The Prison Healer

by Lynette Noni

  “Your Highness,” she returned, stiffly. “Thank you for saving me.”

  Prince Deverick waved a hand, still grinning. “It was nothing. Really.”

  “The healer has some complaints about her physical condition,” Mirryn told her brother, inspecting her fingernails. “Consider yourself lucky to have received any gratitude at all.”

  Kiva’s eyes widened.

  “I’ll admit, the timing was close,” the prince acknowledged. “Another few seconds and—” He made a slapping sound with his hands, enough to churn Kiva’s stomach. “But you’re alive, and that’s what matters. It’d be a shame for someone as lovely as you to—”

  “Gods, spare me,” Mirryn groaned, her features pinched. “Can we go now? I need to bathe for the next hundred years. I fear I’ll never get the stench of this place off me.”

  “The People’s Princess,” Deverick said to Kiva, his tone wry. “Patient, long-suffering, full of joy, abounding with love and kindness and—”

  “Oh, shut up,” Mirryn said, reaching for her brother’s arm and dragging him away from Kiva’s bedside. “You do so love to hear your own voice.”

  “It’s a very nice voice,” the prince said. “Don’t you think, Kiva?”

  Kiva jolted at the sound of her name falling from his lips. It was startling how casually he’d used it, as if they’d known each other for years. She said nothing, which only made his smile grow wider.

  “I’ve enjoyed this,” he said, even as his sister continued pushing him from the room. “I hope our paths cross again one day, Champion.”

  And then Mirryn shoved him past Captain Veris and out the door, pausing only to straighten her cloak and call back to Kiva, “I still think you have a death wish. Feel free to prove me wrong.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  After the royals left the infirmary, Kiva tried to get out of bed, but her aching body wasn’t up to the task. Instead, she tossed and turned until even that caused her too much pain, so she lay there, thinking about all that had happened that day, before the poppymilk finally swept her back to sleep.

  When she awoke again, the infirmary was much darker, the low-lit luminium beacons chasing away the worst of the night’s shadows—and revealing that she wasn’t alone.

  “What are you doing here?” Kiva croaked, her voice raspy from sleep.

  Jaren was sitting on a stool beside her bed, looking down at his hands, but his head shot up at her question, relief flooding his features. “Why do you always ask me that?”

  “Maybe it’s because I’m constantly surprised to see you’re still alive.”

  A half smile tipped his lips before it faded and his face turned stony. “The same could be said about you after that stunt you pulled today.”

  Kiva didn’t want to have this conversation while lying horizontal. She didn’t want to have this conversation at all, but definitely not in such a vulnerable position.

  Pushing herself up, she held in her grimace as pain shot through her arms, torso, and head all at once, and she carefully assumed the same position as she had with the princess, leaning back against the wall.

  “That looked painful.”

  Kiva sent a glare toward Jaren. “Looks can be deceiving.”

  She didn’t know why she was so defensive around him, why she hated revealing any sign of weakness.

  Jaren sighed and ran his hands through his hair. It was sticking out at odd angles, as if he’d repeated the action numerous times. Peering closer, Kiva noted that he was covered in even more dirt and grime than when she’d seen him out by the gallows, indicating that he’d labored hard in the tunnels both before and afterward. There were shadows under his eyes, and a weariness about the way he held himself. Zalindov was getting to him, she could tell, even if it hadn’t yet broken him.

  “Can I . . . Is there anything I can get you?” Jaren asked quietly.

  Recalling his strong aversion to pain-relieving drugs, Kiva shook her head, deciding to wait until he left before she took another dose of poppymilk. That, and she didn’t want to risk muddying her wits while in his presence.

  “I’m fine,” Kiva said. “Now answer me—why are you here?”

  Jaren uttered a disbelieving sound. “Why do you think?” He jabbed a finger toward her and said, with clear accusation, “You nearly died today, Kiva.”

  “So what?”

  The two words slipped from her mouth before she could stop them.

  “‘So what?’” he repeated, incredulous. “‘So what?’ Are you kidding me?”

  She said nothing, startled by his fierce reaction.

  “Did you want to die?” he demanded. “Was that your plan?”

