The Prison Healer (The Prison Healer #1)(28)
The tightness of his features made it clear how he felt about these orders, especially after having been free to reign with little accountability until now.
“For that to happen, she needs to stay alive,” Rooke went on. “And for that to happen, you need to do your gods-damned job.” His face darkened as he added, “If Tilda doesn’t survive long enough to compete in the first Trial, it won’t just be Tipp’s life in danger. Do I make myself clear?”
Kiva’s heart was thumping in her chest. She swallowed and nodded, unable to form a verbal response.
Warden Rooke’s expression lightened. “You did well coming to me tonight, Kiva. I’m glad you listened the last time we spoke. Keep up the good work, and everything will be just fine.”
Again, Kiva nodded, still incapable of speech. His praise should have brought her some relief, confirmation that she’d given him enough information to remain useful for the time being. But what he didn’t know was what she’d withheld.
Cresta hadn’t just ordered Kiva to save Tilda’s life—Cresta had also said the Rebel Queen needed to remain alive until her rescue. A rescue that Kiva didn’t mention to Rooke, for fear of what it might mean for her own impending freedom—even if she had no idea when it would occur.
It was one thing to follow the Warden’s command to get Tilda to the first Trial. But beyond that . . . How was she going to keep the Rebel Queen alive? Tipp’s life depended on her figuring that out. Kiva’s life depended on her figuring that out.
Because if she failed, whether by Cresta’s hand or the Warden’s, they were all dead.
Chapter Ten
Tilda’s fever broke four days later.
Kiva was both relieved and concerned. Relieved, because it meant the woman might survive the sickness that was still flooding her immune system. Concerned, because there were now only three days left before the crown prince and princess arrived to witness the Trial by Air.
She was running out of time.
Even though Tilda no longer sweated through her sheets every hour and was waking up for longer periods, Kiva still couldn’t figure out what was wrong with her. The woman couldn’t—or wouldn’t—speak, and not even Kiva’s gentle encouragement could get her to shed any light on her illness. At times, she appeared lucid, but then moments later she would be overcome by delirium, wrestling against her bindings, frothing at the mouth, and screaming loud enough to have guards sprinting for the infirmary.
Kiva didn’t know what to do or how to help her. And on top of that, she was exhausted not only from the increased cases of the stomach virus, but also from helping prisoners who were seeking her out for other troubles, a growing number of which stemmed from altercations with the guards.
This deep into winter, with very few new arrivals, the guards were ill-tempered and bored. They sought entertainment in the form of women prisoners, sometimes men. After ten years, Kiva was used to it, but that didn’t stop the burn of hatred she felt when fearful women came in droves asking for barrenbark to stave off their cycles. The grueling nature of the labor and limited rations meant that most of the female inmates didn’t bleed at all, but for those who did . . . The last thing anyone wanted in Zalindov was to fall pregnant. It happened, of course, and in the rare cases when a woman had gone to full term, Kiva had assisted with the delivery. But not once in her decade at the prison had a mother and newborn child survived for long.
Kiva took precautions herself, but thanks to her work hours being longer than most and her assumed loyalty to the Warden, she usually avoided the attention of the guards. She wasn’t always immune—as had been the case a few weeks earlier when Naari had intervened. But while she’d suffered through being their plaything a handful of times over the years, they’d always stopped before going too far, as if aware that they might need medical aid from her in the future. It was both a blessing and a curse—a blessing, since she was saved from complete violation, but a curse, because she could do nothing to protect others. Sometimes she slept in the infirmary, not only to avoid the restless guards, but also to be available around the clock for those in need of her.
It was on one of these nights, in the early hours of the morning, that Kiva was awakened by a low, keening sound. She’d sent Olisha and Nergal away when they’d arrived for their shift, claiming that she wanted to monitor some of the quarantined patients. In truth, Naari had warned Kiva not to walk back to her cell block alone that night, and since the guard had been needed elsewhere, she couldn’t provide an escort.
Kiva had reeled for hours after her warning. She’d wondered if it was because Naari was a woman, or if it was simply because she was a decent human being, despite her role at Zalindov. Whatever the reason, Kiva was grateful, and after sending Tipp away earlier than usual and telling him to stay close to Jaren, she had remained inside the infirmary and curled up on a pallet when she could no longer keep her eyes open.
The low, keening sound came again, and Kiva stirred more fully, fighting the sleep that tried to pull her back under. But when she realized the noise was coming from Tilda and that it wasn’t just an incomprehensible sound but, rather, a moaned word, she sat up, shoving her legs over the side of the bed and shuffling over to the woman.
“Waaaater. Waaaaaaaater.”
Tilda was straining against her bindings, shaking her head from side to side, staring blindly into the low-lit room.