The Prison Healer

by Lynette Noni

  Kiva’s ears pricked up, and she glanced at his face as he wrapped his arm more securely around her shoulders.

  “Mirryn is a year older than me,” he said. “She should have been the heir, the crown princess, but then I came along.”

  “Firstborn son gets the rights,” Kiva muttered. “Typical.”

  “Actually, it’s not,” Jaren said. “Our ancestor, Queen Sarana, she ruled alone—after King Torvin left, I mean. Later in life, Sarana had a daughter, who went on to rule when she died. Then that daughter had a daughter, who had a daughter, and so it went, all down the line. A few princes rose to be kings if they happened to be the eldest siblings, but for the most part, Vallentis mothers tend to bear daughters as their firstborns.”

  Kiva’s forehead crinkled. “Then why . . .”

  “This is the part few people outside of my family know,” Jaren said, his tone serious enough for Kiva to realize how much he was trusting her right now. When she held his gaze, offering her own silent promise in return, he looked away from her, sending his floating fire ahead, where it stopped at a three-pronged fork in the tunnel, lighting it up.

  A hollow feeling hit Kiva as she suddenly understood just how dire their situation was. This was the Trial by Earth—they’d been dropped deep beneath Zalindov prison, in the labyrinth of a tunnel system. It extended for miles in every direction, an unending maze that not even the guards could fully navigate. Some passages turned into dead ends, others were submerged and headed to the aquifer, and still more continued on seemingly forever. Without Jaren’s fire, they’d be blind down here. Perhaps that was what Rooke was counting on, his assumption that they’d be unable to see anything, left to feel their way through the darkness until dehydration, exhaustion, and starvation killed them.

  No wonder the Warden had been so gleeful with his parting remark. What a hideous way to die.

  But, while Jaren’s flames at least gave them light to see by, it didn’t help them get out of the tunnels. They were still lost; they still had no means to escape.

  Perspiration began to bead on Kiva’s brow as a sudden, intense feeling of claustrophobia took hold of her. It wasn’t uncommon for tunnel sections to cave in, killing scores of prisoners in an instant. Something like that could just as easily happen to her and Jaren.

  “Kiva?” came Jaren’s voice, his arm squeezing her shoulder.

  She blinked and looked up at him again, seeing the concern on his face and realizing that he’d been talking to her for some time.

  “Sorry, what?” she asked, and even she could hear the fear threading her tone.

  Understanding filled his expression, and he squeezed her again, this time in comfort.

  “I was just saying, we need to go that way.” He used his free hand to point to the left fork. “About twenty minutes of walking, and we’ll be out, with plenty of time to spare.”

  Kiva looked at the passage, then back to Jaren. “How do you know?”

  “Because I can feel it.”

  “You can—”

  Kiva cut herself off when she saw what Jaren was doing, using the same free hand to point at the ground. Before her eyes, the earth shifted, and out of the limestone came a green stem, leaves and thorns appearing on it, the end budding and flowering into the most perfect snowblossom Kiva had ever seen.

  But that wasn’t all.

  More of the earth cleared away around the base of the blossom, easing backwards, and seconds later, a small moat appeared, filling swiftly with water.

  Kiva stared at the display. Stared and stared and stared as realization hit her.

  Jaren couldn’t just harness air and fire.

  He could also control earth and water.

  All four of the elements.

  No one had claimed such power since Queen Sarana herself.

  “Now you know all of my secrets,” Jaren said, his voice quiet. “And that’s why the Royal Council chose to name me as heir, not Mirryn.”

  Kiva’s breaths sounded loud to her ears. She wasn’t sure how to process what she’d just learned, the magnitude of what he’d just shared. But she could feel how tense Jaren was beside her, his body locked as if afraid of her reaction, so she forced herself to relax and said, “So, we go left?”

  Air rushed out of Jaren, a relieved, almost disbelieving laugh. “Yeah,” he said. “We go left.”

