The Prison Healer Page 2

  Winter, summer, spring, or fall, it didn’t matter when the prisoners came or where they were from: travel to and from Zalindov was always perilous. Located in the north of Evalon, close to the borders of both Mirraven and Caramor, the prison wasn’t easy to reach from any of Wenderall’s eight kingdoms. Nevertheless, all of those kingdoms used the prison, their problematic citizens transported from all corners of the continent, without care as to whether they would survive the journey.

  Indeed, of the three men who had been delivered through the front gates and sent straight to the infirmary today, only one required Kiva’s attention, since the other two had already passed into the everworld, their bodies pale and stiff. They didn’t yet reek of decay, indicating their ends must have been recent, but that made little difference. They were dead—there was no bringing them back.

  The third one, however . . . The pulse beating within him was a surprise, weak as it was.

  Looking down at him, Kiva wondered if he would last the hour.

  Doing her best to ignore the two corpses draped across metal slabs to her right, Kiva studied the living man, considering where to begin. He needed to be washed, not just because he was filthy, but because she couldn’t tell how much of the blood coating him was his and if there were any wounds that need tending.

  Rolling her shoulders, Kiva pushed her ratty sleeves up to her elbows, wincing as the coarse gray material irritated the still-healing flesh along the inside of her right forearm. She wouldn’t allow herself to think about what the guards had done to her three nights ago, or what might have happened if the newest guard—the young woman with the watchful amber eyes—hadn’t arrived when she did.

  Kiva still didn’t know why the woman had intervened and warned the others of the Warden’s displeasure. The guards weren’t fools. They knew that while Zalindov was ruled with an iron fist, the Warden didn’t condone abuse of power from his guards. That, however, didn’t stop them from violating the prisoners. They just took care not to get caught.

  The newest guard hadn’t yet lost the spark of honor, of life, in her amber eyes, which usually faded after the first few weeks at the prison, turning into bitter resentment. It was the only reason Kiva could come up with for her interference. But as grateful as she was, she now felt as if she owed the amber-eyed guard, and it never boded well to owe anyone anything at Zalindov.

  Stifling her troubled thoughts, Kiva collected a wooden pail of fresh water and returned to the man’s side. Carefully, methodically, she began to clean him, peeling away the layers of his tattered clothing as she went.

  Never forget, little mouse: no two people look the same, but we are each beautiful in our own ways. The human body is a masterpiece that deserves our respect. Always.

  Kiva sucked in a sharp breath as her father’s voice drifted across her mind. It had been a long time since she’d been overcome with a memory from her childhood, a long time since she’d heard the nickname “little mouse”—something she’d earned from squeaking audibly anytime she was startled as a child—a long time since she’d felt the sting of tears in her eyes.

  Stop it, she told herself. Don’t go there.

  Inhaling deeply, she gave herself three seconds to regain control, then resolutely continued her work. Her heart ached at the whisper of her father’s gentle instruction, her thoughts involuntarily traveling to the days she’d spent in his workroom helping with the villagers who had sought him out for one malady or another. Her earliest memories were of being by his side—fetching water, tearing linens, even sterilizing blades once she was old enough to not hurt herself in the process. Of all her siblings, she was the one who had been born with their father’s passion for healing, the one who wanted to ease the suffering of others.

  Now here she was, about to carve out yet another man’s flesh.

  Her thigh itched. She ignored it.

  Gritting her teeth, Kiva pushed aside her memories and focused on removing the last of the man’s clothes, leaving him only in his underthings. She felt no discomfort at the sight of him lying before her nearly naked. It was second nature for her to look at him with professional eyes, merely assessing the damage to his flesh. In the back of her mind, she could appreciate his toned build and the honeyed skin peeking out from beneath the blood that she continued to wash away, but rather than wonder what kind of life had led to him having such a healthy physique—and what had then led him to Zalindov—she instead feared what it would mean for him upon his awakening. He had enough muscle definition to indicate his strength, which could draw the wrong kind of attention and earn him the worst kind of job allocation.

  Maybe it would be better if he didn’t wake up, after all.

