Different, Not Damaged

by Andy Peloquin

  * * *

  Naylor drew out his lockpicks and knelt before the door to Master Bildar's home. The merchant-noble's home stood a few streets from Divinity Square, meaning the patrolling Heresiarchs would pass at any moment. He had to get in and out of sight quickly.

  He took a deep breath and set to work on the lock. He'd always had a knack for teasing the pins into place; no one in the Bloody Hand had been faster. He could get through a six-pin cylinder lock in under a minute.

  Yet his hands refused to cooperate. His fingers felt clumsy and stiff, tingling with a chill despite the warmth of the air. He flexed and relaxed his hands but the sharp, jabbing pain refused to leave. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to keep stroking the pick over the pins. Two, three, five minutes passed and still the lock resisted his efforts.

  He cursed as the sliver of metal fell to the mud. He fumbled in the darkness, an odd tremor running through his hands. His movements felt strangely uncoordinated, as if he'd drunk a bottle of agor. But he hadn't had a drop to drink since the previous night. So what was the problem? Was his age catching up to him? It couldn't be. His hands had been rock steady the previous night.

  The sound of heavy boots on the cobblestone street approached, and Naylor abandoned the lock. He ducked around a corner just as the Heresiarch patrol passed.

  He stared down at his trembling hands, perplexed. What in the Keeper's name was wrong with him? The stabbing pain had faded from his fingers, but a dull ache remained. It took him a full minute to wrestle open the buckle on his pouch to stow his lockpicks.

  Clenching his fists to still the tremor, he hurried down the main avenue, away from Divinity Square. Perhaps he was just tired. Yes, that had to be it. Loftus had insisted he rest. He'd take the Illusionist Cleric's advice and sleep a few hours. Tomorrow, he'd return to Master Bildar's and try again.

  He had one stop to make before he could rest. He kept to the broad streets—the Heresiarch patrol kept the thugs and thieves confined to the back alleys. Once, the Bloody Hand had run the city in all but name. He and his crew had controlled an entire section of the Merchant's Quarter. Now, chaos and lawlessness reigned in Voramis, with a new gang or crew springing up on every street corner.

  He kept his hood pulled back and nodded to every crimson-robed guard patrol he passed. He was just one more upstanding citizen of Voramis out for a late-night stroll.

  Lower Voramis stood a short distance from the Temple Quarter. Within half an hour, Naylor stood at the marble arches of the Voramian Cemetery. Etta had told him the words inscribed across the pinnacle of the arch read, "In the Keeper's arms forevermore."

  Tymmons stood over a freshly dug grave, a cloth-wrapped corpse at his feet. "Evening, Naylor. Come for your nightly visit?"

  Naylor nodded. "Just a quick stop to see Gracie before headin' home."

  "You bring me that pie?"

  "Pie?" Naylor raised an eyebrow.

  "Never mind," Tymmons mumbled and returned to his grave.

  Naylor wove his way through the graves, his eyes fixed on the small headstone he visited every night. Someone had left a hairclip for Gracie. The ornament bore a replica of the Bright Lady. Perhaps Etta had left it. Who else knew his of his granddaughter's fondness for the Goddess of Healing?

  No, that wasn't right. Etta hadn't come to visit Grace in over a year. He had a faint memory of the pin in his hands. He had brought it? He couldn't recall doing so. The absence of dust and dirt told him it had been recent.

  Another memory flashed through his mind. His brow furrowed. His feet moved on instinct, carrying him toward a pair of headstones a few rows up. He stopped before one that looked oddly familiar. He couldn't read the inscription, but somehow he knew he had come here before.

  Tadan.

  It came crashing back. Tadan had died during the Night of the Hunter. How, he couldn't remember, but he definitely knew his friend was dead. Delgar, too. Tears streaming, Naylor knelt before the graves of his two friends.

  Tadan had always been the smart one. He'd looked out for Naylor from the moment they met each other playing on the muddy streets of Lower Voramis as children. Together, they'd fought street roughs and thugs, earning bloody lips and beatings from their fathers. They'd joined the Lifters crew and earned their way up the ranks. When the Lifters joined the Bloody Hand, he and Tadan had served the Third with distinction. Together with Delgar and two other thieves--their names escaped him—they'd made a name for themselves among the thugs and thieves.

