Heroes And Fools

The Perfect Plan
Linda P. Baker

Demial kept the door of the hut latched tight. She kept the heavy curtains drawn, edges overlapping, shutting out the light, the stars, and prying eyes.

No one else in the tiny village of Toral barred their doors and covered their windows. They went about their lives as they had before Ariakan’s army had come, over a year before, almost as they had before the war. It was as if they were denying that anything dark and hurtful would ever come into the small mountain village again.

Demial knew that wasn’t so. After all, she had fought in the war, hadn’t she? It wasn’t really darkness or the memories that she thought to keep out, though. It was nosy neighbors.

She kept the curtains closed all the time, and she dropped the wooden bar securely into place every night, even before she sat down alone to her meal. She checked the door and the windows again every morning before she picked up the staff that stood beside her fireplace. She checked them before she cast a spell with the staff that had belonged to a Nightlord, the gray-robed mage who had been her war leader, mentor, and teacher, who had taken Demial under her wing and out of this village.

As she did each morning, she cleared a space before the cold fireplace and knelt there, with the plain, wooden staff in her hands. No words for the spell came into her mind, as they once had, memorized perfectly. Magic didn’t work the way it had before the gods departed at the end of the Chaos War. The magic should not have worked at all, not without the power of Takhisis, the dark goddess who had ruled the Gray Wizards. It did work, however, and for that Demial was grateful. She didn’t question. She merely accepted the gift that had been left to her.

She asked only what she needed of the staff: warmth and food and sometimes some inconsequential, frivolous thing. Not too often a frivolous thing, because she feared that the staff’s power was limited, that it would not answer her requests indefinitely.

This morning, as every morning since she’d joined Quinn’s quest to reopen the mine, she asked only for a small amount of strength, enough to make her day go well. Asking to be just a little bit stronger than her tall, thin frame allowed was not a frivolous thing.

She clasped the staff across her body, her fingers finding a comfortable grip on it. The thick top was carved in the rough image of a dragon claw and was sharp edged with its hint of rough dragon scales. The roughness smoothed out, however, as the carved whorls began their graceful corkscrew down the staff, narrowing, growing farther apart until there was only smooth wood leading down to the brass-clad tip.

There were no words for the magic now, no memorized spells, no books of ancient runes. There were only her thoughts, her wish for what she wanted the staff to do. The magic did not feel the way it had during the war, when casting a spell had made her hot and electric, and she had basked in the approbation of the Nightlord. At that time she had felt something grow within herself, swell and build and burn until it could no longer be contained. It exploded outward, and the magic was cast into the air.

Now the magic came from without. It was no longer something to which she gave birth. It was something that happened outside her, over which she had no control, though it still made her nerves sing. It was wild and unschooled, and it left her feeling elated and invincible but also terribly sad for that which was gone forever.

This magic, the response to her wish, skittered along her arms and down over her skin. It probed at her muscles and slipped inside, leaving her shivering and shocked as ragged bursts of pain arced along her nerves. For a moment, she slumped over the staff, actually feeling weaker instead of stronger, but the sensation and the pain only lasted a moment. Then warmth coursed through her muscles, melting the weakness like hot water poured into her veins.

She knelt there a moment longer, enjoying the tingle of pleasure the spell left in its wake. Energized, she bounced to her feet, ready for the day. She put the staff back in its place, leaning against the fireplace.

Demial tidied the small room quickly. There wasn’t much work involved. Brush up the crumbs from her breakfast, wash out the plate and leave it to dry on the table, straighten the light blankets on her bed. She flipped the heavy wooden bar up, laughing softly at how easily it moved for her slender, strong fingers.

She was running a little late today. The edge of the morning sun was already visible over the trees, and the village street was empty, except for Lyrae, balancing her baby on one hip and a water bucket on the other.

“Lyrae, good morning!” Demial hurried to catch up, being careful to come up on Lyrae’s right, next to the bucket. Otherwise, she’d find herself with an armful of mewling infant. Lyrae had lost two babies during the war and had never expected to have another. Since this one had been born, she had not been parted from it, not even long enough to walk to the village well and draw water. While the woman couldn’t stand to be out of sight of the baby, she didn’t mind allowing someone else to hold it, a fact that Demial had discovered by unpleasant accident the first time she offered the woman some help with the morning burdens. It was part of Demial’s plan to appear sweet and helpful, but she was only willing to go so far. The slobbering, grasping child was too far.

“Let me help you with that.” Deftly, before the young woman could protest, Demial slipped the leather bucket from her grasp.

As Lyrae thanked her, a blush staining her soft features, Demial smiled. She forced the corners of her mouth to stretch into a smile. She’d practiced at home until she could do it perfectly, so that it looked nowhere near as brittle as it felt.

