A promise that would be easy to give, but harder to fulfil. And above all, this woman had earned her honesty. “If it is at all within my power,” she answered solemnly. “I will come back.”
She had not allowed herself to think that far head. To indulge in idle fantasies of where they might live, where she and Grimult would call a home of their own. He had a family to consider as well, one that must miss him fiercely and a farm that required tending.
But despite it all, she would return here, if only for a time. To know her parents.
And Grimult could not fault her for that, surely.
Amarys took a shaky breath, and clutched her close once again. “You will do what you must,” she breathed out, perhaps more for herself than for Penryn. “You are far braver than I.”
Was it bravery? She had no idea. Perhaps more rightly, it was a stubborn adherence to what simply needed doing, and a willingness to see it through, regardless of personal consequence.
She should admit to her own selfishness, to the pull that was nearly always there to simply hide away, to build a life with Grimult and have it be solely theirs.
But if she had indulged in that, she would not be here now.
And their family had suffered quite enough.
Her mother pulled away first, wiping at her eyes, suddenly filled with the need to bustle and fuss. “Have you eaten? You are far too thin, the pair of you.”
It was likely the borrowed clothing that made her look more frail than she was, but she could not deny the warmth that filled her to be cared and worried over. “Milsandra was most generous,” Penryn assured her, but Amarys was already shaking her head. “Sit yourselves down and I’ll make you something special. Recipe of my mother’s, this was, and the best for cold nights and weary bones.”
Penryn gave her a soft smile. She liked the thought of that, of recipes passed down from generation to the next, with all the skills that went along with it. “I have only recently learned how to cook,” she admitted, smiling when Terik brought over a chair so she could heed their mother’s declaration yet still be close. Already she was pulling down canisters of powders and liquids, eyeing Penryn every so often as if to ensure she had not disappeared without her knowing.
“Well,” Amarys commented, for a moment looking pained, before she brushed it away and gave her daughter a smile. “Then if we only have one day, you’ve a great deal to learn.”
Penryn turned her head, unconsciously seeking her husband and found him seated at the table. He looked exhausted, and knew more than anything he needed sleep. And as if he knew the turn of her thoughts, he shook his head briefly, mouthing to her that he was all right.
She wanted to believe him, but could not quite bring herself to move. Not when something in her, long buried and almost entirely forgotten, was finally soothed as she listened to her mother describe the technique, the ingredients ancient ones that should have been common, yet somehow, were not.
They turned out to be something akin to sweet cakes, cooked on the embers of the fire, drizzled with rich nectar and a generous helping of butter.
And Penryn was quite certain they were the best thing she had ever eaten.
All were instructed to eat some, taking their shifts at the table when a new batch were prepared, and Worley managed to get a great deal more out of Grim than Penryn had ever thought to ask.
What the men’s dormitories were like, how long their practises lasted.
If they really had to be gone so long from home.
“Aye,” Grimult answered at that, swallowing his third cake half eaten on his plate. Penryn did not need to ask to know that he was suddenly filled with thoughts of home, for she had seen that wistful, far-away expression more times along the Journey than she could count. This must be difficult for him, even as he was glad for her. She knew she would feel quite the same should their situations be reversed.
He should have been home by now, already released from the sages’ keep, freshly debriefed of the Journey and with firm instructions as to what could be shared with the common people.
They would be missing him. Full of worry and dread when his return did not come.
Her own cake suddenly lost some of its appeal. They could not tarry, although she was sorry for it. She would dearly love to see his farm, to meet the animals that he spoke of with such fondness. Her experience with them came from picture books and entries in journals old even when her great-grandparents were born. She did not know if those species even existed any longer, let alone how they might be should she ever meet one in person.
She shivered, thinking of the beast that held her pinned, its teeth so long and menacing that even now she could remember its terrible breath in her face, certain that at any moment it would swallow her whole.
“And what is your clan?” Rezen asked, interjecting before his sons could pry out any more details of the daily life as an initiate. They had evidently been shy of the age requirement by only five years in Worley’s case, a grave affront that they had yet to forgive the sages for.
As if they needed any more reason to begrudge them anything.
“Aarden,” Grimult answered. If he was hesitant to give it, he did not show it in his manner, the answer falling easily. Penryn frowned. The name was familiar, but there was little written about it in her many books.
Rezen frowned slightly. “Farmers, aren’t you?”
Amarys tapped her husband’s shoulder with a firm hand, the look she gave him clearly indicating that he should hold no opinion on the subject, let alone give voice to one.
“Aye,” Grimult said again, and he did not allow his eye line to waver from Rezen’s. There was no shame to be had there. His home held no ancestry, it was made from wood and the labour of many hands only a short while ago, but Penryn did not doubt that it was a very fine one.
Stomach full to bursting, Penryn took the opportunity to beg exhaustion, at least on the behalf of her husband. He would be the one flying them come morning, and she did not want any unpleasantness to taint her sole evening with her family with clan-talk.
