Page 10 of The Prison Healer

Kiva looked at the guard quickly, then away again, unsettled by her continued company. It was normal for guards to be stationed at each of the work buildings—rarer for the infirmary, at least before the surge in riots of late—but they never tailed inmates out in the open spaces of the prison. There was no need. Zalindov had around-the-clock surveillance from multiple watchtowers and patrolling guards, both human and canine, the latter of whom were trained to tear flesh from bones at a single whistle.

Naari’s company was unnerving, prompting Kiva to wonder if the guard suspected the young man was more dangerous than he seemed. It was all the more reason for Kiva to hurry up and get his orientation over with.

Deliberating quickly, she turned left and started toward the next building along, the gravel underfoot crunching loudly in the quiet early-evening air. The other prisoners would be heading back to their cell blocks soon, if they weren’t already there. But for now, the grounds were silent. Almost peaceful.

“What’s your name?”

Kiva looked up sharply, finding the young man walking calmly beside her and peering at her in question. Despite his bruised and battered body, and despite his new, unfamiliar surroundings, he seemed completely,unfathomably,at ease.

She remembered her first day at Zalindov, the moment she’d stepped out of the infirmary cradling her bandaged hand, aware that her family, her freedom, and her future had been taken away from her in one fell swoop. She hadn’t asked anyone for their name. That had been the last thing on her mind.

“I’m the prison healer,” Kiva answered.

“That’s not your name.” He waited a beat, then offered, “I’m Jaren.”

“You’re not,” she returned, looking away from him. “You’re D24L103.”

Let him make of that what he will, the reminder of how—and why—she’d been close enough to memorize his identification band. He had to feel it, had to know what lay throbbing beneath the wrappings on his hand. Kiva had heard about Zalindov’s own personal form of branding long before her arrival, and she’d only been seven. There was no way this young man—Jaren—wouldn’t have known about the Z prior to being dumped inside his prison wagon. It was an inevitability for all those sentenced to Zalindov.

She waited for the repulsion and anger, both of which usually came while she was carving the symbol. But he’d been unconscious, so now was his time. She didn’t brace herself. There was nothing he could say that she hadn’t heard before.

“D24L103,” he finally repeated, inspecting the characters etched into the metal band. His gaze drifted to the bandages, as if he could see through to the three deep slashes beneath. “That’s a bit of a mouthful. Probably easier if you stick with Jaren.”

Kiva stumbled slightly, her head whipping toward him only to find his blue-gold eyes lit with humor.

Humor.

“Is this a joke to you?” she hissed, stopping dead on the gravel path between the infirmary and the stone building nearest to it. “You do realize where you’re standing right now, don’t you?” She threw her hands out, as if doing so would help open his eyes. While the light was steadily fading as dusk settled over the expansive grounds, the limestone perimeter walls rose high on all sides around them, making it impossible to forget that they were trapped like rats in a cage.

Jaren’s humor dissolved, his eyes flicking to Naari, then back to Kiva. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” He rubbed his neck, looking uncomfortable. “I guess—I’m not sure how I’m supposed to act in here.”

Kiva inhaled deeply, then shook the tension from her shoulders. People dealt with fear and uncertainty in different ways, she reminded herself. Humor was a coping mechanism, and certainly not the worst of them. She needed to have more patience with him.

“That’s what I’m here for,” she told him, more gently. “To tell you what you need to know. To help you survive this place.”

“And how long haveyoubeen surviving this place?”

She held his gaze. “Long enough to be a good teacher.”

That seemed to satisfy him, since he followed without argument when she started forward again. At least until she stopped them at the entrance to the next building over and said, “I figure the first place you visit should also be the last.”

When Jaren looked at her in puzzlement, she nodded to the dark doorway and finished, “Welcome to the morgue.”

Chapter Five

Kiva led the way inside the cold stone building, her nose wrinkling at the acrid smell that permeated everything from the walls to the floors. Incense burned from a small worktable at the side of the square room, but it didn’t hide the stench of death, an unpleasant mix of spoiled meat and sour milk.

A drain lay in the center of the floor, the stones closest to it stained a reddish-brown. Only a fraction of prisoners underwent embalming, usually those from more privileged families who were granted permission to collect their loved ones after death. The lingering scent of thyme, rosemary, and lavender tickled Kiva’s nose, but she couldn’t smell any wine, indicating it had been some time since the last attempted preservation.

Stone slabs were spaced at equal distances around the drain, and while there were currently no cadavers on them, the smell was just as strong as on days when the room was full. The prisoner in charge of the morgue, Mot, was immune to it, but not even the guards monitored this building for long periods of time, unable to stomach the constant odor.

“Evenin’, Kiva,” Mot said, sitting on a stool behind the worktable, his back slightly hunched, his gray hair thinning on top. “What can I do for yeh?”

From her side, Kiva heard Jaren whisper her name to himself, and she sighed inwardly.

“I have two for collection,” Kiva said to the elderly man. He was relatively new to Zalindov, having arrived only eighteen months ago. Too old to be of any use when it came to hard labor, he’d been allocated work in the infirmary, but his fascination with death had made him more of a hindrance than a help. More than once, patients with simple ailments had died on his watch. It had become so problematic that, for the first—and only—time ever, Kiva had made a request of the Warden to transfer him elsewhere. That turned out to be a boon, since prior to arriving at Zalindov, Mot had been an apothecary, so he transitioned comfortably from infirmary to morgue, becoming the head mortician within a short span of months. Indeed, he had even thanked Kiva for her role in his transfer, claiming that he almost felt as if he were back home.

Kiva still wasn’t sure how to reconcile the thoughtful old man who, she’d later discovered, had been sentenced to Zalindov for deliberately misdiagnosing his customers so that he might trial new experimental remedies, resulting in multiple deaths. But it didn’t matter what he’d done outside of these walls. In here, they both had a job to do, and for obvious reasons, the infirmary kept close ties with the morgue.

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