“You lead these people?” one of the men asked, his eyes dark. Penryn tried not to flinch when one of the great beasts made their circle, tried to push away memories of being crushed beneath such a weight.
“No,” Penryn admitted, although she kept her head held high and did not allow her eyes to drift from his. “But I will speak for those who do not know your words, and I will translate those you wish known.”
The three looked to one another, before giving a lone nod. “Agreed.”
Penryn forced her hand to relax from the clutch she had on her skirt. She needed calm, needed all the steady reassurance she could offer, to both parties.
“I need some of you,” Penryn urged, turning back to her true kind. “I need some of you to speak for your people as a whole.”
As she knew they would, those in crimson robes stepped forward first, but Penryn shook her head firmly. “At least one from each clan,” she clarified. “And a sage to speak for their order as well.”
Perhaps one that had worked with her in learning the land-dwellers’ speech. He might even claim that her role was unnecessary, even though his experience came solely from books rather than living interaction.
But she did not trust them alone. Did not trust that their words would be true, that their own motivations would not taint the entire conference.
A selfish part of her considered not bringing one forward at all.
But seeing them at the front lines, rallying their people to the protection of them all...
They were men who had dedicated their lives to the people, and despite how misguided they had become, mistakes and errors, pride and conceit layering upon each subsequent generation until their place was hardly recognisable...
Perhaps...
It could be redeemed.
She could not be the one to do it. She was trained for a specific task, to maintain a treaty that was centuries old. To uphold its principles and see it reinstated for decades to come, for the safety of two specific peoples.
What lay ahead was something wholly new.
And it was for the clans to decide how they would proceed, for the sages to accept with the dignity they should have always aspired to keep.
To offer wisdom born of study and a history denied to the others.
But no more.
There could be no hiding the truth, not when the descendants of those first, banished peoples were standing before them, pleading for a truce.
Representatives of the clans came forward, the sage last of all, grim-faced and clearly displeased with the arrangement, but cooperative.
At least, for the moment.
And as all came together, weapons held low, their people at their backs...
They waited.
Uncertain of what was to come.
If talks might sour, if war was still between them.
Coaxing them all to sit was a tedious business. To suggest their weapons be put carefully back into sheaths or preferably, abandoned entirely, was even worse.
The tribe had skins to place upon the dewy grasses, and Penryn was greatly pleased when they begrudgingly offered enough for every member of the clans as well.
Her father amongst them.
She had not seen him that day, her heart in her throat, wanting him far from the fighting.
But seeing him approach for the Mihr, her relief could not be denied.
She had known him so short a time, but she trusted no one better for the task of peace-making.
Not only with the tribe, but for the good of them all.
He would not allow the sages to dictate too much. Would not allow practices that inflicted more pain upon the people it sought to protect.
He would argue when she could not. When her role as translator insisted she keep quiet with her own opinions.
When the sage scowled as the tribe spoke of their time in hiding, their numbers growing beyond what forage and hunting alone could sustain.
Of their ancestral homes lying dormant, abandoned to time and rot, a memorial for a treaty that was not quite fair to all.
And the clans as they heard histories that were wholly new to them.
She saw the crowds in both camps grow restless as time wore on. Neither side directly engaged with their leaders, but when an hour passed, they lost their well practiced formations and began to disperse.
When the sun drew higher in the sky, many took to the shade of the trees as they sought respite from the heat.
Yet still, each side kept to their own.
And still the leaders talked.
Talked and argued, the leaders of the clans growing more and more distraught with the lone delegate allowed from the sages order.
For all they did not know.
For what could have happened, with truth buried and their people so wholly unprepared should the tribe have proven malicious.
And what trust that had been there, steady and unreserved in the eyes of a few of the leaders, began to fade.
And Penryn watched it happen.
And where she might have thought satisfaction would have reigned, she felt sorrow instead.
Their world had been a peaceful one, in its seclusion. But the cost was high, even if it was borne by few.
She did not know when the talks might end. When a treaty would be forged, formalised on parchment, names and dates scratched at the bottom to signify a new accord.
What the role of Lightkeep would entail any longer.
Who might travel beyond the Wall, to meet with those sequestered. Forgotten.
But she smiled when her father argued on her behalf. The others first rebuffing.
Then listening.
The tribe looking at her with curiosity.
Had they learned long before that one like her would make the trek across their lands? Did they watch, keeping careful mark of where the lone figures tread with so many years between each Journey?
They said little in that regard. But their eyes burned when they spoke of those beyond the Wall, their anger and resentment toward them apparent to all seated together.
Some approached, murmuring respectfully and bringing food and drink, whispering lowly that perhaps rest should be taken, a moment to think and discuss with others.
But the thought of that, of losing their attentions, of never settling them back together again made Penryn nervous.
