But she did not.
She felt no fraud, standing there. Felt no weight of shame that she had done wrong in returning.
It was not the purpose they had charged to her, but it was the one she had found all the same, and she would stand her ground.
“That you dare return would indicate that we were lax in our lessons with you,” the dark-eyed sage retorted with a quick gesture of his hand, as if by sheer will alone he could have her expunged from his presence.
But he could not.
Not yet.
Penryn ignored him. “You taught me well,” she countered. “That my person did not matter. That my life did not matter. And it is that understanding held by all within this room that I stand here now and petition that you listen to me.”
It was an untruth. For there was no question in her mind that Grimult valued her above all else. That even now, if she would allow it, he would take her from this place and hide her away until none remembered her any longer.
And none would know him either.
And the temptation was there, but it was a soft, sweet longing that was more comfort than anything else, tucked away within her heart.
None answered, but none refused her either.
And the words came freely.
Of the rider.
The broken lantern.
A history hidden.
A treaty signed.
The horde they had witnessed, with their weapons meant to fell any of the winged-folk.
With that she pulled the weighted binding from the pocket of her cloak, holding it for all to see.
“We returned to give you warning, so you might prepare yourselves and the people under your protection.”
She dropped her hands. “Can you see?” she asked, and there was a plea in her voice despite her efforts to remain wholly unaffected.
Even now, she wanted their approval. And perhaps that was some great failing in her, yet it remained all the same.
A sage came forward. She had seen him fairly often, as often as any of them held contact with her. Her tutors were rotated with great frequency. There could be no attachment if there was no opportunity for such bonds to form. But she had known him longest, present in the edges of her life even when he no longer was charged with her care.
There was more grey about his temples than she remembered, his eyes a little milkier now that he was close. He had a hand extended and for a moment she wondered what he meant for her to do, but he glanced down at the bindings in her hand once and she held it out for him to take.
His perusal was thorough, his mouth drawn into a firm line. There were murmurings in the upper reaches, but soon the room fell silent once again.
Their faces were inscrutable, and Penryn found it most infuriating. She wanted to know if her time had been wasted, if her course had been poorly chosen and she should have prioritised contacting the clans directly.
But time was so short and the guilt would have been terrible if she had chosen the wrong ones, if the horde had found those she had not yet reached, and...
“And what of you?” the greying sage asked, his eyes drifting from the weighted stones, carved and engraved with a symbol Penryn did not recognise, up toward Grimult.
Penryn turned her head, awaiting his reply with as much anticipation as the rest of them.
“You chose me,” Grimult began, and Penryn wanted nothing more than to reach out and take his hand, the words too similar to the ones they had shared as they wedded one another. “You saw my skill and found me honourable, prepared to tend to my task and my charge to the best of my abilities.”
He glanced at Penryn, and his face was so solemn that she almost did not recognise him. “In many aspects, I have failed in what you have entrusted me to do. Or, rather,” his attention returned to the sage who had made the enquiry. “My understanding has altered my methods for its completion.”
His hand drifted to the sword at his side, and her heart raced as he unsheathed it. She did not know what he meant to do, to threaten them or to lay it down and petition for clemency, and she could not help the welling of dismay at the sight of it.
Only for him to grasp it close to his chest. “You gave me this sword to see to our Lightkeep’s protection. To return here upon the completion of the task. I have done so.” Another glance at Penryn, at the wife he was not supposed to take, but had done so anyway. “And I vow to you, the words she has spoken are true. That the threat is real, and supersedes all else.”
Perhaps it was too much to say, their authority chafing at such a declaration and a conclusion they had not reached for themselves.
But he spoke truly, and she was proud of him.
“And what of your little escapade with the Mihr?” the dark-eyed sage cut in, his upper lip curled into an unflattering sneer. “You expect us simply to forgive such a blatant offence? To overlook the flouting of all rules and decorum? The encouragement of their misdeeds?”
Anger bubbled, and Penryn was glad that her father was not standing beside her lest he unleash all the fury and pain that had festered for years, unvoiced. “They offered me escort,” she answered back, her words clipped and tone not quite as measured as it might have been. “I did not wish the spectacle for others to witness by standing by the gates and shouting for an audience.”
It was partially true, and more than a little false, but it was answer enough for so disagreeable a person.
The sage closest to her raised his hand, perhaps to placate, perhaps to halt any escalation between the two. “We will deliberate,” he answered lowly. “And decide our course.”
It took every bit of discipline to keep her chin from lifting, for the resounding no to escape her lips as she demanded action rather than endless hours spent in committee.
Did they not understand the urgency?
He must have seen the protest in her expression for he frowned. “We will not be long,” he assured her. “But you have given us much to consider, and we will do so in our own fashion.”
It was a dismissal, of that she was certain. Not of her petition, but of their bodily presence in their midst.
