The Prison Healer

by Lynette Noni

  “We should get back in there,” she said, pointing to the infirmary. “I just . . . I just needed a minute.” She made herself meet Jaren’s eyes. “Thank you. For being here.”

  “I’m not going anywhere, Kiva,” he said softly. “You’re not in this alone. Any of it.”

  She swallowed and nodded, unable to offer a verbal response, but still trying to convey how grateful she was to have him by her side.

  “Come on, let’s go make sure Naari hasn’t accidentally set the rats free,” Jaren said, taking Kiva’s hand and leading her back along the path. “The last thing we need is for Tipp to wake up and start chasing them all around the infirmary.”

  A small laugh left Kiva, slightly hollow but still genuine. She clung to his offer of levity, pushing away her fear, her grief, and shared, “He had a chest infection about two years ago, and I swear he was the worst patient I’ve ever seen. I couldn’t keep him in his bed—he always had something he needed to do, somewhere he had to be. I nearly had to strap him down just to get him to go to sleep.” She smiled softly at the memory. “If we’d had the rats then, he would have been a nightmare, wanting to play with them all the time. I’d have had no chance at keeping him under control.”

  Jaren chuckled. “Just you wait, then. If that’s the kind of fighting spirit he has, I’m sure he’ll be back on his feet in no time.”

  It was an empty promise, but it was exactly what Kiva needed to hear as they reached the doorway to the infirmary and she prepared herself for what might come over the next few hours.

  “You ready?” Jaren asked, squeezing her fingers.

  “No,” Kiva said truthfully. “But I want to be with him.”

  And so they reentered the infirmary together, and Kiva spent the rest of the day watching over Tipp, willing him to fight, willing him to live.

  Hours passed as the shadows shifted across the room, until suddenly it was night again. Kiva wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or concerned that Tipp hadn’t awoken since that morning. She remained in a vigil beside him, leaving only for brief periods to check on Tilda and her other patients. Seven more were admitted into her care, and nine more passed away, the numbers continuing to grow every day. When Mot came to collect the dead, he didn’t ask any questions of Kiva, with Naari and Jaren having already filled him in. He did stand behind her for a while, though, offering silent companionship as they looked down at the small boy, counting his breaths.

  “He’s strong, luv,” Mot said, his hand steady on her shoulder. “If anyone can pull through, it’s our Tipp.”

  Kiva only nodded, then listened as Mot’s footsteps faded along with the morgue workers he’d brought to carry the bodies away. She didn’t allow herself to wonder how long it would be before they came for Tipp . . . or how she would cope when that moment arrived.

  * * *

  It was just before midnight when Tipp stirred again.

  Kiva was in the middle of brewing herself some yellownut tea, desperate for an energy boost since she was barely able to keep her eyes open. Naari and Jaren were slumped on stools, leaning against the worktable, both of them looking as tired as she felt. But still, they were with her, holding true to Jaren’s promise that she wouldn’t be alone.

  “Is it m-morning?”

  Kiva looked over to find Tipp pushing himself up in bed. She lowered her infuser and rushed to his bedside, Naari and Jaren right on her heels.

  “Not yet,” Kiva answered, pressing her hand to his forehead. She wondered if maybe he was a little cooler than earlier, but that was likely wishful thinking on her part. “How’re you feeling?”

  Tipp’s face fell, as if he suddenly remembered where he was and why, and he curled in a little more on himself. “My t-tummy hurts.”

  “And your head?” Kiva asked, her fingers still warm from his fevered skin.

  “No, just my t-tummy.”

  Kiva’s brow furrowed. “Are you sure? It doesn’t hurt here?” She touched the side of his face, near his temple.

  Tipp shook his head and repeated, “Just my t-tummy.”

  Kiva removed her hand, looking at him closely. All of the other sick prisoners had horrible headaches accompanying their stomach pain, including the new patients who had arrived that day. It was one of the earliest symptoms they experienced, along with their rising temperature.

  Reaching for Tipp’s blanket, Kiva pushed it aside and lifted the hem of his tunic, ignoring his weak protest when she raised it enough to expose the flesh of his abdomen.

