The Prison Healer

by Lynette Noni

  You’re to be imprisoned for suspected treason against the crown.

  Only . . . Jaren didn’t know. She’d told him about her brother’s death and that she’d been imprisoned with her father, but she’d never said what Faran Meridan had been arrested for, how he’d been spotted near a rebel in the marketplace. She hadn’t even mentioned that it was a Royal Guard who had killed Kerrin, which would have been a dead giveaway.

  Jaren had no idea his family was responsible for all that she’d suffered through in the last decade.

  “I’m not sure what else I can say, Kiva,” Jaren finally said, his voice weaker than before, his strength swiftly fading. “I understand that you’re mad at me, but even you have to see that I was trying to save lives. I couldn’t tell you until I trusted you. I couldn’t risk anyone finding out who I was, because that would have jeopardized everything.” He shook his head woefully. “Not that it matters now. I’ve learned nothing of worth since coming here. I failed, spectacularly.”

  “If you weren’t getting information,” Kiva croaked out, “and you were never a real prisoner, then why didn’t you just leave?”

  His blue-gold gaze locked on hers. “Because I found a reason to stay.”

  Kiva’s legs nearly gave out, his meaning impossible to miss.

  “You’re a fool,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

  She expected his eyes to shutter and hurt to flash across his face. Instead, his lips stretched into a wry, self-deprecating smile.

  “My sister said the same thing when she accosted me after the first Ordeal. Only she used much stronger words.”

  Kiva recalled him sharing that only Naari and the injured Eidran had known the full version of his noble—but stupid—plan. “You didn’t even tell your family?”

  “Mirryn and my cousin Caldon both knew a little.” He paused, before explaining further, “My brother, Oriel, was meant to be meeting Mirry and me at the winter palace, but he decided to stay in Vallenia at the last minute. Cal came instead, arriving a few days before Eidran broke his leg, so both he and Mirry were there when I changed the plan. I told them as much as I dared, then swore them to secrecy.” Jaren’s gaze turned inward as he went on, “When I learned that my family was to witness the first Trial, I had Naari send a message to Cal, begging him to come and act as if he was me. We’ve done it before—we’re the same height and build, and the masks hide our faces. Plus, he owed me a favor.” A quick, quiet snort. “Multiple favors. People call me reckless, but Caldon is a menace.”

  A menace, indeed. Kiva now realized it was Jaren’s cousin who had been on the gallows that day, and then had later come into the infirmary and flirted with her. She’d thought he was the one who had saved her. But it had never been him, never been Caldon.

  “You saved me,” Kiva stated numbly, having already figured out the truth deep in the bowels of the Abyss but wanting to hear his confirmation, his admission. “In the Ordeals. All of them. Right from the first one, the Trial by Air.”

  Jaren’s cheeks darkened slightly, barely discernible in the flamelight but enough to give him away. “I couldn’t stand to watch you die,” he said quietly. “I was just lucky that Mirry and Cal realized what I’d done and covered for me.” His tone filled with remorse as he continued, “I was so angry with myself afterward. Not for catching you,” he added quickly, “but for taking so long to decide to do it, which left you hitting the ground so hard . . .” He trailed off, his eyes apologetic.

  The prince should have caught you sooner, Jaren had said after the first Ordeal, his face tight with anger as he’d talked about himself, berated himself. But Kiva barely remembered the pain she’d felt, so his regret—for that—was unnecessary.

  “And the amulet? That was you, too?” she said, though she already knew the answer. “That was why you weren’t concerned about me before the fire Ordeal? Because you knew the magic, your magic, would protect me?”

  Jaren looked even more uncomfortable, but he nodded.

  “And then the water Ordeal . . . Why, Jaren? Why save me?”

  “Because you’re good, Kiva,” he said, as if that was all that mattered. “I’ve watched you with the other prisoners—even people like Cresta, who go out of their way to make your life miserable—and you treat all of them the same. Hell, you even treat the Rebel Queen like the rest of them. Better, even. And I know you’ve already told me why, just as I know I’ll never fully understand. But I don’t have to, because I can see your heart. You didn’t deserve to die, and it was within my power to keep you alive. So I did.”

