Page 5 of The Prison Healer

Kiva didn’t dare move a muscle until the guard returned minutes later. With her was a young boy who she motioned past her and into the room. The moment his eyes found Kiva, his freckle-splattered face brightened, and a big, gap-toothed smile stretched across his features.

With bright red hair and wide blue eyes, Tipp looked like a burning candle. He acted like one, too, full of energy and crackling with passion. At eleven years of age, nothing ever seemed to faze him. No matter the ridicule and frustration he suffered through every single day, he always brought light with him wherever he went, always had a kind word and a gentle touch for the prisoners who needed him the most. He was even pleasant to the guards, regardless of how rough and impatient they were with him.

Kiva had never met anyone like Tipp, certainly not in a place like Zalindov.

“K-K-Kiva!” Tipp said, rushing forward. He looked for a moment as if he might try and hug her—as if they hadn’t seen each other in years, rather than days—but he resisted at the last second, reading her body language. “I d-didn’t know what Naari was b-b-bringing me here for! I was s-s-s-s-s—” He pulled a face and tried a different word. “I was w-worried.”

Kiva looked to the guard, unsurprised that Tipp, friendly as he was, knew her name. Naari. At least Kiva would no longer have to think of her as the amber-eyed woman.

“The healer needs assistance, boy,” Naari said in a bored voice. “Go fetch her some clean water.”

“On it!” Tipp said enthusiastically, lunging for the pail, all elbows and knees. For a moment, Kiva feared that the bloodied, muddied water would end up all over the infirmary floor, but Tipp was out the door with his load before she could warn him to be careful.

An awkward silence descended, until Kiva cleared her throat and murmured, “Thank you. For getting Tipp, I mean.”

The guard—Naari—nodded once.

“And ... for the other night, too,” Kiva added quietly. She didn’t look down at the raw burn marks on her arm, didn’t draw attention to how some of the guards had decided she was to be their entertainment that night.

It wasn’t the first time.

It wasn’t even the worst time.

But she was grateful for the intervention, all the same.

Naari nodded again, the repeated action stiff enough for Kiva to know better than to say more. It was strange, though. Now that she knew the guard’s name, she felt less trepidation, less ... intimidation.

Careful, little mouse.

Kiva didn’t need the echo of her father’s warning. Naari had the power of life and death in her hands—Kiva’slife and death. She was a guard of Zalindov, a weapon in her own right, death incarnate.

Giving herself a mental kick, Kiva shuffled back toward the surviving man, busying herself by checking his pulse. Still weak, but stronger than before.

Tipp returned from the well in record speed, the wooden pail filled to the brim with fresh, clean water.

“What happened t-to them?” he asked, pointing to the two dead men as Kiva began to gently wash the living man’s face.

“Not sure,” Kiva answered, glancing at Naari briefly to gauge her reaction to them speaking. The guard seemed unconcerned, so Kiva went on, “This one was covered in their blood, though.”

Tipp peered thoughtfully at the man. “You think he d-did it?”

Kiva rinsed the dirty cloth, then continued wiping away layers of muck. “Does it matter? Someone thinks he did something, otherwise he wouldn’t be here.”

“It’d make a g-good story,” Tipp said, skipping off toward the wooden workbench to begin gathering the items Kiva needed next. Her face softened at his thoughtfulness, though she was careful to school it into indifference before he turned around.

Attachments were dangerous at Zalindov. Caring only led to pain.

“I’m sure you’ll make it a good story even if it isn’t,” Kiva said, finally moving up to the man’s hair.

“Mama used t-to always say I’d grow up to be a b-b-bard,” Tipp said with a grin.

Kiva’s fingers spasmed on the cloth, her heart giving a painful clench as she thought about Tipp’s mother, Ineke, for the first time in three years. Having been accused of stealing jewelry from a noblewoman, when Ineke was sent to Zalindov, the then eight-year-old Tipp wouldn’t let go of her skirts, so he was thrown in the wagon with her. Six months later, Ineke got a cut while working in the slaughterhouse, but the guards wouldn’t let her visit the infirmary until it was too late. The infection had already spread to her heart, and within days, she was dead.

Kiva had held Tipp for hours that night, his silent tears soaking her clothes.

The next day, red-eyed and puffy-faced, the small boy had said only five words:She’d want me t-to live.

And so he had. With everything within him, Tipp hadlived.

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