The Prison Healer (The Prison Healer #1)(15)
Naari cleared her throat loudly, and Kiva wondered if that meant she wasn’t supposed to answer. But the guard did nothing more, so Kiva said, “That’s where the Abyss is.”
“The Abyss?”
“Zalindov’s punishment block.”
Kiva could hear the incredulity in Jaren’s voice when he said, “So, on top of working us to death, there’s more punishment?”
Jaren didn’t know the half of it, and Kiva really didn’t want to be the one to tell him. But he needed to be warned, so she reached for his sleeve and tugged him to a halt, squinting in the low light to catch his eyes. While the watchtowers had roaming luminium beacons that the guards could pinpoint toward any location of their choosing, the grounds of Zalindov were otherwise pitch-black once night fell in full—and it was very close to that, with them having wasted the last of the light walking from the tunnels.
“No one knows what happens in the Abyss,” Kiva told Jaren in a serious voice. “Just that it’s bad. The guards stationed there are known for their . . . creativity.” She let that sink in. “Most prisoners don’t come out again, and those who do are changed forever. So if you value your life, do whatever it takes to avoid being sent there, understood?”
Jaren, thankfully, didn’t question or argue. “Understood.”
Kiva looked to Naari, and, with as much respect as she could muster, asked, “Which block is he allocated to?”
“Seven. Second floor.”
Kiva gritted her teeth and headed that way. Of course he was assigned to the same cell block as she. At least they were on different floors, with him being a level above her.
Only when they finally reached the long rectangular building that now housed them both—and three hundred others—did Kiva stop in front of the large entrance doors.
“Head inside and take the stairs to your left, then claim a pallet up on the second floor,” she told Jaren. “Bathing chambers and latrines are at the far end of the ground floor. The water in the shower block isn’t heated, so move fast, and don’t get your clothes wet or you’ll catch a chill.” She made herself meet his eyes as she added, “There’s no gender separation for sleeping or bathing, so there’s an unspoken rule about respect. The guards don’t enforce it, but life here is hard enough without constantly worrying about when you’ll next be assaulted, so prisoners try to look out for each other.”
Jaren’s brows pulled together. “That doesn’t seem foolproof.”
“It’s not,” Kiva confirmed. “But it’s rarely the prisoners you have to watch out for. As I said earlier—everyone’s too tired to cause problems like that.”
Noting her wording, Jaren asked, “What about the guards?”
Kiva looked away, her forearm throbbing in reminder. “They’re not as tired.”
When she turned back to Jaren, his jaw was clenched. “Have they ever— Have you ever—”
“That’s another question you should never ask anyone here,” Kiva interrupted firmly. She was aware of Naari standing only a few paces away, silent and still.
Jaren looked like he was about to argue, but then he raised his good hand and ran it agitatedly through his hair, instead asking, “Is there anything else I should know?”
Kiva faced him dead-on. “There’s lots you should know, but the one thing you need to remember is this: here at Zalindov, the only person you can trust is yourself.”
And with that, she turned on her heel and strode back toward the infirmary, his orientation officially complete.
Chapter Six
“I hear one of the new arrivals survived,” Warden Rooke said, sipping amber liquid from a crystal tumbler. Standing tall and proud, he peered through his window atop the southern wall. While most of the guards had personal quarters within the barracks, the Warden lived high above them all. Watching—always watching. “Not his companions?”
Kiva shook her head, perched stiffly in his sitting room, barely an hour after leaving? Jaren with Naari outside their cell block. “Both dead.”
“Hmm,” Rooke murmured, swirling his liquor. With dark skin, cropped hair, and a short beard, he looked like many of the other burly guards. But it was his scar that set him apart, cutting above and below his right eye, like an interrupted diamond. That, and the authority that dripped off him, enhanced by his black leather uniform all the way down to his perfectly polished boots. “The survivor was covered in blood. Is he badly damaged?”
Careful, always so damn careful about the information she shared, Kiva answered, “Nothing permanent.”
Warden Rooke smiled, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. “Good. That’s good.”
Another able-bodied male. That was all that mattered to the Warden. Never mind that Zalindov was already bursting at the seams, even with the excessive mortality rate.
In the ten years Kiva had lived at the prison, she’d come to accept that the Warden wasn’t an evil man, but he was coldly pragmatic. And powerful—so very powerful, with a heavy burden of responsibility on his shoulders. His jurisdiction over Zalindov meant he answered not to one kingdom, but to all of them, since all of their condemned citizens were jailed under his watch. But while he did have to obey direct orders from the rulers of all eight territories, he was mostly left to his own devices, trusted to oversee the day-to-day management of the inmates and guards without supervision. How he did that was his business.