The Prison Healer (The Prison Healer #1)(4)
The third one, however . . . The pulse beating within him was a surprise, weak as it was.
Looking down at him, Kiva wondered if he would last the hour.
Doing her best to ignore the two corpses draped across metal slabs to her right, Kiva studied the living man, considering where to begin. He needed to be washed, not just because he was filthy, but because she couldn’t tell how much of the blood coating him was his and if there were any wounds that need tending.
Rolling her shoulders, Kiva pushed her ratty sleeves up to her elbows, wincing as the coarse gray material irritated the still-healing flesh along the inside of her right forearm. She wouldn’t allow herself to think about what the guards had done to her three nights ago, or what might have happened if the newest guard—the young woman with the watchful amber eyes—hadn’t arrived when she did.
Kiva still didn’t know why the woman had intervened and warned the others of the Warden’s displeasure. The guards weren’t fools. They knew that while Zalindov was ruled with an iron fist, the Warden didn’t condone abuse of power from his guards. That, however, didn’t stop them from violating the prisoners. They just took care not to get caught.
The newest guard hadn’t yet lost the spark of honor, of life, in her amber eyes, which usually faded after the first few weeks at the prison, turning into bitter resentment. It was the only reason Kiva could come up with for her interference. But as grateful as she was, she now felt as if she owed the amber-eyed guard, and it never boded well to owe anyone anything at Zalindov.
Stifling her troubled thoughts, Kiva collected a wooden pail of fresh water and returned to the man’s side. Carefully, methodically, she began to clean him, peeling away the layers of his tattered clothing as she went.
Never forget, little mouse: no two people look the same, but we are each beautiful in our own ways. The human body is a masterpiece that deserves our respect. Always.
Kiva sucked in a sharp breath as her father’s voice drifted across her mind. It had been a long time since she’d been overcome with a memory from her childhood, a long time since she’d heard the nickname “little mouse”—something she’d earned from squeaking audibly anytime she was startled as a child—a long time since she’d felt the sting of tears in her eyes.
Stop it, she told herself. Don’t go there.
Inhaling deeply, she gave herself three seconds to regain control, then resolutely continued her work. Her heart ached at the whisper of her father’s gentle instruction, her thoughts involuntarily traveling to the days she’d spent in his workroom helping with the villagers who had sought him out for one malady or another. Her earliest memories were of being by his side—fetching water, tearing linens, even sterilizing blades once she was old enough to not hurt herself in the process. Of all her siblings, she was the one who had been born with their father’s passion for healing, the one who wanted to ease the suffering of others.
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. Every season 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.