Lyrae shifted the baby into both arms, nuzzled its round face, and smiled her thanks. “It’s so sweet of you to help.” The baby looked just like her, brown haired and brown eyed. Demial’s own hair was brown and straight as a stick, but her eyes were yellow. A cat’s eyes, her father had always said, with a sneer in his voice. A demon cat’s eyes,

Demial followed the younger woman through the little gate into the yard of her hut. She set the bucket into its frame and, with a wave of her hand, started up the path again toward the mine.

“Demial, wait!” Lyrae dashed into her hut and returned with something wrapped in a cloth. “A piece of cake, for your lunch.”

Giving a quick thanks for the cake and another wave, Demial walked briskly away. Smiling to herself, she tucked the cake into the pocket of her tunic. On through the village she went, up along the path that wound through the gardens, waving to the workers there. At the top of the slope, where the path leveled off, she took the steeper, rockier shortcut up the mountainside, to the mine. As she approached the entrance, she saw none of the bustling activity she’d expected. Most of the work crew was standing on the worn slope that led up to the clogged hole into the mountain, and their expressions ran the gamut from disgusted to dejected.

Before the Summer of Chaos and the war, Toral had been a small but prospering mining village. From the mine that snaked back into the mountain, the villagers had brought out crystals, a hard, gray flint, and a lovely blue-veined marble that was much in demand by the nearby plains cities for use as building ornamentation. Occasionally, they found something more valuable as well, a rough bloodstone or garnet that could be polished and sold to a jeweler. Ariakan’s army, however, had collapsed the entrance to the mine and crushed the soul of the village. Now the villagers eked out a living from scrubby gardens and what game they could trap.

As she strolled up the slope, Demial’s gaze flitted from face to face, searching for Quinn. Her pulse quickened as she saw him, standing tall and strong and sure, among a group of workers.

Her gaze was fixed on him, so she didn’t notice the mine until one of the women said, “Just look at it.” Her voice was as tired and dispirited as if it was day’s end instead of beginning.

Demial followed her pointing finger. No further explanation was needed for the long faces and the slumped shoulders.

It had been Quinn’s idea to clear the rubble from the entrance and reopen the mine. He saw it as a way to rejuvenate the village. Because it was his goal, part of his ambition, Demial had made it hers, too. When he reopened the mine and the grateful villagers handed him the mantle of leadership for his role, she planned to be right there at his side. She had worked harder than any of them, had pushed herself unstintingly, and all the while had kept the cheerful expression plastered on her face.

The week before, they had rapidly reached a point where there were no more loose rocks to be hauled away. What was left was packed tight inside the hole into the mountain.

So yesterday they had rigged ropes around the biggest boulders blocking the entrance and worked them down the hill a safe distance. The roar when they all pulled together and jerked the boulders loose had been exhilarating, but now that the dust cloud had cleared there was a new pile of rocks and debris clogging the mouth of the cave. It looked as if they’d done no work at all, as if the last backbreaking weeks of dragging rocks away from the entrance had been for naught.

Looking at the mine, she swallowed hard, but what she was feeling was elation, and she swallowed again, before it could show upon her face. How perfect! Everyone was standing around looking as if someone had just kicked a favored pet, but she wanted to break into a smile. It was all coming together, her perfect plan. All the pieces were falling into place as if guided by the hands of the gods. Holding back her smile, Demial squared her shoulders, assumed an air of dogged determination, and marched up the remainder of the slope to Quinn.

He turned toward her. His expression brightened, his eyes lit up. She could see the strain and disappointment around his mouth-that pretty, pouty, boyish mouth, which was going to be hers soon. She’d wipe the lines of fatigue and disappointment from it, soothe the frown that painted a V of wrinkles into his forehead.

“It looks as if we have to start all over again,” he said, gesturing toward the mine.

The corners of Demial’s mouth quivered. She ducked her head to keep from grinning up at him like a cat that had trapped a fat, juicy bird. Slyly, but loudly enough for her words to be heard by those around him, she said, “When do we get started?”

He was still for a moment, then he laughed aloud. He swung toward the mine, gesturing for the others to follow. “Demial’s right. Let’s go to work!”

As he attacked the rock pile, the others joined in. They picked up the sleds they used to cart the loads of rock and debris away and formed a ragged half circle around the pile.

Demial lifted her first rock of the day. It was just large enough that she could carry it comfortably. She cradled the sharp-edged rock in her arms as she carried it to her sled. She sneezed as dust puffed into her face, then went back for another rock. Her magic-enhanced muscles shifted smoothly under her skin. She was capable of lifting much more, but she had to be careful. She carried just enough, loaded just enough into the sled, to be impressive, not enough to arouse suspicions of magic.

