The Prison Healer (The Prison Healer #1)(46)
“I’ve beaten the odds before,” Kiva replied. “Ten years in here, and I’m still alive. That has to count for something.” She recalled what Mirryn had said about her being a survivor, how it was Rooke who had told the princess as much in the first place.
“You’re alive because I’ve protected you,” Warden Rooke hissed, the anger returning to his face. “You’re alive because your father saved my life, and in return, I promised I would keep an eye on you. How else do you think you’ve lasted so long?”
Kiva recoiled at the mention of her father, but couldn’t keep from answering, somewhat bitterly, “Because people know I’m your informant, and since no one trusts me and everyone hates me, they leave me alone.”
“Wrong,” Rooke gritted through his teeth. Kiva had never seen so much emotion from the normally stoic man. “It’s because everyone in here—inmates and guards—knows that if they lay a hand on you, they have to answer to me.”
Kiva nearly snorted. She’d been mistreated too many times to count over the years, especially by the guards. And then there was Cresta and her threat against Tipp, something the Warden didn’t care a whit about. So much for the protection he claimed was upon her. Her perceived allegiance to him had brought Kiva nothing but trouble, along with the constant anxiety of having to deliver enough information to remain useful to him.
But . . . he was right in that nothing truly awful had ever happened to her, unlike what many of the other prisoners had endured, especially at the hands of the guards. She’d suspected that Rooke’s attentiveness acted like a warning to them, she’d just never considered if it was because he’d wanted to protect her, that he was repaying the debt he owed her father for saving him from a near-lethal case of sepsis almost a decade ago. Perhaps Rooke did care about her, in his own unconventional way. The thought sat strangely within her, as if she couldn’t reconcile the idea of him keeping her alive while at the same time frequently threatening her with death.
“You couldn’t have just let it lie, could you?” Rooke finally said when Kiva remained silent. He sounded weary now, the anger bleeding from his voice. “If you hadn’t interfered, Tilda Corentine would have died today, and life would have gone back to normal. No more royal orders, no more sending updates about her condition or answering demands about whether she’s cognizant enough to communicate.”
Kiva bit her tongue to keep in a sarcastic reply about inconveniencing him.
“Thanks to you, we have to see out the rest of the Trials,” Rooke continued. “Or as many as you can survive.” His brow furrowed. “And when you fail—and you will fail, Kiva—you’ll be leaving me without a competent prison healer.”
“You have Olisha and Nergal,” Kiva said, though her throat was tight at how easily he dismissed the thought of her surviving. Care was evidently too strong a word for what he felt toward her, unconventional or not. She was just a tool to him. A healer, an informant. “And you’ve told me before—many times—that you can easily find a replacement for me.”
Rooke ran a hand over his short hair and ignored the accusation in her words. “You made a grave mistake today. I’ve done all I can for you. I can’t help you with these Ordeals—you’re on your own now.”
Kiva had been on her own for nearly ten years, even with his supposed protection. She could survive another six weeks—or less, if her family arrived in time.
The Warden spun on his heel and strode away from her. Only when he reached the door to the infirmary did he pause near the guard on duty and turn back to offer his parting shot.
“Your father would be so disappointed in you.”
And then he was gone, leaving Kiva with eight words that repeated through her mind, over and over, until the poppymilk began to pull her back under once more.
As her eyes drifted shut, she couldn’t help thinking that the Warden was wrong. Her father would have been the first person to encourage her to save a life. Her mother, on the other hand . . . Her mother would have had strong words about Kiva’s actions today.
But neither of them had been able to stop her.
And so, Kiva would just have to live with the consequences.
Or die from them.
Chapter Fourteen
Despite Kiva’s best efforts, she wasn’t back on her feet the next day. It took four days before she was able to stand without assistance, and even then, she still felt as if one of Zalindov’s rail carts had run her over with a full load of luminium on board.
Lingering aches or not, Kiva stopped taking the poppymilk after her second day in bed. Part of that was to avoid building up a dependence on it, which was a risk given its addictive qualities. The other part was to save what was left of her dignity, since she’d had the unfortunate timing of taking a large dose just before one of Jaren’s increasingly regular visits. When he’d sat beside her and asked how she was feeling, she’d said, apropos of nothing, “You have the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen. Like sunlight on the sea.”
His mouth had curled up at the edges, and he’d leaned in closer. “Have you been to the sea before?”
“Once,” Kiva had answered. “My father took me.”
Jaren had misread the emotion flooding her face. “I bet he’s out there waiting for you. Get through these Trials, and you’ll be free to see him again.”