* * *
Fern awoke to the sensation of a thousand daggers slicing into her skin. She raised a hand to her face and sobbed as her probing fingers found a blistered mess of flesh. The gentle touch sent waves of torment racing through her head.
Her pain-numbed brain struggled to think clearly. She had a faint memory of the searing agony of the Exalted Militant's red-hot sword. How had she ended up in this alley?
She lay on a pile of debris, mud staining her face and undertunic. The Warrior Priests must have removed her leather armor. The reek of detritus hung thick in the air. They had discarded her near the Midden, the enormous, bottomless pit that served as the dumping ground for all the garbage in Voramis.
Her thin tunic, sodden by the gentle rain, clung to her body. She struggled upright in vain. Waves of chills and heat raced up and down the mass of burned skin and muscle. With a cry barely more than a whimper, Fern collapsed into the muck and knew nothing.
* * *
Night had already fallen when she came to. The pain hadn't faded with the setting sun. The thick layer of mud caking her face soothed the fire, but the pounding in her skull drove her into wakefulness. She squirmed up onto her elbow and groaned at the surging rush of sensations—heat, cold, stabbing, tearing, throbbing.
Something tumbled down the mound of debris as she shifted: a bundle, wrapped in a cloth too clean to belong on the garbage heap beside her. She reached for it and screamed at a fresh slicing agony. Blood still seeped from the gash on her bicep, just above the crook of her elbow. The Warrior Priests had severed the tendons in her sword arm. The limpness of her left leg told her they'd done the same to her hamstring. The Lady's vengeance against the Novice who had broken her vows.
Sobbing, Fern fumbled for the bundle with her left hand. She gnawed at the stubborn knot until the cloth fell open. A small chunk of bread and a slice of pale cheese lay within. Her gaze darted around but found no one. She devoured the meager food, relishing every bite of stale crust. She needed to eat; she could live with the waves of fire racing through her head.
The growling in Fern's stomach subsided. The pain of her injuries rose to a crescendo. Darkness pressed on the edges of her vision, and her head slumped to the pile of debris.
A dull throbbing pounded in her skull and kept sleep at bay. She lay unmoving, exhausted but unable to rest. Hatred and rage surged within her chest as the image of Emetana's smug grin danced in her mind. Athest's face followed, reddened with lust and anger, blood trickling from the lip she'd split in her struggles. The memories of her vengeance on Athest failed to console her.
Athest would succumb to his injuries. The Long Keeper, God of Death, would gather him into his arms and bear him away from the torments of this world. She, however, was condemned to life as a scarred cripple.
Tears streamed from her one good eye, but she refused to cry aloud. She wouldn't give Emetana the satisfaction.
* * *
Sunlight pierced Fern's closed eyelids. She groaned as her wince tugged the blistered flesh of her face.
"Yer awake." A male voice spoke from beside her.
Fern's right eye opened; the left eyelid refused to move. The dryness in her throat prevented words. Only a pitiful croak escaped.
A man sat on a neighboring pile of rubbish, back against the wall of a crumbling shanty. "Them burns don't look too good." He stroked his sparse beard with long, thin fingers covered with spots of discolored skin that matched the patches of white on his angular face. "Best be gettin' to Th’ Sanctuary and have 'em looked at."
Fern swallowed and struggled in vain to speak.
"Easy, now." The man rose and leaned over her.
Fern flinched from his outstretched hand and cried out at the pain stabbing into her bicep, leg, and both cheeks.
He backed off with a wry chuckle. "Right, right. I'd do th' same if'n a strange man like m'self tried to lay hands on me. Th' name's Dayle. I was th' one to bring ye the grub last night. What d’ye call yerself?"
Fern eyed Dayle, the odd man with clothes as mismatched and discolored as his skin. His ragged boots still bore the emblem of the Legion of Heroes, his tunic, vest, and pants various shades of faded orange and green. Yet no malice sparkled in his brown eyes.
"F-Fern," she mumbled.
"Pleased t'meet ye, Fern." Dayle grinned. "Now, if'n yer in agreement, we'll be gettin' up and headin' to Th’ Sanctuary."
Fern shook her head. She wanted to be left alone.
