The Broken Kingdoms of Osvolta (Kingdoms of Osvolta #1)

42. Mental Well-being

Chapter forty-two

Mental Well-being

I t was a categorically stupid idea.

And yet she had no other choice.

She needed to get into the infirmary without arousing suspicion, and the only way was to dress as though she were a prisoner. She would be too recognisable in anything else. Even then, once inside, she would have to find her way into the back rooms, through who knew how many locked doors, and numerous watching eyes to find the files. But she had to know for sure.

She pulled a grey scarf from Miss Everly’s closet, rubbed it along her mud splattered boots, ripping the edges slightly before she tied it over her hair. Step one complete. Now she needed to reach the laundry room. As she poked her head out of the door, she saw the coast was miraculously clear. She hurried, not wanting to chance her luck.

Inside the laundry room, Solveig took a pair of standard issue women’s garments and raced back to Miss Everly’s room to change. Back outside, she found a window down the hall and hid her boots in a wastebasket. They would have given her away all too easily, before clambering up and out of the window, falling in the mud on the other side. She sighed, grimacing against the sting, but at least the dirt and dust would help to disguise her.

She slumped at the shoulders as she walked. Careful to avoid the stones tearing into her bare feet. She hadn’t been able to find any shoes in the laundry room. Thankfully, it wasn’t uncommon for women to walk around without, especially if they worked in the sorting fields instead of the pit. Still, she prayed no one would notice her unchained hands and feet as she made her way to the infirmary.

Once inside, she almost fled straight back out. It was busier than she had expected. Rows and rows of prisoners sat waiting to be seen, and she wondered when the guards had started to allow so many the time to visit the infirmary. They usually reserved it for employees, not prisoners. She kept close to the wall, slinking off to one corner, and listened.

“What number is this for you?” one mud slicked prisoner asked.

“Third, you?” replied a man who appeared older than he was.

“First time.”

“Ah,” the older prisoner muttered, “nothing t’worry ‘bout. Hurts the first two times, but smooth sailing after that. It’ll be over before you know it.”

“Prisoner 5967, this way.” Solveig watched a man stand, pulling off his scarf to reveal a shorn head littered with red welts. She peered around the room then. Sure enough, every prisoner who had already removed their scarves sat with shorn hair and matching red welts. Just like the ones beneath Solveig’s hair.

The cube was here, and they were using it on everyone, under the guise of a mental well-being check. There was no way of knowing what they were being fed, without being hooked up to the machine too, something that Solveig wasn’t willing to do. Yet still, she needed to get closer.

“No, no, I’ve changed my mind, please.” Solveig cried suddenly, collapsing to the floor, arms wrapped around her legs as she rocked back and forth, face buried in her arms as she muttered over and over. “Please, I can’t do this.”

She sensed the shadow of a person standing over her and then kneeling beside her. A gentle hand stroked the back of her neck. A healer. It had to be. Guards would have dragged her to her feet, with a blow to the stomach to silence her cries.

“Come now, child, there is nothing to be afraid of.” A kind voice whispered.

“Please, I can’t,” Solveig continued.

“It can be overwhelming the first time, but this is normal.” The voice said, “You’re taking a big step toward your rehabilitation, and that is to be commended. Don’t give up now.”

“Do I have a choice?” Solveig felt the hand on her neck pause.

“There is always a choice,” they said. “But if you wish to one day leave this place, then this is the only way.”

No choice then. Solveig surmised. Who would choose not to do this if the alternative was dying in this cesspit? “Can.” Solveig swallowed, trying her best to sound afraid, weak. “Can I go somewhere private and collect myself?” she asked, lifting her head slightly to meet the gaze of a woman. Hair greyed, matching the colour of the standard issue healer’s tunic.

The woman hesitated for a moment, glancing around for her nearest colleague, when she realised everyone around them had grown silent and was now staring at the two of them.

“Okay.” The woman muttered, “I can give you ten minutes in an exam room, but then you must come back out and be brave, okay?” she insisted, taking Solveig’s hand to help her stand, leading her through to the back on shaking legs. She sat her down on the chair beside the examination bed, before kneeling before her.

“What’s your name?”

Solveig panicked. Names would be on a register, and she did not know who would be on the list. “I’d rather not,” she replied, not meeting the woman’s gaze.

“And why might that be? You’re safe here.”

“If my commanding officers hear of this, they’ll double my quota,” Solveig rushed, trying to sound terrified.

“Medical matters are not discussed with guards, my dear.” The healer smiled.

“Please, I’ve already had my quota doubled twice this week, and my rations cut. Solveig forced herself to shake, desperate to drive the message home. If this gets out, who knows what they’ll do to me!” she cried.

“Okay, okay. Tell you what.” The healer smiled, patting her knee. “I’ll give you ten minutes to take some deep breaths, then I’ll have the next available healer fetch you, okay?”

Solveig nodded, sniffling lightly as she wiped at her dry eyes.

“Okay.” The healer repeated, “ten minutes, try to relax. It will be over before you know it.”

Solveig shuddered for real this time. That damn phrase, the pure lie of it. Because she knew it wasn’t true, The Oracle decided when it was over, and she would not risk being attached to it again. Not here. She stayed where she was, waited to hear the healer’s footsteps fade away beyond the door before springing to her feet.

