Different, Not Damaged Page 5

Cerimon's dark eyes flew wide. "Addara?"

  Errin's head jerked up and down.

  "B-But…" Cerimon gaped. "I thought…"

  Errin didn't wait for Cerimon, but stumbled down the street, back toward the market. Hated the noise, the people, the light. Couldn't stop. Addara!

  He remembered High Illusionist Eminentus' words, from long ago. "The Long Keeper comes for all--men, women, and children alike. You are a witness, nothing more."

  So many dead. Too many paintings. Three hundred eighty-two. He hadn't tried to change it before. Hadn't thought it possible.

  Useless. Hopeless. I can't fight the gods. But he had to try. Addara.

  "Errin!" Cerimon's hand on his arm. "There's a thick crowd ahead. You won't--"

  Go straight, seventy-six steps. Errin shook his head and waved to one side. Four hundred and eight more steps to the bridge.

  Sounds hammered his ears. People. Animals. Shouting. Laughing. Talking. He would go around. Move quickly, get to her sooner.

  He seized Cerimon's robe and dragged him down the side street. His feet shuffled over the stones that tried to trip him.

  Find Addara.

  People touching him, bumping him, shoving him. Couldn't stop to paint. Had to save Addara and Cerimon.

  Cerimon beside him, strong arms holding back the people. "Come on, Errin! We need to get out of here!" Fear in his voice.

  Errin shook his head, stabbed a finger at Cerimon. "S-S-Stay!"

  Cerimon's mouth opened. "But, Errin--"

  He screamed and tapped Cerimon's chest. "D-Die!"

  Cerimon flinched. "You saw that? My death?"

  He nodded and tapped his chest.

  "Yours, too?"

  He pointed in the direction the crowd had taken Addara.

  "All three of us?"

  With a nod, Errin pointed to Cerimon and to the ground.

  "You sure?" Squirming lines--a funny pattern--appeared in Cerimon's forehead.

  He wasn't. He didn't want to go alone. He had no idea where to go--too far from the temple--to find Addara.

  Sounds grew louder. More people bumping and touching him. He wanted to scream, to shout for them to go away, but he had to find Addara.

  Have to get through! He pushed forward, wormed his way through the press of people. Every touch elicited a wordless cry, but he kept on.

  Twenty steps. Nineteen. Eighteen.

  Someone pushed him back, knocking him to the ground. "Watch yerself, nutter!" Angry.

  Errin crawled forward. Sixteen. Fifteen. Fourteen.

  So close. Addara stood with her basket under her arm, bent over a pile of fruit. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her hard.

  She whirled--strange burning colors in her eyes--but her face softened as she recognized him. "Errin? What are you doing here?" The right side of her face turned up into a smile, but he couldn't tear his gaze from the swirling patterns--beautiful--etched into the left side. His heart danced in time with the shifting colors in her eyes.

  He pulled harder.

  "What is it?"

  He couldn't let go of her wrist. He wanted to tell her what he'd seen, what he'd done, but his voice remained locked away.

  He didn't want to go farther--nine thousand, three hundred, ninety-eight steps--from the temple, but had no desire to push through the people on the bridge. Better find an empty street. No people there.

  Around him, everything grew too loud, like a screaming storm inside his head. With a keening cry, he pressed his free hand over his ear. Someone hit him and knocked him to the side. Away from Addara. He shrieked and flailed for her. People rushed past. Cries of "Down with the Bloody Hand" pounded into his ears, tearing his head apart. He wailed, but the tumult swallowed his voice.

  Clenching his fists, he pushed into the crowd. No time to paint. No time to think about the people touching, jostling, shoving him. Saved Cerimon. Have to find Addara.

  The picture had to change. It did. Burning, piercing, etched into his mind.

  Line of bright red men with dark sticks. Screaming, shouting people. Body on the floor.

  Not one picture, but two.

  In one, white robes, long hair, and eyes that no longer danced. In the other, dark cloak, pale skin, broken paintbrush.

  Addara dead. Him dead.

  Never two before! He had been given a choice. Turn and run, flee to the safety of his cell, or stay and face his fate. He knew which he would take.

  The sea of people--touching me!--swarmed around him, pushing him toward a line of red-robed men. Angry, pale faces. Dark sticks.

