And he doubted there was time for either.
“You have to sleep tonight,” Penryn murmured to him, sidling close so that her lips were near his ear. He appreciated her cooperation at his insistence that they make as little noise as possible, even if it did mean they spent a great deal of time very close together out of sheer necessity.
He opened his mouth, ready to recount the dangers, and she raised her good hand and placed it onto his cheek. “You are worn through,” she insisted. Her thumb traced the skin beneath his left eye. “You cannot tell me those instructors of yours did not tell you the importance of a good sleep.”
He grimaced. They had, although it had often been punctuated by days of endless labour and nights spent purposefully being jostled awake at the first sign of a dose.
They had learned quickly how clumsy their work became the next day, as well as the next, and all of them had rejoiced when finally they were allowed a full night of blissful respite.
She was not wrong. But his mind would not stop whirring with doubts and fears, and it was only when his body was ready to collapse with exhaustion that he found any rest at all.
“Lay down,” she urged, and he noted ruefully that she had come to his bedroll, so there was no escape. He could ignore her suggestion, he knew, could insist that she had lost the privilege of his blind acceptance, but lack of sleep was beginning to numb even the deepest reaches of his bitterness.
He made one last sweep of what little could be seen of the outside world, the overhang providing a greater shield than he had first imagined. A second rise came quickly upward, and blocked a great deal of the view—for himself and for anyone looking for them.
It was safe here, as safe as it could be until he was back in his parents’ home with his sisters, and he did as Penryn had bid.
She was seated at the head of the bedroll, and he eyed her curiously for a moment, wondering if he was being particularly obtuse or if she truly was blocking him from entering his place of rest.
There was colour in her cheeks, or perhaps it was merely a trick of the light, but then she was patting at her lap instead. “If you would like to rest your head here, you may,” she murmured, almost too soft for him to hear at all.
Grimult swallowed, uncertain if it was a good idea. Better for her to fall asleep first, to know for certain that she was tucked away in slumber, that no beast had pinned her, eaten her, dragged her away to a whole camp of riders that had murder in their hearts.
His breath was short, and he was so tired, too many nights of keeping watching blurring together into endless wakefulness.
He eased himself downward, mindful of his wing and accepted the offering of her lap. He did not know her intention, and braced himself at her first touch.
Only to feel her fingers drift through his hair, accompanied by a gentle hum. “One of my minders used to do this for me,” she confessed softly. “When I could not sleep.” He could hardly imagine a sage taking such a position with her, so she must be referring to one of the women brought in to care for her when she was so very young.
“Of course,” she continued, her fingers drifting through his dark hair, resting lightly at the nape of his neck before making the journey yet again. “She would tell me a story so I would have something else to think about.”
He was about to remind her that he had good reason for what troubled him, for the many worries that plagued his every waking moment, but she hushed him, tapping lightly at his temple. “You do not have to talk in order to listen,” she teased, although there was a hint of tension in her words, enough that it made him settle, to listen, wondering at her true intention.
“In a land very far away, a very long time ago,” she began, her words a little slow, as if carefully chosen. “There were two sorts of people in the world.” She leaned down, crouching slightly over him, looking at him with a stern expression. “Not our world, mind you,” she clarified, and he frowned. “Close your eyes now. You cannot fall asleep that way.”
Her hands renewed their careful ministrations, and he found his heart beating a little faster, although he could not be certain why.
“Right, two sorts of people.” She cleared her throat, almost as if the words were struck. Unwilling.
Secret.
He wanted to sit up, to stare at her, but if she needed to shape it in such a way, he was not going to argue with it.
Perhaps it would not all be true—it was a story after all. But it was something.
And he would take it, gladly.
“Those who dwelt on land, and those in the air. Those people fed their families by the sea, rarely going inland, or making contact with the others at all.”
That was true of his people, a well known fact still adhered to stringently by two of the clans. Their place was in the craggy hills that were their ancestral homes, their diets provided by the salty water of the sea battering against their cliffside. Seaweed and fish, not milks and cheeses, not plants grown and harvested by hand in earth not meant to be tilled by one of their kind.
Although none could remember why it was always said with a sneer, as if those who wished for a different way were betraying something. Something ancient.
“Things began to change when land-folk started coming to the seashore. Not many, not at first, but they would watch.” She swallowed, her hand settling on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “And as the generations passed, they came in greater numbers. With weapons that could fly as