Ten minutes, that was all she had, and she had to make it count.

She rifled through cupboards and drawers, but there were no records to be found. It was nothing more than a standard exam room; the files had to be somewhere else. She crept toward the door with gentle steps, pressing her ear against it, listening for voices, or movements. When nothing came, she pulled it open slightly to check outside; the halls were empty as she snuck out and began checking doors.

She’d been in exam room one, passed two and three before coming upon the kitchen. The next room was labelled Guards Quarter. Solveig tried the door but found it locked, so she moved on instead of wasting time. She’d come back if the rest of her search came up empty. Rounding the corner, she came to a stop. One room remained ahead of her, emblazoned with Records Room. This was it.

If the information she needed existed, it would be behind that door. She walked forward, testing the handle, locked.

“Dammit,” she hissed, slamming a hand against the wood. She had no pins in her hair to help her this time. She needed to think and fast. She had to get inside that room. Ordinarily she preferred to not leave a trace of her activities, but she had no time left and little options. She had to break the door down. Squaring up, she leaned back on her strongest leg, placing her foot as close to the handle as possible.

It was going to hurt; she knew that breaking down doors in boots was bad enough, but barefoot was madness. If she misfired and hit the handle, she’d break something. She took a deep breath and then surged forward with a large crack. Thankfully, there was no immediate pain. She tried again, and again, and finally, on the fourth try, the door cracked open. Wood splinters flew in every direction as she raced inside, careful not to put too much weight on her smarting foot.

Time wasn’t on her side as she flung open door after door, searching by year until she found this past one. 498 OA . She flicked through the names, searching for any she recognised, stilling when she spotted the first. Celerin Firachen, then another, Connall Kano, Malik Etana, Flotare Grepino. She had no time to rifle through them, instead stuffing them down the front of her pants to hide them on her way back to the officer’s residence.

She backed out of the room, closing the shattered door behind her as best she could before turning to walk back down the hall. Voices sounded as she passed the kitchen and, with nowhere to go, she backed inside to find it mercifully empty. She waited by the door for the voices to pass before heading back out the way she had come with the healer. Making a beeline for the entrance, not sparing a glance at the gathered prisoners as she pushed through the doors, keeping her head down to avoid attention. She slipped outside and straight into the path of a guard.

“What have we here?” he muttered, leering down at her, eyes sparkling. “Where are you running off to?”

“Back to work,” Solveig said as meekly as she could manage. The papers she hid beneath her clothes felt heavy as rocks as he beheld her.

The guard’s eyes narrowed. “You aren’t skipping your check-up, are you?” His gaze slithered over her body. “You know it’s important for your rehabilitation into society.” Solveig had to force back the scoff at his words. Few ever rehabilitated back into Torrelinian society. If the mine didn’t kill them, the guards found a way.

“Of course not.”

His gaze halted on her wrists then. “Who removed your chains?” he demanded, reaching for his baton. Missing the lack of scars or welts that should have been present from perpetual use.

“They forgot to put them back on.”

“That right?” the guard muttered, taking a step closer, his eyes boring into hers. “Why’d they take ‘em off in the first place?”

“I panicked, sir. They said it would help me submit to the assessment better, that I could get new ones when I returned to work.” It was at least partially true. If he asked anyone inside, they could vouch that a female prisoner had panicked in the waiting area. She only hoped that none of the healers would confess that they had let her slip away out of fear of facing their own repercussions from the guards.

“What’s your number?”

“5967,” she blurted without thinking.

“I’ll be checking on you later, 5967, and you’d better be back in your chains.”

“Yes, sir,” Solveig muttered, bowing her head. It was overkill, but still it couldn’t hurt.

“Hurry back now, you wouldn’t want your hours extended for missing quota.” Solveig knew then that the poor prisoner who worked under that number was about to have his daily quota doubled. There would be no sleep for him tonight.

Solveig hurried back toward the open cast, glancing over her shoulder a few times. Once she was sure the guard had stopped watching her, she ran for the window she had originally jumped from, as someone else shouted.

“Stop right there!”

She kept running, lungs labouring from a night of no sleep and no food, her arm wrapped around her stomach to hold the papers in place. She risked a glance over her shoulder. The guard wasn’t chasing her but running for the main entrance of the sleeping quarters to head her off on the other side. Solveig pushed herself harder. Faster. Lungs burning as she launched herself at the window. Stomach smarting as it collided with the metal edge, scraping the soft skin, despite the added padding of the files she hid. She dragged herself inside and pulled on the boots she had stashed to hide her muddy footprints. Making it back to Miss Everly’s room as the thundering clatter of standard issue guards’ boots ran past.

Smiling to herself around deep breaths, she ripped the scarf from her head, shirked her boots and clothing and headed straight for the adjoined bathing chamber. Washing away the grime and dirt of the mine and a long night of travelling through the storm. Before slipping into the bed for a few hours of shuteye, just as the alert for a prisoner on the run sounded.

Perhaps after she had slept, she would feel truly guilty for duping that innocent healer and throwing Prisoner 5967 to the wolves. But at that moment, she was far too preoccupied with diving headfirst into sleep.