The Prison Healer

by Lynette Noni

  There. Kiva could see the infirmary. A relieved sob gasped out of her. She couldn’t believe her luck when she realized that there was no fighting near the entrance, the masses clearing the further she moved from the center of the grounds, where the numbers were still the thickest. A second sob escaped her, even as she continued flying toward it. She was so close, so close, but then—

  She saw the door.

  It was smashed open.

  Kiva stumbled, her feet moving too fast over the uneven ground, her arms cartwheeling to keep herself upright—just as another arrow sailed right over her head, exactly where her heart would have been had she not tripped.

  Shock and terror warred for her attention, but she shoved them aside. She couldn’t spare a thought for her near miss and focused only on getting to the infirmary, her lungs burning, her muscles aching, every part of her desperate to find out, desperate to see if—

  She flew through the doorway, coming to a screaming halt now that she was no longer in immediate danger. The remaining breath fled her as she looked around, her heart stopping as she took in what had become of her healing sanctuary.

  Glass vials were smashed on the ground, the rat pen was broken to pieces with the vermin gone, linens were shredded, sticky remedies covered everything from the benches to the walls to the floor. The infirmary was destroyed, but Kiva didn’t care about the room—she cared about who was in it.

  On quaking legs, Kiva moved toward Tilda. She had no need to rush anymore. She could already see it from across the room.

  Blood.

  Tilda’s blood.

  It was everywhere, her bedsheets soaked red.

  And her eyes . . . Tilda’s blind eyes . . . they were staring up at the ceiling, unblinking, unmoving, just like the rest of her.

  As if watching from a dream, a nightmare, Kiva placed her trembling hands over Tilda’s heart, over the gaping stab wound that could mean only one thing.

  Nothing.

  Not a single beat.

  As still as death.

  Don’t let her die.

  There was nothing Kiva could do for her.

  Don’t let her die.

  She’d tried so hard—so hard—to keep Tilda alive.

  Don’t let her die.

  A tear escaped Kiva’s eyes, then another, before her knees buckled and she collapsed over the woman, heedless of her blood, thinking only of all she’d suffered through to protect her. Kiva had survived the impossible, had completed the entire Trial by Ordeal, all for Tilda, all so that she might be safe, be freed. And now—

  Now she was dead.

  “I’m so sorry,” Kiva choked out. “I tried. I tried.”

  Only twice before had she known such agony. Such heartache. It was all she could do to keep whispering, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” over and over again.

  “K-K-Kiva?”

  Kiva’s head shot up, tears blurring her vision as she looked wildly around for the owner of the weak voice. “Tipp?” she rasped, barely able to form the word around her flooding emotions. “Where are you?”

  When Tipp didn’t respond straightaway, Kiva swiped at her face, standing from Tilda’s bedside, and called again, “Tipp?”

  But then she saw him over the opposite side of Tilda’s bed, tangled up in the torn privacy curtain on the ground . . . and lying in a pool of his own blood.

  “TIPP!” Kiva cried, bolting around the end of the bed and dropping to his side so fast that her knees screamed in pain. She shoved the curtain aside, her eyes filling with fresh tears as she looked down at the young boy and found the source of the blood.

  Whole-body shakes racked her frame as she reached for him, pressing her hands to his abdomen as she sought to stem the flow, already knowing that he’d lost too much. There was no treatment that could fix this, no medicine that could save him.

  “I t-t-tried to p-protect her,” Tipp whispered, his face so pale that it was nearly as blue as his eyes. “I’m s-s-sorry. I t-t-tried.”

  He coughed, blood bubbling out of his lips and over his chin.

  “Shhh,” Kiva told him, tears streaming down her face. “Save your strength.”

  “I l-l-love you, K-Kiva,” Tipp kept whispering, his voice fading more, as if he’d only been holding on long enough to see her one last time. “Thank y-you . . . f-f-for everything.”

  Kiva hiccuped a sob. Her hands still pressed against his gaping stomach, where his blood now came alarmingly slow.

  “I love you, too,” she whispered back, moving one wet hand to press it against his cheek, her tears flowing faster. “So I need you to stay with me, all right? We’ll get through this, just like everything else.”

