The Lightkeep

by Catherine Miller

  Harlow insisted she was one of theirs, even if the sages would be horrified at the very notion.

  She was for all of them, their entire people to look upon equal parts fear and respect.

  She felt so very full, her heart near to bursting. For all her years of certainty that she would belong to nothing and to no one, she now had rightful claim to two clans. Parents who lived. Siblings by name, if not by blood.

  And she would like to meet them.

  “Do they know of me?” she asked quietly, wondering if she should introduce herself as merely a guest and deny any kinship, for their sake. She did not know how long they had made their home here, and she would not like to disturb any of their settling in.

  “They do,” Rezen stated firmly. “All have known of you, after the first year. We tried to keep silent, as we were told, but that...”

  “It was going to kill me,” Amarys finished for him, her eyes going to her husband with all the sorrow she had nursed alone. “To have to lie, to say that my baby had died when nothing could be further from the truth.” Her hand turned to fists and she stared down at the carpet, and there was no mistaking the anger that had crept into her features. “I might have buried a little one not meant for this world. I may have held her, and gave my blessings.” She raised watery eyes to look at Penryn. “What can you do for a child that is simply taken away?”

  Penryn bit her lip, trying to keep her composure. She did not like that a very great part of her was glad that her mother had mourned for her. That the sages had been wrong that she had not been simply set aside, forgotten as she was abandoned to duty. Grimult had been right, and her love even now was fierce and protective, even when they had known each other so short a while.

  Her mother took a shaky breath of her own. “And now to know that you were mistreated...” she shook her head, closing her eyes briefly.

  Penryn frowned. She had given no such indication. Even now, she was not certain that she could call her upbringing such. She would pity another that had experienced the same, could rail at the sages for their cruelty in some areas, but in others.

  “I did not know hunger,” she assured her, trying to offer what comfort she could. “I was warm every night, and I had clothes to wear, and as many books to read as one could hope to read in a lifetime.”

  Many lifetimes, if she was honest, the sages known for hoarding every bit of written text they came upon.

  “They brutalised you,” her mother said with a flash to her eyes that made Penryn flinch. She softened immediately, stepping away from the door and approaching with an outstretched hand. Penryn did not allow herself to move—could not have, with Grimult’s position so close behind her. She was penned, but she did not feel caged, although perhaps she should. “I was nearly delirious with exhaustion, but I remember well two things. The thrill of having a daughter, and how beautiful your wings were when I first glimpsed them.” Penryn could not help her recoil, and suddenly there was a soft touch at her cheek, and she forced herself to open her eyes, to look at the woman speaking to her. “They took them from you?” And there was no mistaking that she now had more to mourn, and although the confirmation was a simple one, the urge to soothe, to placate, to soften the blow of realisation rippled through Penryn.

  But she could not bring herself to form the words.

  For that would be a defence of what they had done, would mean sharing the purpose of their removal.

  Which even now was growing vaguer, even to her own mind.

  She swallowed, and found herself nodding once, before she was crushed into her mother’s embrace once again. “I am so sorry, dearest one,” she murmured, and there were tears there, and anger too, perhaps from one, perhaps from both. “I should have—”

  Penryn pulled back from her. “Please, do not hold yourself responsible,” she entreated, her voice as firm as she could make it. “There was nothing that you should have done differently, and I hold no resentment.” And with great relief, she found that to be true. “It is enough to know that...” a lump in her throat made it difficult to continue, but she pushed through anyway. And if there was a catch in her voice, so be it. “That I was loved. And wanted.”

  “Always,” her mother declared, keeping hold of her eyes with a determined look of her own. “From the moment I felt you catch hold within me, you have been so.”

  A hand at the back of her head, stroking at her hair, and she closed her eyes, relishing the contact from Grimult, however brief it might have been. An encouragement. A confirmation that he was right, but a comfort all the same. He was there, he bore witness, and maybe, he was proud of her.

  “We do not know your name,” Rezen interjected, looking strangely bereft from his position set apart. Penryn brushed at the lingering tears on her cheeks, and took a step nearer to him.

  “I do not know if you had a name you meant to give me,” she answered. “But I chose Penryn for myself.”

  And then, because it did not seem fair that their only contact had been a shared thing, she reached out and hugged him. He was tall, although not quite as much as Grimult, but he stooped so she might put her arms more fully about his neck, his own arms holding tight as if afraid she might disappear too quickly. “A fine name,” he murmured in her ear. “You chose well.”

  They did not enquire why she was not given one by the sages, and she was glad of it. She did not know how much she wished to share of her time with them, not in order to maintain their secrets, but simply because to do so would cause them all the more pain.

  And that was the last thing she wished.

  They had suffered with her, even from afar, and a part of her was ready to not dwell on such things any longer. There was work to be done yet, but tonight, there could just be this. A taste of what might have been, if things were different.

  And with fresh determination, she knew that she would seek exactly that.

  The line would end with her, that she promised herself. If it was at all within her power to ensure it was true, she would see to it.

