The Lightkeep

by Catherine Miller

  It was with firmer resolve that Penryn kept her hands away from her goblet, lest she make a similar fool of herself, her tongue loosened and manner too bright.

  Perhaps that was why they had given her a pitcher of the stuff?

  The thought was not a pleasant one.

  The dancing started soon after. Penryn had seen faint depictions of instruments and a vague description of their sound, but it was not at all the same as hearing them performed with practiced hands. Most were played by blowing into long tubes, fingers pressing wildly that seemed to change the nature of the sound. There were a few strange contraptions with strings that were tucked under chins and long sticks rubbed out impressive melodies with ease.

  The sound altogether was an unexpected chaos at first, couples getting up from their chairs almost immediately to relocate the celebration to the large open square, purposefully bereft of tables presumably for just such a purpose. Long lines of men and women stood facing one another, hands clapping and feet moving as they bounced and twined, colourful ribbons flashing as skirts twirled about until all were paired off once more, bounding and prancing as they made their way around the square.

  It was as breathtaking as it was confusing, her heart pounding to witness such a coordinated effort of movement and...

  Freedom.

  Free to move, free to love the partner they had chosen, free to simply be.

  And the envy was a slippery thing as it slithered through her, and she was forced to shut her yes, to remember herself, lest it fester into anger.

  She felt another approach and did her best to hold her composure. A placid smile, a kind word, and they would move on, satisfied that they had spoken to the mysterious and illusive Lightkeep who would henceforth disappear, never to be seen again.

  “Penryn,” a voice murmured, far closer than she had expected, and her eyes flew open, darting about the space in front of her, only to find it quite empty. Those still seated at the tables had shifted their chairs, the better to see the dancing, and at least for a time, they had something more fascinating to hold their attention than a solitary Lightkeep.

  When a hand reached out and settled on her shoulder it took everything in her not to gasp or, even worse, screech out her surprise at the action.

  She whirled around, ready to chastise, ready to... she did not know what.

  Not when crouched behind her was precisely who could not be here at all.

  Just as he had appeared in the great hall, hunched and heavily cloaked, but his eyes, even in the dim light of the shadow of the Keep, there was no mistaking that it was really him.

  She wanted to hit him.

  Wanted to kiss him.

  Wanted to throw herself into his arms and thank him over and over that he was here, that he was real, that she had not already begun her descent into madness, the solitude having tugged at the tethers of her mind until all had unravelled.

  But she was too jumbled up, had worked too hard to present her cooler nature, put duty before herself, so out tumbled instead the admonishment that was expected of her. “What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice partially harsh, but a great deal more breathless. “If you are seen,” she blanched, “All of this is for nothing.” An exaggeration as the treaty had already been signed, but he had renounced his own vow by following her, and that was a heavy weight to the both of them.

  “I have not been seen,” he answered with a hint of annoyance in his expression. She did not want that. She wanted the tender looks he gave her sometimes, more frequent toward the end of their Journey and he was not so determined to keep up his air of formality between them.

  Her fingers found him of their own accord, clutching at the cloak that shielded him from everything, grateful for its presence yet resenting it all the same. She wanted to see him properly, wanted to assess for herself that he was unharmed, that...

  That he was real.

  He softened somewhat when he noticed her desperation, the hand that had been at her shoulder coming to grip one of her hands in his. His thumb traced over her knuckles, and she felt the welcome shiver, the one that so often accompanied even the simplest of his touches. Tears were threatening to come, hard and unending should she allow them to make any appearance at all, and it took every bit of her will to hold on to her composure lest she draw too much attention to them both.

  “We must talk, you and I,” Grimult told her, his fingers grasping hers a little more firmly. “In private.”

  Penryn bit her lip, nodding her head, turning her head to glance over at the sages. They were engaged either in conversation with each other or with looking at the dancers, but it would not be that way for long. “The North Tower is mine until tomorrow, and then I will be moved to my permanent location.” She grimaced, feeling a sudden panic. “I do not know exactly where it is. What if you cannot find me?” But he had found her here, when she had left him on the other side of the Wall, and even now, she could not quite believe it.

  He smiled at her, a sad offering compared to some of the bright and easy ones she had seen during their travels. “I will always find you, Penryn,” he murmured, and from the way his eyes darted downward, she was fairly certain he wished to kiss her, to seal such a foolhardy vow with something tangible and solely theirs, and she felt the same longing fill her.

  But with a final grip of her fingers, he pulled away, and it took everything in her not to cling, not to plead with him to stay.

  It was more than she had ever expected to have with him, yet that seemed to unearth all the greedy selfishness she had fought to hide away behind duty and sacrifice.

  The dancers ceased as the music came to a halt, and she would have thought that something had gone wrong if people were not smiling and clapping their hands together, seemingly pleased with the conclusion. Some partners returned to their tables, winded and out of breath, a few comments drifting to her that dancing was for the young, and they must not be that anymore. Others remained in the square, unwilling to be separated, content to look eagerly at the musicians and await another song.