Her morning passed slowly, as had all the other mornings since she’d joined the mine project. Take a load of rubble to the crevasse, push it over the edge, drag the empty sled back to the mine, then begin again. As the sun rose higher and the dust became grime that caked her face and her neck, she worked automatically, lifting and dragging.

She thought of her perfect plan to use magic at an opportune time to finish clearing the mine. The staff would make quick work of this job. Another few weeks of backbreaking work like this, and the villagers would be ready for a little magic. They’d be so weary, so grateful.

The trouble was, she couldn’t just waltz up to the mine with the staff and wish the mine opened. She had to come up with an explanation that made sense, some way of explaining how she had such a powerful artifact in her possession and why she knew how to use it. So far the answer had eluded her, but she had no doubt that she would think of something. She was good with words, good with explanations-like the clever story she’d made up to tell the villagers how she’d escaped Ariakan’s army and spent the hot, hot summer and war in the port city of Palanthas, working in a tavern.

Her lip curled slightly as she started back up the path. That story had been easily accepted. It was no stretch for the villagers to believe that Demial, troublemaker and daughter of the village drunkard, spent her days waiting tables in a seedy waterfront bar.

Quinn fell into step with her. “You should take a break,” he said. “You haven’t stopped all morning.”

She curbed the smoldering anger that was always so close to the surface, adopting the guise of cheer and determination that she wore like a colorful shirt. “Neither have you.”

“Then we’ll rest together,” he said, as if he’d been waiting for the chance. He stopped her sled, caught her arm, and steered her into sparse shade.

The cooler air smelled of dried evergreen needles and new growth, reminding her that spring was not far away. She hoped all her plans would fall into place by Spring Fest, when the village would spend a week in celebration of the coming season.

As she sank down on the grass, a breeze ruffled the strands of hair that clung to her forehead, lifting them and cooling her skin. She must look a sight, long hair escaping the tight braid, dirt smeared through the sweat on her face, but Quinn smiled at her as if she wore linen and jewels.

He sat down at an angle to her, aping her cross-legged posture, and his knee brushed against hers. He turned his face into the breeze, giving her the chance to study him. The frown lines were gone from his mouth and forehead. His wheat-colored hair was plastered to his head with sweat. His face was as dirty as hers and tired, but tired was good. Tired only meant they’d been working hard, accomplishing something together.

Her stomach rumbled as she brushed at the dirt on her hands, and she remembered the cake Lyrae had given her early that morning. “I have a treat. Lyrae gave it to me this morning,” she exclaimed, reaching into her pocket for the cloth. It came out much flatter than when she’d put it in, the white cloth spotted with moisture.

She opened the soiled cloth, exposing smashed and crumbled bits of yellow cake.

Quinn laughed aloud at her dismay.

It was a good, hearty sound, and she tasted it, the way she could taste rain in the air or a bird’s song in the mom-ing. She smiled, rueful and amused. “I guess I remembered it too late.”

“Nonsense.” Quinn plucked one of the bigger bits with his dirty fingers, threw back his head and dribbled it into his mouth.

Demial watched the movement of his throat, the rise and fall of the muscles under his beard-stubbled skin. He was a handsome man. Even dirt couldn’t spoil the effect of his angular cheekbones and his long, elegant nose. She looked away, flushed, as he reached for another piece of cake.

“It’s not so bad, even flattened.” He gave her hand a little nudge, indicating she should try it.

She shook her head and pushed the cake toward him. Her mouth was suddenly much drier than from mere thirst and the teasing laughter was gone from her throat.

He shot a quick glance from beneath his brows. “Everyone knows what you have been doing for Lyrae. Even Rory. It’s the only reason he comes to the mine every morning, because he thinks it’s good for her to be on her own, and because he knows you check on her when you pass by.”

The praise was so unexpected that she didn’t know what to say. She gaped at him, feeling a flush of warmth, a twinge of guilt for her real motivations. “I don’t. . I haven’t. . I don’t. .” The words tumbled across her tongue, conflicting emotions swelling in her breast. She leaped to her feet, annoyed by the inner conflict she was feeling. A deep breath dislodged a frantic rush of words, intended as much to convince herself as him. “I don’t do anything. I just carry her water. She always has the baby with her, and I’m stronger than she is, so I carry the water. It’s nothing.”

“It’s more than you know.” He caught her wrist to stop her from turning away.

Her breath seized in her throat, choking her worse than words ever could. His touch was the closest thing left in the world that felt like magic, the sizzle of skin on skin, and it was the first time he’d been so bold in his touching, the first time he’d broken through his reticence.

She knew the reason why he was so reticent. Again and again she’d heard him say, sadly, quietly, “My heart is in the grave.” He still grieved for the woman who was gone, the one who was dead. Demial was determined to make him forget that woman. She shivered, and he noticed. He even liked it, because he teased the jagged lifeline down her palm and smiled at her, the same boyish smile with which she’d fallen in love when she was a little girl of five.

