But a flame was a flame, sacred or not, and he was grateful not to be stumbling about in the dark, desperate to return to their supplies.
“I see your point,” Penryn conceded, although he had to remind himself they were not truly at odds. She had apologised immediately upon seeing him, and done so again when he had still appeared upset. She turned her head and offered him a thin smile. “We will get better at this, you know,” she assured him, and he wondered why she thought that was true.
The enquiry came unbidden and before he could think better of it. “Are there records of the previous Journeys?”
He watched her expression shutter away and knew he had done wrong even as the last word left his mouth. It was none of his business what came before, and he could not forget that. Aemsol had not chosen to share much of his own experience, and that would be for a reason.
Each Journey was new and whole. The trek itself repeated, but those making it...
Unless he was mistaken, and the Lightkeep held all the knowledge of travels long passed.
He glanced her way. He did not want to underestimate her, nor the magic that made her... a Lightkeep. But she did not seem to hold such ancient memories, the burden of them likely a great and terrible thing.
“If there are,” Penryn answered at last, her voice tight. “They were not shared with me.”
He thought he detected a hint of resentment in her tone, but surely that was incorrect. Surely she revered the sages as he did—as they all did. They would share what needed to be known and keep the rest hidden away where it could do no harm.
The thought did not settle as easily as it did before.
“I...” Grimult began before stopping.
“What?” Penryn asked when he made no further comment, her expression softening into mild interest. “What were you going to say?
Grimult cursed that he did not have better control of his tongue. “I’m not really sure,” he admitted. “Maybe ask how you could know that we’ll do better if you don’t know how the other Journeys went? Or maybe... maybe to say that I am sorry.”
Either was just as likely, although in the moment he wished it had simply been an apology. They were getting quite proficient at swapping those between them, and he suppressed a grimace. He would prefer they simply stop treading on one another’s sensibilities so such expressions would be unnecessary.
Penryn merely shrugged. “I guess I do not know, really. But... I should think that the longer we spend together, the more we will know when a tone means danger and when it means there are berries to have for supper and will you please come help?” She peeked over at him, her smile sheepish, and he felt some tension release that he had not even known was there.
She cleared her throat, looking away from him. “Or that is what I always assumed. The sages were awfully good at that. Barely had to talk to one another and yet they seemed to always know what the other truly meant.”
He had noticed that. It was impossible to ignore how they moved as one, so in tuned to each other that words were almost crass they were so unnecessary.
He thought of Yanik’s teasing as he glanced back at Penryn. “I do not wish to be a sage,” he confessed, his tone more apologetic than it had been with his fellow initiate.
Penryn did not turn to look at him. “Nor do I.”
Her voice was harder than he had heard before. More determined.
He did not know how to answer such vehemence so he simply waited, and with a sigh and an eventual slump of her shoulders, whatever ire Penryn felt seemed to ease away, even if it was only due to resignation rather than proper soothing. “Take the good and leave the rest,” she murmured to herself, and he gave her a quizzical look. She gave him a rueful smile. “Something my nurse used to say,” she explained, glancing down at the lantern. “When I was complaining about... things.”
Grimult did not know whether it was his place to ask, but Penryn seemed open to conversing, at least about some things, so he supposed it was all right. “You had a nurse then?”
Nurse, not mother.
Penryn nodded, her features a little less open, but she did not scold him either. “A baby has to eat, same as any other,” she reminded him. Her expression grew more uncomfortable, and he could see the glow of their campfire beckoning them forward and he was glad. He wanted to learn, wanted to hear more about her, but there were distractions here that could provided needed relief if a subject proved difficult.
“So you had a caretaker then?” Grimult pressed, heartened to hear that. He did not like the idea of a little Penryn, entirely sequestered and alone, grim-faced sages her only company.
He should not feel that way, of course. He should be glad that their Lightkeep had been found and given to the only ones that could provide for all of her unique needs, yet something niggled and would not allow him to feel that way. Not entirely.
Penryn did not immediately answer, and he had managed to carefully place the berries on his bedroll and fish out the cauldron from the bottom of the pack before she did so.
“I had a few. Caretakers, that is. Or so they told me.” Her smile was a dim, unhappy thing, and he did not particularly care for such a look. Not when it left such a strange feeling in his belly to witness it. “I cannot remember that far back, of course, only the last one.”
“What happened to them?” Grimult asked, his eyes on
