But why did they get to decide?
Theirs was an office of service, yes, with access to knowledge denied to the common folk. But it was families at risk. Entire clans.
Surely they should be warned quickly and with as much detail as Penryn was able to give?
She felt torn, pulled in too many directions. She was a secret keeper. It was easier to put that aside tucked away in a bed with her new husband, to have him coax out histories long buried, truths that were too painful to speak when the day was bright and she was being looked at.
Grimult had made her bold, had taught her how to be someone else, but it was too easy to slip into old habits, her mouth sealing, her thoughts growing defensive.
She wanted to speak to her husband.
There was not a gracious way to do so, not when they were in someone else’s home and the rooms were not their own.
She could not quite bring herself to eat any longer, not with the threat of interrogation forthcoming, but politeness meant she should at least make an attempt. Sips of water were easiest, bits of bread dipped into the remaining broth.
She startled when she felt feet touch hers beneath the table, and she pulled hers quickly backward, only to find Grimult giving her a pointed look when she glanced about the table.
She relaxed, and did not move away this time when he made contact, and she felt marginally better when her feet were nestled between his, as close as they could be given the circumstances.
His eyes told her to be calm, and she took a few deep breaths, trying to force herself to listen to his silent plea, but it was difficult when she felt anything but.
“Who shot you?” Danyl’s voice broke through the silence, addressing Grim as he mimicked the supposed action with the motion of his spoon hitting the palm of his hand—presumably the wing in question.
Wide blue eyes were expectant, as if merely by asking he would be regaled with quite the story, and Penryn looked to Grimult, wondering how he might handle such a blatant enquiry.
He remained placid, taking another spoonful of stew while both parents looked rather dismayed at their son’s lack of decorum.
“Danyl, we do not pry into the business of another,” his mother chided, leaning forward and touching his arm to ensure he looked at her. “If these two have been hurt, the elders will handle it. And if they cannot, the sages will see to it.” At that, her lips thinned, as if even mentioning the name of them was somehow distasteful.
Danyl did not seem to appreciate such an answer, but he made no further vocal enquiry, but Penryn could see the beseeching look he gave to Grim, as if that alone would convince him to tell the tale.
Penryn was almost sorry for him when Grim did not engage, finishing his bowl of stew before seeing to the bread, content with the silence.
She wished she could be the same. She was too mixed up inside, the agitation making her give out a yelp when there was a solid knock that rang through the whole of the dwelling.
Were they angry?
Most likely.
However unintentionally, Grim and Penryn had brought trouble with them, and they were ensuring the safety of their people.
Braun sighed, wiping his mouth with a cloth before he rose to allow them entry.
“Are you still hungry?” Milsandra addressed Grim, noticing his empty bowl.
“I thank you, but no,” Grimult assured her. Penryn hoped that it was true.
Her hands were trembling, and she clasped them tightly in her lap, wishing for a sense of quiet confidence that would make her tongue steady, her story sure.
That she would know what to do, even in this.
“There are some who would like a word with you,” Braun said from the doorway of the partition, his smile reluctant.
Penryn stood from her seat, mustering some semblance of good posture.
She saw the fledglings from the corner of her eyes, jerking in their seats as they tried to get a better view of who was in their living space, but their father quelled them with a glance. “Eat,” he reminded them, and both sank back with a sigh, remembering their spoons.
“Thank you for the meal,” Penryn said to Milsandra, doing her best to return the woman’s smile as she did so.
“You look as if you are going out to meet a terrible danger,” Milsandra added evidently noting Penryn’s reluctance. “They are kind. They will want to see to your protection, nothing more.”
Penryn wished she could believe her.
But denial seemed a fruitless thing, not when she could not offer a full explanation in return, so she gave a bow of her head and followed her husband beyond the warmth and safety of the kitchen.
There were not as many as she might have expected. And the word elder had given her a false sense of the age amongst them. Most of the sages were older, and while many bore fine lines about their eyes and a smattering of white hair about the temples, they were hardly ancient.
“Braun, if we might make use of your home for our discourse, we would appreciate it,” the tallest of them said, almost as a formality.
Or, as Penryn realised quickly enough, a dismissal.
“Of course,” Braun assented, returning to his dinner table and leaving them to talk.
Grimult bowed his head as the others did in greeting, but Penryn stood awkwardly, feeling entirely unversed in how she might engage with such peoples.
She was used to hiding behind a title, of respect being passed through the centuries rather than earned for her own sake.
She felt as much an outsider as she ever had, regardless of Grim’s insistence that these people were her own.
The living space was not a very large one, and already it felt too cramped by the entrance of the four strangers and their questions.
“We should sit,” the first instructed, perhaps their leader, perhaps only the most vocal.
Penryn looked to Grimult for direction. It was a suggestion, not a command, and she did not know if they were sacrificing something they should not if they accepted a more relaxed posture.