“Of course,” Amarys nodded, wiping her hands on her long skirt and nodding to herself. “I... I have a room for you,” she murmured to herself, shaking her head at Penryn’s enquiring glance. “Don’t mind me,” she answered the unspoken query with a wave of her hand. “If you would care to follow.”
There were more doors and passages, alcoves turned into separate chambers by wooden partitions. Some were stained in blues and whites, flickering prettily in the lantern-lights that hung from pegs high above their heads. The sea was a common theme, but there were other landscapes as well.
Someone cared for paint and art, whether in this generation or in the last.
Amarys was down the hall, and she took a strangely deep breath before opening the door before her. “I keep it clean,” she told them as they passed. “And I told Rezen that we would need a larger bed once you had grown. If... if you ever came home.”
Her eyes were misty again, and Penryn laid a hand on her arm before entering the space. It was a well-prepared room, with a dresser that doubtlessly held all the little things that a new fledgling might required. A few were upon the top, impossibly small stockings for tiny feet, a soft brush for downy feathers that had not fully fluffed into those needed for flight.
There was an inscription too, carved in wood and lovingly painted upon the wall.
“That is not your name, of course,” Amarys hurried to note, already hurrying to the wall as she caught Penryn looking at it. She reached up, as if ready to yank it down, but Penryn stopped her, her throat strangely tight.
“No, please,” she managed to get out. “Maerwen is a lovely name.”
Amarys turned, looking suddenly young and lost as she must have been, a new mother without a babe to hold at the end of her labours. “I always cared for it,” she murmured, glancing at Penryn, wistful and full of longing, even as the daughter she longed for stood right beside her.
But it w
as not the same. Not exactly. A woman created in fantasy, with features and personality conjured by imagination rather than reality.
A name for another life, if not another girl.
Her mother twisted her fingers together, staring anxiously, and Penryn patted her arm. “We will be most comfortable here, thank you,” she assured her. It was a room made ready, not only for visitors, but to be lived in.
Penryn would not be surprised if there was clothing that might fit her stashed within the confines of the drawers, carefully kept and chosen, saved so her daughter might feel welcome.
And she did.
She had not been forgotten. Their lives might have carried on, finding room to love two young foundlings into their adulthood, but she had never been replaced.
“If...” Amarys continued, giving Penryn a wistful smile. “If you have need of anything, please come find me. I doubt I will be able to sleep tonight.”
Her mother placed a gentle kiss as she passed, and Penryn thought she saw the hesitation, as if it took a great deal not to lock the door behind her.
It was a habit Penryn could well understand, the need for safety, a compulsion more than a habit, an urgency to secure all that was dear to her.
And although Penryn had wanted nothing more than to be alone with her husband once more for so much of the day, now she found a part of her longing to go back out.
But Grimult was beginning to sway with exhaustion, and she softened, turning to her husband and taking his hand. “Sleep,” she urged, tugging at clothes and weaponry, urging him to ease some of the tension still residing in him. The bed was a cushion on the floor, covered in blankets intricately woven.
A name that was not hers was stitched into the side, and she rubbed her thumb over it, trying to picture Penryn there instead.
She could not.
Belly full, and heart even more so, it was not difficult to fall into slumber beside Grimult. It was a more snug fit than their bed in the cottage that had known the first days of their marriage, but it was a blessed relief compared to the unrelenting travel of these last days, hard earth and an inadequate bedroll their only comfort from the long days and too-short nights.
Yet still, she found herself awake all too soon, something urging her up. She had stripped to only her borrowed shift, and she wrapped the shawl back around her, creeping out from the chilly room. The door was well oiled and did not squeak, Grimult so deep in his own slumber that he did not realise her absence.
She crept out toward the kitchens, the fire still crackling and inviting, only to see her parents seated there, holding one another close, their eyes meeting hers, smiling with welcome.
A lump settled in her throat, and she found it easy to go to them, to join their small huddle on a blanket before the fire, reclining on cushions brought in from the main living space. It was a moment of quiet repose, but to her surprise, she did not feel an intruder.
It was as if they were waiting for her.
And although she knew her place was beside her husband, there would be a lifetime yet of wakings and sleepings with him by her side.
And they had only this one as parents and daughter.
At least for a time.
There would be words spoken. Stories of childhood, of memories and sorrows. For if she had to leave, she would do so filled with as much history as they could manage.
This time not of others set apart from her.
But of her own ancestors, of parents who had met as fledglings, of a man who had courted and wooed his sweetheart early.
Who had built them a home and promised her that it would be filled with love.
It had been delayed for a while. And there were more trials than either could possibly have expected.
But for one night.
All was as it should be.
And as they lay before the fire, basking in the silence and the quiet of the moment...
All was well.
Tomorrow Penryn would do what was necessary. She would face the unknown with courage and all the poise she could muster.
But that was then. And this was now.
And she had a family after all.
Thirteen
Morning came too soon. She awoke to Grimult standing over her, wedged between her two parents in their nest on the floor, but he had merely smiled at her and did not appear cross that she had forsaken him.