  "Cease this at once!" Deep voice, commanding, scared. "Disperse, and return to your homes!"

  The bright red men grew larger as the people shoved Errin forward.

  "Heresiarchs, hold the line. Let none through!"

  He looked around, desperate. Addara! Near the front of the line, basket crushed against her. Scared.

  He shoved and squirmed his way toward her. He couldn't let her become another of his paintings.

  Someone pushed him, and he fell against a red-robed man. He didn't let go of his paintbrush, couldn't. Needed it to paint.

  "He's got a knife!" The man he hit, angry, scared.

  Something smashed down on his hand, pounded his head, his legs, his back. More hits. Pain now.

  Had to move. He crawled forward, didn't let the blows stop him. Addara's voice. Screaming. Afraid. Have to get to…Addara!

  Too many hits. Boots hitting his ribs, sticks striking his arms, hands, and face. Too much pain. Couldn't…keep…moving.

  He curled up into the darkness of his cloak. No more light. He wanted to put his hands over his ears, but they didn't work right. No more sound, please!

  A new sound. "Stop!" Addara. Afraid no longer. Angry. "You're hurting him!"

  "He's got a knife." Red-robed man. Hesitant.

  "He has a bleedin' paintbrush, you fool!"

  He opened his eyes. Addara, crouching over him.

  "Can't you see he's touched by the Illusionist?"

  Errin relaxed his head. The picture burned in his mind, but the pain grew faint. He lay on the ground, beside the line of red-robed men. Him, not Addara. His choice had been accepted.

  "E-Errin?" Addara. Colors in her eyes swirled, lines in her face sad. "Why are you here? Why didn't you go back to the temple?"

  He lifted his hand. His fingers looked like the paintbrush-- bent, broken.

  "Y-you…painted me?"

  Errin nodded. He opened his mouth and, for once, the words finally came. "H-h-had to…stop it. Not…you."

  His eyes closed. Too much light. Sounds fading. Too tired. Cooling, relaxing darkness. Comfort and safety, like in his cell.

  Addara's hand warm on his shoulder. He didn't flinch or move away. Her touch didn't bother him this time. It felt…right.

  The Goddess' Gift

  "My friend, the Lonely Goddess would hear of your pain and bring you peace."

  Bloodshot eyes peered from the mass of rags as Servitor Indria placed a gentle hand on the penitent's shoulder.

  "F-forgive me, Servitor." The man sniffled and wiped his nose with a filthy sleeve.

  Indria slid in beside him despite the reek of alcohol and soiled clothing. "What brings you to the Lonely Goddess, friend? What ails you?"

  "My Aislinn, she…" He swallowed hard and gripped the pew back so hard the wood creaked. "The pox. Took her, last week."

  Indria wrapped a consoling arm around the bearded man, pulling him close. His tears soaked her soft blue Servitor robes, but she held him tight as sobs shook his shoulders.

  She spoke in a soothing voice. "The Lonely Goddess feels your pain, my friend. She, too, weeps for her lost love." Her free hand reached for the locket hanging at her neck, and her throat grew tight. "Let her ease your suffering."

  Indria closed her eyes. She could almost taste the sorrow he radiated, and she allowed her soul to be drawn toward him. She touched the part of him that ached for his wife, the void left by her passing. With a de
ep breath, she pulled it into herself. Like a fever that burned hot and cold at once, a dull throbbing that spread through every muscle, she drew it from the suffering man and took the pain into herself, made it part of her being. The gift of the Lonely Goddess.

  The man's shoulders stopped shaking, he breathed easy. His eyes widened. "W-What did you do?"

  Indria gave him a strained smile. "The Lonely Goddess has heard your prayers, friend, and relieved the burden of your sorrow."

  He pressed a hand against his chest. "The ache…it's gone!"

  "The Goddess smiles upon you this day. Let her bear your suffering, and may your life be filled with the joy of love once more."

  The man clasped her hand. "Thank you, Servitor!" His shoulders straightened.

  "You owe me no gratitude, friend." Indria motioned to the altar to the Lonely Goddess, a simple stone table set in a shadowed alcove. "Give her your thanks."

