The Prison Healer

by Lynette Noni

  “See that it doesn’t,” the Warden said gruffly. Then his tone softened, and he moved closer, until they were eye to eye. “I’m . . . glad you’re still alive.”

  Kiva struggled to keep up with the turn in conversation, every part of her aching.

  “I mean it,” Rooke went on. “I have to adhere to the law when it comes to these Ordeals, but I’m relieved that you survived.”

  Kiva swallowed back the emotion welling within her, pain lacerating down her throat as she did so. Maybe Rooke did care, in his own way.

  “After all, with this sickness going around . . .” Rooke trailed off, shaking his head as if fearing what her death would mean for them all.

  Kiva’s heart plummeted at the reminder that he didn’t care about her, only what she could do for him. She was a fool for thinking he would ever be concerned for her welfare. Rooke was too pragmatic for that, too calculated to think about anyone but himself.

  “I hear you’ve started to make progress?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Kiva croaked, unable to offer more. It was a lie, but she had no energy to debrief him right now.

  “Something like this went around years ago, soon after I first became the Warden,” Rooke said, a nostalgic gleam in his dark eyes. “You were probably too young to remember—”

  “I remember.”

  Rooke held her gaze, and then his expression cleared, as if suddenly recalling why she would remember—and who she had lost to the sickness. He nodded once, and said, “Best of luck to you, then. By the sounds of it, many lives are counting on you.”

  Including yours, Kiva wanted to say, but didn’t. Partly to keep from provoking him, and partly to avoid the pain the words would bring.

  “See her back to the infirmary, Guard Arell,” Rooke said to Naari, who dipped her forehead in agreement. The Warden then turned and strode away, the three guards and Bones following in his wake.

  “Kiva, I’m so sorry,” Grendel said in her quiet, grating voice once the guards were gone. “He didn’t tell me what the furnace was for until this morning, and by then I didn’t have time to warn you. If I’d known—”

  “It’s not your fault,” Kiva rasped. She wanted to reach for the scarred woman, but with one arm around Naari and the other clutching her cloak, all she could do was try and smile at the crematorium worker, even if it more likely looked like a grimace.

  “How did you survive?” Grendel whispered. The lowered tone wasn’t to keep from being overheard, since the prisoners around them were making a gods-awful racket as they filed in disorganized groups out of the assembly area. No, her hushed voice was because she was still shocked that Kiva was alive when what she’d faced should have killed her.

  “It’s a long story,” Kiva forced out, wincing at how much harder it was becoming to speak. “I’ll tell you another time.”

  It was an empty promise, since Kiva wasn’t sure she’d even remember this interaction after she’d drugged herself into oblivion.

  As if sensing that she was on borrowed time, Naari told Grendel that she needed to get Kiva to the infirmary, and then the guard began to help Kiva stumble in that direction. Fortunately, only the morgue was between them and their destination, and Kiva felt confident that she’d be able to make it.

  But then her legs gave out.

  Naari grunted under the added weight, and three male voices cried out Kiva’s name in alarm.

  Tipp.

  Mot.

  And Jaren.

  It was the last who reached her first, and before Kiva knew what was happening, he swept her up into his arms, taking her from Naari and striding quickly toward the infirmary.

  Kiva wanted to protest, but she didn’t have the strength to be embarrassed, let alone ask that he release her. Even if he had, she wouldn’t have been able to manage another step on her own, not without help.

  “Sorry,” she whisper-rasped into his neck, holding on tight.

  “Don’t talk,” he told her. “We’re nearly there.”

  “What h-h-happened in the Trial?” Tipp asked, jogging to keep up with Jaren’s long strides. “We saw smoke c-come out of—”

  “Hush, child,” Mot interrupted him. “Let Kiva rest awhile. Why don’t yeh come help me for the afte’noon, and yeh can check in on ’er later tonight?”

  “But—”

  “It’s all right, Tipp,” Jaren said. “I’ll take care of her.”

