Margaret Weis - Heroes And Fools

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.