The Prison Healer

by Lynette Noni

  Naari turned to Kiva. “Princess Mirryn has a girlfriend?”

  Kiva shrugged again. “That’s what she said.” Looking closely at Naari, she added, “You’re not one of those royal-obsessed fans, are you? Desperate for any scrap of information?”

  “Of course not,” Naari said, frowning. “I’m just surprised.”

  “That she’s in a relationship?”

  Naari said nothing, her silence confirmation enough.

  Kiva snorted, then remembered who she was with and tried to turn it into a cough, resulting in a disgusting sound that she was grateful no one else—like Jaren—was there to hear.

  “What’s funny?” Naari asked, proving that Kiva’s attempted cough had failed.

  “It’s just . . .” Kiva trailed off, trying to think of the best way to say what she was thinking without upsetting the woman strapped to the teeth with lethal weapons. “I’m guessing the king and queen don’t make proclamations regarding the dating status of their kids. If Mirryn were to become engaged, then sure, the kingdom would hear about it. But just having a girlfriend?” Kiva shook her head. “Sorry, but you can’t be surprised about not knowing that.”

  Again, Naari said nothing. But then—

  “Apparently you have the crown prince to thank for saving your life.”

  Pulling a face, Kiva said, “I don’t want to talk about him.”

  “I hear he’s handsome,” Naari commented.

  Kiva nearly tripped over her own feet. “Are we seriously having this conversation?”

  “I’m just saying, some people dream of marrying a prince.”

  “Marrying . . . a . . .” Kiva spluttered, unable to even repeat the words. “Are you insane? I can’t think of anything worse.” Especially when it came to a scoundrel like Deverick. Barely a few minutes in his presence and, savior or not, Kiva had been ready to throw something at him.

  The guard laughed—whether at Kiva’s words or her disgusted expression, Kiva wasn’t sure.

  “Then what do you dream of, healer?”

  “I have a name, you know.”

  “I know.”

  Kiva sighed. “I have a lot of dreams. A lot of nightmares, too. Only time will tell which path my life will take.”

  There was a weighty pause before Naari said, quietly, “You are wise for your years, Kiva Meridan.”

  You’re wise beyond your years, little mouse.

  A lump rose in Kiva’s throat at the memory Naari’s words had brought forth, something her father said to her every time she came up with a new remedy or treatment that he hadn’t considered. Smart as a whip, our Kiva, her mother used to go on for him, telling anyone who would listen and smiling proudly at her daughter.

  Tears prickled Kiva’s eyes, and she blinked them back, no longer having the cover of rain to conceal them. She looked ahead to see how far they had left to walk, relieved to find they were already passing the abandoned quarry to their right, with their destination in sight straight ahead.

  Kiva had never visited the abandoned quarry. It had been depleted a few years before she’d arrived at Zalindov, the laborers relocating further north to the much larger mine where she and Naari were now headed. She’d heard rumors that while the abandoned one was smaller, the prisoners had been forced to dig so deep into the earth that numerous cave-ins had occurred, resulting in multitudes of deaths. Similar accidents happened in the newer quarry, though less frequently.

  “How do you want to go about this?” Naari asked as the sounds of hammers and chisels meeting rock began to reach their ears. She indicated the bag Kiva had brought with her and added, “The quarry is huge. Do you know where you want to get your samples from?”

  “We need to go where the largest concentration of workers are, places that lots of prisoners have access to or spend most of their time.”

  Naari’s reply was dry. “You’re making this up as you go, aren’t you.”

  It wasn’t a question, so Kiva didn’t answer, though her cheeks did warm slightly.

  “This way,” Kiva said as the tracks came to an end. Rail carts were piled up, empty and waiting for the prisoners to load them and push them back to the depository once their shift was over. It was hard work, grueling on the body and mind. Quarriers, like tunnelers, rarely survived long at Zalindov.

  There was only one watchtower overlooking the quarry, but there were plenty of guards on the ground making sure the prisoners were working—and providing motivation when they weren’t, their whips and canes stained with blood. The quarry overseer, Harlow, was the worst of them, and he scowled at Kiva and Naari as they approached where he waited at the base of the watchtower.

