“No,” he agreed. “You are the Lightkeep.”
Her shoulders fell at that and she glanced at the lantern in her hands almost as if she’d forgotten it was there. “I am that,” she murmured, more to herself than to him, although there was no mistaking the weary nature of her voice.
Surely she would relish the position. She was born for nothing else, her destiny clear and precise in its purpose for her. The thought of a reluctant Lightkeep was... impossible.
“Your family look like very nice people,” she continued, surprising him on the change of topic. If he had ever fantasised about conversing with his charge, small details such as this were not included. There was a note of wistfulness to her tone, and he found himself frowning, his thoughts against straying where they should not. How she had been raised, if the sages had been kind to her.
They must have been. She was too important to neglect.
“The very best, I’ve found,” Grimult replied, hoping it did not come as a boast and more an acknowledgement of their importance to him. Penryn nodded to herself, a hint of sadness to her eyes that he did not like, and hoped to alleviate. “Saryn can be a bit vain,” he hastened to clarify. “Doesn’t like to get dirty, which is a terrible quality growing up on a farm.” That brought another small smile to Penryn’s lips, and he was gratified that he’d been right in offering a truer glimpse of his family life. “And Lira tries too hard to please, and cries often if she feels she didn’t get it right.”
Penryn peeked at him from behind the hood. “And you? You do not mind dirt, and you do not care to please?”
Grimult looked away from her. “I do not mind hard work,” he answered carefully, mindful now that she was trying to assess his character through his own assessment of others. “And I know of few so callous that they do not care at all if people are disappointed with them.”
Penryn made no reply, only gave a nod of her head to indicate she had heard him, and he did not know what else to say.
He could speak of his parents, of the qualities he so admired in the both of them, as well as the ones that, in his younger years, had been less than appreciated.
But he did not want to set the precedence for babbling, so when she said nothing more, he chose to keep his thoughts to himself.
It felt unnatural to be on the ground so long. Plenty of his kind chose to walk, paths always in place between villages and even the smaller settlements if a clan was particularly small, but the impulse was always there to hasten the trip between start and destination, for wings to have a purpose beyond making dressing more of a challenge than it should be.
But if Penryn was not prepared to release her own wings from their strangled state, he was not about to fly on ahead of her.
He had been warned that the Journey would be long. Evidently they had meant it.
Besides, the sacred flame would likely not approve of flight for any great distance, so her pace would be slow even in the air, and that helped little.
If he understood their position properly, they would pass through no villages directly on their way beyond the boundary. But that did not mean they were entirely alone as some mingled within the trees on either side of them, some whispering, some reverent as they had positioned themselves to watch the Lightkeep pass.
Once a generation.
For as long as their history had been recorded.
And, just maybe, some wanted to see him as well, although he could not imagine why.
“Many blessings upon you,” an older woman called from the edge of the wood.
The Lightkeep appeared frozen, her steps halting at once at the sudden intrusion, and Grimult noticed the widening eyes as she took in the people who had come to see her pass.
What might have been taken for a nod was clearer given his closer vantage, Penryn allowing the hood to fall more fully over her face before she forced herself to keep moving.
If any dared to approach, Grimult would have swiftly intervened, but he did not think that calling blessings down on their Lightkeep qualified for a necessary action on his part.
Their lands had been designed so that the path beyond the boundaries was shortest at this point, and Grimult was glad if it meant gawkers and well-wishers could only accompany them for long. Or, an even more perilous thought, if they had to make camp before they had even exited their most used lands, people crowding and watchful while the Lightkeep tried to rest.
Penryn’s pace had quickened once again, and he was distinctly aware of the cause. She did not seem to care for being watched, and the realisation was a rueful one. He was not certain how he was to accommodate such a preference when that was his sole purpose here.
The boundary itself was delineated by vibrant ribbons tied between trunks of trees, and where there were none, iron poles driven into the ground. There were some at chest height for those on foot, and each marker rose steadily upward, lest a wayward miscreant be able to claim ignorance of their position.
He had never travelled so far before, but all were told since their fledgling years not to cross the ribbons. There were games with the village children, races on foot and by air of doing just that, much to their minders’ disapproval.
Grimult had been rather good at it, although he had never actually considered crossing for himself.
Until now.
He was surprised to find that the ribbons themselves had been untied to allow their passage. The sages might have done that to encourage their progress and provide one easy path forward, free of impediment.
Or perhaps others had broken free, travelling beyond the boundary in their excitement to see the Lightkeep further on, the