  Kiva’s eyes were closing of their own accord, but she still heard Tipp say, “P-Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  Kiva wasn’t sure what happened next, since she began to float in and out of consciousness. She was aware of Tipp and Mot leaving once they reached the morgue, after which she heard Naari and Jaren whispering to each other as they continued on to the infirmary. She only caught snatches of their conversation, but from what she could follow in her semi-lucid state, Naari was talking about the amulet she’d taken from Kiva, likely filling  Jaren in on how it had been imbued with the princess’s—no, the prince’s—fire magic, and that it had saved her life.

  The next thing Kiva knew, she was in the infirmary, lying on the bed she’d awoken in after the last Ordeal. But instead of Mirryn being by her side, this time it was Jaren.

  “How long was I out?” she croaked, her voice still sounding terrible.

  “Only a few minutes. We just got here,” Jaren said, pointing to Naari, who was standing by the workbench and frowning down at the organized chaos. “We’re not sure what you need. Poppymilk?”

  Kiva nodded, then shook her head, before weakly pushing aside the blanket that had been draped over her bare legs.

  “No, no, stay in bed,” Jaren said, halting her hand. “You tell us, and we’ll get it for you.”

  Kiva willed her brain to focus and rasped out a few names, being careful to mention specific dosages. Too much of the wrong combination, and she’d end up feeling worse than she already did.

  After downing copious amounts of tallowfruit nectar for her lungs and throat, crown nettle for her headache and dizziness, yellownut for an energy boost, and a small dose of poppymilk for the rest of her lingering aches and pains, Kiva proceeded to swallow nearly an entire pail of fresh, cool water, before finally lying back in her bed, ready to sleep for the next thirteen years.

  “Anything else?” Jaren asked.

  “I wouldn’t say no to some aloeweed gel,” Kiva murmured, relieved that her voice didn’t sound—or feel—as painful. It was still hoarse, but nowhere near what it had been before the swift-acting tallowfruit nectar.

  She heard Jaren leave her bedside, then the tinkering of objects being moved on the workbench, before his footsteps returned to her again. Her eyes were still closed until she felt him take her arm in his hands, followed by the cool, soothing sensation of the aloeweed being rubbed gently into her flesh.

  Kiva’s eyes shot open and she sat up. “I can do it.”

  “Lie down, Kiva,” Jaren ordered in a no-nonsense voice.

  “But—”

  “Just close your eyes and rest,” he said firmly.

  Kiva bit her lip, but the feeling of the gel on her skin was too good for her to object. She hadn’t suffered any burns, but she still felt the aftereffects of so much heat, as if the fire had burrowed deep into her bones and was trying to find a way out. The aloeweed soothed that feeling, and combined with Jaren’s long, tender strokes, Kiva soon found herself relaxing, almost entirely against her will.

  He focused his ministrations on her hands and arms, careful not to let his fingers wander anywhere else, and she in turn was careful not to mention any other places that could use attention. Once he left, she could see to the rest of her body, especially since, as the other medicines began to kick in, she remembered that she was only wearing Naari’s short cloak and a light blanket. While all her important parts were covered, she was still much more vulnerable than she’d ever been around Jaren before. Other than, perhaps, last night. But even then, they’d both been fully clothed.

>   “Better?” he asked, finishing with her other arm and sitting back down beside her.

  “Much,” she told him, again grateful not to be rasping. “Thank you.” She glanced around for Naari, wanting to thank her too for all her help, but the guard must have snuck away while Kiva was downing all her remedies.

  “I have a question for you,” Jaren said, somewhat hesitantly.

  Kiva looked back at him, noting his fiddling hands. He was nervous, though she couldn’t imagine why. She assumed he wanted to ask about the Ordeal, even if Naari had already filled him in on the amulet—which the guard hadn’t returned and Kiva doubted she would ever see again. The crest had done what she’d needed; she had no further use for it.

  A lot had happened in the crematorium, most of which Naari didn’t know, since Kiva had been alone in the furnace. She shuddered and blocked out the memory, not yet ready to talk about it, even with Jaren. She was just about to tell him as much, but he continued speaking before she could.