  “I heard youse was comin’,” Harlow said, chewing with his mouth open and then spitting a wad of blackgum close enough to Kiva’s feet that she wondered if he’d meant it to hit her. She wouldn’t have been surprised, though it would have made her less inclined to ease his discomfort the next time he came to see her about his chronic venereal rash. Kiva couldn’t have wished such an ailment on a nicer man, and she took great delight in giving him remedies that stung and burned his nether regions, conveniently overlooking the solution that would heal him in a trice.

  Perhaps he should have spat on her. He certainly would have done more than that if he knew the last remedy she’d given him was to deliberately inflame his symptoms, enough that it should be some time before he had the ability to partake in the activities that had resulted in the ailment to begin with.

  Served him right, the rat bastard.

  “We won’t get in your way,” Naari said in a cool voice.

  “Better not,” Harlow said. “And don’t youse bother my workers none, either. I ain’t payin’ ’em to slack off.” He laughed suddenly, one hand clutching his barreled stomach as he arched his back and guffawed. “Payin’ ’em? Ha! Imagine that!”

  Kiva shared a look with Naari, whose expression was equally repulsed.

  “We won’t stay long,” Naari said, though whether that was to Kiva or Harlow, Kiva was unsure.

  “Youse can stay as long as youse want, just not down in the quarry,” Harlow said. He eyed them both and licked his lips. “Youse can come down in my quarry anytime. In fact, why don’t we—”

  “We won’t stay long,” Naari repeated firmly, her lip curling with disgust. She turned on her heel and, with a pointed look at Kiva to follow, strode purposefully away from Harlow. The last Kiva saw of the repugnant overseer as they crested the lip of the quarry was him scratching his crotch, and the image had her biting back a laugh.

  “He’s a pig,” Naari said as she came to a stop to look down over the choppy, layered vista spread out into the distance.

  “He’s worse than a pig,” Kiva said. Deliberating for a second, she quietly added, “But if it makes you feel any better, he’s suffering in silence as we speak.”

  When Naari looked at her in question, Kiva shared about Harlow’s condition and the newest remedy she’d prescribed him. The guard laughed so hard that she had to wipe tears from her eyes.

  “Remind me never to get on your bad side,” Naari said, still chuckling.

  “He deserves it,” Kiva said.

  “That he does,” Naari agreed. She waved at the view before them and said, “I don’t want to give him a chance to come and hassle us, so where to from here?”

  Kiva chewed her cheek, considering. The topmost layers of the quarry had already been mined so that there was now a significant—and sheer—drop down to where the prisoners were chiseling away at the lower edges of the pit. The land itself was an arid gray, but shimmers caught in the light every so often, hints of the glittery luminium threading through the stone.

  “Why don’t we just follow the path until we hit the bottom, and I’ll find some places to take samples once we’re closer to the workers?” Kiva finally said.

  Naari started down the slope, her steps confident, while Kiva picked her way more carefully. It was wide enough to fit a cart, but all she had to do was twist her ankle
on a loose stone and she’d be in real trouble. Unlike Naari, Kiva was neither athletic nor strong, life as a prisoner failing to provide much in the way of fitness. The laborers were the exception; being forced to work under such grueling conditions meant they couldn’t not be fit. It was that or die. And they almost always died anyway.

  Just like Jaren would.

  Kiva pushed away the thought. She’d known from the moment she’d met him that he’d be allocated a labor job, and it would lead to his death. There was nothing they could do about it, and there was no point in dwelling on it. Zalindov was cruel—it always had been, and it always would be.

  But for the first time in a long time, Kiva wished she could stop the inevitable from happening.

  “You’re quiet.”

  Kiva’s head jerked up at Naari’s words. “I’m just watching where I step.”

  Naari let it slide, even though it was clear she knew Kiva was wrestling with her thoughts. Soon the noise became so much that they weren’t able to easily converse anyway, with the sounds of hammers smashing into rock and picks chipping away at stone echoing loudly in their ears.

