The Lightkeep Read online

  Penryn bit her lip and nodded, not wanting to voice a falsehood aloud.

  “She’s married now, our first that is. Had her first babe quite a while back. There’s nothing like being a father, but nothing like being someone’s Pap either.” His smile was wide, his eyes a little distant, like he was already imagining a homecoming.

  She hoped he valued the simplicity of his life.

  Yet one glance at his expression, and she knew that he did.

  And envy prickled, hot and unwelcome, yet potent all the same.

  The path before them took a gentle bend to the left, the trees thinning quickly. Nothing had changed much, yet she found her hands straying to her hood, pulling it upward.

  Hiding.

  She could not do this. Not as she was. Quavering and timid.

  She pulled on reserves she was not certain she actually possessed, sitting up straighter in the cart. They had yet to see another person, but the wood was clearly coming to an end, and she was uncertain of what lay beyond.

  And she had to be ready.

  The quilt she folded in three neat turns and set to the side of her. Edgard glanced at her often, but said nothing, his own posture improving as hers did.

  And then a chime, bright and sharp when it met her ears, followed by others when time enough had lapsed with the first.

  “Ah, we’ve been spotted then,” Edgard explained with a strange hint of remorse. “Our time is coming to an end.”

  She glanced at him, and wondered how long he had kept watch for her. He wore his garb and pin with pride, a part of something meaningful, even if she was certain his days were filled with as much tedium as hers had been of late.

  But there had been wonder too.

  Perhaps that was true for him as well.

  Edgard sounded almost sad at the prospect, and she glanced at him quickly. He was the first of his kind that she had ever spoken to, and she would remember him. There would be little cause for them to interact henceforth, and he had been kind, even if she had not truly been able to appreciate his manner, too caught up in her own thoughts and beating back feelings too big to truly hide. Eyes once blue were now a watery grey as they regarded her in turn, lines crinkling about his mouth as he gave her a hasty smile, suggesting through the creases and crevices that he had known a life full of such expressions.

  She was glad, for his sake.

  She wanted to thank him, to even enquire how many years he had devoted to this service, but the words were lodged firmly in an unwilling throat. Despite her desire for civility, there were greater holds on her attention, ones that could not be ignored.

  The fortress of these sages was not like the one she had known. There was no wall surrounding it, the wood opening to reveal a stretch of buildings, no propped upon crossings of wooden ties to elevate them, but stationed firmly upon the ground. They were taller than she had imagined, however, although she could not immediately see how the upper floors were accessed.

  She bit her lip, considering.

  If she tilted her head just so, if she imagined them in differing shades of stones, reddish in hue rather than the earthen colours of brown and grey, it was possible they resembled her previous dwelling.

  Which meant stairs, for legs and feet rather than wings.

  People like her.

  She would never see the winged folk again, and the knowledge of that settled into a tight knot in her belly that threatened to sicken her.

  So she pushed it away, allowed the cold emptiness to creep through her that she had nursed and fostered so well when she thought she might despair, withering in the waiting at the sages’ keep.

  They continued down the road, the clatter of the wheels turning from hard-packed dirt to one of stone startling her greatly.

  She stared straight ahead as the people emerged, some with fledglings clutched to their sides, others holding tightly to small hands as if to ensure they did not run boldly into the street to examine the happening more closely.

  And still, the chimes rung out.

  The faces of the men and women they passed were sombre, yet curious, and she was heartened, if only a little, that there was no great hostility to be found there.

  At least, not yet. Not until she was forced to confront them for their wrongdoing, for a bargain struck long ago that had been broken.

  The knot in her stomach tightened and she drew in a calming breath.

  The keep here had no walls, and was not sequestered at the border of the lands. Instead it appeared suddenly at the centre of the town, strangely invisible despite its great height once they were truly upon it.

  She was not certain she had ever seen a structure so grand. She could barely make out the full span of it, and it took a great deal of self-control to keep from craning her head to see just how high it went into the sky.

  The time it must have taken to create such a thing.

  The waste.

  But what captivated her attention most were the figures lining the walls of it, nestled into crevices and keeping careful watch.

  Not of flesh, but of stone, although so lifelike that at dawn and dusk it must have been an eerie thing to be peered at so.

  And what filled her most with dread, was that each of the stone figures had wings.

  No sage had mentioned this.

  The point was to forget.

  Did they know? That the other keepers of the bargain had turned memory into... into something that was passed by daily, studied and...

  Figures in red emerged from the doors of the keep, smiles bright and jarring. “Edgard,” they acknowledged, hands outstretched. The figure at the front had a great many rings on his fingers, golds and rubies adorning each in a garish manner. Did these people hold such wealth? The sages of her keep asked for little from the people. At least, compared to all of this.

  And then a bow, his smile fading as he looked to her. “Lightkeep,” he intoned, his hands folded near his chest, pressing into his heart.

