The Prison Healer

by Lynette Noni

  “So, back to the drawing board?” Jaren asked.

  “More like continuing on to the next sketch,” Kiva said.

  “Which you’ll do after you pass today’s Ordeal,” Jaren said, his voice full of confidence.

  Kiva swallowed, holding his steady gaze. “Right.”

  “It’s nearly time,” came Naari’s voice as she strode into the infirmary.

  All the breath left Kiva, first because she wasn’t ready, and second because Jaren wasn’t supposed to be there during work hours.

  For one mad second, she wondered how she could hide him, before sanity took hold and she realized it was too late, since Naari was already looking straight at him.

  “The other prisoners are being assembled,” the guard told him. “You need to hurry and join the rest of the tunnelers before anyone realizes you’re not with them.”

  Jaren gave her a quick nod, before turning back to the dumbstruck Kiva. “See you afterward.”

  No biddings of good fortune or luck, and certainly no farewell; only an encouragement that they would see each other again, something that wouldn’t happen if she failed the Trial.

  Because she’d be dead.

  Kiva was confused. Jaren hadn’t held back in berating her after she’d volunteered to take on Tilda’s sentence, but today he seemed to have complete conviction in her ability to succeed. His turnaround surprised her almost as much as Naari being unconcerned about finding him somewhere he shouldn’t be. And that Kiva couldn’t begin to understand.

  Just as Jaren reached the doorway to the infirmary and nearly disappeared through it, Kiva called out his name, prompting him to pause and look back over his shoulder at her.

  “I’ve sent Tipp to help Mot in the morgue today, since I want him to stay busy and not have time to think about . . . anything,” Kiva said. “Can you— Will you—” She broke off, swallowed, tried again. “Just . . . look after him, please?”

  Jaren’s face softened. “I’ll keep an eye on him during the Trial, but after that, you’ll keep looking after him yourself. Just like you promised.”

  He then vanished into the grounds, his words lingering in the air between them and inciting hope within her, while simultaneously adding to her dread. If the rebels didn’t come—if she didn’t make it through the Ordeal—

  “Any idea of what to expect today?” Naari asked, interrupting Kiva’s near-to-spiraling thoughts.

  “A few,” Kiva replied, “but I’ve been mostly trying not to think about it.”

  “Probably for the best,” the guard said.

  Kiva had avoided walking anywhere near the gallows over the last few days, wanting to keep from discovering whether construction had begun on a wooden pyre. While she still prayed for a rescue, if one didn’t come in time, then she could only hope that her Trial by Fire would require something much less confronting than being burned alive. However, she couldn’t shake her feeling that the Ordeal would be dramatic. Even though the royals weren’t attending this time, the rest of Zalindov’s population would again be standing as witnesses, so the Warden and other overseers must still be intending to make a spectacle of it.

  “Is there anything you need to do before we leave?” Naari asked. “We have a few minutes.”

  Kiva took a moment to consider. There was none of Mot’s waxy mixture left, so she couldn’t slather any more onto her skin. She’d already looked in on the quarantined patients—and sent two more bodies to the morgue. She’d also checked Tilda’s vitals, confident the woman’s health was stable enough that she wouldn’t slip into a convulsion while the Ordeal was underway.

  “Nothing I can think of,” Kiva finally answered Naari. She didn’t want to leave until they had to, so she stalled by saying, “But I do have a question for you.”

  Naari looked at her, waiting.

  Kiva remembered a time when she wouldn’t have dared ask the guard anything. And here she was, deliberately prolonging a conversation, if only to delay her own impending doom. For all she knew, her family and the rebels just needed a little more time. If they really had already tried to infiltrate Zalindov, surely they would do so again. Perhaps they were outside the walls this very moment, waiting to strike, ready to flee with both Kiva and Tilda in tow.

  Even as she thought it, Kiva’s spirits dimmed.

  Promise me that no matter what happens, you’ll never lose hope, her father had said to her in the garden. Your brother and sister, your mother, they will come for you, one day.

  Maybe they would. Maybe they had.