  As if he couldn’t help himself, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to her temple—his unspoken gratitude for her not making a big deal out of what was most definitely a big deal.

  “Twenty minutes, huh?” Kiva said, still trying to remain as calm as possible on the outside while inside she was reeling. “I’m looking forward to seeing Rooke’s face when he realizes we’re alive.”

  “I’m looking forward to seeing his face when he has to let you go free,” Jaren said, as they slowly began to walk in the direction of the bobbing firelight.

  “That too,” Kiva said, unable to keep the wonder from her voice. As far as the Trials went, this one was the easiest—by far—but only because of Jaren. Without him and his elemental magic sniffing out the exit, Kiva would have met her death in these tunnels. She was sure of it.

  Jaren hesitated for a moment, but then, as they turned down the left fork and continued on, the fire floating before them, he warily said, “Tilda will be freed with you.”

  Kiva understood how this was a problem for him. Frankly, she was still amazed that he’d saved her in all of the Ordeals, when it meant he was also saving his mortal enemy. A strange, tingling sensation blossomed within her, but she stamped it down. Now was not the time. She still had so much to think about, so much to reconcile.

  “She’s really sick, Jaren,” Kiva said. “Rebel Queen or not, she’s hardly a threat.”

  “For now,” he returned. “But if she gets better—”

  “That’s a problem for another day,” Kiva said firmly.

  Jaren’s tension didn’t fade, and Kiva couldn’t blame him, knowing who he was, and who Tilda was to him. She grappled for a compromise, something that would get Tilda out of Zalindov, but also neutralize the danger he feared her to be.

  “You could take her back to Vallenia with you,” Kiva said, though it cost her. “Your royal healers would be able to do so much more for her than anyone else. And if she recovers, then you might still be able to get the answers you came here for. You could find out what the rebels are planning, even ask why she was in Mirraven to begin with. She’d be free of Zalindov, but safe in your custody.”

  Kiva wasn’t sure if she’d ever hated herself more. But this way, Tilda stood a chance at getting better—a good chance, since the royal healers were renowned for their skills. The only problem was, it would leave the Rebel Queen in the hands of her enemies.

  But at least she would be alive.

  To Kiva, that was what mattered the most. She hadn’t risked her life over and over just so Tilda could die.

  “That’s not a bad idea,” Jaren admitted. “But if it doesn’t work out”—Kiva braced herself, certain he was about to mete out Tilda’s execution sentence right then and there—“the most important thing is that you’re free, even if it means she is, too.” Jaren’s thumb stroked her shoulder. “We’ll deal with the consequences later.”

  If Kiva hadn’t been bearing most of his weight, she might have collapsed into a heap at the significance of his words. He was willing to let the Rebel Queen walk free just so that she could, too? That was . . . that was . . .

  It was outrageous.

  It was unbelievable.

  And it filled Kiva with warmth from head to toe.

  But then she had another thought, and while she didn’t want to push her luck, she couldn’t keep from asking, “You know how you’re a prince?”

  Jaren chuckled, his body moving against hers as they turned down another passageway lit by his flames. “I’m aware.”

  “Well . . .” Kiva bit her lip, not even sure how to ask.

  “The answer is yes, Kiva.”


  She shuffled the two of them around a large slab of limestone in the path before saying, “What answer?”

  “I assume you’re trying to ask me about Tipp,” Jaren guessed, correctly. “There’s no way I’m letting him stay in here. Once you’re free, he’s free. I’ll make it happen.”

  Tears filled Kiva’s eyes, and she didn’t try to hide them when Jaren turned to look at her.

  “Thank you,” she said, with obvious feeling. While she’d already spoken with the Warden about becoming Tipp’s guardian if she survived the Trials, after all she’d since learned about Rooke, she feared he might renege on their deal just to spite her. Now, at least, she had the backing of the crown prince. Tipp would finally be free.

  Jaren sent her a soft smile in return, before his face turned serious. “I don’t know if you have anyone out there waiting for you. Either of you. But I was thinking—I mean, I was hoping—” He stopped and tried again. “If you want to, I would really love to show you Vallenia. Both you and Tipp.”