  Tipp smiled at her, and despite his pallor, despite the severity of his wound, he still lit up the room. “You’ve a-always b-been . . . a b-b-bad . . . liar,” he whispered, still smiling. “Y-You should . . . Y-You should . . .”

  But he didn’t finish, because he coughed again, and then continued coughing, until his eyes rolled to the back of his head . . . and his chest stopped moving.

  “No,” Kiva breathed. “No, no, no, no, no.” She moved her bloodied hands over his heart. “Tipp, please.”

  It was still beating, but only just. The slightest of thumps, and it wouldn’t remain that way for long, not now that he was no longer breathing.

  “I can’t lose you, too,” Kiva sobbed, her tears falling down onto him. “I can’t lose you, too.”

  And suddenly Kiva wasn’t seeing Tipp anymore; the infirmary faded as she was swept away to a freezing winter’s evening ten years earlier. With sickening clarity, she remembered the moment the sword had been pulled from Kerrin’s chest and he’d fallen in slow motion to the ground, how her father had pressed his hands to the wound and screamed for help, how Kiva had reached for him—but been pulled away before she could so much as touch him.

  No one was going to pull her away today.

  Promise me, little mouse, her father had whispered, their very first night together in Zalindov. Promise me that you’ll never do it again.

  But, Papa, your hand was bleeding. You were hurt.

  It doesn’t matter, he’d told her urgently. You know why I’ve been teaching you the healing craft, you know why it’s so important, why you have to keep learning.

  So that no one ever finds out, Kiva said dutifully.

  That’s right, sweetheart, Faran said, kissing her cheek. You have to stop. You can’t risk it, not in here. Not even for me.

  But—

  I mean it, Kiva. Promise me, Faran said firmly. Promise me that, as long as you’re in here, no matter what, no matter who, you’ll never, ever do it again.

  And so Kiva had promised.

  Even when she’d feared her father had become sick like so many others, even when he’d died, she had kept her promise.

  But she couldn’t keep that promise any longer.

  It might have been over ten years, but her blood had been calling to her that whole time, waiting, waiting, waiting. She was untrained, untested when it came to wounds as serious as this, but desperation guided her to focus on Tipp’s fading heartbeat, on his gaping stomach, on the life that was swiftly leaving him.

  “Please,” she whispered, her voice breaking as she concentrated harder than ever before, praying that she could do for Tipp what she’d longed to do for her brother by the river all those years ago. If only she’d been able to place her hands on Kerrin—all she’d needed was a moment, a single touch before his heart had stopped, and it would have changed everything. “Please.”

  That was all it took.

  Golden light poured from Kiva’s fingertips, seeping into Tipp’s chest, flooding along his torso, sealing his flesh, inch by painful inch.

  It was working—it was working.

  His heartbeat was growing stronger, beat after beat after beat.

  And then—

  He sucked in a breath, his chest expanding.

  Kiva wept openly, keeping her hands in place, willing that golden
light to keep healing, to keep sealing. She was nearly there, only a few more inches to go and he’d be completely—

  “KIVA!”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Kiva lurched backwards, her hands flying from Tipp as she whipped her head toward the door, the golden light disappearing a fraction of a second before Jaren came stumbling into the infirmary, Naari at his heels. The guard was splattered with blood, her eyes wild as she took in the mess, her gaze flying around the room before landing on Tilda, then finding Kiva and Tipp on the floor.

  “Kiva!” Jaren cried again, seeing her at the same time as the guard. The two of them rushed over, Jaren heedless of his own pain as he stared in horror at the young boy surrounded by a sea of red.

  “He’s all right,” Kiva rasped. “It’s Tilda’s blood. He just has a small cut on his stomach, and a bump to the head. He’ll be fine.”

  She had no idea how the lies were pouring from her so easily. All she could think of was her father’s warnings and the promise she’d made him. She’d already broken that promise, but she knew better than to let anyone know, least of all her present company.

  “Can he be moved?” Naari asked.

