Page 16 of The Prison Healer

Rooke called them fools. Kiva wasn’t so sure.

“They have an energy, a spark, that’s building,” the Warden went on, still talking about the imprisoned rebels. “It might not be much yet, but the smallest spark can cause a flame, and I want to avoid that. For their sakes.”

Kiva shuddered at the look in his eyes. The rebels inside Zalindov would meet a swift death if Rooke or any of the guards caught so much as a hint of them plotting anything. Whether it was escape on their minds, or something simpler like stirring up the other prisoners, or even rallying more numbers to their side, it didn’t matter. If they acted out—inanyway—their lives would be forfeited.

It was difficult for Kiva to feel compassion for them. They should have been smarter, should have kept their heads down, rather than being careless enough to draw the Warden’s attention. They’d dug their own graves, as far as she was concerned. Her expression must have told Rooke as much, since he sighed again, louder this time.

“Just ... see what you can learn before I next summon you,” he said. Throwing back the last of his liquor, he locked eyes with her and finished, “Skilled healer or not, I can find others to work in the infirmary. Your worth lies in what you can tell me. I need more information, Kiva.Betterinformation.”

He turned to look out the window again, his dismissal clear, leaving Kiva to be escorted down from the wall by another guard, her heart heavy and her stomach knotted.

She couldn’t give Rooke what he wanted. She hadn’t lied to him; Zalindov’s rebels loathed her, seeing her as little more than the Warden’s spy. Their assumed leader, Cresta, was the last person in the world who would ever trust Kiva with information.

And yet, Kiva would do as she always had—she would find a way to meet Rooke’s demands. She would live another day. She had to, if she ever wanted to see her family again. One way or another, whatever it took, she would figure out how to glean the knowledge he desired.

Chapter Seven

Jaren was allocated work in the tunnels.

It was Tipp who told Kiva; Tipp who had left the infirmary in a hurry upon Kiva’s return that night, hastening back to their shared cell block to make sure Jaren snagged a pallet next to his; Tipp who had whispered Zalindov’s secrets to the newcomer, all the warnings and hints that Kiva had failed to offer.

Kiva told herself that Jaren was just like any other prisoner, that she didn’t want or need Tipp’s frequent updates. With Jaren’s work allocation, there was no way she was going to invest time or energy into getting to know him further, even if she’d wanted to—which she didn’t. She had enough to worry about, and he had a clock ticking down to his death now. Kiva knew the odds: thirty percent of tunnelers didn’t survive their first six weeks, and fifty percent didn’t live longer than three months.

Jaren was a dead man walking.

It was a shame, Kiva supposed, but that was life at Zalindov.

Instead of dwelling on Jaren’s inevitable demise, Kiva found herself grateful that his arrival had given her back her assistant. Tipp hadn’t been reallocated to the kitchens, so he was still helping her in the infirmary with the quarantined patients. She had an inkling that Naari was responsible for his permanent return, though the guard herself hadn’t been assigned to the infirmary since Jaren’s orientation. Kiva almost missed the stoic young woman, especially when Bones or the Butcher was on duty. Sometimes, however, there was no guard, which was an indication that things were getting back to normal at Zalindov. There had been no riots in some time, and while Rooke had claimed that the rebels were a growing problem, they were keeping quiet. For now.

Slowly but surely, the quarantine lifted, the patients who survived their battle with tunnel fever returning to their jobs and those who didn’t being sent to the morgue.

Ten days passed, and Kiva settled back into her routine, caring for prisoners who came and went, while keeping an ear out for anything she might be able to pass along to the Warden. Soon she was too burdened by her workload to give his task more than a passing thought, with winter causing problems for all inmates regardless of their allocations. The outdoor laborers battled hypothermia and frostbite, while the underground workers were hit by a sweating sickness, the water in the tunnels prompting a smorgasbord of bacterial infections.

The growing array of health concerns left Kiva too busy to think about anything—or anyone. But then, eleven days after Jaren’s arrival, just after Tipp took off for dinner, Kiva was finalizing her weekly inventory when a voice spoke from the infirmary doorway.

“I hope I’m not interrupting?”

Kiva whirled around to find Jaren standing there. It was the first time she’d seen him since his orientation.

“You look terrible,” Kiva couldn’t keep from saying as she stood and motioned him inside.

A quiet laugh left Jaren as he moved stiffly toward her. “That’s some bedside manner you have.”

Kiva didn’t deny it. “I’m surprised you’re still alive. I thought for sure I’d be sending you to the morgue by now.”

Another laugh, this one louder. “And the compliments keep coming.”

Kiva didn’t allow herself to feel relieved that not only was he still standing, but he seemed to be in good spirits. He’d lasted nearly a fortnight, which was longer than others could say, especially those allocated to the tunnels.

“What can I do for you, Jaren?”

She realized her mistake immediately, but it was too late for her to go back in time and call him by his identification number. Instead, she ignored his satisfied expression and tapped her foot impatiently.

“Tipp said I should come by and get my stitches taken out.” Jaren scratched his jaw and admitted, “He said ten days, so I’m a day overdue, but yesterday was long and I fell asleep right after dinner.”

He kept all emotion from his voice, an indication that he wasn’t seeking pity or compassion, so Kiva offered neither.

“Have a seat,” she told him, before collecting what she needed from the worktable.

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