The Lightkeep

by Catherine Miller

  But she feared the panic that may ensue.

  For that held a kind of danger of its own.

  “If there was no Lightkeep,” she mused aloud, uncertain if Grimult would be able to hear her from the angle of her head. “Would the clans war with each other instead?”

  Their ways were different, their unification tenuous as they surrendered their sons as initiates. Only for a time, returning strong and disciplined, an asset to each clan regardless of whether or not he was chosen for the ultimate position.

  “A worthy question,” Grimult replied, and Penryn shook herself, turning so she might look at him better. “One that I am grateful is not for us to have to answer.”

  Penryn bit her lip, uncertain that was true.

  In her heart, she knew that things would not be the same again. That they should not be, regardless of what the sages would twist and assure.

  But what that left instead, she did not know.

  And that devastation could be even greater than one family losing a child for the sake of duty.

  She did not know if the conclusion was her own or had simply been placed there by the sages long before, and she rested her head against Grimult’s shoulder, exhausted simply at the prospect of it. How was one to guess what was right for an entire people?

  She had not the least idea.

  And perhaps she was thinking a great deal too much at all.

  Her task was a straightforward one, and it was not for her to embellish. She had to make it through the doors, had to reach the council, had to convince them to listen before dismissing her entirely.

  Or turning their swords on her before secrets could come seeping from her lips.

  The thought made her shiver, and not from the cold that whipped around her in an unrelenting force.

  She would arrive chilled through, and weary too, but there was little to be done about it.

  “Is your home nearby?” she found herself asking, visions already filling her head of at least laying eyes upon it before they made their way to the keep itself. It was an unfair desire, most especially when she realised how painful it would be for Grim to see and not be allowed to tarry after so long away.

  “No,” Grimult answered, and there was no mistaking the wistfulness, even as the winds carried his voice away from her. “It would be quite a distance up the coast yet, then inland even more so.”

  A trek for his family to have made before the Journey. All to give their blessings.

  And their goodbyes.

  A knot tugged at her belly, discomforted at the word. The last thing she wanted was more partings. But her life seemed filled with those, and she wanted them for Grimult even less.

  “You will see them again,” she declared, uncertain how she might ensure such a thing, but needing him to hear it all the same.

  She did not like his dim, indulgent smile in return.

  “I hope so,” he murmured back, as unsatisfactory an answer as he had ever given her.

  If he believed that, that it was merely a hope rather than something truly within the realm of possibility, what were they doing?

  If they had been travelling alone, she would have urged them to land. Would have gripped his face firmly between her hands so he could not shy away.

  But they were not.

  And she could not.

  So she settled for hitching herself higher, her lips close to his ear. “I want more for us,” she told him fiercely. “I want the families we have known, and the one we have yet to make. And we will do what we must to see that is so.”

  She pulled back, eyeing him closely. There was the burn there, the one that simmered when she spoke of a future that he coveted as well, and he leaned forward so quickly that she did not expect the kiss he placed there, might have chided him for it so open where they should any have turned to see...

  Only to have him pull back again just as quickly.

  It was good to push away the uncertainty, the fear, with the voicing of such desires. to remind herself that there was no room for despair.

  Not when there was so much she wanted to experience.

  The shoreline abandoned them soon enough, cresting to another cliffside, this time open dwellings visible from the air. Suspicious faces peeked out, some young, some old, others flying about tending to their catches, pausing in their work or, for those more daring, approaching.

  None were willing to stop, to break the formation and hold proper conference, but Penryn could see others flying side by side.

  Listening.

  Then diving away again.

  Only to land first at one home. Then another.

  And Penryn wondered how many would hear of the invaders before even the sages knew of it.

  There was a thrill there, of more open rebellion than she had ever thought herself capable of encouraging, but worry still came.

  For the fear that must be trickling through those households, the worry that they would face dangers never before imagined.

  “Is this bad?” she found herself asking Grim, wanting more than her own opinion on the subject. “For them to be told without...” she almost added proper sanctions, but stopped herself. It granted more authority than should have been allowed to the sages, their positions cultivating far more power than was ever meant for them in their beginnings.

  “It might,” Grimult hedged, watching as more people poured from their homes and went to others. “But they have a right to know all the same.”

  The concept was a difficult one, going against so much of what had been taught to her. But it did not make it wrong, simply because it was challenging, and she tried to get it to settle neatly in her thoughts.

  That was the most difficult part of all.

  Rezen flew closest to Grimult and Pen, their pace slower than the others who maintained their positions up ahead. Never too far, their patterns shifting and adjusting to accommodate their members as a whole, and Penryn found herself wondering if this was a practised manoeuvre amongst clans, or if it was an innate ability that accompanied flight itself.

  She bit her lip, feeling all the more removed from it, and wondered how much else she would never know.