  He should have waited. She should have descended from the cart, the better to nod, to gracefully follow behind them as they ushered her inside.

  But he had not, so she was forced to rise and nod, and send a prayer that she might descend without incident, as none would be permitted to offer aid. Not when it meant touching her.

  And that suited her well enough. There was only one she would have liked to have helped her, and he was on his way home.

  There was no time for such thoughts. Later, when she was in a new chamber, sealed away for the night, she could allow more tears to come.

  Not now.

  She took hold of the edge of the cart and eased her way down, mindful of her skirts so they did not catch beneath her boot and send her tumbling. So often the sages had complained of her lack of grace, regaling her with tales of the one who had come before, tall in stature and elegant in all mannerisms and speech.

  It had taken every bit of her to keep the spite from bubbling forth into words. That those Lightkeeps were gone and all they had was her.

  Her foot met the ground and she was steady and had not made a fool of herself nor the people she represented. A fair beginning.

  She released her hold on the cart.

  “That will be all, Edgard,” the sage informed him. “Your people thank you for your service.”

  She did not turn her head, wondering now if he would return home for good. His watch was at an end, the next Lightkeep not due until he was long since deceased.

  Another would take his place, some day.

  But for now, there was a family to fill his days.

  How she envied him.

  The sage turned to her before gesturing to the open doors of the building. “If you would accompany us,” he urged.

  As if she had a choice.

  But she did not allow the bitterness to turn fully into a scowl, instead walking forward, leading rather than following them into the open maw of stone and carving.

  And felt the many pairs of eyes coming up behind.
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  Her skin prickled with awareness, the chill surrounding her as she entered the vast building made entirely of smoothed and long-ago polished stones.

  Candles flickered in their cages, lanterns lining high over head, pulleys and tethers allowing mere mortals to lower them for lighting since there were no wings to make the task easier. She well understood that particular frustration, and it took a great deal to keep from turning her head, to assessing the men behind her. How much did they know? Remember? So many warnings had been given to her, to never presume, never to be forthright with knowledge that she was privileged enough to have been bestowed with, but they were sages. Surely that was enough that they would know the truth.

  And she had a censure to give.

  Glass sparkled in windows, colours mingling and bleeding into portraits of colour. Of winged creatures, not quite accurate in appearance. Of weapons and blood.

  And finally, the largest of them all overtaking a great portion of the back wall, of green meadows and two figures, one winged, one not, heads bowed to one another, arms clasped, perhaps in friendship, perhaps resignation.

  To see it all displayed thusly sent a cold clutch of fear through her. She felt exposed, in ways she had never imagined.

  Histories so blatantly displayed before the whole of the people, not hidden away and cherished, doled out in sparing portions, just enough.

  She swallowed thickly, footsteps echoing in stone halls, and she forced her hands to loosen from the tight fists of fear and indignation. She could not fight, could not condemn so soon.

  “It has been many cycles since we have had the pleasure of accepting a female Lightkeep to our humble residence,” the sage said, and at last she felt she was allowed to turn, to study him. Hair that had once been fully dark was whitening at the temples, but he was not nearly as old as the eldest sages where she grew up. Some of those were bent with age, having lived so long as to have personally known and instructed two Lightkeeps for their Journeys. Unless she was terribly misinformed in the aging process of the land-folk, there was no possibility that this man had served so long.

  “Or am I mistaken?” he asked, his eyes suggesting that he knew he was not, although he was giving just enough room for correction.

  And a prompt for her to remove the hood.

  She suddenly did not wish to, regardless of how she had loathed the fabric shuttering her from the rest of the world back home.

  She had never considered it so, not even since the Journey had begun. She was happy to leave, happy to forget what had come before. But now as she felt so small and alone in a strange land that would never quite be hers, she missed what had come before. Even with its many faults.

  But they could not see her tremble, and she was pleased that her hands were steady as she raised them to her cloak and pulled down her hood, her face placid as she looked at them all steadily in turn.

  She did not ask if they were disappointed, as it did not truly matter if they were. She was what had been given, and it was their responsibility to accept with grace.

  They smiled at her.

  And it was disarming to see such expressions when the sages back home were all scowls and piercing glances, quelling any actions or word they did not believe was becoming their Lightkeep.

  But here, they evidently felt the need for politeness, and she had not quite prepared herself for that.

  “As your arrival is never exactly known, you will forgive that we have matters still to attend to before your Introduction,” the sage said with a smile. It was not a question. Perhaps it did not need to have been, although she could feel herself prickling all the same. “But I believe you have injuries that should be seen to before you retire?”

  She wanted to take a lurching step forward at his approach, but she held still, allowing him to take her injured arm between delicate fingers, assessing the bandaging. “Are you in pain?” he asked, more gently than she might have expected. She had not thought they would chastise her for arriving damaged, but his concern appeared genuine.

