Darkblade avenger, p.117
Darkblade Avenger, page 117
part #1 of Hero of Darkness Series
His gaze slid away from hers. She hadn't spoken a word of complaint when he awoke screaming or left their bed late at night to walk to the graveyard. But the bags under her eyes and the deepened grooves beside her mouth and eyes spoke of the toll on her.
He kissed her hand and pressed it against his cheek. "It will all be over soon, I promise."
* * *
"Before we begin," said Loftus, the Illusionist Cleric, "I am compelled to ask if you are certain you want to proceed with this. The Rite of Erasure comes with certain…side effects. Once the ritual is complete, there is no way to restore your memories. They will be lost forever."
"Good." Naylor gritted his teeth. He could live without the grisly images. He had to forget the cowardice that had saved his life as his friends died. "I am certain."
"So be it. Follow me."
The Illusionist Cleric led him down a side passage, away from the broad, marble-tiled antechamber of the Temple of Prosperity. Naylor kept his eyes fixed on his guide's back; the images and geometric patterns etched into the walls of the corridor set his head spinning. Colors swirled in dissonant patterns among lines and shapes he'd never seen. The interior of the Illusionist Clerics' temple was even more mind-boggling than its exterior.
Vertigo seized him and he staggered.
"Easy." Loftus gripped his wrist. "Do not try to focus on any one thing, but simply let your gaze roam as your mind demands."
Naylor did as instructed and found his eyes sliding through the swirling, writhing patterns on the walls. The images dragged his mind along, guiding him on a mental journey. The images that formed in his thoughts seemed ever out of conscious reach yet spoke to something deep within. Tears streamed down his face and sobs shook his shoulders.
Loftus stopped at a door. "In here."
The room contained a single wooden, cross-shaped bench.
"Lay down."
Naylor did as instructed. His muscles tensed as Loftus tightened straps around his wrists, ankles, and across his forehead.
"Relax. The Rite of Erasure can be unpleasant for some. These are to prevent you from harm."
The priest's gentle tone soothed Naylor and he relaxed, his eyes fixed on the chaotic patterns engraved in the marble ceiling.
From beneath his robes, Loftus produced a silver pendant. He swung it slowly before Naylor's face.
"The Rite of Erasure is a gift of the Illusionist, yet it comes at a cost. For us to purge your mind of the memory, you must first relive it."
Ice seeped into Naylor's veins. "I-I…can't." He'd spent the last two months trying everything to suppress the memory.
"You must." Loftus spoke in a quiet voice that seemed to pull Naylor deeper into the pendant's silvery depths. "Tell me what you wish to forget."
Naylor swallowed. The images surged to the forefront of his mind.
"We…we had just finished a-a job and were divvying up the haul." He relived the night: the icy chill of the wind whistling through the Port of Voramis, the darkness of the starless evening, the warmth of the brandy in his veins.
"Suddenly, he was there. Th-The Hunter!"
Fear spiked his pulse and set his heart racing.
"He appeared as if out of nowhere. His eyes, they were black as the darkest night, but burned with such hatred and rage. I-I've never seen anything like it."
His legs twitched, desperate to escape.
"I didn't think, but I just ran."
He'd seen death written in the assassin's eyes, and instinct had spurred him to escape. He hadn't paused to cry a warning; he'd bolted through the alleys without a sound.
The images flashed through his mind.
Three feet of steel severed Eckard's hand, leg, then his head before he had a chance to turn. A wet thunk echoed in the night as the Hunter drove his long sword through Peet's chest.
"I fled." His throat thickened. "Like a coward, I fled and left my friends to die! Oh gods, forgive me!"
Delgar's cry of agony rattled in Naylor's bones as the assassin snapped his knee with a kick, then drove a dagger into his chest. Red light flared bright in the darkness, casting an eerie glow on Tadan's pale face. The Hunter's sword tore open Tadan's throat, cutting off his scream with a wet gurgle.
His throat thickened and tears streamed down his cheeks. He had no words left. He could only drown in the memories of that terrible night.
Terror spurred him to run faster, his boots pounding through the muddy streets of the Beggar's Quarter. He didn't dare glance back—his legs would turn to water if he glimpsed that terrible, cloaked figure with eyes the color of midnight pursuing him.
"You wish to forget?" The priest's voice floated to him across a vast distance.
"Yes!" Naylor gasped. "Please, take it away!"
The pendant swung faster, glinting in the faint light. Naylor found himself drawn deeper. Everything faded until only the swirling metal remained. The dancing silver tugged at his consciousness, pulled him in until something snapped loose in his mind.
The memory flashed before him again, yet it seemed somehow alien. Four men died in front of him; he felt nothing. The horror and guilt, gone. His body relaxed, his muscles loosening. He floated in a place of peace, disconnected from everything.
Slowly, the images trickled from his mind like sand through his fingers. The screams, the smell of death, and the instinctive fear gave way to…nothing.
* * *
Naylor blinked at the bright sunlight. He stood before the Temple of Prosperity. What was he doing here?
"The disorientation will pass." A voice spoke behind him. An Illusionist Cleric filled the doorway to the temple.