  The man dropped a coin into the brass offering plate, kissed the Lonely Goddess’ marble hand, and rushed out the door.

  Indria released the breath she'd held and clenched her teeth against the burning ache in her muscles. It wouldn't do to show worshippers her weakness. The Lonely Goddess had given her this gift to be used--she would bear the burden as long as she must.

  Servitor Ryanna slipped onto the pew beside her. "It's bad again, isn't it?"

  Indria nodded and closed her eyes. One breath at a time, the only way to get past the pain.

  Worry furrowed the brow of the girl barely old enough to take her Servitor’s oath. "Let me help you to your chambers."

  She wanted to argue, to insist others needed her help, but she hadn't the strength. Too many had come to the temple today, seeking comfort from the Goddess of the Orphaned and Brokenhearted. She'd taken on too much. The icy burn of her muscles almost drowned out the twisting in her stomach, but her vision had already begun to blur. She couldn't bring herself to eat, though she needed the strength.

  She allowed Ryanna to pull her to her feet and leaned on her fellow Servitor for support. Her trembling legs protested every step down the long, chilly corridor toward her room. A muscle spasm would've made her collapse if not for Ryanna's strong arms. Just a few more steps.

  Ryanna swung the door to her cell open, and Indria shuffled inside on numb feet. The cold heat spread through her arms to her fingertips as she fumbled at the clasps of her robe. Ryanna knew better than to offer assistance. Instead, the young Servitor lowered her onto the edge of the bathing tub and slipped in silence out the door.

  The clasps refused to budge, so Indria slid into the tub fully clothed. She gasped at the sudden chill, but the water sapped the heat from her muscles. With every breath, the pain slowly receded. Sensation returned to her hands and feet.

  She closed her eyes and listened to the drip, drip, drip of the water trickling from the walls. To all others, the House of Tears wept poison. To her, the weeping stones brought the only relief from her pain.

  No, not her pain, but the pain she took from others. The Lonely Goddess’ gift felt like a curse some days--days like today. Though the water washed away the suffering of those she had touched, her own pain remained.

  Her fingers played over the contours of the locket Eriall had given her on their wedding day. A lifetime ago. He'd promised her the world, as any prosperous young merchant man would. The locket was his last gift to her.

  The downfall of the Bloody Hand had been cruel to all of Voramis. For three days, the Heresiarchs had battled to quell the riots and looting. Two days too many for her Eriall. Her heart had shattered as she watched his broken, battered body thrown into the pauper's grave with the rest of the casualties. She'd come to the temple fully intending to drink the Goddess’ tears and put an end to it all.

  She couldn't do that now. She stroked the swell of her belly. The Servitors had stopped her, cared for her, brought her into the House of Tears. They'd told her the good news. It had only broken her heart further. No husband, no money, no one to care for the child.

  She'd discovered the gift that night. Sitting in the temple, screaming a silent prayer to the Goddess, she had been joined by an elderly woman. One glance in the woman's eyes had revealed the depths of her pain--a pain Indria found herself wishing she could take away. A chilling burn had flooded every fiber of her being, like a thousand cold iron knives. But when she stared into the old woman's eyes, she saw the pain had gone. She had taken the woman's suffering.

  How many days since then? How much pain had the Lonely Goddess eased through her? Too many. More than once, she'd wished the pain away. But wishing had done her no more good than her prayers to the Apprentice to bring Eriall safely home.

  For the sake of her unborn infant, she would keep on. Ryanna and the other Servitors only had words of comfort to offer the woe-stricken souls who came to the House of Tears. Indria alone bore the Goddess’ gift, and the Mother Servitor had proposed a bargain: they would raise her child alongside the Beggared from the neighboring House of Need. In exchange, she would offer easement to those she could.

  To see her child cared for, she would take on the burden of a thousand suffering souls.

  A tap sounded at her door.

  She spoke without raising her head or opening her eyes. "Come."

  Sandaled feet shuffled on the floor, and a platter clanked on a nearby table. "Dinner," Ryanna spoke in a soft voice.

  "Thank you." Perhaps she could bring herself to eat later.

  "I'll be back in the morning. Rest." The door closed behind Ryanna with a click.