  Given how expansive the pit was, more prisoners were allocated here than anywhere else. At any given time, there were upward of seven hundred quarriers, most perishing within a year. And it wasn’t just that there was space for them; it was also because of how vital the luminium was—not only for power and lighting, but also infrastructure and architecture. The more laborers there were, the faster the luminium could be extracted, with a further three hundred or so prisoners allocated to the depository inside the gates where they processed the mineral and prepared it for shipping to the rest of Wenderall.

  It was a well-oiled machine that relied on the lives—and deaths—of prisoners.

  As Kiva and Naari made their way past the first gray-clothed workers and the guards watching over them, the clanging of tools was augmented by the tangy smell of sweat and blood, combined with the chalky scent of quarry dust. A few people glanced their way, but no one stopped them. The dirt-covered prisoners had little energy to spare for curiosity, and the guards were watching their charges closely, whips in hand and ready for the slightest hint of anyone slacking off.

  Kiva’s chest burned with resentment, but she made herself remember that she was here for one reason only: to collect her samples. If she figured out where the sickness was coming from, she’d be able to keep all these workers from dying even more prematurely—for what it was worth.

  As they walked along the lower levels of the pit, Kiva signaled to Naari when she found places that had seen or were currently seeing higher levels of contact with the laborers. Pausing each time, she scraped samples into the flasks she’d brought with her, before continuing on down the path. Mostly she searched for stagnant puddles of water and small bogs of mud that had a mixture of quarry minerals all mashed in together, especially when they were well trodden by prisoners’ footprints or nestled into rocky crevasses near where the laborers worked.

  It was just as she was about to tell Naari that she had enough samples and was ready to go that a scornful voice called out to her.

  “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Zalindov’s Bitch.”

  Kiva turned woodenly to find Cresta standing behind her. The redhead’s face was smeared with quarry dust, her serpent tattoo almost appearing alive beneath the luminous grime.

  The last time Kiva had seen her, Cresta had been threatening Tipp’s life. So far, Kiva had upheld her side of the bargain to keep Tilda alive, but the look Cresta was now leveling at her served as a clear reminder that she still had work to do. Zalindov’s rebels wouldn’t be happy until their queen was free—and perhaps, them with her.

  A shiver ran down Kiva’s spine. She hadn’t considered what would happen when the rebels came to rescue Tilda. Would they be taking others with them, too? Others . . . like Cresta?

  Kiva shook off the thought, determining that it wasn’t her problem. She had enough to deal with without the moral fallout from such a decision.

  “Do we have a problem here?” Naari asked, stepping closer.

  “Look at you with your babysitter,” Cresta sneered at Kiva, ignoring the guard other than for a slight tightening of her fingers around the pickaxe she held. “How’s it feel, working in your castle while the rest of us slave away here?”

  On the one hand, Kiva couldn’t believe Cresta had the audacity to not only snub Naari, but to continue antagonizing Kiva with the guard right there. On the other hand, this was Cresta, and she’d always done whatever she wanted and somehow survived the aftermath.

  “I’d hardly call the infirmary a castle,” Kiva returned in an apathetic tone, “but I guess it’s all about perspective.” With clear deliberation, she turned her back and began to walk away, saying to Naari over her shoulder, “I’m done here. Let’s go.”

  “That’s right, healer whore, run away like you always do,” Cresta called after her. “Better rustle up some courage before your second Trial. You’re gonna need it!”

  Kiva ignored Cresta’s cackle, certain that if she looked over her shoulder, she would see the warning in the young woman’s eyes. Despite her feigned scorn, Cresta was well aware that Tilda’s survival was tied to Kiva’s success.

  “Want to tell me what that was about?” Naari asked once they were far enough away.

  “Want to tell me why you didn’t punish her?” Kiva replied.

  Naari was slow to respond, but eventually said, “Did you want me to?”

