Different, Not Damaged

by Andy Peloquin

  Dayle seemed not to mind. "Chin up, eh? Might be things don't look rosy at th' moment, but they get better."

  Fern wanted to snort. What did he know? He lived in the shantytown beside the Temple of the Apprentice. How could he tell her things would get better?

  * * *

  "Th' plaster's been off a few days now. Might be ye’ll start movin' around a bit?"

  Fern bit back an angry retort. "No."

  Dayle's smile tightened. "Here now, t'aint right for ye to be layin' about all day. Y'heard th’ Ministrant's words: time for ye t'be up and about. Getting' that leg and arm stronger."

  Fern wanted to argue but stopped. Dayle's face had taken on that stubborn look she knew well. She'd seen it in the mirror on the days when she struggled with temptation to quit the Warrior Priest training. He'd keep pestering her until she gave in. He was right, but that didn't make the idea of moving around more appealing.

  Grunting, she levered herself upright on her uninjured arm. Dayle steadied himself on his good leg and dragged her to her feet with surprising strength for his wiry frame.

  "Here." He nestled his crutch in her left armpit. "Ye’ll be wantin' this."

  Fern leaned on the padded forked staff and fumbled at the belt of the leg brace. After a moment of frustrating failure, she snapped. "You going to help me?" She thought she caught a ghost of a smile on Dayle's face as he bent to tighten the strap around her calf.

  The belt sat snug on her waist, the woolen lining soft and supple. The iron rods offered a surprising amount of support once secured. She took two hesitant steps and found she could move without too much pain.

  "Don't go too far, eh?" Dayle leaned against the wall, breathing hard, fighting an occasional cough.

  Fern ignored him and hobbled toward the mouth of the alley. The reddish-gold light of sunset washed over her as she stepped out of the shadow of the Apprentice's Temple. After weeks spent trapped in her own body, even the limited movement was glorious.

  She limped through Divinity Square, her crutch clacking on the paving stones. It didn't matter that people stared at her—she could walk.

  Groaning, she lowered herself to sit on the lip of the Fountain of Piety. A hideous, scarred face stared up at her from the water's surface. She turned away, stomach churning. Though her back and hip ached from the awkward gait, she basked in the warmth of the afternoon sun and the cool breeze drifting through the plaza.

  Her gaze wandered the grand buildings: the marble arches and flying buttresses of the Apprentice's Temple, the stately majesty of the monument to the Swordsman, the confusing patterns swirling on the façade of the Temple of Prosperity, even the dull brown Temple of Whispers. She'd lived in the Temple District for most of her life, her days a blur of martial training, education, and the formal ceremonies to the Lady of Vengeance.

  Try as she might, Fern couldn't keep her eyes from the Temple of Derelana. The marble statues glared at her with accusation written in their stern faces. She found herself shuffling through the crowded square toward the ranks of solemn heroes standing vigil before the temple she'd once called home.

  The effigy of King Gavril the Conqueror, Voramis' founder and first ruler, towered high above the two armored Warrior Priests that flanked the entrance to the temple. Lattimer, the shorter, stockier man, had spent months training the Novices in basic metalsmithing. She'd given Barth, a former Novice a few years older and a full head taller than her, the thin scar that ran down his lean forearm to his wrist. Their expressions grew stern at her approach, yet no recognition gleamed in their eyes.

  And why should they recognize her? Her face—no doubt hideously deformed and misshapen by scar tissue—bore little resemblance to the Fern they'd known. She bore none of the tattoos she'd earned over her ten years of training and service in the Temple of Derelana.

  Acid surging in her throat, she stumbled away from the temple entrance and into the narrow space between buildings. Tears burned in her eyes. She clenched her jaw muscles to stop herself from crying out.

  Her crutch slid on a patch of mud. Fern stumbled and caught herself on the wall, breathing hard. Clenching her fists, she fought back the waves of anger and despair cascading over her.

  Emetana's face swam in her vision. A memory flashed through her mind.

  Exalted Militant Fedon stood before the forty kneeling Novices. "One month from now, you will be anointed Warrior Priests. For a year and a day, you will carry out her vengeance across the face of Einan. Let none hinder you in your duty or dissuade you from your path."

