The Lightkeep

by Catherine Miller

  “I thank you for your hospitality,” she called, her voice steady despite her nerves. “May the rest of your night be a pleasant one.”

  More silence, followed by a whooping shout, followed by a peal of laughter, and she lost the attention of the masses, the musicians tentatively returning to their songs, as if afraid they might be interrupted once again.

  “Right then, if you will come with me.”

  He gestured past a great cluster of tables, most of which had been emptied, and she was grateful not to be accosted along the way. Anxiety clutched at her with merciless tenacity, and she did not think she could stand being surrounded by so many people for much longer. She had desired it when she was younger, when she thought that there could be nothing quite so grand as being lost in a sea of people, never wanting for company.

  But she understood it better now. That the aching loneliness did not simply disappear because other people were near. She did not know them, and they did not know her. Perhaps they thought they did, but it was merely a title, a position she was born to. Not her.

  Only one could claim that, and she was already slipping back to doubt that he was truly here.

  That he would find her once she retired to her new dwelling.

  She grew nervous that he would not know to follow. That he would assume that since the celebration was to last so long, the sages would suggest she remain a night longer in the tower. Was he waiting for her there? And if he did not see the path that Edgard took, how would he ever find her again?

  “Here now,” Edgard indicated, drawing her attention to his cart, the beast waiting also, an empty bushel of what might have been some sort of food source empty beside it. Edgard exchanged the loop of soft rope for a contraption that slipped over the creatures head and mouth before he urged her up into the seat, following behind.

  The quilt that his wife had made was already waiting for her on her side.

  “Did you know you would be my escort?” Penryn found herself asking, smoothing the fabric over her legs, and caught his smile at the action.

  “I’m a selfish man,” he admitted with a shrug. “Didn’t mind getting to say that I was the only one to transport you while you stayed with us.”

  He made a clicking sound with his tongue and the beast got moving, and it was not long before the clamour of stones was exchanged for a gentler rumble of the wheels against hard-packed earth. The motion of the cart was strangely soothing, and although she was sorely tempted to bring the quilt up higher, she feared she would be lulled to sleep if she did so.

  They carried on in silence, although she could feel him glancing at her frequently as if something was very near to escaping if only he allowed it.

  By the fourth glance, she felt it better simply to enquire than to allow him to injure his neck with so much perusing. “Did you having something you would ask of me?”

  They were losing the last of the light, but she was fairly confident from the ducking of his head that his skin would be pinked with embarrassment. That had not been her intent, and she regretted making him feel so.

  “Just wonderin’ if you’re going to be all right, out here on your own,” he told her, although he took a moment to collect himself before answering. “Don’t know why, but I always pictured some old man coming out this way. That he’d have had a good long life and wouldn’t mind some peace and quiet for the rest of his time living.” He looked at her, more purposefully this time. “Think I’ll be worrying about you for a long time yet.”

  Penryn shifted, uncertain what to say. She could not reveal that her time here was limited, that she would spend most of her time searching the Wall for some indication of how to return to the other side.

  Unless Grimult really was real...

  And then her days would not be alone at all, but would be shared.

  But she could not say that either. Not when it was a grievous breach of the accord she had just signed that swore that only one bearing her title would come to the other side.

  “I do not want you to do that,” she said instead. “To... worry.” She had tried to give similar instructions to Grimult, and he had been unable to listen either. She had wanted him to go, to find a sweet girl to call wife and have the family she could not. But if she was selfish, and risked admitting it only to herself, it was almost nice to think of someone in the world, worrying for her. Not about the accord, not that she might not make it across the Wall and the treaty would be broken. But worrying for her own sake, because he did not like to imagine a woman living out her days in solitude when there were so many left to be had.

  When the dim turned to true dark, Edgard reached to light a lantern hanging on the cart’s side, a pole sliding upward to illuminate above their heads as well as the beast’s path lest he stumble.

  “I don’t know that somebody else gets to decide that,” Edgard reminded her, his tone still pleasant. “Not even you.”

  She was fairly certain Grimult had felt just the same, and the thought brought all the sadness she had endured but mixed with it such a fond warmth that she could not speak for a moment. She had known she loved him—how could she not? But part of that love was wanting the best for him, even if it meant she had to lose him in the process.

  But Edgard made a good point. Grimult was free to make his own choices as well, and she could not do that for him.

  If he wanted to return home and ignore her suggestions, to forsake all others and cling to her memory instead, that was his prerogative. Even if it made her want to take him in her arms and inform him that he was a sweet, foolish man that should take what happiness he could find, not waste away over what could not have been.

  It was disheartening how long they travelled in the cart. She had known that her place would have been one of seclusion, but despite her determination that she would keep careful appraisal of their direction, she found herself suddenly bolting awake when the cart lurched to a final halt.

  She wiped at her eyes, looking about her for some sense of her surroundings, and Edgard glanced at her, amusement mingling with concern. “You’re all right,” he assured her. “Got you home, didn’t I? Just like I said.”

  Home? Is that what this was supposed to be? She shivered, wanting to bury herself beneath the quilt, but made herself take it away from its place draped across her legs and fold it neatly.