  Kiva sighed, and hoisted her bag of samples higher onto her shoulder. “No. Never mind.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  Kiva remained silent for a long while, thinking over her response. It wasn’t until they were out of the quarry and following the rail tracks back to the prison gates that she finally answered.

  “I represent everything Cresta hates about Zalindov,” Kiva said. “To her mind, I do exactly what I’m told, when I’m told. And it’s true—I do.” Because unlike Cresta, Kiva cared whether she lived or died, and she found that being obedient was more likely to keep her on this side of the everworld. She played the game, having chosen long ago to sacrifice her soul in order to save her life. The other prisoners resented her for that. Especially the rebels. And yet she was still breathing, while many of them were now dead.

  “The carvings,” Naari guessed.

  “Among other things,” Kiva said. “Plus, I kept her alive when she first arrived here.”

  A confused pause, before Naari said, “Usually people are grateful for that.”

  “Not if they want to die.”

  A loaded silence met Kiva’s words, during which time she recalled how Cresta had tried to kill herself in her early weeks at Zalindov, using glass shards to slice open her wrists. If not for Kiva’s quick actions, the angry young woman would have died. It was Kiva who had unintentionally lit a fire in Cresta after that, telling her that she was strong and powerful and could survive anything, and that she owed it to herself to find a reason to live.

  Cresta had done exactly that, rallying the prison rebels and deciding that her purpose in life was to cause as much conflict as possible, for guards and inmates alike.

  “You’re really good at making friends, aren’t you,” Naari said in a dry tone, prompting a reluctant chuckle out of Kiva.

  “It’s one of my truest talents in life,” she replied just as dryly.

  But as they continued back toward the gates and Kiva caught the small smile lurking on the guard’s face, she wondered if maybe she wasn’t so bad at it, after all—and that thought made her stomach tense enough that she refused to consider it further. Instead, she focused her attention on returning to the infirmary and testing her samples, while distracting herself from the upcoming Ordeal and the very real threat of death looming over her head.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “How d-d-did you go?”

  Kiva and Naari had barely set foot inside the infirmary before Tipp was upon th
em, bouncing up and down as he waited for an answer.

  “I should have enough to get started,” Kiva told him, patting her bag. “How did you go?”

  “I g-got a few,” the young boy answered, gesturing to the floor near the workbench where he’d used a mashup of items to construct a small circular pen.

  “How many is a few?” Kiva asked, following him over to it.

  “Five,” Tipp said. “But Grendel t-told me that she’s seen a heap nesting near the crematorium, so I should be able to g-get as many as you need.”

  Nodding with approval, Kiva looked down at the five rats running around the pen, deciding not to comment on the makeshift obstacles Tipp had fashioned from scraps for them to use as playthings. Instead, she said, “Once I have samples from other places, we’ll need a way to separate them. I can’t have quarry-tested rats mixing with farm-tested rats, or any of the others. If they get sick, I have to know what the origin was.”

  “Already on it,” Tipp replied. “Mot’s c-coming by later to help me divide the p-pen into sections.”

  Kiva placed her bag carefully on the workbench. “Actually, I could use Mot helping me.”

  “Jaren can help you,” Naari told Tipp. “He’s good with his hands.”

  Kiva’s brows shot upward.

  Naari rolled her eyes. “I heard him telling some of the tunnelers that he helped his brother build a fort to play in. He’s good with his hands at building things.”

  The stern way she looked at Kiva might as well have been a screaming reiteration of what she’d said the other night—that she only ever behaved professionally toward the prisoners, including  Jaren.

  Coughing quietly, Kiva said, “Sounds like a plan.” She then arranged her quarry samples on the bench, deciding her next steps. As she did so, the amulet under her tunic shifted, causing a momentary flash of panic. The Trial by Fire was in two days. Two days. If her family didn’t come soon . . .

  Kiva shoved the thought from her mind. There was nothing she could do but hope that they would. And if they didn’t, she had to have faith in the princess’s word, in her magic. She had to have faith in a Vallentis—one of the last people Kiva would ever choose to trust, and yet perhaps her only option if she wanted to remain alive.