  Penryn had thought it difficult to remain seated before, to watch and listen and pretend that the food before her was of any interest at all, but now it was nearly impossible. He said he would find her, but when? Would he come to her tonight, to the tower window that he had no hope of fitting through? Or would he be prudent and wait until she was sequestered? That would be the wiser of the two, with less risk of discovery, but everything in her longed for him to come back as quickly as possible.

  One of the sages leaned over and whispered something to Henrik, and Penryn could feel his eyes on her. She looked purposefully elsewhere, not wishing to hold his attention any longer than necessary.

  But she felt a knot of dread when he stood, and it grew even worse when it became obvious he was approaching her.

  Had he seen?

  Panic fluttered, urging her to rise, to run, to avoid a confrontation she was not prepared to have, but there was nowhere to go. Not yet. So she forced herself to stillness as he approached, coming and leaning over her, his voice low. “The food is not to your liking?” he asked, his voice low, and to her surprise, concerned.

  She released a ragged breath, and she had to work on her composure lest she make it even more obvious that something was amiss. She did not know how to answer him, not in a way that would also be in keeping with the faultless, flawless figure that was more myth than woman. So perhaps it was better to allow him to feel he had extracted a confession, allow him to feel she had confided in him.

  The better to hide what was far more important.

  “I am nervous,” she confided, glancing at him with a small smile. “It makes it difficult to eat.” Again, that look that suggested if she was anyone else, she would have received a comforting pat and a friendly word. That, at least, Henrik seemed determined to offer even if his station did not permit it.

  “There is no need to be,” he soothed with a nod of his head. “Everyone is so grateful for your coo
peration, and they wish only to thank you. You will not find dissenters here today, so try to be at ease and enjoy yourself as much as possible.”

  She tried to smile, but she feared it came as more of a wince. It did not escape her that he did not claim there were no dissenters at all, only that they would not be at the celebration. Was that a mounting problem for his people? Did people tire of the traditions, the half-truths, a history crafted into their very walls but that had slipped from memory to fable?

  That was not her worry to carry.

  It was Henrik’s.

  And for a moment, she pitied him for it. Her task was simple, if burdensome. His was ongoing, a daily toil to ensure that all believed just enough to carry it to the subsequent generation.

  “I will do my best,” she informed him when he did not appear satisfied with her failed attempt at a placating look, and he gave another nod.

  “Good. If you have need of anything,” he glanced to where Respie was meant to have been stationed, and looked down the line to her see her settled with her family.

  “I sent her,” Penryn cut in quickly, lest he think Respie had been derelict in her duties. “Everyone else was with their kin, and it seemed—” she stopped short of saying cruel, but struggled to find a proper supplement. “I did not have need of her, truly,” she said instead.

  Henrik glanced back to Penryn, his expression thoughtful. “You are a compassionate soul,” he mused, more himself than to her. “I do not know who I expected to come, but it was not you.” He gave a quick bow before returning to his brethren, leaving Penryn to wonder at his words. Had it been intended as a compliment? She could not be certain, but she was not certain that a capacity for compassion was ever truly an insult.

  Her hands were near to shaking, and she picked up another crumb of bread and ate it, waiting for some rebellion in her stomach but found none. This was her final task for these people, to accept their thanks and appear to enjoy their company, and she had done a poor job thus far. Another bite, another sip of the wine, and when another approached her table, she was able to smile and nod to them as was expected of her.

  And her anticipation grew when the day drew on, long shadows coming and covering the celebration in a sudden chill. Women came to mother over their children, bringing brightly coloured shawls to wrap about slim shoulders, tutting and fussing and wondering if it would be better simply to return home. Babies were hardly seen at all, so wrapped up in their blankets as they were held close. Yet still, the dancing wore on.

  It would go late into the night, Penryn was sure. Some would begin to take turns, even the musicians beginning to bring in new players as others gave out from the strain upon their fingers.

  The torches gave an eerie glow as dusk came. Most seemed to have forgotten she was there at all, and that suited her well enough. She found herself paying little attention to the festivities, too preoccupied in seeing if she could catch a glimpse of Grimult, yet she did not succeed.

  She told herself that was for the best, that if she could not find him, then none else would either. But the trickles of doubt insisted that she had imagined the entire encounter, that her desperation to not be alone had concocted such a fantasy because she could not bear the truth.

  She bit her lip, looking desperately toward Henrik. She wanted to leave but did not know how to prompt such an occurrence without causing great offence. He had told her to enjoy herself but she had not quite decided how to do so. Would others before her have ventured out, mingling with the common-folk, learning names and perhaps, indulging in some form of dance that did not include touch?

  She doubted it. Not if they had received the same training she had.

  It was the eldest sage that approached her, and he manoeuvred the steps with care so as not to trip on his robe and injure himself. She could well understand such caution. “A fine night, but a short one when you are an old man like me,” he informed her congenially as he made to pass. He paused before he went too far, turning back to look at her. There was a more pronounced hunch to his shoulders now that he was upright, and it made him look even older than before. “It has been an honour to serve you,” he informed her, and her brow furrowed. Her time had been limited, regardless of how long it had felt tucked away in her tower.