  “I don’t want you to think I was perving on you earlier,” Jaren began, but then he stopped.

  Kiva’s eyebrows shot upward, since she hadn’t been expecting that opener. Her body tightened slightly with surprise, but then she relaxed again, remembering who she was with and how cautious he seemed. Plus, from the sound of it, he wasn’t going to ask about the Trial, and she was eager for any kind of distraction.

  Seeking to assure him since she felt confident that, whatever he was about to say, he hadn’t been perving on her, Kiva joked, “If you don’t finish, I’m going to assume that’s exactly what you were doing.”

  Her attempt at humor didn’t ease him at all.

  “It’s just . . .” He shifted uncomfortably, like he didn’t know what to say. Or perhaps how to say it.

  “What, Jaren?”

  He rubbed his neck and avoided her eyes, finally blowing out a breath and saying, “Never mind. Forget I said anything.”

  “Just tell me,” Kiva pressed, both curious and concerned now.

  For a long moment, Jaren remained silent, as if debating with himself. But then he inhaled deeply and met her gaze again. “Your scars. On your thighs.” He paused. “I saw them when I was carrying you here. They look a lot like . . .”

  He trailed off again, but this time Kiva didn’t prompt him further. Her insides had frozen with his words, her mind locking and unable to form a coherent thought.

  “It’s nothing. They’re nothing,” she said, waving a hand dismissively. But her voice was too high, her attempted indifference too obvious.

  Jaren’s blue-gold eyes were steady on hers, and this time it was she who looked away, as if fearing he’d drag the answer right up out of her soul.

  She cleared her throat, winced at the residual pain, and wished she’d asked for a stronger dose of poppymilk, if only so that it could have knocked her out and kept her from this conversation.

  “They didn’t look like nothing,” Jaren said, his voice quiet. Coaxing, but not demanding.

  From the careful way he was holding himself and waiting patiently for her response, Kiva knew that if she repeated her answer, he’d let it go and likely never ask again. She opened her mouth to do just that, to keep her secret, but when she tried to lie to him a second time, the words wouldn’t come.

  She wasn’t sure if it was just the heady combination of all the remedies now swirling within her, but when she made herself meet Jaren’s eyes again, she wanted to tell him the truth. She’d seen the scars on his back, learned of the abuse he’d sustained in receiving them. His own hidden tapestry, and the story behind it. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to share her story, too.

  Kiva moved her eyes to the ceiling, unable to look at him while offering such a raw glimpse of her past.

  “I was twelve years old the first time I had to carve Zalindov’s symbol into someone’s flesh,” she said, barely audible, as if still deciding whether she wanted to be heard or not. “The Heartless Carver—you’ve heard their name for me. But despite what they think, despite how they see me act, I feel every single one of those marks, on every single person I carve. And I have for five years.”

  Jaren shifted toward her, but Kiva didn’t return her gaze to him.

  “I don’t do it anymore,” she whispered, one hand unconsciously moving to the blanket over her thigh. “But in the early days . . . I felt too much, and I had no one to talk to about it. Every time I carved someone, I needed an emotional release afterward, I needed to atone,” she said. “So, for every person I carved, I . . . I cut myself, too. Later, of course—when no one was around. No one ever knew.”

  She drew in a deep breath and mustered the courage to pull aside the blanket, just enough to reveal the scars on both thighs, the rest of her still covered by Naari’s cloak.

  She trailed a finger across the pink lines smudged now with charcoal, their severity having faded over the years since she’d stopped self-harming.

  “Looking back, I’m not sure if I was punishing myself for hurting others or if I thought that, by sharing in their pain, I was standing with them, even if they didn’t know, and would never know.” She swallowed. “But when it became an addiction, I knew I had to stop. I recognized the signs once I started craving the pain, the rush of endorphins that broke through the all-consuming numbness I felt. And I knew it wasn’t healthy, knew I wouldn’t be able to help anyone else if I didn’t first help myself.”

