Different, Not Damaged

by Andy Peloquin

  Flickering torches ringed the Fountain of Piety, the firelight glinting off the water cascading from the marble tiers. She ducked into the shadows of the Temple of Prosperity and waited until the Heresiarch patrol had passed. They wouldn't question her presence in Divinity Square, but she preferred to evade notice. She couldn't risk raising suspicion.

  Her heart pounding, she limped toward the alleyway beside the Temple of Derelana. No Warrior Priests stood guard at the temple doors after dark—not even the most cretinous thief would be foolish enough to steal from the Lady of Vengeance.

  Fern stiffened as a sound echoed from within the alleyway. The temples blocked the light of torches, but moonlight shined on three figures. Two were big, blocky brutes. The third stood hunched over a crutch, a tattered hood pulled up to hide his face.

  Fern's heart sank. Dayle! She hurried toward the three figures. Her breath caught in her throat as one of the thugs drew a dagger.

  "'Ere now, pops," the big man said, "you ain't look like much, but surely there's a coin or two hidden somewhere in them robes."

  "Please!" The hooded man spoke in a quavering tone. "I tell you, I have nothing!"

  Relief surged within Fern. It's not Dayle.

  "Seems like they always says that, eh, Carun?" The third man spoke in a nasal, high-pitched voice that grated on Fern's ears.

  "Right you are, Skell," the first voice replied. "But there's always summat t'be found in their robes."

  "I have naught but a copper bit," the old man spoke. "And t'was meant to buy a bite after a long day of work. Please, good sirs, let me pass and may the Mistress smile on you."

  "I'm thinking that copper bit would go right nice with the other coins in my purse." The big man stepped closer, waving the dagger. "Now hand it over before I—"

  "Leave him alone!"

  The two men whirled at Fern's shout, their eyes narrowing. "T'aint none of your concern, girl." Skell, the second thug, dismissed her with a wave. "We'll be done with our conversation in a moment."

  Fern shuffled closer, blood pounding in her ears. "Get out of here before I call for the Heresiarchs."

  Carun sneered. "The both of you'd be bleedin' out afore they ever arrived, and we'd be long gone. Now off with you, else I might decide you're due a good friskin'." A leering smile broadened his face. "Don't think I'd mind that much."

  Fern snorted. "Try it and find out what happens."

  Carun's eyebrows rose. "Ooh, the girl thinks she's a tough'n."

  Skell tittered. "You gonna show her the truth, Carun?"

  The thug turned his back on the old man and strode toward Fern. "Seems like the little bird 'ere needs a lesson in—"

  Air whooshed from his lungs as Fern's crutch snapped up between his legs. He gave a pathetic whoof and groaned, his knees buckling. Fern's muscles acted on instinct and years of training, her left arm snatching the shaft of her crutch and swinging it like a club. The padded handle crunched against the side of Carun's head. The big man collapsed in a heap in the muck of the alley.

  Skell stood rooted to the spot, eyes as wide as his gawping mouth. "You—!" When his brain finally engaged, he charged Fern.

  The old man's cane darted out with surprising speed and hooked around Skell's ankle. The thug sprawled in the muck face-first. Before he could recover, Fern stood over him, the tip of her crutch pressed against his throat.

  "One wrong move and I'll crush your windpipe. Gasp if you understand."

  Skell gave a pathetic croak.

  "Good. Now listen well. You're going to take out your purse and give the old man a silver drake for his troubles." She leaned on the crutch to silence Skell's protest. The thug fumbled at his pouch and flipped a coin toward the hooded figure. "Now you're going to pick up your idiot friend here and get the bloody hell out of the Temple District. If I ever see either of your ugly faces in Divinity Square again, I'll set the Heresiarchs on you. Understood?"

  "Yes!" Skell wheezed.

  Fern shuffled backward and removed the crutch from his throat. Skell gave her a wide berth as he got to his feet, slung a groaning Carun over his shoulder, and stumbled out of the alley. Fern doubted her threat would prevent his return, but at least she had gotten rid of the thugs without drawing the Heresiarchs' attention. She had no desire to bring the patrol anywhere near her tunnel. The debris she'd piled over the ever-widening hole might not escape their notice.

