C H A P T E R F I V E
Kiva led the way inside the cold stone building, her nose wrinkling at the acrid smell that permeated everything from the walls to the floors. Incense burned from a small worktable at the side of the square room, but it didn’t hide the stench of death, an unpleasant mix of spoiled meat and sour milk.
A drain lay in the center of the floor, the stones closest to it stained a reddish-brown. Only a fraction of prisoners underwent embalming, usually those from more privileged families who were granted permission to collect their loved ones after death. The lingering scent of thyme, rosemary, and lavender tickled Kiva’s nose, but she couldn’t smell any wine, indicating it had been some time since the last attempted preservation.
Stone slabs were spaced at equal distances around the drain, and while there were currently no cadavers on them, the smell was just as strong as on days when the room was full. The prisoner in charge of the morgue, Mot, was immune to it, but not even the guards monitored this building for long periods of time, unable to stomach the constant odor.
“Evenin’, Kiva,” Mot said, sitting on a stool behind the worktable, his back slightly hunched, his gray hair thinning on top. “What can I do for yeh?”
From her side, Kiva heard Jaren whisper her name to himself, and she sighed inwardly.
“I have two for collection,” Kiva said to the elderly man. He was relatively new to Zalindov, having arrived only eighteen months ago.
Too old to be of any use when it came to hard labor, he’d been allocated work in the infirmary, but his fascination with death had made him more of a hindrance than a help. More than once, patients with simple ailments had died on his watch. It had become so problematic that, for the first—and only—time ever, Kiva had made a request of the Warden to transfer him elsewhere. That turned out to
be a boon, since prior to arriving at Zalindov, Mot had been an apothecary, so he transitioned comfortably from infirmary to morgue, becoming the head mortician within a short span of months. Indeed, he had even thanked Kiva for her role in his transfer, claiming that he almost felt as if he were back home.
Kiva still wasn’t sure how to reconcile the thoughtful old man who, she’d later discovered, had been sentenced to Zalindov for deliberately misdiagnosing his customers so that he might trial new experimental remedies, resulting in multiple deaths. But it didn’t matter what he’d done outside of these walls. In here, they both had a job to do, and for obvious reasons, the infirmary kept close ties with the morgue.
“Two, yeh say?” Mot said, shuffling some parchment. “Tunnel fever still takin’ ’em?”
Kiva shook her head. “New arrivals. They didn’t survive the journey.”
Mot’s cloudy eyes shifted to Jaren. Naari had remained at the doorway, and Kiva envied her the fresh air.
“Yeh’re new today, boy?” Mot asked, his joints cracking as he stood.
Jaren looked at Kiva, as if seeking her permission to speak.
Perhaps he did understand the gravity of being at Zalindov. But she wasn’t the one he needed to defer to. Regardless, she gave a quick nod, and he answered Mot with a simple, “Yes, sir.”
“Ha!” Mot cried with a beaming grin, his brown teeth revealed by the luminium beacons affixed to the stone walls. “Yeh hear that, Kiva? ‘Sir.’ That’s respect.” He winked at her. “I like this one.”
“Mot—”
“Stay close to yer healer, boy.” Mot spoke over Kiva. “She’ll take good care of yeh. Mark my words.”
Kiva pressed her lips into a firm line. She wasn’t Jaren’s healer.
She was the prison healer—everyone’s healer.
“Will you collect them before you finish up tonight, Mot?” Kiva said after unclenching her jaw.
Mot waved a dismissive hand. “O’ course, o’ course. But they’ll ’ave to wait for burnin’. Grendel’s already put a load through today.”
Kiva didn’t care when the two men were cremated, as long as they weren’t decaying in her infirmary. “Fine. Tipp’s checking on my quarantined patients at the moment, but just call out to him if you
need any help.”
Mot’s eyes narrowed. “Tipp?”
Belatedly, Kiva remembered why she was in the morgue, rather than her assistant. Still unsure what had happened, she hedged, “He’ll stay out of your way unless you ask.”
“D’yeh know what the brat did?”
Kiva’s eyes flicked to Naari, but the guard’s back was to them as she faced out into the grounds. There was no way to tell if she was
listening or not.
“Maybe we shouldn’t—”
“Gave me a heart attack, ’e did,” Mot said, scowling. “These old eyes ain’t what they used to be, yeh know. How was I s’posed to see ’ im lyin’ beneath one of the bodies?” His scowl deepened. “When I came near, ’e sat bolt upright with the corpse, wavin’ its arms and screamin’ at me. Thought the dead were comin’ back for revenge, didn’t I?”