“Don’t be embarrassed. It’s wonderful, what you do for her-what you do for us all.” His finger made another sweep of her palm and wrist.

Abruptly she was five again, on a day when her father had drunk too much. He was supposed to be working in the fields, but he passed out, leaving her to find her way home in the growing dusk. It was seven-year-old Quinn who had come from the river, out onto the path, leading his family’s milk cow, scaring her out of her wits. She hadn’t squealed in fear as most girls her age would have, but he’d taken one look at her, known she was frightened, known she was never going to admit it, and reached out to touch her wrist. “Help me lead this cantankerous beast back to the village, will you?” he’d said. “Stupid cow doesn’t even know that I’m trying to take it home.”

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 bodies 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. Everyone 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?”

“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 cool 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 to 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.

No comfort to her at all as she learned this new cadence of her days. . work at the mine, wash and eat quickly, go and sit at Taya’s bedside until Quinn came to relieve her. Sleep until morning sunlight and begin again.

Sometimes she thought she would go mad with the routine of it-with the numbness of lifting one foot after another, always knowing what the next step would bring. When she looked at the progress of the mine, however, and the workers who looked now to her for inspiration and motivation, the surprising pride of that washed away the pain of seeing Quinn with Taya, with his bowed back and his old man’s face.

The hours became days, and the days became weeks. The time for May Fest had come and gone with hardly a mention by anyone of celebration. Taya’s return had cast as much of a pall upon the small village as it had upon Quinn.

The only time Demial ever saw Quinn was at Taya’s side. Occasionally, they stepped into the yard together for a moment, but it was always painful, seeing him, stooped with sadness and mute with anguish.

She knew that something had to happen, eventually. She could not go on indefinitely. When it came, she was not prepared for it.

She turned one day from putting the bundle of soiled bedclothes outside the door to find Taya’s gaze upon her. The blue eyes were open, unblinking and clear.

“Demial,” she croaked, “I knew it was you.”

She was sane. Totally lucid, as she had not been in weeks, not since that first night. After weeks of babbling nonsense, Taya was looking at her, clear-eyed and sane. What would Taya say now? The words that Demial had feared all these weeks: Revelation. Condemnation. She had thought herself beyond caring, but she found she was breathing rapidly.

Taya tried to lift her hand to reach for Demial.

Demial drew back, just one tiny step. She flushed with shame. How many nights had she sat there, holding the crooked fingers, soothing a mad woman’s ravings, and now when Taya reached for her, she backed away in horror? Just when she’d thought there was nothing more Taya could take away from her. . Taya sapped her courage.

“Taya?” she whispered again, and she swallowed and forced herself to move forward, to sit on the edge of the chair and to slip her cold fingers into Taya’s.

“Demial. I knew it was you.”

The words were like sandpaper coining out, so dry they hurt to hear. Automatically, Demial caught up the cup of water she kept on the bedside table, lifted Taya’s shoulders, and held the cup to her lips.

Taya sucked at the water hungrily. It eased the harshness of her voice. She held onto the cup, held onto Demial’s arm with growing strength. “Demial. I knew it was you.”

“Of course it’s me.” Demial extricated her arm and the cup from the thin fingers, and Taya made no attempt to draw her back. She lay on the pillow and stared up at the ceiling with her sharp, blue gaze.

“I saw you. . on the path. The day I came. . back.” The voice, though stronger, was still ragged. Each breath was still an effort. “Mountains,” she said, then stopped to gulp for air, and Demial thought she was slipping into madness again. Instead, Taya went on. “I wasn’t sure. Didn’t know. But I had to. I came home. . to the mountains. Looked and looked. . for the mountains. For a long time, I. . couldn’t find my way.”

Demial could say nothing. She was amazed and just a little in awe at the image that came into her mind of the weak and half-mad Taya searching, determined to find her way home.

Taya turned her head, pinning Demial with the surety in her expression. “Then I found. . mountains. I hid. Saw you. On the path. Saw you. I knew. . I’d made the right decision.”

Demial shifted under the weight of Taya’s gaze, edging back in the chair. “I don’t understand.” But she was afraid she did. Taya was one of the few who knew who she was, what she’d done. Taya had come home to expose her.

Eerily echoing her thoughts, Taya said, “I know about you.” For this statement, the ragged voice had strengthened, had gone silky and soft. “I know all about you. I saw you. With Ariakan’s legions. With your gray wizards and your robes. You were. . You were like. . a storm. A fire. Lightning. Your leader fell, and you took up her staff. You carried on the battle. You were. . magnificent. Even the troops in my company were inspired by you. They charged for you, dying. Dying.”

Taya’s voice, at last, faded.