"Go away." She struggled to turn her back on Dayle and burrowed into the pile of debris.
Dayle dropped a bundle at her feet. "Here." He produced a skin and held it over her mouth. "Ye mind?"
She hesitated, then shook her head. She was in too much pain to protest and the water would feel marvelous on her parched tongue and chapped lips.
"So, Fern, tell me a bit about yerself."
She turned away without a word. The movement sent pain rippling through her cheeks, cracking the mud clinging to her blistered flesh.
Dayle grinned. "Fair 'nuff. We all got a right to privacy, says I." He scratched his scraggly beard. "A right to a decent meal, too. Th’ House of Need'll have a spare crust, a sip of water. Might be ye’ll come this time?"
Fern shook her head. "Can't." The word came out just above a whisper. After an agonizing night, she hadn't the energy to move. She'd rather starve than face the reality of her situation.
"Right. Guess I'll be bringin' ye a bite or two. Can't say it'll be much, but better than nothin', eh?"
"Why…" Fern's voice cracked and she swallowed despite the pain. "Why help me? Why not let me…?"
Dayle gave her a sad smile. "If'n ye was my daughter, I'd hope someone'd do th’ same." Groaning, he pushed off the wall and levered himself upright. "She was about yer age when th’ Spotted Flux took her. Her darlin' mother, too." Sorrow shone in his eyes. "Passed me right by. Lucky me, eh?"
Fern had no words.
He moved away and leaned against a nearby wall, his eyes carefully avoiding Fern's face as she ate. Pain or no, she couldn't help wolfing down the almost-fresh bread he'd brought. After draining his worn water skin, she lay back with a groan.
"Everythin's better after a good meal, eh?"
Fern said nothing. The growling of her stomach had subsided, but flashes of fire raced along her cheek and jaw muscles. Her mouth moved stiffly, and her left eye had yet to open.
"Might be it's time to get ye out of this rubbish heap?"
"And go where?" Fern's lip twisted into a sneer. "I've got no home, no family alive. Everything I had is…" Her head throbbed with such violence she had to squeeze her eyes shut to keep down the meager meal.
"But this ain't no place for ye to live."
Hopelessness swelled within her chest. "What if I don't want to live?"
The lines of Dayle's face deepened. "T'aint right for ye t'be sayin' that. Girl like ye’s got years ahead still."
"What kind of life can I have like this?" Fern gripped her right wrist and lifted the limp arm. "Can't walk, can't hold a sword! There's not a Keeper-damned thing I'm good for anymore."
Dayle frowned. "Ye sayin' a crippled leg and arm makes ye useless?" He glanced at his own stiff leg, the metal brace running from calf to thigh. "Some thanks for savin' yer life." Scowling, he pushed himself to his feet and reached for his crutch. "Might be ye do belong on this pile." With an expression and posture as rigid as his lame leg, he shuffled away.
Fern couldn't bring herself to care. It didn't matter if she lived or died. She was useless, and nothing would change that.
Closing her eyes, she allowed her mind to drift in the sea of pain. If she could move, she'd hurl herself into the Midden. Emetana's lies had condemned her to a life of misery and agony. The Warrior Priests' blades had stolen her ability to fight.
She had no reason to live.
* * *
Shouts and cheers pulled Fern from the murky depths of despondency. She opened her eye and lifted her head. A throng flooded
the main avenue beyond, voices raised in cries of "Warriors of Vengeance!"
The sound twisted Fern's stomach yet something within her refused to remain silent and still. She slithered down the pile of debris on her belly, wincing at the pain of her burns. Blood pounded in her skull as she pulled herself forward one-armed, her useless leg dragging behind.
Fern dragged her broken body through the crowd, crying out as a knee struck her blistered flesh and a foot crunched on the fingers of her right hand. A few people gave way but most ignored her. Sweat soaked her refuse-encrusted tunic by the time her head poked through the front row. She used a tradesman's tunic to lever herself off the ground. Her good leg protested under the strain, muscles unused for days.
Anger drove all thoughts of pain and misery from her mind. Emetana sat atop a gorgeous white charger, wearing the armor of a full Warrior Priest. Fresh tattoos lined her face—the markings of an anointed priest of the Lady of Vengeance. Her swords, newly minted by the temple smith, hung in oiled leather sheaths.
