That didn't make it any easier to live with.
"Damn it." Growling, he took another drink. "I-I know it ain't much, but I have to tell you lads, I'm sorry." He emptied the bottle with one long pull. "You all deserved better than I gave you."
He pulled out four miniature glass bottles. One for each headstone. "Here you go, lads. Just in case you're feeling thirsty. Not sure if the Long Keeper's got anything good to drink handy, so thought I'd bring you some."
He set one bottle beside Eckard's headstone. "You always were an ornery bastard, you know. Thought yourself quite the genius but you couldn't figure out where to scratch when your nose itched unless Peet told you. Shame you were the first to go."
"Peet and Delgar, not much I can say about you idiots. Maybe that you could hold your own in a drinking contest. Not much use for that now, I wager, but you were good when a man was wanting free drinks. Always had a good story to tell, a joke. You were the best, lads."
A lump rose to his throat as he turned to the final grave. "I'm sorry, Tadan. I should have cried out, should have done more than just flee. But you taught me how to run. Showed me the ways when we were outrunning the Lemsley brothers as nippers, and again when we ran from the Heresiarchs as adults. You taught me too well, I think."
He leaned on his hands, a wave of sorrow washing over him. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He didn't want to relive the memories of his four friends' deaths, but he couldn't hide from them. He'd run, like a scared rabbit fleeing a demonic wolf. He alone of the Bloody Hand had escaped the Hunter's wrath. He alone bore the burden of guilt.
The weight grew heavier every day, sitting on his chest like a vest of iron. Every breath added to it. Each step brought his shoulders a bit lower.
But he'd be free soon. He patted the stolen purse. Come the second hour after noon tomorrow, the guilt would be gone.
He stopped and knelt at a small, simple headstone a few rows over. "Hello, Gracie." He closed his eyes now. He needed to relive the memories of her. Again and again, as many times as he could. "Your gramma says hello. She's sorry she hasn't come to visit for a while, but you understand how it is. She lost you and your momma on the same day. Your sister, too. Too much for her to deal with. She'd rather forget. Easier, she says, than living with the memory of what she's missing."
He'd wanted the same, for a time. But he couldn't let go of the image of her plump cheeks and the way her eyes sparkled when she smiled. He came here daily, job or no, just to be near her.
"You remember when you were three years old and your gramma and I took you to see the Praamian circus?" He smiled at the image in his mind. "I never heard you laugh as much as you did that day. Shame we never got a chance to see the dancing bears again." He pounded a fist on the simple, unadorned headstone, cursing the Spotted Flux.
He drew out a simple hairclip—a replica of the Bright Lady, Gracie's favorite Goddess—and set it before the headstone. "I'll be back tomorrow, little one."
Pressing a kiss to the cold stone, he rose and left the cemetery. Tymmons would ensure his offerings remained untouched.
The Heresiarchs patrolling the streets paid him no attention. With his hood back and his strides purposeful, they had no reason to suspect him as the thief who had broken into Merchant Fairen's shop a few minutes before. All they saw was an aging man with a sorrow-lined face and stooped shoulders coming from the cemetery. If any problem arose, Tymmons would provide an alibi—he'd saved Naylor's hide many times. For that, and the fact the aging caretaker watched over the graves of his friends, Naylor left a few extra stolen coins on Tymmons' desk every month.
The streets of Lower Voramis were deserted, save for the occasional Heresiarch patrol or a bundled pedestrian hurrying to the marketplace before it opened. When the Lady's Bell sounded in an hour, carts, wagons, vendors, and customers would flood the Merchant's Quarter. Naylor intended to be abed by then. He doubted sleep would come, but at least he'd have Etta's warmth to comfort him.
He sighed at the sight of his house—a simple one-story brick and wood construction away from the main thoroughfare running through the Merchant's Quarter. Pushing open the door, he hung his cloak, slipped the stolen purse into a hidey-hole behind the door, and knocked the mud from his boots. Etta would murder him if he tracked filth into their bedroom.
With a sad, tired smile, he slipped into bed beside his wife.
She stirred. "Naylor?"
