To offer wisdom born of study and a history denied to the others.
But no more.
There could be no hiding the truth, not when the descendants of those first, banished peoples were standing before them, pleading for a truce.
Representatives of the clans came forward, the sage last of all, grim-faced and clearly displeased with the arrangement, but cooperative.
At least, for the moment.
And as all came together, weapons held low, their people at their backs...
They waited.
Uncertain of what was to come.
If talks might sour, if war was still between them.
Coaxing them all to sit was a tedious business. To suggest their weapons be put carefully back into sheaths or preferably, abandoned entirely, was even worse.
The tribe had skins to place upon the dewy grasses, and Penryn was greatly pleased when they begrudgingly offered enough for every member of the clans as well.
Her father amongst them.
She had not seen him that day, her heart in her throat, wanting him far from the fighting.
But seeing him approach for the Mihr, her relief could not be denied.
She had known him so short a time, but she trusted no one better for the task of peace-making.
Not only with the tribe, but for the good of them all.
He would not allow the sages to dictate too much. Would not allow practices that inflicted more pain upon the people it sought to protect.
He would argue when she could not. When her role as translator insisted she keep quiet with her own opinions.
When the sage scowled as the tribe spoke of their time in hiding, their numbers growing beyond what forage and hunting alone could sustain.
Of their ancestral homes lying dormant, abandoned to time and rot, a memorial for a treaty that was not quite fair to all.
And the clans as they heard histories that were wholly new to them.
She saw the crowds in both camps grow restless as time wore on. Neither side directly engaged with their leaders, but when an hour passed, they lost their well practiced formations and began to disperse.
When the sun drew higher in the sky, many took to the shade of the trees as they sought respite from the heat.
Yet still, each side kept to their own.
And still the leaders talked.
Talked and argued, the leaders of the clans growing more and more distraught with the lone delegate allowed from the sages order.
For all they did not know.
For what could have happened, with truth buried and their people so wholly unprepared should the tribe have proven malicious.
And what trust that had been there, steady and unreserved in the eyes of a few of the leaders, began to fade.
And Penryn watched it happen.
And where she might have thought satisfaction would have reigned, she felt sorrow instead.
Their world had been a peaceful one, in its seclusion. But the cost was high, even if it was borne by few.
She did not know when the talks might end. When a treaty would be forged, formalised on parchment, names and dates scratched at the bottom to signify a new accord.
What the role of Lightkeep would entail any longer.
Who might travel beyond the Wall, to meet with those sequestered. Forgotten.
But she smiled when her father argued on her behalf. The others first rebuffing.
Then listening.
The tribe looking at her with curiosity.
Had they learned long before that one like her would make the trek across their lands? Did they watch, keeping careful mark of where the lone figures tread with so many years between each Journey?
They said little in that regard. But their eyes burned when they spoke of those beyond the Wall, their anger and resentment toward them apparent to all seated together.
Some approached, murmuring respectfully and bringing food and drink, whispering lowly that perhaps rest should be taken, a moment to think and discuss with others.
But the thought of that, of losing their attentions, of never settling them back together again made Penryn nervous.
She remembered being locked away in a room full of sages, a treaty awaiting their signatures.
And there was no rest, no promise of relief until the accord was properly sealed.
Perhaps it should be different here.
Or perhaps it would only lead to further discord as more voices began to muddle what was of greatest importance.
When opinions merged and overrode reason and logical action.
It was late in the day, and her nerves run through. A small portion of food had been pressed into her hands that had somehow made it to her mouth and stomach, washed down with a cool sip of something akin to water but with a hint of sweetness and lovely to her tongue.
She was nearly hoarse, and her eyelids were beginning to droop, the sun beginning its descent. Insects called from their homes within the trees, buzzing and chirping, other flying things swooping low as hunted in the last rays of the sun.
And when her head grew heavy, her mouth sluggish to form the words any longer, it was her husband that was there to support her. Ever mindful of his post, he did not stray from her side. He followed her instruction of keeping his weapons hidden, but she knew well that, if needed, there were plenty hidden about his person to be used to keep them safe.
Her safe, or so she was certain he would murmur soon after.
That he cared little for the woes of these people. That game was growing scarce, that they tired of their lives of eternal wandering.
That they missed their homes.
And it was not their place to argue that surely one could not miss what one did not know. That the longing had been born of stories passed down through the generation rather than experience.
Penryn understood that well.
Knew how to miss a family even when she knew neither names nor their faces.
Yet she loved them all the same.
They did not call for any true aid. Only the ending of the secrecies between them. For the right to cultivate the lands, to grow food rather than solely forage.
To build homes of
