The Prison Healer

by Lynette Noni

  Naari’s company was unnerving, prompting Kiva to wonder if the guard suspected the young man was more dangerous than he seemed. It was all the more reason for Kiva to hurry up and get his orientation over with.

  Deliberating quickly, she turned left and started toward the next building along, the gravel underfoot crunching loudly in the quiet early-evening air. The other prisoners would be heading back to their cell blocks soon, if they weren’t already there. But for now, the grounds were silent. Almost peaceful.

  “What’s your name?”

  Kiva looked up sharply, finding the young man walking calmly beside her and peering at her in question. Despite his bruised and battered body, and despite his new, unfamiliar surroundings, he seemed completely, unfathomably, at ease.

  She remembered her first day at Zalindov, the moment she’d stepped out of the infirmary cradling her bandaged hand, aware that her family, her freedom, and her future had been taken away from her in one fell swoop. She hadn’t asked anyone for their name. That had been the last thing on her mind.

  “I’m the prison healer,” Kiva answered.

  “That’s not your name.” He waited a beat, then offered, “I’m Jaren.”

  “You’re not,” she returned, looking away from him. “You’re D24L103.”

  Let him make of that what he will, the reminder of how—and why—she’d been close enough to memorize his identification band. He had to feel it, had to know what lay throbbing beneath the wrappings on his hand. Kiva had heard about Zalindov’s own personal form of branding long before her arrival, and she’d only been seven. There was no way this young man—Jaren—wouldn’t have known about the Z prior to being dumped inside his prison wagon. It was an inevitability for all those sentenced to Zalindov.

  She waited for the repulsion and anger, both of which usually came while she was carving the symbol. But he’d been unconscious, so now was his time. She didn’t brace herself. There was nothing he could say that she hadn’t heard before.

  “D24L103,” he finally repeated, inspecting the characters etched into the metal band. His gaze drifted to the bandages, as if he could see through to the three deep slashes beneath. “That’s a bit of a mouthful. Probably easier if you stick with Jaren.”

  Kiva stumbled slightly, her head whipping toward him only to find his blue-gold eyes lit with humor.

  Humor.

  “Is this a joke to you?” she hissed, stopping dead on the gravel path between the infirmary and the stone building nearest to it. “You do realize where you’re standing right now, don’t you?” She threw her hands out, as if doing so would help open his eyes. While the light was steadily fading as dusk settled over the expansive grounds, the limestone perimeter walls rose high on all sides around them, making it impossible to forget that they were trapped like rats in a cage.

  Jaren’s humor dissolved, his eyes flicking to Naari, then back to Kiva. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” He rubbed his neck, looking uncomfortable. “I guess—I’m not sure how I’m supposed to act in here.”

  Kiva inhaled deeply, then shook the tension from her shoulders. People dealt with fear and uncertainty in different ways, she reminded herself. Humor was a coping mechanism, and certainly not the worst of them. She needed to have more patience with him.

  “That’s what I’m here for,” she told him, more gently. “To tell you what you need to know. To help you survive this place.”

  “And how long have you been surviving this place?”

  She held his gaze. “Long enough to be a good teacher.”

  That seemed to satisfy him, since he followed without argument when she started forward again. At least until she stopped them at the entrance to the next building over and said, “I figure the first place you visit should also be the last.”

  When Jaren looked at her in puzzlement, she nodded to the dark doorway and finished, “Welcome to the morgue.”

  Chapter Five

  Kiva led the way inside the cold stone building, her nose wrinkling at the acrid smell that permeated everything from the walls to the floors. Incense burned from a small worktable at the side of the square room, but it didn’t hide the stench of death, an unpleasant mix of spoiled meat and sour milk.

  A drain lay in the center of the floor, the stones closest to it stained a reddish-brown. Only a fraction of prisoners underwent embalming, usually those from more privileged families who were granted permission to collect their loved ones after death. The lingering scent of thyme, rosemary, and lavender tickled Kiva’s nose, but she couldn’t smell any wine, indicating it had been some time since the last attempted preservation.