Kiva heard Jaren cough from beside her, but she didn’t dare look his way, not when she was struggling to keep in her own laugh.
“I’ll have a word with him,” Kiva said once she was certain she could do so with solemnity. “It won’t happen again.”
“Better not,” Mot said. “My ticker can’t take another fright like that.”
As an afterthought, he added, “And the dead deserve our respect.”
The latter was true, and Kiva would have a word with Tipp. Not just for the sake of the mortician, but also for Tipp himself. If he’d been caught . . . if any of the guards had witnessed his prank . . . then he never would have left the morgue.
A cold feeling overtook Kiva, but she shook it off and again promised Mot that she would give the boy a stern talking-to. In return, she received Mot’s word that he would collect the deceased men immediately. Satisfied, she was quick to leave the morgue with Jaren in tow, the two of them inhaling deeply once they were outside again.
“He seems like a character,” Jaren commented.
Kiva said nothing, casting a quick look at Naari, but the guard didn’t betray whether or not she’d heard about Tipp’s misadventures.
If she had, Kiva could only hope she wouldn’t care enough to report him. The Warden had overlooked some of Tipp’s foolishness in the past, but only when Kiva had something to exchange for the boy’s safety. Prison gossip was scarce of late, leaving her with no bargaining chips and an unsettled feeling in her gut.
Looking around the grounds, Kiva pushed aside her gnawing worry and considered her next move, trying to recall her own orientation. The sights, the sounds, the smells . . . all of that had faded in her memory. All she could remember was what she’d felt.
Fear.
Grief.
Hopelessness.
The potent mix had clouded all else.
Jaren, however, didn’t seem overcome by emotion. Wary, perhaps.
Uncertain, definitely. But . . . he was also looking at her with curiosity, waiting patiently to see what she would say or do next.
Kiva made her decision.
“Whatever you were told about Zalindov before arriving here, forget it,” she said, turning to the left and doing her best to ignore the crunching of Naari’s feet trailing after them.
“I heard that it’s a death prison,” Jaren said. “That very few people ever make it out alive. That it’s full of murderers and rebels.”
Kiva only just refrained from shooting a look back at Naari to say that this was exactly why she shouldn’t be doing orientation for new prisoners.
“Fine, yes, you should try to remember all of that,” she amended.
“Are you a murderer?” Jaren asked. “Or a rebel?”
Kiva’s mouth hitched up at the side, her amusement mocking more than anything else. “If you want to survive longer than the night, don’t ask anyone why they’re here. It’s rude.”
Jaren studied her thoughtfully, before his focus turned back to the gravel path. He drew his wounded hand in close to his stomach—the first sign he’d given that he was in any pain, though she doubted the carving was the worst of it.
“Don’t you want to know what I did?” he asked quietly.
“Something you need to know about Zalindov,” Kiva said, “is that who you were out there”—she pointed beyond the limestone walls —“means nothing in here. So, no. I don’t want to know what you did, because it doesn’t matter.”
She was lying to them both, but Jaren didn’t know her well enough to call her on it, and he let it drop.
Releasing a slow breath, Kiva came to a stop when they reached the next building along from the morgue. It, too, was made of darkened stone, the ground near the entrance dusted with ash. Two large chimneys poked out from the roof, one of which was lightly smoking.
“Zalindov’s two crematoriums,” Kiva said without feeling. “Most of the dead are brought here for burning to prevent the spread of disease.” She pointed to the non-smoking chimney. “The second is only used when the furnace in the first breaks down, or in cases of mass outbreaks and executions, when one isn’t enough on its own.”
Jaren’s brows rose. “Do those happen often?”
“Outbreaks? Sometimes.”
“No.” His gaze was on the smoke rising lazily into the air.
“Executions.”
Kiva didn’t dare glance at Naari as she answered, “Every day.”
Jaren’s face was shuttered when he turned back to her. “And how often en masse?”
“Not as common, but not unheard of, either,” she shared, almost relieved that he was asking these questions. He needed to know what his future could be if he put one toe out of line.
He examined her face, and she let him, hoping he could read how serious she was, how much peril they were all in, every moment of every day.
Finally, he nodded, wincing slightly when the action jolted his head. “I see.”
And she believed him. There was a furrow between his eyebrows that hadn’t been there before, a shadow over his features, a new
weight upon his shoulders.
Maybe he would survive, after all. . . . At least until his body could no longer stand whatever work was in store for him.
