The Prison Healer (The Prison Healer #1)(16)
Kiva held little love for Warden Rooke. Her allegiance to him was a means for survival, nothing more. But even so, she knew that she and her fellow inmates could have done a lot worse. Rooke, at least, had a sense of morality, limited as it was. She didn’t want to imagine what might happen if the Butcher or Bones or any of the other more abusive guards were given the position of Warden. Nothing would be left but blood and ashes.
“Have you anything else to tell me tonight, Kiva?”
The Warden was watching her closely. He was smart, she knew. Too smart for her liking. He lived and worked among the worst kinds of people, and had long since learned how to read them. How to read her.
“The prisoners are unhappy,” she answered. “But you already know that.”
Rooke sighed, taking another sip of his drink. “There’s always trouble at this time of year. They’re hungry. Cold. Tired. There’s little I can do about any of that.”
Kiva disagreed, but she remained silent. More food rations, warmer clothes and blankets, shorter work hours—these were all things the Warden could change. But prisoners weren’t supposed to be comfortable. None of them were in Zalindov for a holiday. They were there to work, and then to die.
“What about the rebels?” Rooke asked.
Kiva shifted in her seat, the Warden tracking her every move.
“Is Cresta still leading them?” he prompted.
Licking her lips, Kiva nodded slowly and said, “As far as I’m aware.”
Rooke’s eyes narrowed as he repeated, “As far as you’re aware?”
She forced herself to meet his gaze. “The rebels don’t like me. Especially Cresta.” Kiva couldn’t blame them. As Rooke’s informant—reluctant or not—she’d well earned their scorn. “They don’t keep me apprised of their leaders. Or their plans.”
That was about as close as Kiva ever dared to show any kind of backbone, but after years of these meetings with the Warden, she felt safer with him than any of the other guards. She had reason to, even if she knew her allegiance didn’t guarantee her safety.
The Warden rubbed his temple. “Kiva, you know I respect you. Care for you, even. You’ve proved your skills as a healer time and time again, and you’ve earned my regard through your years of service. Because of that, I must warn you.”
Kiva braced herself.
“The day is coming when I’m going to need more from you,” Rooke continued. “The rebels within the prison are becoming a problem. I can only assume it’s because their movement outside is advancing, with rebel numbers growing every day as that queen of theirs leads them to slaughter. The fools.” Rooke shook his head, as if pitying them.
Kiva’s heart rate doubled. Any mention of the outside world had her aching for more. In the last decade she’d only managed to hear snippets of what was happening beyond Zalindov’s walls. When she’d first arrived at the prison, the rebel movement had been little more than a group of impassioned nomads searching for their long-lost queen, whispering about how she had a legitimate claim to the throne of Evalon—treasonous words with grave consequences for those caught by the Royal Guard. It was only after Kiva’s imprisonment that she heard their queen had come out of hiding and was now leading their cause, seeking one thing: vengeance. Not justice, not a chance to debate why the crown belonged to her. No, the Rebel Queen wanted revenge for all that had been taken from her. For all that she’d lost. For the kingdom and its power that should have been hers at birth.
From what Kiva had gleaned over the last few years, the Rebel Queen was slowly—very slowly—beginning to take ground.
Rooke called them fools. Kiva wasn’t so sure.
“They have an energy, a spark, that’s building,” the Warden went on, still talking about the imprisoned rebels. “It might not be much yet, but the smallest spark can cause a flame, and I want to avoid that. For their sakes.”
Kiva shuddered at the look in his eyes. The rebels inside Zalindov would meet a swift death if Rooke or any of the guards caught so much as a hint of them plotting anything. Whether it was escape on their minds, or something simpler like stirring up the other prisoners, or even rallying more numbers to their side, it didn’t matter. If they acted out—in any way—their lives would be forfeited.
It was difficult for Kiva to feel compassion for them. They should have been smarter, should have kept their heads down, rather than being careless enough to draw the Warden’s attention. They’d dug their own graves, as far as she was concerned. Her expression must have told Rooke as much, since he sighed again, louder this time.
“Just . . . see what you can learn before I next summon you,” he said. Throwing back the last of his liquor, he locked eyes with her and finished, “Skilled healer or not, I can find others to work in the infirmary. Your worth lies in what you can tell me. I need more information, Kiva. Better information.”
He turned to look out the window again, his dismissal clear, leaving Kiva to be escorted down from the wall by another guard, her heart heavy and her stomach knotted.
She couldn’t give Rooke what he wanted. She hadn’t lied to him; Zalindov’s rebels loathed her, seeing her as little more than the Warden’s spy. Their assumed leader, Cresta, was the last person in the world who would ever trust Kiva with information.
And yet, Kiva would do as she always had—she would find a way to meet Rooke’s demands. She would live another day. She had to, if she ever wanted to see her family again. One way or another, whatever it took, she would figure out how to glean the knowledge he desired.