  The image of Emetana's rapturous expression at the oaths of service twisted Fern's stomach. She should have joined the other Novices in the Hall of Holy Wrath and sworn herself to Derelana's service. She should have ridden out of Voramis with the rest of the Warrior Priests. Instead, she stood in a grimy alley, unable to lift a sword. She was nothing but a cripple, useless and helpless.

  A gentle voice sounded at her shoulder. "Don't make no sudden movements, now." Fern's left arm was wrenched behind her back, her face slammed against the wall. Cold steel pressed against her neck. "Give me your purse and there's no need for anyone to get hurt."

  Pain flared in Fern's face, the stones rough against her still-healing burns. Her injured leg ached from the awkward position. Her right arm jerked against the ties secured across her chest.

  Helplessness washed over her. She'd spent years training in unarmed combat; once, she would've taken down her assailant in a heartbeat. Instead, she could do nothing but gasp, unable to move. Frustration and rage welled in her chest and burst forth in an explosion of manic laughter that shook her shoulders.

  "Here now, I ain't playing! Hand over your coins or you'll be laughing out of a new hole."

  The bite of the dagger only made Fern laugh harder. "Do it!" she screamed through her hysterics. She whirled to face the man, heedless of the blade at her throat. The man's eyes widened as her hood fell back. "Kill me, you bastard!"

  The man, a rat-faced fellow with a mop of dirty brown hair hanging down over an unkempt face, stammered.

  Fern wrenched her left hand free and pressed the knife harder. "Get it over with!"

  Her assailant stumbled backward, the knife falling from his grip. He tripped on a pile of debris, caught himself on the far wall, and stared at her, confused.

  "Come on!" Fern took a shuffling step toward him. "Or are you too much of a coward?"

  "You're insane!" With a terrified yelp, the man rushed away and disappeared in the crowded Divinity Square.

  Wild laughter shook Fern's shoulders, anger coursing through her. She'd actually wanted the man to kill her; death would erase the helplessness.

  She'd believed herself ready for death before, but the knife's blade had shown her the truth. She wanted to live.

  No more. She clenched her jaw in defiance. I will be helpless no longer.

  The Warrior Priests of Derelana had ingrained in her the virtue of the Lady's vengeance upon those who deserved it. During the War of Gods, Derelana had suffered a grievous wound in her battle against Kharna. Only her holy wrath had kept her alive, kept her strong until she avenged the Swordsman and imprisoned the Destroyer forever.

  Those same fires would keep Fern alive as well. She would have retribution against Emetana for her actions. It didn't matter that she was crippled and weak—the Novice would suffer the Lady's vengeance as she deserved.

  Derelana herself had provided the means for reprisal. Fern searched the alley for the discarded knife. It had fallen near her feet and buried point-first in the muck of the alley.

  Fern bent to retrieve the blade, yet something stopped her. A dangerous idea drifted through her mind. Ignoring the pain in her leg, she lowered herself to a seat against the wall and plunged the knife into the ground. The steel blade scraped against rocks but slid into the muck without difficulty. Again and again Fern drove the dagger downward, each time scraping away more dirt and mud.

  The laughter that bubbled from her lips had lost its wildne
ss, took on a harder, colder edge. She had found her vengeance.

  * * *

  "There ye are!" Relief shone in Dayle's eyes as Fern limped into the shantytown she now called home. "Had me worried a moment, so ye did."

  "I'm fine." A smile broadened Fern's lips. "For the first time since…this." She motioned to her scarred face. "I'm actually fine."

  Dayle raised an eyebrow. "Ye hurt?" His gaze roamed up and down her mud-stained clothing, took in her bleeding knuckles.

  "Just lost my balance." She shrugged away his concern. "Still getting used to walking around, is all."

  A cough cut off Dayle's next words. Before he recovered, Fern slipped past him and into her crude shelter. "Goodnight, Dayle!"

  The sounds of the alley community seemed oddly soothing as Fern lay on the rush pallet. She pulled the blankets to her chest, kicked them off, replaced them once more. Time trickled by; her thirst for vengeance and the excitement over her discovery held sleep at bay. Her left hand clutched the dagger so tightly her knuckles protested.