  Kiva jerked backwards. “Of course not.” She was vaguely aware of the door to the quarantine room opening and closing, but she didn’t take her eyes from Jaren.

  “Then why, Kiva? Why would you sacrifice yourself like that? Why risk your life for some woman you don’t even know?” He pointed sharply toward the closed privacy curtain around Tilda’s bed. “Why give up everything for her?”

  “Why do you care, Jaren?” Kiva shot back at him. “You don’t know me well enough to be this upset.”

  “No, but I d-do!”

  Kiva ignored Jaren’s hurt face and turned to find Tipp standing at the quarantine door. At the sight of tears in his eyes, she instantly deflated.

  “Tipp . . .”

  “Why d-did you do it, Kiva?” he asked in a trembling voice, his freckles stark against his pale face. “You told me no one c-can survive the Trials, that they’re a d-death sentence.”

  “Tipp, come here,” Kiva said, reaching out her hand. It was shaking slightly, both from this confrontation and also from pain. Prince Deverick might have slowed Kiva’s descent enough to keep her from dying, but he hadn’t been gentle about it.

  Slowly, Tipp approached, tears still pooling in his eyes as he looked at her. “Why, Kiva?” His throat bobbed. “You t-told my mother you’d protect me. You can’t do that if you’re d-dead.”

  While Kiva had no intention of telling Tipp about Cresta’s threat to his life, she still wished she could have this conversation alone with the boy. Sending a quick look toward Jaren, he only folded his arms and looked steadily back at her. Naari, too, was watching from just inside the entrance to the infirmary, the guard making no attempt to hide her eavesdropping.

  “You’re right, I did tell your mother that I’d look out for you,” Kiva said quietly, taking Tipp’s hand in her own. “And I plan to keep doing that, long after these Trials are over.”

  When Tipp turned his face away, Kiva squeezed his fingers to get his attention back, and continued, “Hey, I mean that. I’ve already made it through one Ordeal—how hard can the other three be?” She tried to infuse confidence into her voice, hiding all traces of doubt while also taking care to conceal any hope that she might not have to face the remaining Trials at all.

  Stay alive.

  Don’t let her die.

  We are coming.

  “But what then?” Tipp asked. “You’ll b-be free, and I’ll be alone.”

  Kiva couldn’t tell him the truth, nor could she tell him about her plan—not yet. Not until she’d spoken with the Warden. Even then, she would remain quiet, for fear of getting Tipp’s hopes up in vain. There was a long road ahead, and Kiva had no guarantees it would end well. For any of them.

  Somewhat hoarsely, she said, “That’s not a problem for today, so there’s no point in worrying about it just yet.”

  “Then let’s focus on today,” Jaren cut in. “You still haven’t told us why you did what you did.”

  Kiva had to count to ten to keep from snapping that it was none of his business and requesting that he leave the infirmary. The truth was, she liked waking up to find him beside her bed. She liked that he was concerned, that he cared enough to be angry. Very few people at Zalindov gave any thought to her welfare—it was always she who was looking after others, not the other way around.

  But she
’d also meant what she’d said, that he didn’t know her well enough to be so upset. She didn’t understand what was happening between them and wondered if he just felt connected to her because she was the first person he’d met upon waking at Zalindov. It wouldn’t be the first time a prisoner reacted in such a way, even after she’d carved open their flesh. They perceived her as someone familiar during the uneasy transition into their new life. A comfort, almost. But their dependence usually faded after a few weeks, and Kiva rarely interacted with them again unless they had a heath concern—or they turned up dead, and she had to send them to the morgue.

  Jaren, however, had already been at Zalindov for nearly three and a half weeks, and showed no signs of disappearing from her life. If anything, it was the opposite, with her seeing more of him as time passed. Part of that was due to the bond he’d formed with Tipp, the younger boy having adopted Jaren, deciding it was his purpose to help the newcomer survive. And Tipp’s connection to Kiva meant Jaren was, by mutual acquaintance, connected to her as well.

