Different, Not Damaged

by Andy Peloquin

  "It was bad." Ryanna spoke in a quiet voice filled with concern. "You sat there, moaning, staring at nothing we could see. I tried to help you, but you only screamed. Mother Servitor said to leave you alone. But I couldn't leave you." She dropped her eyes. "I know the bath brings you relief…"

  "Th…ank you, R…yanna." Indria's tongue felt thick, her thoughts sluggish.

  "They're pushing you too hard." Ryanna's words came out tight, clipped. "Mother Servitor--"

  "It's not the Mother, Ryanna." Indria's voice sounded so small, faint to her ears.

  Ryanna snorted. "Of course it is! They know of your ability, and they seek to use it."

  "To bring comfort to the suffering. It is a noble purpose, Ryanna. And one I take upon myself. The Lonely Goddess has given me this gift. I must use it in her service."

  "She is a cruel Goddess, then!" Ryanna's face twisted. "How can she ask you to suffer so?"

  "I bear the pain so others do not have to." Indria grimaced at a fresh wave of fire. "You are young, Ryanna. You have never known the pain of a broken heart." She gripped the girl's hand. "And I pray to the Goddess you never will."

  Ryanna shook her head. "But think of your child. The pain you bear, surely it affects him as well."

  Indria rested a trembling hand on her belly. "I am ever thinking of my child. I bear this pain for him. The Lonely Goddess will bless him, and Mother Servitor will ensure he has a home among the Beggar Priests for as long as I serve the Goddess. Even if I must suffer for the rest of my days, I will do so for his sake."

  "So be it." Ryanna's hand slipped from hers as the girl stood. "Rest. I will bring you food in a few minutes."

  Indria nodded, sending a spike of pain through her head. The world spun, and she squeezed her eyes tight, taking deep breaths to hold back the waves of nausea. She barely registered the click of her door closing as Ryanna left.

  Indria laid back in the tub and tried to push Ryanna's words from her mind. The Goddess had given her a gift, true, but a cruel one. She eased the suffering of others only to add to her own. When she took their heartache upon herself, it only served to remind her of what she had lost.

  She floated in a haze, visions of Eriall flashing through her head. Their chance meeting in the marketplace. His gallant rescue from the drunken crowds of the Festival of Plenty. Their first kiss, stolen in the alley behind her father's chandlery. The droning voice of the priest of the Apprentice as they swore their marriage oaths before the gods of Voramis. Happiness.

  Shattered, in a moment. Stolen with the coins and goods looted from his shelves. Buried beneath a mountain of dirt and broken bodies. Drowned out by the pain of the Lonely Goddess’ favor.

  Everything whirled around her, and Indria clutched the sides of the tub to keep herself from slipping under the water's surface. Darkness seeped into her consciousness, the chill burn in her muscles fading as fingers of fog numbed her thoughts.

  She didn't open her eyes as her cell door creaked, but Ryanna's cry of alarm penetrated the haze in her mind. Fatigue sapped the strength from her muscles. She could only open her eyes and stare at Ryanna's aghast expression.

  "Wh-What…?" she croaked.

  Ryanna turned and rushed from the room, calling for the Mother Servitor.

  Indria tried to raise her head to see what was causing Ryanna's consternation, but she couldn't summon the energy. The fog retreated, and in its place came the pain. The same stabbing and slicing heat that plagued her every day, but with a familiar pain layered atop it. An uncontrollable clenching of her womb, the twisting, tightening torment that plagued women with every turn of the moon.

  Ryanna fell to her knees and clutched Indria's hand. "Hold on, Indria. A physicker is on the way."

  Indria couldn't summon the strength to say anything. She could only cling to Ryanna's hand and pray to the Lonely Goddess to have mercy on her child.

  * * *

  For once, the pain in Indria's muscles couldn't compare with the torment of her shattered heart. It was more than she could bear.

  The physicker had tried everything to stop the bleeding, but all their healing arts had failed her child. She'd refused to leave her tub the last two days, ignored Ryanna's pleas to eat. She had only the burning chill and the memories of her husband for company.

  But now she had no choice. Not even the Goddess’ tears soothed the icy ache thrumming through her muscles. It had come on so strong she'd been unable to do more than curl in a ball and shriek into her darkened cell. She hurled curses at the Goddess that had given her a gift and, in return, shredded her happiness to pieces.

