The Prison Healer (The Prison Healer #1)(65)

They were some of the worst memories Kiva had.

They were also some of the best.

But that night, when he didn’t return, Kiva knew.

He would never again teach her his craft, never again tell her a story.

Wiping her hand across her eyes, Kiva racked her brain for anything he might have told her back then, anything that could offer a hint as to whether the sickness now plaguing the prison was the same as the one from nine years ago. Had her father tried to find the source, like she was? Had he figured out what had caused it, or how to treat it? Or had he merely sought to keep his patients as comfortable as possible until they met their ends? Until he met his end?

Kiva couldn’t remember how long the sickness had lasted. She’d been so lost in her grief after his death that time had ceased to mean anything. But . . . she remembered her eighth birthday, because it was the first time she’d stepped back inside the infirmary after her father had died, after he’d left her. There was a new prison healer in charge—Kiva’s predecessor, whom she started working under two years later, and whose position she adopted another two years after that.

No one had been sick by the time her birthday arrived, Kiva remembered, the stomach illness having passed. She knew, because she’d had to hunt down the healer in the empty quarantine room, where she’d found him mixing an illicit batch of angeldust in the far corner. He’d jumped upon her arrival, and demanded to know why she was there. She’d told him—one of the prisoners in the workroom had been beaten by a guard and was close to death.

The healer hadn’t cared. He’d pulled a vial of poppymilk from his tunic and said to give it to the victim, then told Kiva to leave him alone.

On her way out of the infirmary, she’d visited the garden.

With tears pouring down her face as she’d said her silent, final goodbye, she’d made her decision, plucking up some aloeweed, then pilfering some ballico sap and spare linens from the infirmary on her way out.

She’d treated the beaten prisoner herself, just as her father would have done.

From that moment on, Kiva had resolved to continue his legacy, knowing he was gone, but that he was still with her—and he always would be.

More tears leaked from Kiva’s eyes now, and she rose to her feet, breathing in the fresh, earthy scents of the garden.

Her father’s sanctuary.

Her sanctuary.

Their sanctuary.

Faran Meridan had died because of a stomach sickness—perhaps the very same one that Zalindov’s prisoners were again suffering from.

It had been nine years, but Kiva would not let his death be in vain. He’d given everything—including his life—to try and save the sick back then. Kiva was determined to finish what he’d started. She was determined to find a cure this time, to stop the illness in its tracks. She didn’t know if it had been done before, or if last time, it had just faded out organically. But she wasn’t willing to wait out the weeks, perhaps months, that could take.

She didn’t have that long, anyway.

After her Trial tomorrow, she would have only another four weeks left to carry out her tests, and that was if she survived all of the remaining Ordeals—and if her family and the rebels didn’t help her escape before then. That didn’t leave her much time to come up with a cure, but Kiva would still do what she could, for as long as she could.

Nodding to herself, Kiva brushed her hands on her pants, dislodging the soil, and made her way back along the path. The garden had offered her peace, just as it always did, but it had also lit a fire in her, a desperation that she felt honor-bound to act on.

She would make her father proud; she would succeed where he had failed.



* * *





That night, Kiva left the infirmary, her eyes bleary from spending the late afternoon hours writing down everything she could think of about the illness. Her hand ached, her fingers still twitching from how vigorously she’d worked them, but she was satisfied that if she were to suddenly leave Zalindov—or die—then someone would be able to take up her research. She wished her father had thought to document his findings, or even Thessa before him, but there was nothing. Kiva had checked every inch of the infirmary, and the only parchment she’d found was her predecessor’s secret recipe for a more potent version of angeldust. Fury had simmered within her at the discovery, since his job had been to help prisoners, not turn them into addicts. She hoped he was rotting in the everworld, reaping what he’d sowed.

Muttering under her breath about the abysmal nature of humankind, Kiva entered the refectory, a large building filled with long wooden tables, most of which were currently populated by hungry, tired prisoners being served by other hungry, tired prisoners.

Lately, Tipp had been bringing her rations directly to the infirmary, but tonight she wanted to be among the other inmates, partly to remember what it was like to be around living, breathing people, but also to get a read on the prison atmosphere and a sense of whether they were at risk of another riot breaking out. Usually it was Cresta and her rebels who incited the violence, but not always. Sometimes it was something small that built into something larger; other times there was no reason at all. Without a proven formula, Kiva was apprehensive about the coming days, especially with the Trials throwing in a new, unknown element that could cause further unrest—or ease it.

Most of Zalindov’s inmates had no stake in whether Tilda lived or died. Only a small percentage of prisoners were rebels, and they alone would care whether Kiva survived the Ordeals, if only for the sake of their queen. But the rest of the populace . . . Were they excited for tomorrow’s Trial, or were they frustrated by the interruption to their routines? Were they jealous that they didn’t have their own chance at freedom? Were they resentful toward Kiva for volunteering in Tilda’s place? Did they want her to succeed, or did they want her to fail? Did they even care? And if they did—or didn’t—care, was that enough to stir them into a frenzy that could turn deadly? Because that was what happened in the riots: people died.