The Lightkeep

by Catherine Miller

  Copyright © 2020 Catherine Miller

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9798640115369

  For my mum. Whose relentless encouragement keeps me writing

  Contents

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Also by Catherine Miller

  Prologue

  She had not expected it to hurt so much.

  The door closing behind her felt so final, pushed by her own hands, blocking away the first person she had ever really loved.

  She needed to get moving. All of this was for nothing if she stayed against the Wall, weeping quietly, waiting for something to mend that she doubted would ever fully heal.

  She brushed at her eyes, pushing angrily at the feelings that threatened to overwhelm her, regardless of her actions. She had allowed herself to grow attached, and she must pay the consequence.

  She would not need a heart for long in any case, so it was just as well that it stay with Grim.

  The world was not so very changed beyond the Wall. More trees, tall and imposing rose like an impediment of their very own. Not too near the Wall, not enough that someone could use it as a ladder to scale the Wall itself. Saplings had not been allowed to take root, the border carefully maintained, which meant she would not be alone for long.

  She swallowed, pushing away from the stone behind her. There was no distinct path to follow, simply the instruction that she should keep moving. It was an odd thing, to move on instinct rather than following a map long imprinted on her mind through years of study and instruction. Her youth had been spent proving she could recall every facet, every landmark that would indicate she was going the proper direction until she thought she would grow mad from the repetition.

  Yet now she was simply told to wander, and that was an oddity to her.

  Her eyes narrowed as something caught her attention just past the tree line. She drew closer, understanding coming slowly as she knelt down to investigate. Twisted metal in various stages of decay were all piled beneath a towering tree, only one truly recognisable for what it was.

  The lanterns of the Lightkeeps that came before, abandoned almost immediately.

  Hers was not there to add to the small monument, and for a brief moment she felt regretful at her insistence that they leave it behind, although she comforted herself that the state of her ribs and arm made carrying it truly burdensome. And she certainly could not have asked Grim to do even more.

  She touched the previous ones in any case, feeling rather strange as she stared down at them. They were not worth anything, not really, but they were a remnant of her line. None else would remember them, knowledge of their existence hidden away in a sage’s book, with little relevance to anyone else—most especially the people they had protected.

  Their duty done, they no longer mattered. Whatever became of them was inconsequential, just so long as it was impossible for them to breach the Wall again, to return to a people that were never truly theirs and share too many secrets.

  She closed her eyes. Hopelessness tugged at her, gnawing and persistent. Better not to think of the future, better not to imagine what came next, lest it overtake her entirely.

  She glanced back at the Wall, the stones dark and seemingly as strong as it had been when first it was erected, large spikes punctuating the top to dissuade determined climbers.

  The door could not open from this side, only the other.

  But she thought of the rider poor Grim had killed. He had found a way. Maybe she could too.

  She straightened. There would be time for mourning, for dwelling on the possibilities of her time to come and growing morose over the poor prospects before her. But not now. The light would not last much longer, and she could hardly be found in the dark.

  She kept close to the tree line, uncertain how it would benefit any of them if she was to grow lost in the tangle of trees.

  For the first time since she had set out from the keep, she felt truly cold. It was as if the loneliness that had been her constant companion through her formative years had suddenly returned, sending chills and urging warmth anywhere she could find it. A favoured blanket, a roaring fire, anything to banish the feeling that she was halfway to the grave and no one would care.

  There was no Grimult to banish away such sensations now. No charming smile in her direction that sent a surge of answering warmth through her entire being.

  She was alone.

  She drew her cloak about her as she walked, the shadows growing long, and she wondered at what point she retreat, find shelter and build a fire.

  Her first on her very own. First of many, she realised with a grimace.

  But before she had quite decided, there was a rumbling in the distance. She saw the creature first, heart already racing, although it did not directly resemble the one that had pinned her so easily to the ground, teeth long and snarling as it growled in her face with puffs of hot air.

  This one seemed demure as it carried on steadily forward, a cart tied to the back of it, a man seated up higher.

  She stood her ground, waiting as he drew nearer. His clothing was mixtures of reds, an emblem of a flame pinned neatly to his collar, yet still he looked at her in some surprise.

  She took a trembling breath although she hoped he did not notice her nerves.

  Before she could give the customary greeting, the language drilled into her from long before— although even now her tongue felt slow to respond to it—the man cut in, a grin on his face.

  “Bit late, aren’t you?”

  Penryn grimaced. “I suppose,” she answered back. He was not what she expected, the lines on his face suggesting this had been his task for many years. Patrolling. Cutting down saplings that dared grow out of line.

  Picking up heartbroken Lightkeeps.

  “Well, get in then,” he instructed. “People are waiting on you.”

  She timidly walked around the beast, and the man chuckled at her jump when it craned its head to nip at her as she passed.