Hatred seethed in Fern's chest. Vitriol rose to her throat and burned her mouth. That should have been me.
She should be riding behind High Militant Denthon, resplendent in her shining steel armor, not crawling in the mud like a worm. She should be waving at the crowd gathered to cheer the Warrior Priests leaving the city for their year-long journey around Einan. The elation in Emetana's eyes and the radiant smile on her face only enhanced Fern's misery. She would never know the joy of delivering the Lady's Vengeance to the deserving.
Pain forgotten in her rage, Fern pulled herself upright and turned, wobbling, to glare at Emetana.
Shock registered on the Warrior Priest's face as her gaze came to rest on Fern. Emetana's hand dropped to her sword.
With a wordless roar, Fern hurled herself at Emetana. Pain flared in her injured leg, the muscle and joint giving way, and she sagged. Her right arm bent at a terrible angle and her face struck the cobblestone street with jarring force. Emetana's mocking laughter filtered into Fern's ears as exhaustion and pain washed away her consciousness.
* * *
Fern awoke with a jerk. A thick cloud of sweet-smelling incense filled the room. Something pressed against her left eye but she forced her right eye to open. A flickering candle sat on a table at the far end of the small room. A pillow supported her head. The bed upon which she lay was far more comfortable than her rush pallet in the Temple of Derelana. The silence came as blessed relief after the roars and cheers of the crowd.
She flinched at a quiet snort to her left. Turning her head, she peered at the cloaked figure sleeping in the chair at her bedside.
What in the Lady's name is he doing here? He'd returned, even after she feared her words had driven him away.
Dayle's eyes popped open as a woman entered the room. The newcomer wore the white robes of a Ministrant, healer in service to the Bright Lady, Goddess of Healing. The old man must have dragged her to The Sanctuary.
"You're awake." The Ministrant's quiet voice soothed Fern. "Try not to move. The dressings must remain in place if they are to work. From what you've told me about her recent….resting place, she's fortunate not to suffer infection."
Fern's fingers found thick cotton bandages covering her face and head. Plaster rendered her left leg immobile to the hip and straps held her right arm against her chest.
The Ministrant shook her head. "Your arm and leg will heal, but I regret to inform you they will never be fully functional again. The burns, however…" She bent and lifted one of the dressings. "Had you come when they were fresh, perhaps we could have done something. As it is, the best we can do is combat the swelling and blistering."
Fern said nothing. Her hatred of Emetana returned full force. She had spent hours training beside the girl, had fought and bled for the Lady of Vengeance. Despite Emetana's superior skill, she had hated Fern's friendship with the rest of the Novices. Worse, Emetana had wanted Athest since the first day. His attempt to force himself on Fern had only inflamed the other Novice's animosity.
Dayle spoke for the first time. "But might be she walks again?"
The Ministrant winced. "Unless the Bright Lady intervenes, at most she'll be ambulant with a crutch." With a final adjustment of Fern's bandages, she turned to leave. "We can offer you shelter for a few days, but once she is moving around, there are those equally in need of the Goddess’ healing."
"Thank ye, Ministrant." Dayle squeezed the woman's hand. "Truly."
"Of course." The Ministrant kissed her fingertips and touched them to Dayle's forehead. "The Bright Lady's blessings on the both of you." The door shut behind her without a sound.
"Y'hear that, Fern?" Dayle turned to her with a grin. "Ye’ll be up'n around in no time."
Fern remained silent. The Ministrant's words confirmed what she'd known the moment she awoke in the alley, dumped by the Warrior Priests. She'd never hold a sword or ride a horse again. Every hope of a future spent in service to the Lady of Vengeance ended by two cuts of a dagger.
"Th' way ye lunged at that Warrior Priest, might be ye know her?"
Fern swallowed and nodded.
Dayle narrowed his eyes. "She th' one who did this to ye?"
Again, Fern nodded.
"Keeper's teeth," Dayle muttered, his face darkening. A ragged cough shook his body for a moment before he could speak. "And th’ Lady of Vengeance's priests did nothing?"
