“Drink,” he suggested, although it came out as more of an order.
She did not argue, but he thought he caught what appeared to be a rolling of her eyes beneath the hood, although the fabric betrayed her as she leaned her head back to do as he’d said.
Her hair, the colour of soft earth, was revealed, braided and coiled at the back of her head so that none might escape. He hoped she would be able to recreate such a fashion herself because he would not be any help in seeing it done so again.
Was there a sage dedicated simply to her hair? Grimult had trouble imagining it, but that did not mean it was not so.
Too many questions swirled, inappropriate in their personal nature, and he wondered how long before he would be able to walk with her without being bombarded with such ponderings.
He tended to his own flask, taking a long pull before stoppering it again and tucking it back into the pack. He would need to inventory their supplies when they chose to camp for the night—probably earlier than she would have liked. He would need the light of the ending day to see by, to find the proper spot that would provide shelter and dry wood enough for their fire. A cave would be most preferable, would protect the sacred flame from any errant winds, but the terrain did not currently suggest they would find one for this night’s rest.
Penryn held out her pouch for him to take, and he noted that she made no movement to return her hood to its proper place. Should he encourage her to do so? There seemed little point. It was only him here, and he did not mind, especially given the weather.
But if it was some dictate from the sages, should he not encourage her to follow their teachings? His own instructors had never given comment on such proprieties, so he had only his fumbled musings to go by.
It was most disconcerting.
He returned her flask to the pack and turned, fumbling slightly as he negotiated the full bundle over his wings while also tending to the buckles. Penryn made no move to help, nor would he have expected it of her, although a quick glance at her face showed a rather peculiar emotion.
It was not the impatience he might have expected when clearly she had not wished to pause in the first place. But some sort of wistful wonderment as she stared at his wings. He gave them a careful shake, settling the straps into place and making certain nothing was caught or trapped by a leather prison.
Not like Penryn’s must have been.
He very nearly opened his mouth to suggest she free her own. The cloak would have to be modified to accommodate them, but that was nothing that quick work with a knife would not accomplish, and he was willing to help if it meant her own comfort.
Penryn must have realised she was staring for she looked quickly down at the ground, appearing almost angry with herself for it. He was not, but he could hardly tell her so without causing embarrassment, either for himself or for her.
Better to say nothing at all than do that.
“Shall we continue?” he asked gently, uncertain if she required a moment to compose herself.
She nodded her head instead but made no move with her feet. If she thought he intended to lead the way, allowing her to trail behind, she would be mightily disappointed. He did not trust the tether that he felt binding her to him, did not know its abilities and he was not prepared to test them. He wanted his eyes to easily find her, to watch her movements and easily see any dangers before they were given chance to approach.
“After you,” he insisted, although he bowed his head to soften the command. Penryn gave him an odd look as she passed, but obliged.
She still had not restored the hood.
Grimult followed after her, pensive and uncertain, but found that he had no true will to suggest she replace it. Not a woman, Aemsol had told him. Not really. A vessel for the Lightkeep’s spirit.
How much was Penryn, then, and how much was an ancient? One who knew too much, had seen too much in the passage of time, of clans that grew and those that faded from living memory.
How much would she remember of him in her next life?
The thought was a troubling one, a reminder that what he did mattered more than simply in this one.
Yet he still could not bring himself to tell her to raise the hood.
Five
Making camp would get better with time and practise. He knew this, and yet Grimult found it a fairly mortifying experience for his first venture. Penryn had wanted to argue with him from the start, claiming that more distance could be gotten that day if they pressed on, but when he’d seen the old mound of earth covered in soft mosses, he had known it would be their first shelter for the night. There was an overhang, as if at one point a stone structure had been erected there and then covered with time and erosion, the perfect outcropping against winds and rain alike should they choose to come.
Penryn appeared lost as to what to do while he opened the pack and spread the contents about. Bed rolls had been tied to the bottom, free from the open cavity of the pack itself, and he took one of those first and laid it beneath the stone overhang, nodding to it so she would have a place to sit that was not directly on the ground itself.
She took a deep breath