Penryn glanced at her husband, wondering if he heard it as she did. Should they comply? Or should she push even harder for their cooperation, for a promise of action before she lost her courage and their attention?
“Let it be known that rumour is already disseminating through the clans,” she commented, tugging at her cloak and turning on her heel. “Your people will not be pleased to learn of your inaction should that be the course you choose to take.”
She felt rather than saw Grimult follow behind her, the door opening by an under-sage stationed before it.
The door shut with a resounding clamour.
They were not alone in the corridor, servants scattering back to their tasks, attempting to appear as if they had business there that did not include eavesdropping.
Penryn could not stop shaking.
It felt as if every bit of control she had exerted over her muscles had suddenly been cut loose, even her teeth chattering as she paced. Her words replayed themselves over and over in her head, doubting that she had been as successful as she had hoped, wondering if she had failed.
“Breathe,” Grimult instructed. He wanted to touch her, to soothe as only he could, but they could not be certain that none would witness their interactions, so he relied upon only his voice instead. “Breathe with me, Penryn,” he urged, making a great show of inhaling, holding briefly, and slowly releasing.
She did so, once, then again, and some of the shaking reduced to only an occasional shiver through her, and she wanted nothing more than to bury her face in his chest, to allow him to surround her until nothing else was there at all.
She almost whimpered for the want of it.
But his steady reminders to breathe settled some of her composure, and she managed a dim smile at him to show that she was all right again.
“Thank you,” she whispered softly, wishing she was brave enough t
o reach out and skim her fingers against his palm, to steal some sort of contact even in this place.
“This is the least I would do for you,” Grimult answered back, his eyes steady as they met hers. “You have only to ask it of me.”
She did not know how to counter that, not when her heart swelled to bursting with the love she held for him.
“I cannot imagine you here,” Grimult continued, glancing down the passage with a shake of his head. “Perhaps it is because I have only known you out of doors, with the breeze in your hair and plenty of sunshine to see you better by.”
Penryn’s smiled weakened. “I do not like being back,” she confessed, although it was likely no great admission. Not to him. He knew how much she hated her upbringing, how much she loathed the sages and their rules and structure that had become so twisted over time.
And yet there were newcomers every year. Ready to forsake all—clan, family, even their own names—for the security and apparent wisdom that came with the crimson mantle.
She could not understand it. Not in the least.
The doors opened again, and Penryn was startled by how quickly they did so. None came to usher them back, and that did not surprise her.
They would be full of formality once more, she was certain. Their shock heavily blanketed by decorum and traditions, and for a moment her legs did not seem willing to cooperate. The answer seemed written already although she had not heard it uttered from any of their lips.
They were going to seal away such tales. They would execute both Penryn and her Guardian, concocting whatever story they liked to be written in the histories, some convoluted imagining that did not remotely resemble the truth.
“Penryn?” Grimult whispered, near the threshold but not yet crossing. Not without her.
Her heart was racing, and she wondered if her doubts were based solely on fear.
Or on something else.
Grimult had thought her mystical when first they had met. He believed the lore, even if he had set it aside quickly enough the longer they had known one another.
But perhaps, if only in this, there was a premonition in her very bones that nothing good would come of their staying.
“We need to go,” she urged, and Grimult moved quickly as he returned to her.
Rustling from the hall, and there was no time. They would send others out, and if she was right then they would be dead. And if she was wrong, there would be confusion, yes, but that was all.
And she did not care to await either outcome.
He grasped her by the arm, his wings splayed, taking up more of the corridor. His sword emerged once more, his expression firm as he escorted her back from where they had come.
Others were about, and already she could hear the demands to halt, to return to the chamber, but Grimult kept them moving, and none yet dare punctuate their orders with the use of weaponry.
The door that opened to the courtyard was guarded and locked, not an unusual state as she could well remember them moving aside to allow her a few precious moments in the open air when she had proved herself very good in both her lessons and in overall comportment.
“Open it,” Grimult instructed, pushing her gently behind him and shielding her with a wing as he looked to his opposition with narrowed eyes. There were footsteps in the corridor behind, racing and giving commands of their own. The narrowness of the passage meant that there was no great threat, the stream of sages, some equipped in battle, others softened with age and years of dedication to their books rather than activity leaving them soft.
“I swear to you, if you do not do as I say, I will cut you down where you stand and open the door myself,” Grimult ordered, his voice hard and nearly unrecognisable. The sword in his hand was an ancient one, and there was no denying that he had been the one chosen for their Lightkeep, for his cunning, his bravery, and his skill. “The choice is yours.”
She had never thought to see him face down one of their own kind, the guard by the door hardly older than Grimult himself. He eyed those coming up behind, his eyes darting quickly to the threat current and most certainly believable.
And he unlocked the door.
And stepped aside.