  But still . . . Kiva was out of her element with this and had no idea how to respond to his request—no, his demand—for answers. While she was touched that he cared, she also dreaded that kind of attention. She’d been at Zalindov long enough to know not to form lasting relationships. Tipp was the only person Kiva allowed even remotely close to her heart, and she was determined to keep it that way.

  Nevertheless, seeing the concern on Jaren’s face, the tears still in Tipp’s eyes, even the tight pinch to the listening Naari’s features, Kiva couldn’t muster the antipathy required to keep from answering.

  “Help me up, would you?” she asked softly. “I want to show you something.”

  While she would have preferred Tipp’s assistance, Jaren was more capable of supporting her, so she pushed aside her pride and allowed him to wrap his arm around her as she rose shakily to her feet.

  Kiva couldn’t keep a quiet moan from leaving her lips as bolts of electricity shot up her legs, her very nerves protesting the move. While nothing was broken, it still felt like everything was.

  “You all right?” Jaren asked.

  She looked at him, realizing how close his face was to hers, his blue-gold eyes right there, and firmly told herself that she’d never live it down if she blushed while in his arms. “I already told you, I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine,” he argued, his forehead creasing. “I don’t need to be a healer to know that much.”

  “Then why ask if I’m all right?” Kiva shot back, trying—and failing—to keep her temper in check. When she saw a muscle tick in his cheek, she blew out a breath and said, more patiently, “I fell fifty feet, Jaren, and I’m alive—so I am fine, considering the alternative.” She paused, then grudgingly admitted, “But I still feel like I fell fifty feet, so fine is relative.”

  Jaren wrapped his arm more securely around her, pulling her deeper into his body as if to make absolutely sure she wouldn’t hurt herself further. “The prince should have caught you sooner,” he said tightly.

  Kiva didn’t ask how he knew, guessing word had spread like wildfire around the prison. She only hoped he didn’t know why the prince had saved her. She didn’t need any more humiliation tonight. “He didn’t have to catch me at all.”

  Jaren’s eyebrows rose. “You’re defending—”

  “He’s the reason I’m still here,” Kiva cut in, though she was more surprised than anyone to hear the words come from her lips. Never did she imagine that she would be defending a Vallentis.

  “But—”

  “What do you want t-to show us, Kiva?” Tipp interrupted Jaren. “You shouldn’t be out of b-bed for long.”

  Kiva’s heart warmed toward the boy, and she sent him a small smile. He didn’t return it, still barely meeting her eyes.

  Sighing inwardly, Kiva said to Jaren, “Can you help me over to Tilda?”

  Jaren’s lips pressed together, a clear sign of how he felt toward the other woman. But he did as Kiva requested and helped her shuffle painfully across the room, where he drew back the curtain to reveal the sleeping Rebel Queen.

  Throughout all this, Kiva tried to ignore the firmness of his body, the reassurance of his strength supporting her. She wouldn’t let herself be comforted by his touch, no matter how safe, how protected, she felt in his arms.

  Pushing away from him to take a seat on the stool beside Tilda’s bed—and breathing easier now that there was more space between them—Kiva waited until Tipp approached before she pointed at the woman and said, “When you look at her, what do you see? What does she represent?”

  Naari moved closer, as if not wanting to miss what Kiva was about to say. Kiva didn’t pay her any mind—after having gone head-to-head with the Princess of Evalon and then dealing with the rakish crown prince, the prison guard didn’t seem so intimidating anymore. What could she do? Sentence Kiva to death? She was already facing that with the Ordeals; there was little else left to fear. And besides, Naari had proved that she wasn’t one of the guards whom Kiva needed to worry about. If the amber-eyed woman wanted to listen in, so be it.

  “What d-do you mean?” Tipp asked, brushing his red fringe from his eyes. “It’s just T-T-Tilda.”

  “Look closer,” Kiva encouraged him. “Who is she?”

  Tipp looked confused. “The R-Rebel Queen?”

  Jaren’s body turned solid, his eyes shooting from Kiva to Tilda and back again. As if wary of her answer, he slowly asked, “Are you . . . sympathetic to her cause? Is that why you saved her?”

  Kiva weighed her response, thinking over her family’s complicated history with the rebels and where she fit into it, what she believed. With each second that passed, Jaren became more tense, until finally Kiva said, “I’m not some rebel underling, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Jaren visibly relaxed.