  Kiva’s shaking hands traveled down to Tipp’s stomach, checking the damage. The smallest of cuts remained—he wouldn’t even need a stitch. Kiva nearly sobbed anew, but instead, she croaked out, “Yes. He just needs to sleep it off.”

  That part wasn’t a lie. Tipp needed a good, long, healing sleep. And once he awakened, Kiva would have to convince him that his wound hadn’t been as bad as it had seemed. Tipp would believe her. He had no reason not to.

  “Good,” Naari said, glancing back at the door with clear unease. “This place is turning into a death zone. We need to leave. Right now.”

  Jaren held his hand out for Kiva, and she took it, too stunned by all that had just happened—and was now happening—to remember his injuries. He uttered only the slightest of pained sounds and immediately steadied her when her legs nearly gave out, the trauma of what she’d just gone through wreaking havoc with her body. Exhaustion threatened to topple her; the strain of what she’d done was unlike anything she’d ever known. But even so, when Jaren reached down to collect Tipp, Kiva stayed him with a hand on his arm.

  “I’ll take him,” she said, her voice hoarse from crying.

  “He’s heavier than he looks,” Jaren warned.

  “I’ll take him,” Kiva repeated firmly, knowing that Jaren’s adrenaline might be keeping him standing, but there was no way his injuries would allow him to carry the boy. Plus, Kiva needed to feel Tipp in her arms and the life beating within him, if only to reassure herself that he was still alive.

  Unlike Tilda.

  Kiva couldn’t look at the woman, not even when she saw Naari and Jaren glance between her and the Rebel Queen with pitying expressions, both knowing how much she’d given to protect Tilda. If only Kiva could have arrived sooner, she might have been able to do for her what she’d done for Tipp. But not even she had the power to bring back the dead.

  It was too late for Tilda.

  It wasn’t too late for Tipp, nor for Jaren, Naari, and Kiva herself.

  But it would be, if they didn’t get out of Zalindov before the chaos escalated.

  “Hurry,” Naari urged, glancing at the door again.

  Kiva didn’t need to be told twice, and pulled Tipp up into her arms. Jaren was right about his weight, and she grunted and stumbled a little, but then steadied herself and looked at the guard.

  “Follow me,” Naari said, moving swiftly toward the door, her two swords bloodied and held defensively before her, the prince’s Golden Shield ready to give her life if it meant protecting him. Protecting all of them.

  “Don’t worry, she’ll get us out of here,” Jaren told Kiva when he saw her hesitate.

  “I know,” she replied, before striding after the guard.

  Her hesitation hadn’t been fear of following—she had been summoning the strength to look back at Tilda, one last time.

  But she made herself do it.

  Made herself whisper a final, “May peace find you in the everworld.”

  And then she hurried out the door, never more grateful that the infirmary was close to the prison gates, and equally grateful that the bulk of the fighting remained in the center of the grounds—still too close for Jaren to risk anyone seeing him use his elemental magic to protect them, but far enough away that he didn’t need to.

  Before Kiva knew it, they were standing at the massive iron entrance, the gates closed now because of the riot.

  “This way,” Naari said, moving toward the base of the watchtower, where a much smaller door was cut into the limestone wall. Kiva hadn’t noticed it before, having never been this close to the gates when they were shut.

  Pulling a large brass key from within her bloodied armor, Naari inserted it into the door.

  “Stop!”

  Dread filled Kiva at the commanding voice, and she turned to find the Warden striding toward them, a contingent of guards at his heels.

  He’d come down from his hiding place for her—for Kiva. He wasn’t going to let her go free. Or any of them. Not as long as they knew his secret.

  “Step away from the gate, Arell,” Rooke growled. “That’s an order.”

  “I don’t take orders from you,” Naari said, moving a step in front of Kiva and Jaren, renewing her grip on her blades. “Not anymore.”

  Rooke’s eyebrows shot upward, and he looked pointedly at the guards with him. “What exactly do you think is going to happen here? That I’ll just let you go?” He shook his head. “I can’t do that, I’m afraid.”

  “Too bad yeh don’t ’ave a choice, yeh horse’s ass.”