“Come on, there’s more to see,” Kiva said, heading toward the center of the grounds.
They moved from gravel to a mixture of dead grass and dirt as she thought about how best to give Jaren some bearings.
“Zalindov is shaped like a hexagon,” she said as they continued walking. “Six outer walls thick enough to be patrolled from the top, with fully manned watchtowers at each of the six corners.” She waved toward the ones they could see from their position, then indicated beyond them. “Given your state when you arrived, I’m guessing you were unconscious for the last part of your journey?” At his confirmation, she went on, “Then you missed the real welcome into Zalindov. Before the iron entrance gates, before the farms and the quarries and the lumberyard and everything else outside of the immediate walls, there’s another perimeter fence, with eight more watchtowers. There’s also a constant patrol of guards. And dogs.”
She made sure he was paying attention when she warned, “Don’t bother trying to escape. No prisoner has ever made it past the perimeter fence alive.”
Jaren didn’t reply. It seemed he was finally beginning to comprehend the reality of Zalindov. The color that had steadily returned to his face was fading again, though that could also be because of his increasing pain. Kiva had no idea how long the concoction she’d given him would last. He likely wouldn’t be standing for much longer.
“Inside the walls, there are four extra freestanding watchtowers,”
Kiva said as they approached one of them, a daunting stone building shaped like a tall rectangle rising into the sky, the top section opening out onto a wraparound platform. From her position, she could see two guards walking along it, and she knew more were inside. “Together with the six wall towers, they offer a bird’s-eye view over the entire inner compound. Someone is always watching—
never forget that.”
Again, Jaren didn’t reply.
Kiva kept walking until they were as close to the center of the grounds as she could get them.
“The infirmary, morgue, and crematorium are along the northwest wall.” She pointed back the way they’d traveled. “If we’d kept
following it around, we would’ve hit the workrooms. Everything from stitch craft to administration work happens in there. If we’d gone in the opposite direction, turning right from the infirmary, we would’ve hit the kennels, the central barracks where most of the guards sleep, and the entrance block beside the front gates, where new inmates are processed.”
Jaren squinted through the twilight in that direction, his gaze slightly unfocused now as his pain took hold. “Is that where visitors come to meet us?”
The question caught Kiva unawares. “Prisoners aren’t allowed visitors.”
“What, never?” Jaren asked, turning swiftly back to her. He swayed a little on his feet, and Kiva had to resist the urge to reach out and steady him. “Does that mean . . . You never said how long you’ve been here.”
She shrugged and looked away. It was answer enough.
“I’m sorry, Kiva.”
Three words, said in his low, gentle voice, and they were nearly her undoing. Three kind words from a stranger, affecting her enough to prompt the sting of tears—was that how far she’d fallen?
We are safe. Stay alive. We will come.
She couldn’t be so weak, not in front of Jaren, and certainly not in front of Naari. Her family needed her to stay strong.
Pushing through the heaviness in her chest, Kiva straightened her spine and said, firmly, “There’s nothing to be sorry for. My role as the prison healer might require me to help you and others, but I’m in here for a reason, just like everyone else. Murderers and rebels— that’s what we are. You said it yourself.”
Jaren said nothing for a long beat, but then, slowly, he stated, “So . . . no visitors.” When Kiva nodded stiffly, he went on, “That’s no great loss. I wouldn’t want my family to come, anyway.” A small huff of laughter left him. “They’d be even less inclined to visit.”
A spark of curiosity flared in Kiva. It sounded as if he and his family were estranged, and she wondered if that was because of whatever had landed him in here. But then she saw that he was still watching her carefully, and she realized what he was doing: distracting her, giving her a moment to regain control, offering her a
conversational door that she could choose to keep open or slam
shut.
But . . . why would he do that?
This was why she didn’t like doing prisoner orientation. It meant she had to talk with them. Spend time with them. Get to know them.
She’d much rather remain alone in the infirmary, seeing them when they were sick or hurt and then sending them on their way again.
This was not . . . She didn’t like this.
Closing his offered door, she promptly returned to her role as his guide.
“There’s too much for me to show you tonight, and you’re going to forget most of it anyway,” Kiva said, partly because she wanted to be rid of him, and partly because he was still swaying and she didn’t want to have to carry him all the way to his cell block. “Most of what you need to know will depend on what work allocation you’re given, and you’ll learn that tomorrow.”