  “That said, I’m not unsympathetic,” Kiva admitted, causing him to turn rigid again. It was obvious where his own sentiments lay. Given his outburst after Tilda’s arrival, Kiva knew he was solidly in the anti-rebel camp.

  “How can you—”

  “I’ve been in here long enough to hear both sides of the argument,” Kiva interrupted him. “You were all there the night we spoke of Evalon’s history, how Torvin Corentine and Sarana Vallentis became enemies, how the rebels were formed. As Mot said, they do have a right to the crown.” Kiva looked down at Tilda and quietly added, “She has a right to the crown.”

  “But—”

  Once more, Kiva spoke over Jaren, “Again, I’m not saying I’m a rebel.” She wasn’t about to admit to her family’s ties with them, or her hopes that Tilda’s followers would save her from Zalindov—best to give the answer that would ease his concerns. And Naari’s, since the guard was just as tense. “I was only seven when I arrived here, remember? They were hardly going to try and recruit me before that.” She offered a hint of a smile, urging the two of them to relax.

  “If you’re not with them, how can you be fine with what they’re doing? With the unrest they’re causing?” Jaren asked, clearly frustrated. “You’ve been in here for ten years, so you don’t know what it’s like out there, how dangerous it is. Evalon is all but breaking apart. Most of the allied kingdoms have closed their borders, fearing the rebel movement will spread into their lands. In some, it already has. And our enemies . . . Caramor and Mirraven are frothing at the bit to launch an invasion, waiting for the slightest hint of weakness. If not for the Tanestra Mountains making it difficult for them to move their armies . . .” He trailed off, shaking his head.

  Kiva smarted at the reminder of how little she knew about the outside world. The coded notes she received didn’t offer any political news, so the best she could hope for was when she treated new prisoners who happened to be talkative or when Rooke gave something away during their private meetings. But . . . it wasn’t Jaren’s fault that she was so uninformed, so she forced patience into her tone as she said, “I’m not saying I support any of that, just that I
understand their motives—that they believe the kingdom is rightfully theirs, and they want it back. But,” she hurried on when Jaren opened his mouth again, “in my experience, people who get mixed up with the rebels usually end up imprisoned or dead. I’m already imprisoned—I don’t want to be dead.”

  “I still don’t—”

  “Let’s not argue about this,” Kiva cut Jaren off. Again. This was clearly something he was passionate about, enough that she wondered if he had deeper, more personal reasons for being so opposed to the rebels. If he had family or friends who had been hurt—or worse—because of them, his reaction not only made sense, but was justified. While Kiva wouldn’t be swayed from her own opinion, she didn’t want to cause him further distress, so she went on, “If you’re still worried about where my loyalties lie, think of how useless I’d be to any of them, especially in here.” She waved a hand, reminding him of where they were. “The prison rebels actively despise me, so they’re hardly going to ask for my aid.” Ask, no. Threaten Tipp’s life, yes, but Kiva decided against mentioning that. “Even outside of Zalindov, I’d be a terrible recruit. My healer code would mean I’d have to help anyone who came to me, including those loyal to the Vallentis family. I doubt that would go over well—with either side.”

  Jaren’s tension dissolved, and his eyes finally lightened, as if he too realized just how preposterous such a circumstance would be.

  “I still d-don’t understand,” Tipp said, the emotion in his voice tugging at Kiva’s heart. She’d become distracted, seeking to keep Jaren—and Naari—from scrutinizing her motives, forgetting the reason she’d dragged them all over to Tilda’s side and the explanation she’d intended to offer, misleading as it was.

  Turning to the young boy, Kiva said, “I asked what you think when you look at Tilda. You see a woman, Rebel Queen or otherwise. But I look at her and see someone who is deathly ill and needs my help.” Kiva returned her gaze to the bed, continuing to provide the only justification Tipp would accept, with him having known her long enough to see it as truth. “She represents everyone I’ve tried to save over the years. Everyone I’ve failed to save over the years. It’s not just one life to me—it’s all of them, and they all matter.”