The Prison Healer (The Prison Healer #1)(77)

The last, Kiva figured, was because the Vallentis siblings weren’t supposed to be helping her. Tilda Corentine was their enemy, and ignoring her mystery illness, Kiva was all that stood between the Rebel Queen and death. The crown prince would likely find himself in a great deal of trouble with his court should anyone realize what he had done.

But . . . why had he done it? Was it truly because he was attracted to her?

My brother is a reckless, impulsive fool, yet he still manages to be one of the best people I know.

Recalling what Mirryn had said about Deverick, Kiva wondered if maybe, just maybe, the crown prince understood justice better than the rest of his family. Maybe he thought Tilda was worth giving a fighting chance. Maybe he thought she was worth saving—and Kiva, too.

Uncertain, Kiva realized that now wasn’t the time to puzzle it over. Not when she was barely holding on to consciousness.

“It won’t happen again,” Kiva told Rooke, meaning it. She had no further tricks up her sleeve, no more amulets or anything else that could help in her next elemental task. And the royal siblings were long gone. She would get no assistance—or answers—from them.

“See that it doesn’t,” the Warden said gruffly. Then his tone softened, and he moved closer, until they were eye to eye. “I’m . . . glad you’re still alive.”

Kiva struggled to keep up with the turn in conversation, every part of her aching.

“I mean it,” Rooke went on. “I have to adhere to the law when it comes to these Ordeals, but I’m relieved that you survived.”

Kiva swallowed back the emotion welling within her, pain lacerating down her throat as she did so. Maybe Rooke did care, in his own way.

“After all, with this sickness going around . . .” Rooke trailed off, shaking his head as if fearing what her death would mean for them all.

Kiva’s heart plummeted at the reminder that he didn’t care about her, only what she could do for him. She was a fool for thinking he would ever be concerned for her welfare. Rooke was too pragmatic for that, too calculated to think about anyone but himself.

“I hear you’ve started to make progress?” he asked.

“Yes,” Kiva croaked, unable to offer more. It was a lie, but she had no energy to debrief him right now.

“Something like this went around years ago, soon after I first became the Warden,” Rooke said, a nostalgic gleam in his dark eyes. “You were probably too young to remember—”

“I remember.”

Rooke held her gaze, and then his expression cleared, as if suddenly recalling why she would remember—and who she had lost to the sickness. He nodded once, and said, “Best of luck to you, then. By the sounds of it, many lives are counting on you.”

Including yours, Kiva wanted to say, but didn’t. Partly to keep from provoking him, and partly to avoid the pain the words would bring.

“See her back to the infirmary, Guard Arell,” Rooke said to Naari, who dipped her forehead in agreement. The Warden then turned and strode away, the three guards and Bones following in his wake.

“Kiva, I’m so sorry,” Grendel said in her quiet, grating voice once the guards were gone. “He didn’t tell me what the furnace was for until this morning, and by then I didn’t have time to warn you. If I’d known—”

“It’s not your fault,” Kiva rasped. She wanted to reach for the scarred woman, but with one arm around Naari and the other clutching her cloak, all she could do was try and smile at the crematorium worker, even if it more likely looked like a grimace.

“How did you survive?” Grendel whispered. The lowered tone wasn’t to keep from being overheard, since the prisoners around them were making a gods-awful racket as they filed in disorganized groups out of the assembly area. No, her hushed voice was because she was still shocked that Kiva was alive when what she’d faced should have killed her.

“It’s a long story,” Kiva forced out, wincing at how much harder it was becoming to speak. “I’ll tell you another time.”

It was an empty promise, since Kiva wasn’t sure she’d even remember this interaction after she’d drugged herself into oblivion.

As if sensing that she was on borrowed time, Naari told Grendel that she needed to get Kiva to the infirmary, and then the guard began to help Kiva stumble in that direction. Fortunately, only the morgue was between them and their destination, and Kiva felt confident that she’d be able to make it.

But then her legs gave out.

Naari grunted under the added weight, and three male voices cried out Kiva’s name in alarm.

Tipp.

Mot.

And Jaren.

It was the last who reached her first, and before Kiva knew what was happening, he swept her up into his arms, taking her from Naari and striding quickly toward the infirmary.

Kiva wanted to protest, but she didn’t have the strength to be embarrassed, let alone ask that he release her. Even if he had, she wouldn’t have been able to manage another step on her own, not without help.

“Sorry,” she whisper-rasped into his neck, holding on tight.

“Don’t talk,” he told her. “We’re nearly there.”

“What h-h-happened in the Trial?” Tipp asked, jogging to keep up with Jaren’s long strides. “We saw smoke c-come out of—”