  Which made it all the worse that it was his people that had done it, that had attacked, that had crossed, all the while knowing the ramifications for their presence.

  She wanted to rage, to begin the Talks there and then, but there was an order to things that she could not simply ignore. She needed their cooperation, needed them to listen.

  So she could condemn.

  “The Journey can be perilous,” she informed him calmly, staring into his eyes and if he saw a hint of accusation there, then perhaps that was all for the better.

  He clicked his tongue, shaking his head, and she realised she had not fully answered his question. “There is pain, yes, but none that should cause any alarm.”

  He hummed, low in his throat, and she again wanted to take a step backward.

  “We will redress your bandages, and then perhaps a tincture for the pain and to help you sleep. How does that sound?”

  Dreadful, if she was entirely honest with him. But she could not be. Not yet. She would not mention her ribs, as there was no possibility she would willingly undress for anyone here, regardless of their station and the crimson they wore.

  How she hated that colour.

  “We do have your chamber prepared, at the very least,” he said with another of those smiles, and her fingers twitched, her heart pulsed a little faster, wanting to be free of the artifice and simply speak plainly. “Do you have a name, Lightkeep?”

  She could not keep the confusion from her features. “You know the ways,” she murmured, wondering if this was another test, that her lessons were not over, even leagues away from those that had tried her at every turn.

  For some reason, that set a few of them laughing. “That we do,” he agreed, smirking at her. “My name is Henrik. Was before I took my vows, and still is even now.” He leaned forward, trying to appear conspiratorial although it sent another bolt of fear through her. She did not trust him. Did not trust any of these men with their strange manners and their inattention to how things should be done.

  But then, how could she be surprised?

  They had allowed warriors through the Wall.

  And still embraced her as if to call her friend.

  “So I ask again, do you have a name?”

  The tingle, the warning. Not to trust, not to believe his urging, that things were different here, that formality and pretence were abandoned, secrecy was put aside in favour of openness and honesty.

  It was all before her eyes, but she did not know how to comprehend it, not when it was in such direct opposition to what she had grown up to believe was coming.

  “Not for you,” she said at last, knowing it was the most truth she could give him.

  Because even now, the thought of it on anyone else’s lips was repugnant to her. It belonged to someone else, for someone else.

  Someone free, if just for a little while.

  He seemed strangely disappointed at that, but nodded cordially all the same, gesturing that she should follow him.

  She took a quick breath, trying to find a fresh measure of calm. There was much yet to do, and she felt brittle and wholly unprepared.

  They had promised her that strength would come, that the words would come easily when the time came.

  She no longer believed them. Not with what she had seen.

  Hemlines brushed against stone passages, a gentle swishing that was a strange sort of comfort. Familiar in its way. While the design itself was different from the halls she had known in her youngest days, if she closed her eyes and simply listened, it felt similar enough. The smell of candles high up ahead, of lanterns with a tinge of oil, burning bright and giving a welcoming glow.

  She had not even managed to keep a single lantern alight.

  The reminder had her eyes open again. It did not matter, not really. She had not lied about that. Yet she still tasted a small tinge of failure, coupled with the reminder of the attack that even now still sent bursts of pain through her each day.

/>   That could not be the only rider that existed on the other side of the wall. What if even now they had found him as he camped? He was strong, she had seen that often enough, with a keen mind for assessment, but what if they surrounded him?

  He could fly, if his wound had healed enough. And he would not be encumbered by her.

  Only two other sages followed behind her and Henrik, the rest remaining in the large hall that could probably hold a great deal of the land-folk during the Introduction. The knot in her belly twisted sharply just to think of it.

  She did not feel it her place to ask after the sages, most especially to enquire if they too had forsaken enough of the Way to keep their names from youthful days, and she felt another dose of trepidation. What else had they abandoned? Would they even notice their great wrong in allowing some of their kind to climb the Wall?

  The sages had spoken of trust and safety while she was in these halls, but she felt neither.

  Only terribly, horribly alone.

  From the glimpse she felt she could spare without insisting either ire or more conversation, she peeked at those trailing behind. Younger than Henrik, one light of hair, the other nearly an inky black.

  Both stared at her steadily, ensuring she would not look back at them again.

  She managed to keep her pace steady, her head level and her eyes forward. She could not bow, not here. They were to bow to her, not the other way around, and she would do well to hold to the old customs.

  Even if they did not.

  Henrik paused near a wooden door, the carvings intricate. It would have taken more direct light to make them out properly, but she could see a lantern held aloft, the light depicted by deep grooves coming from a single flame.

  Presumably, this would be her corridor for the duration.

  Henrik gave her a smile before he opened it, and she winced at the sight of the curved stairs that awaited her. The passage itself was narrow, and that too was familiar. But it made her legs strong, and although she was tired and sore, she managed them well enough, the three sages following behind.