The Prison Healer

by Lynette Noni

  “Nothing I can recall, sweets,” Olisha said.

  Kiva frowned. “And he hasn’t been back all day? You’re sure?”

  Olisha looked uncertain, like she was second-guessing herself. “I don’t think so.” She looked toward the rat pen, as if the answers lay with the vermin.

  “You coming, Lish?” Nergal interrupted. “ ’S nearly dinner time.”

  Olisha smacked her lips together, acting like she hadn’t eaten in three years, and glanced quickly at Kiva, seeking permission to leave.

  Barely refraining from rolling her eyes, Kiva said, “Go. I won’t need you during the day tomorrow, but I will on Thursday.”

  “See you then,” Olisha said, before hurrying after Nergal, who had never paid any heed to Kiva’s position of authority over him. She was a prisoner, just as he was—that was all he saw when he looked at her.

  Over the last few weeks, neither Olisha nor Nergal had asked a single question about the sickness that was spreading, or the research Kiva was doing. They hadn’t even batted an eyelash upon first seeing the rat pen, as if she frequently conducted experiments in the middle of the infirmary. Perhaps it was because they spent barely any time in the quarantine room, so they didn’t understand the severity of what was happening; perhaps they didn’t realize how rapidly it was spreading, how many were dying. Or perhaps they simply didn’t care, and therefore didn’t want to be kept informed. Either way, Kiva wasn’t sure if she was relieved not to have to answer their questions at the end of each day or if she was annoyed that they weren’t worried enough to offer more help.

  Placing her hands on her hips, Kiva looked around the infirmary and wondered aloud, “Tipp, where are you?”

  With only Tilda in the room, no answer came, so Kiva shrugged and began organizing her samples, before feeding them to the rats. She then noticed that she was nearly out of Augury Elixir, so after force-feeding Tilda some broth and checking on the quarantined patients, she followed Mot’s instructions to brew a fresh potion. Most of the ingredients were already on her workbench, but the everberries and snowblossoms needed to be picked fresh from the garden, so Kiva gave the elixir a good stir and was just about to head outside to collect them when Jaren and Naari walked through the infirmary door.

  “Perfect timing,” Kiva said. “Can one of you please stir this?”

  She held out the ladle to Jaren when he reached her first. He was covered in tunnel dust as usual, but the bruises and scrapes on his face from his altercation with Cresta’s lackeys had healed, leaving just the thin crescent-shaped scar over his left eye from the day he’d arrived at Zalindov.

  “Back in a second,” she said, pointing to the door leading to the medicinal garden.

  “What, no ‘Hi, how was your day?’” he returned, sending her a tired but still teasing grin.

  “I’d ask if I cared,” Kiva threw over her shoulder as she walked away, not allowing him to see her smile.

  Naari caught it, though, her amber eyes sparkling as she took the ladle from Jaren and told him, “Why don’t you help Kiva with . . . whatever she’s doing.”

  Everworld help me, Kiva thought at Naari’s lack of subtlety. Whatever might be going on between the guard and Jaren, it clearly wasn’t stopping her from playing matchmaker. Maybe she hadn’t lied about her relationship with him, after all.

  “I’m good,” Kiva called back to them.

  “I don’t mind helping,” Jaren said, and she heard his footsteps following her. “Speaking of help, where’s Tipp?”

  Kiva waited for Jaren by the door, then opened it for the both of them. “Olisha said he took off this morning and didn’t come back. I’m trying not to worry, but . . .” She plucked at the fraying edge of her tunic. “It’s not like him, you know?”

  “Have you checked with Mot?” Jaren asked. “He might be with him in the morgue again.” His eyes lit as he added, “Or playing another prank on him.”

  “Gods, I hope not,” Kiva groaned, walking out into the brisk night air and rubbing her arms against the chill, the tall gabbergrass rising up around them. “They’re finally on good terms after the last one.”

  “You have to admit, the kid has an imagination,” Jaren said, chuckling.

  “He certainly does,” Kiva agreed. Quietly, she added, “He was meant for more than this. The world needs people like him out there in it, shining light into the dark places. He’s wasted in here.”