  Belatedly, she realised he did not speak truly of her, but her title, of the work he had given to the Keep and the preparation of her coming.

  The work of lifetimes.

  She swallowed thickly, uncertain what to say, not when all her responses felt either too dismissive, or trespassed into deceit. She had not been happy to be their Lightkeep. Never had been. But she hoped she had accomplished it with grace, that she had met at least some of their expectations.

  Not that it should matter.

  Yet somehow, it did.

  So instead she gave a low nod. “I thank you for being willing to serve,” she answered instead, meaning it. Had it not been for him, for his staunch reliance on the traditions she knew so well, they likely would still be trapped in the midst of their talks, unable to overcome their impasse.

  He turned, ready to retire, and there was no doubt in her mind that he would forsake responsibilities now that he had seen her. The ultimate task finished, he could see to smaller duties, like tending the library, or simply waiting to give instruction to errant children that parents brought for an extra dose of discipline, hopeful that an imposing surrounding and a droll old man would help.

  “If I wanted to make an early night as well,” Penryn asked after him. “How might that be accomplished?” Her voice was smaller at the end than she had intended, and she hoped he was not hard of hearing lest she be forced to raise her voice to a level that would alert any seated nearest to her.

  He turned back, using his whole torso to do so rather than simply turning his neck. He eyed her for a moment, and she wondered what he saw. Perhaps a Lightkeep trying to shirk the last of her responsibilities, and she grimaced that he would not be wholly wrong in doing so.

  Or maybe it was a woman not long past girlhood, cold and seated alone, wanting to nurse her loneliness in private rather than endure it any longer.

  “You are not bound to that chair,” he said instead, although there was a smile to his voice that suggested he was not cross with her for making the enquiry. “If you wish to take your leave, you may do so.”

  She opened her mouth, ready to question how when she did not know the way to her new place, but he shook his head, gesturing toward the sages, some milling about, others still stationed in their places at the table. “Let them all scuttle after you and fuss about the proper way of things. They like to have something to do.”

  It was not an answer she had expected of him, not when he seemed the most dedicated to the formality she was surprised to find she longed for. But with a bow, he took his leave and she did not pester him further, not when he so clearly longed for his bed.

  He was not wrong. There was nothing binding her to her seat. She had two legs, and a voice that was uncertain of the words, but knew her intention.

  Penryn stood, feeling stiff and strangely sore from not moving for so long, but she did not allow herself the pleasure of stretching to work her muscles free from their constraint. She paused a moment, wondering if any would notice her movement, but none approached. It was only when she moved about the side of the table, debating whether to slip away back into the Keep or approach a sage directly that the one moved into action.

  Not one of the sages at all, but Edgard. She wondered why he had not come to see her before, but as he patted away two children and sent them back to their mother, she rather thought he had simply been too busy with his own family to pay her much heed.

  “You’ve been sitting there all by your lonesome for long enough, thought you might be intending to sleep there,” he said with a twinkle, suggesting that he was... teasing her.

  A strange interaction, but not unwelcome. “I wish to retire,” she admitted to him, her eyes drifting down the street, tryi
ng to ascertain which way she should go. She missed having a head full of maps, of charts, of landmarks that told her always where to go, how to change her path so she would be on the right one. But those were for another world, one that she should not try to return to.

  But had to.

  For all their sakes.

  “Aye,” Edgard agreed. “You’ve got a new home waiting, and you’ll be wanting to settle in.”

  Penryn blinked at him, surprised that he knew of it.

  “I did not mean to trouble you,” she hedged, not wanting to interrupt. For a moment she regretted not going to talk to Henrik directly, but Edgard shook his head.

  “It would be my pleasure,” he assured her. “All will still be here when I get back. Though truth be told, those little’uns should be sleeping soon.” He shook his head as four children held hands and bounced around in a circle at the edge of the dancing. The two girls had flowers strung through their hair, the youngest boy a crown of leaves.

  Penryn could barely imagine having a child of her own, let alone that child having children. But Edgard seemed to think it the grandest thing in the world, and although she still struggled to be satisfied with the results of the day, she could not deny that for this, she was glad.

  There was joy here, even if it was not for her. Even if they did not remember why they celebrated at all, they knew it was important, they knew that her coming meant coming together, of laughter and song and perhaps a few too many sips of the spiced wine.

  Edgard gave a showy bow and to Penryn’s absolute mortification, gave a sharp whistle. “Lightkeep is leaving!”

  The music halted abruptly, and the dancers came to a stop. It was obvious a few had not heard his words, only turned their heads to see what might have happened to cause such an event, and Penryn could see Henrik’s widening eyes as he tried to make it through the crowd of people and reach her. She felt no great need for an exchange, most especially when she had not been given the proper words to say to address the people once again. Edgard looked at her, not quite expectant, but assessing, and she swallowed thickly, trying to think of something proper to say.