Automatically Demial lifted the cup of water and the thin shoulders, supporting Taya so she could drink. Her fingers were so numb, she couldn’t even feel the cotton nightdress or the burning flesh beneath.

The water strengthened Taya again. “They all died, didn’t they? All except you. I should have known you wouldn’t die. It’s what you’ve always been best at, isn’t it? Surviving.”

Praise and condemnation all in one. Admiration for someone who had betrayed her own people. “I don’t-”

She stopped, confused. Taya was the one person who knew, the only one who’d ever known that Demial had saved herself, had survived the raid on the village that fateful summer day, had secured herself a position in the Gray Wizards by betraying the location of the village and the valuable mine.

“I suppose you’ve come to tell everyone the truth.”

Taya stared at her with something like pity. “No. No, I haven’t. I wasn’t sure until I saw you, but then I knew I’d made the right decision. I came home to die.”

Demial jerked, dropping the cup. It clattered on the hard-packed floor, showering droplets of water in a shiny arc.

She jerked again as Taya reached out and grabbed her wrist. “I knew when I saw you. That you could do it, for me.”

“Do it! Do what?” Demial snatched her arm away. She jumped up and back, sending the chair clattering to the floor, but she knew. Oh, gods, she knew! She wheeled to run away, but Taya’s voice stopped her. It had gone soft and whispery again, low enough that the slither of Demial’s robe on the floor was enough to drown it out.

She couldn’t move away. “What?”

“You can do it, Dem. If not for me, for Quinn.”

“Don’t call me that,” Demial snapped automatically. She forgot all the careful schooling she’d given her face. Smile. Smile softly. Smile brightly, and no one will ever know. “Nobody calls me that. I hate it when people call me that.”

“Your father called you that,” Taya said softly, with pity and understanding in her face. As well there was a hard-edged something that Demial had tried so hard to school out of her own: determination and malice.

Fire and nausea rose up in Demial’s stomach. Her fingers clenched and unclenched. If Taya said it again, if she looked at her like that again, Demial could do it. She would do it and gladly. Except. . except. . Abruptly all the fire went out of her, all the anger and the hatred. She couldn’t do it. No matter what, she couldn’t do it. It was as much a shock to her, a revelation, as it would be to Taya. She really couldn’t do it. “I can’t,” she whispered. “I can’t.”

Taya laughed, an ugly, disbelieving sound that turned into a hacking cough. Her shoulders shook. Her lungs sounded as if they were old, brittle paper being ripped in half. She turned her head on the pillow, wiping her own mouth, leaving the linen cover stained with phlegm and blood. “Yes, you can. You’re the only one who can.”

Demial righted the chair and set the cup gently in its place. It gave a soft tap of metal on wood.

Taya reached for her arm again.

The other woman’s flesh burned, but she didn’t know if it was because Taya’s skin was so hot or because hers was so cold. Before she could shake her head again, Taya said, “You can do it, Demial. Kill me.”

“I can’t.”

“Help me die.”

“I can’t.”

Taya caressed the tender flesh on the inside of her wrist softly, like a lover. “It’ll make you safe. After I’m gone, there won’t be anyone, will there? There won’t be anyone who’ll know about you.”

“It doesn’t matter. I won’t. I can’t.”

Taya turned her brittle nails inward and dug them into Demial’s wrist. “You have to. Why does it matter? I’m dying anyway. You’ll only be helping me. It’s not like it’s murder. You’ve never minded murder anyway, have you?”

Demial shook her head, aware that the movement might be interpreted to mean “No, I’ve never minded murder.” Something inside her was breaking, tearing, with a sound like Taya’s coughing. “You don’t. . I can’t. . I don’t. . You don’t understand. Things are different now.” She stared at Taya with mute appeal, wanting to beg.

Taya gave up. Her fingers went limp on Demial’s skin. Tears welled up in her eyes. They seemed tinged blue, like a high mountain lake reflecting the sky, until they escaped her pale lashes. Then they looked like big drops of silver, sliding down the pale cheeks. “Oh, Demial, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for all the things I said in the past. You must know. I don’t think the others realize it, but you do. You know I’m never going to be better. You can’t think I want to lie here like this. I see you watching Quinn. I see you watching him wasting away, day after day. I saw him on the path, too, that day I came back. The man who comes in here every morning. . that’s not the Quinn I saw. Neither one of us wants him to waste away.”

Demial was tired-so tired. It was too much, too difficult to make her brain work. If she could just lie down for a while, just a little while. “I can’t.”

“You have to do it, if not for me, then for Quinn. I know there’s no room in your heart for me, but surely you’ll save Quinn.”

That was the end of it. Taya fell back onto the pillow, and her eyes drifted shut. She was limp and waxy. Her chest barely moved with her breathing. She looked like a corpse already-except for the tears. Big, silvery, raindrop tears oozed from beneath her lids and ran down into her hair.

