Page 65 of The Prison Healer

She’d treated the beaten prisoner herself, just as her father would have done.

From that moment on, Kiva had resolved to continue his legacy, knowing he was gone, but that he was still with her—and he always would be.

More tears leaked from Kiva’s eyes now, and she rose to her feet, breathing in the fresh, earthy scents of the garden.

Her father’s sanctuary.

Her sanctuary.

Theirsanctuary.

Faran Meridan had died because of a stomach sickness—perhaps the very same one that Zalindov’s prisoners were again suffering from.

It had been nine years, but Kiva would not let his death be in vain. He’d given everything—including hislife—to try and save the sick back then. Kiva was determined to finish what he’d started. She was determined to find a cure this time, to stop the illness in its tracks. She didn’t know if it had been done before, or if last time, it had just faded out organically. But she wasn’t willing to wait out the weeks, perhaps months, that could take.

She didn’t have that long, anyway.

After her Trial tomorrow, she would have only another four weeks left to carry out her tests, and that wasifshe survived all of the remaining Ordeals—andifher family and the rebels didn’t help her escape before then. That didn’t leave her much time to come up with a cure, but Kiva would still do what she could, for as long as she could.

Nodding to herself, Kiva brushed her hands on her pants, dislodging the soil, and made her way back along the path. The garden had offered her peace, just as it always did, but it had also lit a fire in her, a desperation that she felt honor-bound to act on.

She would make her father proud; she would succeed where he had failed.

That night, Kiva left the infirmary, her eyes bleary from spending the late afternoon hours writing down everything she could think of about the illness. Her hand ached, her fingers still twitching from how vigorously she’d worked them, but she was satisfied that if she were to suddenly leave Zalindov—or die—then someone would be able to take up her research. She wished her father had thought to document his findings, or even Thessa before him, but there was nothing. Kiva had checked every inch of the infirmary, and the only parchment she’d found was her predecessor’s secret recipe for a more potent version of angeldust. Fury had simmered within her at the discovery, since his job had been tohelpprisoners, not turn them into addicts. She hoped he was rotting in the everworld, reaping what he’d sowed.

Muttering under her breath about the abysmal nature of humankind, Kiva entered the refectory, a large building filled with long wooden tables, most of which were currently populated by hungry, tired prisoners being served by other hungry, tired prisoners.

Lately, Tipp had been bringing her rations directly to the infirmary, but tonight she wanted to be among the other inmates, partly to remember what it was like to be around living, breathing people, but also to get a read on the prison atmosphere and a sense of whether they were at risk of another riot breaking out. Usually it was Cresta and her rebels who incited the violence, but not always. Sometimes it was something small that built into something larger; other times there was no reason at all. Without a proven formula, Kiva was apprehensive about the coming days, especially with the Trials throwing in a new, unknown element that could cause further unrest—or ease it.

Most of Zalindov’s inmates had no stake in whether Tilda lived or died. Only a small percentage of prisoners were rebels, and they alone would care whether Kiva survived the Ordeals, if only for the sake of their queen. But the rest of the populace ... Were they excited for tomorrow’s Trial, or were they frustrated by the interruption to their routines? Were they jealous that they didn’t have their own chance at freedom? Were they resentful toward Kiva for volunteering in Tilda’s place? Did they want her to succeed, or did they want her to fail? Did they even care? And if they did—or didn’t—care, was that enough to stir them into a frenzy that could turn deadly? Because that was what happened in the riots: people died.

Kiva didn’t have any of the answers, but she hoped that by being around some of her fellow prisoners, she might be afforded some insight.

She’d barely walked halfway along one of the long tables before the hushed conversations made her realize things were worse than she’d feared—but not because of the Trials.

“... more and more friends gettin’ sick ...”

“... heard the Rebel Queen is shacking up with the Warden ...”

“... dozens dyin’ every day ...”

“... Corentine bitch will get what’s coming to her ...”

“... hasn’t come out of quarantine ...”

“... snuff out that so-called queen in her sleep ...”

“... a tickle in my throat, do you think it could be ...”

“... healer whore’s doin’ nothin’ ...”

The last made Kiva’s feet slow, and she couldn’t help but listen closer. While alarmed by the anger she sensed toward Tilda, she was also unsurprised. If what the Warden and Jaren had said was true, the rebels had caused a lot of damage in their quest to reclaim Evalon, and hurt a number of people along the way. It was almost a boon that the Rebel Queen was so ill, since at least she was safe within the bounds of the infirmary, protected from the wrath of her enemies inside the prison. With her being watched around the clock, any anti-rebels eager to hasten her demise would only be courting their own deaths.

For now, Kiva was more concerned by the whispers about the sickness—and the newest conversation she was overhearing, specifically abouther.

“Whywouldshe do somethin’?” replied another man, with only the back of his bald head visible. “She’s too busy spreadin’ her legs for the guards, ain’t she? Havin’ too much fun to be bothered keepin’ the rest of us alive, am I right?”

A guffaw came from his companion as flames spread across Kiva’s cheeks. Neither of them was aware of her presence, and she hurried onward before they realized, but not before hearing the original speaker say, “I’d be up for a bit of fun with ’er, you know what I’m sayin’? What cell block’s she in again? Or maybe I’ll just pay a visit to the infirmary, tell ’er I’m sick and need some good quality nursin’.”

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