Darkblade Avenger, page 116
part #1 of Hero of Darkness Series
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, nodded. "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.
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."