He stared for a moment, his jaw tight and his eyes assessing, and for a brief, prideful moment, she was so very glad that he was her husband.
That he was on her side.
For she would not want to be in opposition to such a look.
But then he forced himself to ease his posture, settling onto one of the benches before looking to Penryn to join him, leaving the one opposite for the others to occupy. It was too short and would not accommodate them in the least, forcing the remaining two to select cushions on the floor.
They did not seem perturbed by the arrangement, settling quickly enough, hands steepled or arms crossed, depending on their whim.
Penryn had to fight not to fidget.
“Perhaps we could begin with an introduction,” the vocal one continued, his smile pleasant but his eyes cautious. “I am Harlow.” He pointed to the other men in the room. “Gershal, Malin, and Tuck.” Penryn was not certain she would retain their names, most especially since the three of them appeared remarkably similar. If they were not brothers, then they might be cousins at the very least.
Or perhaps the familial lines of this clan were simply that strong.
Harlow was the only one with light hair, the rest were an earthy brown, only darkened further by the obvious drizzle that must have accompanied them outside, wetting their hair and adding a shimmer to their clothing. It was an odd thing, to see the water droplets so clearly, and she wondered if they had coated their garments in something to repel it, though she had no idea what substance might provide such protection.
But they were sea-folk, and she could see the wisdom in it.
“And you are?”
The answer should have been an easy one. Her name was known by none, save a few of her minders from her fledgling years, and the man already seated close beside her. But if she understood the customs well enough, Grimult’s name would be known throughout the clans, heralded, for a time, as the picture of sacrifice and duty to the peop
le.
It would make her own position fairly obvious, and she nibbled at her lip, wondering if it was better to simply blurt out the truth of it and forsake any attempt at deceit entirely.
Before she had quite decided, Grim staring at Harlow and obviously trying to make up his own mind in their proper course, there was another knock upon the door. Braun did not appear to answer it, nor did Lynara, Tuck volunteering for the task as he was nearest.
He opened it, and Penryn could see a flurry of feathers shaking free of water at the stoop as Tuck stepped backward to avoid being caught in the shower. “My apologies,” the newcomer offered, stooping low to get through the doorway. He showed more age at his temples than the others, like many in this clan thus far, his feathers lighter at the top before descending to far deeper grey and browns near the bottom. “It was difficult to get away.”
“Of course, Rezen,” Harlow allowed with looking at Penryn and Grim to draw the newcomer’s attention. “We were merely getting acquainted, although these two seem reticent to give their names.”
Rezen turned, eyebrows raised in question. He looked first to Grim, yet when his eyes settled on Penryn, he froze, his expression going slack.
She feared for him, that some malady had befallen him, and she had no wish to see a death in the middle of their host’s living quarters. She feared he would collapse, and she found herself standing almost on instinct, remembering herself before she reached out and tried to hold him herself.
“Rezen?” Harlow asked, Tuck coming from behind and offering an arm, both trying to make sense of what had happened.
“You know this girl?”
Rezen drew in a shaky breath, pushing away his comrades and taking a step nearer to her.
There was a light in his eyes that frightened her, a desperation that she could not account for, and she found herself taking a nervous step backward, toward the kitchen, ready to flee if necessary.
Not that Grim would allow anything to happen to her, of that she was certain.
“No, please,” Rezen entreated, his voice attempting to be gentle, but it came out as more of a rasping plea. “Do not go.” Penryn halted her retreat but still rubbed her hands along her skirt nervously. “I have only just found you again.”
Her brow furrowed in confusion, unable to understand. “Found?” she found herself asking, but her own voice was shaky and no one seemed to hear.
“Can you not see it?” Rezen turned sharply, addressing his friends who looked first to him and then to Penryn, trying to make sense of it along with her.
He took another step forward, hand outstretched, not for her to hold, but as one might do to a frightened animal, urging for calm, for them to remain steady and not to bolt away entirely.
She just might do that.
Her heart was beating wildly, and she was vaguely aware that Grimult had stood up, but Rezen was positioned between them and she did not like that, did not like the way he was looking at her, as he if knew her and...
“You look so much like your mother.”
Eleven
Penryn stared at the man, unable to take in what he was saying. Her heartbeat was loud within her ears, pushing out the other sounds within the room. She could see their mouths moving, could in part comprehend that they were discussing what that man had claimed, but she was not able to accept it.
Believe it.
He had... known her mother?
The word felt foreign in conjunction to herself. Grimult had used it, had promised her that they were real and, if they lived, they cared for her. But that did not make them people, known to others to be mentioned in such a simple way as if...
As if they were real.
She swallowed, wishing she had not eaten so much of the stew, wishing she had her cup of cool water to drink while she tried to get her ears to work once more.
The man was taking another step toward her and suddenly Grimult had a hand on his shoulder, halting his progress.
They spoke in low tones, and she was curious of what they were saying to one another, too low for her to hear even if she could have done so.
