Only for him to grasp it close to his chest. “You gave me this sword to see to our Lightkeep’s protection. To return here upon the completion of the task. I have done so.” Another glance at Penryn, at the wife he was not supposed to take, but had done so anyway. “And I vow to you, the words she has spoken are true. That the threat is real, and supersedes all else.”
Perhaps it was too much to say, their authority chafing at such a declaration and a conclusion they had not reached for themselves.
But he spoke truly, and she was proud of him.
“And what of your little escapade with the Mihr?” the dark-eyed sage cut in, his upper lip curled into an unflattering sneer. “You expect us simply to forgive such a blatant offence? To overlook the flouting of all rules and decorum? The encouragement of their misdeeds?”
Anger bubbled, and Penryn was glad that her father was not standing beside her lest he unleash all the fury and pain that had festered for years, unvoiced. “They offered me escort,” she answered back, her words clipped and tone not quite as measured as it might have been. “I did not wish the spectacle for others to witness by standing by the gates and shouting for an audience.”
It was partially true, and more than a little false, but it was answer enough for so disagreeable a person.
The sage closest to her raised his hand, perhaps to placate, perhaps to halt any escalation between the two. “We will deliberate,” he answered lowly. “And decide our course.”
It took every bit of discipline to keep her chin from lifting, for the resounding no to escape her lips as she demanded action rather than endless hours spent in committee.
Did they not understand the urgency?
He must have seen the protest in her expression for he frowned. “We will not be long,” he assured her. “But you have given us much to consider, and we will do so in our own fashion.”
It was a dismissal, of that she was certain. Not of her petition, but of their bodily presence in their midst.
Penryn glanced at her husband, wondering if he heard it as she did. Should they comply? Or should she push even harder for their cooperation, for a promise of action before she lost her courage and their attention?
“Let it be known that rumour is already disseminating through the clans,” she commented, tugging at her cloak and turning on her heel. “Your people will not be pleased to learn of your inaction should that be the course you choose to take.”
She felt rather than saw Grimult follow behind her, the door opening by an under-sage stationed before it.
The door shut with a resounding clamour.
They were not alone in the corridor, servants scattering back to their tasks, attempting to appear as if they had business there that did not include eavesdropping.
Penryn could not stop shaking.
It felt as if every bit of control she had exerted over her muscles had suddenly been cut loose, even her teeth chattering as she paced. Her words replayed themselves over and over in her head, doubting that she had been as successful as she had hoped, wondering if she had failed.
“Breathe,” Grimult instructed. He wanted to touch her, to soothe as only he could, but they could not be certain that none would witness their interactions, so he relied upon only his voice instead. “Breathe with me, Penryn,” he urged, making a great show of inhaling, holding briefly, and slowly releasing.
She did so, once, then again, and some of the shaking reduced to only an occasional shiver through her, and she wanted nothing more than to bury her face in his chest, to allow him to surround her until nothing else was there at all.
She almost whimpered for the want of it.
But his steady reminders to breathe settled some of her composure, and she managed a dim smile at him to show that she was all right again.
“Thank you,” she whispered softly, wishing she was brave enough to reach out and skim her fingers against his palm, to steal some sort of contact even in this place.
“This is the least I would do for you,” Grimult answered back, his eyes steady as they met hers. “You have only to ask it of me.”
She did not know how to counter that, not when her heart swelled to bursting with the love she held for him.
“I cannot imagine you here,” Grimult continued, glancing down the passage with a shake of his head. “Perhaps it is because I have only known you out of doors, with the breeze in your hair and plenty of sunshine to see you better by.”
Penryn’s smiled weakened. “I do not like being back,” she confessed, although it was likely no great admission. Not to him. He knew how much she hated her upbringing, how much she loathed the sages and their rules and structure that had become so twisted over time.
And yet there were newcomers every year. Ready to forsake all—clan, family, even their own names—for the security and apparent wisdom that came with the crimson mantle.
She could not understand it. Not in the least.
The doors opened again, and Penryn was startled by how quickly they did so. None came to usher them back, and that did not surprise her.
They would be full of formality once more, she was certain. Their shock heavily blanketed by decorum and traditions, and for a moment her legs did not seem willing to cooperate. The answer seemed written already although she had not heard it uttered from any of their lips.
They were going to seal away such tales. They would execute both Penryn and her Guardian, concocting whatever story they liked to be written in the