  Rest. Indria doubted she would sleep, but she had to close her eyes. Soon, she prayed. Though the muscle spasms had calmed and sensation returned to her limbs, the pain hadn't faded.

  No matter how much she took from others, her own pain would never fade.

  * * *

  Indria sighed and forced herself upright. Despite her exhaustion, she'd slept no more than an hour. The merciless thrumming in her muscles kept rest at bay.

  At least the burning ache had dimmed. Enough for her to pull her dress, still damp from her bath, over her head. A few wrinkles wouldn't bother the mourners seeking solace in the House of Tears.

  Ryanna entered with a covered plate. Indria smiled at the scent of fresh-baked rosemary orange bread--her favorite. How she found time among the myriad duties of a Servitor, Indria would never know. Just as Ryanna would never truly understand how much Indria appreciated these small gestures.

  The look in Ryanna's eyes wiped away Indria's cheer.

  "That many?"

  Ryanna nodded. "At least a dozen." Her brow furrowed. "It's too many."

  Hiding her dismay, Indria shook her head. "The Lonely Goddess will bring the comfort they seek. We are simply her messengers." She ran a hand over her belly; the swell had just begun to show.

  Ryanna looked unconvinced. "As you say, Servitor." With a shallow bow, she slipped from the room.

  Indria picked at the bread. She could manage only a few bites before her stomach protested. Her weakness from the previous night had faded, but it would return by the end of the day. Exhaustion, fatigue, numbness, blurred vision, the chilling heat--the Lonely Goddess demanded a high price for her mercy.

  But Indria would pay the price if it spared others the pain that filled her heart. The Goddess’ gift would not take away her suffering.

  She pushed aside the plate after a few bites and hobbled down the corridor toward the House of Tears’ main room. True to Ryanna's word, a motley collection of men and women filled the wooden pews lining the chamber. Her eyes fell upon one: a woman, young like Ryanna, with a pale face, slumped shoulders, and red-rimmed eyes.

  She slid into the pew beside the woman and placed a hand on her arm. "The Lonely Goddess would hear of your pain, friend."

  * * *

  Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she would not cry out as Ryanna helped her slide into the tub. Only once the young Servitor fled the room did Indria allow the moans to escape. Every breath brought a fres
h wave of pain. Cold and stabbing like knives of ice, hot and piercing like glowing irons. The pain drowned out all but the animal desire to scream and howl until unconsciousness released her from the burden of the Goddess’ gift.

  The cool water of the bath slowly dimmed the fire until she could breathe without crying out. The trembling of her hands and legs lessened, but the right side of her head pulsed so hard her vision blurred. She clamped her eyes shut and whispered desperate prayers for her child to survive.

  "Hear my pain, Lonely Goddess, and give me the grace to bear it."

  * * *

  Indria opened the door to her cell, and stopped at sight of Ryanna sitting on the stone floor. The young girl jumped up and dragged a sleeve across puffy eyes. "I'm sorry, Servitor. I shouldn't have…"

  "What is it?"

  Ryanna didn't meet her gaze. "I-I…"

  Indria rested a hand on the young girl's cheeks. "Tell me, Ryanna."

  Ryanna's dark eyes flashed as she looked at Indria. "There's too many of them!"

  Indria's stomach twisted, but she kept her expression calm. "How many?"

  "Two score. Maybe more."

  A burden settled on Indria's shoulders, and her right eye twitched as the pounding in her head returned. Worry flashed through her. Could she withstand the suffering? Could her baby?

  She took a deep breath, stood straight. "The Goddess knows what she is doing, Ryanna." She tilted Ryanna's face up. "She will give us the grace to bear her burden." Surely the Goddess would protect those sworn to her service.

  Ryanna looked ready to argue, but Indria squeezed her shoulder. "Come, Servitor. Let us bring the Goddess’ mercy to the deserving."

  * * *

  Water splashed as Indria jerked upright. "Where…?"

  The familiar bare stone of her room greeted her, and her ragged breaths echoed the drip, drip, dripping of the leaking walls.

  Ryanna bent over her, brows furrowed, eyes dark as storms. "It happened again."

  Indria tried to speak, but a fog filled her mind and stole the words from her lips. She leaned back and let the cool water melt away the fire coursing through every fiber.