by T. A. White
She’d see how much snickering they did when she was kicking their ass.
Trenton paced by her side, his face no calmer than hers. Had he not been with her during the encounter, she might have said something more. As it was, she’d been forced to leave when it became clear her guard was just as insulted as she was. Since he knew many ways to kill a person, she’d thought it best to remove them both from the situation.
“How many stairs does this place have?” Trenton asked, looking up at another set she’d found.
She followed his gaze, realizing they’d taken many sets since she’d begun walking aimlessly. Her first instinct was usually to seek high ground, even in the Keep.
“You’re getting out of shape if these are challenging you,” Shea said, feeling a slight loosening of her anger for the first time.
He gave her an unamused look.
Her smile widened and she turned toward the stairs, starting up them at a much more normal pace.
“How much longer do you think we’ll be here?” Trenton asked.
Shea shook her head. She had no idea. It had been a week since their first dinner in the Keep, and so far, there had been no indication that the council was ready to meet.
Fallon and Shea had been told the delay was due to several of the council members needing to be recalled to the Keep. Shea had a feeling it had more to do with the pathfinders’ need to exercise their power.
It put Fallon and his people in a difficult place. Every day they lingered here, the Trateri grew more and more bored and restless. They were like anxious toddlers, but ones capable of killing the people who irritated them.
It was an incendiary situation that needed only a single spark to turn bad.
She didn’t know what her mother or the council hoped to accomplish with this needless wait, but she hoped it wouldn’t last much longer. She was ready to be gone from this place.
Angry voices echoed down the corridor.
Trenton and Shea shared a look.
“We could just ignore it,” Trenton said, offering her an out.
Shea’s shoulders slumped. As much as she would like to, it would just create problems later down the line. From the sharp tones, it sounded like violence wasn’t far. She had a duty to make sure that didn’t happen, even if she would have preferred knocking a few heads together herself.
Shea picked up her pace. She rounded the corner and slowed as the arguers came into view. Things just kept getting worse and worse.
Van and Gawain stood with their backs to her, their large forms dwarfing the pathfinder in front of them.
Of all the Trateri she could have run into up here, these two clan leaders were the ones who gave her the most trouble. They’d made no secret of their dislike of her. As a result, she tended to avoid them whenever possible.
She doubted her ability to keep them from doing anything they didn’t want to.
“This area is off limits to you,” a strident voice said.
Shea moved into view. The pathfinder confronting the two men was one she recognized. Ronan had been a few classes ahead of her. He was a stickler for the rules, rigid and stringent with little room for leeway. In his world, there was no reason to stray from them. Those that did earned his enmity and rancor.
Considering Shea had never been much of a rule follower, it meant that the two’s relationship was uneasy and fraught with polite tension.
His gaze swung to hers and he frowned. He was shorter than Shea and looked like an angry gopher, rounder than most pathfinders and wearing glasses. His hair was short and curly and his face seemed set in permanent grumpy lines.
Van and Gawain didn’t let his objections bother them, sharing a look over his head. As one, they stepped forward, crowding the pathfinder and shepherding him to the side so they could slip past.
Ronan’s face turned red and he trailed behind them, forgetting Shea for the moment. “I just said you can’t go there. It’s not safe.”
Van waved a lazy hand over his shoulder. “You’re welcome to try to stop us. I would greatly enjoy the exercise.”
He touched the sword at his side in clear threat. Ronan’s face paled, but he didn’t back down, his lips tightening until they were a thin line.
“It’s fine, Ronan. I’ll go with them,” Shea said, seeing where this was going. The last thing they needed was for Van or Gawain to rough up a pathfinder. Shea could just imagine the council’s reaction if that happened. The two clan leaders were looking to start a fight and she didn’t think they cared about the consequences.
Ronan turned to look at her, his expression disgruntled. He was the type to dig his heels in when challenged, becoming unexpectedly stubborn at the most inconvenient times.
Shea waited for him to argue, to point out her poor status as a pathfinder. Van and Gawain paused, their faces curious as they waited for his response.
Ronan opened his mouth and hesitated, his attention going to the other two men. Finally, he nodded. “If you must. Just try to keep them from breaking anything or getting themselves killed.”
With that, he turned and stalked away.
