Which quickly melted to incredulity when even the bandages he produced to hold it all to her had been dyed a deep shade of crimson.
He must have caught her look, and the corners of his mouth quirked upward. “Only the finest for you,” he offered, as if that had been the cause of her upset.
“Your people must have this dye in abundance,” Penryn found herself saying before she made the conscious decision to voice the complaint.
Donlov blinked at her in surprise. “Quite the reverse, I assure you.”
Penryn frowned, feeling all the more guilt should the process of acquiring and making the dye be perilous. But she had little choice in the matter either, and to not accept it with grace was perhaps the gravest insult she could imagine.
So she said nothing and watched the Donlov work, wishing it was another pair of hands, ones that would linger and give her fingers an affectionate squeeze before letting them go.
The tears did not come, a numbness beginning to spread. She should be grateful for it, for the respite from the never-ending wells of emotion, but even that felt a loss, as if her body was forming a callous where her heart should have been.
“I am to examine you fully,” the healer told her when he was satisfied with her wrist.
Penryn stiffened. “That will not be necessary,” she assured him, hoping the firmness of her tone was enough to quell any argument.
But she merely reserved a stern look in return. “You are in our care,” he reminded her, as if Penryn possibly could have forgotten. “We must ensure that you are kept safe and well.”
She could argue. She could fuss and fight and still it would happen in the end.
So with a sigh, she reached for the cord at her clavicle and gave it a sharp tug, grateful for the bindings for her breasts that meant she was not wholly nude before this stranger.
She would not think of another time, when the man had not been a stranger and she had been bold and unashamed.
Not a seduction. They had always been very clear about their intentions.
But memorable all the same.
The bruising showed well enough the troubles of her wrists, and the doctor peered at her, his fingers probing, before he sighed and nodded toward the bed. “If you would not mind changing locations,” he instructed, and although Penryn hated the idea, she loathed the thought of prolonging the examination more, so she acquiesced.
The clothing yet to be hung and folded took up the one side, so Penryn made use of the other, too nervous to fully appreciate the luxuriousness of the mattress beneath her. But it was soft and accommodating, and although her heart fluttered wildly at the thought of Donlov inspecting her, there was comfort here as well.
He followed, a looming presence all in black, and when fingers probed she bit her lip, trying not to allow nerves to sour to outright fright.
“Have these been bound?” he asked, pressing against the worst of the bruising, yellowed now and sickly green about the edges. “Yes,” she assured him, the pain that his attention elicited a dull soreness, but not the scotching spread of agony through muscle and bone when she was not particularly mindful of their abuse.
“I do not believe they would benefit from being so now,” Donlov mused, his tone indicating perhaps he was speaking more to himself than to her. “But you must be mindful of them, yes? Careful in your activities?”
Penryn blinked, biting back the retort that welled up. What activities did he imagine she would be doing, locked away in her rooms until the Introduction?
He frowned, looking at her expression, before it smoothed into a smile. Evidently some looks transcended the need for words. “Of course. You will be resting and the bruising will continue to go down on its own. If there are any accidents, however, you will have me contacted so I may ensure nothing has gone amiss. Do you agree?”
She likely would agree to most anything if it meant he would leave all the sooner, leaving her to the return of the sleep she craved.
The rest went much more quickly. Once she had righted the top portion of her dress, he quickly pulled up her skirts to examine one leg at a time, leaving her as much modesty as he could while allowing him to do his job to, doubtlessly, the sages’ satisfaction.
There were a few bruises there as well, but the bones were sound and they gave her little trouble, only the perils of the road and a clumsy misstep with her footing. But she could not tell him that. Could not indicate that she had walked the entire distance here rather than road in a cart or on a beastly mount.
Or flew.
Terrifying and exhilarating, and everything she had always wondered.
If her life had been something altogether different.
He had asked her to turn this way and that, but never fully over, which meant the scars should not have been visible. Most especially if the bruising was what held his attention. She had not been given an adequate story for their presence, which meant she would have to improvise if ever they were questioned. The truth, obviously, was out of the question. A fall was absurd, their symmetry and location problematic for accidental infliction. Intentional then. Ritualistic harm? She shuddered just to think of such an explanation, for a world where scars were given on purpose, for patterns to be inflicted into healthy tissues.
But she supposed that was almost what had been done. There were rituals, and excuses, and she knew that her presence here was necessary, but that particular sting was one that had yet to dull with time.
“I believe that will be all,” Donlov announced, when he had finished at looking at a callous on her foot. Evidently there was a potion he would send to her that would help soften any discomfort, and she nodded, sitting up and pulling her skirts about her, tucking and hiding, although she knew she should not. She had done no wrong, and quiet, unflappable dignity should be her air.
A lesson she had never excelled at.
“Thank you for tending to my wrist,” she acknowledged. The rest would receive no gratitude from her, not when she had already assured him she was well, yet her word had not been thought sufficient.