  Her torment diminished, Indria had struggled to her feet, fumbled for her cloak, and made her trembling way from the temple. She'd left well after midnight. Ryanna and the others would be asleep. No doubt the young Servitor would offer her company and support, but Indria had to do this alone. Though the other Servitors sympathized with her and offered her aid, they would never understand her burden.

  A chill wind swept through Lower Voramis as Indria stumbled down the moonlit alley toward the familiar wooden door at the end. It creaked as she pushed it open, her entrance set the candlelight dancing.

  A woman sat at a table, chin resting on her ample chest. She jolted awake as the door banged against the wall. "Wha--?" She squinted, eyes bleary from sleep, and fumbled for a pair of wire-framed spectacles. "Indria?"

  "Hello, Mammy Graye."

  "Heard you was serving in the House of Tears." The salt-and-pepper-haired woman stood, eyes wide. "Never thought I'd see you back here. Not after what happened to Eriall…"

  Indria's eyes fell, and she swallowed.

  "What brings you, dearie? Surely you can't be here for another fertility draught."

  Indria shook her head. "Something for pain."

  "Toothache? Wound gone rotten?"

  "Everything." Indria met Mammy's gaze. "From my head to my toe, everything hurts."

  Mammy Graye stroked the hairs on her chin. "The aches, is it?"

  "No." Indria flexed her fingers. "Not in the bones. It's like my muscles are on fire and freezing cold at once. The pain, it stabs and burns, throbs and stings all together."

  Mammy Graye narrowed her eyes. "Never heard of nothing like that, girl." She leaned closer and studied Indria, as if searching for a sign of insanity. Many of the Illusionist Clerics suffered from such maladies, the result of the Illusionist's touch on their mind. But Indria met her gaze without wavering.

  "I've come to you because I trust you, Mammy." Indria covered Mammy's chubby hand with her own. "Now, can you give me something or not?" She held out the copper bits she'd pilfered from the Goddess’ offering plate.

  "That won't go too far. None of that fancy opium like the uppity folks take for their pains." The coins disappeared beneath the counter. "Now, how much of 'something' you looking for?"

  Indria clenched her jaw. "As strong as you've got." She groaned as a fresh wave of pain clawed icy fingers down her arms and legs. She leaned hard against the counter, taking deep breaths.

  "That bad?" Mammy reached for her arm.

  "NO!" Indria shouted, a sound too loud for the tiny room. "Please…don't…touch me. Just…make it…go away!"

  Mammy whirled and fumbled among the bottles on the shelves. "Devil's claw and birch," she mused aloud. "White willow. Arnica and mint. Aha!" She produced a small pouch and turned to Indria. "Here, red clover and passionflower. Brew this into a tea and drink it."

  "Too long! Something that works NOW!"

  Mammy pawed among the bottles, muttering to herself. "No, no…not that one…no...useless!"

  Indria cried out and sagged. Fire raced up her neck and settled to a chilling pounding behind her eyes.

  "Here!" Mammy darted around the counter, nimble despite her bulk, and knelt beside Indria. "Drink this."

  Indria seized the ampoule and fumbled at the cork with fingers at once numb and ablaze with icy heat. Mammy tugged the cork free, and Indria tipped it to her lips.

 
; "Just a sip, girl!" Mammy pried the phial from her fingers. "Can't have you killing yourself!"

  Indria wanted to empty the bottle--anything to take the pain away--but forced her deadened fingers to unclench.

  Mammy replaced the cork and slipped the little cylinder into Indria's pocket. "Don't take any more until tomorrow, after a good night's sleep and a meal."

  Indria drew in a ragged breath as the pain dimmed from unbearable to simply excruciating. "What's…in it?"

  Mammy waved her hand in a vague gesture. "A lot of potent herbs. Crushed willow bark, powered ginger root, foxglove, a few other things. A concoction of my own making. Only to be used in severe cases." She glanced at Indria. "This qualifies."

  "Th-thank you, Mammy."

  Mammy helped Indria to her feet. Indria leaned on the counter, fighting to keep her legs beneath her.

  "Need me to walk you back, girl?" Mammy hovered over her, brow furrowed. "You look bad."

