The Prison Healer

by Lynette Noni

  These were all facts that Kiva knew, but hearing them laid out like this, with such impending finality, made goose bumps break out on her skin.

  “Similar to your previous Trials, you’ll have a time limit for your final Ordeal,” Rooke went on. “One hour—no more, no less. If you don’t return before then, you’ll have failed, and the Rebel Queen will be executed.” He paused, then added, “Should you survive but return after that hour is complete, you’ll follow Tilda into death.”

  Kiva’s somersaulting stomach started doing backflips at the words return and survive. What in the everworld did he have planned for her?

  “One last thing,” Rooke said, as if he’d been a fountain of information, when he had not. “Given what happened in the Trial by Water and the interference by fellow prisoner D24L103, we’ve made a decision regarding his punishment.”

  Kiva jerked, and she saw Naari make a similar movement from the corner of her eye, before the guard caught herself.

  “Hasn’t he been punished enough?” Kiva croaked, her voice raspy from lack of use. She couldn’t believe she was defending  Jaren—Prince Deverick—but she also couldn’t forget that she was the reason he was in this mess to begin with. Nor could she forget the wounds on his back, the sounds of the whip hitting his skin, his blood flowing into that drain. If his injuries were half as bad as Kiva imagined, two weeks weren’t enough time for him to have healed, even if the Butcher had left him alone since then. He didn’t deserve to suffer any more.

  But the Warden didn’t agree with her, because seconds later, Jaren was hauled into the room by Bones, stumbling, clearly in pain, and struggling to remain upright even with the white-knuckled grip the guard had on him.

  “Ah, just in time,” Rooke said.

  The Butcher snickered behind Kiva, having said something similar to her before he’d slammed his cat-o’-nine-tails into Jaren’s flesh. She swallowed back the memory, her eyes locking with Jaren’s. She could almost hear his voice in her head asking if she was all right, his fear and concern—forher—splashed across his pale, pained features.

  She tore her gaze away and focused on the Warden, her heart pumping as she waited to hear what he would say.

  “Since D24L103 was so eager to join you in the third Trial,” Rooke said, “we’ve decided that he’ll share your fate in the fourth.”

  Kiva’s eyes leapt back to Jaren, and despite the tumultuous storm she felt toward him, a flare of hope lit within her. She wouldn’t have to face the Ordeal alone. He’d be with her—him and his elemental magic.

  But then she noted that his gaze had moved to Naari, so Kiva did the same, finding the guard looking aghast, like she was three seconds away from unsheathing her swords and shredding everyone in the room in order to protect her charge.

  Kiva feared bloodshed was imminent, but at the slightest of head shakes from Jaren, Naari’s fists unclenched. Her features tightened at the silent order, yet she did not reach for her blades.

  Exhaling with relief—though she wasn’t sure why, since part of her would have been very satisfied to see Naari tear down Rooke—Kiva turned back to the Warden.

  Foreboding began to curl within her at the slow smile that spread across his face. She’d been so distracted by the interplay between Jaren and Naari that she hadn’t considered why he thought sending  Jaren with her was to be a punishment.

  The Warden didn’t delay in sharing, and with six words, he revealed their fate.

  “Congratulations, you’re about to die together.”

  And then, for the second time in two weeks, something hard slammed into Kiva’s head, and she sank back into darkness.

  * * *

  When Kiva regained consciousness, the first thing she did was press her fingers to the egg on the back of her skull, wincing at how tender it was, while trying to think past the drums beating a rhythm through her brain. She was lucky she could think at all, fully aware of how serious concussions could be and how even the shortest of blackouts could cause irreversible brain damage. She’d been fortunate, no matter how much her aching head and churning gut said otherwise.

  Pushing past the pain and nausea, Kiva struggled to her feet, seeking to get her bearings. Wherever she was, it was pitch-black, and after shutting down her immediate panic that the head trauma had turned her blind, her next fear was that she’d been sent back to her isolation cell. But when she expanded her senses, she realized that it smelled different, felt different. The air wasn’t fresh, but it wasn’t foul like in the Abyss. It was . . . wet. Musty. Earthy. And while it wasn’t warm, it also wasn’t as cold as where she’d been for a fortnight; there was a humidity to it, a dampness.