  That was gone, now. Delgar and Tadan were dead. How they'd died, he couldn't remember. All that mattered was that he'd never see his friends again.

  He leaned on Tadan's headstone, a familiar weight settling onto his shoulders. His friends, gone. His daughter, Lora, gone, and his two granddaughters with her. The tremor returned to his hands; pain stabbed into his palm and fire raced up his forearms.

  Someone had placed a bottle of liquor in front of the next two headstones. He took one, opened it, and drained the brandy. Whoever lay within the graves wouldn't mind. They were in the Long Keeper's arms; he, still among the miserable living, needed the alcohol.

  * * *

  "Naylor?" Etta's eyes widened as he pushed through the door. "What's wrong?"

  He stumbled against the table and slumped into a seat, tears streaming. "Tadan and Delgar…they're…they're dead."

  Etta's forehead wrinkled again. "D-Dead?" She fixed him with an odd expression.

  "I went by the cemetery to visit Grace, and I found their headstones."

  "Found their headstones?"

  Naylor couldn't understand what was wrong with his wife. He'd expected the news to hit her harder; Tadan had married her sister, had been a groomsman at their wedding. Yet she showed only confusion—not at Tadan's passing, but at his reaction to it.

  "Naylor, are you ill?" She placed a hand against his forehead.

  "Ill?" He brushed her away. "I just told you Tadan is dead and you're asking if I'm ill?"

  The lines on Etta's face deepened. "Naylor, Tadan has been dead for two months."

  It was Naylor's turn to be confused. "Two months?" He ought to have known, but he had no memory of his friend's death. "H-How?"

  Etta frowned. "The H—" She swallowed. "He was killed."

  "By who?"

  Her eyes slid away. "It doesn't matter."

  "It does to me!" His voice rose to a shout.

  "Naylor, please," Etta begged. "Let it rest. I-I just got you back."

  He didn't understand her words, but saw the pleading in her eyes, heard it in her voice. He leaned back in his chair, shoulders slumping, dejected.

  "You've still got me, my love." She wrapped her arms around him and kissed the top of his head. "That's enough, isn't it?"

  Naylor leaned against her and the tears flowed again. He wept for Tadan and Delgar, the friends he'd never see again. And he wept for Lora, Grace, and little Hudda, the child and grandchildren who had gone to the Long Keeper's arms too soon. Etta remained unmoving as he cried, holding him, her sorrow mingling with his.

  * * *

  Naylor slipped out of bed, careful not to wake his wife. They'd fallen asleep in each other's arms. Sorrow and a sleepless night had taken a toll on him. Yet between the bright light streaming through his window and the memories of his departed friends, he could rest no longer. Slipping on his boots, he strode toward the kitchen. His gaze fell on the pile of cloths heaped in one corner of the room.

  He lifted a scrap of fabric to his nose and drew in a deep breath. It still smelled like Gracie; the floral perfume she'd insisted Etta spray on her every day since her fourth nameday. A half-completed ragdoll lay among the cloths. He smiled and stuffed one of the cloths into his cloak pocket. Grace had wanted to finish it herself. The little girl had toiled for weeks, her fingers struggling with the knots and waves of yarn.

  The walls seemed to press in around him. The house, which had once rang with the childish laughter of his granddaughters, now felt deathly silent. The absen
ce of his daughter and granddaughters sat like an immense weight upon his heart.

  He reached for his cloak. He had to get out. A walk would clear his head and provide him a chance to scope out his next target. Perhaps he'd pay Master Bildar a visit tonight. He had no doubt the merchant's locks would prove difficult, but no one in the Bloody Hand had rivaled his skill. He could get through the door without much trouble.

  Warm sunlight bathed his face as he stepped into the street. He closed his eyes and basked in the midday heat. The sounds of the busy Merchant's Quarter—pedestrians quibbling with merchants over purchases, rumbling carts and wagons, the clip clop of horses' hooves, and the distant ringing of the Lady's Bell—washed over him. The scents of spices, herbs, and fresh produce drifted from a nearby stall.

  This was life in Voramis: bustling, hectic, clamorous. He had loved mingling with the thick crowds milling in and out of the marketplace. His nimble fingers and quick wits made him the perfect pickpocket as a youth. He glanced down at his aging hands. Those times were long past.

