“Do you ever wonder,” he found himself asking before he could think better of it. “Why they should take the time to teach me so much and you so little?”
He did look at her then, hoping that she would not grow angry with his choice of phrasing. He did not mean to suggest that she was unintelligent, that she was somehow lacking in basic reasoning or functioning, but it could not be ignored that there was a great discrepancy between their skills when it came to even basic survival or everyday living. He was trying to mend that gap through instruction of his own, but it plagued him why the sages might not have done that over the course of Penryn’s entire life.
“I do not have to wonder,” she answered quietly. She had her knees drawn up to her chest, her arms crossed over top. Her chin rested against her forearms, muffling her words slightly, and there was resignation in her eyes. “I know why.”
Grimult turned at her, perplexed. “They explained it to you?” he clarified, not understanding. So much of the sages’ ways were beginning to seem absurd, and struggled daily with how to reconcile a lifetime of loyalty with all he now knew. Or partially knew. Or was beginning to suspect.
She tilted her head, giving him a look that suggested he was being just a tiny bit foolish, although he could not think how. “We are trespassing towards secrets,” she warned, although there was a weariness in her voice that suggested if he should press her, she would relent. Likely in a stream of frustration, words tangling in spurts.
He flipped over the meat, pleased with the appearance of it. The smell was tantalising, a welcome distraction from the conversation he should never have begun, but would need to resolve before things turned sour between them. He had to suppress a sigh. Better to remain silent than to upset her with questions she could not in good conscience answer.
“I expected the role of Guardian to be a difficult one,” Grimult explained. “But I had not imagined that the most infuriating part would be receiving so little reason of what is truly going on.”
Penryn bit at her lip for a moment before turning her head to look at him. “It is not my intention to frustrate you.”
He did sigh then, deeply but without malice. “I am aware of that. It is only...” he gripped briefly at his hair, as if he could pull the thoughts from his head that were plaguing him, the doubts and worries that there was something so obvious that he was not seeing, not understanding, that would settle all the little pieces into place so he might know.
But would he want to, once he did?
That was what troubled him most. He was certain that the truth was something terrible, that he was leading Penryn into something more dangerous than what they could possibly face here into the wilds, and it was growing harder to imagine leaving her to such a fate.
Even if he was sworn to do so.
He had clung to the notion of duty each time he missed home and the family he loved so dearly. It had settled him, braced him when lessons were difficult and ones he wished he did not have to learn at all. And duty would insist that he do as he was bid, that he leave Penryn to her work and return home as instructed, first to the sages and their many questions, then to his parents, to his sisters.
He thought of Aemsol, living in seclusion. By choice, or so he claimed. As penance.
For what exactly? Grimult sincerely wished to know. For something that had transpired on the Journey, or after?
Or was it for leaving behind the Lightkeep of his time after he had learned what would come of them?
“I am not certain I trust the sages any longer,” he admitted, giving her a worried glance. He should be relieved that she did not appear angry with him, as he was certain such an admission to most any of his fellow clansmen would lead to an argument and possibly a smack to the back of his head from an elder for even the suggestion of it.
Penryn did not speak for a while, her eyes steadily on the fire and their waiting meal. His stomach began to clench a little, either from the silence or from smells wafting to him he could not be certain. It was uncomfortable either way.
“I am sorry for that,” Penryn said at last, shaking her head at his look of disbelief. “Truly. I did not want you to become like me, even... even if your doubts are reasonable.” She fell silent for a moment longer and Grimult had to remind himself to tend the meat before it was allowed to burn. He wanted to offer her something delicious, not something she would have to grimace behind a bite of char.
He gave it a careful poke with the flat of his knife, gauging the resistance. Another minute yet, he decided.
“You were so sure, before,” Penryn continued, watching him with a hint of an earlier smile, one that was warm and true and did something strange to his chest just to see it. “Confident in our expedition. I never wanted to rob you of that.”
“Confidence can quickly become arrogance when it is not based on truth. On reality.” He did not know why he said that, only that the word alone was enough to make him think of Felnir and his propensity for boasting. Had Grimult seemed that way to her in the beginning? Talking of the Journey and their great purpose while she hid away truths and allowed him to bluster?
He could not fault her for it. It was her responsibility to keep the sages’ secrets, just as it was his to follow his training blindly.
He was not doing so well with his portion.
“I suppose,” Penryn agreed, though