  Kiva’s skin began to crawl as she reached out her hands, feeling for anything that might tell her where she was or ease her dread about where she was beginning to think she was. Waving her arms, she shuffled carefully forward, but before she could make it two steps, her foot caught on something, and she tripped, falling blindly.

  She didn’t land on solid ground.

  She landed on something hard, but also soft.

  Something that groaned when her weight landed on it; something that moved.

  There was only one thing it could be.

  Only one person it could be.

  Kiva hurried to untangle herself from Jaren in the darkness, accidentally elbowing him as she scrambled backwards, eliciting another moan of pain.

  “Sorry!” she rasped out. The last thing she wanted was to apologize to him, of all people, but it was an automatic response.

  “Kiva?” Jaren rasped back, his voice equally hoarse with lack of use. “Is that you?”

  She wanted to snap out a barbed reply asking who else would it be, but she held her tongue, only saying, “Yes, it’s me.”

  Another low moan, followed by the rustling sound of Jaren sitting up.

  “My head feels like it’s been split in two,” he said.

  Kiva didn’t confirm that she felt the same. She didn’t know what to say to him at all.

  “Hang on,” Jaren said. “Just let me—”

  Kiva recoiled and shielded her face as fire burst into being, like a floating ball of flames lighting the space around them. Her eyes watered as they adjusted, but then she was able to take in where they were, her fears confirmed.

  “We’re in the tunnels,” Jaren said, realizing it as well, his tone almost puzzled.

  Kiva looked at him, seeing him for what felt like the first time. A prince, disguised as a prisoner, still wearing the same clothes she’d seen him in two weeks ago, but now stained with blood. His blood. If she didn’t know who he really was, if she didn’t have the evidence of it floating in the air before her, she never would have believed it possible.

  “Kiva, did you hear me?” Jaren asked, looking from the tunnel back to her. What he saw on her face caused him to still.

  “You should have told me.”

  The five words came from somewhere deep within her. Somewhere that had been fed by betrayal and hurt for the last eight days. Somewhere that was laced with all her pain and loneliness from the last ten years.

  “Kiva . . .”

  “You should have told me!” she repeated, returning to her feet, needing not to be on the ground for whatever was about to unfold.

  Jaren followed after her, his face ghostly pale and tight with pain as he struggled first to his knees and then the rest of the way. Kiva didn’t reach out to help him, resisting every healer instinct within her to hold on to her anger.

  “I tried to tell you,” Jaren said, panting lightly at how difficult it had been for him to rise, one hand pressed to his abdomen. He leaned a shoulder against the limestone wall, using it to brace himself and remain standing. “In the garden, before we found Tipp. I was going to tell you then.”

  “Would that have been before or after you kissed me?” Kiva said in a hard voice. She remembered that moment clearly, how he’d been leaning in, his breath whispering across her lips. She shoved the memory away, refusin
g to acknowledge how it still made her feel.

  “Before,” Jaren said, his tone calm, soothing, as if talking to a wild animal. “I’ve been wanting to tell you for a while, but never found the right time. I wasn’t going to let things go further between us before you knew.”

  “You’ve had nine weeks, Jaren!” Kiva cried, ignoring the fact that the last two were spent with them in separate punishment cells. “Even after that night in the garden, there were still days before what happened in the quarry. You could have told me at any time. You should have told me at any time.”

  “And what would I have said?” Jaren asked, his calm tone morphing into exasperation. “‘Guess what, I’ve been lying to you about who I am. Please don’t hate me for it’? Yeah, I’m sure you would have been fine with that.”

  “Of course I wouldn’t have been fine!” Kiva said, loud enough to echo off the tunnel walls. In the back of her mind, she knew they should be focusing on the Trial by Earth, figuring out where they were and trying to find their way aboveground before the allocated hour was up. But too much was simmering within her for her to think about anything but the person in front of her. The prince in front of her.

