Guardian of the Lightkeep Read online

  Catherine Miller

  Copyright © 2019 Catherine Miller

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9781707288786

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Prologue from the Second Tome

  In memory of my grandmother, who loved to read and loved her kiddles even more.

  Prologue

  The cry of the winds mingled with that of the mother, groans lost to the howl against the entrance to the cracking maw that made up their home.

  “Almost done, dearie,” a voice soothed, a hand at her temple, a kiss soon to follow—those bestowed by a frightened mate that had yet to see a birth.

  The hands that pressed, an offset to the pain that seemed unbearable as it refused to yield, were far more practised, tending in ways that her mate could not.

  But that was just as well, their responsibilities different—his to his love, the other to the babe attempting to be born.

  It wasn’t supposed to be done here, she thought, her tongue clicking lightly against the roof of her mouth as she observed the small dwelling. He should have worked harder to eke out more space from the unforgiving earth once he knew that there was to be a child. There was barely room enough for the labours, let alone a fledgling that would soon tottle about the place.

  The moans of her charge grew guttural, fear and uncertainty replaced with determination.

  Not long now.

  “There, you are doing so well.”

  A feather peeked out, streaked with fluid and a hint of blood, masking its colour. Downy and soft, useless in their way when so new, but present. It would be a fine addition to their accompaniment. “Just like that,” she urged. “Keep at it.”

  Excitement filled her. Similar to what she always felt when helping a new life into their colony, but amplified more than she had expected. She had wondered, but not truly believed that things would progress so quickly...

  Shadows crept along the mouth of the cave as the babe appeared, squalling in protest to its forceful ejection from all it had once known.

  The mother reached for her prize, eyes already glistening with love and desire, the father murmuring his adoration for all she had accomplished.

  The shadows grew to bodies, dark wings nearly impossible to see against the night sky. Only one approached though she was well aware that more would have come.

  The mother’s attention flickered to the intruder, her broad smile fading in confusion, then to horror.

  The midwife kept the baby tight to her breast, soothing as well she could. “You did so well,” she praised. “And fortune has shone brightly on you, bringing the child so quickly.”

  A sharpened knife made quick work of the cord, even as the mother began to struggle, her mate holding her closely as silent tears began to steadily move down his own cheeks.

  “We were warned,” he reminded her, trying to console a mate intent on rejecting the truth of what was happening. “That it would be soon.”

  “Not mine!” she screeched, hands grasping, but failing to receive.

  There would be others in their future. They were young yet, and the birth had gone well. She would cry her tears before she was reminded of the duty and honour that were now hers.

  To know that she had been the one to bear the new Lightkeep into the world.

  The midwife accepted the warm blanket provided by the sage, still not quite believing that she held one so important.

  She had been merely a girl when the last was chosen, the sages announcing the cycle of the stars. She had not noticed the leery glances between the expectant mothers, did not quite comprehend the loss that would come to them.

  The loss that was bitter even when they knew the importance.

  Selfish it was, she decided as she grew older. For them to shy away from what was so prestigious. It was not as if they were left with nothing. Gifts made by the sages themselves were bestowed, their lives provided more comfort and luxury than they could ever have afforded given their current ages.

  And yet still the mother struggled, pleaded and weeping into the arms of her mate.

  “Please, just let me see,” she begged.

  The midwife gave the infant to the waiting sage. “It would only hurt you more,” she promised her. “You had your time, now there is a greater destiny.”

  Blood trickled down her legs and there was the remainder of the birth to deal with. She hoped the girl would cooperate. She had done what was required, that was all.

  “The hatchling is strong,” the sage intoned, his eyes drifting over what little of the babe’s skin was exposed. He must be assessing the state of the lungs, as they were loud and potent in their protest.

  Or perhaps he had some magic that showed him the truth of his words.

  A part of her wondered how the babe would be nourished, hidden away with the sages for the entirety of its upbringing. Perhaps there was something mystical in that as well, providing sustenance for one of such importance.

  So the Lightkeep would grow tall, limbs hearty and robust for the journey ahead.

  A coin was pressed into her hand, the seal one she had never encountered before. Perhaps glimpsed from afar as others exchanged them in the market, but never part of her possession.

  “For your honesty,” the sage declared, before turning to depart.

  Honesty. There was that. A hint of awe as well, and perhaps, if she was entirely truthful, a great deal of fear.

  Never in their history had a Lightkeep been hidden from the sages, but stories were always murmured, most especially in her profession, of what might befall those who attempted to keep the shrouded figures from their charges.

  She did not want that for herself.

  She wanted a quiet life, wanted to see the joy and rapture on the proud parents as they welcomed their little ones into their flock.

