“Does it matter so much?” Demial gritted her teeth, forced the words out through lips clenched tight. “She’s home now.” She laid her hand upon his forearm. The muscles were taut and knotted.
Demial smoothed his clenched fingers open, rubbing his hand until the muscles relaxed. “Have you had anything to eat? Why don’t you go and rest for a while? I’ll stay here with Taya.” She almost choked on saying the name but managed to keep her voice easy and natural.
He shook his head. “No, I shouldn’t leave her.”
Demial ground her teeth to keep from showing her true feelings. “Quinn. . you can’t stay with her every moment. Even you have to sleep and eat. What about the mine?”
“Do you think I care about the mine?”
Anger flared in her, cold and sharp, but she managed to squelch it. It surprised her how much it mattered to hear him say it, how it hurt to know that all the work they’d done didn’t count. Why had she expected anything else, though, now that he had Taya back? “Of course you care about the mine. You know you do. You’re just tired and hurt right now. Please. . take a break. Rest. I’ll stay here.”
He looked at her, misinterpreting the anguish in her face. He relented, covering her hand with his and squeezed. “Thank you,” he said. His smile was tired, but genuine. He touched her, finally, turning his hand over, enclosing her fingers. Instead of cheering him, though, touching her only seemed to sadden him more. He stood quickly, murmuring, “Thank you,” again as he left.
Demial stayed on the floor a moment longer, scrutinizing her surroundings. This hut was much smaller than hers, almost claustrophobic with its low ceiling and one tiny window. The fireplace was huge in comparison and had only banked coals glowing in it now. There was a small table, scarred from much use, and two chairs: the one that Quinn had been sitting in and an even smaller one beside the bed. Finally she had to look at that bed, at what lay upon it. Once she’d looked, she couldn’t look away.
There was barely enough body underneath the blanket to make a shape in it. As if aware of her scrutiny, Taya moaned and moved restlessly, tossing her head on the pillow, showing more energy than Demial would have thought she possessed. She writhed against the blanket, pinned by its weight, fighting to get out from under it.
Demial shuddered. It was a feeling she knew, being pinned down and helpless, and she would not watch even her worst enemy suffer it. She was across the tiny room in two steps and peeled the blanket away.
Lyrae had dressed Taya in a cotton nightdress. One of the sleeves was pushed up, and Demial could see that Taya’s left arm had been broken between shoulder and elbow but never set properly. The flesh was flawless, though sickly white, and showed an unnatural, lumpy curve where the line of her arm should have been straight and clean. Where the sleeve was bunched, the skin showed the beginnings of the scars Demial had seen earlier.
Taya’s face was scarred, too. Not so noticeably as her body, but there was a long, white line that started beneath her jaw and traced the outline of her face in front of her ear. There was a pebbling of tiny craters on the same side, as if someone had thrown droplets of acid on her temple. Whatever had happened to her, she had barely missed losing an eye.
The overall effect of white marks mingled with blue veins on the pale skin was strangely exotic, in a macabre sort of way. More repellent was the dull, lifeless dry straw that had once been Taya’s glorious hair. Once, it had poured through Quinn’s fingers like water, like shining silk. She could see him still, reaching out to catch up a strand of it, holding it up high over Taya’s head and letting it cascade back into place. She could see Taya’s laughing face as she turned and mock-reprimanded Quinn.
Taya’s hands flew up, writhing in the air. Her eyes opened, and she stared straight at Demial. She went absolutely still, rigid. “Demial?” she whispered in her ruined voice.
Demial gaped. Before she could respond, before she could even decide how to respond, Taya’s eyes glazed over and she began to mumble again.
“Mountain. Mountain. I found the mountain. Hide here. Mountain.” Then her voice trailed off, growing shrill and unintelligible but for the occasional word, and even then making no sense. The flow of words caused a prolonged, racking cough, and droplets of blood sprayed the front of the white nightdress, the corner of the pillow, and Taya’s face.
