It was like being trapped in a dial tone. If there were still phones.Opening his eyes was no better.Standing within arm’s reach, miles taller because Jory was lying down, was Hillford. All the novitiates shuffling past glancing at him then away.Jory raised his hand to peel the mask off, but it was already gone, was—it was back on Hillford. And Jory’s hand wouldn’t reach his face anyway.He tracked down to it, from it to the thin white sheet knotted around his wrists. He was tied to a smooth pole in the center of the courtyard. And his back, the skin on his back, it was wrong, too stiff, too painful, like he’d scraped it.From dragging him on the ground?There was no time though.“It’s only fitting,” Hillford was already saying, his voice so even, just stating a fact, “only fitting that you would deliver yourself to us, Jory Gray, to be the messenger. Perhaps for a while you even believed you actually had one of the instruments—”“No!” Jory said then, trying to stand—boots still on, pants too, but…wearing one of their stupid white robes over it all?