  “He won’t be here forever,” Jaren replied, just as quietly. “Neither will you.”

  Kiva turned to him, the moonlight shining down and accentuating his strong features. She’d never held much of an interest in art, but looking at him now, her fingers itched for some paint, for some charcoal, for anything that could capture his near-perfect angles. She wondered if he knew how appealing he was, wondered if, before Zalindov, he’d used his looks to his advantage. Perhaps that was what had led him here, an illicit liaison or a secret affair. A courtier’s daughter, a guard’s sister, a nobleman’s wife—any of them could have cost him his freedom. But Kiva didn’t think that was it. While Jaren was roguishly charming, she doubted he had an unfaithful bone in his body.

  “I hope you’re right,” Kiva said, looking away from him and down at the wallowroot saplings near her feet.

  Gentle fingers on her chin had her head tilting upward again, his hand cupping her face.

  “Something to know about me, Kiva Meridan,” Jaren said softly, “is that I’m always right.”

  Out of nowhere, Kiva’s heart began to thump madly in her chest. It was so loud that she was sure Jaren must be able to hear it. But he gave no indication, only stared into her eyes, the moonlight flowing like liquid between them, dusting everything with a glittering bluish-silver.

  Kiva was frozen to the spot, unsure if she wanted to push Jaren away or if she wanted to pull him closer. Her brain was screaming warnings at her, telling her she needed to keep her distance, the tunnel dust on his face a damning reminder of where he worked and the odds of his survival. He, like all of Zalindov’s laborers, had one foot in the grave, whether he knew it or not.

  But . . . Cresta had survived for years working in the quarry, and a handful of other prisoners had defied certain death as well. Maybe Jaren would be among them—maybe he would live long enough for it to count.

  Kiva, however, still had two Ordeals to face, either of which could take her life. And if by some miracle she survived, she would then be free to leave Zalindov, never to see Jaren again.

  They were doomed to fail before they even started.

  And yet, despite what her mind was telling her, despite all the rules she had carefully maintained for years, when he inched forward, Kiva didn’t stop him. Her hand rose of its own accord, clutching his dirt-smeared tunic as she leaned into him, her knees wobbling as he continued closing the distance between them.

  “Kiva,” he whispered, his breath touching her lips.

  A shiver ran down her spine, her eyes drifting shut as one of his hands trailed through her hair before coming to a rest at the base of her neck.

  “Kiva,” he whispered again. “There’s something I need to—” He broke off suddenly, his body tensing against hers. “Did you hear that?”

  Kiva’s eyes fluttered back open. Dazedly, she asked, “Hear what?”

  But then she heard it, a low, moaning sound.

  Jaren pointed deeper into the garden, the gabbergrass obscuring their view. “It came from over there.”

  “Maybe it’s Boots?” Kiva offered. She’d been doing her best to keep the cat out of the infirmary and away from the rats, and the little beast was moodier than normal because of it. But even so, she’d never heard Boots make such a noise before.

  “Maybe,” Jaren said, though he didn’t sound convinced.

  The moan came again, and something about it struck Kiva as familiar.

  Too familiar.

  Ice flooded her veins, and without thinking, she took off into the darkness, hearing  Jaren’s footsteps right be
hind hers.

  The garden was only small, so she barely had to round one bend before she skidded to a halt, finding the small body curled on the ground beside the overgrown thistlewort bush, pale and shivering in the moonlight.

  It was Tipp.

  And he was sick.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The night that followed was one of the worst Kiva had ever experienced.

  After Jaren sprinted back into the infirmary with Tipp in his arms, Kiva helped lay him on the bed opposite Tilda, ignoring all quarantine procedures in favor of keeping him within reach at all times. His fever was off the charts, with him clutching his stomach and moaning, but otherwise unable to communicate anything to Kiva about what he was feeling.

  She forced remedy after remedy down his throat, half of which he vomited up, so in an act of desperation, she cut open his forearm and shoved a small, hollowed tube into his vein, funneling medicine directly into his bloodstream. She’d attempted it with some of the other ill patients without success, but this was Tipp. He had to survive. He had to.