  "Thank you, Mammy." Indria gave her a weak smile. "I'll make it alone."

  Mammy rolled her eyes, but only nodded. "So be it." She held the door open for Indria. "Remember," she called out as Indria shuffled down the alley, "no more until tomorrow."

  "I remember, Mammy." Gritting her teeth, she pulled her shawl over her head and braced herself for the long trek back to the House of Tears.

  * * *

  Indria whimpered as she shut the door and slipped into the tub. Since the loss of her child, not even the Goddess’ tears had helped to dull the pain.

  But she had Mammy's draught now. She drew out the phial and fumbled at the cork. Fingers numb, she bit into the stopper and ripped it free. Tipping the tiny glass bottle to her lips, she poured a few drops onto her tongue. She coughed at the foul brew but forced herself to swallow.

  Even that small effort left her drained, and the torment cascaded over her like an angry ocean. With every breath, chills burned through her muscles, followed by millions of red hot daggers that poked, stabbed, and sliced into her eyes, her throat, her stomach, and her hands. Desperate, Indria took another swallow of the phial.

  No more. Though it took every shred of willpower, Indria stoppered the glass ampoule and placed it on the stone floor beside her tub. She'd need the rest tomorrow; the crowds of sorrowful and forlorn would be larger.

  The pain in her head turned the room into a blurry mass of dancing shadows. In those shadows, she saw the face of Eriall. Tears streamed down her cheeks as his face morphed into that of a child, the one she'd pictured a thousand times when the pain threatened to overwhelm her. That face--her child--had given her something to cling to. Now, without him, what did she have?

  Sorrow drove a knife into her heart with physical force. She felt as if an iron hand ripped her ribs apart and squeezed her chest muscles. Her breath came in short gasps, each requiring an inhuman effort. The torment in her body flared to a terrible crescendo. Everything felt afire with ice and flame that consumed her very soul.

  Eriall smiled and reached a hand toward her, and the sound of a child's laugh echoed through the pounding in her ears.

  Slowly, the pain faded, and shadows drew closer, pressed in around her. Indria gasped, her voice weak. "Lonely Goddess…take my pain!"

  * * *

  Ryanna sat beside Indria's tub, held her friend's cold, stiff hand. Her fingers traced the contours of the locket Indria had worn around her neck.

  "Tell me of your pain, sister. Let the Lonely Goddess wash it all away."

  She'd watched Servitor Indria bear the pain of so many others. Too many. Every day, her friend had borne the burden of the Goddess’ gift without word of complaint, endured torment beyond the limits of human endurance. No longer. Indria had found peace, of a sort.

  She would shed tears eventually, but not now. The smile on Indria's face kept her sorrow at bay.

  She leaned over and placed a gentle kiss on Indria's pale forehead.

  "The Lonely Goddess has heard you. She now bears your suffering."

  At Any Cost

  Displeasure twisted the face of the Illusionist Cleric that appeared in the doorway. "See here, fellow! The Temple of Prosperity's doors closed hours ago. You can't—"

  "Please!" Naylor gripped the priest's scruffy robes. "You have to help me!"

  The Illusionist Cleric's eyes went wide. "What do you—"

  "I need you to make me forget." Naylor slumped against the temple door. "I haven't slept in weeks. I-I can't…" Tears streamed down his cheeks and into his bushy beard. "Every time I close my eyes, I see them die."

  The priest stiffened. "If you intend to report a murder, you ought to speak with the Heresiarchs. You'll find them in the Palace of Justice."

  "No," Naylor moaned. "Not murder. Not by me, at least. The Hunter…" The lump in his throat cut off his words. He swallowed hard and raised his tear-filled eyes to meet the priest's. "I see them dying over and over. I see the blood, hear the screams. It was my fault. I didn't try to help."

  The Illusionist Cleric narrowed his eyes. "And you want us to?"

  "Take the memories away!" Desperation tinged Naylor's shout. "I need peace."

  After a long moment, the priest nodded. "Then you have come to the right place."

  Hope surged in Naylor's chest. "Truly? You can take them away?"