  “You are a fine driver,” she complimented, hoping down from the cart with as much grace as her tired legs could muster. “I thank you for it.”

  He waved away her gratitude and she could see him frowning at the dwelling. It was old, of that she was certain. The stones were more roughly hewn, as if the masons had begun with this before more finely honing their skills with the creations in the main village. There was no light from within, and she braced herself for a cold, lonely welcome.

  “Feels wrong to leave like this.” Edgard commented, still seated in the cart. “Should at least get a fire going, but they’re all adamant that I not go inside.” He finally glanced toward Penryn, and she took a careful breath. A part of her longed to usher him inside, to have a moment of company, but the other was well versed in helping others maintain the strict codes that surrounded her care.

  “I know how to make a fire,” she assured him, hoping that the proper supplies were nestled within, otherwise it would be a cold and dangerous trek through the woods that surrounded them trying to find tinder and kindling, let alone logs. “But I thank you for the offer all the same.”

  He nodded to himself, but still did not look satisfied. “They’ll have been sprucing it up, I’m sure, since you came. Getting it cleaned and stocked with all you might be needing.”

  Penryn smoothed her hands down her skirt and tried unsuccessfully to suppress a shiver. “Then I will rest well tonight,” she assured him, finding it a little odd but strangely touching that she should need to do so at all.

  He adjusted his grip on the reins and nodded once more. “Right. Get out of the cold, miss. Ain’t good for you.”


  And with that he clicked his tongue and the horse turned the cart about, and Penryn moved quickly to the door, wondering at the latch and how she would manage to get inside without the light the cart provided. “Don’t you worry, I’ll wait here until you’re in. Just give a wave and I’ll be off.”

  Relief spread through her, although the familiar feeling of being watched was not a pleasant one. Her anxiousness made the task far more difficult than it should have been, the door itself yielding easily when she pressed her thumb down on a small catch on the handle, the hinges well-oiled as it swung open without a sound. She could not make out a great deal of the residence itself, not with how dark it was, the light from the stars and moon heavily obstructed by the boughs overhead, and she almost despaired of it when she caught the outline of a small lamp near the door, the flint and stone nestled beside, waiting.

  Her lamp lit, she waved from the doorway, ensuring there was a smile for Edgard to take back with him.

  He gave a nod, and she stood until the cart was out of sight, feeling an emptiness settle over her at the heavy weight of just how alone she was, nestled in a forest that was not hers, in a dwelling that was wholly unfamiliar.

  But standing, looking out at the inky blackness would not help her, and she shivered again as the night air tickled at her cheeks and tried to pervade through the heavy fabric of her dress.

  She retreated inside, shutting the door behind her, her eyes settling on the elaborate mechanisms that lined the door. There were others beside the simple bolt she was familiar with, although they all seemed to serve the same relative function, locking her away from the outside world.

  She would learn the others later, instead content with the heavy iron bolt that had always served as protection enough in the past.

  Satisfied, she turned around, trying to decide on her first course of action. The chill in the air made it rather obvious, and she hurried over to the fireplace that stood proudly at the far wall. There was a large alcove cut from the stone, filled to the brim with cut logs, a basket of tinder and kindling nestled below, but even those would not be necessary, everything needed for her first already neatly arranged within.

  She made quick work with the fire-starter, blowing gently to urge the gentle flame to catch and burn, to offer some measure of warmth in the otherwise draughty place. It flickered, uninterested at first, but finally acquiesced, and she felt a momentary bolt of triumph.

  And to her great embarrassment, found herself turning to tell Grimult of her success.

  But of course he was not there, and the loneliness came back tenfold.

  Another shiver, and she stood, bringing her lamp to light others throughout the space. She would have to be modest with the use of the oil, but later. For now she needed the illumination, needed to inspect her new dwelling, for however long or short it might be hers.

  She felt the whispers of disgust remembering how many had likely lived and died within these very walls before her, and shoved the thought away firmly. It would do her no good to dwell on such revulsions, and she had nowhere else to go. The bedding was fresh, and she was gratified to see that the only red that was within the fabric more resembled the quilt Edgard’s wife had made—a natural complement to the more subdued hues rather than overwhelming the piece simply because of who it was for. An inspection of the wardrobe almost brought a bubble of laughter from her, so elated was she to see a swathe of greens and blues, even some as plain as brown.

  Her time should have been finished, a Lightkeep no more. She was to live in seclusion, yes, but she was also to keep from drawing attention to herself. If any were to stumble upon her cottage, they could not return home with tales of seeing a glimpse of crimson, of a forbidden meeting, perhaps even an illicit conversation.

  She bit her lip when she caught sight of more familiar offerings, folded at the bottom of the wardrobe. Sturdy boots that had already seen a Journey, now polished and mended as best as they could have been. And the red cloak that had been hers. She had never asked what happened to them once she had changed into those provided by the Keep, but had cared little for the answer. They had served their purpose, and she had felt no great attachment to them. Except now, to see them, to imagine all that had occurred while she was wearing them...

  She stupidly found herself blinking back tears.