“It is a pleasure to serve,” he intoned, and she knew that inflection well. As if the words were not his own, but had been drilled there by another, forced and repeated until the dry delivery was as close as it could come to natural.
He collected his bag and bowed low at the waist before he departed.
Leaving her alone once more, with a wrist of blazing red.
She wanted to roll over, to indulge her exhaustion with a deep and thorough sleep.
But she made herself rise, to open the wardrobe doors and finish the task Mara had begun.
She had sent the woman away, perhaps a tad unfairly, and she would not allow another to enter this room and assume she had been inadequate in tending to her duties.
There was a pleasant monotony to the task, but it was not lost on her how unnecessarily decadent it was to have yet another article to stuff into a wardrobe already lined with garments so alike to the one beside it. She had grown used to living with so little and finding it more than adequate when paired with—
She had to stop thinking of him. Had to stop imagining his face, even now, that desperate look in his eye as she shut the door, the lurch forward in the attempt to stop her.
And how she had hated it with every fibre of her being when that desperation had turned to betrayal.
He had known it was coming. It was the end of their Journey, and it could not have been a surprise to him when she had seen to its completion.
Yet somehow, it was.
Had he long harboured thoughts of breaking his oaths? She could not deny that it had occurred to her more than once that she could do so. Could disappear into the wilds and none would know.
Until warriors crossed the Wall and caught them all unawares, the guilt gnawing at her daily at what she might have prevented had she put aside her selfishness.
But how she wanted it. Could almost taste that life, the joyful simplicity, the companionship.
The love.
The garments arranged, she closed the wardrobe door with slightly more force than was necessary and looked at the large expanse of bed with a lump lodged deep in her throat, her chest tight.
And climbed beneath the bedclothes and regardless of the daylight still peeping through the windows, pulled them overtop her head as she had often done as child, blocking away the world that needed her, but did not seem to want her.
And stared into the inky blackness until finally, she slept.
◆◆◆
If Penryn knew one thing well, it was the art of waiting. More difficult in her girlhood, when she was simply passing the time until she could grow older, so something would happen. Then later, when the day grew nearer that she would at least leave the Keep, it was an anxious anticipation, the longing for a brief taste of freedom.
But now was the tedium of bathing and dressing, of meals taken in seclusion, waiting for the summons that she was beginning to feel would never come.
Respie came throughout the day, all nervous energy and wide eyes as she placed more food on the table and took away the remains of the previous meal, often hardly touched. Penryn’s appetite seemed a fleeting, often forgotten thing, one moment coming in ravenous waves, then curdling to her stomach’s adamant demand that water or sips of warm tea were all that was welcome there.
The waste troubled her, but whenever she mentioned to Respie that the portions were too great, she looked as if Penryn had struck her across the face, her horror a tangible thing that the Lightkeep should be displeased.
Penryn could only then sigh and thank her for her service, assuring her that the girl had done well and there was no need to speak to her betters.
And then she was alone again, free to return to her post.
A large chest adorned the longest wall, its presence more adornment than necessity as nothing was kept within the deep drawers. It yielded to her determined shoving, eventually stationed beneath the lone window, the perch precarious, but just enough that she could look out on the world below. The crisp air of the day swirled about her hair and cooled her cheeks as she tried to absorb some knew knowledge of this place and all its strangeness.
Something that came from herself, not read in books or told to her through centuries of dissemination.
It was too high to see the details of faces milling about, but she could see the carts as they made their deliveries, voices wafting as people called out to one another, some embracing while others merely waved a hand in acknowledgment.
They did not appear vicious as they went about their daily tasks. She saw no weapons, no rowdy urgency, lust for blood and battle holding an entire people under thrall.
But she had seen it. Had seen and felt the attack by their kind, the hot breath on her face of a beast under command from one just like those below, and she could not simply dismiss such a relentless truth.
She could not grow complacent even in the listless still, the curiosity that burned almost as brightly as it had once had. But she had been kept upon the ground then, when walls were high and unyielding, the world beyond held completely out of view.
This was almost worse. To see, to wonder, but never to experience.
She heard the rattle from the stairs and nearly sighed. Respie’s ventures into her room were only growing more frequent, and Penryn despaired thinking of the cook somewhere in the depths below, constantly in a flurry of movement to prepare more and more dishes.
It could not possibly continue for much longer.
She shut the window quickly and slipped down from her perch, returning to the fire to thaw her fingers and nose. Not that anyone would dare touch and discover her secret fascination.
She wore a thick shawl about her shoulders, darker strands of wine and black at least offering some respite from the unrelenting red, and she huddled more firmly into it, her stomach already protesting another attempt at eating the rich foods that frequented the trays.
The knock on the door was new, and a wariness settled over her, heavy with nerves.
She could bid them enter, but if it was finally them, that would not suffice.
Her hair had been combed and tied neatly, her dress was properly fastened. She wore only stockings beneath, the slippers at the bottom of the wardrobe so finely stitched they seemed ridiculous to wear about her rooms.
She regretted it now.
