He wondered if it would be more difficult to catch a glimpse of his family in the stands above and then be parted from them without the ability to speak, to hug his mother and muss his sisters’ hair, if he was chosen.
Or perhaps an allowance was made for goodbyes that might be final.
He had never thought about such things, of the true dangers that might be faced. That, according to the instructors, most assuredly would.
Had Aemsol told them of such things? Had the Guardian before him? Perhaps the sages sequestered them all upon their return, insisting on hearing the details that would be relevant to the next generation.
No one spoke of after. Of what was to come when the Lightkeep was delivered.
One thing at a time, they had said, when pressed by an initiate, freshly picked and already homesick. Have patience. Prepare.
And they had. Every one of them. Even some did not take their duties as seriously as Grimult would have thought necessary, he could not deny that all of them had trained, had sacrificed sleep and their own aspirations for the new call that many had not expected to come at all.
And today would decide it all.
The sound of the horn came at last, and Grimult was the first to stand, the rest of the initiates passing conciliatory looks to each other before following suit. Perhaps there were last remarks passed between them, reminders that friendships had been forged that would surpass whatever the outcome.
Perhaps what rivalries existed were put to rest as arms were clasped in solidarity.
Grimult would not know.
He had already flown down to the grounds below and walked steadily toward the arena.
People milled about, some overhead, others hastening on foot toward the arena. Mothers scolded fledglings that were rowdy, reminding them firmly that today was a solemn occasion and talking was not permitted in the stands.
Grimult did not know how that was going to be accomplished when most of the children he passed seemed insistent on babbling to themselves about everything that held their interest for even a moment.
The entrances they would take were separate, and he hurried to the tunnel where he would wait for his fellow initiates, anxious for the ceremony to begin. Instructors lined the passage, and a few others were already there, as preened and tidy as Grimult’s bunk.
They did not exchange words, merely nodded lowly to each other. They were from a different company but Grimult knew their faces well enough, and some of their names. They held fierce looks of determination, and Grimult wondered if they were as plagued with doubts from their assessment as he had been. Still was, if he was perfectly honest with himself.
The passage began to fill, the line of initiates soon demanding that some wait in the open air outside of it entirely. Yanic was quite a ways down, but even from where Grimult stood, he appeared ready to be sick.
The instructors had peculiar expressions of their own, some steady sombre, others almost... envious.
It was often difficult to remember that each of these men had undergone the same training, only with the knowledge that it would never truly be put to use. The Lightkeep would have been too young, or perhaps not yet born at all, during their time dedicated to lessons and training, their purpose to serve and instruct the ones to come.
Had some longed to be born at a different time?
Such things were without point, of course, as one could hardly choose the time of their birth, but still, Grimult wondered.
Another two blasts of the horn, the line of initiates shifting only slightly in an anxious desire to be moving.
The doors opened.
Grimult had only seen the stands so full once before, and that was when they had first been pulled as initiates, the clans coming together to give their well-wishes and thanks to the ones below.
Their sons and brothers, seen as worthy.
There had been such pride at the time, but now...
How many families were hoping for their sons to be the ones selected?
How many instead wished for him to simply come home with them?
Grimult kept his eyes steadily forward lest he spend his time searching the stands above looking for his own loved ones. To see them would to feel even more torn, the desire to go to them nearly overwhelming as it was.
But his task was not finished, and he had more self-control than all that, so he kept his gaze forward and joined in the formation, two straight lines transecting the length of the arena floor itself.
The doors opened to the long passage where only the sages and the Lightkeep dared to tread.
There was a great silence that followed, as if even the fledglings scattered throughout the stands understood that reverence was required for what was to come next, and that they had no permission to interfere with voices of their own.
Grimult did not think it was possible to conjure voice, not when his heart was beating so quickly.
The procession was different than he had seen before. Instead of being flanked, shielded and protected by the sages that surrounded her, the Lightkeep stood in front, walking forward through the lines of men who had trained for so long. For her.
The sages followed, hands clasped before them as she continued on alone, their pattern forming juxtaposition to the initiates’ neat rows.
She was covered, just as she should be, and he was grateful that it was earlier in the day and a smattering of clouds provided some shield from the heat. She moved slowly, purposefully, first down the middle of the rows, and then as she reached the end, she turned, staring back at the sages near the passage door.
“A selection has been made,” one of them intoned, nameless as they all were. They all looked rather alike as well, dressed
