She smiled down at him now, remembering the placid cow and a seven-year-old boy’s smile. “I don’t do anything for you, though, do I?”
He met her gaze squarely, all banter gone from his voice. “Yes, you do. You can’t begin to know how much happiness your smile brings to us all.”
It was more of an opening than she could have ever wrangled on her own. “Perhaps I should do more,” she said softly. She placed just enough emphasis on the last word to be mildly suggestive, not enough that he would be frightened away if it was something he didn’t want to hear.
He shrugged, the smile going a little tight.
Demial nodded and turned away quickly before overeagerness could turn her face bright and brittle. “I think I’ll just go get a drink of water before I start back to work.”
As she topped the little rise that would take her out of sight, she turned back to him. He was sitting where she had left him, watching her. “Maybe I could cook supper for you sometime, to make up for the smashed cake?” she said.
For a moment he looked at her, and she thought for sure he was going to refuse. He was going to say sadly, with that annoying dignity, “My heart is elsewhere. I couldn’t possibly.” But to her delight, he nodded, showing white, white teeth in his tanned face.
Demial walked briskly away, allowing a smile, a real smile, to split her face. Cunning and hunger had aided her plan. She could go back to work now and toil without feeling the complaints of her body at the physical exertion, or of her mind at the boredom of carrying rocks.
On her way home that evening, she didn’t mingle with the other villagers as she normally would have, joining in their tired laughter, stopping to greet the old people who sat near the well waiting to hear the news of the mine project.
Instead she hurried home to eat and to clean up before everyone gathered in the common area around the square to talk of the day’s work and of the coming festival days.
Her hut was as nice as any in the village. It had a fireplace that worked and windows with real glass and a big, comfortable, clean mattress stuffed with fresh straw that crinkled when she moved in the night. The table and bench bore a golden sheen from years and years of use. Demial hurriedly polished with a rag, wiping away any hint of dust. She smoothed the blankets on the bed and fluffed the closed curtains with her fingers before putting the stew on to warm.
Marta had left a loaf of sweet, fragrant bread on the stoop, and Demial sliced it and set it on the table. She carried wood for the old lady from the communal pile every other day and in return always found some little something-a jar of jelly or a loaf of bread or a piece of pie-left beside the door. The old lady firmly denied that it was her doing. No matter; such little kindnesses were all part of the plan.
After she had eaten, Demial checked that the bar holding the door was fastened securely, slipped out of her dirty work clothes, and closed her fingers around her staff. It was smooth and warm and welcoming, as if it was as lonely for the touch of a mage as she was lonely for the touch of magic.
She stroked it, the smooth grain of the wood and the gently curving whorls, as she took her place in front of the fire. Soon she would have to apply herself to the very real task of finding an explanation for the staff, of how she had come to discover its power so that she could use it at the mine. She smiled as she thought of Quinn’s face, when she wished for the magical spell that would restore the mine.
Quinn would be outside soon, joining in the villager’s evening gossip. She didn’t have time tonight for woolgathering. She caressed the staff and stoked its magic, and wished a wordless wish for cleansing, for soft sweetness. The spell danced around her, lifting her hair and tracing on her skin.
When it was done, the staff safely back in its place, she went to the back window and drew the curtains. Using the greenish glass for a mirror, she checked her appearance. Perfect. Her hair shone as if it had been oiled. She was as silky soft and sweet smelling as some pampered city lady.
With a grin that was as shiny as her hair, she wheeled away from the window, leaving the curtains pulled wide. She drew on her best tunic, belt, and slippers and threw open the curtains on the other window, then the door.
A darkness covered her as the door flew open. She jumped to find Quinn, lazing in the doorway, blocking out the waning sun. He wore his best trousers and vest, and he smelled of river water and soap. His hair had been slicked down except for the unruly curls in front, which stood up in wet tufts. The cool shadow of his body crawled up her body as he drew closer.
“I was hoping you would be joining us tonight,” he said huskily, offering his arm to escort her.
Denial woke early as sunlight poured in the tiny back window and slithered its way across the floor. “How does anyone sleep like this?” she wondered, rolling up to a sitting position.
Her head was heavy, weighted down by her hair and the ale she had drank the night before. She groaned softly and threw an arm over her eyes to shut out the light. She had never had a head for drinking. After the way she’d been raised, she’d never bothered to develop one. Blurring her brain with drink didn’t make any sense to her, but Quinn had offered her a tankard, so she’d taken it. He’d been in such high spirits that she’d wanted to join him.
It had worked, because he’d sat by her all evening, laughing at her jokes and listening to her thoughts on the mine as if her words were wisdom. A fuzzy head was a small price to pay for taking her plan one more step toward completion. Now all she had to do was come up with an explanation for the staff and to use it. After that Quinn would be hers, because. . well, between the smiles she bestowed upon him and the magic she would perform on the mine, how could he not?