  And maybe that was it.

  Over.

  Done.

  It was suicide, breaking into Zalindov. If they’d already doubled the guards . . . Kiva knew the truth, even if she wanted to deny it, to ignore it.

  The rebels weren’t coming. Her family wasn’t coming.

  They had tried, and they had failed.

  Perhaps they would try again, when things calmed down, when the guards’ vigilance faded. But that would take time—and Kiva didn’t have time. She had an Ordeal today.

  Hope was a drug, and Kiva an addict. She couldn’t keep believing, couldn’t keep trusting, couldn’t keep hoping.

  We will come.

  Ten years. Her family had waited ten years.

  We are coming.

  They should have already come. Before now—before Tilda. But they hadn’t.

  Hurt rose in Kiva’s chest, blinding in its intensity, but she pushed it away, shoving it deep within her, just as she had for years.

  It was up to her now.

  Up to Kiva to survive.

  First, the Trial by Fire.

  And then, whatever came next.

  Regardless of what her father had tried to make her promise, she couldn’t keep waiting for help to come.

  Instead, Kiva would save herself.

  Just as she had for the last ten years.

  She was a survivor—and she would survive this.

  “Kiva?”

  Jolting at Naari’s prompt, Kiva realized she’d remained silent for too long, and she scrambled to cement her new resolve while considering one of the many questions that lingered in her mind, settling on the newest addition: “Why didn’t you punish Jaren for not being in the tunnels today?”

  Naari cocked her head. “That’s twice this week you’ve asked why I haven’t punished another prisoner.”

  Kiva scratched her nose, uncertain how to respond. “Uh . . .”

  “Here’s the thing,” Naari said, unfolding her arms and stepping closer. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re already punished enough just by being imprisoned here. You don’t need trigger-happy guards making things worse for the sake of a power trip. Should Jaren have snuck out of the tunnels? No, of course not. Did he take a stupid risk by coming here to see you? Absolutely. But I figure if the tunnel guards didn’t catch him, then that’s on them, not me. For all I know, he could have been allowed to come here because he’s sick or injured, so if anyone asks, that’s the story we’re going with, agreed?”

  Kiva’s mouth hitched up at the corner. “Got it.” She paused. “And thank you.”

  “For what?”

  Holding her gaze, Kiva remembered what the guard had said last night, and answered, “For not being like the rest of them.”

  Naari’s amber eyes softened. She opened her mouth to reply, but before she could utter anything, Bones arrived at the doorway to the infirmary.

  Kiva’s heart leapt into her throat at the sight of him, but she reminded herself of her decision to let go of what had happened and move on. She was going to see Bones around the prison; it was unavoidable. If he thought she was afraid of him, he would only make her suffer. She would not be cowed.

  “They’re ready for you,” he said in a gruff voice, wincing slightly as he looked into the brightly lit room with the sun streaming in from the windows.

  Kiva might have felt some delight at his evident hangover if his words hadn’t been ringing in her ears. Even though she’d only mo
ments ago resolved to save herself, to survive, that didn’t mean her fear wasn’t nearly crippling now that the time was upon her.

  Irrationally, Kiva suddenly recalled a million things she needed to do. She should check on the quarantined patients again, she should give Tilda some more broth to keep her hydrated, she should see if the rats were showing any symptoms, she should—

  “Calm down,” Naari whispered, stepping closer. “You can do this.”

  Kiva desperately wanted to clutch the amulet to center herself, but she knew doing so would risk drawing attention to it. She settled for feeling the heavy weight of it hidden beneath her tunic against her breastbone, a solid reminder that she would not be facing the Trial alone. Naari was right. She could do this.

  “Follow me, healer,” Bones ordered Kiva. He then turned on his heel and strode off across the grounds.

  Kiva’s pulse hammered in her ears as she walked on leaden feet after him. She found some small comfort in Naari’s presence, the woman remaining at her side, offering quiet solidarity.