Demial didn’t move for a very long time. Her legs and arms felt as dead as Taya looked.

How odd, she thought. How odd to realize how much she’d changed, to finally understand how much the mine and the village and Quinn and all of it meant to her. How odd to learn how much she hated herself for what she had been. .

She laughed softly to herself. If she hadn’t felt the Vision fade, hadn’t felt her goddess slipping away, the magic slipping away, she’d believe the gods were still present. She’d believe they were trickster gods, working a mean-spirited joke.

She stood as Taya stirred. The sick woman’s eyes opened. They were tired now, and bloodshot, but still they had the power to stop Demial. “I’ll be back,” she told Taya. “It’ll be all right. I’ll be back.”

Taya nodded, believing her. Trusting her.

The air was cool and refreshing after the closeness of the hut. There was a light breeze blowing, wafting the scent of someone’s fire and meadow flowers and coming rain. The night was quiet except for the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze. The only indication that there was even anyone in the village was the flicker and glow of candlelight and firelight through the windows. It shone even from her own windows.

She stood in her doorway and looked about in surprise at the spotless room. A merry fire was blazing in the fireplace. The table was cleaned of her leftover meal. Her blankets were spread smooth over the mattress. The floor was swept.

With a sudden twinge of panic, her gaze flew to the fireplace, to the staff that was leaning there, exactly as she had left it. She felt ashamed for her momentary, uncharitable fear. Someone had come and looked after her home, looked after her, the way she was looking after Taya. That was all.

She wondered if it had been Quinn, but she knew it wasn’t. She wished it could have been, but it was probably one of the people who worked with her at the mine.

Quickly, before she could change her mind, she snatched up the staff and hurried back to Taya’s hut. As she approached the door, she saw that it was open. She rifled through her mind for an excuse to give to Quinn, for some reason that would explain why she’d left Taya unattended to go and get her walking staff, but there was no one inside except for the slight figure on the bed, and she realized she must have left the door open when she left.

The cool air had whisked into the room, setting the fire and the candles to dancing. It had also set Taya to shivering.

Demial closed the door quickly. “I’m sorry. I left the door open.”

Taya smiled. “Yes. It was nice. The smell. . so much nicer than the air in here. I love the smell just before the rain.”

Demial swallowed. For how long had she hated this woman? How many times had she looked at Taya’s pale, blonde beauty and longed to kill her? Now. .

“You have to, Demial,” Taya husked, staring up at her. The woman was reading her mind. Her hands moved under the light sheet that covered her. “For Quinn. You have to let me give him this.”

Demial nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She wasn’t sure what she’d say, whether she would cry or scream or just mumble nonsense of the sort she’d heard out of Taya’s own mouth.

“How will you. .?” Taya let her gaze wander to the ceiling, to the wall, back to Demial. “How will you do it?”

Demial brought the staff into Taya’s range of vision, holding it to her breast, wrapping both hands around it.

Taya looked at it, looked back at her, eyes wide. “Your leader’s staff? The one I saw at the battle.”

Demial nodded again. “It has. . it still has some magical powers. I don’t know how. I don’t. .” She stopped, realizing that the staff did not have much power left, that this might be its last spell. She wondered if she could go through with it.

“You’ll tell Quinn that I was awake for a while? Tell him. . I love him. I’d give him to you, but. . he was always yours anyway, wasn’t he? He always loved you best anyway.”

Demial’s mouth dropped open. “You’re crazy!” she said without thinking, then regretted the words immediately. She felt flushed with shame.

Taya only smiled. “Maybe,” she said softly. She looked at Demial and said, “I’m ready.”

Demial wanted to scream at her, “I’m not!” but she didn’t. She went to the door and threw it wide open. Crossing to the tiny window, she opened it, too. Fresh air, even heavier with the coming of rain, flooded the small room.

Taya’s smile widened, and she whispered, “Thank you.”

Demial couldn’t watch her, couldn’t watch what she was going to do. She knelt near the fireplace, turned so that she could see the fire on one side and the bed on the other. She turned so that she didn’t have to watch Taya die.

She waited long moments for her hands to stop shaking, for her heart to calm. Then she closed her eyes, and she wished for death for Taya. She wished for peace and an end to pain. The spell was slow in coming, so gradual she feared that she had miscalculated, that the staff hadn’t enough power left in it. It began to sing to her, to hum with power. The spell grew in the staff for a long time, the power building until the staff was vibrating in her hands, shivering as if it would break free. She clutched it tighter, thinking to control it, but there was no controlling the magic now.