Walking a few more paces and coming to a halt in front of a domed building made of mishmashed stone, Kiva slapped her hand against the side and said, “Outside of work hours, prisoners can walk freely inside the grounds, so if ever you get turned around, look for the four inner watchtowers and then head into the center of them.
You’ll find yourself here, right at the heart of Zalindov, and you’ll be able to get your bearings again.”
“What is this?” Jaren asked, inspecting the odd-shaped building.
“The entrance to the tunnels,” Kiva said.
“I’ve heard about those.” Jaren raised his unbandaged hand to his head, as if to ease the ache there. “Seems foolish to me. Like an open invitation for an escape attempt.”
Kiva snorted, and Jaren turned to her in surprise. She schooled her face immediately. “It’s a labyrinth down there—miles and miles of tunnels. If anyone were stupid enough to try and escape, they’d never find their way out again. And besides,” she added, “most of the tunnels are submerged, at least partially.”
“Zalindov’s water source,” Jaren said.
“There’s over three thousand inmates here,” Kiva shared. “Without water, we die.” She jerked her head to the domed building. “This doesn’t look like much from the outside, but it’s only an entrance to
what’s below. Everything happens deep underground—not just the digging of more tunnels, but also the pumping of water through the aquifer.”
She only just refrained from saying that those two jobs were the worst Zalindov had to offer—the tunnelers and pumpers. Quarriers came in at a close third, followed by lumbersmiths and harvesters.
“Now, forget about the tunnels for the moment and listen closely so you don’t get lost,” she told him, mostly because his eyes were losing clarity the longer they stood there. She turned and pointed.
“The infirmary is that way.” She pivoted counterclockwise and pointed again. “Barracks, entrance block, front gate.” Another pivot.
“Harvest factory for grain and produce sorting, and the luminium depository behind it.” Another pivot. “Kitchens and refectory.” She paused to add, “You’ll be given a meal schedule with your work allocation tomorrow. Don’t skip meals. Rations are scarce, especially in winter, and you’ll need all the strength you can get.”
She waited for his murmured agreement, then pivoted again. “The cell blocks are beyond the refectory. That’s where we’ll head now.
There are ten in total, three hundred or so inmates per block.”
Jaren’s eyes widened. “Three hundred? All sleeping in the same building?”
“Just wait until you see the latrines. You’re in for a treat.”
At his horror-struck expression, Kiva took pity on him. “You’ll get used to it. There are three stories per cell block, so it’s really only a hundred per floor. And, honestly, in a day or two, you’ll be too tired to care, anyway.” Assuming he survived that long.
Jaren pulled a face. “Is that meant to make me feel better?”
This time Kiva did look to Naari, since this was another perfect example of why she shouldn’t be doing orientation. The guard didn’t even try to hide her amusement.
Turning back to Jaren, Kiva attempted to rally some kind of encouragement. “There’s nothing I can tell you that will prepare you for what you’re about to experience. I’m sorry, that’s just the reality of Zalindov. This place will test you to your limits, and beyond. But it’s not impossible to survive it. I’m living proof of that.”
Jaren’s eyes held hers as he quietly asked, “What’s your secret?
To surviving, I mean?”
She considered her words carefully before answering, “It helps if you have something to live for. To fight for. It grounds you, gives you a reason to get up every morning. It gives you a reason to want to survive. And sometimes, it’s the wanting that makes all the difference. Because once you give up in here”—she pointed to her heart—“then you’re already as good as dead.”
He cocked his head to the side. “What’s your something? What are you living for?”
Kiva arched a brow. “That is none of your business.” She started walking forward again. “Let’s get you to your cell block. A few hours’ sleep and you’ll wake up feeling much better.”
Dryly, Jaren said, “Forgive me if I have some doubts.”
Kiva was well aware that his bruised and battered muscles would stiffen up during sleep, likely leaving him feeling miserable come morning. But proper rest would still aid his recovery, nonetheless.
“This way,” was all she said, leading him onward.
Jaren and Naari trailed silently behind her for a time, three pairs of footsteps crunching as they moved across dirt and then onto gravel again, their breaths fogging the air as the temperature dropped swiftly. While snow was common in the mountains surrounding Zalindov, it rarely fell as low as the prison. Even so, the cold was relentlessly bitter, with ice often coating the grounds. The worst days would come after the solstice, which was due in just over a week.
Kiva was already bracing for all the weather-related ailments she would have to treat before the arrival of spring.
They were close to reaching their destination when Jaren pointed to the northeast wall and said, “You didn’t say what’s in that direction.”
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.