  That comfort dissolved, however, when Bones turned north, rather than east; when she began to see prisoners milling much closer than they had two weeks ago, packed tightly together in a space that wasn’t intended for large gatherings, unlike the eastern quad where the gallows stood.

  When Bones made another turn, Kiva realized why.

  They weren’t heading toward the gallows.

  They were heading to the crematorium.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Kiva was certain she was going to throw up in front of everyone. Either that, or she was going to pass out. She wondered if she’d still have to face the Trial by Fire if she were unconscious. Would it matter, if the end result was to be the same? Surely there was no way Kiva could survive what was ahead, amulet or no.

  She remembered what Mot had said just yesterday: Did yeh know Grendel’s been asked to stoke the second furnace? Rooke made the request ’imself . . .

  Kiva hadn’t even questioned it, wholly believing that it must be in preparation for the rising numbers of dead. But now, as she approached the crematorium and tried to stave off the full-body shakes assailing her frame, she didn’t know whether it was good or bad that she hadn’t dwelled on Mot’s words, never once considering what they could have meant for her.

  This was worse than a wooden pyre.

  So much worse.

  And just as Kiva had known, there was no sign of her family, no sign of the rebels.

  She truly was on her own.

  The prisoners parted like waves as Bones led Naari and Kiva toward the entrance of the stone building, where Warden Rooke stood with three other guards and Grendel. The crematorium worker was looking at the ground, holding both of her elbows and clearly wishing she was anywhere but the center of attention right now. Kiva wondered what was going through her head and if she, too, dreaded what was about to happen.

  As a woman in her early thirties, Grendel had been sent to Zalindov for arson, so the guards had amused themselves by placing her in charge of the crematorium—but not before making sure to “welcome” her. Over half of Grendel’s body was covered in burn scars from what they’d done, and she’d only survived because Kiva had worked tirelessly day and night to keep her from death. She, like many prisoners, owed Kiva her life. And now it looked like she was about to be ordered to repay that debt by helping to kill her.

  Warden Rooke stood tall and proud beside Grendel, his black leather uniform polished to perfection, as always. He showed no emotion as he beheld Kiva, his stance enough that she knew he’d meant what he’d said after her first Ordeal—she would find no help from him. Whatever supposed protection he’d afforded her in the last decade was now gone.

  “Kiva Meridan,” Rooke said in a deep, carrying voice as she approached. “Today you will face your second Ordeal, the Trial by Fire. Do you have any last words?”

  Prince Deverick had made the same offer to Kiva two weeks earlier, and just like then, she held her tongue—partly because she didn’t want to provoke the Warden, and partly because she didn’t want to vomit all over her own feet. Instead, she looked out at the crowd, feeling their energy. Some of the nearest prisoners sneered, their resentment toward her and the Trials palpable. Others were invigorated, as if the prospect of this Ordeal thrilled them, whatever the outcome might be. Finally, there were those who stared with wonder clear on their faces. If she could survive, they could survive. If she could go free, then maybe one day they could, too. She was their hope, their faith in a different, brighter future.

  But Kiva was a long way from success. And she was reminded of this when she caught Cresta’s hazel stare, the rebel leader standing with her arms crossed, her expression all but screaming that Kiva had better survive. Or else.

  “Very well,” Rooke said when she remained silent. To the amassed crowd, he said, “Given the nature of this task, you will not be bearing witness today. However, you’ll stay here until a verdict has been reached, and only then will you be released back to your work.”

  Kiva felt a ripple of discontent from the prisoners, enough for her worry to expand beyond herself for a split second. This many inmates in one place was a recipe for disaster, the perfect breeding ground for a riot to break out. The guards would get the upper hand, they always did, but the casualties . . . Kiva swallowed and forced away her fears. There was more anticipation than anger, more excitement than outrage, indicating that, for now, they were safe.

  Or at least, everyone but Kiva was safe.

  “Follow me,” the Warden ordered, turning on his heel and striding through the stone door into the darkened building beyond.

  Naari grabbed Kiva’s arm and ushered her forward. To the onlookers, her actions would appear pushy. What they didn’t see was how gentle her touch was and the encouraging squeeze of her fingers, a silent assurance that everything would be all right.