  “Get out!” the mother—not quite a mother now, was she?—insisted, flinching away from the practiced hands that had been so trusted a moment before.

  “There is work yet, dearie,” the midwife insisted, ignoring the pang of regret that went through her. There was no room for that, not when she’d done what was necessary. What was right. They all knew that. The poor girl was simply sore, in body and in heart, and that would pass.

  It always did.

  In every generation before.

  And in every one that was certain to follow.

  One

  The practice grounds were his favourites. The grounds themselves were turning dusty as midsummer was approaching, soft earth succumbing to the heat of the season.

  But he did not mind.

  He had learned much here, had strengthening muscles he had not known he possessed, even given his work on the farm. Portions were filled with fellow initiates honing their skills with wooden short-swords, inflicting their wounds on dummies—straw-filled shapes that vaguely resembled men and beast in turn. While once new and pristine they were now battered, bits hanging out from where a particularly hard blow had been struck or a sword caught too keenly.

  There were open spaces as well, where pairs of initiates would spar against one another. He did not like to think that such combat would ever be necessary, that nature might not be the true foe he would face. But there could be others in the world, separate from their clans, wandering
.

  Desperate.

  And his responsibility would be to protect, regardless of the cost.

  The rest of the grounds were filled with trees and bushes, planted long ago and resembling a true wood in density and nearly in size. Smattered within were elaborately painted threats representing genuine adversaries out in the stretch of wilds that would someday be travelled by them.

  One of them.

  He would not be so arrogant as to assume that he would be chosen. There were others equally capable—perhaps even more so. He would not succumb to pride, would not become blind to the flourishing of his fellow initiates. He had seen it in others, growing more arrogant at their own accomplishment, boasting of process for their own sake rather than for its true purpose. They were to be Guardians, not crowing to the local girls that they could keep them safe from merely imagined threats.

  “Grim!” one of his fellow initiates called from the ground.

  He did not want to return. Not yet. His patience was not yet fully restored, and he did not wish to say anything he would regret.

  But it was possible an instructor had been the one to issue his return, and he would not keep one of them waiting.

  The air was cool about him as he made his descent, first through trees and then to the soft grasses below. “That is not my name,” he acknowledged in lieu of greeting. None seemed able to remember that, regardless of how he tried to insinuate it most thoroughly into their minds.

  Yanik rolled his eyes. “Close enough,” he mumbled to himself. Grimult thoroughly disagreed. He had been given his father’s name, spanning back three generations before even him. Surely they did not have to endure shortened iterations that also shared the unfortunate reality of being a common word.

  And also not a particularly flattering one.

  “Besides, it suits you.”

  And there it was. While his fellow students were jovial and charming—or at least, the locals seemed to find them so—they frequently complained that he was quite the reverse.

  He needed to learn to smile, they insisted, more than he needed to practise how to restring his bow. Again. He needed to kiss a pretty girl more than he needed to have the smithy show him how to ensure his blade was properly sharpened.

  Grimult disagreed.

  Perhaps if one of the instructors had insisted that the rest of their suggestions were a part of what was required of a Guardian, he would take them more seriously. But their jest was tedious and unproductive, and he did not particularly care for it.

  “What are you doing here?” he prompted, choosing to ignore another altercation born of the alteration of his name.

  The other gave him a curious look. “You’ve forgotten the ceremony?”

  He had not. Not fully anyway. He was more than aware it was today, but he supposed, he begrudgingly allowed, it was possible that time had slipped away from him while he was attempting to sharpen his focus and acuity from the air.

  The trees were thick and served as a reminder that flight was not always the benefit they imagined it. But it could be, if he could only refine his sight enough that he could make out the targets through the boughs, rather than restrict himself to exploring such challenging terrain on foot.

  He began walking, determined not to waste any more time on conversation when clearly he was late for a mandatory gathering.

  “You could thank me, you know,” Yanik complained. “I didn’t have to come find you.”

  Grimult did not pause. “Your efforts are appreciated.”

  He did not have to turn to know that Yanik rolled his eyes at him. “Why don’t you just become one of the sages if you’re so determined to act like one?”

  That brought him to a halt. “It is not my desire to be a sage,” Grimult denied. It would not have been his place to wish for that in any case. Sages were chosen at birth, and if he had been found lacking then it was impractical to bemoan his failings as an infant.

  But he did wish to take his duties seriously. He remembered well the swell of pride in his mother’s eyes when they had come to claim him as an initiate. He was nearly grown by then, uncertain of what his life would hold. Even his father, who often claimed he did not know what he would do without his son on their humble farm, held him tightly and told him he was made for great things.

  But the initiates were many, and the position was a singular one. Yet to return home, trained and to be found wanting...

