The Lightkeep Read online

  Mara stood back, eyeing her creation critically, before she dared a glance upward to Penryn’s watchful gaze. “Does all feel as it should?”

  Penryn gave the skirt a shake and took a step forward. It was long as she had expected, and it swept along the floor in a pretty way. She remembered when she was young and she would put on her longest skirts simply to watch them trail behind her as she descended the stairs, imagining herself someone important, someone regal, proceeding toward something of importance.

  Most often her own wedding, if she was willing to admit that remembrance even to herself.

  “You look very fine, my lady,” Mara commented, a hint of red to her cheeks as if she had paid an undue compliment to her own accomplishment.

  “It is your work that is fine,” Penryn disagreed, smoothing her hand down her skirts. “Do you know anything about arranging hair?” She had done her usual twist and plait, but it felt somehow less now that she was bedecked in such finery.

  Mara’s eyes lit up to be entrusted with something so personal, and she slipped into the bathing room, coming back with all sorts of pins and a silvery twine of leaves and sunbursts. Penryn did not recognise them in the least, and she did not know where they might have emerged from.

  “If you will just sit, my lady,” Mara instructed. Her fingers were skilled, practised things in use of the comb and Penryn found herself making an enquiry, despite the risks.

  “Did you learn from tending your own hair?” She stared at the fire, woefully relishing each pass of the brush and comb, knowing it would end, knowing she would not receive such attentions again. Not after what would happen later today.

  “Goodness, no,” Mara denied with a laugh. “Always in a knot, mine. But I have four younger sisters and they always liked me to make their hair as pretty as could be.” She was quiet for a moment, her tone turning wistful. “Lost our mam with the last, and our da a year after. Sages took me in for work, to prepare for your coming. Her fingers stilled, and she took a breath, whether from recounting such difficult times or to master some welling of emotion even now. “Don’t know what I’d have done otherwise with so many mouths to feed.”

  Penryn did not know what to say to that. She knew, had always known, that the Keeps were responsible for the livelihoods of many, that they offered work where none was to be had. And the guilt had warred with her own resentment, wishing that none of it was necessary even as it meant so much to so many.

  “Do your sisters work here now?”

  “Two are married,” Mara gave as if that somehow answered Penryn’s query. “The youngest is in the school.” This she declared with an obvious note of pride, although Penryn was not overly familiar with the institution. But apparently it held a note of prestige, and doubtlessly it was only available because of Mara’s toil. “Lettie works in the kitchens here with me. Tried to get her to pay attention to my lessons on a needle so we could tend the wardrobe together, but she has no patience with it. Would rather use a knife and scrub a dish any day.”

  Penryn smiled at that, her only experience with such tasks her time spent on the road. “I am glad she has found what suits her best.”

  There was a gentle pull at her hair that could only be that delicate bit of metalwork being twined into the fresh plait Mara had constructed. The weight was foreign, even though she was certain the craftsman had made it to be light, an enhancement without encumbering the wearing, but Penryn was very aware of its presence all the same.

  It made her feel a little better about what was to come, however.

  Like she was not quite like herself, dressed up in clothing that was grand, her hair bound in armour, disguised as it was with beauty.

  Mara gave a final twist and Penryn could feel her take a step backward, assessing. “I was hoping you’d be a woman,” Mara confided, an unnecessary tinge of embarrassment accompanying a confession freely given. “I helped make the new garments for the men too, of course, but wouldn’t be appropriate for me to help with the dressing.”

  Penryn turned. “Does that mean there is a man downstairs disappointed that his charge did not arrive?”

  Mara laughed. “Aldric took the position, hoping he’d never have to come up to this tower the whole of his career. Never seen him more relieved than when you came through all slight and obviously female, hood or no.”

  There was no denying the fondness in Mara when she spoke of her counterpart, and Penryn briefly wondered if it would be long before a third of the sisters was married. But it was not her place to ask such things, to pry into the romantic feelings of others.

  She was to be set apart. And if she was aware of such proclivities, it was to look down on them, as something for lesser beings, ones ruled by passion and affection rather than duty and tradition.

  The thought chafed even now.

  “Then I am glad you are both satisfied,” Penryn assured her.

  Mara gave a bow, already beginning to edge toward the door. She likely wanted to move of her own accord before Penryn might dismiss her as abruptly as she did before. Another prick of guilt, but this one easier to bear.

  “Do you need anything else? I could send Respie up.”

  Penryn’s eyes widened. “That will not be necessary. Truly. And...” Would it be a very great wrong to ask? There was little for it, and it would spare Respie a conversation she very clearly did not wish to have. “Perhaps you could mention to your sister in the kitchen that the portions need not be so very great.”

  Mara looked momentarily worried, and Penryn was close to despair that yet again she had managed to offend, but Mara shook her head, rolling her eyes lightly as she did so. “I said you were slight in stature. Didn’t know they would take that to mean you were half-starved.”