"No!" The word burst from Fern's lips beyond her control. "They promise that Derelana will guide us and protect us as we serve her, but this is how they repay vengeance on those who truly deserve it." She motioned to her injuries.
"Ye was one of them?" Dayle raised an eyebrow. "What'd ye do? Kill th’ wrong someone?"
The bandages hid Fern's sneer but not her rage. "I killed someone deserving of holy vengeance." Athest had gotten off easy—he'd joined the Long Keeper, God of Death, when his actions ought to have sent him to the deepest, darkest of the hells.
* * *
"My sincerest apologies, but we must have the bed."
Fern made no protest as Ministrant Opal helped her to stand.
"I know a week isn't near enough time to heal from your injuries, yet with the recent outbreak of the Spotted Flux, the number of those in need of the Bright Lady's healing has grown beyond our abilities to manage. We are forced to make space for the less fortunate however we can."
Fern mumbled something. The bandages had come off her face the previous day, but the healing scar tissue still made speaking difficult. Her left eye opened with effort.
"Looks like I made it right in time, eh?" Dayle hobbled through the door, a wide grin on his face.
The Ministrant nodded. "Your daughter is in need of rest. Make sure she stays off this foot for at least another few days."
Dayle nodded. "I'll do that."
Fern couldn't summon the energy to correct the priestess. Though her body had healed, her mind remained sluggish. The image of Emetana's smug grin mocked her every time she closed her eyes. Sleep had proven elusive, even in the soothing comfort of the temple. Now that she was to be cast into the streets…
"Might be this makes things easier for ye."
Fern eyed the metal contraption in Dayle's hand. Three iron shanks hung from a thick leather belt.
"Once th' cast comes off, this'll support that bum leg of yers." He tapped the brace around his knee. "Just like mine."
The warmth in Dayle's smile failed to penetrate Fern's numbness. She said nothing as the Ministrant draped her left arm over her shoulder. She tested her wounded leg; a stabbing ache flared in the wound when she rested her weight on it, but she could move. Leaning on the Ministrant, she limped through the narrow door, down the stone corridor, and out the main entrance of The Sanctuary.
After the darkness of the Bright Lady's temple, the sunlight seemed blinding. The noises of Divinity Square set her head pounding. She was grateful when the Ministrant pulled up the hood of the cloak—a gift from the Goddess, they'd said. Fern knew the
truth: they'd given it to her as a mercy, enabling her to hide the mass of raw, red tissue that had once been her face.
"Get her off her feet as soon as possible," the Ministrant ordered.
"Aye, we'll be home soon 'nuff." Dayle smiled and slung Fern's good arm over his shoulder. Together, they hobbled down the steps.
Fern gritted her teeth to bite back a cry as they limped through the injured, lame, and leprous crowding the stairs. Every step sent pain shooting down the back of her leg. The plaster cast supported and immobilized the limb, but she still had to bear weight. Sweat pricked at the still-healing flesh of her face. She felt her energy waning; she couldn't go much farther without collapsing.
"Just a bit more," Dayle murmured. "Ye can do this."
Dayle shouted and swung his crutch to clear a path. His breath rose in wheezing gasps, punctuated by the occasional cough. Fern kept her eyes fixed downward on the perfect white paving stones that covered Divinity Square. If she looked up, her gaze would stray toward the Temple of Derelana, just a few score paces away. It would be too much to see her former life—the life stolen from her by a jealous Novice.
Bright sunlight gave way to cool shade, and the sounds of Divinity Square diminished. Fern found herself stumbling toward a cluster of improvised shelters and tents. Muck squelched beneath her shoes and a heavy odor of human and animal waste twisted her stomach.
"This one'll be yer home." Dayle led her toward a dwelling as crude and tattered as the rest. "T'aint much, but might be ye’re not too picky these days."
Fern's grunt of acknowledgement changed to a groan as Dayle helped her to lie on a pallet of rushes inside the tent. He bent and tucked a couple of ratty blankets beneath her head.
"Ye need anythin’, just call. I got th’ mansion next door."
Fern knew she should say something but couldn't muster the energy. The monumental effort of crossing Divinity Square had drained every remaining shred of strength.
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