  Others could make the Journey. Could settle the peace between the clans and the land-dwellers, assuming they survived the coming horde. But it would be their choice, free of the mysticism that clung to the selection process even now. No more lies about souls and otherly beings.

  Just a brave soul, willing to learn and negotiate.

  As it always should have been.

  “I would like to meet these other children of yours,” Penryn murmured against her father’s chest, hearing the sounds of light commotion drifting from the other side of the door.

  A sigh, but she suspected that it perhaps was given to distract from the emotions threatening to overwhelm him. “You may regret that,” he countered with good-humour. “Brothers, the pair of them, and fond of their mischief.”

  Penryn glanced at her husband. The inverse of his own family, she now with two brothers while he had none to call his own.

  Except that what was hers was now his, so perhaps he had just the same after all.

  “Still,” she urged with a smile. “I think I shall brave it all the same.”

  A shrug, a smile, and a kiss upon her temple, although he looked at her hesitantly before bestowing it, as if uncertain of its welcome. But her smile of encouragement was enough, and he was brave enough to give it, and she was not certain she ever wanted this night to end.

  Amarys opened the door again, standing to the side and ushering the rest through. Penryn wondered as she passed if this was a typical happening for her, if all were corralled and properly bolted in. It had a slightly unsettling quality to Penryn. She had grown used to open skies and freedom of movement, the penned in feeling reminding her too much of her fledgling days. But she pushed the thought back. If her mother needed them to be closed within a secure space, Penryn was not going to argue.

  She did not know who she had expected to see settled within the kitchens. Perhaps boys of Danyl’s age, the use of their wings novel and fresh, the loss of their parents r
ecent.

  But these were boys on the cusp of being grown, their mischief coming in the water being flicked between them, evidently the chore of cleaning up their supper dishes falling to them. One brother held a great deal more water on his sleeves and in his hair, the other smiling impishly although he turned with a chastened look at their approach.

  Both had a mop of fair hair apiece, with features that doubtlessly would charm any girl of their choosing when time came for that.

  “Sorry, Mama,” they muttered, one stepping too near the other, a wing shooting forward to block any potential attack.

  The envy came, hot and unwelcome. Not at their presence, or their existence within a home that might have been hers. It was the ease in which they said the word, the familiarity they shared.

  She wanted that. Wanted to be caught playing with siblings rather than tending to the work with enough efficiency. Wanted a mother who did not fear giving a good-natured scolding, as even now Amarys moved forward, giving them both a gentle shove at the arm, taking both their hands and turning back to Penryn with a worried smile at her lips. “Worely,” she introduced, holding up the hand of the first so Penryn might know to whom she referred. He was the shorter of the two, but something in his eyes suggested he might be the elder. “And Terik,” she continued. His hair was a half-shade darker, his eyes bordering on green rather than blue. Their tunics were similar in cut, the colours of each having faded from the sun and too much time in the seawater. “This is your sister, Penryn.”

  It was apparent from their expressions that they had not expected such an introduction, and she could not claim that she was any more prepared for it. To be called sister was something wholly unfamiliar, and even now she did not know that it was the proper term. Rezen appeared beside her, touching her elbow gently, his head leaning down so he might whisper to her privately. “Please, do not be uneasy,” he entreated, and there was no mistaking the hint of pleading to be found there. Take no offence, was what he surely meant, be gracious even when feelings were jumbled, when some childish part of her wanted to grow possessive, wanted to be jealous of a family’s love that was not hers.

  Except that it was. With every look, every touch, it was apparent that she held her parents’ favour. They did not love her less simply because they had chosen to bring others into their home, to sweep away the emptiness that had come with the loss of the daughter they had wanted.

  She did not know if she should bow or give only a nod of her head in acknowledgement, and indecision left her paralysed for a moment.

  Except suddenly the boys were moving instead, scooping her up and giving a little twirl, the act leaving her breathless for a moment and unsteady on her feet when they put her down. “About time you came home,” Terik declared. “Mama’s been waiting an awfully long time for you.” He reached out a hand and stopped himself when they did not settle on the wings he seemed to have expected. Perhaps he had meant to ruffle them in some familiar gesture. Instead he let his hand fall, dramatically noting their absence, marvelling to his brother. “Makes you a compact little thing,” Worley observed, tilting his head as he regarded her.

  Words failed her, and she felt the terrible urge to cry once more. She was overwhelmed by their welcome, and felt wholly wretched for her less than flattering emotions that had threatened to spoil what was meant to be a joyous homecoming, and she was not going to ruin things now with allowing yet another outpouring of her feelings.

  “And who are you?” Terik enquired, his attention going to Grimult. “Are you a foundling too in need of homing?”

  It was obviously said in jest for nothing about Grimult’s age suggested he would require any such thing, but Penryn was glad that their attention had temporarily shifted.

  “Hardly,” Grimult answered, a tinge of formality in his voice that gave Penryn pause. Was it difficult for him as well, to be amongst people again? Or perhaps it was for her to be surrounded and touched so freely, when his entire purpose for the course of their relationship had been to see to her safety. It made her want to huddle closer to him, to take a moment simply to be, to fall upon comforts that she had come to treasure so very dearly. “I am your sister’s guardian.”