She was almost sorry about it.
Her breath was coming in short little pants, and she found herself grasping the partition to the kitchen to keep herself upright. And then it was Grimult who was coming toward her. He did not bother to hold his hands outstretched to show he meant no harm.
Of course he did not. He was her Grim.
Her husband.
“Breathe, Pen,” he murmured, his wings splayed while his hands were not, blocking them from view for a moment. He led them so that her back was to the partition, away from onlookers from that direction as well, and took her face between his palms. Warm again, and steady, even if she felt as if she was quite the reverse.
“What did he say?” she asked, not knowing if she was asking him to repeat their whispered conversation, or if she was asking him to relate the initial claim.
That she looked...
Looked like...
“A good breath first,” Grimult ordered, his voice commanding even his thumbs were softly coaxing as they skimmed along her cheeks. She obliged, finding that the world stopped whirling quite so fiercely when she did so, and she took another without prompting. And another. “Good,” Grim encouraged, leaning down so his forehead was pressed against hers. She was safe here, and although something burned in her to move, to hear what that man claimed and force herself to understand it, another wanted nothing more to stay cocooned with her husband and let the rest fall away.
She was so tired. They might have been clean and fed, but they had not slept much at all since their return travels had begun, the constant pursuit of the land-dwellers keeping an unrelenting pace that afforded so little time for rest.
There were dark smudges beneath Grimult’s eyes, indicating that he felt quite the same as her, yet he was holding it together.
Another breath, and she turned her eyes up to meet his. “He knew my...” her throat tensed to even utter the word, but Grim understood.
“Your mother,” Grimult confirmed, his eyes soft and sad. Just as they always were when she spoke of her past. Had it been so very bad?
She had been safe. Had been taught well, and had plenty to eat, something she doubted that all of the clans could claim when winters went long and conditions were particularly harsh.
But there had been no affection, not once her initial minders were dismissed. As if only fledglings needed a kind word and a soft hand.
She swallowed. “Who is he?” she managed to get out, suddenly wishing that Grimult’s wing would drop so she might get a look at him again.
Grimult’s thumb halted in its ministrations. “He says that he is your father.”
Her eyes widened. She bit her lip, evidently hard enough to be worrisome because Grimult felt the need to coax it free, to chide her softly to be gentle with herself.
“Do you believe him?” she asked, unable to bear the possibility that he was somehow mistaken, that the claim was one of desire for a child lost rather than the reality that it was her that was taken.
Grimult frowned. “I see the same pain as when I look into your eyes and you speak of them. There has been loss, of that I am certain.”
Not quite an answer, but all she would receive, for now. At least between the two of them.
She reached out and patted her husband’s chest. He was her strength when hers was failing, but she had been partially restored and needed to address the others in the room once more.
He stepped away from her and allowed his wings to settle back into their resting place. The others were not positioned as they had been, instead huddled together in fervent discussion, Rezen pulled between them. He did not seem very aware of their presence surrounding him, his attention fixated on her.
She still did not like the scrutiny. She had spent far too much of her life being watched so carefully, and even now it made her skin prickle with discomfort and awareness, even if it was well intentione
d.
She swallowed, liking the feel of her husband so near to her, even if her back was turned and they were not touching.
“How do I know you speak truly?” she asked, pleased that her voice was calm even if her heart still raced at the prospect of what might be so near.
“On the day of your birth, the sages sent an envoy to collect you. Before your mother or I had even a chance to meet you, suddenly you were gone.” He gestured to the men about him. “This is known by all.”
A hand was laid on his shoulder, and Harlow addressed her. “We were told not to discuss it, that it was secret business that did not bear retelling, but he was a father in need of comfort, and we gave it freely.” Did he think she would mind? That her loyalties were so bound with the sages themselves that she would condemn them for sharing their grief with those closest to them?
Penryn tugged at her skirt, crumpling and releasing. “You will find no censure from me,” she assured them. Old lessons urged her otherwise, but they were dull things that lacked any power of compulsion.
Harlow nodded, squeezing his friend’s shoulder in commiseration. He looked to Rezen but he did not seem able to speak just yet, perhaps too preoccupied with memories long buried. “That means you are...” he glanced at Grimult briefly. “You’re the Lightkeep then?”
In another life, another time, Penryn might have raised her head a little higher. Her chin might have jutted just a small amount, her eyes filled with certainty and knowledge beyond her years.
But now, she was tired.
And her voice was mild and simple in her reply.
“Yes,” she answered calmly, feeling Grimult’s hand at the small of her back. It should not be there, not now, not given what they now had confirmed, but she did not fault him for it. Not when she needed to feel his touch just as badly as he needed to give it.
None spoke for a time. It was clear that many wanted to, but mostly with their respective groups rather than as a whole, yet none was willing to move. Rezen never stopped staring at her, his attention drifting from the top of her head back down, then made the journey in reverse.
The Lightkeep Page 22
