She wondered what it looked like through Grimult’s eyes. This had never been her home, not in any true sense of the word, but it was familiar all the same.
And her skin prickled to be so closed in once again. For the absence of true light, of fresh air.
She wanted to lean back, to whisper to Grimult that their future home would have plenty of both. That their children would never know darkness and passages of thick stone that wound so tightly that even now she almost choked at the feeling of being so enclosed.
She forced a calming breath.
And another.
They were both alive, thus far.
That counted a great deal.
The dark-eyed sage flung the door open with a bang, ushering them inward with a jerk of his hand.
The chamber was a large one. She had seen it, but not its use, the circular space with a high ceiling, benches lining the walls to accommodate presumably every sage still well enough to attend meetings. Another door opened and they trickled inward.
An audience.
Not yet an execution.
Should she wait for all of them to file in, to fill the many benches as they all stared at her, ready to pass judgement?
Probably.
She started anyway.
“You gave me a task,” she reminded them, her voice firm. Unwavering. She had wondered if it would and was immensely grateful it did not. “To see our people safe for the coming generation.”
A resounding hiss, some from the newcomers who realised who was standing in their midst, but most prominently from the dark-eyed sage who continued to glower at her from his place on the dais.
Others joined him, their steps slow as they climbed the steps upward, and doubtlessly she was meant to feel small and inadequate, stationed as she was on the floor in the round room with the seats rising upward.
But she did not.
She felt no fraud, standing there. Felt no weight of shame that she had done wrong in returning.
It was not the purpose they had charged to her, but it was the one she had found all the same, and she would stand her ground.
“That you dare return would indicate that we were lax in our lessons with you,” the dark-eyed sage retorted with a quick gesture of his hand, as if by sheer will alone he could have her expunged from his presence.
But he could not.
Not yet.
Penryn ignored him. “You taught me well,” she countered. “That my person did not matter. That my life did not matter. And it is that understanding held by all within this room that I stand here now and petition that you listen to me.”
It was an untruth. For there was no question in her mind that Grimult valued her above all else. That even now, if she would allow it, he would take her from this place and hide her away until none remembered her any longer.
And none would know him either.
And the temptation was there, but it was a soft, sweet longing that was more comfort than anything else, tucked away within her heart.
None answered, but none refused her either.
And the words came freely.
Of the rider.
The broken lantern.
A history hidden.
A treaty signed.
The horde they had witnessed, with their weapons meant to fell any of the winged-folk.
With that she pulled the weighted binding from the pocket of her cloak, holding it for all to see.
“We returned to give you warning, so you might prepare yourselves and the people under your protection.”
She dropped her hands. “Can you see?” she asked, and there was a plea in her voice despite her efforts to remain wholly unaffected.
Even now, she wanted their approval. And perhaps that was some great failing in her, yet it remained all the same.
A sage came forward. She had seen him fairly often, as often as any of them held contact with her. Her tutors were rotated with great frequency. There could be no attachment if there was no opportunity for such bonds to form. But she had known him longest, present in the edges of her life even when he no longer was charged with her care.
There was more grey about his temples than she remembered, his eyes a little milkier now that he was close. He had a hand extended and for a moment she wondered what he meant for her to do, but he glanced down at the bindings in her hand once and she held it out for him to take.
His perusal was thorough, his mouth drawn into a firm line. There were murmurings in the upper reaches, but soon the room fell silent once again.
Their faces were inscrutable, and Penryn found it most infuriating. She wanted to know if her time had been wasted, if her course had been poorly chosen and she should have prioritised contacting the clans directly.
But time was so short and the guilt would have been terrible if she had chosen the wrong ones, if the horde had found those she had not yet reached, and...
“And what of you?” the greying sage asked, his eyes drifting from the weighted stones, carved and engraved with a symbol Penryn did not recognise, up toward Grimult.
Penryn turned her head, awaiting his reply with as much anticipation as the rest of them.
“You chose me,” Grimult began, and Penryn wanted nothing more than to reach out and take his hand, the words too similar to the ones they had shared as they wedded one another. “You saw my skill and found me honourable, prepared to tend to my task and my charge to the best of my abilities.”
He glanced at Penryn, and his face was so solemn that she almost did not recognise him. “In many aspects, I have failed in what you have entrusted me to do. Or, rather,” his attention returned to the sage who had made the enquiry. “My understanding has altered my methods for its completion.”
His hand drifted to the sword at his side, and her heart