  Stone slabs were spaced at equal distances around the drain, and while there were currently no cadavers on them, the smell was just as strong as on days when the room was full. The prisoner in charge of the morgue, Mot, was immune to it, but not even the guards monitored this building for long periods of time, unable to stomach the constant odor.

  “Evenin’, Kiva,” Mot said, sitting on a stool behind the worktable, his back slightly hunched, his gray hair thinning on top. “What can I do for yeh?”

  From her side, Kiva heard Jaren whisper her name to himself, and she sighed inwardly.

  “I have two for collection,” Kiva said to the elderly man. He was relatively new to Zalindov, having arrived only eighteen months ago. Too old to be of any use when it came to hard labor, he’d been allocated work in the infirmary, but his fascination with death had made him more of a hindrance than a help. More than once, patients with simple ailments had died on his watch. It had become so problematic that, for the first—and only—time ever, Kiva had made a request of the Warden to transfer him elsewhere. That turned out to be a boon, since prior to arriving at Zalindov, Mot had been an apothecary, so he transitioned comfortably from infirmary to morgue, becoming the head mortician within a short span of months. Indeed, he had even thanked Kiva for her role in his transfer, claiming that he almost felt as if he were back home.

  Kiva still wasn’t sure how to reconcile the thoughtful old man who, she’d later discovered, had been sentenced to Zalindov for deliberately misdiagnosing his customers so that he might trial new experimental remedies, resulting in multiple deaths. But it didn’t matter what he’d done outside of these walls. In here, they both had a job to do, and for obvious reasons, the infirmary kept close ties with the morgue.

  “Two, yeh say?” Mot said, shuffling some parchment. “Tunnel fever still takin’ ’em?”

  Kiva shook her head. “New arrivals. They didn’t survive the journey.”

  Mot’s cloudy eyes shifted to Jaren. Naari had remained at the doorway, and Kiva envied her the fresh air.

  “Yeh’re new today, boy?” Mot asked, his joints cracking as he stood.

  Jaren looked at Kiva, as if seeking her permission to speak. Perhaps he did understand the gravity of being at Zalindov. But she wasn’t the one he needed to defer to. Regardless, she gave a quick nod, and he answered Mot with a simple, “Yes, sir.”

  “Ha!” Mot cried with a beaming grin, his brown teeth revealed by the luminium beacons affixed to the stone walls. “Yeh hear that, Kiva? ‘Sir.’ That’s respect.” He winked at her. “I like this one.”

  “Mot—”

  “Stay close to yer healer, boy.” Mot spoke over Kiva. “She’ll take good care of yeh. Mark my words.”

  Kiva pressed her lips into a firm line. She wasn’t Jaren’s healer. She was the prison healer—everyone’s healer.

  “Will you collect them before you finish up tonight, Mot?” Kiva said after unclenching her jaw.

  Mot waved a dismissive hand. “O’ course, o’ course. But they’ll ’ave to wait for burnin’. Grendel’s already put a load through today.”

  Kiva didn’t care when the two men were cremated, as long as they weren’t decaying in her infirmary. “Fine. Tipp’s checking on my quarantined patients at the moment, but just call out to him if you need any help.”

  Mot’s eyes narrowed. “Tipp?”

/>   Belatedly, Kiva remembered why she was in the morgue, rather than her assistant. Still unsure what had happened, she hedged, “He’ll stay out of your way unless you ask.”

  “D’yeh know what the brat did?”

  Kiva’s eyes flicked to Naari, but the guard’s back was to them as she faced out into the grounds. There was no way to tell if she was listening or not.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t—”

  “Gave me a heart attack, ’e did,” Mot said, scowling. “These old eyes ain’t what they used to be, yeh know. How was I s’posed to see ’ im lyin’ beneath one of the bodies?” His scowl deepened. “When I came near, ’e sat bolt upright with the corpse, wavin’ its arms and screamin’ at me. Thought the dead were comin’ back for revenge, didn’t I?”