  No rash.

  His skin was smooth.

  Kiva tucked his blanket back in, offering his arm a quick, comforting squeeze to say she was done, her mind whirling as she sought to put a timeline on what she knew of the sickness. Fever, headaches, and vomiting came first, the rash usually appearing within twenty-four hours. Kiva didn’t know at what point yesterday Tipp had been struck down by the illness, but she’d left early in the morning with Naari. If he’d gone out to the garden shortly afterward, as Olisha had claimed, then he’d already passed the twenty-four-hour mark, even the thirty-six-hour mark and beyond. He should have the rash by now. And he should have had a raging headache since the beginning.

  Maybe it was because he was young, the sickness taking longer to flood his system, with the missing symptoms still to come.

  And yet Kiva recalled something her father had told her when trying to explain the difference age could play in illnesses.

  Children often get it worse, he’d said, brushing his knuckles down her rosy cheek. It comes on you fast and hard, but leaves that way, too. Then you’re up and bouncing around much quicker than us oldies, fully recovered in what feels like the blink of an eye, while we’re still miserable as we wait for the lingering dregs to leave our systems. Winking at her, he’d finished, Cherish the gift of youth while you still have it, little mouse.

  If her father was right—and he always was when it came to healing—then Tipp should be considerably worse than he currently was.

  Kiva didn’t want to give herself false hope, but . . . what if Tipp wasn’t sick? Or at least, wasn’t sick with whatever was spreading around the prison? His symptoms were similar, but that was the problem Kiva had faced all along—that the symptoms were so generic they could have been caused by any number of ailments, from viruses to allergies to something as simple as having eaten spoiled food.

  There was no way to know for sure, nothing to do except ride it out and see what happened over the next few hours.

  And so Kiva sat back down beside him, clutching his hands with hers, and waited.

  * * *

  Four hours later, Tipp’s fever broke.

  His stomach stopped hurting.

  He asked for some bread.

  He wanted to play with the rats.

  Kiva wept.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “If you d-don’t go, I’ll push you out the d-d-door myself.”

  Kiva pulled a face at Tipp, the young boy standing with his hands on his hips beside the rat pen, staring at her like a disgruntled puppy.

  It was three days since she’d found him passed out in the garden. The first day had been hell, with her certain he would soon be heading to the morgue. But after his fever broke late that night, he’d improved dramatically, and it had been a struggle to keep him resting as what remained of the short-term bug he’d caught left his body. The only way she’d managed to keep him in bed was by promising to test the samples she’d collected the day he’d fallen ill, having put them aside to care for him.

  She’d completed her tests yesterday under his watchful eye, the two of them alone in the infirmary, with Jaren having gone back to the tunnels and Naari accompanying him to smooth out any wrinkles caused by his absence. Kiva was beyond the point of questioning the guard’s motives, and was now just grateful for the unexpected ally she’d become—for all of them.

  But today . . . since the most recent tests had failed yet again, Naari had arrived at the infirmary early that morning, remi
nding Kiva that she still had more samples to collect. And despite Kiva’s protests that she needed to remain with Tipp in case of a relapse, the young boy refused to allow her to stay behind and coddle him for another day.

  “Your n-next Ordeal is tomorrow, Kiva,” Tipp said. “You need to t-test the aquifer and the t-tunnels so that you’re done. I’m fine, so stop w-worrying and just go.” He pointed to the door, as if doing so would help convince her.

  “Don’t worry, sweets, I’ll keep an eye on him,” Olisha said, having arrived with Nergal to cover the day shift.

  The offer was meant to reassure Kiva, but the last time Olisha had watched over Tipp, he’d collapsed out in the freezing cold, entirely forgotten. As such, Kiva didn’t have much confidence in the woman’s ability to monitor him.

  Tipp sighed and said, “I w-won’t leave the infirmary, I promise. Not even if there’s a f-fire.”

  Kiva frowned. “Please do leave if there’s a fire.”

  “Fine, b-but aside from that, I won’t move. I’ll keep B-Boots away from the rats, and I’ll m-make sure Tilda eats something. I’ll even t-try and get Nergal to d-do some work.”

