She doubted it. Not if they had received the same training she had.
It was the eldest sage that approached her, and he manoeuvred the steps with care so as not to trip on his robe and injure himself. She could well understand such caution. “A fine night, but a short one when you are an old man like me,” he informed her congenially as he made to pass. He paused before he went too far, turning back to look at her. There was a more pronounced hunch to his shoulders now that he was upright, and it made him look even older than before. “It has been an honour to serve you,” he informed her, and her brow furrowed. Her time had been limited, regardless of how long it had felt tucked away in her tower.
Belatedly, she realised he did not speak truly of her, but her title, of the work he had given to the Keep and the preparation of her coming.
The work of lifetimes.
She swallowed thickly, uncertain what to say, not when all her responses felt either too dismissive, or trespassed into deceit. She had not been happy to be their Lightkeep. Never had been. But she hoped she had accomplished it with grace, that she had met at least some of their expectations.
Not that it should matter.
Yet somehow, it did.
So instead she gave a low nod. “I thank you for being willing to serve,” she answered instead, meaning it. Had it not been for him, for his staunch reliance on the traditions she knew so well, they likely would still be trapped in the midst of their talks, unable to overcome their impasse.
He turned, ready to retire, and there was no doubt in her mind that he would forsake responsibilities now that he had seen her. The ultimate task finished, he could see to smaller duties, like tending the library, or simply waiting to give instruction to errant children that parents brought for an extra dose of discipline, hopeful that an imposing surrounding and a droll old man would help.
“If I wanted to make an early night as well,” Penryn asked after him. “How might that be accomplished?” Her voice was smaller at the end than she had intended, and she hoped he was not hard of hearing lest she be forced to raise her voice to a level that would alert any seated nearest to her.
He turned back, using his whole torso to do so rather than simply turning his neck. He eyed her for a moment, and she wondered what he saw. Perhaps a Lightkeep trying to shirk the last of her responsibilities, and she grimaced that he would not be wholly wrong in doing so.
Or maybe it was a woman not long past girlhood, cold and seated alone, wanting to nurse her loneliness in private rather than endure it any longer.
“You are not bound to that chair,” he said instead, although there was a smile to his voice that suggested he was not cross with her for making the enquiry. “If you wish to take your leave, you may do so.”
She opened her mouth, ready to question how when she did not know the way to her new place, but he shook his head, gesturing toward the sages, some milling about, others still stationed in their places at the table. “Let them all scuttle after you and fuss about the proper way of things. They like to have something to do.”
It was not an answer she had expected of him, not when he seemed the most dedicated to the formality she was surprised to find she longed for. But with a bow, he took his leave and she did not pester him further, not when he so clearly longed for his bed.
He was not wrong. There was nothing binding her to her seat. She had two legs, and a voice that was uncertain of the words, but knew her intention.
Penryn stood, feeling stiff and strangely sore from not moving for so long, but she did not allow herself the pleasure of stretching to work her muscles free from their constraint. She paused a moment, wondering if any would notice her movement, but none approached. It was only when she moved about the side of the table, debating whether to slip away back into the Keep or approach a sage directly that the one moved into action.
Not one of the sages at all, but Edgard. She wondered why he had not come to see her before, but as he patted away two children and sent them back to their mother, she rather thought he had simply been too busy with his own family to pay her much heed.
“You’ve been sitting there all by your lonesome for long enough, thought you might be intending to sleep there,” he said with a twinkle, suggesting that he was... teasing her.
A strange interaction, but not unwelcome. “I wish to retire,” she admitted to him, her eyes drifting down the street, trying to ascertain which way she should go. She missed having a head full of maps, of charts, of landmarks that told her always where to go, how to change her path so she would be on the right one. But those were for another world, one that she should not try to return to.
But had to.
For all their sakes.
“Aye,” Edgard agreed. “You’ve got a new home waiting, and you’ll be wanting to settle in.”
Penryn blinked at him, surprised that he knew of it.
“I did not mean to trouble you,” she hedged, not wanting to interrupt. For a moment she regretted not going to talk to Henrik directly, but Edgard shook his head.
“It would be my pleasure,” he assured her. “All will still be here when I get back. Though truth be told, those little’uns should be sleeping soon.” He shook his head as four children held hands and bounced around in a circle at the