  For the second time in the space of minutes, Kiva nearly crumpled.

  Stay alive.

  Don’t let her die.

  We are coming.

  “You want us to come with you?” she choked out. “Back to the capital?”

  “We’d have to stop at the winter palace first,” Jaren said, “just for a fortnight or so, until the spring thaws set in and make travel easier. But then, yes. Back to the city.”

  “And we’d live with you, at the castle?”

  Jaren nodded. “I was thinking you might want to take a class or two at the academy, continue honing your craft.”

  The healer academy. Kiva couldn’t believe what Jaren was offering, the golden plate he was holding before her.

  “And Tipp’s around the same age as Oriel,” he continued. “My brother can be a little terror, but he has a good heart. I think they’d get on really well. Plus, Ori would help Tipp with his studies, which I’m guessing might need some catching up.”

  More tears filled Kiva’s eyes at the dream he was laying out. At the possibilities she could see so clearly in her mind’s eye.

  But . . . her family . . .

  We are coming.

  They hadn’t come for her, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t go to them. Her brother had written her, told her where they were. His implication had been clear: they were waiting.

  For ten years, she’d longed to be with them again. But now that she might finally be free to do so . . .

  Kiva didn’t know what she wanted anymore. She couldn’t deny that they’d hurt her, disappointed her, for a decade. They’d promised to come, but they hadn’t, not even after her father had died. She’d been alone, left to fend for herself, to survive more horrors than they would ever know.

  And yet . . . they were still her family.

  She loved them.

  Just as she knew they loved her.

  “Don’t answer now,” Jaren said quickly, cutting into her thoughts. “Just— Just think about it, all right?”

  Kiva could only nod. And then when Jaren indicated for her to turn right, she did so, helping him hobble down the long, dark tunnel, having no idea where it would end, but certain that whatever was around the corner would change her life forever.

  * * *

  Kiva had been right about the coming change.

  But not in the way she’d anticipated.

  It was Jaren who realized much sooner than she did; Jaren who noticed that there were no workers in the tunnels, no prisoners digging away to extend them, to find more water.

  The labyrinth was empty.

  And when his earth magic finally guided them to the ladder chute and they painstakingly climbed to the surface, it became clear that Kiva’s success over the Trials was to be put on hold.

  There was no one waiting for them.

  No Rooke, no Naari, no guards at all.

  Only screams.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  It took Kiva mere seconds to realize what had begun while she and Jaren had been traversing the underground maze.

  It wasn’t just the screams that gave it away. It was the sounds of steel on steel, the whistles of quarrels and arrows, the baying of the hounds . . . and the blood.

  The grounds of Zalindov were already stained with it.

  It was so much worse than any riot Kiva had witnessed before. Even from within the domed building that covered the entrance to the tunnels, she could see masses of prisoners fighting against the armed guards, hammers and chisels and pickaxes against swords and shields and bows. Everywhere she looked, people were wrestling, bodies littering the ground, some writhing in pain, others still and silent. None cried out louder than those fending off the dogs, whose sharp canine teeth shredded flesh and snapped bones.

  All of this Kiva took in within the space of a breath, panic overwhelming her mind before adrenaline cleared it. She looked at Jaren and gasped, “Tipp— Tilda— I have to—”

  “Go!” he finished for her, urging her forward. “I’ll catch up!”

  She was already running as he called, “Be careful!” after her. He would follow as fast as his injured body allowed, but it might not be fast enough. She needed to get to the infirmary, to Tipp, to Tilda, and make sure they were safe. She would barricade the door, lock them in the quarantine room if she had to, whatever it took to protect them. Olisha and Nergal would look after themselves—they’d probably already left to find a hiding place—but Tipp and Tilda . . . Kiva needed to hurry, hurry, hurry.