  The man in question made a harrumph sound and proceeded to clean his fingernails, while Olisha sniggered at his side.

  “How about you take a nap,” Kiva suggested instead. “Sleep is good for you.”

  “I’ve b-been sleeping for days,” Tipp complained. “I’m all b-better, Kiva.” He held his hands out to the sides. “Fit as a f-f-fiddle.”

  It was true that Tipp had made an amazing recovery, to the point that it was almost impossible to believe that she’d feared he was on his deathbed only a few days earlier. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t struggling with the all-consuming terror she’d experienced at the thought of losing him.

  “If you feel even the slightest bit unwell—”

  “I’ll have someone c-come and get you,” Tipp said, rolling his eyes. “I know, I know.”

  Kiva ignored the eye roll and stepped closer, pulling him into a tight hug. He froze in her arms, before his hands came around her and he hugged her back.

  “This is n-nice,” he said, his words muffled by her tunic. “We should d-do this more often.”

  Kiva laughed and pushed him away, pointing a finger toward the bed he’d used since falling ill. “Rest. I mean it.”

  He rolled his eyes a second time, but he trudged obediently to the bed and sat down. How long he’d stay there, Kiva didn’t know, but she trusted that he wouldn’t break his word and leave the infirmary while she was gone.

  “I’ll be back as soon as possible,” Kiva told Olisha and Nergal, the former nodding in reply and the latter giving an uncaring lift of his shoulders.

  Kiva hurried over to where Naari was waiting at the door, following the guard out into the crisp morning and toward the center of the prison grounds.

  “You’re testing the water today?” Naari asked.

  “That’s really all that’s left,” Kiva said. “That, and the tunnels.”

  “We’re heading there as well?”

  Kiva nodded. “Everything left is underground, so we might as well check a few of the passageways straight after the aquifer and the pumping station. Then we’ll be done.”

  “Done?” Naari repeated. “As in, done-done?”

  “Unless you can think of somewhere else that should be tested,” Kiva said, “then yes, done-done.”

  Neither of them said what they were both thinking—that everything was riding on today’s samples. If the rats didn’t show any symptoms by tomorrow, then her attempt at finding the origin of the illness would have failed.

  “Don’t think about it,” Naari said, reading Kiva’s mind. “Water can host all kinds of bacteria. I’m sure you’ll find something today.”

  Kiva appreciated her confidence, and was about to say as much, when an angry voice yelled her name. They were halfway across the open space between the infirmary and the domed building at the center of the prison, where the ground was muddy, the grass patchy and mostly dead. There was little else nearby, the closest building being a watchtower, which was why Kiva was surprised to turn and see Cresta marching in their direction, the woman’s hands clenched into fists by her sides.

  “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

  Kiva’s brows rose. “Excuse me?”

  Cresta came to a stop in front of Kiva, pointing a finger straight at her face. Naari edged closer, but didn’t interfere.

  “My friends are sick and dying,” Cresta said, moving her finger back toward the infirmary. “And you’re out here doing—what? What’re you doing, healer? ’Cause you damn well aren’t making them any better.”

  At first, Kiva was relieved, having feared Cresta had approached to remind her that Tilda needed to stay alive, and Tipp’s life would be forfeited if Kiva failed tomorrow’s task. Never mind that Kiva’s life would also be forfeited. They were all linked now; Cresta had no need to continue threatening her. But then Kiva processed what the irate woman had said, and a heavy feeling hit her stomach. This wasn’t about protecting the Rebel Queen at all. This was about something beyond one person, beyond any of them, rebels included.

  “Cresta . . .”

  “Don’t you ‘Cresta’ me,” the young woman spat, her expression so livid that her serpent tattoo looked like it would rise out of her face and strike at Kiva. “You want to know what just happened? Tykon dropped like a slab of luminium halfway to the quarry, couldn’t get up again. Shaking, puking everywhere. Harlow let me drag him back, but only so he could follow and stare at my ass the whole way, the perverted fu—”

  “Where’s Tykon now?” Kiva interrupted, cringing at the thought of the repugnant quarry master.

