Page 18 of The Prison Healer

Kiva didn’t know what to say, so she continued snipping at the stitches, moving on to the next wound. Yes, she saw plenty of scars, but the ones similar to Jaren’s were always from a whip of some kind, as punishment for errant behavior. Even Kiva had three lines of scars on her back from a lashing she’d received during her early years at Zalindov—the first and only time she’d refused to carve someone’s flesh. What Jaren was saying, though ... it sounded like ...

“Was it someone close to you?” Kiva asked quietly.

A long exhalation before he answered, “Yes.”

Kiva could feel the tightness of his body, and she knew he wouldn’t be answering anything else. He’d already said more than she would have if their positions were reversed.

“Well, you can now add a few new scars to your list,” she said, infusing lightness into her voice as she smeared ballico sap over the raw skin. “You can sit up again.”

Jaren did so, swinging his legs over the metal bench. His face was closed, his gaze downcast, as if desperate to avoid eye contact after what he’d just admitted. He didn’t make a move for his tunic, and Kiva didn’t want him to think she was uncomfortable with his state of undress, so she said nothing other than, “Lucky last,” as she pointed to the cut on his head.

It was strange, doing this with him sitting upright. She realized that she should have kept him lying down for it, but she had no valid reason to make the request now other than that she felt odd standing so close to him.

“Has this wound caused you any discomfort?” Kiva asked as she cleaned away the tunnel dust. “Headaches, nausea, memory problems, sight issues?”

“The first two days were unpleasant, but the pain eased after that,” Jaren said. “Contrary to what you might think, I’m not an idiot. I would’ve come back if I was worried about anything.”

“Hmm,” Kiva said noncommittally.

“I’ve had a concussion before,” Jaren defended as she began removing the sutures. “Twice, actually. I know what to watch out for.”

Given their close proximity, Kiva found it less awkward to have him talking rather than just staring at her, so she prompted, “What happened?”

Jaren shifted slightly, and Kiva sent him a warning look. She was working dangerously close to his eye.

“The first was a riding accident. My horse spooked when I was out hunting, and I fell headfirst into a ditch.”

Kiva considered what he’d inadvertently given away. He must come from a wealthy family to have been on a hunting expedition. Usually the sport was reserved for those in or close to the upper social circles. Sometimes merchants and scholars were invited if they had ties to the aristocracy, but only the most successful ones. If Jaren came from a high-standing family, it made sense that they’d be unwilling to visit him in Zalindov. They’d likely disowned him the moment of his sentencing.

“And the second time?” she asked.

“I was teaching my brother how to climb trees, and I slipped.” He winced. “Not my finest moment.”

“You have a brother?”

“Yeah. He’s around Tipp’s age. A bit of a surprise for my mother.” He paused, then added, “I have a sister, too, but she’s older.”

“So you’re the middle child,” Kiva observed. “That explains a lot.”

“A joke? From the prison healer?” Jaren squinted at her. “Are you sure I’m not dying?”

Kiva didn’t deign to respond as she snipped the last stitch, smeared on some sap, and retreated to a safe distance, indicating for him to pull his tunic back on.

“How much longer do you have to stay here tonight?” Jaren asked, his gaze wandering around the infirmary. She tried to see it from his perspective: the metal benches, the wooden worktable covered with supplies, the thin-blanketed pallets with even thinner privacy curtains for patients who needed longer care. At the back of the room was a closed door leading into the quarantine room, currently occupied by a few cases of a stomach virus that was going around.

“A couple more hours,” Kiva answered. “Olisha and Nergal will come and take over when it’s time for me to sleep.”

Unlike many of the other prisoners, Kiva’s hours were extensive. Most laborers worked for twelve hours, sometimes fourteen. But as the prison healer, it wasn’t unheard of for her to work eighteen hours a day, especially when there were wagonloads of new arrivals. Olisha and Nergal, the two others who were allocated to the infirmary, shared the skeleton shift each night, but the rest of the time they were shuffled among different administrative tasks depending on where they were needed. Unless Kiva was desperate for added support during the day, the three of them rarely worked together, which was perhaps another reason why the two older prisoners were so incompetent. They had no one to teach them how to treat the more complicated health concerns.

“Here,” Kiva said, retrieving a small jar of aloeweed gel from her supplies and handing it to Jaren.

He turned it between his fingers. “What’s this?”

“It’s for your hands,” she said. “You should’ve come to see me about them sooner.”

Jaren cocked his head to the side. “Is that your way of saying you missed me?”

Kiva felt her eye twitch. “It’s my way of saying they’ll only get worse if you don’t look after them.”

---