"Hush, dear." He kissed her cheek. "Couldn't sleep."
"The dreams again?"
Naylor winced. She knew him too well.
"Want me to make you some tea?"
Naylor shook his head and pulled her close. "I just need to be with you, my love."
Forty years of marriage and still he couldn't believe his luck. Etta, a baker's daughter, had fallen for him, a no-good thief, against her father's wishes. Everything he'd done over the years hadn't proved his value to baker Saimen, but the old man's death years before had finally freed him from the burden of disapproval. The happiness at his father-in-law's passing was overshadowed by the subsequent deaths of his daughter and two granddaughters. He'd give anything to have the little ones back, even if that meant hearing the grating, angry voice of Saimen shouting at him for being a thief.
But nothing would bring them back, or Peet, Eckard, Delgar, or Tadan. He clung to Etta and prayed to the Watcher for a dreamless sleep.
* * *
Morning dawned and Naylor hadn't slept a wink. The memories had been too much to bear. He'd tried to shut his ears to the screams of agony, but they filtered into his mind relentlessly. He couldn't smell the gentle floral perfume Etta loved; the reek of blood hung too thick in the air, the stink of urine as Eckard's bladder loosened in death. His hands trembled at the memory of the terror.
He sat at the kitchen table, listless, lost in the painful memories. He didn't cry out as the tea scalded his tongue or protest at the blackened crust on his bread. He felt like a prisoner, trapped in a life he didn't deserve. Every visit to the cemetery reminded him of what he'd done to his friends. He needed to be free of the painful memories.
The remembrances scattered around their home didn't help. Lora had grown up here. She'd played on that rug, left footprints on the lone sofa, and burned her hand on the hot stones of the fireplace. Grace, the light of their lives, had lived her four years in the house as well. The scraps of colorful rags piled in a corner were all they had left of her. Etta would never sit Grace or little Hudda on her lap to knit a ragdoll's dress or hat.
"Are you listening to me, Naylor?"
His attention drifted to his wife. "Sorry."
She sighed. "Didn't sleep again last night?"
Naylor rubbed his eyes. "No. "
Worry lined her face. She squeezed his hand. "This can't keep up much longer. It's been two months, Naylor."
His gaze slid away from hers. She hadn't spoken a word of complaint when he awoke screaming or left their bed late at night to walk to the graveyard. But the bags under her eyes and the deepened grooves beside her mouth and eyes spoke of the toll on her.
He kissed her hand and pressed it against his cheek. "It will all be over soon, I promise."
* * *
"Before we begin," said Loftus, the Illusionist Cleric, "I am compelled to ask if you are certain you want to proceed with this. The Rite of Erasure comes with certain…side effects. Once the ritual is complete, there is no way to restore your memories. They will be lost forever."
"Good." Naylor gritted his teeth. He could live without the grisly images. He had to forget the cowardice that had saved his life as his friends died. "I am certain."
"So be it. Follow me."
The Illusionist Cleric led him down a side passage, away from the broad, marble-tiled antechamber of the Temple of Prosperity. Naylor kept his eyes fixed on his guide's back; the images and geometric patterns etched into the walls of the corridor set his head spinning. Colors swirled in dissonant patterns among lines and shapes he'd never seen. The interio
r of the Illusionist Clerics' temple was even more mind-boggling than its exterior.
Vertigo seized him and he staggered.
"Easy." Loftus gripped his wrist. "Do not try to focus on any one thing, but simply let your gaze roam as your mind demands."
Naylor did as instructed and found his eyes sliding through the swirling, writhing patterns on the walls. The images dragged his mind along, guiding him on a mental journey. The images that formed in his thoughts seemed ever out of conscious reach yet spoke to something deep within. Tears streamed down his face and sobs shook his shoulders.
Loftus stopped at a door. "In here."
The room contained a single wooden, cross-shaped bench.
"Lay down."
Naylor did as instructed. His muscles tensed as Loftus tightened straps around his wrists, ankles, and across his forehead.
"Relax. The Rite of Erasure can be unpleasant for some. These are to prevent you from harm."