  The kindness almost brought tears to Kiva’s eyes, and she wondered if this would be the last human contact she ever felt, if things didn’t go as planned. Mot’s waxy mixture would be almost useless in what she was about to face, meaning that Princess Mirryn’s amulet was all Kiva had. If it didn’t work . . .

  Stop, Kiva told herself. She couldn’t allow herself to doubt, not when so much was at stake.

  She would survive.

  She would survive.

  Passing the last of the prisoners, Kiva kept her eyes downcast, unwilling to risk spotting Tipp or Jaren in the crowd. She needed to remember their confidence, not see their pale, anxious faces. She also sought to avoid the pitying looks from inmates she’d treated over the years, as if they believed this was the last they’d see of her . . . as if they knew she was walking to her death.

  “Focus, Kiva,” Naari murmured. “Forget everyone and everything.”

  Kiva inhaled deeply and then exhaled again, just as they approached the large doorway. She stole a final glance upward before stepping inside, noting that only one of the chimneys was smoking, while the other—belonging to the second furnace—was still and silent. Waiting, it seemed, for Kiva.

  With her heart pounding in her ears, Kiva relied on Naari’s touch to steady her as they entered the stone building, her eyes needing a moment to adjust to the darker space within. Luminium beacons were affixed to the walls, lighting the room enough for Kiva to soon take in the empty antechamber. She’d been in here before, only a handful of times throughout the years, but never with such dread pooling in her stomach.

  “For the Trial by Fire, as noted in the Book of the Law, you’re to face an elemental task involving flames,” Warden Rooke said, his hands clasped behind his back.

  Bones leaned against the wall near him, looking bored, while the three other guards were more alert, as if waiting for Kiva to snap and attack them all. Grendel and Naari stood like sentinels, the former still holding herself as if she’d rather be anywhere else and the latter continuing to offer silent support.

  “The crematorium keeper has been gracio
us enough to help prepare your task,” Rooke went on, tipping his head toward Grendel. “Perhaps it’s best if she explains what you’re to do.”

  Grendel’s neck jerked upward as she turned frightened eyes first to Rooke and then, at his pointed nod, to Kiva. The woman licked her scarred lips, and said in a rasping voice, her throat having been damaged beyond repair when she’d received her wounds, “I’ve cleared out the second furnace for you. It’s— It’s ready to be lit once you’re . . . in there.”

  Kiva swayed, and only Naari’s tightening grip kept her from falling.

  When Grendel said no more, Rooke made an impatient sound and continued for her. “As you know, Zalindov’s fires are built for mass cremation, turning bodies to ash within two to three hours. But it takes less than five minutes before the flames penetrate through flesh and into organs and bones. We’ve taken all this into account, and have decided to be generous with your Trial. We’ll turn off the furnace after ten minutes, and if you’re still alive, we’ll consider you to have passed this Ordeal.”

  That was what he considered generous?

  Naari’s grip turned bruising, and Kiva realized it was because she was beginning to audibly hyperventilate, and the guard was wordlessly telling her to get ahold of herself. That was difficult when stars were dotting her vision and panic was clutching at her chest, her body going into survival mode without the Trial having even begun.

  A jab of Naari’s fingernails had Kiva wincing, the quick hint of pain giving her something to focus on, something to pull her back from her freefalling mind.

  “Do you understand your task?” Warden Rooke asked, his dark eyes fixed on hers. As before, there was no emotion on his face, as if he had no preference whether she lived or died. Either way, she was an inconvenience.

  Another prick of Naari’s fingernails, and Kiva managed to croak out, “Yes.”

  “Good,” said Rooke. “Then follow me.”

  Kiva wasn’t sure if she’d be able to move another step. She couldn’t feel her legs, her body numb. Maybe that was for the best if Mirryn’s amulet didn’t work, if Mot’s mixture offered no protection. She didn’t want to feel the lick of flames tearing at her flesh, her skin beginning to peel away, bubbling and melting from her bones, her—