  Cresta pointed toward the infirmary again. “He’s where you should be. But you’re not. Because you’re here.” She slammed her finger toward the earth, silently demanding an answer.

  “I’m . . . working to fix it,” Kiva said cautiously.

  “To fix what?” Cresta shoved her matted red hair over her shoulder. “This stomach virus?”

  “Yes,” Kiva said, not offering any more, and wondering when Naari was going to step in and stop this.

  Cresta’s eyes narrowed. “You’re lying.”

  Kiva raised her hands. “I’m not. Why do you think I was at the quarry? I was collecting samples for testing, just like I am today.” She patted the bag on her shoulder.

  “That was over a fortnight ago,” Cresta exclaimed. “More and more people are dying every day. Hell, everyone who comes to see you for the smallest thing ends up getting sick—explain that, healer! Are you telling me you’re still trying to figure out why? ”

  Kiva didn’t have a response, unsure what she was allowed to say, especially to someone as volatile as Cresta. If the rebel leader used this to stir up more dissent among the prisoners, if she tried to create a panic . . . Things were already brewing too close to the surface, with whispers circulating about what had happened nine years earlier, the same spreading sickness, the same mass deaths. The murmurs were growing, the fears deepening. If something didn’t calm the inmates soon . . .

  “I think you should be getting back to the quarry now,” Naari said, clearly thinking along the same lines. “Where’s Harlow?”

  “Where do you think?” Cresta asked, one hand on her hip. “He’s in the kitchens, stealing from our rations. Like you lot don’t get enough of our food as it is.” Her face darkened. “He’s probably getting handsy with the workers there at the same time, so trust me, he’ll be in no rush to leave.”

  Naari’s expression tightened, her eyes blazing as she turned to Kiva. “I’ll meet you at the tunnel entrance. Don’t go down without me.” To Cresta, Naari said, “Come with me.”

  And without another word, she strode off in the direction of the kitchens, not waiting to see if Cresta would obey.

  “If she weren’t a guard, I think I’d like her,” the angry woman mused. But then she remembered who she was
standing with, and she sneered at Kiva. “Fix this, healer whore. Before we all die. Our blood is on your hands.”

  With that parting line, she turned and began marching away.

  “Wait!” Kiva called.

  Cresta paused, glancing back over her shoulder. “What?”

  Aware that she had mere seconds before Naari became suspicious of the delay, Kiva closed the distance between them and whispered, “Have you heard anything? About Tilda? About another rescue attempt?”

  Cresta’s features were like granite as she forced out a single word. “No.”

  Kiva’s shoulders slumped, even if she’d already assumed as much. “What does that mean?”

  “It means we wait,” Cresta said. “And you do what you’re supposed to—keep her alive until the time comes.”

  With a sharp, warning look, Cresta took off again, leaving Kiva alone.

  “That’s easier said than done,” she muttered to herself. Not only did she have to survive tomorrow’s Trial, she also had to keep both herself and Tilda from catching the stomach illness—without knowing how it spread to begin with—and if she somehow managed those, she then would have to face yet another Ordeal in a fortnight.

  Kiva sighed and rubbed her temples. As far as confrontations with Cresta went, that one hadn’t been so bad. She felt a niggling of concern in the pit of her stomach, wondering what the rebel leader might do with the information she’d learned about the sickness, limited as it had been. Anyone else, and Kiva wouldn’t have been so worried. But Cresta . . . she was a wildcard. It was possible that she would do nothing, keeping her head down and focusing her energy on what was happening with the rebels both inside and outside the walls. Or she could use what she’d heard to add to the fear spreading among the prisoners, creating a dangerous environment where everyone was even more on edge, guards included.

  Sighing again, Kiva knew it was out of her hands, so she hitched her bag further up her shoulder and continued her journey to the tunnel entrance, refocusing on her mission. Both the aquifer and the pumping station were accessed via the same shaft that led down to the tunnels, so once she reached the domed stone building, she stepped inside to wait for Naari. There was nothing to look at, only a set of ladders poking out from the large rectangular hole in the ground.