Grimacing, Demial dipped a cloth in the bucket of water and attempted to wipe up the mess without actually touching her patient. Taya made it difficult by having another twisting and turning spell, striking out with fingers so gaunt they would surely break if they struck anything.
Looking at the broken body was nauseating. Actually having to touch it. . the thought made her skin crawl, but there was no other way. As Taya arched, Demial slipped her hand between the bed and Taya’s shoulders, turning her hand to grasp her neck and hold tight.
Taya went lax across her hand, head lolling back the way a young child’s would if it wasn’t supported. Her hair felt like straw, brushing against Demial’s fingers, but the body was not what she’d expected. Though she showed no flush, Taya’s skin was burning up, fever hot, as if the magical fire that had scarred it was still burning inside.
Demial had expected her to feel like a husk, dried and dessicated, but she was actually very heavy, quite substantial for someone so tiny. She felt. . real. Real and alive. She was so still across Demial’s arm, but she was alive, breathing, heart beating. Demial could feel the beat pulsing against her arm, the uneven edges of scar tissue beneath her fingers where she touched bare flesh, the push of one sharp shoulder where it seemed to protrude.
Demial shuddered again, moving her head so that she could feel her own thick braid against her even, strong, smooth back. She watched her own fingers flex as she wiped the blood and spittle from Taya’s face. Taya didn’t struggle against her. She lay limp and trusting in Demial’s hand.
The marks on Taya’s face would have been exotic had they been decoration, painted on for Festival. However, this was from a battle so horrible that few would have crawled away with their lives. Perhaps the wounds were from that last horrible battle.
Demial had walked away from that battle. In fact, she had only one scar from the whole war, from early on before good had joined evil against a common foe. One tiny scar was not even as long as her hand, a thin, curving line of white along her ribs where she had allowed a Solamnic Knight’s sword to come too close. The Knight had paid for her mistake with his life.
What if she had to wear that mark, and more, on her face? On her arms and back? As Demial eased Taya back down to the bed, the woman’s eyes opened, slowly, this time. If she was surprised to find Demial touching her, she didn’t show it. In fact, she looked grateful. She breathed, “Demial.” She was sure this time, though before it had been a question. “Help me.”
She rolled away from Demial’s hand and began to mumble again, of mountains and battles and numbers.
Her voice, cracked and tired in the beginning, gained strength until she was shrill, frightened, and frightening. Demial sat by the bed and wished she could cover her ears, but all she could do was wait. Long minutes became hours while the sounds grated on her nerves. Loud to quiet to loud again.
When Marta came in later, carrying a steaming bowl of soup and fresh towels, Taya had almost worn herself down to quiet again.
The old lady left the soup and an oversized spoon on the table by the bed. “How’s she doing?” she asked. She set the cloths on the table beneath the window, then bustled about, lighting the candles in the room while Demial mumbled a reply to her question.
Demial was only aware of how dark the room was after it grew bright with flickering candlelight. She stood and stretched her tired muscles. She was stiff from sitting so long, yet her back and shoulders were as tired as if she’d arched and twisted every time Taya had done so. Her throat was dry as if each of Taya’s cries had been her own.
Marta filled a cup and brought it to the edge of the bed. Demial took it and drank the co
ol water herself before refilling it for Taya. She stopped the old lady from taking her place at the bedside.
“I’ll do it.” So far Taya had said nothing other than her name and inexplicable mad ravings, but who knew what she might say?
She eased Taya up. Taya roused and opened her eyes. She touched the cup to Taya’s lips. The young woman opened her mouth and gulped hungrily at the water, making Demial feel guilty that she had not thought to offer it before. She grasped at Demial’s forearm as the cup was withdrawn and said clearly, “What number do you believe in?”
Demial shook her head and eased Taya back against the pillows. The fingers gripping her arm flexed. Taya didn’t have enough strength to hurt her, just enough to communicate her agitation.
“What number do you believe in?” she repeated.
Demial knew what was coming now.
“What number do you believe in? What number do you believe in?”