  She swallowed again. “It wasn’t easy to stop. But I took it one day at a time, one new carving at a time, and eventually the numbness faded, along with the need to hurt myself.” She ran her fingers over her scars again, and admitted, “I still feel the guilt. Every single time. But I also know that the blame isn’t on me, and I think that’s what helps the most. That’s what keeps me from falling back into old habits.” She paused, staring at the faded pink lines before finishing, “Well, that, and focusing on healing everyone who comes to me. I never want to risk not being there for them, for any reason—especially one that’s self-inflicted.”

  Kiva had run out of words. She was surprised by just how much she had revealed to Jaren, how she’d bared her wounds to him, quite literally. She still couldn’t look at him, afraid of what she might see on his face, unsure whether it would be pity or understanding or disgust . . . or a combination of all three.

  But then he was moving, standing from his seat beside her bed, and she couldn’t keep her gaze from flicking to him as he leaned toward her, closer and closer, until his lips brushed her forehead in a whisper-soft kiss.

  “Thank you for trusting me, Kiva,” he told her quietly as he pulled away enough to look into her eyes. “Thank you for sharing.”

  His face didn’t show pity, understanding, or disgust, his expression unlike anything Kiva had ever seen from him before. Warmth pooled in her core and a host of butterflies took flight in her stomach as they stared at one another, barely a breath apart.

  Kiva didn’t know what to say, wasn’t even sure if she’d be able to respond, feared she’d utter the wrong thing.

  But she didn’t need to speak at all, because Jaren broke their contact to reach for the blanket, pulling it back over her, tucking it in at the sides until she was wrapped up like a cocoon. He then took her hand and threaded his fingers with hers before laying them on her blanketed leg, right over her scars, as he said, “You need to rest.” He squeezed her hand and promised, “I’ll keep an eye on Tilda and the quarantined patients until Tipp gets here. You just let the medicine work and sleep off everything that happened today. All right?”

  His tender actions and generosity caused Kiva’s still-sore throat to tighten, keeping her from replying verbally. But she nodded, and summoned the boldness to squeeze his fingers in return.

  Jaren smiled at her, his entire face filling with open affection, and that was the image she held on to as she closed her eyes and finally allowed her body to relax after the trauma of her day. She feared the Ordeal would replay across her mind, keeping her awake, reminding
her of the fiery tempest that she’d barely survived, but no—Jaren’s smile didn’t leave her. Nor did Jaren himself, since she was aware of him moving quietly around the infirmary, checking on Tilda and then entering the quarantine room, just as he’d promised.

  Unable to keep in her own smile, Kiva snuggled deeper into her cocoon.

  Seconds later, she was asleep.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Kiva spent the rest of Saturday and the entirety of Sunday in bed, following orders from Mot, Tipp, Jaren, and Naari. By the time Monday rolled around, she was going stir crazy. Her desperation to continue researching the stomach sickness—the illness her father died from—had her up at the crack of dawn, waiting anxiously for her escort’s arrival.

  Naari took her sweet time, and when she finally appeared at the entrance to the infirmary, Kiva shot out the door.

  “Come on, come on, we have so much to do,” she said as she began walking briskly toward the front gates.

  Naari chuckled. “Someone’s been cooped up for too long.”

  “It was unnecessary,” Kiva said, sidestepping to avoid a puddle on the gravel. “I was perfectly fine yesterday.”

  The guard’s reply was dry. “Yes, you were the picture of health when you got out of bed and fell flat on your face.”

  “I was fine after that.”

  “Admit it, you just wanted Jaren’s arms around you again.”

  Kiva’s head whipped around so fast that she stumbled on the path. Sending a glare to the grinning Naari, she said, “That’s not what happened.”

  “I was there,” the guard said, her grin widening. “He was very quick to catch you—and very slow to release you.”

  Kiva grated her teeth together. “I think we should go back to walking in silence.”

  Naari laughed, genuine amusement flooding her features. “Too late, healer. You’re not afraid of me anymore. That ship has sailed.”

  “I was never afraid of you,” Kiva lied.