The Prison Healer

“D24L103,” he finally repeated, inspecting the characters etched into the metal band. His gaze drifted to the bandages, as if he could see through to the three deep slashes beneath. “That’s a bit of a mouthful. Probably easier if you stick with Jaren.”

Kiva stumbled slightly, her head whipping toward him only to find his blue-gold eyes lit with humor.

Humor.

“Is this a joke to you?” she hissed, stopping dead on the gravel path between the infirmary and the stone building nearest to it. “You do realize where you’re standing right now, don’t you?” She threw her hands out, as if doing so would help open his eyes. While the light was steadily fading as dusk settled over the expansive grounds, the limestone perimeter walls rose high on all sides around them, making it impossible to forget that they were trapped like rats in a cage.

Jaren’s humor dissolved, his eyes flicking to Naari, then back to Kiva. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” He rubbed his neck, looking uncomfortable. “I guess—I’m not sure how I’m supposed to act in here.”

Kiva inhaled deeply, then shook the tension from her shoulders. People dealt with fear and uncertainty in different ways, she reminded herself. Humor was a coping mechanism, and certainly not the worst of them. She needed to have more patience with him.

“That’s what I’m here for,” she told him, more gently. “To tell you what you need to know. To help you survive this place.”

“And how long have you been surviving this place?”

She held his gaze. “Long enough to be a good teacher.”

That seemed to satisfy him, since he followed without argument when she started forward again. At least until she stopped them at the entrance to the next building over and said, “I figure the first place you visit should also be the last.”

When Jaren looked at her in puzzlement, she nodded to the dark doorway and finished, “Welcome to the morgue.”

“What’s your name?”

Kiva looked up sharply, finding the young man walking calmly beside her and peering at her in question. Despite his bruised and battered body, and despite his new, unfamiliar surroundings, he seemed completely, unfathomably, at ease.

She remembered her first day at Zalindov, the moment she’d stepped out of the infirmary cradling her bandaged hand, aware that her family, her freedom, and her future had been taken away from her in one fell swoop. She hadn’t asked anyone for their name. That had been the last thing on her mind.

“I’m the prison healer,” Kiva answered.

“That’s not your name.” He waited a beat, then offered, “I’m Jaren.”

“You’re not,” she returned, looking away from him. “You’re D24L103.”

Let him make of that what he will, the reminder of how—and why—she’d been close enough to memorize his identification band. He had to feel it, had to know what lay throbbing beneath the wrappings on his hand. Kiva had heard about Zalindov’s own personal form of branding long before her arrival, and she’d only been seven. There was no way this young man—Jaren—wouldn’t have known about the Z prior to being dumped inside his prison wagon. It was an inevitability for all those sentenced to Zalindov.

It was then that the man’s gaze settled on the guard. His eyes were blue, Kiva noted, but there was a gold rim in the center around the pupil. Striking eyes, unlike any she’d seen before.

Striking eyes, in a striking face. There was no denying it now that he was awake. And yet, her words to Tipp remained true: she would not be swooning anytime soon.