  “Pay him no mind,” the man apologised, patting the wooden seat beside him. “Let’s see you where you need to go, shall we?”

  She nodded, climbing up and sitting beside him, though putting as much distance between them as she could.

  “You hurt bad?” he asked, his manner pleasant enough.

  “No,” she answered, knowing her response would not have wavered even if her injuries had been more severe. “I was very well taken care of.”

  The man gave a grunt and urged the creature forward, turning the cart about, back from whence he had come.

  It was not the formal exchange she had expected, but so little of this entire business had been quite as she had imagined.

  Perhaps things had changed beyond the Wall.

  Even if they had remained staunchly the same for Grimult’s people.

  The sages had seen to that.

  “You got a name?” the man posed, and her eyes flickered to him in surprise.

  She steeled herself, pulling on a mantle she had long since thrown aside. “No,” she answered firmly. “I am the Lightkeep.”

  One

  The ride was longer than she had expected.

  Penryn should have been beyond such things by now, all expectation set aside as the far grimmer reality washed over her, purging all youthful imagining in its wake.

  The man beside her had given up on conversation, instead choosing to prattle on in a one-side
d need to fill the silence with some sort of noise, at times suggesting that he was merely speaking to the beast pulling their cart. The horse, or so he called it, did not like going too long without a bit of encouragement, and a click of tongue and another rambling tale seemed to be necessary to keep the beast moving at all.

  Or so the man claimed.

  Edgard was his name, told to her—or perhaps the horse—after a long diatribe about the fine cakes that awaited him at home, not only a wife, but also a sister long widowed.

  He paused then, as if waiting for some comment, suggesting that perhaps he truly was speaking to her after all, but she did not turn her head to engage.

  If he had been trained for this position, it had been done poorly, or perhaps so long ago that he had simply forgotten.

  He was meant to transport, not to ply the Lightkeep with details of a world she was never meant to truly know.

  Although she could hardly report him. Not when she had broken enough rules herself during her time with...

  She could not think of him, even now. She brought her cloak more tightly about herself, willing the weeping she had done beside the Wall to be enough. Quiet dignity was hers to call upon, but it seemed so terribly far away even now.

  “You cold?” Edgard asked, peering at her with a frown. He allowed the reins to slacken, his body turning to grope into the cart behind them. It was covered by a loose tarp, presumably to protect the contents from any rain, though the day did not appear ready for such an outpouring.

  Pity. It would have fit her mood much better than the sunlight peeking through the treetops every so often, bathing her in warmth.

  He pulled a blanket through the opening, handing it to her with a smile. “Can’t have you chilled, can we?”

  She did not bother to explain that her action had not been due to the temperature, but accepted it willingly enough. It appeared clean at first perusal, and her thoughts drifted to a bedroll that had been hers. Was that really just the night before?

  Already it seemed a lifetime.

  She placed it over legs and nodded her thanks. It smelled lightly of horse and some sort of sweet grass, and it was not unpleasant, the weight of it a surprising comfort even if only on her lower appendages.

  She turned, her eyes drifting over their surroundings, enjoying the brief respite into silence that Edgard allowed. She could feel his eyes on her, drifting every so often and considering her, but she paid him no mind. Her hood should be up, she realised belatedly. Another mistake in a long line of foolishness, but it seemed far too late to fix it.

  Before the destination, then.

  When she was younger, when the maps she was set upon to learn were new and exciting, she had spent many days imagining what the other side would look like. The Wall was depicted in thick, black ink, harsh and imposing even upon a page, the beyond simple blankness.

  She had decided they would be a very great people, their trees dyed in fantastical colours or purples and blues, ones that might match the threads stitched into the blanket on her bed by her minder before she was sent away.

  She knew better now. It was a forest struck in two, halves of a single whole. The trees themselves were kin, so it was unsurprising that their surroundings were remarkably similar. Yet it was. And her companion was not hers, and she drew her lower lip into her mouth, wondering if it was also her girlish imagination that made her believe she could still taste him there.

  Or had she fabricated even that? Perhaps she had only wanted to kiss him so badly that she had dreamt it, had believed he would respond as fervently in kind.

  She blinked, trying to master thoughts that had no business remaining on this side of the Wall. She glanced down at her lap, her hands held in tight fists, her knuckles white. At least when Edgard prattled she had something to drive away her own racing thoughts. Memories. Fantasies.

  She swallowed, turning back to him. “Is it very far?”

  Edgard shook his head, his shoulders relaxing from a tension she did not know he possessed. She had always.... she could always tell when... when he was tense.

  She pushed the thought away.

  “Not long now, little miss,” he answered easily, although he inclined his head, the better to peer at her. She wondered what he saw. That did not seem a proper title for one of her position, but she did not find that she minded it. “You must be very tired,” he commented thoughtfully. “But maybe you had a cart to bring you. Not as fine as mine though, is it?” he asked, his hand reaching to the wood, long considered old, but kept well, hard though it was beneath her seat.