She stood, taking a deep breath before pulling on the handle of the door, her pulse growing more rapid at the sight of Henrik beyond. “Lightkeep,” he greeted with a warm smile, bowing his head to her.
It felt wrong to use his name, so she said nothing in return, merely watching. He was alone, a strange occurrence that set her all the more on edge. She knew sages to travel in pairs at the very least, and she frequently cast a look over his shoulder, waiting for some sign that more awaited him a few steps behind.
“The others are seeing to their duties, I’m afraid,” Henrik commented with a knowing smile, and she felt all the more exposed that he could so easily recognise her question without the use of speech. “Quite the busy day.”
Penryn swallowed thickly. The carts arriving. More provisions than the last few days combined.
“Today?” she breathed out, trying and failing to keep her nerves carefully locked away.
“Today,” Henrik agreed, a hint of compassion in his eyes, and again she was struck with the feeling that if she was anybody else, he would have reached out and patted her arm in comfort. So he had to settle for looks and nods, and she had to pretend that it was enough.
Penryn chewed at her lip. She should have her boots on. She should have checked her hair before she opened the door lest the wind had made it untidy. The shawl should have been exchanged for a cloak. Perhaps not hers, as the hem was travel-worn, even with Mara’s careful ministrations, but something that inspired more than what she was currently wearing.
“Would you like me to send Mara up to help you with anything?” he asked gently, and she felt a sudden wave of relief. She could mind her tongue for that long, and Mara understood the finer gowns in the wardrobe. And it was not lost on her that the phrasing of his query was carefully chosen. If she wished to go as she was, he would say nothing, but if she wished it to be different... “I will send her to you and return within the hour. People should have assembled by then.”
Her stomach clenched just to think of that, the seats downstairs filled to the brim, of her facing them all.
At least when she had been paraded before the initiates for her guardianship, there had been excitement to temper some of the anxious tension.
Now there was only dread of what would come next.
Penryn retreated and shut the door as Henrik departed, and when next it opened, Mara appeared, Penryn already at the wardrobe, peering inside bemusedly.
“You would like help, my lady?” There was no mistaking the strain in Mara’s voice, and Penryn felt a brief moment of guilt at being the cause for it. She had been dismissed abruptly, and that was unkind, regardless of its necessity.
Penryn waved a hand before the wardrobe, finding little need for playacting when all she had to do was allow some of her rigid control to slip and the worry to become paramount and she sounded just as harried as she had intended. “I do not know what is suitable,” she confessed, stepping backward and allowing room for Mara to come give an opinion.
She could add that there had never been a choice in her attire before—at least not for formal events. There was a small wardrobe in her chamber back home, for when it was just her and her books and no one of consequence would see her. But on days when she would be paraded and gawked at, her clothing would be waiting for her when she returned from her bath, down to the stockings themselves.
Mara gave a nod and there was perhaps a wisp of a smile about her lips, although it vanished just as quickly. “Everyone is very excited about today,” she confided, her voice low as if there was anyone about them to overhear. “I wasn’t sure you’d call for me.”
Mara delved into the clothing, sifting and pulling with purpose, as if she already had the gown in mind and would not be satisfied until it was found.
Her smile was triumphant when she pulled it forth, holding it up for Penryn’s approval. “What about this?”
It was lovely in its way. The skirt itself was long enough that it would doubtlessly brush the floor if not puddle a little unless she kept her back very rigid and shoulders back. The sleeves were long and came to a sharp point, the stitch-work in sharp black against the swathe of garnet. The fabric itself appeared similar to the one of her outermost bedding, but she was not going to say so. If it was appropriate to be a gown as well as a coverlet, she was not going to complain.
“A fine choice,” Penryn complimented, releasing her hold on her shawl with some reluctance. The one in Mara’s hands would be warmer, and that was a welcome thing, most especially if she was to forego wearing her cloak.
There was no point in hiding, not now. Not when she was where she was meant to be, even if it did not feel that way in the least.
“I made it myself,” Mara said, beaming at even such inadequate praise. “Most of the others were by others, some very old, but I thought there should be something new amongst them.” If they were old, they did not appear so, so well kept were they, likely stored in chests lined with papers dedicated to keeping moisture and pests at bay. But there was no hint of mustiness about them, nothing that suggested they had not been plucked from a typical wardrobe and settled into hers. The only thing that might betray the variation in age was the subtle changes in style. The nip of the waist, sometimes higher, others lower. The absence of sleeve and the dip of the neckline, while others were more modest in comparison.
Penryn eased out of her own dress, keeping on the shift beneath so Mara would not see even a hint of her scars. The fine gown shimmied over her head with little resistance, the placket at the back unlaced fully allowing the movement to be a smooth one, and Penryn had only to stand still before Mara and her deft fingers had her laced up fully, the outermost fabric coming to secure overtop so all was hidden away. The neckline was perhaps a bit lower than Penryn was accustomed to, and she was unused to seeing that particular swell of breast unless it was in her bath or throughout the course of dressing.
The Lightkeep Page 5