The courtyard itself was at an impasse, some weapons specially crafted for the purpose of security, others for honest work and skilled labour, both extended as each was regarded with suspicion.
“We go!” Penryn shouted, feeling Grimult whisk her up before she had even managed the first syllable.
There was a flurry of movement about her as more than just the Mihr took flight, some attempting to grab hold, to keep them grounded, but quick slashes and hard blows from strong arms quickly saw them free again.
Her eyes tried furiously to look about her, to ensure that all the faces she knew were airborne and free from the clutches of the sages. Some continued to grapple, but as the confines of the walls fell away and open air greeted them, it was clear that with determination, they would be free of them.
At least for a time.
Their jurisdiction ended at the gates, and Penryn did not know if they had been given hasty orders to pursue even further beyond, but she cared little. There needed to be people, needed to be witnesses, so that all might hear and know.
Even now, she could be wrong. They might have been ushering them back to offer all the help she required.
But even now, she did not believe it.
A far more likely course, they would have killed her and Grimult and then gone to the people themselves, weaving a tale of mysticism and star-reading that spoke of a great danger approaching from beyond.
They would paint themselves the heroes, hiding the bodies of any who could claim otherwise.
She did not know how she could be so certain.
Yet she was.
“What changed?” Grimult asked, his voice hoarse in his ear as he flew with as much speed as he could muster. They had chosen to scatter rather than keep to any great formation, and suddenly he dove down beneath the tree line, the boughs offering cover that the untrained eye would not be able to pierce without great effort.
“A feeling,” Penryn admitted, feeling sheepish even as there was confidence there as well that she was right to have acted upon it.
She did not expect for them to land, the tree he positioned them in so thick that even if she held her hands out to the widest point, the trunk would be greater still. He placed her with her back to it, high above the ground still, and nestled close, the brown tones of his wings providing camouflage as he sheltered them both from immediate view. They had not planned for this, and her heart still beat rapidly with worry for how she might join with her party once more. If harm came to any of them...
Dread and guilt left her with a sickly feeling in her stomach, and she peered out as best she could from behind the cocoon of her husband, trying to catch sight of any of them.
“They are men grown,” Grimult reminded her. “With lives that made each of them strong.” A finger traced over her cheek. “But I understand your worry all the same.”
She bit her lip in lieu of giving an answer.
They sat in silence for a time, anticipation keeping her muscles coiled for the necessity for flight, for action, the stillness unnerving. The tree limb was hard beneath her, numbness spreading through her limbs to be so cramped, and she wondered of what use they would be if she needed them suddenly.
“A feeling,” Grimult repeated, his eyes darting about them, but his thoughts clearly on her earlier confession.
“I am sorry there was not a greater reason,” she apologised most genuinely. Even now she wanted proof, if only to comfort her own mind that she had not reacted rashly.
“My instructors were most clear on that point,” Grimult told her, his eyes finally settling back down to meet hers. “If you sense that you are in danger, you are. The consequence of being wrong, of reacting too strongly are far less than being warned and doing nothing.”
She grimaced. “I would rather trust your insti
ncts than mine,” she admitted.
He pinched her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “You know that lot better than anyone,” he reminded her, and there was no mistaking the hint of disrespect in his tone. She would hardly chastise him for it. “If experience told you that things would not go in our favour, than that is reason enough for me.”
She did not expect him to lean down and place a kiss to her lips, quick but present enough that it left a tingle when he pulled away all too soon.
Silence came once more, slightly less burdensome than it had been before, and Penryn wondered how long they were meant to wait.
Or where they might dare go when they finally were free to do so.
A whistle pierced the air, strong but melodious. Grimult turned his head, allowing his body to turn in search of where the sound might have originated.
Another, the voice different, closer than the other had been.
And another, a shorter staccato.
They were speaking to each other, she realised belatedly.
“Do the sages do that?” Grimult asked her, and she shook her head, trying to conjure any memories once forgotten. They spoke through silent glances, of quick gestures with their hands.
“The Mihr, then,” Grimult continued with a nod to himself.
She cocked her head, trying to imagine why they would have such a language between them, and felt a moment’s loss that she had no knowledge of it as they continued their melodious conversation.
Back and forth, some quick, some almost mournful in their cadence.
“The fishing clans do it,” Grimult answered her unspoken query. “To communicate where voices might be lost when speaking to others nearby.”
To coordinate, then. Or perhaps simply to say where a good school of fish was located, and where others were sparse.
Another call, and this time there was no mistaking it was close by. She was suddenly pulled back into Grim’s arms, and he made quick work of breaking through the tree line.
Something in her relaxed to see that it was Rezen, his head shifting back and forth, his posture tense until he caught sight of them. He moved quickly toward them, reaching out to grab hold of her hand, his eyes drifting over her person clutched in her husband’s arms. “You are unhurt?”
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