Rezen and Amarys were slower to wake, temporarily befuddled by their positions, blushing and stammering as if they had been caught doing the greatest of wrongs before each took their turn washing in the bathing room, breakfast sizzling in heavy iron pans.
No one spoke of their departure but a glance about the table made it readily apparent that it was close to everyone’s thoughts.
Until denials could be had no longer, when the first knock rattled against the door.
Amarys bristled, eyes flashing, but Rezen stood, giving his wife’s shoulder a squeeze as he unlocked the first door, then moved out of sight to undo the second.
For all the hours she had sacrificed not sleeping, Penryn felt remarkably well rested. Grimult looked even better, with some of the heavy smudges beneath his eyes lightened to their normal pigment, the tension in his face relaxed from proper slumber.
Harlow appeared, arms heavy laden with familiar attire. Washed and properly folded, Milsandra had done far more than was necessary, and Penryn supposed by their presence that they would not be returning there after all. “I thought I would save you the trip,” he announced, holding out his burdens for Penryn and Grimult.
Grim’s attention seemed drawn mostly to the sword that Harlow had bound to his hip, one that rarely had left Grimult’s person since their Journey had begun.
His attention drifted, and he had the decency to flush. “Was a bit awkward to carry,” he admitted. “With all the rest, and all that.” Grimult nodded, but was clearly displeased at it being in another’s possession. They made quick work of exchanging their attire, Grimult taking longer as his included weaponry strapped and buckled to limbs and torso.
Penryn waited, knowing that her offer of assistance would be refused. There seemed a ritual to each, a closing of his eyes and a subtle movement of his lips, as if a recitation accompanied both, solemn and full of purpose.
Perhaps they were part of a lesson in his training.
Perhaps they were prayers that each one would not have to be used that day.
It felt far too intrusive to ask, even if the question burned at her.
At last he seemed to be ready, and Penryn took a quick breath. “Ready?” she asked, forcing a brightness to her voice that she did not feel.
“Are you?” he asked, his eyes serious. Watchful. She wondered if she asked it of him, he would continue on alone. That he would return to the keep on his own, leaving her with her parents and...
She could not complete the thought. It was too painful to bear, even if there was a hint of wistful longing as well. For more time, for the world to simply stop so she might revel in her newfound joy a little longer.
But she would not rest easily knowing all she did, could not put aside all semblance of her responsibilities even for so sweet a reason.
“Yes,” she answered firmly. There would likely be tears at the parting, not only her own, but that did not make it less important.
Rezen already had an arm about his wife when they exited their bedchamber, something in his posture suggesting the measure was not merely affectionate, but a restraint. She trembled, standing in her kitchen, eyes wide as she cast occasional glares between Harlow and the open door behind him.
Worley and Terik were trying to coax him to unsheathe the sword and give them a look, but Harlow would not be moved, rolling his eyes and giving them a pointed glance at Grimult’s approach, his fingers going to the buckle and undoing it quickly, holding it out to its proper owner. “You have seen good steel before,” Harlow reminded the boys.
Terik scoffed audibly. “In fishhooks, maybe. Not in blades meant t
o fight.”
Worley turned to Grimult. “Sure you can’t tell us even one story about a kill while you were gone?”
Grimult fastened his sword and visibly relaxed to have it back again upon his person. He had not indicated any discomfort at their absence when they were sequestered away in their cottage. Not cared that any of the weapons were tucked away with their clothing as they lazed and loved for those few blessed days.
She had found a small, sheathed blade beneath one of the pillows on the bed however, so perhaps he had not been as truly relaxed as she had thought.
“Your sister would not appreciate a recounting,” Grimult gave in answer, and she gave both boys one of her imperious looks. No, she would not. Not merely because those were secret happenings, not to be recounted at all let alone to be leered over by blood-thirsty youths. But also because that incident in particular was one of the most terrifying moments of her life, and parting would be difficult enough without reminding her mother of the perils in the world.
Embraces were long, and she had been right about the tears. Her mother was visibly shaking as she led them out to the cliffside, and Penryn was not certain that she was going to release her hand at all, so tightly did she grasp it.
“Come back to us,” Amarys pleaded with her, equal part a demand as an entreaty.
And something welled, something soft and vulnerable, that Penryn did not allow herself to dwell too long and lose her courage. She turned, clutching her close once more. “If at all within my power, Mama,” she vowed again. “I will be back.”
There was a catch in Amarys’s throat, and all the more tears, and Rezen stood close, eyes shining. Her mother released her more easily when it was so she could hug her father. “Papa,” she offered as well, which was a little more difficult to say, but no less lovely at the utterance. “Take care of them all,” she murmured.
She would see to the rest, to the best of her ability. See the clans prepared and ready for what was to come.
But his burden was all the more dear, and he nodded his head, his eyes soft as he placed a kiss to her temple. “I always have,” he reminded her, and she nodded.
The Lightkeep Page 26