  The enormity of what he was sharing wasn’t lost on her. He’d interfered with the Trial by Ordeal, not once, not twice, but three times. He’d saved her life, over and over again.

  “I don’t know what to do with that,” she admitted, her voice hoarse.

  “You don’t have to do anything with it,” he said, sliding further down the limestone wall, sounding weaker by the second. “You once told me that the world needs people like Tipp out there in it, that he’s wasted in here. I’d argue that the same is true about you.” Quieter, he finished, “I don’t expect anything from you, Kiva. I just want you to live. I want you to be free. And for that, you need to survive.”

  Kiva closed her eyes at his words, at the longing she felt in her soul for them to be true. And they could be—right now, they were only just barely out of her reach. All she had to do was make it through this Trial, and she would have all of what Jaren wanted for her, all of what she wanted for herself.

  “Then I guess we’d better find a way out of these tunnels,” Kiva said, emotion clogging her voice. She was sure everything she felt toward Jaren was shining in her eyes when she reopened them, so she looked away from him and into the dark passageway. “But we’re running out of time. And Rooke seemed pretty confident that we would die down here.”

  “We’ll be out within the hour, easily,” Jaren said. At Kiva’s surprised look, he added, “Rooke made a mistake sending me. He all but guaranteed your success.”

  Kiva raised an eyebrow.

  “That sounded cockier than I intended,” Jaren said, his cheeks flushing again. “I just meant—” He shrugged slightly with his embarrassment, but the motion cost him, and he cut off with a groan, slipping even further down the wall, nearly on the ground again.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Kiva finally found it in her to ask. “Is it your back?”

  But she knew it wasn’t, not from the way he was holding himself.

  “I’m fine,” Jaren panted, trying to reclaim the height he’d lost. “I just need a second.”

  Kiva stepped toward him. “Let me see.”

  “I’m fine, Kiva,” he repeated. “Really, it’s noth—”

  “Let me see,” she interrupted, using her sternest healer voice.

  Jaren didn’t protest again, but he did sink down until he was on the ground completely, his shoulder propped against the wall, keeping his back from it, but also keeping his front from it.

  “What happened?” she asked, pushing aside the sea of emotion still swirling within her to focus on him.

  “The Butcher decided to leave me with a parting gift,” Jaren shared, if reluctantly.

  Kiva’s stomach hollowed out as she knelt before him. Slowly, carefully, she reached for the hem of his tunic, drawing it up above the waistline of his pants, her mind at war with her heart. Inch by inch, his torso was exposed, the muscles rippling as the firelight revealed what the Butcher had done.

  Kiva sucked in a swift breath at the deep, multicolored bruises, her eyes flicking up to Jaren’s to find him watching her steadily, waiting for her verdict.

  Don’t think of him as a prince, she told herself, knowing it was what her father would have said. Don’t even think of him as Jaren—and definitely don’t think of him as a Vallentis. Just think of him as a patient.

  “Let’s see what we have to work with here,” she said, forcing lightness into her voice, before she gently pressed her hand to his fle
sh.

  Jaren hissed, and Kiva snapped her arm back, looking at him with concern, since she’d barely touched him.

  “Sorry, your fingers are cold,” Jaren said, sounding embarrassed. Looking it, too.

  Kiva could have laughed. Might have, had she not been so raw from everything they’d just waded through.

  “We can’t all make fire burst from our hands,” Kiva said, though she did rub hers together to heat them a little before reaching for him again.

  As carefully as possible, she pushed against his bruises, trying to determine how bad the damage was. Despite everything, she hated that she was causing him pain, unable to miss his staggered breathing and muscle clenches every time she pressed too deep.

  Kiva wasn’t sure who was more relieved when she finally sat back and declared, “A few cracked ribs, but I don’t think there’s internal bleeding. We’ll keep an eye on you, just to be sure.”