She was standing in the middle of the room, staring at the staff, when a commotion woke her from her reverie. She turned her head to the side. The noise sounded as if most of the village had gathered just past the well and were all talking at once. The only remaining dog was barking at the excitement. Strangely, though, she couldn’t hear any of the children. Normally, they were right in the middle of any excitement, their shrill little voices cutting through conversation.
“It sounds as if half the village has decided to start May Fest early,” she said to herself as she jerked on her robe and shoes and hurried outside.
Most of the adult population of the village was gathered in the common area near the well, grouped in a knot near the bench where the elders sat in the afternoon enjoying the sun, waiting to hear the gossip of the day. Their voices were more subdued now, but still excited. Lyrae, baby on hip, went past Demial’s hut at a quick trot as a young man ran to the well to draw water, while someone else came past carrying a blanket.
Across the way, Quinn was just coming out of his hut. His shirt was thrown carelessly over one bare shoulder, and he had his boots in his hand.
Demial detoured down the path toward him. She ignored the growing cacophony, admiring the play of muscle under his skin as he bent to set his boots on a stump at the edge of his yard.
“What’s all the noise?” he asked.
“I’m not sure.”
His easy grin was hidden, his voice muffled, as he tugged his shirt on over his head. His abdominal muscles rippled as he yanked at the shirt. He stomped his feet into his boots, pulling them on and up. He started walking, and she slipped into step with him, as if walking together were the most natural thing in the world.
The crowd near the well was clustered around someone or something. What could have happened? Had one of the old ones taken sick and died, sitting in the morning sun? The bright golden light seemed absurdly cheerful for someone to have died in it.
“What’s happened?” Quinn demanded.
The crowd parted, allowing him into its center. His steps slowed. A sudden, eerie silence fell as he stepped forward.
Apprehension washed over Demial. Not caring what they thought of her, whether they thought it was her place or not, Demial followed him, holding on to his shirt, pushing against the press of bodi
es that closed about him.
She felt his gasp through her fingers, pressed against his back, heard the rumble of his “Oh, gods.” She knew somehow, with that same prescience that had told her Quinn would soon be hers, that this something was worse than death.
Quinn went to his knees, giving her a view of what was at the center of the crowd.
All her carefully laid plans, her perfect world, her vision, went as bright and washed out as if she’d stared too long into the sun. For seconds, minutes, she couldn’t even see anything, and then when the swirling white light cleared from her vision, she wished it was gone again.
Taya.
Quinn was on his knees, small nonsensical sounds that were nearly whimpers coming from his throat. With a grip so tight it threatened to break her small fingers, he held the hands of a woman. . what was left of a woman.
Taya. . childhood rival. . girlhood nemesis. Taya the good.
Quinn leaned even closer, wrapping his long arms around the woman’s shoulders.
Taya, who had supposedly taken Quinn’s heart into the grave. Taya the blessed. Light to Demial’s dark.
Even now, she was stealing the light, stealing what was Demial’s. As if to confirm what her mind was repeating, to make her believe it, the woman standing on Demial’s right murmured the name.
“Taya.”
The one small murmur was like the rocks caving in on the mine. Words rumbled, spilling and roiling around Demial, drowning out whatever Quinn was saying to the woman as he held her.
“It’s Taya.”
“Where’s she been all this time?”
“She left during the war, to serve with the forces of Kalaman.”
“What’s happened to her?”
“Look at her hair.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
Demial had been straining to hear what Quinn was saying. Only now did she look, really look at the figure he was holding. She could see only a portion of the woman’s too pale face, one thin shoulder, and one emaciated arm.
Taya was sitting, barely supporting herself. She was speaking in a voice that creaked like an old wagon wheel, but the words didn’t make any sense. They were words like “mountains,”
“battle,”
“river.”
“Number,” maybe. The words did not flow together into any semblance of meaning.
Quinn rose, and Demial gasped. As carefully schooled as she was in never showing her true feelings, she couldn’t hide her horror. Quinn’s expression was dull, shocked, the expression of a man who had just awakened to a nightmare.
There was not even a hint of the strong, blonde beauty Taya had been. It was as if someone had starved her, beaten her, broken her bones, allowed her to heal not quite right, then started over again. Her body was shrunken and trembling. Her hair was ragged, dull as straw.
Quinn helped her to her feet, grasping her arms and pulling her up gently.
Taya managed to stand but only with Quinn’s support. She turned her head. Her quirky, not quite focused gaze landed on Demial, and Demial realized there was something of the old Taya still there-her eyes. Her bright, bluer-than-the-sky eyes. She looked at Demial, gaze sharpening. Taya stared right at her, and the mumbling stopped.
Demial took a step back and felt her heel come down on someone’s foot. Did Taya recognize her? If she did, she gave no indication. The young woman leaned against Quinn’s broad chest and allowed herself to be lifted up. She looked like a child in Quinn’s arms, a limp, lifeless child.
“Put her in my hut,” said one of the young men, pointing. The building he indicated was small but frequently used for the sick or injured due to its proximity to the well and because it had a real bed instead of a mattress on the floor.