  Both brothers turned to one another, eyes wide and their interest obvious. She had known that the Guardian was heralded throughout the clans, that his name and rank would see him respected upon his return. They would want tales of his heroism, of dangers along the Journey, the truth of each buried behind a knowing smile, mysterious hintings that encouraged the wildest imaginings of what the wilds contained.

  But she frowned all the same. It was not a wrong description. That was who he had been, who he was even now. Yet still, it felt wholly lacking. They had not had time to discuss whether to admit their true attachment, had never considered they might find themselves within her family’s company.

  And for a moment, she thought she could allow that to stand. To have him seen as merely her protector.

  But here, for all too brief a time, she wanted to be something else.

  Not the Lightkeep.

  And her sweet Grim more than her guardian.

  “He is my husband,” she said quietly, testing the words at her lips, and finding that they settled well, even in open company. “Although none may know of it,” she hastened to add. Rezen and Amarys shared a concerned look, and they were not wrong to do so. If they had studied the lore surrounding her position, they would well understand the risk, the forbidden nature of such an alliance. “But I wanted...” her throat tightened and she could not continue, instead allowing her words to simply hang there, punctuated only with a shrug of her slim shoulders.

  And suddenly Grimult’s hand was surrounding hers, holding it firmly, lending her his warmth and his strength, limited though both were after their ordeal of the last days.

  “Your husband?” Amarys managed to get out, a hand clutched at her chest.

  “Yes,” Penryn confirmed, clutching Grim’s hand a little tighter to hers. “I thought... I thought that you should know.” She raised her chin a little, awaiting their censure, for an admonishment that perhaps in another life might have been theirs to give.

  In that life, they might have been her authority, might have held sway in her choices, but this was not one where she would budge. She did not regret a moment of it, but their response might determine if she held some remorse in having shared such an intimate so soon.

  Rezen cleared his throat, and Penryn could see Grimult’s throat working, as if he was about to speak. Or worse, to apologise.

  The only wrong that had been done was in the sages’ eyes, and she would not pretend that she held their custom as her own. Not anymore.

  “You are most welcome,” Rezen offered, and Penryn felt herself relax. If that had not been the first words that came to his tongue, he hid it well. And she was grateful.

  Amarys still held a look of worry that bordered on panic, but she forced herself to nod all the same. The urge was there to go to her, to offer comfort that she should not require, but Rezen moved first, pulling his wife close. He murmured softly to her, his words low and given only to her, and Penryn stood, observing them both. Grimult did much the same to her when she was overwhelmed, but it was a curious thing to be able to observe it directly than merely to receive.

  Worley and Terik were peppering Grimult with questions of his training, eyes keenly searching for sign of ancient weaponry given to his care. She had seen him tuck a few into his borrowed clothing, others still tucked away at Braun’s residence, and he answered most indulgently, although whenever her gaze went to his, he was looking back at her.

  She could not blame them for their interest. She found Grimult a far more interesting person than herself in any case, and if there was to be jealousies from her, it would not be toward those with a proper admiration for her husband.

  Amarys’s eyes were closed, and Penryn found herself moving toward her, Grimult allowing her to go even as he was penned and surrounded by brothers
that did not quite feel like hers.

  Penryn swallowed, wondering if she could conjure the bravery to use the word, but finding that her courage failed her. Mother might have been possible, but Mama...

  That was too difficult, spoke to a life that she had not actually led, and she could not manage it.

  “Are you well?” she asked instead, drawing their attention to her. She had kept her voice low, not wishing to startle, but Amarys’s eyes flew open anyway.

  “I worry for you,” she answered quickly, and it was not a foolish concern. “Even if I am so very pleased that you...” words failed her, and rather than attempt to push past her emotion, she pulled Penryn into a quick embrace. “I only just got you back. And you will be having a home of your own now, and you won’t—” she stopped herself short, and Penryn could well imagine what she had not dared to say. She already was conjuring imagines of a daughter within their home, perhaps not the fledgling she should have been, but the weeks and months passing until memories were between them, relations established built on time spent and lives lived.

  And that was not to be.

  Not solely for the reasons she supposed, but for far more pressing realities. Penryn had not returned for this, had not dared her life and Grim’s so she might know the pleasures of an ancestral home and a family to occupy it.

  She had come to warn them.

  To save them, if she could.

  She swallowed back her own fears, and pulled back from her mother, taking her hands gently in hers. “I have work yet to do,” she told her honestly. “And I do not know what my future holds. But I have this night with all of you, and I call myself blessed for it.”

  She had not meant to make her mother cry, but there was no mistaking the shine to be found there. “Only one?”

  Penryn nodded. Time to rest, time to heal, and perhaps, if all were amiable, to establish the beginnings of bonds that should have been there from the very start.

  Despair was at the edges of her mother’s vision, but Rezen murmured softly to her once again, and she braced herself. “But you will come back?”