The priest's gentle tone soothed Naylor and he relaxed, his eyes fixed on the chaotic patterns engraved in the marble ceiling.
From beneath his robes, Loftus produced a silver pendant. He swung it slowly before Naylor's face.
"The Rite of Erasure is a gift of the Illusionist, yet it comes at a cost. For us to purge your mind of the memory, you must first relive it."
Ice seeped into Naylor's veins. "I-I…can't." He'd spent the last two months trying everything to suppress the memory.
"You must." Loftus spoke in a quiet voice that seemed to pull Naylor deeper into the pendant's silvery depths. "Tell me what you wish to forget."
Naylor swallowed. The images surged to the forefront of his mind.
"We…we had just finished a-a job and were divvying up the haul." He relived the night: the icy chill of the wind whistling through the Port of Voramis, the darkness of the starless evening, the warmth of the brandy in his veins.
"Suddenly, he was there. Th-The Hunter!"
Fear spiked his pulse and set his heart racing.
"He appeared as if out of nowhere. His eyes, they were black as the darkest night, but burned with such hatred and rage. I-I've never seen anything like it."
His legs twitched, desperate to escape.
"I didn't think, but I just ran."
He'd seen death written in the assassin's eyes, and instinct had spurred him to escape. He hadn't paused to cry a warning; he'd bolted through the alleys without a sound.
The images flashed through his mind.
Three feet of steel severed Eckard's hand, leg, then his head before he had a chance to turn. A wet thunk echoed in the night as the Hunter drove his long sword through Peet's chest.
"I fled." His throat thickened. "Like a coward, I fled and left my friends to die! Oh gods, forgive me!"
Delgar's cry of agony rattled in Naylor's bones as the assassin snapped his knee with a kick, then drove a dagger into his chest. Red light flared bright in the darkness, casting an eerie glow on Tadan's pale face. The Hunter's sword tore open Tadan's throat, cutting off his scream with a wet gurgle.
His throat thickened and tears streamed down his cheeks. He had no words left. He could only drown in the memories of that terrible night.
Terror spurred him to run faster, his boots pounding through the muddy streets of the Beggar's Quarter. He didn't dare glance back—his legs would turn to water if he glimpsed that terrible, cloaked figure with eyes the color of midnight pursuing him.
"You wish to forget?" The priest's voice floated to him across a vast distance.
"Yes!" Naylor gasped. "Please, take it away!"
The pendant swung faster, glinting in the faint light. Naylor found himself drawn deeper. Everything faded until only the swirling metal remained. The dancing silver tugged at his consciousness, pulled him in until something snapped loose in his mind.
The memory flashed before him again, yet it seemed somehow alien. Four men died in front of him; he felt nothing. The horror and guilt, gone. His body relaxed, his muscles loosening. He floated in a place of peace, disconnected from everything.
Slowly, the images trickled from his mind like sand through his fingers. The screams, the smell of death, and the instinctive fear gave way to…nothing.
* * *
Naylor blinked at the bright sunlight. He stood before the Temple of Prosperity. What was he doing here?
"The disorientation will pass." A voice spoke behind him. An Illusionist Cleric filled the doorway to the temple.
He tried to speak but no words came out. The man looked oddly familiar.
"Your mind will recover from the Rite, but you must rest and give it time to heal." The priest searched his eyes. "If you cannot find your way home, perhaps you might rest in the House of Need and—"
"Of course I can find my way home," Naylor snapped. How dare this stranger question him? He pushed away the restraining hand and strode down the steps.
His legs refused to heed his command. He stumbled and caught himself. What in the fiery hell was wrong with him? Glaring at the priest, he forced his legs to hold him upright as he descended toward Divinity Square.
He racked his brain. What happened to him? He remembered sitting at the table with Etta, then…what? Everything had gone fuzzy since…
The Rite of Erasure! He had an image of gold imperials exchanging hands, of being led deeper into the Illusionist's temple. After that, nothing.
Something had changed. The cleric had removed a part of him, the part that weighed on him. He felt lighter, his shoulders no longer stooped beneath the burden of…whatever he'd paid to have expunged from his memories.