  Mot hobbled swiftly into view, his hand clasped around a vial raised like a weapon before him.

  “Uh-uh-uh,” the apothecary tutted when the guards moved in his direction. “Did yeh see what ’appened to the watchtower? Unless yeh want a repeat of that right ’ere”—he shook the vial tauntingly—“then yeh’ll let Kiva and ’er friends go.”

  Kiva’s heart clutched at his words. Not at his threat, but because he hadn’t said anything about going with them.

  “Mot—”

  “Get outta ’ere, Kiva luv,” Mot said, his gaze softening as he looked her way, then settled on Tipp in her arms. “Give ’im a good life, yeah? Yeh both deserve to find ’appiness.”

  “Come with us,” she begged, even if she could already see the decision in his eyes.

  “I’ll only slow yeh down. And besides, I still got work to do ’ere, don’t I?” He winked and sent her a brown-toothed grin.

  “Mot—” Kiva tried again, but the Warden cut her off.

  “What are you waiting for?” Rooke yelled at his guards. “Do something!”

  At his command, they stepped toward Mot again, swords raised, while Rooke himself moved closer to Kiva.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” the Warden spat at her.

  “No, yeh’re not goin’ anywhere,” Mot said, and before anyone else could speak, he threw the vial at Rooke’s feet.

  Fire erupted on impact, enough that Naari swore as she, Jaren, and Kiva scrambled backwards to get away from the immense heat, until they slammed into the limestone wall behind them. It wasn’t a blast, like that which had brought down the tower, but the inferno was sudden and violent, forming a barricade of flames between them and the Warden, causing Rooke to retreat or risk being burned alive.

  “Go, Kiva!” Mot bellowed from the other side of the fire. “I’ll hold ’em off—just go!”

  Naari tugged on Kiva’s sleeve, and she knew she had to follow, knew she had to honor Mot’s sacrifice even if every part of her wished she could save him, free him.

  “I’m sorry, Kiva, but we have to—”

  “I know,” she interrupted Naari’s warning, her voice breaking. “I’m right behind you.”

  And she was.

  As Naari turned her brass key and opened the door, Ki
va held Tipp tighter and staggered through the exit after her, with Jaren bringing up the rear.

  “This way,” Naari said the moment they were all on the other side of the wall, leading them at a fast clip toward the stables.

  Kiva swallowed back her questions—and her emotions—as they entered the large building, praying that Naari had a plan.

  And then she saw the carriage.

  Kiva would have laughed if she hadn’t feared she’d start weeping.

  What better way to escape the perimeter guards than in the Warden’s own private transport?

  “Jaren, can you—” Naari started, but she was interrupted by another voice.

  “What’re you doing in here?”

  Kiva whirled around, Tipp’s legs swinging madly in the air, just in time to see Raz step out of an empty stall, a pitchfork held loosely in his hands.

  Half a second later, the pitchfork was gone, and the stablemaster was face-down on the ground, Naari’s knee in the center of his spine and one of her blades pressed to his throat.

  “Move, and you’re dead,” the guard hissed at him.

  “Naari, stop!” Kiva cried.

  Raz made an alarming gurgle sound, but still Naari didn’t release him.

  “He’s a friend,” Kiva said, stretching the truth but not wanting to see the stablemaster hurt. “Please, he won’t cause us any problems. Will you, Raz?”

  Another gurgling sound was all that came in answer, but it must have been enough to satisfy Naari, since she returned to her feet and sheathed her blade.

  Slowly, Raz stood as well, rubbing his neck, his face pale as he stared at them.

  “There’s a riot happening inside the grounds,” Kiva told him, as Naari and Jaren moved away to begin preparing the carriage for their departure. “It’s a bad one—really bad.”

  “I know,” Raz said, his voice trembling slightly, but not from the news of the riot. “They’ve locked the gates. No one in or out.”

  Kiva didn’t waste time explaining how she and her friends had made it through the wall. Instead, she said, “We’re leaving. You should come with us.”

  Raz took a moment to reply, still recovering from Naari’s attack. “I’m safe enough out here. And I can’t risk losing this job, Kiva.”