  Kiva heard Jaren cough from beside her, but she didn’t dare look his way, not when she was struggling to keep in her own laugh.

  “I’ll have a word with him,” Kiva said once she was certain she could do so with solemnity. “It won’t happen again.”

  “Better not,” Mot said. “My ticker can’t take another fright like that.” As an afterthought, he added, “And the dead deserve our respect.”

  The latter was true, and Kiva would have a word with Tipp. Not just for the sake of the mortician, but also for Tipp himself. If he’d been caught . . . if any of the guards had witnessed his prank . . . then he never would have left the morgue.

  A cold feeling overtook Kiva, but she shook it off and again promised Mot that she would give the boy a stern talking-to. In return, she received Mot’s word that he would collect the deceased men immediately. Satisfied, she was quick to leave the morgue with Jaren in tow, the two of them inhaling deeply once they were outside again.

  “He seems like a character,” Jaren commented.

  Kiva said nothing, casting a quick look at Naari, but the guard didn’t betray whether or not she’d heard about Tipp’s misadventures. If she had, Kiva could only hope she wouldn’t care enough to report him. The Warden had overlooked some of Tipp’s foolishness in the past, but only when Kiva had something to exchange for the boy’s safety. Prison gossip was scarce of late, leaving her with no bargaining chips and an unsettled feeling in her gut.

  Looking around the grounds, Kiva pushed aside her gnawing worry and considered her next move, trying to recall her own orientation. The sights, the sounds, the smells . . . all of that had faded in her memory. All she could remember was what she’d felt.

  Fear.

  Grief.

  Hopelessness.

  The potent mix had clouded all else.

  Jaren, however, didn’t seem overcome by emotion. Wary, perhaps. Uncertain, definitely. But . . . he was also looking at her with curiosity, waiting patiently to see what she would say or do next.

  Kiva made her decision.

  “Whatever you were told about Zalindov before arriving here, forget it,” she said, turning to the left and doing her best to ignore the crunching of Naari’s feet trailing after them.

  “I heard that it’s a death prison,” Jaren said. “That very few people ever make it out alive. That it’s full of murderers and rebels.”

  Kiva only just refrained from shooting a look back at Naari to say that this was exactly why she shouldn’t be doing orientation for new prisoners.

  “Fine, yes, you should try to remember all of that,” she amended.

  “Are you a murderer?” Jaren asked. “Or a rebel?”

  Kiva’s mouth hitched up at the side, her amusement mocking more than anything else. “If you want to survive longer than the night, don’t ask anyone why they’re here. It’s rude.”

  Jaren studied her thoughtfully, before his focus turned back to the gravel path. He drew his wounded hand in close to his stomach—the first sign he’d given that he was in any pain, though she doubted the carving was the worst of it.

  “Don’t you want to know what I did?” he asked quietly.

  “Something you need to know about Zalindov,” Kiva said, “is that who you were out there”—she pointed beyond the limestone walls—“means nothing in here. So, no. I don’t want to know what you did, because it doesn’t matter.”

  She was lying to them both, but Jaren didn’t know her well enough to call her on it, and he let it drop.

  Releasing a slow breath, Kiva came to a stop when they reached the next building along from the morgue. It, too, was made of darkened stone, the ground near the entrance dusted with ash. Two large chimneys poked out from the roof, one of which was lightly smoking.

  “Zalindov’s two crematoriums,” Kiva said without feeling. “Most of the dead are brought here for burning to prevent the spread of disease.” She pointed to the non-smoking chimney. “The second is only used when the furnace in the first breaks down, or in cases of mass outbreaks and executions, when one isn’t enough on its own.”

  Jaren’s brows rose. “Do those happen often?”

  “Outbreaks? Sometimes.”

  “No.” His gaze was on the smoke rising lazily into the air. “Executions.”

  Kiva didn’t dare glance at Naari as she answered, “Every day.”

  Jaren’s face was shuttered when he turned back to her. “And how often en masse?”