  Berating herself for the thought, Kiva redoubled her efforts to clean him, aware, as always, of the guard watching her every move. Today it was the Butcher who stood in the doorway, having replaced Bones during shift change. Those weren’t their real names, but Kiva’s fellow prisoners had valid reasons for using them. The Butcher was rarely seen outside of the Abyss, the punishment block pressed up against the northeastern wall. His name was both a warning and a promise for all those who were sent there, few of whom ever returned. Bones, on the other hand, was seen regularly around the prison grounds, often patrolling the top of the limestone walls with a crossbow over his shoulder, or stationed in the watchtowers. While not as dread-inducing as the Butcher, his predilection for snapping the bones of inmates on a whim meant Kiva was always careful to give him a wide berth.

  It was uncommon for either of the brutal men to be on duty in the infirmary, but the prisoners were restless of late, with winter’s bite making everyone more agitated than normal. Recurrent frosts meant food rations were at an all-time low, the produce damaged by the harsh weather and limiting what the laborers could harvest from the work farms. When they didn’t reach their daily quotas—which they hadn’t for weeks now—they felt the effects more than anyone, both in their stomachs and at the hands of the guards overseeing them.

  Winter at Zalindov was unforgiving. Every season at Zalindov was unforgiving, but winter was particularly hard on the inmates—as Kiva knew, after ten years of experience. She was all too aware that the twin corpses within her reach weren’t the only two that she would be delivering to the morgue this week, and many more would end up following them to the crematorium before winter was through.

  Wiping the last of the blood off the man’s chest, Kiva inspected his newly cleaned skin, taking in the considerable bruising across his abdomen. A kaleidoscope of color blossomed on his flesh, indicating that he’d taken more than one beating during his trip from Vallenia. But after some careful prodding, Kiva was confident there was no internal damage. A few deeper cuts would require her attention, but they weren’t enough to warrant the amount of blood that had coated him. With some relief, she was beginning to realize that the most grievous wounds must have belonged to his deceased companions, and perhaps he had attempted to save their lives by stemming the flow of blood, albeit in vain.

  Or . . . perhaps he had been the one to kill them.

  Not everyone sent to Zalindov was innocent.

  Most weren’t.

  With only a slight tremble to her fingers, Kiva turned her attention to the man’s face. Having focused on checking his vital organs before all else, she’d yet to clean away the blood and grime, so it remained thick enough to make it difficult to distinguish his features.

  Once, she would have begun her work at his head, but she’d learned years ago that there was little she could do when it came to brain damage. It was better to focus on putting everything else back together and hope that the person in question awakened with their wits intact.

  Peering from the man’s filthy face to the equally filthy water left in the pail, Kiva bit her lip as she weighed her options. The last thing she wanted was to make a request of the Butcher, but she needed fresh water to finish her work—not just to wash his face and hair, but to more adequately clean out his wounds before stitching the
m.

  The patient must always come first, little mouse. Their needs before yours, every time.

  Kiva exhaled quietly as her father’s voice came to her again, but this time the heartache was almost comforting, as if he were in the room with her, speaking right into her ear.

  Knowing what he would do in her place, Kiva lifted the pail and turned toward the door. The Butcher’s pale eyes locked on to hers, dark anticipation spreading across his ruddy features.

  “I need some—” Kiva’s quiet voice was cut off before she could finish her request.

  “They want you back in the isolation block,” the amber-eyed guard said, appearing behind the Butcher and diverting his attention. “I’ll take over here.”

  Without a word—but with a leering look thrown at Kiva that made her skin crawl—the Butcher spun on his heel and marched away, his boots crunching on the gravel path leading from the infirmary.

  Kiva wished the water in her hands were clean enough to scrub away the feeling of his parting glance. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear to hide her discomfort, she looked up to catch the amber-eyed guard’s gaze.

  “I need some fresh water,” Kiva said, less fearful of this woman than of the Butcher, but still wary enough to keep her voice low, to appear submissive.

