“Presume,” Henrik interjected. “We do not alter an agreement such as this for what we cannot know for certain. If there are specific alterations to be made based on any outcome on your side, that will be for the next Lightkeep to bring to us for discussion.”
Penryn glanced at him from her peripheral. “Not you,” she reminded him. “You will be long gone by then.”
A bark of laughter, harsh and unexpected, but he nodded all the same. “As will you,” he reminded her. As if she needed it.
This was supposed to be it. The finishing of a lifelong work, the protection and resolution of any possible wrongs to a people that were not quite hers.
Then why did it feel so empty?
The nervous tension still coiled in her belly, insistent that there was more required of her.
She had always imagined that dread was all she would feel when she at last added her contribution to the paper. When she could pretend no longer that her life would be spent in seclusion, away from all others, a being to be whispered about and eventually, forgotten.
It was a kindness, she supposed, that the sages from this keep would provide her a home at all, deep within the woods, patrolled by the same guards who kept the Wall free from curious youths or any other foolish enough to attempt to scale it.
Food would come weekly, a bundle left at the end of the path for her to retrieve, but the rest...
That was all for her to attend to herself.
She did not imagine that many Lightkeeps lived long, whether by choice or by design. If Grimult had not taught her, she would not even know how to start a fire in the grate of the cottage, and the cold would certainly have overtaken her before long.
But her future did not quite look the same any longer. The sages would send word to the others that the accord was in place, the count reset for when another pairing would strike out from the Keep, a never ending cycle.
She could not trust them to pass word on about the attack. They might be too careful with their explanation, leaving out the element of danger that was new and most unwelcome in the sequestered world that was their own.
Penryn picked up the pen.
And gave her title and the origin of her keep.
And finally, the year.
And handed it to Henrik so he could do the same.
She glanced to the others, saw their deep sighs of relief, and envied them that.
For she could not do the same. Not when she knew what was coming for her.
Not the slow, unbearable death that would come from loneliness and despair, the one she had expected since she had finally mustered the courage to enquire what might happen to her after, and they had thought her old enough to answer.
No, it would be a swift execution by her own people once they realised what she had done.
She had found a way to cross back over the wall. To warn them. To explain.
And maybe, just maybe, she would see Grimult again. If only for a too-brief moment. Not a figment of her imaginings as she must have experienced earlier, but real and whole and...
Not hers.
Never that.
But her friend all the same.
“Excellent,” Henrik turned to her with a beaming smile, unconcerned by Penryn’s prickling unease. “A celebration is to be had after all.”
Of course. A feast, a grand event to commemorate another signing, the continued peace.
Where she would smile and bow her head in acknowledgement when people came to gawk simply so they could say they had seen her, boasting if any had missed the opportunity themselves.
All the while trying to work out in her thoughts how she was to manage this, how she could accomplish what none other had dared to do.
Or had they?
There was half a history that she was not privy to, buried within the walls of this Keep, open though it was to the people beyond. Did they keep record of such things? Of attempts and failures throughout the years?
Or were those carefully omitted, lest a Lightkeep ever enquire to peruse the texts for themselves?
She did not know, but that did not change that she must try.
Even if it took a very long while in the attempt.
And although she had resented it so thoroughly before...
Time was all she had.
Five
It felt like a terrible deceit to return to the gathering and inform them that the treaty had been renewed and all was well between their peoples. Things did not feel settled, the worry too gnawing and present to be ignored. Her quarrel might not be with those surrounding her, but it was their kind who sought to do harm to hers.
Many had departed the great hall, but it hardly mattered. It was not a formal announcement that would signal the beginning of the festivities, but the chime, pealing loud and long that the accord had been reached.
She could hear the thrum of shouts before it had even finished resonating.
“They are grateful,” the elder sage murmured to her from behind her left shoulder. “They prefer to concern themselves with thoughts of harvest than what is beyond a Wall.”
Penryn said nothing in return, still uneasy. She did not feel confident that she had done rightly, that she should not have forced the land-dwellers to be involved.
The dilemma was a great one, but she comforted herself that it was not for her to decide the outcome, merely to warn and inform. If there was a hidden people tucked away within the forbidden lands, what was to be done with them? A relocation? They had fought against that before and proven successful.
A slaughter, then?
Her stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch just to think of it.
“You do not look well,” Henrik commented from beside her, a mere half step behind in order to maintain the appearance that she led them all freely. “This is to be a very great night for you.”
Penryn glanced at him, trying not to show every bit of the annoyance she felt. “And why is that?”
He blinked, and she wondered how he could so quickly forget.
Or perhaps it simply did not matter to him.
His people’s future was secured, and that was that. The state of hers was not under his jurisdiction, so he could set it aside easily and enjoy a feast and a job well executed.