As Quinn turned toward the hut, the villagers started to close Demial off, trailing after him, and she pushed forward again to walk at his side. She had never thought to see Taya again. She had never thought to see another woman in Quinn’s arms again. Seeing her now, seeing him with Taya, made Demial sick to her stomach, but she had to stay close.
It was no different than when she was child. She’d hated them together then, and yet she’d been part of the circle, the bad girl everyone tolerated because Quinn and Taya tolerated her. Yet Taya was always ready to tease, to torment, when Quinn wasn’t looking, always smiling sweetly when he was.
Quinn twisted awkwardly to get his small bundle through the door and laid her gently on the narrow bed.
Demial’s stomach lurched violently when he stroked Taya’s hair back from her face.
Lyrae appeared at her side, pitcher of water in one hand and a stack of cloths in the other.
Demial gaped at her, Quinn forgotten. It was the first time she’d seen Lyrae without her baby nearby. Demial’s first response was to grin with delight. Rory would be happy. All it had taken to separate her from the child had been Taya.
A frown erased the joy. Quinn was reaching for the water and towels in Lyrae’s hands, refusing to relinquish his place beside Taya.
Lyrae said, “You have to let us take care of her.”
He tried again to take the towels.
“Quinn!” Lyrae said sharply. “Move away.” Much more gently, she nudged Quinn with her knee. “Go on. Outside. You can come back in when we’re finished.”
Touching Taya once more as if to assure himself she was there, Quinn rose.
Demial went with him quickly, before she could be drafted into helping. The thought of touching that soiled, skeletal body was more than she could bear. But. . Taya had looked at her as if she knew her. What if she started to talk?
Demial glanced back, hesitating. Maybe she should stay, make sure Taya didn’t say anything. . Lyrae had pulled away a layer of dirt-encrusted cloth and was peeling back another. The bare flesh beneath was a mass of scars, swirls of raised, puckered welts that left the skin between unblemished. Bums: the kind that could only be left by magic.
Demial shuddered and turned away, closing the door behind her.
Outside, most of the villagers had drifted away. Those few who remained shuffled away, moving on to start their day, as Demial closed the door.
Quinn was sitting on the ground, his back against the wall of the hut. He braced his arms on his knees, hands dangling limply between.
Demial eased down beside him, shifting carefully to sit on a patch of grass.
Quinn drew a ragged breath and said, “Gods, Dem, what could have happened to her?” His voice was so broken, so. . lost.
She bit her lip against the urge to leap up and run away or to screech at him. No one called her that. No one! With a force of will, she remained where she was. She put on her best comforting face.
“Where’s she been all this time? What-?” His voice finally cracked. He hung his head, unable to go on.
Demial was saved from having to answer by the opening of the door. Lyrae came out into the yard. She was carrying the bowl. It was filled with soiled towels now. “She’s asleep,” she said, mainly to Quinn. When he said nothing, she said, “Are you going to sit with her now?”
“No!” Demial quickly leaped into the breach. “I will. Quinn can go on to the mine.”
“No.” His voice was flat, final. “I will. You go on to the mine.” When Demial tried to protest, he took a deep breath and let it out. His voice softened, and his fingers twitched. “You can. . you can sit with her tonight.”
Demial nodded and walked away quickly before she said something, did something, to show how little she cared for the idea of Quinn being alone with Taya-and how little she herself cared for the idea of sitting with her.
Her thoughts were occupied as she walked the path up the mountainside. She really didn’t want to be in the room with Taya, but. . wouldn’t it be the best thing to do? Wouldn’t Quinn appreciate her just that much more?
At the mine, work was already proceeding as usual. It was a little slower, maybe, as everyone paused here and there to speculate about the reappearance of Taya. Everyon
e stopped to hear more about Taya from Demial. They sighed when she could only tell them, that the woman was sleeping, then went back to work.
With no magical spell to power her and with her own lack of enthusiasm, Demial had to cut back on the amount of rock she carried. It made her self-conscious, and she kept looking over her shoulder, sure the others were suspicious, but they all seemed preoccupied with their own thoughts and tasks.
Her shoulders and elbows started to ache. Her forearms felt as if the muscles were being stretched. She suffered each rough place in the path, but it was all a dull pain, compared to thinking of Quinn’s face as he stroked Taya’s hair back from her face. Compared to wondering what he was doing now.
As she had the day before, after work Demial went first to her own hut, wanting to change her robe. She needed a few moments of solitude to ready herself, to calm herself. Then she went up the walk to the hut.
Taya was awake, but not quite conscious, mumbling something, under her breath, something repetitive and singsongy. Instead of hovering near Taya’s bed, as Demial had expected, Quirun was sitting near the one tiny window. His face was pale and harrowed and tired.
She went to him and knelt at his side.
“It’s all she’s done all day.” He waved in the direction of Taya. “I listened. I listened for a very long time, but none of it makes any sense. It’s all about a mountain and a battle, or something. I didn’t even know-” His voice broke, and he looked away from the small room and from the woman on the bed. “I thought she was dead. I was sure she was dead. Where has she been all this time?”
Heroes And Fools totfa-2 Page 21
