She did not feel it her place to ask after the sages, most especially to enquire if they too had forsaken enough of the Way to keep their names from youthful days, and she felt another dose of trepidation. What else had they abandoned? Would they even notice their great wrong in allowing some of their kind to climb the Wall?
The sages had spoken of trust and safety while she was in these halls, but she felt neither.
Only terribly, horribly alone.
From the glimpse she felt she could spare without insisting either ire or more conversation, she peeked at those trailing behind. Younger than Henrik, one light of hair, the other nearly an inky black.
Both stared at her steadily, ensuring she would not look back at them again.
She managed to keep her pace steady, her head level and her eyes forward. She could not bow, not here. They were to bow to her, not the other way around, and she would do well to hold to the old customs.
Even if they did not.
Henrik paused near a wooden door, the carvings intricate. It would have taken more direct light to make them out properly, but she could see a lantern held aloft, the light depicted by deep grooves coming from a single flame.
Presumably, this would be her corridor for the duration.
Henrik gave her a smile before he opened it, and she winced at the sight of the curved stairs that awaited her. The passage itself was narrow, and that too was familiar. But it made her legs strong, and although she was tired and sore, she managed them well enough, the three sages following behind.
It must be a tower, there were so many stairs. There were a few alcoves with doors of their own, but when she hesitated at each, Henrik bade her continue. “For those that serve you,” he explained. Not truly her corridor then. She was not entirely certain of what the role of such people would be, whether they were tasked with her protection or ensuring she did not flee. Either was entirely probable.
So she kept walking until at last, a much taller door appeared, twice her height, the handle a thick twist of blackened metal.
“Just a push,” Henrik instructed, hesitating a few steps downward so as not to crowd her.
Just a push was not entirely accurate, at least not to one of her stature. A shove was more needed, a full pressing of her weight against the impediment, but it yielded quickly enough, as if the hinges were well oiled and the only true obstacle the thickness of the door itself.
The chamber was much larger than the one she had known growing up. The bed was large enough for two people, perhaps even three if they were willing to sleep with shoulders brushing. The carpets on the floor were thick, crimson and golds mingling into swirling patterns that would have been dizzying if not so darkly hued.
There was even a fire in the hearth, bright and warm.
She turned, eyeing Henrik quizzically. “We are to always be ready to receive you,” he explained with a shrug of his shoulders.
She thought briefly of Edgard, of a life spent waiting.
She supposed that was much the same as her own.
The windows were small, and she would have to stand on tiptoe to see even the barest glimpse of the outside, and they were far too small and narrow to slip through, even if that was her desire.
It was a lovely space, but a prison all the same.
“The wardrobe is empty, I am afraid,” Henrik said, pointing from his place at the doorway. He would not enter, and for that she was grateful. Perhaps not all ways had been forgotten. She would remind them of the rest, in time.
Remind them of a very great deal, it seemed.
“But I will have someone bring something from the stores now that we know more of what you require.”
She nodded, not knowing what else to do or say. Now that a bed was near, it beckoned most heartily, and she realised how little true rest she had received over the course of the Journey.
He did not have a bed. Not yet. Not for weeks yet, unless his wing healed quickly. And then it would be surrounded by family that slept nearby, not the topmost of a tower with windows she could not even see from.
“I will also send a healer to assess your injuries,” Henrik continued, and she realised she had missed what else he had said before. Perhaps something about clothing?
So she gave another nod and hoped that if it was something else entirely, it would reveal itself quickly enough.
An outsider then. One without the signet on their collar, able to enter the Lightkeep’s chamber unencumbered by vow and stringent decorum.
“And a meal?” This, the first enquiry that suggested an actual choice. And one even more welcome than a healer.
As if any such person could tend what was truly wrong with her.
“Yes,” she agreed, adding a soft please soon after, since manners mattered even here in this foreign place. “And,” she continued, feeling awkward for even mentioning it. “A bath?”
Henrik did not appear to share her discomfort. “Of course.” He allowed a hand to enter the chamber, pointing toward a door in the wall she had paid little heed to. “Through there is all you shall require.” Penryn blinked, not expecting such a luxury as an attached chamber just for such a purpose. Better a large copper tub stationed before the fire, to keep warm as water was brought by the bucketful, more warm than hot once it made the long trek to her quarters.
She wondered if the servants here minded the extra steps.
“If that is all?” Henrik paused, waiting for her to interject with anything further, but at the subtle shake of her head, he took hold of the black hook on the door and began to shut it between them. “Until later, then.”
And then she heard the