She remembered being locked away in a room full of sages, a treaty awaiting their signatures.
And there was no rest, no promise of relief until the accord was properly sealed.
Perhaps it should be different here.
Or perhaps it would only lead to further discord as more voices began to muddle what was of greatest importance.
When opinions merged and overrode reason and logical action.
It was late in the day, and her nerves run through. A small portion of food had been pressed into her hands that had somehow made it to her mouth and stomach, washed down with a cool sip of something akin to water but with a hint of sweetness and lovely to her tongue.
She was nearly hoarse, and her eyelids were beginning to droop, the sun beginning its descent. Insects called from their homes within the trees, buzzing and chirping, other flying things swooping low as hunted in the last rays of the sun.
And when her head grew heavy, her mouth sluggish to form the words any longer, it was her husband that was there to support her. Ever mindful of his post, he did not stray from her side. He followed her instruction of keeping his weapons hidden, but she knew well that, if needed, there were plenty hidden about his person to be used to keep them safe.
Her safe, or so she was certain he would murmur soon after.
That he cared little for the woes of these people. That game was growing scarce, that they tired of their lives of eternal wandering.
That they missed their homes.
And it was not their place to argue that surely one could not miss what one did not know. That the longing had been born of stories passed down through
the generation rather than experience.
Penryn understood that well.
Knew how to miss a family even when she knew neither names nor their faces.
Yet she loved them all the same.
They did not call for any true aid. Only the ending of the secrecies between them. For the right to cultivate the lands, to grow food rather than solely forage.
To build homes of their own, as their ancestors had done.
And, with time, perhaps they would even have the strange pipework with taps of unending hot water. Marvellous and indulgent, that even now Penryn missed.
Her home with Grimult would not have such luxuries, she was certain. But she could not find it within her heart to mind.
Not when already she felt the pull to build it, to begin a life that was not dictated by the needs of a people as a whole.
That they might instead turn to sweeter things. The love of family, the happy domesticity of a day well worked and a rest well earned.
Of a loving embrace to close the day before slipping into slumber.
That would not happen this day. Not as their talks slipped into night.
Until all tired to the point where they begged for mercy, to continue come morning, with fresh eyes and a brain not muddled with exhaustion.
There would be days yet ahead.
Perhaps on this same patch of earth, on borrowed mats heavily waxed to keep the moisture of the earth from seeping through.
Or perhaps they would retire to the keep. Or one of the clan’s larger dwellings, where hospitality might be shared.
And perhaps, if the treaty took so very long...
Soon she would not be needed at all. When their words began known, when talks could flow freely without her aid.
She liked that idea.
Liked it very much.
A Lightkeep did not belong to herself. Not really. She was a vessel for the people, born and trained, and sent off to do the work that none else would wish to do.
It would look different in the future. It would have to, with talks of closing the borders entirely, not even to permit a sole Lightkeep and her Guardian from trespassing even so infrequently.
Perhaps they would come from the tribe itself. Tasked with the protection, the secrecy, of all their peoples, winged and wingless alike.
She did not know. Not yet.
But with her father as their advocate, she knew it would be different than it was.
And that was enough for her.
And when the flickering of many fires showed that most in either camp had already banked for the night, Grimult leaned his head down first to whisper in her ear. “Enough,” he urged.
She turned her head, blinking tired eyes and trying to conjure arguments to weary lips, but he shook his head. “Not everything can be decided in a single day,” he observed. “So for tonight, let it be enough.”
And when she translated his words to the others, there was notable relief to be found there.
She blinked, her eyes trying to adjust as she strained in the relative darkness to look about to the separate camps that had been erected on either side of the leaders. There was a divide, where none had dared to intermingle, and she could not blame them for that. Not yet. Not when there was still so much mistrust between their kinds.
But there were fires in each, pinpricks of light as dusk turned to night.
Stars beginning to peak through the swathe of night sky.
It was peaceful, in its way.
And she was so very tired.
They began to disperse, leaders to their own tribes and clans, the lone sage back to his brethren.
She worried what tomorrow would bring, if a night to converse with others would undermine the progress of the day.
But Grimult was right, and they were all exhausted, and the decisions could not be hastily made.
Not when so many lives depended on the outcome.
She had done her best, had recommended what she could, had offered truths when the sage was slow to give them.
But she was not a leader. Did not have the relationships to the people that would enable her to know each of their needs and see them best met.
Grimult’s arm was at her waist, and her mind was too numb to think of where they might be headed. She did not much care, as long as there was a warm bed nestled in the quiet where she might sleep.
A figure moved to the side of them before they were airborne, halting their ascent before it had even started.
She squinted, wondering if it was someone she knew, wondering if it was a sage coming to offer chastisement.
She did not think she could bear to hear it. Not now.