  She turned to the hunched figure. "Are you hurt?"

  "No."

  Fern's brow furrowed. Somehow, it seemed the voice had lost some of its quaver and taken on a hard, cold edge.

  "You had no reason to intervene."

  "They were going to hurt you," she replied.

  The hooded man gave a soft chuckle. "They certainly thought they were." The moonlight had to be playing tricks with her; his eyes looked too dark to be human.

  "You have my thanks." The man flipped a coin to her, and she caught it. Without another word, he strode past her and hobbled into Divinity Square.

  Fern's mouth hung open as she watched him go. When she glanced down, a golden imperial sparkled in her palm.

  Who in the fiery hell was that? She shook her head to clear away her surprise.

  She'd acted without thinking, her Warrior Priest training kicking in. She had saved the old man—at least she thought she had—even with a crippled arm and leg.

  She laughed, a bright sound that hadn't passed her lips in years. Elation surged in her chest. She'd thought herself useless, but she hadn't lost everything. She still had her instincts, honed over years of training. The Warrior Priests had broken her; Emetana had made a mistake by not finishing the job.

  She tucked the coin into her purse and hobbled toward the tunnel. The old man had reminded her of Dayle; she hadn't seen him in weeks, even though he lived just a few hundred steps from The Sanctuary. She'd pay him a visit tomorrow.

  She had to dig now. Half a year had elapsed. Her tunnel into the Temple of Derelana progressed slowly, but she was confident she'd make it. The familiar fire of the Lady's holy wrath burned in her veins.

  * * *

  "Dayle?" Fern ignored the muck staining her new boots and limped closer to the makeshift shelter. "Are you in there?"

  "I'm…" A wet cough cut off Dayle's words. The hacking persisted for long seconds before Dayle recovered. "I'm here."

  The man emerged a moment later, wiping a sleeve across his mouth. "Good t'see ye again, Fern. How's Sanctuary life treatin' ye?"

  "Good, actually." Fern slipped the satchel from her shoulder and thrust it out to him. "Had a few extra coins and thought you might want a little something."

  The golden imperial had purchased new clothes, boots, and blankets for him, plus a few extras for her. She'd spent a few copper bits to have her dagger sharpened by a proper blacksmith.

  Dayle's eyebrows rose. "Ye didn't have to get me anythin'."

  "I know." Fern smiled. "But I owe you far more than that after what you did for me."

  Dayle blushed. "T'wasn't nothin'."

  "Consider this nothing, then." Her grin grew. "Nothing you say's going to make me take it back, so best you accept it."

  Dayle returned her grin. "Might be ye’re right. Been a while since I had clean—" A fit of coughing seized him, doubling him over.

  "That sounds bad." Fern frowned. His skin had grown pale and clammy. "You ought to come to The Sanctuary, have the Ministrants look you over."

  "I'm fine," he wheezed. "Just th’ winter cold seepin' into the lungs, is all."

  Fern brandished her crutch like a sword. "Don't make me drag you to the temple, old man."

  Dayle gave a weak half-laugh, half-cough. "Fine!" He held up his hands. "I'll be by later in th' afternoon."

  "You'd better." Fern's mouth crinkled in mock severity. "Else I'll send Ministrant Battle-Axe after you."

  Dayle groaned. Ministrant Etta had cared for her during her days recovering in The Sanctuary. Her grim demeanor, sharp features, and curt tone had earned her the n
ame "Battle-Axe"—only when she was out of the room, of course.

  Dayle doubled over, coughing again. Fern stepped forward to help but he waved her away. "Just needs my rest, is all." He hefted the satchel. "These blankets n' things'll help."

  She contemplated hauling him physically, but he was far too stubborn to accept forced help. "Get to The Sanctuary before nightfall."

  Dayle wagged his head. "Ye’ve my word."

  "Good. Now I've got to get off to my chores before the Battle-Axe comes hunting me. But you ask for me when you get to the temple, got it?"

  Dayle nodded. "Until later, Fern." He shuffled back into his shelter and closed the flap behind him.

  Fern grimaced. He's not doing well. The stoop of his shoulders had increased, his limp more pronounced. The sheen of sweat on his forehead had spoken of a condition more serious than he wanted her to believe. She'd be back later to check on him, make sure he came to the temple. She needed him to be well—she'd lost too much already.

