Two rough hewn cups were placed upon the counter, a large pot beside those filled with a mixture of dark, shrivelled leaves.
This was not the trial he had expected. His eyes drifted to the mouth of the cave, almost ready to enquire if a mistake had been made and he was to be stationed elsewhere.
But he held his tongue, the man evidently satisfied with his preparations for he turned, coming to take his own seat—the one different than the other two, and apparently more comfortable for he settled in with a sigh of contentment.
“Grimult is it?” he asked, although a knowing look in his eye suggested that it was not for a true need of confirmation.
“Yes,” he answered in any case, not wishing to be rude.
“Son of Glasken, aren’t you?”
Grimult gave him a puzzled look. “Are you acquainted?”
The man smiled. “Not at all. Just like to keep the details straight.” He tapped a long, crooked finger to his temple. “You’ll understand one day.”
Grimult would be shocked if he reached such an age, simply because he was certain that no one else had.
“Aren’t you going to ask my name?” the man pressed.
“I assume you would introduce yourself when you were ready to do so.” His head tilted slightly to the side. “Do many initiates ask? These conversations must grow tedious if they are all the same.”
The man twined his fingers together and settled them against his chest, looking at Grimult carefully. “Tedium is every day spent alone,” he answered plainly, and Grimult felt immediately chastened.
“Then why do it?” he found himself asking before he could think better of it and remain in silence, allowing his elder to guide their talk as he should.
A lined mouth pressed together firmly, a first sign of displeasure in him. “Penance,” he answered. “Something you might understand too, some day.”
Grimult would not pretend to understand his meaning. If the clans had found some fault in him, they would have banished him far beyond their borders for the wrongdoing, not helped him fashion a dwelling in the woods that would accommodate his age and capabilities.
It must be a self-inflicted solitude then. And it was not Grimult’s place to pry.
The man appeared deep in thought, a finger tapping lightly against his other hand, and the silence was only punctuated by the sound of water lapping at a kettle as it began to simmer.
Grimult rose, taking a cloth and settling it over the iron handle before he made contact, and poured the steaming liquid over the waiting leaves.
He felt the man’s eyes on him and an apology should be afforded for completing a task that had not been asked of him, but it seemed only right. This man could use someone to wait on him, even if it was just tea.
His mother would tell him with a strange glint in her eye that it was never just tea, before bustling in to prepare it for her family.
He never quite knew what she meant until he had to leave them. When the cups provided were stale and utterly lacking in comparison.
He brought the cups to the table and then returned for the pot, the glazed clay holding in the heat nicely.
His mother would be pleased.
“I apologise if I overstepped,” Grimult offered formally, not wanting awkwardness between them.
“You did not,” the man assured him. “Old bones don’t like to get up once you’ve settled them down.”
Grimult nodded. Another something he was sure to understand later.
Another few minutes passed and Grimult poured the tea. There had been no strainer lain out with the rest of the articles, so he allowed the tea to settle before handing it to his instructor.
If that’s truly what he was.
“Many thanks,” the man intoned, holding the cup between both hands as if glad of the heat.
It was far cooler here than in the barracks, and perhaps old bones also grew displeased at the damp that pervaded the cave, despite the fire that blazed only a half-room away.
Grimult took a sip from his own cup. The flavour was dissimilar to the ones from his home or even the ones he had experienced here, but it was not displeasing. Slightly earthy, a hint of mint numbing the very tip of his tongue, and belatedly he wondered if there had been some potion added that would reveal his secrets, uncover any misdeeds during his time here.
But the man took a sip of his own and Grimult marginally relaxed.
“Since you will not ask,” the man began when he had swallowed the hot liquid. “My name is Aemsol. I was the last Guardian.” He waited, as if to allow that knowledge to penetrate Grimult’s thoughts.
The name was familiar, as were all of them that came before. More legend than anything, steeped with reverence and history.
It had never occurred to him that any might still live. Generations were to pass, that was precisely the point.
Did all live to be so old? Perhaps it was being so near to the Lightkeep that extended their age, enabling them to be present for the selection of their successor.
The thought was a sobering one, and he took another sip of his tea as he tried to process the implications. To outlive all he knew?
If Aemsol had expected Grimult to give a vocal reaction, he was to be disappointed. There seemed nothing appropriate to say in response to such a revelation, although questions abounded. Of the Journey, of the Lightkeep he had served and... and all that would follow.
But they were not permitted to speak of such things, and to ask, to pry where he knew he did not belong, seemed almost a test of its own.
Better to mind his tongue completely than to ask what he should not.
Grimult could well imagine his fellow initiates filling the silence with chatter, as many of them often did when seated around the long tables during meals. Would it be
