The light was dimming, and our first footprints had been covered by the fine but continuous snow by the time we reached the lodge - or research or rehabilitation center. I wasn't really sure what anything really happened to be, and the dreamlike quality of that afternoon-long walk reinforced that feeling.
Cerrelle did not speak until we were in the corridor outside my door. 'You walk through the snow like a ghost, as if you weren't here.' A crooked smile crossed her lips. 'But you are. Tomorrow, you start on the heavy-duty background education. I hope you can get some sleep, Tyndel.'
She nodded and was gone, back into the twilight snow.
I went into my room and hung the jacket - already dry -in the closet.
Why the walk, except to show me ... what? I shook my head and looked out at the falling snow for a long time, until it was too dark to see. Then I went and ate.
Dwellings, forests, lakes, images of fire in nielle ... what did they mean? Did they mean anything? And Cerrelle ... patient on the surface but with a hint of something less patient, wilder, beneath.
I took a deep breath.
14
He who would not be hammer will be anvil
Wolyd the truffler had been right. In the end, I gulped and swallowed the rancid fish slop almost with an insane hunger. What had he done to me? And why? Why did he dislike Dzin masters so much - so much he raved about turning them into demons?
Eventually - was it days later? - I wrestled free of the ropes with a strength I did not know I had. The ropes did not give way. The wooden beam to which one of them was attached snapped with one of my desperate lurches. Then I squirmed and wiggled in the darkness ... and worried myself free of the rest of my bonds.
Somehow, the tunnel had gotten lighter - or could I see better? Or was I seeing at all?
Once free of the rope, I pushed on the door, and with a creak and a shredding sound it opened. I looked down. The lock had ripped out of the wood, but the wood hadn't been rotten. It looked like good strong oak. The metal hinges were bent as well, and I couldn't close the door.
Rain and wind beat down on my face, but neither seemed that cold, though the season was early winter. In the gray light I studied myself. My gown was ripped and torn, my midsection thinner, far thinner. Scabs covered my upper arms, but scabs that looked mostly healed. Surely, I hadn't been in the cave that long?
Through the bushes, I could see the gray, white-capped waters of Deep Lake, choppy in the late afternoon. The light wind brought the mist raised by the waves lapping on the stones and the scent of decaying rushes and grasses from the marsh to the north.
Cold as it was, I washed my soiled gown and garments in the lake water, looking around every few moments. But it was winter, and no one came. And I marveled that I was not too cold as I stood on the rocky shore in the light wind.
Was I really a demon? Or was I hallucinating? How could I tell?
I hung the damp clothes on the bare branches of a blueberry bush for a moment, except for my damp drawers, which I slipped back on, hoping that my body heat would dry them sooner.
A good-sized boulder rested a meter beyond the bush. I laughed and bent to pick it up, knowing I could never budge it. It came out of the ground easily, and I almost dropped it on my foot. I staggered for a moment, then half threw, half pushed it toward the lake. A splash like the impact of ancient bombard rose from the gray chop.
I looked down at my hands and arms. They were no different, except thinner. My stomach growled with an emptiness that was almost like a hungry bear or mother cayute on the prowl.
My eyes burned, helplessly, as I pulled the damp gown and undershirt from the bush and pulled them on, ignoring their dampness. Whatever had happened, whatever I had become, I had to get home. I had to see Foerga.
Caution prompted me to take the path beside the cart road, but I only had to duck off the path twice as I hurried homeward, trying to avoid thinking too much about my ability to keep jogging longer and faster than ever before.
Instead, I just kept repeating one of Manwarr's mantras: 'Explanation is not awareness.'
As my feet and legs covered meter after meter, I forced the words through my mind and mouth. 'Explanation is not awareness ... Explanation is not awareness ... Explanation is not awareness ...'
When I neared the house - the house of the master of Dzin in Hybra - not my house or our house, events reminded me, I left the path and entered the rear garden by the gate beside the shed. The boxwoods in back needed pruning, and I could smell the healthy mustiness of the compost pile.
The back door was not latched, and I stepped inside, calling, 'Foerga?'
She stepped from the kitchen and stared at me, blue eyes deep. Then tears streamed down her cheeks.
'I'm here. What is the matter?'
'The Townkeeper ... he said you had been carried off by a demon. He warned me.'
'The only demon was Wolyd. He stunned me with a demon gun and tied me up in a cave. He doesn't like Dzin masters... or at least this one. It took me a long time to get free. I don't know how long.'
'Ten days ... eleven ... oh ... Tyndel...'
Without speaking we moved closer, then embraced, and I held on to her gently, trembling, afraid to squeeze, afraid of the strange strength that had burst ropes and a door and lifted a boulder I once could not have budged.
'You ... are hot ... so warm ...' Her lips brushed my cheek, and she stepped back, eyes downcast for a moment.
'I... just... wanted to come home.'
More tears streamed down her face - and mine.
In the silence, I was conscious of the smallness of the house, of the walls pressing in on me, each wall spotless and perfect, but close. And the scent of fresh-brewed Arleen tea drifted from the pot on the table.
Foerga hugged me again, shivering slightly as she did.
The ticking of the clock in the wall alcove echoed through the silence, loud as a drum.
My blue-eyed crystal artist stepped back once more. 'You are so thin, yet your arms feel like iron.' Her eyes went to my wrist and filled with tears again.
My eyes followed hers, and she nodded slowly. The yin in the passlet had nearly died. Only the palest flicker of silver remained.
'You are of the demons now. Look at your passlet.' The tears kept streaming down her pale, thin face. 'You must go. You must go. Trefor will gather his demon patrol, and they will stun you and cage you, and you will die.'
I was already stunned. Me? How could this be happening to me?
'He or one of the others keeps checking to see if you have returned.'
I lifted my head at the whispering whine of approaching gliders, the kind that didn't need glideways. 'There's a glider coming.'
Foerga tilted her head. 'Your hearing is better.'
Another small touch that clutched at my stomach - she had always been the one with the ears like a hare, able to sense the faintest of sounds.
'Demon or not, I love you.' Foerga's arms went around me again, and they felt so comforting, so warm.
I closed my eyes, trying to ignore, just momentarily, the whining in the distance.
Foerga stepped back. 'You have to go.' She grabbed my old rucksack out of the pantry closet. 'Put food in this. You look starved. I'll go out and delay them. Go out through the back.'
'But...'
'Do it... please, Tyndel. For me. It's all I can offer now.' She tried to blot her face even as more tears streamed from the corners of her eyes.
I took the rucksack, looking at it blankly as she wiped her face dry and scurried toward the front door, leaving me alone in the small kitchen holding a canvas rucksack. For another moment, I looked at the rucksack, until the front door shut with a dull clunk.