.

  “Healer, you’re needed in the infirmary,” Naari said, her eyes flashing with anger, though Kiva knew it wasn’t directed at her.

  “Now, wait a minute,” Bones said, reaching out and grabbing Kiva’s forearm. His grip was so tight that she winced, aware that it would take only a little more pressure for him to snap her wrist.

  A bead of sweat trickled down her neck, and she froze to the spot, barely breathing.

  “We’ve just lost one of our girls,” Bones told Naari, jerking his chin to the overdose victim. “We need someone to replace her.”

  Kiva’s insides plummeted to her knees.

  “The healer is needed in the infirmary,” Naari repeated, her voice firm. She didn’t move from the entrance, but the air in the room changed, a charged feeling emanating from where she stood. A warning, a threat, and a promise.

  “The healer can go to the infirmary,” Bones said. He tightened his grip enough that Kiva felt her bones grind together and had to hold back a whimper. “But she can go after.”

  “Then you can explain to the Warden why he has to wait.”

  It was as if Naari had performed magic, her words prompting Bones to release Kiva fast enough that she stumbled.

  “Why didn’t you say Rooke was waiting for her?” he said, disgruntled. To Kiva, he said, “Get out of here.”

  She took one relieved step forward, but he reached for her again, grabbing her wrist and squeezing her already-bruised flesh as he leaned in and whispered, “Tell the Warden about this and, his little pet or not, next time we throw a party, you’ll be right back here. But it won’t be as a healer—you’ll be here for round four. And round five. And round six.” He squeezed harder. “Understood?”

  Kiva nodded, all of her energy focused on not letting tears of pain and fear flood her eyes.

  “That’s a good little healer,” Bones crooned, finally releasing her and giving her a nudge between her shoulders, propelling her forward. “Enjoy the rest of your night.”

  Kiva walked on shaking legs toward Naari, who reached for her but stopped when Kiva visibly recoiled.

  Naari’s hand fell in the air, her eyes filled with enough concern that Kiva couldn’t look at her, lest she lose control of everything she was trying desperately to keep from pouring out.

  She’s too busy spreadin’ her legs for the guards, ain’t she? Havin’ too much fun to be bothered keepin’ the rest of us alive, am I right?

  Zal
indov’s Bitch.

  The Princess of Death.

  The Healer Whore.

  Kiva had chosen this life. She’d chosen to be obedient to the Warden, to let the guards order her around and treat her as they saw fit, as long as it meant she would remain alive.

  But that didn’t mean she wasn’t affected by what she’d just faced, that she wasn’t traumatized by seeing the overdosed woman . . . by knowing that it just as easily could have been her.

  Naari didn’t try to speak to Kiva as she led her not back to the infirmary, but straight to her cell block, and then inside.

  Only when they stopped at her pallet did Kiva croak out, “But . . . the Warden?”

  “I lied,” Naari said. “Rooke isn’t waiting for you.”

  Kiva nearly broke down then and there, but she didn’t. Instead, she nodded, and whispered, “Thank you.”

  “We’re not all like that,” Naari whispered back, her voice pained.

  “I know,” Kiva said hoarsely.

  And she did, because Naari was evidence that some guards were good. But what had just happened, what Kiva had just witnessed, what she’d nearly just experienced . . .

  Kiva couldn’t get it out of her head, not even after Naari left and the cell block began to fill with people bunking down for the night.

  Hours passed as she lay on her pallet, curled into a tight ball, trembling. The sounds faded as prisoners fell into exhausted sleep on either side of her, and Kiva knew she should join them, the time for her second Ordeal swiftly approaching. She needed her strength for what she might face the next day, especially given what she’d learned about the rebels’ failed rescue attempt. Unless they had another plan already in the works, then Kiva would be completing the Trial by Fire. She needed to rest, but . . . every time she closed her eyes, she saw the overdosed woman, the Butcher’s roaming hands, the angeldust glittering on them both. She heard Bones’s threat on repeat, along with the words from the men in the refectory: She’s too busy spreadin’ her legs for the guards, ain’t she?

  The Healer Whore.

  That’s what everyone thought she was.

  They were wrong.

  The Heartless Carver—she wasn’t that, either. Though right now she wished she was, if only it would take away everything she was feeling.

  Kiva wasn’t sure how long she lay there shaking beneath her thin blanket and holding her bruised wrist protectively to her chest before she heard the quiet footsteps, before she felt the tender hand on her shoulder followed by the pallet depressing as someone lowered themselves onto it at her back.

  She didn’t jump; she knew who it was. The scent of fresh earth and sea spray and something else unique to Jaren, like morning dew mixed with wood smoke, preceded him, wafting soothingly against her nostrils, bringing a comfort she couldn’t begin to fathom.

  “Naari told me what happened,” he whispered, knowing she was awake, thanks to the trembles still racking her frame. “Are you all right?”

  Kiva shook her head. It was too dark for him to see, only a thin sliver of moonlight creeping in from the small, square windows dotted sporadically along the long walls, but he could feel the movement. His hand moved from her shoulder, trailing down her arm, until he carefully wrapped his fingers around her sore wrist. Kiva didn’t ask how he knew which one it was—it was all she could do not to start sobbing when he cradled it gently, so very gently in his hands.

  “I’m sorry, Kiva,” he whispered.

  A tear slipped out of her eye. Then another.

  “I’m fine,” she made herself say. Her voice was rough, painful to her own ears. “I’m really fine.”

  His thumb stroked feather-light against her skin. “It’s all right not to be.”