Grimult stiffened at her side, and for a brief moment, she thought that perhaps it was one of his family, coming from within the swarm of the winged-folk, finally able to approach their kin.
But he did not leave her side, did not rush forward to offer hearty embraces and fervent greetings.
And as she looked, the body seemed hunched with age as he came forward from the dim light beyond.
“Do you know him?” Penryn asked, her voice hushed. Strained from the day’s translations.
“Yes,” Grimult replied, his voice steady if a little surprised. “He was the Guardian before me.”
A grunt from the newcomer, and he came very near. Penryn tried not to shy away, but she felt strangely nervous, as if he might prove some danger to them both, despite his obvious age.
“Aemsol,” her husband greeted, moving his hand to his chest and giving a respectful bow.
Another grunt, as milky eyes roved over first Grimult, then Penryn herself. There was a sword strapped to his waist, dragging nearly as low as his wings, and she found herself wondering how he had managed to come here at all. Had they carried such an ancient into battle? Or had he found the strength to come, to protect his people, determination giving a surge of vitality that otherwise was absent?
“I had one question for you,” Aemsol said at last, his voice thin and nearly as strained as hers—although something suggested that his malady might come from disuse instead. “Only one. Do you remember?”
Penryn looked to Grimult, finding yet again that there was much she did not know of him. It troubled her, yet there was a comfort all the same.
That perhaps, if they were very careful, there would be a lifetime ahead to learn all the nooks and crannies, hear all the stories until they simply... knew one another.
Every bit.
Even the parts that were less than flattering.
“I remember,” Grimult answered back, keeping his head level. Respectful, yes, but he did not cower. “Would I be able to leave her at the Wall.”
A hum, low and rumbling. “You said that you would do what was necessary,” Aemsol recalled, his head tilted to the side. Not an accusation. Not outright. But it could be.
His too-grey eyes shifted to look to her. “I did what I was told to do,” he admitted. “Let my Lightkeep walk through that Wall and disappear. Never to know what became of her. Couldn’t ask questions upon my return either.”
He took a breath, as if age was not the burden after all, but the weight of guilt that pressed steadily downward, crushing and bending as the man before her began to tire. “Did she suffer? Did she... need me, and I let her go to her death?”
Penryn glanced at Grimult, and found herself moving forward.
Her hand settled on what once was a strong sword arm, and squeezed it lightly, his skin so soft and pliant beneath her palm.
“She was welcomed,” Penryn answered, calling upon her own experience and finding she held confidence enough that her predecessor had been treated similarly. “There was a feast in her honour, and a comfortable home for her to spend her days.” She smiled as best she could.
There was isolation too, which was a suffering all its own.
But she sought to comfort this man, not add to his burdens of regret.
And something in him eased, and this time when he cleared his throat, h
is shoulder managed to sit a little higher. “You did what I could not,” Aemsol said to Grimult. “I saw that in you. Why I picked you over all the other initiates, who were ready with their yeses.” He nodded absently, as if to himself. “You did what was necessary.”
And rather than wait for any sort of dismissal, he walked away of his own accord, his answers received and accepted.
And, Penryn hoped, his life would be a little easier for it.
Grimult’s arm came about her once more and she eased against him, the weariness resettling into her bones. “I told you,” she murmured to her husband, sighing as her head sank against his side. “They could have picked none better than you.”
A hum, and perhaps it was a chuckle, or maybe a note of disbelief. And despite the risk, she felt his lips briefly at her temple as he brought her close, before he ducked his head so that his lips were at her ear. “You are delirious with exhaustion.”
Maybe so.
Maybe she had dreamt it all.
But she thought there was a smile there, some ease of tension, as if...
As if he was glad.
As if Aemsol’s approval meant a great deal to him, even if he never would have voiced his desire for it.
And she was so very thankful, for his sake.
Grimult’s arms were tight about her, strong and sure as he took them skyward.
And brought her back to the tower she had abandoned.
With bedrolls already waiting, with flasks of crisp water and braided loaves of bread, and the promise of sleep.
And a treaty to come, that would set all to rights.
Or, at least, see to its beginning.
“You did well,” Grimult promised her, taking off her shoes and tucking a blanket over her. She was too muzzy-headed to protest, to remind him that she should at least take off her cloak and perhaps her dress as well so it could cover her wrinkled, sleep-worn shift.
But she was rather comfortable, and when he slipped in beside her and tucked her close, any argument died away.
“You as well,” she murmured, already certain she was partially asleep. “But you have to promise to take me home when this is finished,” she reminded him.
“Home,” he agreed. And there was an ache there, but a promise as well, and she was very certain she was asleep after all, his voice so deep and rumbling against her ear as it tickled in its warmth. “Not for the Lightkeep. And not for her Guardian. Just us.”
The Lightkeep Page 32