The stocking was so finely made that it was almost sheer, a useless thing that she only accepted because Mara had indicated it was the proper thing to wear, regardless of the lack of warmth it would provide her.
Her free hand skimmed the edges of the stone, solid and sure lest her confidence waver.
And at last she was free of the winding stair, the sages in all their grand robes awaiting her.
So familiar, even in their differences, the only thing lacking was the trailing wings hanging down their backs, folded and unused in deference to her.
They made two stiff lines, and she passed through them, just as she had done every time before in a different keep in a life that suddenly felt very far away and almost crushingly close all at once. Lanterns blazed on the walls, illuminating tapestries high in the vaulted ceiling, banners of the signet waved lazily in the draught of the place, the flames flickering on occasion if a particularly large gust found its way through the dimmer recesses above.
She did not have to question the direction. If the lights did not guide her way, the murmur of voices from the great room beyond made it clear where all were gathered, and she walked toward the tall doors with as much grace as she could muster. Her hands did not cling to her skirts, and although she missed the hood that hid her away so completely, she could not entertain such anxieties now.
Two younger men were stationed by the door, their heads bowed to such an extent that she thought their necks would rebel against the strain, but neither even gave a glance to be certain of her distance before they opened the doors.
And the din was silenced by a bright ring of the chimes that had heralded her approach in a humble cart with a man proud to wear his signet, his life devoted to a work that was finally finished.
She did not pause to give herself time to worry of what was to come.
Penryn merely stepped into view, up to the dais and the other sages that awaited her, not allowing her eyes to drift to the people beyond.
She sensed them all the same. The heavy weight of hundreds of eyes, staring and assessing. Waiting. Perhaps for some sign of her greatness, or perhaps the weakness that would prove she was not something to be feared.
She did not know which she would prefer.
Incense burned at her nose, the smoke at the top of the dais, a cloying mixture of scents she could not begin to name. Perhaps they were common to those seated throughout the Keep, but not to her, a calming presence in a thrum of ritual and decadence.
Henrik appeared behind her, moving around so that he could be seen by all. He gestured outward and she forced herself to follow with her gaze, to look where he bade.
The room itself, so grand and imposing in its vastness did not seem quite so cavernous now that every seat was filled. Still more people stood toward the back, and she saw necks craning and teetering postures as they tried to look out from behind those taller in front.
“Our halls are graced with a new presence amongst us,” Henrik began, his voice carrying through the space, echoing against stone so that even those stationed nearest the door would hear his words. It was apparent the entire structure had been designed for such an occurrence, and feat of it not lost on Penryn.
Her home did not hold such magnificent creations. They valued open spaces, the sky an ever present friend that was not meant to be hidden away even with ceilings so beautifully carved and fashioned, curved arches adorning each doorway and roofline.
“We are honoured,” came the reply of the mass before her, and the collective voice was startling to her ear, the sheer force of it.
They were aligned. An army, if they chose to be so.
And she was to keep them at bay.
Her nerves were creeping past her careful reserve, and she diverted attention from their faces to stare instead at Henrik, willing him to continue, to finish with this so she could tend to her part, simple though it was.
“Many of you have toiled long in preparation for her arrival, and the feast shall be enjoyed by all.” Henrik turned, his smile wide, his hand coming to the centre of his chest as he bowed his head. “As we once again celebrate the Resolution.”
A cheer that was almost a roar erupted, and Penryn gave Henrik a sharp look. That was not to be mentioned. Not yet. They had not made their arrangements, had not settled things between them. His presumption was great, and she would be forced to disappoint him.
Disappoint them all.
She willed herself to calm, for her voice to be steady as she spoke the words. He should not have mentioned the celebration. It was audacious, an insult to her even as he knew—he must have known—what had trespassed beyond the Wall.
So why the pretence?
When the ruckus died down, Penryn did not dare give Henrik a glance. “I had hoped to find you in peace, as my forbearers have done,” she began, thankful that her voice was clear. She had to pause longer than she would have liked to allow the echo to abate, but it allowed her time to think, to remember. “That I could celebrate with you as in the First Days.” A breath, a smoothing of her hand down her skirt, of forcing a twinge of pain through her wrist, a tangible thing that could not be excused. “But I fear the Resolution has been broken.”
She saw the look of worry amongst the faces of the common-folk, the confusion and unease that spread quickly between them. If they had been playacting, they were very skilled at the deception, and she felt a niggle of uncertainty. Did they not know what had