He did not bother to supply a response to her clipped query, instead giving her a dim smile and urging her forward by hastening his own step. It was rude, and she did not appreciate it, but neither did she allow herself to slow her steps in order to agitate him into compliance, risking his tenuous hold to traditional formation and simply rush past her.
“Would you like for us to alter our missive to the other order?” the elder asked, his voice low. It was not an offer that she had expected, most certainly from him. The correspondence between the two peoples were heavily regulated, copying words decided upon long ago in order to relate simple meanings into flowery, obscure language should any intercept the birds used to transport it. Even now she could recall finding the script amongst a pile of aged texts long ago, her eyes settling on the crisp language of the meanings with a muted sense of horror.
Not at the first line, at the success of the Lightkeep. All was well, and their work was complete.
But after.
A single line, bold and black.
That the Lightkeep was dead and buried.
That the next should be sent soon.
Penryn swallowed, pushing aside such thoughts. The offering was a kind one, she supposed, but she could not simply dismiss the mistrust she felt for those surrounding her. “Henrik is not incorrect. We cannot act on presumption.”
They were approaching the outer doors, and any talk of such things would have to be set aside. But she hesitated, turning to address the elder directly. “But I thank you for your willingness.” Perhaps that was wrong as well. She could warn them, they could send their own envoy to investigate, and assuming they were not murdered on the spot, they could return and tell of their dealings without her involvement at all.
The outer door opened, and cheers and clapping met her ears, and she felt the sages disperse from behind her even though she had yet to make her step fully into the outdoors. She blinked, realising it was the first time in many days since she had felt anything more than what the window allowed. It was a crisp day, but there were torches lining the streets that added a festive air as well as a hint of warmth. Banners of fabric had been strung between buildings along the streets, fluttering prettily in the breeze, not the unrelenting red, but of all colours, as if cobbled together from strips of old clothing and quilts rather than woven specifically for such a purpose.
Long tables had been placed within the street itself, people seated in benches and hard-backed chairs, or even bales of hay, depending on how far down the line they sat. Most did not even notice her, too consumed with talking with their neighbours, bright smiles on their faces as they looked about their accomplishment with satisfaction.
She took a step forward, the action far more difficult than it should have been, uncertain where to go.
Her eye caught Mara’s, standing off to the side with a young man at her side, a full head taller although he kept his head down low as if ashamed of the difference between them. Mara gave a slight smile before ducking her head as well, but not before pointing to a table stationed on the steps of the Keep, more elaborately decorated.
Penryn released an unhappy sigh to note the cloth spread across the top was crimson.
Naturally she could not truly be a part of the festivities. She could be looked at, and there was nothing keeping people from approaching if they dared, but if Mara and Respie were any indication of what was to come, any such attempts would be filled with stuttering and lowered gazes, and no true contact.
She felt her eyes prickle and she gripped her hands tightly into fists, her injured one protested the movement enough that she made herself relax. She should not be surprised, nor was she. Always the outsider, that was her lot.
How she hated it.
Her dishes were finely made, thin and delicate, yet strong in their construction. The goblet gleamed gold, and she could see Respie hiding off to the side with a pitcher, ready to tend to her every need should Penryn make a request. She swallowed another sigh, sitting down at her seat in resignation, the feast something to be endured rather than enjoyed.
Then she would retreat to her new dwelling and try not to think of how many Lightkeeps had died within those same walls.
And plan what to do next.
She took her seat because it was expected of her, and because to do otherwise would simply draw more unwanted attention. The sages settled together, their chairs all of a matching set further down the line. It was incredibly odd to see them positioned so close to others, the outer edges even interacting with their neighbours. She tried to conjure some circumstance where those from her order would have done the same, and failed.
Respie appeared and filled her goblet, not the crisp water Penryn favoured but something darkly hued and smelling of spices when Penryn raised it to her nose and took a deep breath. The subsequent sip was hesitant, but the flavour was pleasant enough, although she could not imagine wanting enough that it would require the entire pitcher in Respie’s hands. Another brought a plate of food and deposited it with a deep bow. Light hair bound beneath a cap, and Penryn looked to see if it was possibly one of Mara’s sisters, but could not make out a resemblance before she retreated to one of the long tables to enjoy the feast herself.
“Respie,” Penryn called, the girl flying to her side so quickly at being spoken to directly that she sloshed the pitcher, a few drops managing to escape and land on the girl’s apron. Respie did not seem to notice, all wide-eyed attention given to Penryn instead. Penryn shook her head slightly. “Put that down,” she directed, patting an empty place on the tabletop. Respie did not immediately acquiesce, instead looking to Penryn’s goblet to see if it required refilling already. “Please,” Penryn urged, choosing politeness rather than another command.
