None were willing to stop, to break the formation and hold proper conference, but Penryn could see others flying side by side.
Listening.
Then diving away again.
Only to land first at one home. Then another.
And Penryn wondered how many would hear of the invaders before even the sages knew of it.
There was a thrill there, of more open rebellion than she had ever thought herself capable of encouraging, but worry still came.
For the fear that must be trickling through those households, the worry that they would face dangers never before imagined.
“Is this bad?” she found herself asking Grim, wanting more than her own opinion on the subject. “For them to be told without...” she almost added proper sanctions, but stopped herself. It granted more authority than should have been allowed to the sages, their positions cultivating far more power than was ever meant for them in their beginnings.
“It might,” Grimult hedged, watching as more people poured from their homes and went to others. “But they have a right to know all the same.”
The concept was a difficult one, going against so much of what had been taught to her. But it did not make it wrong, simply because it was challenging, and she tried to get it to settle neatly in her thoughts.
That was the most difficult part of all.
Rezen flew closest to Grimult and Pen, their pace slower than the others who maintained their positions up ahead. Never too far, their patterns shifting and adjusting to accommodate their members as a whole, and Penryn found herself wondering if this was a practised manoeuvre amongst clans, or if it was an innate ability that accompanied flight itself.
She bit her lip, feeling all the more removed from it, and wondered how much else she would never know.
It was not long before they abandoned the sea entirely, their course pushing inland. It was more familiar to travel over land and trees, and she was not sorry to abandon the relentless blue beneath them, thoughts too full of the salt in her hair, in her mouth, her lungs, pulling her under with punishing force as she fell from Grimult’s grip as they plunged beneath the surf.
Land was better.
Land was what she knew.
But she would never confess that to the Mihr. They may have accommodated her, likely pitied her in more ways than she would have liked, but she doubted they would appreciate knowing that one of their kind found land and trees more a comfort than the sea they clearly loved so well.
Doubtlessly there were dwellings hidden away in some of the groves, shielded by the towering boughs, built on stilts or some into the trunks themselves. She wanted to see them, her knowledge of it coming mostly from abstract musings of those observing that if their populations began to grow, the cliffs would no longer accommodate them all without sacrificing the structural integrity of the homes already present.
Drawings had been interspersed amongst the pages, faded with age but fascinating all the same, and some of the most worn pages she had to tilt just so in order to make them out at all.
Grimult’s dwelling was like that, or so he had described to her. Built high and overlooking the farm and animals that lived below.
The vegetation changed further still, the leaves no longer the darkest of greens, yellowing instead as they grew higher still, the flatlands arching gently upward.
Until they crested even that.
And then there was no mistaking what lay ahead.
Her mouth grew dry as the keep came into view. Everything in her warned against approaching.
But then, it had been built to repel onlookers.
The walls were high, the materials cut from a quarry filled with dark stones. Every facet was meant to intimidate, to demand respect from any who dared venture to look upon it, and she felt that most acutely now.
Her grip must have tightened on Grimult for he glanced down at her. “We had to come back,” he reminded her, and for one, thoughtless moment, she nearly retorted that they most certainly did not. They had been safe, had been sheltered and fed, and they had each other.
Even if Grimult could not have flown.
Even if two families would have mourned their loss for the rest of their days.
Which would have been short, the massacre acute as they were unwarned of the invasion before warriors were already upon them.
Her selfishness shamed her, and she forced herself to continue looking at the keep. She was Penryn of the Mihr. Wedded to Grimult of the Aarden.
Lightkeep to all.
And she would not fear those nestled in their high walls who hoarded all their secrets for themselves and called it good.
Who ripped babies from their mothers when they were too weak to fight against them.
Who called sons from their homes and trained them for a task meant only for one.
She swallowed.
A horn blasted, and she flinched, knowing the sound well. It was a sound of alert, that some dared approached without invitation, and even now her heart beat more quickly. Not out of fear, but with excitement, the newness of someone coming that she might see, might know if she only could catch sight of them.
Only to be bustled down to the lowest reaches, locked away until the intruder was dispatched.
And by what method it was done, she never did know.
She supposed she would soon find out.
The first of their party landed at the main gate, out of deference, perhaps, an attempt at reverence.
For those who did not deserve it.
As if awaiting an invitation for entry rather than demanding a proper meeting between equals.
“Not there,” she found herself saying instead. “I know a better way.”
Grimult looked at her, but did not question. He flew instead toward Harlow, who summoned the rest of their group with another sharp whistle, and they allowed Grimult to take the lead.
Or more truly, Penryn.
And despite the horns of alarm, of sages in red
