Page 4 of The Prison Healer

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.Everyseason 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 them.

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

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