Taya’s voice would grow more and more shrill; the words would tumble out faster and faster, until her poor voice would wear out. There was no answer that was right. Choosing a number made her more frantic. Telling her to hush made her louder. Saying that she didn’t understand made her change to another equally nonsensical question. There was no touch, rough or gentle, that could soothe her. Demial had already tried everything.
Almost everything save the clear broth that was steaming the air near her elbow. Demial dipped the spoon in it and brought soup to Taya’s lips.
“What num-?” Taya’s wild gaze danced around the room, sliding past walls and furniture and Marta, stopping at Demial.
“There,” Demial said, the way she’d heard mothers and fathers soothe their children. “There now.” She scooped up another spoonful of the broth, blew on it to cool it, and fed it to the pale pink mouth that suddenly resembled a baby bird’s gaping beak.
“Hmphh.”
Demial looked up from the feeding. The quick glance up at Marta jarred the spoon, and she spilled soup across Taya’s chin. She used her fingers to wipe it away.
“Hmphh!” There was more emphasis this time, a combination of disbelief and amazement and maybe just a little respect. Marta pierced Demial with a gaze that seemed to see beneath the artifice of her practiced smiles and cheerful demeanor.
A flush warmed her cheeks. “What?” she asked, only keeping the sharpness out of her voice with effort.
“Who’d have thought it?” the old one said softly.
“Thought what?” Demial returned to her task, dipping, blowing, dribbling broth into the baby bird’s beak.
Marta thrust a cloth into her hand to use for wiping Taya’s chin. She continued to watch a moment longer. “Who’d have ever thought you’d watch over this one like she was your own sister?”
Demial didn’t dare look up. That piercing gaze would see right through her, would see her for the fraud she was. It wasn’t the first time that she’d realized not everyone was taken in by her sunny smiles and her small good deeds, but it was the first time the thought bothered her. “We were friends once,” she said simply.
“Hm-m-m,” Marta agreed in a tone that didn’t really agree. “You were thick all right. I remember that, but for all that, I never thought you liked her much.”
“I like her fine,” Demial snapped. Taya started nervously at the harshness in her voice, and she lowered it carefully. “I told Quinn I’d take care of her. I always do what I say I will.”
“Hm-m-m.”
Demial clenched the spoon handle tightly. If that old fox said “hm-m-m” once more. .
Marta shifted into motion, quick steps that belied her ancient, thin-looking bones. “I’d better leave you to it then.”
Before Demial could react, the old lady was out the door, saying over her shoulder, “Someone’ll be in with your supper soon.”
The door closed behind her, and Demial sat, spoon dangling, dripping broth into her lap. Why hadn’t she watched her tongue? She’d been so disconcerted to hear the truth, but now she had to stay with Taya until someone else came. She’d been sure Marta would relieve her.
Taya shifted, her fingers beginning their dance in the air. “I believe in Mishakal, goddess of light,” she said. “I believe in-”
Demial turned back to her and cut off her litany with more broth. “Yes, I know,” she said. “So did we all, at one point or another. Look where it got us.”
It was Quinn who brought her meal. He came quietly through the door with a bowl of stew in one hand and a board with bread and cheese in the other.
He startled her, and she came up quickly, fists clenching, feet spread for the best balance, before she realized who it was. She smiled at him sheepishly. “I must have dozed off.”
She had leaned her arm on the table and rested her head upon it, just to ease the muscles in her neck for a moment. Taya’s voice must have lulled her to sleep.
She could tell Quinn had slept, too, but it had done him no good. His eyes were tired, drooping, bloodshot as if he’d been out in a windstorm. She wanted him to come to her, to touch her wrist, but he only stood in the doorway, looking at her as if he didn’t know what to say, as if he were loath to come in.
His gaze slid past her to Taya, and his expression softened. His eyes blinked rapidly. “I’ve brought you something to eat,” he said, advancing into the room.