He tried to speak but no words came out. The man looked oddly familiar.
"Your mind will recover from the Rite, but you must rest and give it time to heal." The priest searched his eyes. "If you cannot find your way home, perhaps you might rest in the House of Need and—"
"Of course I can find my way home," Naylor snapped. How dare this stranger question him? He pushed away the restraining hand and strode down the steps.
His legs refused to heed his command. He stumbled and caught himself. What in the fiery hell was wrong with him? Glaring at the priest, he forced his legs to hold him upright as he descended toward Divinity Square.
He racked his brain. What happened to him? He remembered sitting at the table with Etta, then…what? Everything had gone fuzzy since…
The Rite of Erasure! He had an image of gold imperials exchanging hands, of being led deeper into the Illusionist's temple. After that, nothing.
Something had changed. The cleric had removed a part of him, the part that weighed on him. He felt lighter, his shoulders no longer stooped beneath the burden of…whatever he'd paid to have expunged from his memories.
It was an odd sensation; the spring in his step, the smile on his face. The city seemed somehow brighter, the colors more vivid. He actually found himself whistling a jaunty tune he and Tadan had learned as street rats. He ought to pay his friend a visit. Tomorrow. An ache had settled behind his eyes. He'd rest and give his head time to recover from the Rite, as the cleric—Loftus, that's his name—had instructed.
He smiled at the sight of Etta standing over the stove. The way her hair curled in a halo around her face, the fine lines around her eyes and lips from years of smiling and laughing at his daughter and granddaughter. He crossed the kitchen, wrapped his arms around his wife, and kissed her cheek.
"There you are!" She turned to him, her tone scolding. "You were supposed to be home hours…" Her forehead wrinkled. "Y-You look…different."
He kissed her again. "I feel different, too. Better."
"What did you do?" She narrowed her eyes. "Not opiates. You know how I feel about—"
He pulled her close. He didn't need drugs, not anymore. Whatever Loftus took from him had lifted the burden from his shoulders. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he was happy.
* * *
"Sweet Mistress!" Etta gasped as Naylor rolled to the bed beside her. They lay side by side for a long moment, panting.
Naylor struggled for breath. "Been a while…since we've done that…eh? Probably for the best. Getting too old." He made a show of clutching his chest.
Etta laughed. Her smile smoothed the wrinkles on her face and, for a moment, Naylor caught a glimpse of the woman he'd married four decades earlier.
"Speak for yourself." She gave him a vicious poke in the ribs.
Happiness blossomed in Naylor's chest. It was an odd sensation, one he hadn't felt in a long time. He couldn't recall what had stolen his joy, but he was glad to be rid of it. He was content to lay beside Etta, fingers laced with hers, feeling the cool breeze wafting through the window.
Eventually they arose, dressed, and sat to enjoy the meal Etta had prepared. Throughout, he could sense Etta's curious gaze burning through him. Her brow creased as he finally explained the Rite of Erasure. She didn't ask what memory he'd expunged—she probably knew more about it than he. But the way she clung to his hand and the broad smile on her face, he sensed no complaint.
"I'm just happy to have my Naylor back." She kissed him, and he returned it with feeling.
Appetite satiated, he stood and reached for his cloak. "Off to work."
Worry flashed across her eyes. He'd never hidden his jobs from her; she knew how dangerous the life of a thief was, especially without the protection of the Bloody Hand.
"Don't worry. I've got an easy score lined up tonight." He didn't tell her about the previous night's chase with the Heresiarchs. "After a quick visit with Tadan and the crew, I'll be in and out before midnight."
Etta's mouth opened but no words came out. After a moment, she swallowed and said, "Be safe, dear."
Puzzled, Naylor kissed his wife's forehead and strode from the house. Even as he closed the door, he couldn't help wondering about the strained look on Etta's face.
* * *
Naylor thought it odd that Tadan, Delgar, and the others weren't at their usual post. They had always preferred to spend the final hours before sundown perched on their favorite stoop outside an abandoned warehouse in the Beggar's Quarter. He'd half-expected to hear Peet calling out an insult or see Eckard's rude gesture to the Heresiarch patrol—always behind their backs, of course; even Eckard wasn't fool enough to insult the only people in Voramis permitted to carry swords.
The stoop had been empty. He'd sat waiting until a full hour after sunset, and still his friends hadn't arrived.
Something felt…wrong. He racked his brain, trying to think of why none of them had come. The Bloody Hand's demise two months earlier hadn't stopped crime in Voramis. Of anything, the Hunter's destruction of the Bloody Hand had only increased violence and theft in the city. Gangs had arisen to fill the vacuum. He'd even heard whispers of a crew comprised exclusively of women.
He'd been a part of the Bloody Hand but, for some unfathomable reason, he'd escaped the Hunter's wrath. He had no memory of what had happened. Perhaps he'd simply slept through it.
With a sigh, he stood and pulled up his hood. He had a job to do, but he'd be back tomorrow. Maybe then Tadan, Delgar, Eckard, and Peet would be waiting for him.
* * *
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.