  She would have her revenge on Emetana. It didn't matter the Warrior Priest had departed Voramis—she'd return at the end of a year and a day, the initial term of service to Derelana. When the time came, Fern would be there.

  She'd never rivaled Emetana's skill at arms or her strength. In her current state, she'd never survive a direct confrontation. But the rat-faced man had shown her a new way of thinking. She had only to surprise Emetana, catch her while vulnerable. Even the greatest of champions had to rest eventually. After a year and a day spent traveling, the Warrior Priest would be exhausted, her sleep deep. Fern's pathetic, rust-pitted dagger could deliver the Lady's vengeance as surely as a shining sword.

  Of course, the Warrior Priests would never allow her to enter. She couldn't hope to climb over the high walls surrounding the Temple of Derelana. No, she would tunnel beneath.

  The task would be monumental. Her injured leg and arm would hamper her efforts. But it didn't matter. The fires of the Lady's holy wrath would keep her going. She had plenty of time until Emetana returned home.

  * * *

  "Good to see ye up and about." Dayle greeted her with a nod as she emerged the next morning.

  Fern nodded to him and drew in a deep breath of the brisk morning air. The hustle and bustle of the Temple District reminded her she was still alive. Crippled, perhaps, but alive. Even more, she had a purpose, a mission. For one trained to serve the Lady of Vengeance, that focus was all that mattered.

  "If'n ye’d like, th' Beggar Priests'll be coming around with a few scraps shortly. Not the fanciest feasts, but a bit of somethin' to eat."

  For the first time, Fern thought about her situation. Her quest wouldn't put food in her stomach or clothes on her back. She couldn't rely on Dayle or the goodwill of the priests.

  But what could she do? She'd dedicated every day since the age of five training to be a Warrior Priest. All her training to swing swords, shape metal, and bring the Lady's vengeance to the guilty wouldn’t serve her now.

  She had one skill she could use.

  * * *

  Arch-Ministrant Granna steepled her long, slender fingers and leaned back in her chair. "And where did you say you studied the healing arts?"

  "M-My father…" Fern reddened and dropped her eyes. "He always told me, 'Life on a farm is dangerous, Fernie’. Everything I know came from him, what he learned during his service in the Legion of Heroes."

  The priestess raised an eyebrow. "A soldier, eh?"

  Fern's father had served in the Legion of Heroes—and deserted before he saw any real action. She'd learned about healing treating the bruises and lacerations he left on her mother. Most of her knowledge came from the Warrior Priests' lessons on battlefield care. But Arch-Ministrant Granna might not like the truth.

  The older woman pursed her lips. "We are always searching for those willing to serve the Bright Lady. However, as you know, our Goddess permits only the purest, most flawless into her service. Given your condition…" Her gaze roamed Fern's face and bandaged arm.

  "I'd be willing to do anything—change sheets, wash bandages, lend a hand wherever's needed." She lowered her eyes.

  The Arch-Ministrant nodded. "You may not be a suitable candidate to join the priesthood, but we could certainly use your assistance. We can only offer you food and the occasional coin."

  "Done!" Fern spoke before the woman could change her mind. She'd always had a knack for dressing wounds, a skill that had endeared her to many of her fellow Novices. Her training had taught her the value of hard work.

  Granna stood and motioned to the door. "Talk to Ministrant Praint about clothing. Can't have you wandering around The Sanctuary in those filthy robes. And you can get started emptying the slop buckets in the…"

  The Arch-Ministrant's words faded into the background. Excitement surged in Fern's chest. She had a way to earn a living, and her service to Bright Lady gave her an excuse to remain in the Temple District. No one would question a Ministrant's presence in Divinity Square. No one would think to look for a tunnel beneath the walls of the Temple of Derelana.

  Autumn…

  Fern grunted with the effort of shoveling one-handed. The trowel she'd taken from The Sanctuary's gardening shed moved only a handful of the gravelly dirt at a time. Her uncoordinated left arm lacked the strength and endurance of her sword arm. An ache had formed in her spine from the awkward movement of her injured leg.