  It was not long before they abandoned the sea entirely, their course pushing inland. It was more familiar to travel over land and trees, and she was not sorry to abandon the relentless blue beneath them, thoughts too full of the salt in her hair, in her mouth, her lungs, pulling her under with punishing force as she fell from Grimult’s grip as they plunged beneath the surf.

  Land was better.

  Land was what she knew.

  But she would never confess that to the Mihr. They may have accommodated her, likely pitied her in more ways than she would have liked, but she doubted they would appreciate knowing that one of their kind found land and trees more a comfort than the sea they clearly loved so well.

  Doubtlessly there were dwellings hidden away in some of the groves, shielded by the towering boughs, built on stilts or some into the trunks themselves. She wanted to see them, her knowledge of it coming mostly from abstract musings of those observing that if their populations began to grow, the cliffs would no longer accommodate them all without sacrificing the structural integrity of the homes already present.

  Drawings had been interspersed amongst the pages, faded with age but fascinating all the same, and some of the most worn pages she had to tilt just so in order to make them out at all.

  Grimult’s dwelling was like that, or so he had described to her. Built high and overlooking the farm and animals that lived below.

  The vegetation changed further still, the leaves no longer the darkest of greens, yellowing instead as they grew higher still, the flatlands arching gently upward.

  Until they crested even that.

  And then there was no mistaking what lay ahead.

  Her mouth grew dry as the keep came into view. Everything in her warned against approaching.

  But then, it had been built to repel onlookers.

  The
walls were high, the materials cut from a quarry filled with dark stones. Every facet was meant to intimidate, to demand respect from any who dared venture to look upon it, and she felt that most acutely now.

  Her grip must have tightened on Grimult for he glanced down at her. “We had to come back,” he reminded her, and for one, thoughtless moment, she nearly retorted that they most certainly did not. They had been safe, had been sheltered and fed, and they had each other.

  Even if Grimult could not have flown.

  Even if two families would have mourned their loss for the rest of their days.

  Which would have been short, the massacre acute as they were unwarned of the invasion before warriors were already upon them.

  Her selfishness shamed her, and she forced herself to continue looking at the keep. She was Penryn of the Mihr. Wedded to Grimult of the Aarden.

  Lightkeep to all.

  And she would not fear those nestled in their high walls who hoarded all their secrets for themselves and called it good.

  Who ripped babies from their mothers when they were too weak to fight against them.

  Who called sons from their homes and trained them for a task meant only for one.

  She swallowed.

  A horn blasted, and she flinched, knowing the sound well. It was a sound of alert, that some dared approached without invitation, and even now her heart beat more quickly. Not out of fear, but with excitement, the newness of someone coming that she might see, might know if she only could catch sight of them.

  Only to be bustled down to the lowest reaches, locked away until the intruder was dispatched.

  And by what method it was done, she never did know.

  She supposed she would soon find out.

  The first of their party landed at the main gate, out of deference, perhaps, an attempt at reverence.

  For those who did not deserve it.

  As if awaiting an invitation for entry rather than demanding a proper meeting between equals.

  “Not there,” she found herself saying instead. “I know a better way.”

  Grimult looked at her, but did not question. He flew instead toward Harlow, who summoned the rest of their group with another sharp whistle, and they allowed Grimult to take the lead.

  Or more truly, Penryn.

  And despite the horns of alarm, of sages in red taking the skies around them as they swirled about the band that flew toward the centre, bellowing for them to stop, to yield, that they would be shot down if they continued...

  She spotted it.

  And they dropped with a quick gust.

  Into the one patch of earth she had been allowed to call hers.

  The only sun that she had known when thick walls and too-small windows would allow nothing else.

  And it was now crowded with Mihr and sages, some flooding from the skies, others beginning to come from the walls themselves.

  Flustered.

  Angry.

  And she dropped from her husband’s arms.

  And smiled.

  Fourteen

  “How dare you?” a sage stepped forward, bristling with anger. He looked about himself, presumably addressing them as a whole, before his attention settled on Penryn.

  She knew his face, although he had not been one of her primary tutors. Nameless, as they all were, his distinctive features only the inky blackness of his wings and eyes to match.

  “I dare,” Penryn answered primly, holding her head up high and back rigid. Just as they had taught her. “Because your people are in danger.”

  His eyes flashed. Sages surrounded them, some young, with weapons hidden beneath robes, others brandishing them as they jerked their heads back and forth in indecision. If they had plans in place for such confrontations, she did not know of them.

  “Liar,” he sneered back. “The raven has already come declaring the signing.” His rage made his tongue loose, and he seemed to realise himself as he gave a quick glance to Harlow before he forced himself to silence.

  She had made no mention of the treaty, or of the Wall itself.

  She smiled again.

  “That is not the danger of which I speak.”