Noise at the end of the hall drew Shea’s attention. Her warlord sauntered toward her accompanied by Zeph and Caden. He lifted an eyebrow at the sight of the four of them.
Shea gave him a sour look in return and answered his unspoken question. “Rain and Lion decided they wanted to explore. I’m making sure they don’t burn the Keep down.”
Van snorted. Shea couldn’t tell it if was amusement or disgust that inspired the sound.
“We’ll join you,” Fallon said, looking over the group. “I am curious about this place as well.”
Shea felt a wave of relief. She hadn’t been looking forward to trying to corral the other two men by herself.
She stepped past the others, preceding them down the hall, Fallon a steady presence at her side.
“Your people have quite the obsession with sculptures and carvings,” Zeph said.
He wasn’t wrong. The Keep itself was riddled with alcoves that featured carvings and statues. Many walls had mosaics and the windows on the upper levels had stained glass. The artwork throughout softened her former home, just a little bit.
“It’s our way of remembering,” Shea said, not pausing even as Van drifted off to examine a suit of armor that stood at attention.
“How do such trinkets help you do that?” Van asked.
“Many of these are reliefs of great warriors from yesteryear. That one is a bust of one of the founders of this place,” Shea said, pointing to a bust on a shelf slightly above their heads. “Each of these have a story behind them, recorded by our gatherers.”
“All of them?” Trenton asked.
“Most,” Shea said, correcting herself. “Some people have been forgotten, though not entirely, since we still display them. Passing by these every day reminds us there is history here, that we cannot falter lest it disappear as so many of this world’s stories have. It is what we fight to preserve.”
“You mean they,” Gawain said, his eyes sharp.
Shea inclined her head. “You are correct.”
Shea glanced at Fallon, an apology on her face for the slip of her tongue. It was easy to forget sometimes, that this wasn’t her home anymore. That she wasn’t part of them. Other times, as was the case earlier in the archives, it was all too easy to remember why she’d left.
Fallon shook his head, letting her know there were no ill feelings on his part.
Some of the statues they passed were so old and worn that their features had been wiped away by time.
Shea led them to a room, overgrown with a tree, whose roots had intertwined throughout the space, pushing through stone until it was more nature than building. The room was half in ruins, the roof had caved in letting the weak sun filter in from above. A gray mass of clouds obscured the sky.
Grass and moss dotted the room, their feet whispering over it. Vines crawled up the side
s of the walls and small flowers bloomed from them.
“Watch your step,” Shea cautioned. “The trees roots have made parts of this place unstable.”
It was one of the reasons why Ronan had been so adamant they not venture in here.
“I’ve noticed your people seem to have many gardens throughout the Keep,” Fallon observed.
Shea nodded. That was her favorite thing about this place.
“It’s not easy for the pathfinders to be locked behind four walls all the time. In that, they’re like the Trateri. Most who pursue this life love the wilds. The gardens help connect them to their true purpose when their duties lead to an extended stay in the Keep. It makes the time more palatable,” Shea explained.
Fallon nodded, his face grave. Shea got the sense he understood. He would, since his people were the same.
Shea drifted over to a corner of the wall, reaching in to pull back several vines to reveal an open space behind them.
Beyond the vines, the rock walls were slick and wet from water and moss. Within the small space was a deceptively small pond, one that was deeper than most would guess. This was obvious from the statues that had toppled into it, their forms large and half hidden, only a shoulder or head sticking up in some places.
Shea led Fallon around the pond, skirting its edge as she made her way to a small statue, one of only a few standing upright. A bird had nested in the curve of one arm, the other arm was missing, broken off at some faraway point in the past.
The statue’s face was calm and composed, beautiful, not because of the way she looked—though her features were exquisite—but because of the expression, serene and peaceful.
“This is my favorite spot in the Keep,” Shea told Fallon. They had some privacy as the others drifted away, investigating other parts of the room. “I’d come here whenever I was angry or upset and she somehow always managed to soothe me.”
Fallon touched the small of her back, his gaze going to the statue. “Do you know who she is?”
Shea shook her head. “No, no one does. These are older than the rest. Their makers were gone long before my people came to this place. I suspect their purpose was to give people a bit of peace.”