  “I don’t know what I can say to make this better,” Jaren said, running his free hand through his hair.

  “You can tell me why!” Kiva cried, the word breaking.

  Jaren’s face softened. She didn’t want to see him looking at her like that, realizing just how upset she was.

  “No one knows the full story,” he said quietly, moving a step toward her, but then buckling slightly and shifting back to lean against the wall again, his second hand now pressed to his abdomen as well. Kiva noted the move, a distant part of her frowning, but before she could muster her inner healer and ask if he was all right, he continued, “Only Naari.” He paused. “I assume you know . . . ?”

  “That she’s your Golden Shield?” Kiva said. “Yeah. You’re both just full of surprises.”

  Jaren had the decency to look contrite, but Kiva remained unmoved.

  Taking a deep breath, then wincing and paling further, Jaren revealed, “I came to Zalindov to get information about the rebel movement.”

  Kiva froze. “What?”

  “We heard that Tilda Corentine had been arrested, but she was found across the border in Mirraven, outside of our jurisdiction,” Jaren explained, something Kiva already knew. “Mirraven’s ruling house wouldn’t even consider handing her to us, despite knowing the history between the Vallentis and Corentine bloodlines. They delighted in making it impossible for us to talk with her, not without us starting a war with them.”

  “Talk with her,” Kiva repeated, her voice little more than a croak. “You mean interrogate her.”

  Jaren watched her carefully, clearly weighing his words. “I know you’re sympathetic to her cause, you’ve already told me as much.”

  Everworld help her, he was right. She’d told the crown prince and his most trusted guard that she understood the rebels’ motives. She might as well have said she was one of them, for all the difference it would have made. If she weren’t already locked up in Zalindov, that was exactly where she would be headed for such an admission. Her father had been arrested for less.

  “Your compassion for them is admirable,” Jaren continued. “And your reasoning is sound.”

  Kiva’s mouth fell open. She quickly closed it again.

  “But that doesn’t change the facts,” he went on. “What I told you that night remains true: there’s been too much unrest from the rebel movement in recent years, and none more so than in the last few months. Their uprising is in full swing, with them hell-bent on creating havoc and discord throughout not just Evalon, but beyond it. And Tilda Corentine has been their figurehead, recruiting more and more followers and rallying them against the Vallentis crown. My crown.”

  Kiva’s blood was like ice. No wonder Jaren had never liked Tilda. They were sworn enemies.

  “I won’t lie,” Jaren said, “it was hard hearing you defend her cause.”

  “I didn’t defend her cause.” Kiva’s mouth spoke before she gave it permission. “I just said that I saw where they were coming from.” She shook her head, clearing her thoughts. “You still haven’t explained why you’re here. What information did you think you’d find?”

  “I came for Tilda,” Jaren said, as if it were obvious. And really, it was, even if Kiva struggled to accept it, to understand. “When Mirraven finally agreed to send her here, I realized there was a way for someone to speak with her—yes, all right, interrogate her—without them knowing. We can’t risk open war right now. But if someone could come in undercover and get close to her, encourage her to reveal her plans . . . It made sense to try.”

  “It made sense?” Kiva repeated, incredulous.

  Jaren reached up to scratch his jaw, then quickly returned his hand to his middle. “In hindsight, it was a foolish plan.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “We all knew it was a risk,” Jaren defended himself. “But we couldn’t let the chance slip by, not when the knowledge Tilda holds could be vital for the safety of our kingdom.”

  “Pause there,” Kiva said, holding up her hand. “Who is we?”

  “There were three of us in on the plan. I was only meant to be overseeing it from afar,” Jaren said. “Once we found out Tilda was coming, Naari and another Royal Guard volunteered to infiltrate the prison. But that other guard, Eidran—”

  “Broke his leg,” Kiva said, suddenly recalling Naari’s words in the Abyss. “So you came in his place.”