  She should not answer that. No details, no information on what lay on the other side. “Yours is a very fine cart,” she agreed instead, gratified that her compliment had brought a twinkle to his eye, one that seemed most genuine.

  He sat a little straighter at her praise, the click he gave the horse a bit more cheerful, and she wondered why her approval mattered to him.

  Yet clearly, it did.

  The increase in speed made each lurch a little more pronounced, and when the wheel caught on a stone it gave a particularly difficult jostle, her ribs protesting the action with pain that reminded her of the first day of their injury. She was able to suppress her low hiss, her hand coming to grip at her side. Soon. They would be there soon, and there would be no more carts, and there would be time for rest. After... well, after.

  “You well?” Edgard asked, his brow furrowing as he regarded her.

  She should sit up straighter, should prim and nod and assure him that all was well.

  Even they were honeyed lies, the lot of them.

  She was not allowed to be a person here, not really. She was a figurehead, her time for playacting behind her.

  Locked away with...

  That did not matter.

  His hand moved, just at the corner of her vision. As if he meant to reach out, to touch her, and she gave him a sharp glance in warning. He had the good sense to appear momentarily sheepish, shaking his head at her reaction. “Forget you aren’t my granddaughter, that’s all.” He cleared his throat, allowing the horse to hold his full attention for a brief moment. “Was only going to say that they’ll see you patched up when we get there. Anyone can clearly see you aren’t quite right.”

  At that he gave his own pointed glance at her wrist and she covered it with her free hand. She couldn’t bear to think of... of him wrapping it, of the care he had taken with her. Always so careful.

  How far could he be by now?

  The ache in her chest was real, more potent than any of the injuries she had incurred.

  She did not want a sage looking her over, pulling away careful wrappings and giving her new, pristine and white and unfamiliar.

  But she did not have a say. Not now. Only with...

  “Look like you could use a hot meal too,” Edgard continued. “Or maybe a few.”

  Penryn shifted, releasing a trembling breath. A part of her wanted to refuse to eat anything here, to wait until enough time had passed that it was possible he was settled in with his family, enjoying the bounty that came with farm-life and hard work, his mother doting on him as he had so often tended to her.

  She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry.

  What if something happened along the way? What if he was hurt, and there was no one... no one to find him, to help him, to patch up his wounds and set the world right again.

  “Stop,” she begged. “Please stop.”

  Whether she entreated Edgard the thoughts pushing to the forefront of her mind, she could not be sure.

  But Edgard obliged while the memories did not, and she staggered down from the cart, unthinkingly catching herself with her bound arm, the pain blossoming and nearly blinding in its intensity.

  Yet it was better that than the overwhelming cacophony in her own mind, and she took a few deep breaths, perilously near to sobs.

  The sages would be disgusted with her for her lack of self-control.

  She could not find it within herself to
care.

  “Miss?” Edgard queried, learning his body towards her without actually moving from his seat. “Lightkeep?” He sounded terribly nervous, but she had no room to chide herself for worrying him. “Do I need to fetch help?”

  Another breath and then another, and she felt a little more herself. “No,” she managed to get out. She should not be affected so. Not by a kiss, not by a host of kindness spread over weeks and weeks of travel.

  She should be able to think his name without feeling as if she was about to split open.

  But she couldn’t.

  And for a moment, entertained the thought of the tether he had mentioned, pulling them near, agonising when apart.

  She had dismissed it so quickly, certain it had been a fabrication of his own making, a confirmation, yes, that his care for her was genuine.

  Perhaps she had been mistaken.

  One last steadying breath and she pulled herself back into the cart. The blanket so generously given had been subjected to the floor and she righted it quickly, smoothing out the lines, pricks of texture against her palm where small, tight stitches held everything together.

  The patterns were unfamiliar, the colours bright and vibrant in reds and blues, motifs of florals and greenery cut and sewn into patterns unlike what she had seen amongst the sages.

  “My wife made that for me,” Edgard supplied without her having to enquire. With a click the horse was moving again. “Said it would keep me warm during my patrols.”

  She did not question why a younger man was not used for such a purpose. Perhaps he had been when the gift had been given, hale and hearty, ready to keep watch for errant Lightkeeps or enemies alike.

  “She has skill with a needle,” Penryn complimented. So many skills she did not possess. There was knowledge there, scuttling through her brain, taunting her with all she did not truly know.

  It made her feel small.

  And a fraud.

  When so many revered her, and there was so little to truly admire.

  “Aye,” Edgard agreed. “That she does. Should have seen her when our first little one was set to be born. Never could you imagine how quick her fingers worked, the trunk soon full to bursting with all that a babe might need.” He chuckled to himself, the memory clearly fond. “She still likes to remind me that we needed almost all of it. Messy things, youngin’s. Sure you know that, though.”