  The shame was hot and biting, and he had to push it away forcefully before it could consume him over something that had yet to be.

  He would not admit to Yanik the truth of his desires. It was not his business, regardless of the common, infuriating understanding between their ranks that everyone’s affairs were open to the discussion and opinion of everyone else.

  But perhaps it was worthwhile not to allow insult to grow between compatriots.

  “It is not my aim to emulate a sage,” Grimult clarified. “I merely intend to take our roles here seriously.”

  He moved off again, certain his words had earned another roll of the eyes.

  “Only one of us is going to get picked, you know,” Yanik reminded him, utterly unnecessarily. “You could maybe try to make some friends and start thinking about the life you’re going to have when it isn’t you that’s chosen.”

  A tightening in his chest even at the possibility. “And that is what the rest of you are doing? You are already looking forward to your dismissal?”

  Yanik shrugged his shoulders, pale feathers ruffling at the action. “I’m not going to pretend I’m the best at anything. Just seemed reasonable to maybe think about what comes after when I’m not going to be the one going on the journey.”

  It was true that Grimult highly doubted that Yanik would be the one selected, at least not now. But perhaps if he had applied himself more diligently in the beginning, the outcome might have been different.

  Grimult wanted no such regrets. So he ignored the attempts to bond with his fellow initiates and instead applied himself to his work.

  If he could not be with his family and help them in their labours, then he would apply himself as best he could to the work that needed doing here.

  Hurried steps gave way to vaulted thrust of wings, adding additional distance to their paces, the hour later than even Yanik had calculated. Many were assembled in the arena, the high walls lending an ominous nature to the space that was lacking in most other areas. Its purpose changed frequently, today the long string of initiates flanking both sides of the round space, two obvious holes in their ranks, quickly filled by Grimult and Yanik.

  Instructors gave them both displeased glances, and Grimult felt a twist in his gut at their displeasure. He had made an oversight—a grave one, and he did not relish it being added to his record.

  Now was not the time to panic. He stood straight and tall, mimicking the instructions they had been given in their first days of training. They were to carry themselves well while they wore the uniform, while the swirling sigils were displayed in bright embroidery across their chests. Wings were to be clean and tidy, with little accounting for the slight mussing that accompanied flight.

  Grimult had to purpose to keep from tucking his slightly downward in dismay at his dishevelled appearance, Yanik seemingly unconcerned by the disapproval of their betters.

  The Announcement was not supposed to be today, although the initiates often murmured amongst themselves that the sages would keep the date of it hidden, without the dramatics that accompanied a ceremony. Common folk were shuffling into the stands above, not nearly as many as might be present for something as important as the selection of the next Guardian. He relaxed somewhat at that, thinking this merely an occasion for those willing to make the journey to catch a scant glimpse at their Lightkeep.

  Time was growing short. They all knew that. As secretive as the sages always were regarding their charge, they had made it known that they would soon be releasing the flame once more, its keeper sent off with the work of lifetimes.
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  And he might be a part of it, if only he was worthy.

  “You look sickly,” Yanik grumbled to him. “I regret fetching you.”

  Grimult tried to smooth his expression. It would not do to broadcast his tumult of emotions for all to witness—even if a much more interesting view would soon appear through the darkened passageway where only sages were allowed to tread.

  Sages, and one other, that is.

  The noonday sun was hot and it took a great deal of willpower to hold back the natural instinct to raise a wing to offer much desired shade. An awning typically was erected in the middle of the arena to keep the officials and most important persons comfortable during such spectacles, but not today.

  There was only the dust and dirt of the ground where once grasses and flowers had grown before the theatre was erected. It was long before his time, long beyond memory itself, but he supposed it had to be so. Was it an underkeeper’s job to see that no seed was allowed to take hold even now?

  A horn blew, only once, yet all fell silent in any case. The seats were scantly filled, but the initiates were all present, and the sight of their future charge was likely the true cause of the entire show. A reminder of their duty, that their work was not for an unknown entity. But something real and breathing, meant to be sheltered along the great Journey.

  The sages came first, as they always did. Some of their wings dragged low across the dry earth, leaving trails of dust in their wake quickly trampled by the ones, younger than the first in the procession. They formed two half crescents, a cloaked figure in the centre, the fabric simply a darker shade of crimson than the sages own wares.

  It was not a garment cut in the typical fashion. There were no slits so wings could be free, only a swathe of red, a large hood obscuring all that came beneath.

  It was disconcerting, but he had always found it so. The urge to see beneath was a pressing one, even as he reminded himself firmly that he was being shown all that was required. The sages would keep their secrets from all but one, and while he could wish, could hope that he might be found deserving of their confidence, he would not prove so arrogant as to presume that such privilege would be his.