  “Does that mean you’re not going to leave me on my own down here?”

  His tone was joking, but Kiva saw a hint of worry in his eyes—not about whether she’d abandon him in his injured state, but about whether she was still upset enough to consider it.

  Kiva didn’t ease his mind and only said, “Lean forward. I want to check your back.”

  “It’s—”

  “If you say ‘it’s fine,’ I will leave you down here.”

  Jaren promptly leaned forward, and Kiva pushed his tunic further up. What she saw caused her to simultaneously ice over and fill with fire. The deep, thick wounds were only partially healed, even after a fortnight. What the Butcher had done . . . the damage he had caused . . .

  “These are healing well,” Kiva made herself say as she tried to stifle her anger—and her guilt. She ran her finger along one of the scabs, and Jaren shivered at her touch. “They look sore, though.”

  “It was worth it,” Jaren said quietly, causing Kiva’s heart to stutter at his implication. He cleared his throat and added, “But yeah, they don’t feel great. Walking isn’t much fun.”

  He didn’t need to mention what they both knew—that the Butcher’s newest beating had only enhanced his pain.

  Having nothing on hand to help him, Kiva was just about to release his tunic when her eyes fell on one of his older scars, buried beneath fresher scabs, but still there. Seeking a distraction—any distraction—from how she felt at seeing his newer wounds, she touched a finger to it, causing  Jaren to shiver again, but then he froze when she said, “You said someone close to you did this.”

  Jaren pulled away from her, lowering his tunic himself. “Forget what I said.”

  Forget?

  Forget?

  He was the heir to the throne, one of the most protected people in the kingdom. And someone had hurt him. Had abused him. How could she just forget about that?

  “Seriously,” Jaren said firmly, seeing her expression. “Just drop it.”

  Kiva saw red. “Drop it?” she repeated, her anger rising anew. “You’re willing to trust me with your magic and your identity and your secret, forbidden plans, but not this?”

  Jaren remained silent.

  Her fury growing, Kiva pointed a finger right in his face and said, “After everything we’ve been through! After the Trials and the poison—the gods-damned poison that Naari swears your family will stop—after all that, you want me to just—”

  “It was my mother, all right!”

  Kiva lurched backwards, Jaren’s shouted words echoing down the tunnel.

  The queen had hurt him? Queen Ariana had scarred him?

  The fire flickered, as if reacting to Jaren’s distress.

  “She— It’s—” He broke off, cursed, ran a hand over his face, wincing as the move tugged at his abdomen. Taking a deep breath, he tried again. “It’s not really her. It’s the angeldust. She has a problem with it, sometimes takes too much. Too often. When that happens, she forgets who she is, gets confused, loses control.”

  Compassion rose within Kiva, dousing her earlier fury. All of it.

  She couldn’t believe what she was hearing, but it was clear Jaren wasn’t lying. It also explained why he wouldn’t take poppymilk or any other addictive drug. He’d seen what they could do when used incorrectly. He’d felt the effects. He lived with the scars.

  She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but he got in first.

  “Please,” he rasped out. “Don’t look at me like that. Don’t look at me like I’m broken.”

  Kiva didn’t think he was broken. After everything she’d learned about him, she thought he just might be one of the strongest people she knew.

  And that terrified her.

  “Come on,” she said, rising to her feet and holding out her hand. “We should get going.”

  Jaren stared at her fingers as if they would bite.

  “You’re not saying anything,” he said.

  “I just said something,” Kiva returned. “I said we should—”

  “About my mother. My scars.”

  Kiva looked down at him. “Do you want me to say something?” she asked. “Do you want me to tell you how sorry I am that you had to go through that? That I can’t imagine how hard it must have been? That I think it’s incredible you can separate the drug from the user and still care about your mother enough to want to protect her?”

  Jaren’s throat bobbed.