  “Not as common, but not unheard of, either,” she shared, almost relieved that he was asking these questions. He needed to know what his future could be if he put one toe out of line.

  He examined her face, and she let him, hoping he could read how serious she was, how much peril they were all in, every moment of every day.

  Finally, he nodded, wincing slightly when the action jolted his head. “I see.”

  And she believed him. There was a furrow between his eyebrows that hadn’t been there before, a shadow over his features, a new weight upon his shoulders.

  Maybe he would survive, after all.

  . . . At least until his body could no longer stand whatever work was in store for him.

  “Come on, there’s more to see,” Kiva said, heading toward the center of the grounds.

  They moved from gravel to a mixture of dead grass and dirt as she thought about how best to give Jaren some bearings.

  “Zalindov is shaped like a hexagon,” she said as they continued walking. “Six outer walls thick enough to be patrolled from the top, with fully manned watchtowers at each of the six corners.” She waved toward the ones they could see from their position, then indicated beyond them. “Given your state when you arrived, I’m guessing you were unconscious for the last part of your journey?” At his confirmation, she went on, “Then you missed the real welcome into Zalindov. Before the iron entrance gates, before the farms and the quarries and the lumberyard and everything else outside of the immediate walls, there’s another perimeter fence, with eight more watchtowers. There’s also a constant patrol of guards. And dogs.” She made sure he was paying attention when she warned, “Don’t bother trying to escape. No prisoner has ever made it past the perimeter fence alive.”

  Jaren didn’t reply. It seemed he was finally beginning to comprehend the reality of Zalindov. The color that had steadily returned to his face was fading again, though that could also be because of his increasing pain. Kiva had no idea how long the concoction she’d given him would last. He likely wouldn’t be standing for much longer.

  “Inside the walls, there are four extra freestanding watchtowers,” Kiva said as they approached one of them, a daunting stone building shaped like a tall rectangle rising into the sky, the top section opening out onto a wraparound platform. From her position, she could see two guards walking along it, and she knew more were inside. “Together with the six wall towers, they offer a bird’s-eye view over the entire inner compound. Someone is always watching—never forget that.”

  Again, Jaren didn’t reply.

  Kiva kept walking until they were as close to the center of the grounds as she could get them.

  “The infirmary, morgue, and crematorium are along the northwest wall.” She pointed back the way the
y’d traveled. “If we’d kept following it around, we would’ve hit the workrooms. Everything from stitch craft to administration work happens in there. If we’d gone in the opposite direction, turning right from the infirmary, we would’ve hit the kennels, the central barracks where most of the guards sleep, and the entrance block beside the front gates, where new inmates are processed.”

  Jaren squinted through the twilight in that direction, his gaze slightly unfocused now as his pain took hold. “Is that where visitors come to meet us?”

  The question caught Kiva unawares. “Prisoners aren’t allowed visitors.”

  “What, never?” Jaren asked, turning swiftly back to her. He swayed a little on his feet, and Kiva had to resist the urge to reach out and steady him. “Does that mean . . . You never said how long you’ve been here.”

  She shrugged and looked away. It was answer enough.

  “I’m sorry, Kiva.”

  Three words, said in his low, gentle voice, and they were nearly her undoing. Three kind words from a stranger, affecting her enough to prompt the sting of tears—was that how far she’d fallen?

  We are safe. Stay alive. We will come.

  She couldn’t be so weak, not in front of Jaren, and certainly not in front of Naari. Her family needed her to stay strong.

  Pushing through the heaviness in her chest, Kiva straightened her spine and said, firmly, “There’s nothing to be sorry for. My role as the prison healer might require me to help you and others, but I’m in here for a reason, just like everyone else. Murderers and rebels—that’s what we are. You said it yourself.”

  Jaren said nothing for a long beat, but then, slowly, he stated, “So . . . no visitors.” When Kiva nodded stiffly, he went on, “That’s no great loss. I wouldn’t want my family to come, anyway.” A small huff of laughter left him. “They’d be even less inclined to visit.”