  He strode away from the throng, turning into the quieter streets that led to the Beggar's Quarter. He strolled, aimless, allowing the hubbub around him to wipe away his fatigue and melancholy.

  As he reached the main avenue that divided the Beggar's and Merchant's Quarters, he stopped. He frowned in confusion. He remembered leaving his home, Etta still asleep in their bed, but he couldn't recall why he had left.

  He shrugged off the worry and continued on his journey to…wherever. The walk would clear his head of the cobwebs, remind him of his destination. If he didn't remember, no matter. He had nothing to do until he met up with Tadan and the other three members of his crew—he always had a hard time with their names—before sunset.

  Deeper into the Beggar's Quarter he went, eventually crossing into the Temple District. With every step, his confusion mounted. Why had he come here?

  He stopped, brow furrowing. He had no reason to enter the Temple District, or to be in the Beggar's Quarter. His belly rumbled; when was the last time he'd eaten? With the sun high in the sky, he ought to head home for a good meal. Sighing, he turned toward the Merchant's Quarter and his house.

  Half an hour later, he pushed open his front door and called out. "Etta, I'm home." Silence met him.

  He shrugged it off. No doubt Etta had taken Lora to the marketplace. Their daughter had grown into a precocious ten year old with a smile as bright as her mother's and as mischievous as her father's. She had his quick fingers, too; she'd come home with some bauble swiped from an unaware merchant's table.

  Stomach growling, he lifted the lid of the pot on the stove. Etta had prepared his favorite: lamb and mushroom broth. He served a bowl and sat at the table to eat.

  The sound of the door opening drew his attention. "Etta, is that--?"

  A woman well into her fifth decade stood at the entrance to their home, a produce-filled bag in her hands. His wooden bowl clattered to the ground as he reached for his dagger. No sheath hung at his belt. Cursing, he reached for a knife from the counter. "Who are you?"

  The woman's wispy grey eyebrows shot up. "Naylor?"

  He'd never seen this old crone in his life, so how did she know his name?

  "What are you doing in my house?"

  "Naylor, what are you talking ab—?"

  He took a step closer, waving the dagger threateningly. "Tell me what you want or I'll call the Heresiarchs!"

  The woman's eyes went wide. "It's me. Etta."

  "No!" Naylor shouted. This couldn't be Etta. His Etta had black hair, not grey, and her perfectly rounded face bore none of the wagon-rut lines that surrounded this woman's eyes and mouth.

  A panicked thought crossed his mind. "Lora!" He scanned the street behind her. "What did you do with my daughter?" She was only ten years old; she couldn't be out alone. Where was Etta?

  Pain twisted the old woman's face. "Naylor, what's going on?"

  Naylor stared at her, confused. She spoke as if she knew him, entered his home as if she belonged. Something about her seemed familiar, yet…

  Horrified, he dropped the knife. "E-Etta?" He slumped back into his chair. "I'm so…" He trailed off. He had no words.

  "What's happening to you, Naylor?"

  He met her gaze, found fear reflected there. "I…I don't know." How could be explain that he'd forgotten her, had forgotten the last twenty years of their life? "I can't…remember."

  "What did they do to you?"

  "They?"

  Etta searched his eyes. "The Illusionist Clerics. The Rite of Erasure. Something's not right."

  A faint memory flashed through Naylor's mind. He had a vague recollection of the ritual, the silver pendants, floating in the void. But what had they done to him?

  "We have to stop it, Naylor. We have to get your memories back."

  * * *

  "Impossible." Loftus, the Illusionist Cleric, shook his head. "I told you this before completing the Rite, what is done cannot be undone."

  "But you have to make it stop!" Naylor cried. "My memories…I'm losing them. Too many, all at once. And look." He held out his hands. The tremor and the stabbing pain had returned.

  Loftus' eyes slid away from his. "I told you the chance of something going wrong was—"

  Etta tugged at the priest's arm. "Please, sir. Please help him."

  "I told you, I can't give his memories back." Loftus scratched his chin. "But maybe I can stop it from…"

  Hope surged in Naylor's breast. "What do I need to do?"