  Kiva swallowed. Then swallowed again. But the lump in her throat wouldn’t dissolve. And the tears in her eyes wouldn’t stop falling.

  She didn’t resist when Jaren lay down on the pallet and turned her to face him, pulling her into his arms. She knew she should send him away, but she couldn’t summon the will, instead burrowing deeper into his chest as he held her close, his tunic muffling her sobs and soaking up her tears.

  It was only when she’d cried her last that sleep finally found her, and she drifted off wrapped in Jaren’s embrace, feeling safe and protected for the first time in years.

  Chapter Twenty

  “How are you feeling?”

  Kiva looked up the next morning to see Jaren walking across the infirmary toward her. In this light, she could see that his face was still a palette of colors, but the swelling around his eye had almost disappeared.

  “What are you doing here?” she all but squeaked. “Shouldn’t you be in the tunnels?” Panicked, she pointed to the doorway he’d just stepped through, noting with no small amount of relief that it was unguarded. “You need to leave before someone catches you.”

  Jaren had the audacity to chuckle. “Relax, Kiva.”

  “Relax? Relax?”

  “That was perhaps a poor choice of word, given everything,” he said, stepping close enough to place his hands on her shoulders. “How about this one instead: breathe.”

  Kiva tried to do as he said, inhaling as deeply as she could, her shoulders rising and falling, with his hands never leaving them. She didn’t shake him off, finding his touch more comforting than she should have liked.

  Especially after last night.

  They hadn’t spoken of it, even after they’d woken up tangled in each other.

  Kiva had felt a momentary burst of alarm coupled with extreme mortification, but Jaren had simply rubbed sleep from his eyes and slurred, “G’mornin’,” before asking—more articulately—how she was. Her garbled, unintelligible response had left him laughing softly, which had annoyed her enough to glare at him.

  “If you can look at me like that,” he’d said, grinning, “then I know you’re going to be all right.” Then he’d brushed his fingers down her cheek and left for the bathing chambers.

  That was it. No awkwardness, no embarrassment, no bringing up what had happened the previous night—before or after he’d joined her in bed.

  It was clear he was letting her come to terms with it—all of it—without pushing. And for that, she was grateful.

  She’d spent the morning compartmentalizing the previous day, from Tilda’s near death, to her revelation in the garden about her father and the stomach sickness, to what she’d overheard in the refectory, and finally her run-in with the guards. Mulling over it all, Kiva had been left knowing one thing: she’d survived ten years at Zalindov. Ten years. Yesterday had been rough, but she’d suffered through worse, even from the guards. At least this time there was no physical damage aside from the bruise blossoming on her wrist.

  Kiva was alive, that was what mattered most. And it was also what made her realize that there was no point in dwelling on what had happened. It was over, and all she wanted was to let it go and move on.

  She’d had a moment of weakness with Jaren last night—or perhaps strength, depending on perspective. He’d given her what she’d needed, when she’d needed it. And she was thankful. So thankful. Even now, he was here with her again, offering comfort once more, not because of what she’d been through yesterday, but because of what she was facing today.

  The second Trial.

  Yet another reason Kiva needed to rid her mind of the previous day and focus.

  Following  Jaren’s instructions again, she made herself breathe deeply a second time.

  “Better?” he asked.

  “You still need to go,” Kiva said instead of answering.

  “I wanted to see you before your Ordeal,” Jaren said. “Are you ready?”

  “Of course I am.”

  Jaren’s eyes remained locked on hers, waiting for the truth, and Kiva sighed.

  “Fine. I’m a nervous wreck. Happy?”

  A gentle squeeze of Jaren’s hands on her shoulders as his gaze softened. “You’ve got this, Kiva.”

  “No one survives all the T
rials, Jaren,” Kiva whispered, her stomach in knots, as it had been ever since she’d slathered her skin with Mot’s karonut oil concoction that morning. Now that the time was nearly upon her, she lacked confidence in its protection, more aware than ever that if the rebels failed to mount a second rescue attempt, then the princess’s amulet was her best chance for survival. Perhaps her only chance for survival. Her life was in the hands of a Vallentis—a cruel twist of fate, indeed.

  “You’ve already made it through one,” Jaren said, low and soothing. “You can do it again.”

  “But—”

  “I believe in you,” he interrupted, without any hint of doubt in his voice. “Tipp believes in you. Mot believes in you.” He paused. “Even Naari believes in you.”

  “Most prison guards wouldn’t care whether I live or die.”

  “Naari doesn’t seem like most prison guards,” Jaren said, stating the obvious. “She’s clearly fond of you.”

  “That’s because I’m the only person standing between her and death, if this sickness continues,” Kiva muttered, though she knew that wasn’t the only reason. The guard did seem to genuinely care for her, even lying to the other guards last night to protect her.

  Jaren tucked a strand of hair behind Kiva’s ear, causing her to suck in a breath. But before she could do anything—jerk away, lean forward, remain frozen—he stepped back, both of his hands now resting casually by his sides.

  “Maybe,” he said. His lips twitched. “Or it could be because of your warmth and kindness and overall sociability.”

  Kiva crossed her arms. “Ha-ha.”

  Jaren laughed quietly, the sound loosening some of the knots in Kiva’s stomach.

  Tipping his chin toward the rat pen, he asked, “Any progress?”

  Kiva latched on to his offered distraction with unhidden gratitude. Quickly explaining about Mot’s elixir, she finished with, “I think we can rule out the quarry as the origin. If something was going to happen, it would have shown by now.”