  Jaren squinted at her. “You already know?”

  “That’s all. Nothing else.”

  Jaren considered her words, then explained, “My sister and I were heading to our family’s winter palace in the Tanestra Mountains when news arrived about Tilda’s capture. I sent a missive to my parents, but as frustrated as they were, all they could do was try to negotiate with Mirraven for Tilda to be brought to Zalindov. I knew those negotiations would take weeks—enough time for Naari, Eidran, and me to form a plan; enough time for Naari to go on ahead and insinuate herself as a prison guard, waiting for Eidran, who would arrive later and assimilate with the other inmates, then find a way to interrogate the Rebel Queen.”

  “But then Eidran was injured,” Kiva said.

  Jaren nodded, a sheen of sweat beginning to dust his forehead, his eyes glazed with pain. “The timing was terrible—it happened the day he was meant to be transferred here. I made a snap decision and took his place when the wagon from Vallenia passed by the winter palace, figuring I’d get into the prison, get answers, and then Naari would sneak me out, as had been the plan with Eidran.”

  He paused, then admitted, “We didn’t know Tilda was sick, though. Or that she’d been sentenced to the Trial by Ordeal. That wasn’t something my parents had shared before I arrived. I had to change tactics after those discoveries, which meant staying longer than intended. I moved my focus to the other rebels in here, trying to get them to trust me enough to offer any scraps of information. But I made a crucial error in judgment.”

  “Just one?” Kiva said.

  Jaren ignored her tone and said, “I didn’t realize Cresta was their leader. And after I defended you to her that night . . .” He shook his head. “Let’s just say I had trouble making friends with them from that point onward, no matter how hard I tried.”

  Kiva thought back to when he’d arrived in the infirmary after scrapping with the rebels, recalling the strained look on his face when she’d told him who Cresta was. She’d thought he’d been worried about making enemies. She’d had no idea that he’d wanted them to be his friends—if only so he could use them, then toss them away.

  “Sounds like you got more than you bargained for, coming here,” Kiva stated, unable to summon any compassion.

  Jaren sighed, then winced as the movement jolted his torso. “Admittedly, my plan fell apart alarmingly fast, but my strategy was sound.”

  In a flat vo
ice, Kiva said, “That strategy being that you’d make everyone think you were a prisoner, not a prince.”

  Jaren grimaced. It was the first time she’d used his title, and the word hung in the air between them.

  “I thought staying undercover would help the rebels think I was one of them,” Jaren confessed, sliding a little further down the wall, as if even leaning against it was requiring too much effort. “After realizing Tilda wasn’t going to be able to share anything, I thought I could become a part of a community here, that her followers might trust me and reveal . . . I don’t know . . . something that could help.”

  “Help what?” Kiva demanded, her anger flaring again. “Help you keep your kingdom? Your crown?”

  “Screw my crown,” Jaren said, his declaration heated enough to surprise her. “I don’t care about that, I care about them.” He waved an arm but then winced again and quickly returned it to his stomach. “My people—they’re who I care about. They’re the ones who are suffering and dying because of this uprising. Husbands, wives, children. Innocents. It’s turning into a civil war.” His eyes were locked on hers, glowing in the light of the fire. “And despite how it might sound to you, I care about what’s happening to the rebels, too. Because whether they like it or not, they’re my people as well. As long as they call Evalon home, they come under my family’s protection.” The flames in his eyes dulled as sadness filled his voice. “But I can’t protect them from themselves.”

  Kiva’s head was spinning from all that Jaren had just revealed, from the heart he’d just shared. She wanted to keep hating him for lying to her—and for who he was. But this . . .

  You have a right to be angry, but don’t let that stop you from forgiving him. He did what he did for the right reasons.

  Naari’s rebuke floated across Kiva’s mind as she stared at Jaren, considering her next move. He gave her that time, watching her in silence, waiting to see what she would say.

  He was the reason she’d lost her family and was in Zalindov to begin with. Maybe not directly, but the throne he represented.