The Prison Healer (The Prison Healer #1)(47)
“No,” Kiva had replied softly, “I won’t.”
Tipp had skipped into the infirmary then, something for which Kiva had been incredibly grateful after the poppymilk finally wore off.
It took a whole week before she began to feel more like herself again. With every day that passed, she grew more and more uneasy. At first, it had just been a restless desire to get out of bed, since Kiva was used to taking care of patients, not being one herself. As time went on, however, she began to struggle with her inaction, especially when Tilda remained unresponsive and an increasing number of prisoners kept falling victim to the stomach virus that was going around. Leaving Olisha and Nergal in charge of their care didn’t fill Kiva with confidence, with the pair doing the least work possible to treat the sick—while keeping their distance to lessen the risk of catching the virus themselves. It frustrated her to no end every time she had to remind them to check on Tilda or the quarantined patients, knowing that without her pushing, they would do nothing.
If not for Tipp, Kiva would have been pulling her hair out. Jaren, too, had been an unexpected helper, especially since he found an excuse to visit the infirmary every day, both before and after his work shifts, always under the guise of collecting various remedies for his fellow tunnelers. Even though prisoners were allowed to move freely within the walls of Zalindov outside of their labor hours, Kiva still thought he was spending an excessive amount of time in the infirmary. Whenever Naari was stationed at the door, she almost always rolled her eyes at Jaren’s arrival, clearly aware that he was just making up reasons to check in on Kiva.
Glaringly obvious or not, Kiva made sure to put Jaren to work, both because she needed someone other than Tipp ensuring that the ill patients were as comfortable as possible, and also to keep Jaren at an arm’s distance. As long as he remained busy, he wouldn’t be sitting by her bed and engaging her in conversation; he wouldn’t be subtly encouraging her to dislike the rebels; he wouldn’t be hearing her spout unintentional sonnets about the color of his eyes.
That she would be happy to forget, and sought to bury it deep into the recesses of her subconscious.
By the time the week came to an end, while Kiva was capable of moving around on her own again, her restlessness only continued to grow. No matter how much work she had keeping her occupied, she couldn’t help wrestling with anxiety over the next Ordeal, aware that if her family didn’t free her in time, she would have to complete it. She tried to envision what she might face, as if doing so would make her more prepared. Some of the scenarios weren’t so bad, like having to walk over hot coals or hold a red-hot iron. Neither would be pleasant, of course, but they were more survivable than being tied to a wooden pyre and set alight. That hadn’t been seen at Zalindov for a while, with hanging considered a faster, cleaner death, but there had been a time a few years back when a spate of prisoners had been burned alive. Whenever Kiva recalled the memories, she broke out in a nervous sweat, and her hand would automatically clutch at the princess’s amulet hidden beneath her tunic.
If outside intervention didn’t come before the second Ordeal, Kiva would have to rely on Mirryn’s assurance that the magic-imbued crest would protect her. The very idea of trusting a Vallentis left an unpleasant taste in her mouth, enough that she couldn’t keep from seeking a backup plan, just in case the princess had lied. The problem was, having no idea what the Trial involved left her with few options. There were salves she could rub into her skin to protect her from burning, but none were foolproof. There were also remedies that could relieve damage caused by smoke inhalation, but they wouldn’t help during the Trial itself. Desperate for more information, Kiva even sought out the crematorium worker, Grendel, and asked if she’d been approached by the Warden to oversee construction of a pyre, but Grendel had heard nothing, and could offer no insight into what the Ordeal might be.
While Kiva hated to admit it, the magical amulet was her best bet for survival, regardless of whom it had come from. But . . . for all she knew, the Trial by Fire didn’t involve flames, and therefore the amulet would be of no help. She might instead have to withstand a metaphorical fire, like having to face her fears—though, how a task could be designed in relation to Kiva’s fears, she didn’t know.
No matter how long and hard she thought on it, Kiva failed to come up with any answers. When the build-up of anxiety became too much for her, for the sake of her sanity—and the sick prisoners who needed her full attention—she resolved not to think ahead or dwell on the possibilities.
Her family would come in time, or they wouldn’t.
The amulet would work, or it wouldn’t.
She would live, or she wouldn’t.
There was nothing she could do in the meantime—nothing for herself, at least. But there was something she could be doing to help others.
Switching her focus, Kiva sought to understand why a growing number of prisoners were contracting the stomach virus. When the first cases had been brought to the infirmary, she had diagnosed them as having a gastrointestinal infection, with such illnesses notorious for spreading like a plague in a confined place like Zalindov. But aside from being messy and uncomfortable, that form of virus usually came and went quickly, with a lifespan of two to five days.
It was becoming clear that Kiva had made a misdiagnosis, for not only was the virus lingering in the systems of those who contracted it, but it wasn’t spreading as it should have. While more prisoners were becoming infected, there was no pattern as to who caught it, and since all of those suffering were too sick to speak in full sentences, Kiva had no clue what linked them.