  She was overly tired, that was all. And even her few meagre sips of the wine were too much for her. Her head felt heavy, and she found her fingers going to the elaborate style Mara had concocted, pulling free first the metal-work that had been her adornment, then the pins that held her hair carefully in place. She shook her strands free, knowing she would need to find a comb somewhere in the dwelling, but not yet willing to seek it out. She found a nightdress, not in the wardrobe itself but in a chest of drawers close beside it, a pouch of herbs nestled inside giving a sweet, subtle scent to the crisp linens. She smoothed it out on the bedspread, irrationally pleased at the prospect of wearing cloth the colour of cream, of getting to be just herself, if only for a little while.

  The dress proved more of a problem that she could have imagined. When Mara had constructed it, she clearly had intended on being there to help her out of it again, and Penryn regretted not taking the time to seek her out for a proper goodbye where Mara might have related such information.

  She was near tears of a very different sort, wondering if she would have to resort to cutting herself out of it simply to be free, lest she have to spend the rest of her days confined to the garment, and she began a mad search through the dwelling for just such an article, when a noise outside stopped her short.

  She wiped at her eyes, ashamed to realise that a few errant tears really had escaped, and already her heart pounded nervously. She did not dare hope. She simply could not. Already she had half-convinced herself that she had not seen Grimult at all, that it was her desperate mind’s solution to the agony of thinking she had to do the rest of what must come next entirely alone.

  It was an animal, that was all. And because of that, she would not open the door the peer out, to hold one of the lamps and invite a dangerous beast to notice her.

  Grimult, wherever he was, would not have been pleased at her foolhardy display, and the thought of him disappointed in her kept her riveted to the floor.

  She heard nothing else, which likely meant the creature had lumbered off, and she forced herself to open a drawer in the kitchen area and take out one of the knives she found there. There were only a few, and she was surprised to find them dull upon her inspection. Was it an oversight, or done purposefully? She thought again of the Lightkeeps before her, and the queasy feeling returned to her belly. If it was intentional, then it was possible that such tools were used for harm, when age or simply despair overtook everything else.

  She pulled one free in any case, knowing it would not be terribly useful against the thick nature of the dress and the tight stitches that held it all together, but she had to try. She could not quite bring herself to calm, not when she felt trapped by the dress, and by the surge of hope that accompanied the sound outside, only to prove fruitless.

  She yelped, the knife clattering to the floor below when there was sound at the door that was almost definitely a knock upon the wooden frame.

  She stared at it, unable to move. If she could just remain still, there was a possibility that Grim was on the other side. That their true reunion was forthcoming, and she had not imagined him at all.

  That he was real, and present, and willing to help her.

  That she was not alone.

  The heavy cloak he had worn felt real beneath her fingers. His tunic too, when she greedily had tried to feel more of him. The touch on her shoulder...

  It was likely Henrik. It was not forbidden for the sages to come to her, and it was likely he was dissatisfied with her leaving so abruptly.

  Which also meant he could offer no assistance with the laces of her dress, which was the most disappointing part.

  Resigned, when the newcomer k
nocked again, Penryn moved forward, uncaring of the wild mess of her hair. Her fingers trembled lightly but made quick work of the bolt, then next the handle, pulling the door open just a crack, the first lamp she had lit offering a little illumination to the stoop.

  A cloaked figure, not immediately outside, but one who had taken a few steps back into the dark, but who was suddenly coming nearer, and she felt a quick flash of fear, that a stranger had found her and she did not know him at all and he was trying to enter her new dwelling and she was alone and...

  He pushed down his hood, perhaps seeing her fright, and there was Grim after all.

  And it was possible that she did not even try to contain her tears, that she lurched forward in a frantic need to be with him, that she tripped on her hem and tumbled into him instead, all grace and poise. But he caught her in his familiar arms, and she breathed him in, wanting to capture this closeness, the utter joy that perhaps she was not mad after all, and if she was, she did not care.

  Not if it meant he felt so real about her.

  And maybe, if he was only a figment in her mind, she would get to keep him.

  There was a sound, a thump as something was dropped, and belatedly she realised he had been holding his pack before dropping it on the floor, one arm going about her middle, clutching her close, and the other at the back of her head. And if she was not mistaken, the small pressures she felt at the crown might be kisses there.

  She could not stop crying.

  “Oh, Penryn,” he murmured, and he sounded so sad, and she squeezed her arms about him more tightly, afraid he would wish to talk, wish for explanations, and she could not bear the thought. Not if it meant she could no longer touch him.

  And be touched.

  Must not forget that glorious part of it.

  She felt she had been starved and only now was offered respite, and she could not gather any semblance of self-control. Not yet. And it was not fair for him to ask it of her.

  “We are letting the warmth out,” Grimult murmured into her hair, still pressing those small kisses that were all the warmth she needed. But she could not deny that he was cold, the chill of him eking through his clothing and seeping into her as well. She wanted to tell him that she did not care, not if it meant separating, of releasing him, but letting go would mean she could insist he remove his cloak and let her look him over properly. She had been cared for—perhaps a little too well since they had parted—but he had been injured and she hated to think of what he had done to be here. None had seen him, he had assured her, but that meant that no one had offered him shelter or food or...