Respie followed the instruction, her manner hesitant, before she stood back, looking rather lost now that she did not have an immediate task to hold her attention. “I do not want you to miss out on the merry-making,” Penryn explained when it seemed the girl was closer to devastated rather than relieved at having her position taken from her. “Surely there is someone you would care to sit with? Eat some fine food?”
Respie wiped her hands down her apron, her eyes drifting down the long line of tables. If a girl so young was given a position in the Keep, it was possible she had no family and Penryn had miscalculated, unearthing some hidden pain rather than releasing her for the sake of a well-earned enjoyment.
“If you’re sure you won’t be needing me,” she hedged, not yet moving from her post, but her shoulders relaxing somewhat when her attention settled on a cluster of folk. Their clothing was worn and there seemed a disproportionate amount of children nestled between two parents, all of which were eating great portions of food as if they had never seen so much bounty spread out along the tables.
Penryn’s heart ached to see it, but she nodded to Respie all the same. “You should be with your family today.”
Respie gave her a timid glance before it melted into a wide smile, and she took off her apron and smoothed her hands down her skirts before walking quickly to her place far down the line, shooing one of the younger ones to an empty chair and taking her place beside, presumably, her mother.
She could not quite make out their expressions, not from the distance, but at the many hugs exchanged, they seemed glad of the girl’s presence.
Penryn took another sip from her goblet, finding it odd how the beverage almost left a tingling numbness to her lips after a long pull.
Perhaps it would numb other senses if she kept at it, and she put it down quickly, the temptation a little too strong.
The food itself was pleasant enough, at least in appearance. She made a show of cutting apart the generous slices of tender meat and pulled apart the little braided loaf to eat so as to give the illusion that she was eating, but could not quite bring herself to actually to so. Her stomach was in knots, her skin prickling with awareness whenever someone’s attention drifted from the feast in order to look at her, and she felt too uncomfortable to force rich foods to join the fray as well.
If she closed her eyes, let the rabble of voices overtake her, it was not quite so bad. She could pretend then that she was seated amongst them rather than apart, that the wretched loneliness was not tugging at her mind and heart until it threatened to overwhelm her, that tears were distant things, for another life.
“Are you all right, my lady?” a voice asked, near enough that she opened her eyes with a start, blushing fiercely at having been caught so. It seemed early for any to have vacated their seats to approach her, but evidently a brave couple had felt the need to be the first. They were bedecked in every finery, gold and jewels draped from necks that somehow remained elegant even in their advanced years. Rings twined about most of their fingers, one on each of their right hands far plainer than the rest, worn and bearing the scratches that spoke of hard work rather than privilege.
A long life spent together, then.
“I am well,” Penryn assured them. The wife leaned heavily on her husband’s arm, her smile warm although she did not seem prepared to address Penryn directly. Her eyes were milky with age, a pale blue that did not seem entirely healthy, and Penryn wondered if she could see through them at all. Her husband’s hand held tightly to hers.
“We will not trespass on your meal for long,” he assured her. “We just wanted to thank you ourselves.”
Penryn gave a tight smile. “For?”
> He blinked, as if the answer was obvious. “For signing. For keeping our lads from fighting. We were at the Introduction and it seemed for a moment as if there was trouble, but that must have been all sorted out for us all to be here.” He looked worried for a moment, rather than presumptuous, as if he was looking for her assurance rather than merely thanking her for a service.
Penryn glanced down to the sages and found Henrik’s eyes on her. Her mouth suddenly dry, she took another sip of the strong drink, forgetting her determination not to do so. “Your lands are safe, as are your sons.” That seemed safe enough, although she resented it heartily that the same could not be said for the lands beyond the Wall.
She put down the goblet, the warmth in her belly not quite the comfort it was intended to be.
The husband stared at her a little longer before he offered a grim smile and murmured his thanks again and led his wife back down to their seats. Penryn watched them as they left her, feeling strangely bereft at witnessing such devotion, and shifted uncomfortably in her seat. It was doubtful she would grow old at all, let alone do so utterly lacking in companionship. She picked up a crumb of plaited bread and brought it to her lips, trying to coax herself into eating it, but everything in her rebelled at even so small a morsel so she put it down with a sigh.
Others started to approach her table, offering thanks, some not bothering with words at all, only looking at each other before looking to her and bursting into a fit of nervous giggles. Those approaches were done by young girls, and Penryn could not imagine what they were thinking or what ritual would cause such a reaction between them, but beleaguered parents came quickly enough and herded them away, hissed whispers finding Penryn’s ears about being too deep in their cups and it was water for the rest of the day and if they did not like it they could wait alone at home.
The Lightkeep Page 9