  A whooshing sound had her swerving just in time to miss an arrow that shot into the ground too close for comfort. Her feet faltered, fear clutching at her chest, but she continued on, sprinting through the bottleneck of inmates and guards clashing near the western watchtower, dodging and ducking until she reached the barracks and could use it for cover. The noises of the battle made her desperate to block her ears, if only to drown out the agony all around her. Why were they doing this? It would achieve nothing. The moment the violence broke out, the Warden would have been ushered to the top of the wall, following protocol for even the smallest of riots. There would be no getting to him, not unless the prisoners overcame every single guard and then climbed the wall themselves. Rooke was the safest man at Zalindov, and he would remain that way as long as the riot continued, watching from on high as prisoner after prisoner fell.

  Maybe this was what he’d wanted all along. A riot was the swiftest way to guarantee mass carnage. He would have no need for his poison after today, and there would be no questions asked—he would never see justice for his crimes, with blame for the innumerable deaths falling squarely on the uncontrolled violence.

  Another whistling arrow prompted Kiva to duck just as it whooshed past her ear, close enough for her to feel the air move. She made a gargled sound of fright, but it was drowned out by the clamor around her, the yelling of the guards and prisoners alike.

  Still bolting across the grounds, Kiva watched for arrows and flying daggers from the guards, but likewise watched for the improvised weapons of the inmates, seeing guards piled on the ground with their heads smashed in or with open lacerations, some still with hand tools sticking out of them as they stared unseeing into the sky.

  For every guard that had fallen, Kiva saw ten downed prisoners. More. And she knew that at any moment, she could join them. And yet still she ran, keeping an eye out for Naari, unsure if she wished for the guard to be by her side or hurrying to protect Jaren. Unsure if—

  BOOM!

  Kiva was thrown from her feet, a scream leaving her as she soared through the air and slammed onto the cold, hard earth.

  For a moment, she could only lie there, stunned. Her ears were ringing, the sounds of the continued riot muffled into nonsensical background noise, her vision blurry and fading in and out of focus.

  Flat on her stomach, Kiva turned her head just in time to see the watchtower fall.

  An explosion—someone had caused an explosion. They’d blasted the base of the tow
er, the stone corner crumbling right out from under it, the entire structure tilting precariously before gravity took hold and it crashed to the ground.

  The earth shook at the impact, the guards who had been shooting arrows from the safety of the raised platform now crushed beneath it. Dead.

  “Take that, yeh dogs!”

  Kiva’s hearing had returned enough to hear Mot’s cry, her vision clear enough to see him raising his hands in triumph.

  “Mess with an apothecary, and yeh’ll reap what yeh sow!” he crowed, before hobbling quickly into the storm of dust created by the collapsed tower, disappearing from view.

  That same dust reached Kiva moments later, her winded lungs objecting as she began coughing for clean air.

  Get up, she ordered herself. GET UP!

  Tipp and Tilda still needed her. She couldn’t fail them. She couldn’t.

  Determined, she pushed up on weak arms, her head spinning. She nearly fell again, but regained her balance and staggered forward. It was harder to see now that everything was coated in a fine haze, but as Kiva struggled onward and the dust started to settle, she began seeing familiar faces fighting for their lives.

  First, there was Cresta, the rebel leader having stolen both a dagger and a sword, which she was using to cut down anyone in her path. As Kiva watched, Harlow succumbed to her blades, the quarry overseer collapsing to his knees as the light left his eyes.

  Next she saw Grendel, the crematorium worker throwing what looked like ash into the faces of the guards nearest her, blinding them before ducking away to safety, only to repeat her actions all over again.

  Then Kiva saw Bones and the Butcher fighting back to back in the middle of the open ground, the two brutal men drenched in blood and slaying any prisoners who dared come near. Kiva felt sick watching them; their gleeful looks showed how much they delighted in the violence.

  Hurry, she told herself, looking away. She couldn’t linger, couldn’t afford to waste any more time.

  Forcing herself to move faster, she pushed her wobbly legs until she was running again, sprinting again, weaving around dueling prisoners and guards, until finally—