  She hobbled across Divinity Square, leaning on the padded crutch for support. As always, her eyes strayed to the Warrior Priests standing silent as the statues that guarded the Temple of Derelana. Her mood darkened. The tattoos swirling around their eyes and down their cheeks reminded her she'd never be one of them.

  There was no justice in that. She would not let that stand.

  Spring…

  "So how did her other arm get injured?" Fern frowned at Udela, who sat huddled on the cot, her left arm clutched to her chest.

  Lourda's eyes shifted away. "She…fell from a tree."

  "I see." Fern bit back a retort. She'd seen far too many injuries of this nature to believe Lourda's story. The mottled bruise just visible above the high collar of the woman's robe made it even less plausible. Fern's own mother had suffered similar injuries at the hands of her father.

  "I-It's nothing." Lourda's voice took on a desperate edge, her eyes pleading. "Can't you just set it like the other one?"

  Fern hesitated. She could invent some excuse to insist Udela spend the night at The Sanctuary, but that could only make things worse for the mother and daughter when they returned home.

  "Let me see what I can do." Shoulders stiff, anger burning in her chest, she hobbled from the room to fetch bandages.

  * * *

  Fern vented her frustration on the rocky soil beneath the walls surrounding the Temple of Derelana. The ache in her left hand paled in comparison to the fires of rage storming within her. The Mistress had smiled on her encounter with the thugs three months earlier—the darkness, their surprise, and the old man's intervention had enabled her to subdue them.

  She couldn't count on the Mistress' luck again. All she could do was focus on her mission and pray for vengeance on the man who dared harm a child. Problem was, Derelana wouldn't intervene. Exalted Militant Fedon's sermons had made it plain: the Goddess entrusted vengeance to the hands of her servants. Fern, a broken, disgraced, former Novice, would never have the strength to serve.

  That wouldn't stop her. She had three months to complete the final third of her tunnel. Progress had slowed with the winter chill; her thirst for revenge had waned with the icy winds and deep snow drifts. She'd hardly touched the tunnel in weeks. Between the hardening ground and the increase of ailments common with winter in Voramis, she'd been too exhausted to leave The Sanctuary.

  But spring had brought warmth to Voramis, and Udela's return to the temple had renewed Fern's determination to finish the job. She couldn't ensure Udela's father was punished for his actions, but she could settle her score with Emetana.

  Tucked in her tunnel, hidden from view by mounds of debris and dirt, she was out of the biting midnight wind. With the wet season around the corner, Fern knew she needed to get as much work as done before the rain turned the walls of her tunnel to mud. She'd have to re-dig her way through, a task that could take weeks. But as long as she kept chipping away at the rocky ground, she'd be ready when Emetana returned.

  Gritting her teeth against the ache in her crippled leg, she buried the trowel in the dirt and continued digging.

  Summer…

  Fern moved through her duties by rote. Her concentration wavered; tying bandages, emptying chamber pots, and applying salves held little interest.

  The day had come. Tonight, the Warrior Priests of Derelana would return from their travels around Einan. Emetana would be within her grasp.

  Everything was ready. She'd wrapped the tip of her crutch with cloth to mute its clicking on the tiled floor of the Temple of Derelana. Her dagger hung in a sheath secured to the handle. A set of dark clothing, purchased with her meager earnings from The Sanctuary, lay on her bed, ready for her to slip into when night fell.

  Every time she closed her eyes, she envisioned the torments she'd visit upon Emetana. The Warrior Priest deserved far worse than a quick, quiet death.

  Yet she needed to kill Emetana with one strike. Emetana had been the stronger and more skilled of the two during their years as Novices. Fern's only hope lay in catching Emetana while she slept. If the Warrior Priest had time to react, Fern's mission of vengeance would end with her bleeding out on the temple floor.

  "You got somewhere to be?"

  Fern winced at Ministrant Etta's curt tone. "No, Ministrant."

  "Seems like it, the way you keep looking out those doors like King Gavian himself is coming to sweep you off your feet." Etta's sharp features had once been beautiful, but age had made the severe angles more pronounced. "Back to work, girl."

  Fern clenched her fist and nodded. "Yes, Ministrant."