  Two weeks had passed since work on her tunnel began, and she'd barely dug a hole deep enough to sit in. She had to time her efforts with the passing of the Heresiarchs charged with patrolling the Temple District, and concealing the hole under a pile of carefully placed debris cut into her digging hours. Thankfully, the dirt she removed simply joined the mud of the alley. But without the light of a lamp to work by, she made slow progress.

  Progress nonetheless. A year and a day, she reminded herself, wiping sweat from her eyes. One month down, but plenty of time.

  Lattimer, the smith who'd trained them in the Temple of Derelana, had begun their first lesson with the tale of Delenus. Delenus was a soothsayer who had served King Gavian, current King of Voramis. When his predictions proved false and led to the death of thousands of warriors, King Gavian sentenced Delenus to the harshest punishment he could conceive. He condemned the soothsayer to carry water to the families of the soldiers that had died because of his charlatanism, using only a thimble. The torment would end and he would regain his freedom once the thirst of the women and children had been slaked.

  Delenus had carried out his punishment for nearly six decades before he died. Voramians had a name for any task monumental as to be nigh impossible: a Delenarian labor. Lattimer had meant it to serve as a warning against hubris. To Fern, it seemed as if she was Delenus.

  Except I will succeed. She gritted her teeth against the pain of her scratched and bleeding fingers and set to work. The Heresiarch patrol would pass in a few minutes. She had a few hours until dawn when The Sanctuary doors opened and Ministrant Narya would call for her. The fires of Derelana's holy wrath wouldn't keep her awake for long.

  But she could dig a while longer. She would be ready when Emetana returned, no matter what.

  * * *

  "Does it hurt?" Udela thrust a chubby finger at Fern's scarred face.

  Fern moved her head out of the child's reach. "Not anymore."

  Udela's face wrinkled. "How did it happen?"

  Fern shoulders tightened but she kept her expression neutral. "Oh, it was an accident." She'd been asked that question hundreds of times since joining The Sanctuary six months earlier; her nonchalant answer satisfied most people. Udela, with all the curiosity of her five years, was not most people.

  "Did your house burn down? My uncle has scars like that. He got them when his house burned down. But it's on his arm and not his face. And they're not as bad as yours."

  "Udela!" snapped Lourda, the girl's mother, from her chair beside the bed. "Don't be rude to the nice M
inistrant."

  "Sorry, Mama." Udela's face fell.

  "Apologize to the Ministrant, dear."

  "Sorry, Ministrant."

  Fern chuckled as the memories of her early days in the Temple of Derelana returned. Her inquisitive mind had loved every new lesson on swordplay, horsemanship, even letters. Those happy days lay far behind her now.

  "There now." She tied the last bandage around the splint on Udela's arm and stood quickly. "Keep that on for a few weeks and it should heal."

  "Will your arm heal?" Her mother's chiding hadn't curtailed Udela's brazenness.

  "Apologies, Ministrant." Lourda squeezed the child's uninjured arm. "My daughter has not yet learned prudence or the wisdom of holding her tongue."

  Fern nodded. "Think nothing of it. Now, if you will excuse me…" With a bow, she turned and left the room.

  Anger flared in her chest as she stared at her right arm hanging in its sling. She could move it without pain, but it lacked the strength to grip anything heavier than a fork. The severed bicep muscle had begun to waste away.

  Fern could live with the horrible burns that disfigured her face and scalp. She had never felt attached to her looks; the servants of Derelana cared little for outward appearance. Even her left leg, too weak to do more than support her weight without the brace, didn't bother her. But her inability to wield a sword pierced her to the core. She had spent a lifetime training to be a Warrior Priest, and now she would never travel across the face of Einan delivering the Lady's vengeance.

  Not true. Her good fist clenched. I will have retribution for what was done to me.

  Winter…

  Night had fully fallen by the time Fern completed her duties in The Sanctuary. The front doors had closed to the public but she left through the small door set into the side of the temple. Pulling up the hood of the cloak she'd purchased with her first earnings, she slipped into the darkened Divinity Square.