They said nothing, and only one of them turned, and Grimult could clearly see the frown distorting his features. The figure continued to stand, a slight swaying to the once staid posture.
Unease filled him that perhaps something had gone wrong, and the impulse to step forward was great. It was a shameful one, something to be stifled quickly. He had not been chosen as keeper, and he realised with a margin of horror that he had very nearly been considering laying a hand on the Lightkeep, simply to steady.
A sage turned back, walking with clipped steps that indicated anger. There was a hiss of breath, an ancient language that none now spoke—evidently not entirely true. Some did. And well enough to startle the Lightkeep into action, steps too hastily taken in obedience, tripping over the length of the cloak doubtlessly overwhelming the poor soul with heat.
Eyes flashed with menace, and the sage closed the distance between them. Did not touch, Grimult noticed ruefully, his own hands clenched into fists, whether in rebuke for their previous desire to touch what was most certainly not allowed, or from the disturbing display before him. Before them all.
The Lightkeep stood, a pale hand emerging from the cloak to dust the clinging remains of any upset to the vibrant fabric.
A feminine hand.
As was the hem of the skirt she wore.
A few murmurs rippled through the company, as evidently he was not the only to have noticed. It was more than they were to have known before selection, and instructors barked out quick orders for silence, although many were slow to obey.
The sage walked to the side of the Lightkeep, his mouth a firm line of displeasure as they rejoined the others, the girl moving forward to the centre, her head low and hands tightly clasped together.
Another hissed word and they disappeared beneath the fabric of her cloak.
That was not as Grimult had imagined. Hers was the place of greatest favour, her presence demanding respect and deference, not... not censure. And certainly not the anger he had witnessed.
It was too similar to what he had seen from his own instructors when frustration had turned to resentment of a particularly difficult pupil. Grimult was only grateful that such looks had not been directed at him.
But his desire to know more of their Lightkeep grew even greater, although he reminded himself firmly that his motivations were foolish ones. He should want to protect her because that was all he had trained for, the very reason he had prepared and sacrificed the past years of his life.
“Aren’t you glad you did not miss this?” Yanik asked, a large grin on his face. “Haven’t seen that much intrigue in an age.”
It was not the time for talking, as an instructor appeared grim faced and cross, apparently not appreciating the censure from the sage any more than the initiates had done.
“Drills,” he barked, his attention turning to the others surrounding them. Midday was passing them and a meal should have been forthcoming, but there was no mistaking the seriousness of his order.
Time was growing short, and they had much still to learn.
And Grimult felt a fresh wave of determination fill him.
He wanted to protect her, wanted to keep her safe through the perils of the Journey.
And that made any pangs of hunger fade to a distant awareness, his muscles ready for the strain of practised combat.
For he did not truly know what they might face along the way.
Two
Muscles ached in protest when finally they were allowed to rest for the night. Many grumbled about him, claiming that nothing was worth such dedication, most especially given the physical tolls and the exhaustion deep in their bones, but Grimult did not agree. They would heal and be the stronger for it, and he had finally mastered a difficult turn and execution, one that had plagued him for months with tantalising closeness but never true perfection.
His instructor had taken note of it, giving him a pleased nod.
He and Yanic had been given an extra punishing hour of training for their tardiness, and Grimult was nearly certain that Yanic was ready to despair before it was even half over. Already he was snoring lightly four cots down, his wings still glistening from the quick wash they had been afforded.
“Did you see the way he looked at me?” Felnir crowed.
“Dunno, kinda thought he was looking at me,” another answered. Might have been Selvin, or maybe Pascral. Both tended to keep close to Felnir, although rarely had Grimult ever heard them disagree with him.
He closed his eyes, pulling his wings up slightly to shield his ears, urging sleep to come. A part of him wished he was allowed to go out to the practice woods and find a sturdy tree to sleep there, but somehow he doubted it. This was his allotted resting space and he would make use of it, even if most of those surrounding him were too loud. Even now, with so much time passing, he felt unused to the presence of so many as he slumbered.
Or attempted to do so.
He remembered the original dwelling of his parents’ only vaguely. They had abandoned the more traditional lodgings in the cliffside in favour of the farm, their home built on a tall crisscross of beams and logs so at least the feeling remained of height and the safety that came with it. But to choose to sleep away from the rest of their village meant that the sounds were different, the rustle of trees was familiar and comforting, punctuated only by the occasional shifting of a sibling or parent from a room apart.
A tree would be preferable, but he would make do, just as he had been.
Thoughts of the Lightkeep kept sleep from taking him, and it was irksome as it was inevitable. The instructors had made no mention of