  The Illusionist Cleric glanced up at the sky. "It's too late now to carry out the ritual. Return at noon tomorrow and I will see what I can do. And bring payment for the Illusionist's services."

  "Thank you!" Etta threw her arms around the priest.

  Naylor wrung his hands. Tomorrow. He felt the holes in his mind, but he had no idea what once filled them. The ragged gaps of memory plagued him. He had glimpses of familiar faces: Tadan, his friend and fellow thief; Lora, Hudda, and Grace, his family; Etta, more beautiful in her golden years than ever.

  But what else would he lose overnight? The Rite of Erasure had opened the floodgates; how many more fragments of his past would be forgotten before the priest dammed up his mind?

  He needed to remember, at any cost. There was one place he could go to cling to the fragments of memory, to relive them.

  * * *

  Etta stiffened as they approached the marble archway leading to the Voramis Cemetery. "What are we doing here, Naylor?" She pulled her arm free of his.

  "I-I need to see her, Etta." He reached for her. "I need to remember her."

  Etta shook her head. "I can't." Her hands twitched at her clothing, her eyes darting away. "I can't," she repeated.

  "Please." Naylor tilted up her chin. "I know it hurts, but I can't lose her too. Not like with…" He trailed off. He couldn't remember the names of his friends. He still had the occasional flash of a young man running the streets of Lower Voramis beside him, but the memories had begun to fade. "I need this."

  Etta hesitated. He wouldn't relent. "For me, Etta."

  He hadn't only come for himself. Etta had refused to visit the cemetery with him. Her eyes went blank at any mention of Grace, Hudda, and Lora. He'd stopped talking about them, had stopped asking her to come.

  But that had to change. If he was to lose the memory of his granddaughter, he had to make sure someone remembered her.

  Etta gave a hesitant nod. He kissed her forehead, locked his fingers in hers, and drew her into the cemetery. She moved with reluctance, her breath coming faster as they approached the grave where, together, months earlier, they'd laid their daughter and granddaughters to rest.

  Etta's face hardened, but Naylor saw sorrow welling in her eyes. He squeezed her hand and knelt before the headstone. His fingers traced the letters engraved into the cold, unfeeling marble. Closing his eyes, he forced his mind to call up the memories of his Grace.

  He chased a laughing, shouting child with bright blue
eyes and dark curls. Lora huffed and adjusted the sling in which rested Hudda. Etta chided him for his antics; he winked at Grace and produced a shiny apple from his coat. With a squeal, she threw herself at his legs, reaching for the fruit he kept out of her reach.

  A lump rose in his throat, but a smile touched his lips. He refused to remember her as he'd seen her last—pale, sweat-soaked, shivering despite the mountain of blankets. He had to hold to the pleasant memories, the happy times they'd shared. Four years with Grace hadn't been nearly enough, but it was all he had. He would remember them at any cost.

  He clung to the memories, relived them to etch them into his mind. Even if he lost everything else, he had to remember his family.

  The sound of sobbing drew him from his memories. Etta knelt beside him, her forehead pressed to the stone, tears streaming. Over and over, she whispered, "I'm sorry, little one. So sorry."

  Naylor embraced his wife, and she clung to him. They held each other, neither able to find words but needing none.

  After what seemed an eternity, Etta's tears dried. She wiped her eyes and gave him a weak smile. "Thank you, Naylor. I needed this. To see her…"

  He pressed a kiss to her hand. "Come, let's get you home."

  They stood and, arm in arm, strolled from the cemetery. Naylor spared a polite nod for the caretaker. The aging man seemed familiar, but he couldn't place him. Shrugging off the thought, Naylor led Etta away from the cemetery and the resting place of their beloved Grace.

  * * *

  Naylor stared down at the sleeping form in his bed. It took effort to remember her name. Etta. His wife.

  Fear drove an icy spike into his gut. The holes in his memories had grown more ragged. Worse, the tremor and stabbing pain in his hands had returned. The Rite of Erasure was slowly removing more and more of him. He had to act now before everything slipped away.

  The few lamps dotting the Merchant's Quarter failed to drive back the darkness. Better for him. He had to avoid the Heresiarchal patrols and the thugs roaming Lower Voramis. Often he found his attention wandering, his thoughts trickling like water through his hands.