  She did not wish to play games, to toy with words and see how far she might push him until he snapped.

  But a part of her, that perhaps should be dosed in a heavy outpouring of shame, relished in it all the same.

  “And you!” the sage continued, doubtlessly in an attempt to divert attention from his error. He looked at Grimult, and raised a crooked finger in accusation. “A blight upon you for your failures. Your name shall be expunged from the record, all honours stripped from you and your house. Even your clan will spurn you by the time we are finished!”

  Penryn took a step forward, making it so that he pointed at her instead. “You would be wise to be silent and allow me to speak,” she countered with all the calm she did not truly feel. “I had thought we could discuss the matter in private so that the secrets of our histories might be preserved, but if you would prefer me to be so open now...” she shrugged, allowing the weight of it to lay heavy between them. It would be his choosing, and his mouth snapped shut, another coming up behind him laying an even more ancient hand upon his shoulder. “Brother,” he urged. “Think of the ears that are listening.”

  Another glower, and if looks alone could maim, she was certain her blood would have flown freely from the innumerable wounds he wished inflicted upon her.

  She felt a figure behind her, and she glanced behind, only to see her father giving a beseeching look. “It is not safe,” he urged. “For you to go alone.”

  He was not wrong.

  If any recognised him as her father, none gave any indication. Perhaps in their minds he truly was not, and therefore unimportant to their memory.

  Or perhaps they simply had not been there when he came to petition at the gates.

  She softened slightly, and would have reached out and patted his arm if it would not have caused an unnecessary stir amongst the sages already poised for a battle she did not care to see commence.

  They needed to save their energies for the horde to come, not squabble with one another over slights, some perceived, others very real.

  “You will understand my Guardian accompanying me,” she directed to the elder sages. “Lest you grow hasty in your punishments and do not let me share my news with you.”

  She knew the words were wrong, that it sounded like a mere nuisance rather than a dire happening that deserved their full attention. But her nerves were bettering her, and there was something so strangely pleasing about the way the black-eyed sage’s nostrils flared whenever she opened her mouth.

  She had to be better than this. Had to find some semblance of her former self, the one who could speak and comport as the situation demanded, even if she never could have imagined this particular set of circumstances.

  Nor could they.

  That much was plain.

  “Get them inside,” the black-eyed sage barked out, jerking his head and swirling in a robe of crimson and black feathers making him an intimidating figure.

  Or might have once done.

  She felt oddly numb.

  “Penryn,” her father entreated, his voice so low it was almost nonexistent. She turned her head, but did not allow herself to take a step forward.

  “If something should happen,” she answered back, her own voice measured and without the taint of fear she felt low in her belly. “Each of you must go and tell as many as possible of what is to come. More will believe if it comes from the sages themselves, but we will accept what we must.”

  His eyes were so sad, so full of pain and longing, and there was so much more she should say to him.

  She allowed her eyes to soften. “I do what I must, Papa,” she murmured only for him. “And so must you.”

  And because she did not think she could handle staring up at such sadness any longer, she turned away.

  And felt Grimult behind her, her shield and her strength
when her own might falter as they passed into the poorly lit maw of the keep itself.

  She knew the passages they followed, but Grim did not. None spoke as they trekked through the darkened passages, the lanterns casting an eerie light that flickered as the swish of too many robes and angry flicks of wings and feathers sent pulses of air through the otherwise still chambers.

  She wondered what it looked like through Grimult’s eyes. This had never been her home, not in any true sense of the word, but it was familiar all the same.

  And her skin prickled to be so closed in once again. For the absence of true light, of fresh air.

  She wanted to lean back, to whisper to Grimult that their future home would have plenty of both. That their children would never know darkness and passages of thick stone that wound so tightly that even now she almost choked at the feeling of being so enclosed.

  She forced a calming breath.

  And another.

  They were both alive, thus far.

  That counted a great deal.

  The dark-eyed sage flung the door open with a bang, ushering them inward with a jerk of his hand.

  The chamber was a large one. She had seen it, but not its use, the circular space with a high ceiling, benches lining the walls to accommodate presumably every sage still well enough to attend meetings. Another door opened and they trickled inward.

  An audience.

  Not yet an execution.

  Should she wait for all of them to file in, to fill the many benches as they all stared at her, ready to pass judgement?

  Probably.

  She started anyway.

  “You gave me a task,” she reminded them, her voice firm. Unwavering. She had wondered if it would and was immensely grateful it did not. “To see our people safe for the coming generation.”

  A resounding hiss, some from the newcomers who realised who was standing in their midst, but most prominently from the dark-eyed sage who continued to glower at her from his place on the dais.

  Others joined him, their steps slow as they climbed the steps upward, and doubtlessly she was meant to feel small and inadequate, stationed as she was on the floor in the round room with the seats rising upward.