He remembered, then, with the old terrible loneliness, that they were not truly his people. They had raised him, but they were not of his blood.
And he remembered also that they were dead, slain by the miners who had needed all the water of the valley for themselves. Slain by the miners who had taken N'Chaka and put him in a cage.
With a start of terror, he thought he was again in that cage, with the leering bearded faces peering in at him. But in the blinding dazzle of light he could see no bars.
There was only one face. The anxious, pitying face of a girl.
Fianna.
His brain began to clear. Memory returned bit by bit, the fragments fitting themselves gradually into place.
Kynon. Delgaun. Berild. Sinharat, the Ever-Living.
He remembered now with perfect clarity that he was dying, and it seemed a terrible thing to die in the body of another man. For the first time, fully, he felt the separation from his own flesh. It seemed a blasphemous thing, more terrible than death.
Fianna was weeping. She stroked his hair, and whispered, "I am so glad. I was afraid—afraid you would never wake."
He was touched, because he knew that she loved him and would be sad. He lifted his hand to touch her face, to comfort her.