  Three hours passed.

  Six hours.

  Twelve.

  Jaren and Naari stayed with Kiva, fetching her fresh water and clean linens, preparing medicines, removing buckets of sick. When the time came for Jaren to begin working in the tunnels, he didn’t leave, and Naari didn’t make him. The three of them remained with Tipp, watching the young boy, waiting for any sign of improvement—or deterioration.

  Kiva couldn’t stop berating herself for leaving the boy so alone, distracted as she’d been by her research and the Ordeals. If only he’d gone with her to collect her samples yesterday, then maybe . . .

  It was useless, she knew. She had no idea what had made him sick, just as she had no idea what was making anyone sick. She called herself a healer, but what did she really know? She’d never had any official training, nor had she apprenticed under a master or studied at an academy. All she knew was what her father had taught her in the short time they’d had together, and with such limited resources. Nothing had prepared her for an illness of this magnitude, for how many people were dying without any known cause . . . for the possibility of losing another person she loved.

  Her father had already succumbed to this sickness. She couldn’t stand the thought that Tipp might soon follow in his footsteps.

  “K-Kiva?”

  Kiva’s head shot upward. Confusion fogged her mind before adrenaline cleared it, making her realize that she’d dozed off with her cheek on Tipp’s bed, her sleepless night and the long hours of the previous day having caught up to her.

  “Tipp,” she gasped, reaching for his hands. They were ice-cold, but also clammy with sweat. She frowned at the sensation, since none of the other sick patients had exhibited a similar symptom, but she cast it from her mind and focused on the young boy staring at her with tears in his scared blue eyes.

  “Am I g-g-going to die?”

  “Of course not,” Kiva told him sternly, as if the idea was preposterous, even if every part of her was shriveling on the inside.

  Two sets of footsteps approached from behind her, belonging to Jaren and Naari. Strong hands came to rest on her shoulders, and a whiff of honey, ginger, and mint touched her nose—ingredients she’d asked Jaren to mix into a healing tea in the hope that Tipp might be able to drink some.

  “Hey, buddy, looking good,” Jaren said from over Kiva’s shoulder.

  “J-Jaren,” Tipp said, his pale lips stretching into a smile. It made him look even more sickly, like the effort cost him dearly. “You’re here.”

  “Where else would I be?” Jaren said, letting go of Kiva to crouch beside the bed. “This is where all the fun is.”

  Tipp laughed, a low, almost painful sound. Kiva wasn’t sure if she wanted Jaren to shut up and go away so the young boy could rest or if it was more important for him to lift Tipp’s spirits and give him a fighting chance.

  “And N-Naari, too,” Tipp said, looking over Kiva’s shoulder to where the guard stood.

  “I wouldn’t try talking to her,” Jaren warned conspiratorially. “She skipped breakfast, so you know what that means.”

  Tipp’s smile widened, a hint of light touching his cloudy eyes. “Hungry?”

  Jaren nodded solemnly. “And angry. She’s worse than a wooka after hibernation.”

  Naari made a grumbling noise from behind Kiva, but Tipp laughed again, this time not sounding so painful. Kiva had to bite her cheek to keep in her tears, the sight of him so animated, so alive, while also looking so small in the infirmary bed was almost too much for her to bear.

  “What do you think about some tea?” Kiva asked, her voice wobbling only a little. “Jaren made it, so there’s a good chance it’ll make you feel worse—”

  “Hey!”

  “—but it should help soothe your tummy a bit,” Kiva continued over Jaren’s protest. “Sound good?”

  Tipp curled in on himself, as if daunted by the idea of trying to ingest anything after having brought so much up in such a short period of time. And yet, he still said, “I c-can try.”

  Kiva heard the distress in his voice, even if he tried to hide it. She wanted to tell him they could try later, but he desperately needed some fluids. Dehydration would only make him feel worse.

  “Just a little,” Kiva said, as Jaren rose from his crouch and went to collect the brew. “A few sips.”