Demial looked down at Taya. She’d been asleep until he spoke. Now she moved and worked her mouth as if she was about to start talking again.
Demial would have liked to hate her, for the words that would soon pour out, for the wounded way Quinn looked at Taya, but she didn’t have the strength.
“I’ll stay with her now,” he said, coming up behind Demial, “if you want to eat. If you want to rest.”
Demial nodded and moved away. She wasn’t hungry, but she was tired, so tired. She paused in the doorway and looked back at Quinn.
He was perched on the edge of the small chair, leaning over Taya, smoothing back her hair.
“I’ll come back in the morning,” Demial said, “so you can go to the mine.”
“That’s all right,” he said. “I don’t care about going to the mine. You go.”
He didn’t even look back, but Taya’s eyes were open, and she was looking right at Demial.
Demial wrenched herself away, not even bothering to take a candle to light her way. She stumbled home and fell across her bed in darkness.
She was still tired when the sun woke her. She rolled over, confused for a moment that the curtains were open, allowing bright cheerful sunlight to cut across the corner of the bed. In an instant she remembered everything, and reality slammed into her. She blinked away the sudden tears and rolled out of bed. She dressed slowly and walked up the path to Taya’s hut. Quinn sat in almost the same position as when she’d left the night before, his big hands dangling uselessly between his knees. Taya was sleeping restlessly, moving beneath the blankets.
Demial went to the bed and folded the blankets back to her waist. “She doesn’t like the weight,” she told him.
He glanced up at her and tried to smile, but it only looked as if his mouth was too tired or too frozen as if he were too numb with grief.
“I’m going to check on the mine. Maybe work for a while.”
He nodded, lowering his head.
She knew there was no point in trying to convince him to go. Taya had robbed him of his dreams for the village. The girl had robbed Demial of her dreams, too.
The mine was even more depressing and lonely than it had been the day before. There were fewer workers, and among those who had bothered to come there was less energy, less life. Quinn was the heart, the lifeblood, of the project, and his heart was elsewhere now.
Demial stood watching the listless movements of the workers and felt something angry swell up inside her. She had worked hard. The magic had not stopped the tiredness at the end of the day, the aching muscles, or the blistered hands. She had given of herself to the mine, and she refused to have it all go t
o waste now.
She plastered a smile onto her face and strode up to the entrance to the mine. With energy and cheer she didn’t feel, she grabbed a sled and took her place in line. “Rory,” she called, “you’re going to have to move faster than that to keep up with me!”
The big man looked back over his shoulder, meeting her gaze with tired, dispirited eyes. After a moment, though, he grinned. “No skinny woman can best me in carrying rocks,” he laughed and set off at a cheerful pace with his sled.
When she laughed with him, the others laughed with her.
“What do you think?” one of them asked, pointing to the far side of the entrance where the end of a heavy, wooden beam lay beneath a pile of stone, then to the other side where another pile of stone loomed formidably. “Which side should we try to clear first?”
She looked back and forth, considering carefully. “I think we should work to free the beam first. If it’s still whole, we can use it to shore up the arch as we go farther in.”
She glanced around at the small group who had waited for her answer, holding her breath to see if anyone would challenge her choice. It was the kind of advice for which they would have looked to Quinn only a day ago, and she waited to see if someone would say they should ask him.
No one even mentioned him. They all nodded in agreement, then stepped up behind her to fill their sleds.
Demial had neglected, again, to enhance her strength with the staff, so her day was painful, but she was so filled with determination that the time seemed to pass quickly.
As she trudged back through the village that evening, Lyrae stopped her and said, “I told Quinn that all of us would take turns sitting with Taya, but he won’t hear of it. He said you and he would handle the responsibility. Please, Demial, you know that any of us will help. You have only to ask.”
Demial nodded and walked on, knowing that she had to change clothes quickly, force herself to eat, and take Quinn’s place at Taya’s side. So now Quinn wouldn’t allow any of the others to sit with Taya. Well, it was no comfort to her at all to know that he had such faith in her.
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