  “Where’s the boy?” the guard asked. At Kiva’s uncertain look, the woman clarified, “The red-haired kid with the stutter. The one who helps you with”—she waved her gloved hand around the room—“all this.”

  “Tipp?” Kiva said. “He was sent to the kitchens for the winter. There’s more for him to do there.”

  Truthfully, with the recent outbreak of tunnel fever, Kiva would have appreciated Tipp’s help with the quarantined patients, since the two other prisoners who had been allocated roles in the infirmary struggled with health anxiety and stayed as far away from illness as possible. Because of them, Kiva’s workload was such that, aside from the scant hours she was given to sleep each night, the rest of her time was spent single-handedly treating Zalindov’s countless inmates—a demanding task even during the winter months when new arrivals were scarce. Come spring, she alone would be carving hands in droves, and that was on top of addressing the day-to-day health concerns of the prisoners. But at least then Tipp would be returned to her and could take some of the pressure off, if only by assisting with small tasks like stripping the beds and keeping things as clean as possible in their markedly unsterile environment.

  Now, however, Kiva had no helper; she was on her own.

  The amber-eyed guard seemed to be considering Kiva’s words as she took in the room, noting the grimy-faced, heavily bruised, half-naked survivor, the two dead men, and the filthy bucket of water.

  “Wait here,” the guard finally said.

  And then she was gone.

  Chapter Three

  Kiva didn’t dare move a muscle until the guard returned minutes later. With her was a young boy who she motioned past her and into the room. The moment his eyes found Kiva, his freckle-splattered face brightened, and a big, gap-toothed smile stretched across his features.

  With bright red hair and wide blue eyes, Tipp looked like a burning candle. He acted like one, too, full of energy and crackling with passion. At eleven years of age, nothing ever seemed to faze him. No matter the ridicule and frustration he suffered through every single day, he always brought light with him wherever he went, always had a kind word and a gentle touch for the prisoners who needed him the most. He was even pleasant to the guards, regardless of how rough and impatient they were with him.

  Kiva had never met anyone like Tipp, certainly not in a place like Zalindov.

  “K-K-Kiva!” Tipp said, rushing forward. He looked for a moment as if he might try and hug her—as if they hadn’t seen each other in years, rather than days—but he resisted at the last second, reading her body language. “I d-didn’t know what Naari was b-b-bringing me here for! I was s-s-s-s-s—” He pulled a face and tried a different word. “I was w-worried.”

  Kiva looked to the guard, unsurprised that Tipp, friendly as he was, knew her name. Naari. At least Kiva would no longer have to think of her as the amber-eyed woman.

  “The healer needs assistance, boy,” Naari said in a bored voice. “Go fetch her some clean water.”

  “On it!” Tipp said enthusiastically, lunging for the pail, all elbows and knees. For a moment, Kiva feared that the bloodied, muddied water would end up all over the infirmary floor, but Tipp was out the door with his load before she could warn him to be careful.

  An awkward silence descended, until Kiva cleared her throat and murmured, “Thank you. For getting Tipp, I mean.”

  The guard—Naari—nodded once.

  “And . . . for the other night, too,” Kiva added quietly. She didn’t look down at the raw burn marks on her arm, didn’t draw attention to how some of the guards had decided she was to be their entertainment that night.

  It wasn’t the first time.

  It wasn’t even the worst time.

  But she was grateful for the intervention, all the same.

  Naari nodded again, the repeated action stiff enough for Kiva to know better than to say more. It was strange, though. Now that she knew the guard’s name, she felt less trepidation, less . . . intimidation.

  Careful, little mouse.

  Kiva didn’t need the echo of her father’s warning. Naari had the power of life and death in her hands—Kiva’s life and death. She was a guard of Zalindov, a weapon in her own right, death incarnate.

  Giving herself a mental kick, Kiva shuffled back toward the surviving man, busying herself by checking his pulse. Still weak, but stronger than before.

  Tipp returned from the well in record speed, the wooden pail filled to the brim with fresh, clean water.

  “What happened t-to them?” he asked, pointing to the two dead men as Kiva began to gently wash the living man’s face.