  Kiva moved her hand closer to him, and this time he took it, allowing her to help him painfully to his feet. He swayed and tried to get his balance, her arms automatically coming around him to help steady him as she continued, “I can tell you all that, but I think you already know. Or at least, I hope you do.” She paused, but made herself finish, “I can also tell you that if she isn’t already getting help, then you need to get it for her.”

  Jaren’s hands had come to rest on her waist as he’d tried to get his feet under him, but at Kiva’s words, even though she’d just begun to pull away, he drew her back again, curling his arms tightly around her back, until he was embracing her fully.

  “Thank you,” he said in her ear, his voice rough with emotion.

  She wasn’t sure what he was thanking her for—whether it was her lack of pity that he’d so feared, or her encouragement to get his mother the help she needed. Either way, her heart was beating almost out of her chest at his proximity, at how good it felt to be in his arms, even while she warred over everything she still knew about him, about herself.

  But still, she allowed herself that moment. That one, single moment in time, melting into him and closing her eyes, wrapping her arms around him in turn.

  And then she remembered his wounds.

  He hadn’t uttered any sound of pain, but she knew the embrace had to be hurting him—not just his back, but his cracked ribs too, with how tightly he held her. So she gently pushed back out of his hold, looking him in the eyes and asking, “Better?”

  He offered a shy smile. “Better.”

  “Good,” she said, with a perfunctory nod, as if her heart weren’t still pumping triple time. “Now, what were you saying before? About Rooke making a mistake sending you down here?”

  “Ah, that,” Jaren said, rubbing his jaw and looking uncomfortable, but Kiva knew it wasn’t because of the moment they’d just shared. He didn’t seem to have any problem showering her with affection. But then again, he was a prince. He was probably used to women falling at his feet. She wrinkled her nose at the thought, and it distracted him enough that he deviated from what he’d been about to say, instead asking, “What was that look for?”

  Kiva wasn’t about to admit what she’d been thinking, so she thought quickly and said, “I just realized I don’t know what to call you. Jaren? Deverick? I’m unsure of the protocol here.”

  This time, it was Jaren who wrinkled his nose. “I hate the name Deverick. I always have. My middle name is Jaren—that’s what my friends and family call me.” Pointedly, he said, “That’s what you call me, too.”

  “Not Prince Jaren?” Kiva asked.r />
  “No, just Jaren.”

  “What about Your Highness?”

  He pulled a face. “Definitely not.”

  “Your Grace?”

  “I’m not a duke.”

  “Your Excellency?”

  “Nor a lord.”

  “Your Majesty?”

  “Please stop.”

  Kiva couldn’t believe she was holding back a laugh, after everything they’d just been through. But the look on his face . . .

  “Fine, I’ll stop,” she agreed. “But only because I wouldn’t want you to throw me in prison.” She tapped a finger to her lip. “Oh, wait.”

  “You’re hilarious,” Jaren deadpanned, but there was a renewed light in his eyes, and seeing it eased something within her. “For the record, I’ve never sent anyone to prison. And after being here myself . . .” He shuddered. “I never intend to. At least, not until this place has undergone some considerable restructuring. Things have to change.” In a quiet voice, as if making a promise to himself, he said, “Things will change.”

  Kiva wanted to believe him. She really did. But he wouldn’t be able to follow through on any of his good intentions from the middle of the tunnel labyrinth.

  “How about you start refining your prison takeover after we find a way out of here,” she said.

  “Right,” Jaren agreed. “That’s what I was about to tell you—why Rooke made a mistake.”

  “I’m listening,” Kiva said. She noticed that Jaren was beginning to sway again, so she made a decision, sliding up beside him and carefully wrapping her arm around his waist. She knew it would hurt him, but there was no way they’d be getting out of the tunnels at all if she didn’t help him walk.

  “I hope it goes without saying that most of what I’ve told you today has to remain a secret,” Jaren said.

  “I figured,” Kiva said, barely refraining from rolling her eyes.

  Jaren paused for a long moment, as if deliberating what he was about to share. Finally, he said, “I broke your trust, so hopefully this will give you a reason to believe in me again. It’s something only a handful of people in the world know.”