  The Illusionist Cleric inclined his head. "There is a ritual that can give you the escape you desire. But the one who performs the rite, Imperius, is not in Voramis at the moment. He is—"

  Naylor's shoulders slumped. Tears flowed anew. "Please!" he sobbed, his voice weak. "You have to help me. The memories, they're driving me mad. I can't live with them much longer."

  The priest gave a heavy sigh. "So be it."

  "Thank you!" Naylor clung to the priest's legs as if to a lifeline.

  "But it cannot be done now. The ritual requires the high sun. Return tomorrow at the second hour after noon and we will give you the peace you desire."

  Naylor sobbed in relief. He'd tried in vain to live with the guilt and pain for months. He couldn't see those pain-contorted, bloodstained faces, couldn't hear the screams of agony any longer.

  The priest helped him stand. "I will warn you, there is a cost for the Illusionist's aid. Twenty-five imperials."

  Naylor caught his breath but didn't protest. "I will have it!"

  The Illusionist Cleric straightened his robes and bowed to Naylor. "Go home and rest, for the ritual will take a toll on your mind as well as body."

  "Thank you!"

  The door to the Temple of Prosperity boomed shut as Naylor rushed down the stairs and across Divinity Square. For the first time since the Night of the Hunter, the promise of respite and peace lay before him. All he had to do was steal twenty-five imperials.

  * * *

  "After him!"

  The Heresiarchs' shouted curses faded as Naylor darted between the decaying shanties of the Beggar's Quarter.

  For years, he and his crew had used the twisting, turning alleyways of Lower Voramis to escape the slow-witted guards. They'd never catch him in here.

  The stolen purse clinked in his breast pocket. He'd have enough to cover the Illusionist Cleric's services with a bit extra to spare. In the last two months, Etta had endured more than any wife ought to; she deserved something special. After tomorrow, everything would change.

  He slipped through the narrow space between Mick the Tanner's and Master Harn's Smithery, twisted through a gap in the crumbling wall, and wriggled into the hole he'd prepared for this precise purpose. No one in the Bloody Hand had matched his skill at escaping sticky situations. Probably why he alone had survived.

  A funereal gloom hung over the Voramian Cemetery. He slipped in solemn silence through the rows of headstones. Most bore simple inscriptions—few in Lower Voramis could afford the fancier grave markers common among Upper Voramians—but here and there an ornate monument rose from the manicured grass.

  The caretaker, a man whose shoulders remained straight and strong even into his eighth decade, n
odded. "Evenin', Naylor. All's well?"

  "Aye." Naylor returned the greeting. "Etta sends her best."

  Tymmons grinned. "Shame she don't send any of that banana pie she knows I love."

  "Next time, Tymmons."

  The caretaker mumbled an inaudible reply.

  With every step deeper into the cemetery, Naylor's feet grew heavier. He pulled his cloak tighter. The stillness of the dead sent a shiver down his spine. His stomach clenched as he approached the four headstones he knew so well.

  "Evening, lads." He stopped before the largest. "Eckard, you're looking well." Someone had brushed the leaves and debris away from the stone. Probably Tymmons. "I see you're being well cared for."

  He turned to the next two, simple markers with crude inscriptions. "Delgar, Peet, Etta sends her best."

  With a groan, he lowered himself to a seat before the last grave. "Tadan, my friend, it's been too long." He drew a small bottle of brandy from a pocket, popped the cork, and took a long pull. "Any of you lads want a nip?"

  No reply. As usual.

  "Never were the chattiest of the lot." Sorrow weighed heavy on his heart. "You certainly knew how to keep your secrets well. Especially you, Delgar. It's why we made such a great crew."

  He took another swig, relishing the fire sliding down his throat. The familiar burden settled on his shoulders. He couldn't read the four names carved into the headstones, but Tymmons had made sure he knew which belonged to each of his friends.

  Exhaustion washed over him, but he couldn't close his eyes for fear he'd see the faces of his friends. He still heard their screams sometimes. Their cries of agony as the Hunter's blade sang a song of terrible death. The terrible reminder he'd left them to die.

  Etta had told him he was foolish. Whatever had happened to piss off the Keeper-damned assassin, his friends had paid the price. The bastard had single-handedly chopped the Bloody Hand to pieces in two nights, killed everyone from the lowest pimp to the First himself. He'd never have survived a fight with the Hunter.