The Prison Healer (The Prison Healer #1)(10)
Naari’s dark brows rose a fraction, as if she knew what Kiva was thinking—and agreed with her. But just as Kiva tried to figure out how to beg forgiveness and avoid punishment, the guard said, “I’m allocating him to you for orientation.”
Kiva jerked with surprise. She was never tasked with prisoner orientation. She’d done it once or twice back when she’d been in the workrooms, but never since undertaking her role as the prison healer.
“But . . . what about . . .” Kiva started, then tried again. “I have patients to see to.”
Naari’s brows rose even higher as she looked around the empty infirmary. “I think your patients”—she nodded to the two dead men—“can wait.”
Kiva had meant the prisoners who were quarantined, but Naari’s posture had tightened, so Kiva swallowed her reply. Orientation wouldn’t take long. She’d show the young man around Zalindov, find out which cell block he was assigned to, then leave him with his cellmates for the night. Tomorrow he’d be given a work allocation, and someone else would take over from there.
“Fine,” she said, wiping her hands—still stained with his blood—on a damp cloth. Once they were mostly clean, she moved toward the infirmary’s exit. “Follow me.”
Seeing Tipp step forward as well, Kiva cut off his advance by saying over her shoulder, “Can you go and tell Mot that we need a collection?” She dipped her chin toward the deceased men.
Tipp shuffled his feet and wouldn’t meet Kiva’s gaze. “Mot isn’t real h-happy with me right now.”
Kiva paused at the door. “Why?”
If anything, Tipp looked even more uncomfortable. He glanced from Kiva to Naari, then back again, and Kiva realized that it must be bad if Tipp was managing to keep a filter around the guard.
With a sigh, she said, “Never mind, I’ll do it myself. Can you check on the quarantined patients? Wear a mask, and don’t get too close.”
“I thought it was just t-t-tunnel fever?”
“Better safe than sorry,” Kiva warned, before stepping out the door, the young man following in her footsteps.
And . . . Naari, too.
Kiva looked at the guard quickly, then away again, unsettled by her continued company. It was normal for guards to be stationed at each of the work buildings—rarer for the infirmary, at least before the surge in riots of late—but they never tailed inmates out in the open spaces of the prison. There was no need. Zalindov had around-the-clock surveillance from multiple watchtowers and patrolling guards, both human and canine, the latter of whom were trained to tear flesh from bones at a single whistle.
Naari’s company was unnerving, prompting Kiva to wonder if the guard suspected the young man was more dangerous than he seemed. It was all the more reason for Kiva to hurry up and get his orientation over with.
Deliberating quickly, she turned left and started toward the next building along, the gravel underfoot crunching loudly in the quiet early-evening air. The other prisoners would be heading back to their cell blocks soon, if they weren’t already there. But for now, the grounds were silent. Almost peaceful.
“What’s your name?”
Kiva looked up sharply, finding the young man walking calmly beside her and peering at her in question. Despite his bruised and battered body, and despite his new, unfamiliar surroundings, he seemed completely, unfathomably, at ease.
She remembered her first day at Zalindov, the moment she’d stepped out of the infirmary cradling her bandaged hand, aware that her family, her freedom, and her future had been taken away from her in one fell swoop. She hadn’t asked anyone for their name. That had been the last thing on her mind.
“I’m the prison healer,” Kiva answered.
“That’s not your name.” He waited a beat, then offered, “I’m Jaren.”
“You’re not,” she returned, looking away from him. “You’re D24L103.”
Let him make of that what he will, the reminder of how—and why—she’d been close enough to memorize his identification band. He had to feel it, had to know what lay throbbing beneath the wrappings on his hand. Kiva had heard about Zalindov’s own personal form of branding long before her arrival, and she’d only been seven. There was no way this young man—Jaren—wouldn’t have known about the Z prior to being dumped inside his prison wagon. It was an inevitability for all those sentenced to Zalindov.
She waited for the repulsion and anger, both of which usually came while she was carving the symbol. But he’d been unconscious, so now was his time. She didn’t brace herself. There was nothing he could say that she hadn’t heard before.
“D24L103,” he finally repeated, inspecting the characters etched into the metal band. His gaze drifted to the bandages, as if he could see through to the three deep slashes beneath. “That’s a bit of a mouthful. Probably easier if you stick with Jaren.”
Kiva stumbled slightly, her head whipping toward him only to find his blue-gold eyes lit with humor.
Humor.
“Is this a joke to you?” she hissed, stopping dead on the gravel path between the infirmary and the stone building nearest to it. “You do realize where you’re standing right now, don’t you?” She threw her hands out, as if doing so would help open his eyes. While the light was steadily fading as dusk settled over the expansive grounds, the limestone perimeter walls rose high on all sides around them, making it impossible to forget that they were trapped like rats in a cage.