“Enough,” the priestess, Dion, said, shutting them both up. She seemed weary and short-tempered, which made Nth nervous because, of all of them, she could cause him the most pain and harm. “Penthos, secure some rooms, at least three. I need to go and lie down. And try not to mention our quest.” She rubbed at her forehead. “Lothern…”

The bowman, who was still engaged in some incomprehensible jostling contest with Harathes, stepped forward. “Yes, Priestess?”

“Thank you for your assistance. You have aided the cause of Armes, and you have my thanks.” Dion plainly expected the man to take off at that point, but Lothern bobbed and smiled and went nowhere, despite pointed looks from Harathes. Nth could not parse what was going on, or whether this was perfectly normal for humans, or some peculiar ritual. For himself, he discovered that the magic Lief had alluded to was entirely evident to him, making every hair on his body prickle uncomfortably. He found himself wondering if that was a natural facility he had always possessed, or whether it was an unwanted gift of the process that had reworked him.

“This must be just like home for you.” Lief jogged his elbow, gesturing at the passageways that fell away into the depths of the rock. “Just like a cave, eh?”

Standing there, in that oppressive, human-filled-up place, cut so unnaturally out of stone and severed from the sky and the trees, and bristling with enchantment to boot, Nth could only stare at him.

Lief seemed to recognize something of his expression. “Let me get you a drink,” he offered. “Poor sod, you don’t fit in anywhere, do you?”

The words were just a throwaway remark, and Lief had turned and was gesturing at the brooding, birthmarked fat man who seemed to have control over comestibles there, but Nth found himself suddenly weak with self-pity, bitterly missing his home and his kin and his Mother. No, he didn’t fit anywhere. No, he never would. He knew full well that Penthos would not spare the effort to restore him to his true shape, nor would these questing heroes care to return him to his forest home. They would use him, and cast him off or kill him, and probably the latter. The only place in the world he knew was lost to him, and if he was somehow transported there, right then, his own people would not know him, and would take him for prey.

He collapsed onto one of the precarious platforms on stilts—stools, Penthos’s memories informed him—and let Lief press a wooden mug into his hands. The little man’s expression was—well, it was ugly and alien, just like every human face in any configuration Nth could imagine, but it seemed sympathetic, too.