Changeling (Illustrated) by Roger Zelazny Page B

passage through the forest. Twice, it halted, when he realized how tired he had become. On these occasions, he rested—once, beside a stream, where he drank deeply. 
    He remembered very few details of that long first night of his flight, save that at some point he realized that his way had taken a turn uphill and that this remained his course until light began to seep through the leaves overhead. With this, a sense of fatigue and time passed came over him, and he began casting about for a place to sleep. Immediately, his firefly dragon veered to the right, heading downhill for what must have been the first time in hours.
    It led him among a maze of boulders to a small, rock-shielded dell, and there it hovered. Accepting the omen, he sprawled in the grass. From somewhere nearby, there came the sound and smell of running water.
    He fell asleep almost immediately.
     
    When he awakened, it was late in the day. His ghostly guide was gone, he ached in a number of places and he was hungry.
    The first thing that he did was to remove his guitar from its case and inspect it for damage. He found that it had come through the night’s ordeal intact. Then he sought the water—a small stream, a hundred or so meters to the right of the rocks—where he stripped and bathed and cleaned his wounds. The water was too chill for comfort, so he did not dally there. The sun was already falling fast, and he felt he could continue in relative safety.
    Continue? At what point had his flight become a journey? He was not certain. Possibly while he slept. For it did feel now that his glowing guide had been doing more than helping him escape the villagers. Now he felt, intuitively—certainly not logically—that there was a definite destination ahead for him, that his will-o’-the-wisp had been guiding him toward it. He decided to let it continue on, if it would, though first it would be nice to find some food . . . 
    He repeated the process which had summoned the guide, and it came again, paler in this greater light, but sufficiently distinct to direct his course. As he followed it, he wondered whether it would be visible to another person.
    It led him downhill for a time, and a little after sunset he found himself in the midst of a large orchard. He gorged himself and filled his pockets and all the odd nooks in the guitar case.
    The guide led him uphill after that, and sometime during the middle of the night the trees grew smaller and he realized—looking back by moonlight—that had it been daytime, he could have seen for a great distance.
    Before much longer, the way steepened, but not before he had caught a glimpse of a large building on a crest ahead. It was not illuminated and it appeared to be partly in ruin, but he had a premonition the moment that he saw it, reinforced by the behavior of the dragon-light. For the first time, the light appeared as if it were trying to hurry him along the trail.
    He allowed himself to be hurried. An excitement was rising in his breast, accompanied by an unexplainable feeling that ahead lay safety—as well as shelter, food, warmth—and something else, something undefined and possibly more important than any of the others. He shifted his guitar case to his other hand, squared his shoulders and ignored his aching feet. He even forgot to wish again for the coat he had left behind, when a chill wind came down from the height and embraced him.
    *  *  *
    He would have liked to wander about the wrecked hall, surveying some of the more picturesque destruction, but the light pressed steadily ahead, leading him along a back corridor and into what could only be a pantry. The food stored all about him looked as fresh as if it had just been brought in. He reached immediately toward a loaf of bread and stopped, puzzled, his hand blocked by an invisible barrier.
    No . . . Not quite invisible. For as he stared, he slowly became aware of a mesh of softly pulsing blue strands which covered everything edible.
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