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.