  But Tipp wasn’t able to manage a few sips. He was gagging after the first one, tears streaming down his cheeks as he apologized over and over.

  “Shhh, it’s all right,” Kiva told him, sitting on the bed beside him and running her hands through his sweaty hair.

  “I’m s-s-sorry!” he cried. “I t-tried!” He looked at her through watery eyes filled with fear as he sobbed, “I don’t want t-t-to die!”

  Kiva swallowed back her own sob, her heart aching. She kept her face void of all that she was feeling, hiding her dread and panic, and broke all her rules by lying down and pulling him into her arms. His small, feverish body burrowed into hers, clutching tightly, like she was his only lifeline left in the world.

  “I’m here,” Kiva whispered as he trembled against her, his tears and sweat soaking into her tunic. “I’m here, Tipp.”

  She kept repeating herself, reminding him that she was there, that she wouldn’t leave him, until he finally cried himself into an exhausted sleep. Even then, Kiva didn’t let him go, holding him close, feeling the rise and fall of his chest, the steadiness of his breathing, the life that remained within him, for however long he had left.

  “Kiva?”

  She looked away from the boy in her arms and up at Jaren, his tender concern prompting tears to pool in her eyes. She tore her gaze away, carefully extricating herself from Tipp’s hold and tucking the blankets around him, just as Jaren had done for her eleven days earlier.

  “I just— Can you— I need—” Kiva couldn’t finish a sentence, her throat painfully tight as she tried to keep her tears from overflowing. Unable to look at Jaren again and the compassion she knew she’d see on his face, she turned to Naari and said, “We need more gingerweed.”

  When the guard made a move toward the door, Kiva threw out her hand. “No, I’ll get it. Can you— Can you just watch him for a minute? Both of you? I’ll be— I’ll be right back.”

  And without waiting for them to agree, Kiva took off across the infirmary and out the door into the medicinal garden.

  “Kiva!” Jaren called after her. “Kiva, wait!”

  She didn’t wait, not even when she heard him following. She kept going, rounding the bend until she reached the thistlewort, the place where they’d found Tipp the previous night, now bathed in soft, morning sunlight.

  “Kiva, stop.”

  A hand on her shoulder. That was all it took for her to crumble.

  Jaren caught her before her knees could hit the dirt, turning her in his arms and pulling her close as the tears she’d been trying so hard to keep in began to stream like rivers
down her face.

  “I can’t lose him!” she cried into his chest.

  Jaren held her tighter, rubbing her back soothingly. “Shhh. I’ve got you.”

  Tear after tear fell from Kiva, all her fear and sorrow flooding out of her, until finally her sobbing eased, giving way to exhaustion.

  In a rasping whisper of a voice, her words full of anguish, Kiva repeated, “I can’t lose him, Jaren.”

  “I know,” he whispered back, still holding her close, his arms curled tightly around her.

  She pulled away just enough to look up at him, meeting his concerned blue-gold gaze.

  “You don’t know,” she said hoarsely. “I can’t lose him.”

  Jaren reached for her face, gently wiping away her tears. “Sweetheart, I know.”

  “He’s like a brother to me,” she said, unable to keep from acknowledging the truth, the depth of care she had for the young boy. “I can’t—” She broke off in another sob, but then caught hold of herself, breathing deeply. “I can’t lose another brother. I just can’t.”

  And that’s when it came pouring out of her, the story of how Kerrin had been killed trying to keep their father from being arrested, how Kiva had been swept away to Zalindov with Faran, only to lose him less than a year later. The whole time she spoke, Jaren held her against his chest, embracing her in his solid, comforting warmth.

  When, finally, the last of her tears fell and the tension left her body, she didn’t have it in her to feel embarrassed, not on top of every other emotion she was dealing with. She did, however, manage to step out of Jaren’s arms and whisper, “Sorry.”

  He shook his head. “Never apologize for loving someone. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.”

  Kiva inhaled deeply in an effort to keep the tears from starting all over again. Enough crying. As long as there was breath in Tipp’s body, she would not give up on him. He was young, he was healthy. If anyone could survive this, it was him. He had to survive this.