  She huffed out a breath before pasting on a smile. “I will explain it to Lettie, my lady. They’re likely in enough of a dither if you’ve been sending food back uneaten. They’ll be glad to know the reason isn’t that you dislike the cooking.”

  Penryn nodded, feeling a great burden lifted. “You have my thanks.” She swallowed. “For all of it.”

  Mara gave another of those dipping bows before she turned and left the room.

  Leaving Penryn alone in her finery, with no way to know how much time had passed or how much was left before a host of sages would be at her door, ready to summon her from her tower.

  She did not want to risk returning to her perch at the window, not when she was uncertain if the fabric would be damaged in some way as it was crushed between the wood of the chest and the stone of the surround. Better to sit in her chair and simply wait.

  But that made her all the more anxious, her hands beginning to tremble by the time there was a knock upon the door, her heart already racing. Not for the Introduction itself, but for the talks that would come after, the negotiation, the signing.

  Not the simple pleasantries that she had been taught to exchange, but the other, graver lesson.

  On what to do when the treaty had been breached.

  When kind words and humble awe were put aside on both sides, and reality, no matter how cold, had to rule her words.

  Penryn had managed some semblance of calm before the knock came. Her steps were steady, and her pulse was not a quick staccato of alarm although she was certain that simplest error it would become so.

  She did not entertain the fantasy of barricading the door, of refusing to leave what for days had felt more prison than luxurious suite.

  She had been born for this, after all.

  Even if she had spent years denying it was true.

  She opened the door, ignoring Henrik’s smile of welcome and looked instead to the grave faces beyond, all bowing their heads in deference as they met her gaze. She did not know how many were lining the passageway beneath for she could only see three directly and the edge of a fourth before they disappeared entirely from view.

  “We have come to beg you join our humble ranks,” Henrik spoke, his words all warmth and friendliness when they had
quite the opposite effect, her stomach clenching and her hands prickling with the urge to fidget.

  To flee.

  “Your Lightkeep graciously accepts,” she answered, knowing it was expected. A shuffle, a prelude of red as it moved downward almost as one, each sage before moving a step and the other following, allowing her room to exit the chamber.

  And shut the door behind her.

  Henrik was still looking at her, and she tried to find some hint of treachery in his expression, of the guile and cunning that must have been present that would allow him to welcome her so freely while knowing all the while that warriors had already breached the Wall.

  That they were coming for Grim’s people.

  That they had tried to circumvent her presence at all.

  But try though she might, she could not find even a trace of deceit. His smile was all artifice, of course. There were others like him in her home, who would sometimes pretend the young one she had been, giving her an extra dose of kindness sprinkled in amongst the never ending lessons.

  Yet all the while, always watchful, always correcting, always reminding that she was not truly the needful child that she was so certain she must be.

  She was something greater, important.

  Yet she always felt so small and insignificant.

  Desperate for what she saw in her storybooks when she was young and a minder would read to her so diligently. There were families there, tucked within the pages, fledglings that were born to parents who wanted them. Loved them. And sometimes there was more than one, with siblings to keep one another company and play games together, and look so happy whenever an illustration happened to grace one of the old, well worn pages.

  She would look at them sometimes, hiding away the book beneath the bedclothes where she would stare at it by lantern-light and wonder what might have been. If it was true what the sages said, that she simply appeared to them one day, her destiny already predisposed.

  Then why was it so hard to believe them?

  As she had grown older, the concept of her simply appearing was too ridiculous for words. She knew the stories that filtered through the common-folk. Her title spoken in hushed whispers, the need for reverence instilled from earliest possible memory. But she had seen the scars upon her back, she knew what she had lost, the remnant her only proof that she had been one of them once.

  Even for so short a time.

  And they needed her now. Needed to keep them safe, even if they did not even remember the danger that surrounded them.

  She took a breath, and felt a stillness, a peace, as she pictured Grimult himself. The ache was there, and she wondered if it would be a companion all its own for the remainder of her days, or if that too would fade with time.

  He needed her. His family needed her.

  To be what they believed, even if she did not.

  And it made the steps a little easier, her footing a little more sure even as she navigated a dress that did not quite fit her, the hem pulled up to reveal one of the intricate slippers that donned a foot more used to boots now than finery.

  The stocking was so finely made that it was almost sheer, a useless thing that she only accepted because Mara had indicated it was the proper thing to wear, regardless of the lack of warmth it would provide her.

  Her free hand skimmed the edges of the stone, solid and sure lest her confidence waver.

  And at last she was free of the winding stair, the sages in all their grand robes awaiting her.

  So familiar, even in their differences, the only thing lacking was the trailing wings hanging down their backs, folded and unused in deference to her.