  “Not sure,” Kiva answered, glancing at Naari briefly to gauge her reaction to them speaking. The guard seemed unconcerned, so Kiva went on, “This one was covered in their blood, though.”

  Tipp peered thoughtfully at the man. “You think he d-did it?”

  Kiva rinsed the dirty cloth, then continued wiping away layers of muck. “Does it matter? Someone thinks he did something, otherwise he wouldn’t be here.”

  “It’d make a g-good story,” Tipp said, skipping off toward the wooden workbench to begin gathering the items Kiva needed next. Her face softened at his thoughtfulness, though she was careful to school it into indifference before he turned around.

  Attachments were dangerous at Zalindov. Caring only led to pain.

  “I’m sure you’ll make it a good story even if it isn’t,” Kiva said, finally moving up to the man’s hair.

  “Mama used t-to always say I’d grow up to be a b-b-bard,” Tipp said with a grin.

  Kiva’s fingers spasmed on the cloth, her heart giving a painful clench as she thought about Tipp’s mother, Ineke, for the first time in three years. Having been accused of stealing jewelry from a noblewoman, when Ineke was sent to Zalindov, the then eight-year-old Tipp wouldn’t let go of her skirts, so he was thrown in the wagon with her. Six months later, Ineke got a cut while working in the slaughterhouse, but the guards wouldn’t let her visit the infirmary until it was too late. The infection had already spread to her heart, and within days, she was dead.

  Kiva had held Tipp for hours that night, his silent tears soaking her clothes.

  The next day, red-eyed and puffy-faced, the small boy had said only five words: She’d want me t-to live.

  And so he had. With everything within him, Tipp had lived.

  Kiva was determined he would continue to do so—outside of Zalindov. One day.

  Dreams were for fools. And Kiva was the biggest fool of them all.

  Returning her attention to the man lying before her, she slowly worked the tangles from his filthy hair. It wasn’t long, which helped, but it wasn’t short either. Kiva debated whether
it would need to be shaved, inspecting it closely. But she could see no sign of infestation, and once the blood and dirt were gone and it began to dry—revealing a rich golden color somewhere between blond and brown—a lustrous shine became more noticeable.

  Healthy hair, healthy physique. Both rare in new arrivals.

  Again, Kiva found herself wondering what kind of life this man had come from that had led him to fall so far.

  “You’re not g-going to swoon, are you?” Tipp said, appearing at her elbow with a bone needle and spooled catgut in hand.

  “What?”

  Tipp nodded down to the man. “Swoon. Because of h-how he looks.”

  Kiva’s brow furrowed. “How he . . .” Her eyes flittered to the man’s face, taking him in properly for the first time. “Oh.” She frowned deeper and said, “Of course I’m not going to swoon.”

  Tipp’s mouth twitched. “It’s all right if you d-d-do. I’ll catch you.”

  Shooting him a look, Kiva opened her mouth to retort, but before she could get a word out, Naari appeared right beside them, having approached on swift, silent feet.

  A quiet squeak left Kiva before she could help herself, but the guard didn’t shift her eyes from the man lying on the metal bench.

  No, not a man. Now that he was clean enough to reveal his features, Kiva could see that he wasn’t fully grown yet. But he was no longer a boy, either. Perhaps eighteen or nineteen—a year or two older than she was, give or take.

  When Naari continued to stare down at him, Kiva did the same. High brows, straight nose, long lashes . . . the kind of angles a painter would be in raptures about. There was a crescent-shaped cut over his left eye that needed to be stitched, deep enough that it would leave a pale scar on his honeyed skin. But otherwise, his face was unblemished. Unlike the rest of him, as Kiva had learned upon washing his flesh. His back was littered with crisscrossed scars, similar to her own and those of many other prisoners who had endured a flogging or two. But his scars didn’t have the characteristic look of the cat-o’-nine-tails; Kiva didn’t know what kind of whip had left such welt-like wounds, but the damage was limited to his back, with few other marks on the rest of his body, save the fresh ones he had obtained during his journey to Zalindov.