The staff leaped in her hands, jerking her shoulders painfully. It cracked apart, breaking under her grip, sounding extraordinarily loud, like a tree falling or like the crash of lightning. She cried out and fell away from the exploding wood. Fragments flew up toward her face. A sharp pain stabbed as a splinter gashed her temple, and the magic spilled out over the room, washing across the broken pieces that lay across her lap and on the floor. The sensation wasn’t malignant or horrid, as she expected it to be. Instead it was cold, so cold. The magic smelled of shadows and molting leaves. Blood trickled down her face. She shivered and whimpered softly and slapped at her own body, frantically brushing the pieces of broken wood off her.

The spell burst away, leaving her alone and bereft, and it touched Taya. It was beautiful. It was blue, like her eyes, and swirling, like a summer sky filled with clouds. It formed into a strange crescent that traveled up the length of Taya’s body and down again and up again. Taya smiled and held her hands up, fingers spread, as if she was feeling the touch of a light spring breeze. With each pass, the magic was less substantial, until it was nothing but a shimmering movement, a something in the air that was there but not visible.

The next instant it wasn’t there at all, and neither was Taya. Only her body remained. Demial could tell, without even rising up to look at her. Even in her frailest moments, Taya had never been so still.

Demial climbed to her feet, looking down at the shattered remains of the staff about her feet. The staff was intended to be her salvation, fixing the mine and binding Quinn to her.

She gathered the pieces, light as dried corn husks. There was no life in the wood now, no beauty. It was as dead as the body on the bed, as lifeless as her dreams. She threw the pieces into the fireplace and watched the glowing embers there catch at dried wood. She watched the tiny blue flame that leaped up and consumed the remains of the staff. None but a wizard would ever understand the emptiness that came over her when she saw the staff become ash.

Demial forced herself to approach the bed. She’d seen hundreds of dead bodies, torn apart with bloody wounds and with eyes gaping. She’d killed scores herself, in battle, with her magic, with weapons, even with her own bare hands, when the battle lust took her. It took all the courage she had to approach this one, but she was glad she’d forced herself to look.

Taya’s face was even paler, but she was so peaceful. The thin, pink mouth was soft and relaxed, still hinting at the smile that had brightened her face as the spell embraced her.

Demial started to pull the blanket up over her, to cover her face. Even in death, though, she couldn’t bear to weigh the fragile body down.

When she left the hut for the last time, Demial closed the door behind her gently, leaving the window open to let in the cool air. She walked back through the night, noting that most of the huts were dark now. Had it been that long, since she’d gone to her hut for the staff? Her own fire was still burning, low but bright and cheerful, in her fireplace.

She sat on the bench before the fire, and her mind went blank for a very long time. She was only roused when a voice cut through the numbness, and only then after it spoke her name twice. She roused only after she felt the warmth of an arm against her arm, a hip against her hip.

“Demial. Demial.”

She found Quinn sitting beside her, hands dangling between his knees. She wiped the dried blood off her face, trying to disguise her movements, but Quinn was looking away. He wasn’t paying attention to her.

It was very late. The fire was only a small fluttering of flames, a dying fire. Death. Dying. It wasn’t morning yet though. Quinn had left the door open, as she had, and she could see that it was still dark outside. No stars were visible in the inkiness, just darkness. Shadows. Like death.

“She’s gone,” Quinn said. His voice was quiet but strange, as if he could just barely contain his sorrow, as if he might at any moment break down and sob.

“Yes,” Demial agreed. “It was very peaceful.” She roused herself, knowing she had to gather her strength. The one thought that was clear in her mind, despite her numbness, was that she ought to tell Quinn the truth. All of it. Everything. “She said to say ‘I love you,’ and then she said, I’m ready.’ Then she died. It was what she wanted.”

Quinn sighed and turned away from her, as if the pain was going to eat him in half and he didn’t want her to witness it. “Oh, gods. .” he breathed.

She swallowed. She tried to lift her hands and put them on him, to soothe him and console him. Her arms were heavy, but she managed to lift one. She could touch him, while he would still allow it. Before she told him.

She put her hand on his broad back, feeling the strength there, the muscles moving under the skin as he shook. She liked his back. She’d always liked his back. It was broad and strong, and since she was a child, she’d dreamed of laying her face on his back, of resting her weight on him. So she did now. After a lifetime of dreaming such a thing, she let herself lie against him, resting her weight and her sorrow and her fear on his good, broad, strong back.

He sighed, and she felt the movement beneath her face, a ripple of muscles against her cheek, a rush of air into lungs, and the thump of his heartbeat.

“I killed her,” he said.

The words came to her as a shock. They were said so calmly, so easily, that she must surely have misunderstood. Perhaps he was only expressing guilt, or. . She drew in a quick, sharp breath. Surely he hadn’t guessed what she’d done! Demial drew back, and hesitated.

