The Prison Healer (The Prison Healer #1)(45)

“Thank you,” she made herself say quietly once she was settled again. Her whole body was throbbing, but she continued to give no outward indication. Even so, she was hyperaware that she must look as terrible as she felt.

Jaren nodded, then strode away, heading toward the wooden cabinet at the end of the workbench on the far side of the room. Kiva shared a puzzled glance with Tipp, who shrugged and fluffed her pillow behind her back. Neither had to wait long before Jaren returned to them, a stone tumbler in his hands.

“Drink,” he said, passing it to Kiva.

She blinked stupidly down at the white liquid. “You . . . got me . . . poppymilk.”

She didn’t phrase it as a question, but surprise caused her voice to trill upward at the end of her broken statement.

“Drink,” Jaren said again. “It’ll help.”

“But . . . you don’t . . .” she trailed off, looking at him and trying to understand.

His mouth twitched at the edges, and he shook his head as if finding her reaction amusing. “Just because I don’t like to take it doesn’t mean others shouldn’t. You said it yourself—you fell fifty feet today. If ever someone needs to be drugged, it’s you.”

The dose he’d poured her was more than what Mirryn had given—half a tumbler’s worth. Definitely enough to knock her out.

Frowning slightly, Kiva said, “I—”

“Just drink it, Kiva,” Jaren said, albeit gently. He placed his hand over her free one, the calluses on his palm rough against her flesh, yet oddly comforting. They were the proof that he was surviving the tunnels, that he hadn’t given up, unlike so many others. “You need to rest.”

“Olisha and Nergal will b-be here soon,” Tipp said. “I’ll m-make sure they know about the new p-patients and promise to look after them. Sleep, Kiva. They c-can survive a night without you.”

The young boy leaned over and kissed her on the forehead, before pointedly tapping his finger against her hand holding the tumbler.

Tipp had never shied away from affection before, but the forehead kiss was something new. Blinking back tears at the tender gesture, Kiva raised the poppymilk and swallowed it down, handing the empty tumbler to Jaren.

“I’m sure I’ll be back on my feet tomorrow,” she told them, yawning as the drug began to take effect.

“And then we c-can figure out how to get you through the next Ordeal,” Tipp said, tucking her in.

Kiva didn’t reply, only snuggled deeper into her bed, relieved when she felt the cool metal of the amulet still hidden beneath the blanket. If Princess Mirryn was to be believed, Kiva didn’t have to worry about the next Ordeal. But the two after that . . .

Not for the first time, Kiva wondered what she had been thinking, taking Tilda’s place. She prayed that she was right about the coming rescue, but even if she was wrong . . . as her eyes closed and the poppymilk pulled her under, she still couldn’t bring herself to regret her actions. Not with the memory of Tipp’s forehead kiss on her brow.

“Sweet dreams, Kiva,” Jaren’s whisper came as if from far away. A squeeze of his hand made her realize he was still holding hers, and that was the last she felt, the last she heard, before she drifted off into blissful sleep.



* * *





It was the dead of night when Kiva awoke next, sitting up with a startled squeak when she saw the shadow standing over her. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the low light of the infirmary, and when they did, her trepidation only increased when she recognized the looming figure.

“What in the name of the gods were you thinking?” Warden Rooke demanded, his hands fisted on his hips, his dark eyes flashing.

“I—”

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” he spat. “Any idea how reckless, how foolish—”

“Cresta was going to kill Tipp,” Kiva interrupted, unwilling to let Rooke talk down to her. Not while the poppymilk was still in her system, giving her a hearty dose of courage.

“So?” Rooke threw out his arms. “He’s just one boy. Let him die.”

The thought made Kiva’s blood turn cold. “He’s important to me.”

“Then you’re a fool,” Rooke said, pointing a finger at her. “Because what happens now? Even if you survive all the Trials, which you won’t, what then? You’ll leave, and Tipp—”

“Will come with me.”

That brought the Warden up short. He leaned back on his heels, squinting down at her. “I beg your pardon?”

Kiva licked her lips, hoping she could pull this off. She wished her mind was less muddled from the medicine, and yet was simultaneously grateful for how bold it was making her. Never before had she felt so fearless in the Warden’s presence.

“You told me that Tipp could leave Zalindov if he had a guardian on the outside to collect him,” she said. “If I survive the Trials and go free, I’ll be his guardian. He’ll leave with me.”

The Warden said nothing for a long moment. Kiva shuffled painfully higher in her bed, her hands turning clammy as she waited for his answer.

Finally, he spoke. “You have to survive the Trials for that to happen.”

Kiva wanted to smile, to laugh, to get up and dance in celebration. Rooke didn’t argue—couldn’t argue, since she’d used his own words against him. But still, she’d worried about him finding a loophole, some way of denying her claim. Instead, he’d only brought up the likelihood of her failure. That she could handle.