  Try as she might, Fern couldn't keep her gaze from the broad windows set high in The Sanctuary's main chamber. Time seemed to drag at an interminable pace. The red-gold sun refused to drop below the horizon. Impatience set Fern's stomach churning. Sunset meant the doors of The Sanctuary would close, and she would be free of her duties to the Bright Lady until tomorrow.

  Whether she'd have another tomorrow or not didn't matter. She hadn't bothered planning an escape. She had no problem dying, provided Emetana went to the Long Keeper with her. When they stood in judgement before the God of Death, Fern would have justice for what Emetana had done.

  The light in the temple slowly dimmed, the shadows growing longer. Fern kept an eye on Ministrant Etta. At any moment, she would give the signal to—

  "Close the doors, Ministrant Aletia."

  Elation surged in Fern's chest. Fingers trembling, she tied the final knot in the bandage, stood, and tucked the crutch under her arm. She gripped the wood, worn smooth by her hands, and drew comfort from its solidity.

  "Wait!" Ministrant Aletia's voice echoed from the doorway. "Help me with this one. He's not breathing."

  Fern limped away from the main room before the Battle-Axe saw her and ordered her to assist. She had to get to her rooms and begin her preparations. Someone else could help the latest unfortunate soul seeking the Bright Lady's healing.

  Fern served the Lady of Vengeance this night.

  * * *

  Fern stood over the mouth of the tunnel. She'd spent the last year digging her way beneath the wall, but now that she had come to the moment of no return she hesitated. Not out of fear. Fear had fled the day she stared death in the face. The rage burning in her chest hadn't dimmed with the passage of time. She reveled in the anticipation of what was to come.

  Taking a deep breath, she knelt stiff-legged and lowered herself into the hole face-first. She squirmed through the familiar contours of the tunnel, relishing the cool earth surrounding her. No pain remained in her weakened right arm and hamstrung left leg. Her right leg had grown strong from supporting her weight. The power in her left arm would suffice to drive the dagger through Emetana's throat.

  Cool air drifted toward Fern and wafted over her scarred face. Her heart leapt as the tunnel sloped upward, excitement setting her pulse racing.

  Emerging from the earth felt like a rebirth. Fern the healer remained on the other side of the wall. Fern the avenger pulled h
erself to her feet and ducked into the shadows of thick hedges.

  She'd spent years in the Temple of Derelana and knew every nook and cranny. More than once, she'd come to hide behind the hedges when frustration at the challenging Warrior Priest training overwhelmed her. No tears graced her cheeks now. Only a cold rage heaved in her chest.

  Tucking the crutch under her arm, she peered into the darkness of the temple gardens. Empty, as she'd suspected. The Novices spent the evening hours in prayers and instruction from the more academically-minded Warrior Priests. This late, just an hour before midnight, they would be asleep, exhausted from the day's rigors.

  Perfect.

  She slipped from behind the hedge and limped toward the training yard where she'd spent hours locked in combat with instructors and fellow Novices. The memories of her losses to Emetana hardened her resolve. She would wipe the smug, gloating grin from the Warrior Priest's face with a dagger thrust.

  A burden settled on her shoulders as she hobbled through the temple grounds. The training yard gave way to the outdoor gallery where they'd gathered for their annual service to honor the returning Warrior Priests of Derelana. Through the gallery she limped, cloth-padded crutch silent, the only sound her labored breathing and the rush of her pulse.

  Next came the barracks. Fern had strode these corridors a thousand times, basking in the comforting glow of the candles set in spikes along the wall, breathing the familiar scent of dusty stone.

  Her eyes locked on the simple door at the far end of the corridor. A tremor gripped her right hand as she approached the room that had once belonged to her and Emetana. The room where Emetana had found her groaning and bleeding, Athest lying silent and broken beside her.

  She lifted the latch and nudged the door. It swung open on silent hinges. Darkness filled the room within. The sound of quiet breathing reached Fern's ears.

  Emetana. The tremor in Fern's hand stilled. Every scrap of hesitation fled, replaced by cold, hard resolve. She stood mere paces from the woman who had condemned her to the life of a cripple. Her hands closed around the grip of her dagger as she hobbled toward the figure lying in bed.