He shifted back on the bench, moving farther away, and his face was strange. His mouth worked, eyes bright as the embers in the fireplace and as weirdly hot.

She braced herself for his grief, his accusation, and he shocked her even further by chuckling.

“I killed her,” he repeated again, almost with glee, almost with pride. “I wished her dead, and it worked. Like magic. It worked!”

Demial shook her head, too confused to speak. Was it just that her mind was too tired, or was it that he wasn’t making any sense? “Quinn, I’m sorry. I’m so tired. Please. I don’t understand what you’re saying.” She reached out to touch him. “I know you always said your heart was with her, in the grave. . ”

The chuckle gave way to outright laughter. “Demial, don’t tease me. I know you weren’t fooled by all that. You always saw right through me.”

She gaped at him.

He covered her hand with his larger ones. “You’re joking with me, but I suppose I deserve it.” He brought her fingers up to his lips and kissed them lightly.

Her fingers were roughened from working in the mine. Just hours ago, she could have used the staff to make her skin soft and sweet again. Now all she did was stare dumbly as his lips moved on her scarred knuckles.

He sighed playfully. “All right, I can see you’re going to force me. I’ll say the words. I didn’t love Taya. I never did. I only said those things about her to keep other women interested. When you came back, I began to say them especially for you. I knew that remembering her made you jealous, and it pleased me to see the fire in your eyes when I mentioned her. Now I know. It’s always been you I loved.”

Her heart would have leaped, would have tasted the joy of her triumph, but he said it with such callous lack of emotion. “I don’t understand.”

“I was just teasing you, before, saying all that about missing her and my heart being with her. In the end, I hated her, Demial,” he said lightly. He released her hand and leaped to his feet. He quick stepped across the small space between her and the fireplace, jittering with unspent energy. He wiped his hand across his mouth. “She was my childhood friend, my perfect friend. That was long ago. I wish she’d been killed in the war. I wish I’d never had to see her like that. I wish I could have remembered her the way she was. I hate her for coming back, for making me see her that way. I wanted. . I wanted her to die quickly so that my life could go on! Oh, I stayed with her. I played the part of the true and faithful lover, the way everybody expected me to, but I hated doing it, and I hated her.

“Gods! All those hours in that horrible, little room, listening to her ravings. . I wished her dead, and now she is. I wished her dead, and it worked, and now we can be together.”

He looked at her expectantly, but Demial sat, still and stunned. Numbness was nothing compared to this. This was like being dead. Except. . her chest was still rising and falling with breath, and her back was cool from the breeze, and her shins were warm from the fire. Warmth and cold and air, did the dead feel those things?

He came to her. He went on one knee before her, leaned in, and laid his cheek against her shoulder. “So?” he asked, voice muffled against the robe that still smelled of Taya and death.

Demial didn’t move away as his breath seeped through the cloth, as it moistened her skin, sliding across her shoulder and down towards her breast and up along her neck. “So. . what?”

“I said ‘Now we can be together,’ and you’re just sitting there as if you’re paralyzed. Don’t you realize what this means? I’ve almost done what I was supposed to do, done what the whole village expected of me. Soon the mine will be finished. It’s what I’ve been waiting for, the perfect moment to cement my plan. Now they’ll follow my leadership. We’ll open the mine again and make this village better than it was before.”

Demial stared at the fire and felt a little spark, hot and orange, flare up in her breast. It was the first hint that she was going to come back to life, that she was going to be able to feel something again. It wasn’t joy that her perfect plan was within her grasp. It was laughter-cold, hard laughter.

All her diligent work at the mine had given her the acceptance she wanted. Everyone in the village respected her now. She could have the man she’d always wanted. All the pieces of her perfect plan had fallen into place, like the wooden shapes of a child’s puzzle. And she would have the man she’d always wanted, because it wasn’t going to be safe to do anything else. She was going to have to take him, just to keep an eye on him. Her perfect mate thought, after all her hard work at the mine, he was going to step back in and take over where he’d left off, that he’d become the leader, and she’d fall into place as his perfect follower.

She shifted, moving so that his forehead no longer had the support of her shoulder, forcing him to sit up. “I’m tired right now, Quinn,” she said coolly. “I want to sleep for days and days. We’ll talk about it then.”

His surprise was plainly visible on his handsome face. “All right.” He stood slowly, giving her time to change her mind, say something, to reach for him. When she didn’t, he touched the top of her head, so lightly he barely stirred her hair. He kissed her just as lightly. “We’ll talk about it later, Dem.”

He was gone, long strides taking him away into the darkness, and she was alone again.

The dying fire was all red and orange and yellow, without even a hint of blue to the flame that would have reminded Demial of Taya’s eyes or of magic. As she watched the fire dance, the rain began. Drops fell down the chimney, into the golden flame, sizzling angrily as the fire ate them.