The Prison Healer (The Prison Healer #1)(36)
Kerrin didn’t hear her, didn’t listen. Instead, the young boy scooped up the blade and, with a roar, launched himself toward the approaching guards.
It happened in an instant, so fast that, from her position on the ground, Kiva didn’t see, didn’t realize, until it was too late.
One moment, Kerrin was barreling forward; the next, he was dropping to the ground, clutching at his chest—and at the sword that was embedded there.
Years passed in the time it took for the soldier to withdraw his blade . . . for the sickening squelch of steel moving through flesh and bone to fade . . . for all those watching to fully comprehend what had happened.
“NO!” howled Faran, falling to his knees beside his son and pressing his hands to the boy’s small chest. “No, no, no!”
“Kerrin,” Kiva whispered, tears flooding her eyes. She scrambled through the mud toward them, jerriberry juice staining her hands, her knees, her clothes. “K-Kerrin!”
“Somebody get me—get me—” Faran couldn’t finish his choked command, for there was nothing anyone could get him, no remedy that could help, nothing anyone could do as Kerrin’s eyes rolled into the back of his head.
“N-no!” Kiva said, reaching her sticky hands toward him. “No! KERRIN! NO!”
Before she could press her fingers to his wound just like her father, before she could so much as touch him, a steely arm banded around her waist, hoisting her up into the air.
“This wasn’t meant to happen,” growled a voice in her ear—the man with the golden crest. “This never should have happened.”
“LET ME GO!” Kiva screamed, kicking at him, tears pouring from her eyes. “LET ME— I NEED TO— YOU HAVE TO—”
“Get him up,” the guard commanded the soldiers bearing down on Faran. The one whose blade was dripping with Kerrin’s blood stood immobile over him, his young face ashy, until his companions pushed him to the side. Only then did he return to himself, wiping his sword and advancing with the others. “We’ve got our orders.”
“PAPA!” Kiva sobbed, still kicking at the guard, but his grip was unyielding. “PAPA!”
Faran might as well have been as lifeless as his youngest son, for all that he reacted to her pleas. He did not fight, did not struggle at all as the guards heaved him up and began to drag him away.
“PAPA!”Kiva screamed again.
“Bury the boy,” the man holding her ordered his remaining soldiers. In a quieter, raspier voice, he added, “But have a care. He’s just a child.”
As the guards moved to collect Kerrin, Kiva wrestled even more fiercely against her captor. “DON’T—TOUCH—HIM!” she screeched. “DON’T—YOU—DARE—”
“I’m sorry about this, girl,” the man holding her murmured. “But you brought it on yourself.”
“LET ME GO!” Kiva choked out between sobs. “PAPA! PA—”
But a swift pain cut her off midcry, and then darkness flooded her vision, with her world—and her life—disappearing in an instant.
* * *
“I don’t have all day, healer. Wake up!”
A rough shake had Kiva’s eyes shooting open, prompting her to sit up with a gasp that turned into a coughing fit.
She couldn’t breathe.
She couldn’t draw air into her lungs.
She couldn’t—
She couldn’t—
“Oh, stop being so dramatic,” said a haughty female voice, moments before a hand came down on Kiva’s back, thumping hard.
Hacking and gagging, Kiva tried to shove her assailant away, but her attempt was weak. Pain lashed up her arms, down her legs, through her stomach. She felt bruised all over, like someone had come along with a meat cleaver and smashed it into her a thousand times.
“For everworld’s sake, just breathe like a normal person,” commanded the person still hitting her back. “It’s not that hard.”
Slowly, Kiva was able to stop coughing, though every part of her still ached. Tears streamed from her eyes at the effort it had taken to fill her lungs, and she raised a shaking hand to clear her blurry vision. When she was finally able to blink her way to clarity, she sucked in a breath so sharp that she nearly started coughing all over again.
“Your—Highness,” Kiva gasped out at the sight of the masked princess sitting on a stool beside her bed in the infirmary. “What—are—you—”
“Drink this before you start dying again,” Princess Mirryn interrupted, shoving a small stone tumbler toward Kiva. It was only a quarter full, and Kiva didn’t need to give the white liquid a sniff to identify it as poppymilk. Normally she wouldn’t want anything hindering her lucidity, especially in the presence of Evalon royalty, but she could barely think, let alone speak, over the pain raging through her body.
Downing the nutty-flavored remedy in one go, Kiva was grateful that the princess allowed her a few moments for it to take effect. The dose wasn’t large enough to knock her out, or even make her high, but it swiftly eased her pain into a dull background thrum.
“Better?” Princess Mirryn asked.
“Much,” Kiva said. She forced herself to add, “Thank you.”
Carefully, very carefully, Kiva shifted her pillow and leaned back against the wall, wincing slightly and wishing she’d ingested more poppymilk before moving. But she had more support now, and after a few steadying breaths, her pain was manageable once again.