We are three days out from the river, and things are awkward between us, which is why I have been spending time updating my professional notes. Lyn perhaps still feels badly about her outburst, just as I would be stinging for my own insensitivity if I’d let the DCS off its leash for even a moment since it happened. I have tried to make peace with her, but every time I speak her name or address her she throws up her own shields, putting on an expression that I took initially for cheer but now realise is entirely forced. Apparently, I am still doing this all wrong. I have tried to think what was different with Astresse, but the answer is “everything,” so no help there. Remembering that Lyn is not Astresse is easy enough under Dissociative Cognition, but the resemblance is so striking that I fear for my sanity if I have to bring the shield down. And I will have to bring it down soon and wallow in my own emotions, which my readouts suggest are very negative indeed and haven’t lightened up since leaving the river.
And I do not, truly, know why we are here. Is there actually a beast? Is there some warlord, even though the thing Esha had shown me had nothing of old colonial technology to it? Or is this some ritual venture that I have been brought along for, perhaps the youngest child proving herself by acting out some legend? Perhaps the demon is in her mind only. To say so is patently taboo, though.
We have been travelling through dense forest, along trails only Esha can see, and I suspect the lack of direct sun is adding to the general sense of oppression I am staving off, not to mention interfering with the recharging of my clothes and internal systems. I need to find a chance to get away from the others, even for just a night, so I can let the DCS up. My body has been working under the sour biochemistry of all those gut feelings, meaning that a considerable debt has arisen, a gap between mind and matter, so to speak. The longer I leave it before finding my own equilibrium, the worse the come-down will be. I can’t just keep staving it off. I find myself experiencing moments of panic and anxiety that have no immediate cause, because the prompt that generated them came and went hours or even days before. They arise and paralyse my mind for whole minutes, all the harder to deal with because they are shorn of context. I feel as though the emotional parts of my mind are like a cellar in which I have locked dead things, and when I open the door . . . maggots, carrion flies, flooding out. And yet I must, because the latch and hinges are strained already.
“Lyn,” I say at last. “I must . . .” I am going to lie to her. “I must go and study the stars.” A risible fabrication, but she nods, that strained smile on her face again.
“Of course, Nyrgoth Elder.” Her eyes creep sideways to find Esha. “Ahead there is Watacha, the city-state. Last we heard Elhevesse Regent still held power there, and may grant us aid or even troops. Study the stars tonight, seek your portents, and we will make Watacha by noon tomorrow. Does that suit your purposes, Nyrgoth?”
“Nyr,” I tell her. “My name is Nyr. Nyr Illim Tevitch.” Not even an abbreviation, but I don’t see why I should be saddled with a suffix like some winter coat if everyone else is doffing them.
That taut expression twitches and pulls tighter across her face. Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say, again. I am fighting off more emotional bleed, though, frustration and anger and sorrow, none of which are actually germane to what we’re talking about. Except that, perhaps, I just want to go by my real name, just once.
*
That evening I discover Esha really does know the land because, without ever having made any obvious diversion, we find a clearing in the forest, the first we’ve observed. This is man-made, some manner of timber felling or charcoal burning or some other pastoral pursuit. I said I wanted to observe the stars, and they took me at my word. I feel another block of guilt slot unacknowledged into the grand tower of hurt about to fall on me, that I’ve made them work on false pretences.
“I will need to be alone here, for scholarly reasons,” I explain to them. “Return to me after dawn.”
They exchange glances, and I cannot parse what passes between them. Lyn says, “What if the beast catches up with you?”
I am adrift. “Your demon?”
“Your beast, that follows you.” She is frowning, and the words come out a little like a recital. “That you spoke of.”
For quite a long time I have absolutely no idea what she is talking about, mind blank, and she and I just stare at each other. Then my linguistic helper systems kick in and I realise what she means.
“That is why I must be alone tonight,” I explain to them. “I need to confront matters before they grow too strong.” I am trying to recall my precise wording, speaking to her before, and now I am not sure if she thinks there is a literal beast or not, just as I am not sure if her “demon” is real or just symbolic. I want to sit her down and explain things to her, but the effort involved seems insuperable and I am becoming aware that my understanding of both language and culture here is simply inadequate, despite centuries of information gathering.