It was an odd sensation; the spring in his step, the smile on his face. The city seemed somehow brighter, the colors more vivid. He actually found himself whistling a jaunty tune he and Tadan had learned as street rats. He ought to pay his friend a visit. Tomorrow. An ache had settled behind his eyes. He'd rest and give his head time to recover from the Rite, as the cleric—Loftus, that's his name—had instructed.
He smiled at the sight of Etta standing over the stove. The way her hair curled in a halo around her face, the fine lines around her eyes and lips from years of smiling and laughing at his daughter and granddaughter. He crossed the kitchen, wrapped his arms around his wife, and kissed her cheek.
"There you are!" She turned to him, her tone scolding. "You were supposed to be home hours…" Her forehead wrinkled. "Y-You look…different."
He kissed her again. "I feel different, too. Better."
"What did you do?" She narrowed her eyes. "Not opiates. You know how I feel about—"
He pulled her close. He didn't need drugs, not anymore. Whatever Loftus took from him had lifted the burden from his shoulders. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he was happy.
* * *
"Sweet Mistress!" Etta gasped as Naylor rolled to the bed beside her. They lay side by side for a long moment, panting.
Naylor struggled for breath. "Been a while…since we've done that…eh? Probably for the best. Getting too old." He made a show of clutching his chest.
Etta laughed. Her smile smoothed the wrinkles on her face and, for a moment, Naylor caught a glimpse of the woman he'd married four decades earlier.
"Speak for yourself." She gave him a vicious poke in the ribs.
Happiness blossomed in Naylor's chest. It was an odd sensation, one he hadn't felt in a long time. He couldn't recall what had stolen his joy, but he was glad to be rid of it. He was content to lay beside Etta, fingers laced with hers, feeling the cool breeze wafting through the window.
Eventually they arose, dressed, and sat to enjoy the meal Etta had prepared. Throughout, he could sense Etta's curious gaze burning through him. Her brow creased as he finally explained the Rite of Erasure. She didn't ask what memory he'd expunged—she probably knew more about it than he. But the way she clung to his hand and the broad smile on her face, he sensed no complaint.
"I'm just happy to have my Naylor back." She kissed him, and he returned it with fee
ling.
Appetite satiated, he stood and reached for his cloak. "Off to work."
Worry flashed across her eyes. He'd never hidden his jobs from her; she knew how dangerous the life of a thief was, especially without the protection of the Bloody Hand.
"Don't worry. I've got an easy score lined up tonight." He didn't tell her about the previous night's chase with the Heresiarchs. "After a quick visit with Tadan and the crew, I'll be in and out before midnight."
Etta's mouth opened but no words came out. After a moment, she swallowed and said, "Be safe, dear."
Puzzled, Naylor kissed his wife's forehead and strode from the house. Even as he closed the door, he couldn't help wondering about the strained look on Etta's face.
* * *
Naylor thought it odd that Tadan, Delgar, and the others weren't at their usual post. They had always preferred to spend the final hours before sundown perched on their favorite stoop outside an abandoned warehouse in the Beggar's Quarter. He'd half-expected to hear Peet calling out an insult or see Eckard's rude gesture to the Heresiarch patrol—always behind their backs, of course; even Eckard wasn't fool enough to insult the only people in Voramis permitted to carry swords.
The stoop had been empty. He'd sat waiting until a full hour after sunset, and still his friends hadn't arrived.
Something felt…wrong. He racked his brain, trying to think of why none of them had come. The Bloody Hand's demise two months earlier hadn't stopped crime in Voramis. Of anything, the Hunter's destruction of the Bloody Hand had only increased violence and theft in the city. Gangs had arisen to fill the vacuum. He'd even heard whispers of a crew comprised exclusively of women.
He'd been a part of the Bloody Hand but, for some unfathomable reason, he'd escaped the Hunter's wrath. He had no memory of what had happened. Perhaps he'd simply slept through it.
With a sigh, he stood and pulled up his hood. He had a job to do, but he'd be back tomorrow. Maybe then Tadan, Delgar, Eckard, and Peet would be waiting for him.
Different, Not Damaged Page 7