  They made two stiff lines, and she passed through them, just as she had done every time before in a different keep in a life that suddenly felt very far away and almost crushingly close all at once. Lanterns blazed on the walls, illuminating tapestries high in the vaulted ceiling, banners of the signet waved lazily in the draught of the place, the flames flickering on occasion if a particularly large gust found its way through the dimmer recesses above.

  She did not have to question the direction. If the lights did not guide her way, the murmur of voices from the great room beyond made it clear where all were gathered, and she walked toward the tall doors with as much grace as she could muster. Her hands did not cling to her skirts, and although she missed the hood that hid her away so completely, she could not entertain such anxieties now.

  Two younger men were stationed by the door, their heads bowed to such an extent that she thought their necks would rebel against the strain, but neither even gave a glance to be certain of her distance before they opened the doors.

  And the din was silenced by a bright ring of the chimes that had heralded her approach in a humble cart with a man proud to wear his signet, his life devoted to a work that was finally finished.

  She did not pause to give herself time to worry of what was to come.

  Penryn merely stepped into view, up to the dais and the other sages that awaited her, not allowing her eyes to drift to the people beyond.

  She sensed them all the same. The heavy weight of hundreds of eyes, staring and assessing. Waiting. Perhaps for some sign of her greatness, or perhaps the weakness that would prove she was not something to be feared.

  She did not know which she would prefer.

  Incense burned at her nose, the smoke at the top of the dais, a cloying mixture of scents she could not begin to name. Perhaps they were common to those seated throughout the Keep, but not to her, a calming presence in a thrum of ritual and decadence.

  Henrik appeared behind her, moving around so that he could be seen by all. He gestured outward and she forced herself to follow with her gaze, to look where he bade.

  The room itself, so grand and imposing in its vastness did not seem quite so cavernous now that every seat was filled. Still more people stood toward the back, and she saw necks craning and teetering postures as they tried to look out from behind those taller in front.

  “Our halls are graced with a new presence amongst us,” Henrik began, his voice carrying through the space, echoing against stone so that even those stationed nearest the door would hear his words. It was apparent the entire structure had been designed for such an occurrence, and feat of it not lost on Penryn.

  Her home did not hold such magnificent creations. They valued open spaces, the sky an ever present friend that was not meant to be hidden away even with ceilings so beautifully carved and fashioned, curved arches adorning each doorway and roofline.

  “We are honoured,” came the reply of the mass before her, and the collective voice was startling to her ear, the sheer force of it.

  They were aligned. An army, if they chose to be so.

  And she was to keep them at bay.

  Her nerves were creeping past her careful reserve, and she diverted attention from their faces to stare instead at Henrik, willing him to continue, to finish with this so she could tend to her part, simple though it was.

  “Many of you have toiled long in preparation for her arrival, and the feast shall be enjoyed by all.” Henrik turned, his smile wide, his hand coming to the centre of his chest as he bowed his head. “As we once again celebrate the Resolution.”

  A cheer that was almost a roar erupted, and Penryn gave Henrik a sharp look. That was not to be mentioned. Not yet. They had not made their arrangements, had not settled things between them. His presumption was great, and she would be forced to disappoint him.

  Disappoint them all.

  She willed herself to calm, for her voice to be steady as she spoke the words. He should not have mentioned the celebration. It was audacious, an insult to her even as he knew—he must have known—what had trespassed beyond the Wall.

  So why the pretence?

  When the ruckus died down, Penryn did not dare give Henrik a glance. “I had hoped to find you in peace, as my forbearers have done,” she began, thankful that her voice was clear. She had to pause longer than she would have liked to allow the
echo to abate, but it allowed her time to think, to remember. “That I could celebrate with you as in the First Days.” A breath, a smoothing of her hand down her skirt, of forcing a twinge of pain through her wrist, a tangible thing that could not be excused. “But I fear the Resolution has been broken.”

  She saw the look of worry amongst the faces of the common-folk, the confusion and unease that spread quickly between them. If they had been playacting, they were very skilled at the deception, and she felt a niggle of uncertainty. Did they not know what had been done? She looked at Henrik, whether to accuse or to ascertain some truth from his expression, yet he looked back at her as if she was the one to bring forth the betrayal.

  “Lightkeep,” he returned, his voice dropping low although still it managed to carry farther than he surely would have preferred. “What is the meaning of this?”

  Now was not the time for such enquiries. She should be ushered back for their conversation, for their discourse to be private. The terms could not be renewed as written, she had known that the moment the rider had been revealed as one of the land-dwellers, but the revision would be done in secret.

  It was their way. Always had been since the first treaty had been enacted.

  Yet Henrik looked at her as if he had never considered this possibility, as if the sages before him had ill prepared him for this eventuality.

  She eyed him steadily. “The terms have been breached. Not by my people,” she continued, feeling no need to hide the truth of their faults from them. “But by yours.”

  Murmurs throughout the room, glances between neighbours as if by glance alone they could ascertain who had managed to pass the guardsmen and cross the boundary erected so long before.