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.