Chapter Nineteen
After sharing her father’s tale with Tilda, Kiva ventured out to the medicinal garden, a place where she always felt closest to him.
Olisha and Nergal had arrived early for their shift, so she knew there was someone watching over the sick woman, ready to call out at the first sign of trouble.
But Kiva felt confident that Tilda was stable again, at least for the moment.
Walking along the gravel path, Kiva ran her fingers through the gabbergrass that rose taller than she did, obscuring much of the trail ahead.
The long green shoots were technically weeds, but the stems could be milked and used to soothe earaches, and Kiva liked the privacy they afforded, the illusion that this was a little slice of paradise tucked away in the middle of the prison, just for her.
This can be our place, little mouse , her father had told her. Whenever we need to get away from it all, we can come here. Our very own sanctuary.
Kiva closed her eyes as his voice washed over her, her fingers still weaving through the grass.
She only opened them again when she came to a bend in the path, following it around in a loop.
To her right were the flower beds—marigold, calendula, lavender, and poppy flowers, alongside the snowblossoms and buttercress.
Opposite them were the berries, then the sprouts, then the herbs, then the nettles .
.. and on it went, the garden organized into sections by the types of plants, and also by their medicinal qualities, with the most dangerous specimens at the furthest end of the looping path, in their own separate bed to lessen the risk of accidental spreading.
Glancing around, Kiva recalled the first time she’d set foot in the garden, her father having led her by the hand along the path at sunset.
It’s our secret, he’d told her with a wink. As long as I’m the prison healer, you can sneak back here anytime you want.
But what about the guards, Papa?
We’ll make it a game, Faran had replied. Hide-and-seek, just like you used to play with Zulee and Tor and— He’d broken off then, before mentioning Kerrin’s name. Never mentioning Kerrin’s name.
Kiva swallowed as the memory came to her.
Her father, the prison healer.
It was only logical that he’d been allocated the position upon arriving at Zalindov.
He’d been sent straight to the infirmary on his first day, working under the head medic, a bitter woman named Thessa.
Faran was much more qualified, but Thessa had been in charge for years, and refused to listen to him, let alone learn from him—or yield to him.
Kiva hadn’t thought about Thessa in a long time.
As she knelt down to pluck some thistles choking the bed of goldenroot, she cast her mind back to those early days filled with fear and sadness, but also holding moments of joy, like when her father had brought her into this garden for the first time.
Promise me that no matter what happens, you’ll never lose hope , he’d whispered to her in this very spot, kneeling before the goldenroot. Your brother and sister, your mother —his voice had cracked then— they will come for you, one day .
Don’t you mean us , Papa? They’ll come for us?
Faran had reached out and brushed his fingers along her cheekbone. Of course, sweetheart. That’s what I meant.
Only a few short weeks after that, Thessa had died from a stomach sickness, and Faran had stepped into her position as the head medic, leaving Kiva alone much of the time, especially when his hours were soon taken up by—
Kiva’s body froze, her fingers spasming in the soil.
Thessa had died from a stomach sickness.
Her father had become the head medic.
And then ...
And then ...
Kiva strained her memory, trying to recall everything she could about that first year. She’d only been seven. Too young to fully understand. Too young to remember.
And yet, there were some things she would never forget.
Even if she had forgotten.
Until now.
The stomach sickness—it had happened before.
Nine years ago.
Dozens dead.
Hundreds .
... Including, eventually, her father.
Tears sprang to Kiva’s eyes, her fingers still frozen in the earth, her gaze unfocused as the memories played out.
Faran had given everything to his patients; Kiva had barely seen him in those last few weeks as prisoner after prisoner fell to the illness.
Her father had told her not to worry, that she was young and healthy and had nothing to fear, but she’d seen the pallor of his skin, the bags under his eyes, the concern bunching his forehead, even as he’d tried to reassure her, day after day.
He’d promised she was safe, and she’d trusted him.
He’d never promised that he was safe.
And she’d never thought to ask.
Then one day, he didn’t return to their cell block.
Even when he’d stayed back late with the quarantined patients, he’d always returned to their cell block.
Every night, no matter how exhausted he was, he always found the energy to teach Kiva everything he knew about healing, reminding her how important it was to learn, to understand.
Night after night, he would share his years of knowledge, testing her with imaginary patients and their ailments.
Only when they were too tired to continue would he tuck her into bed and tell her a story, usually the same one about how he met her mother, knowing how much it soothed her.
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.