That’s what she provided for Shea at least. Serenity when it felt like the rest of the world had turned mad. She’d missed the nameless woman in her time away, but it was comforting to know she’d always be waiting in this hidden place.
Fallon drew her into his arms, propping his chin on her head. “I can see why you like it here.”
The gentleness of the place soaked into them, soothing some of the tension Shea had been carrying since that morning.
Their moment was interrupted when Trenton’s voice came from the other side of the vines. “I think I’ve found something.”
Shea and Fallon stepped out of their alcove to find Trenton and the others gathered at the far end. She noted Caden fall into step behind them from where he had waited near the wall.
Trenton held some vines back, revealing a wooden door that was about half the size of a normal door. He jiggled the knob. “It’s locked.”
Van stepped forward, a grin on his face. Before Shea could stop him, he kicked the door open, splintering wood already fragile from time and exposure to the elements.
“Van,” Fallon barked.
Van held up his hands as if to say, it was already done.
“And that’s why Ronan didn’t want you coming in here,” Shea grumbled to herself.
Fallon let out an angry sigh. Shea patted his chest before following.
Trenton waited at the door, holding the vines for her. “Your people seem to have a fondness for secret places.”
He wasn’t wrong. Shea liked to compare those secrets to an onion. Every time you exposed another layer, there was something beneath it. She doubted even the guildmaster knew everything there was to know.
The room they walked into was different than the one they’d just left. This was a perfect circle with a staircase going up to the next floor. It was one of the old towers, the smallest one at the heart of the Keep. It didn’t serve a purpose anymore, but once it had probably been an important defensive feature.
A trickling liquid sound reached them. Silver water cascaded down the walls in ribbons bursting out of three beasts’ mouths to pool in the small stream that ran beside the wall.
Gawain walked over to it, peering up in curiosity. He held his hand out as if to touch. Shea lunged forward, grabbing it before he could.
“Not a good idea,” she said as he turned on her with a snarl.
Trenton was there in the next moment, looming menacingly near the clan leader. Gawain’s face settled into cautious lines as his attention went to a point over her shoulder.
She turned her head to see Fallon staring the other man down, the skin on his face tight and his expression close to madness.
She needed to turn their attention to something else before they exploded into violence.
“It looks like water, but it isn’t,” she explained, ignoring Fallon for the moment.
She plucked a stray leaf from her hair and crouched down, dipping it in the liquid. It wilted, dissolving in seconds.
Gawain got a sick look on his face as he watched. Shea didn’t blame him. It could have been his hand to dissolve; the silver liquid was strong enough.
Zeph crouched next to her, his expression fascinated as he dropped a stick into the liquid. Within second it had been broken down, disappearing from view.
“Give me your knife,” Shea told Zeph.
He hesitated. It was clear he didn’t want what had happened to the stick and leaf to happen to one of his weapons.
“Don’t worry, I’ll give it back,” Shea said.
With reluctance, Zeph pulled a dagger from his boot and handed it over. Shea dipped it in the silvery water, careful not to get the wood and leather of the handle too close. She drew it back up, letting the excess drip from it before turning it to present to Zeph.
The blade gleamed with a muted brilliance.
“I need something to cut,” Shea said.
Van held out a piece of leather in two hands. Shea placed the blade against it, barely pressing as the leather split in two, the blade cutting through it as if it had no more substance than water.
There were exclamations and the warriors crowded around her, taking the blade from her and examining it, each taking their turn at cutting something.
“What is this?” Gawain asked as Fallon lifted the blade and held it up to the light.
“We call it the silveright,” Shea said. “It’ll destroy anything that was once living, but for metal and the like, it repairs and strengthens.”
That was an understatement. Any blade sharpened by silverwater remained sharp long after it should go dull. It also tended to cut more easily and not break.
She could already see the calculation in Fallon’s eyes as he thought of ways to turn the silver water to his use.
“Why aren’t all your people’s blades dipped in this water?” Caden asked.
Shea stared down at the water. “Some are, but those are usually kept in the Keep. It is difficult to explain to those in the Highlands why our blades never lose their edge and have a different color than others. Also, not many are willing to risk these waters. They don’t trust it. It’s likely the silveright originated before or during the cataclysm.”
Their faces were somber as they turned to look at the spring with new eyes.
Trenton gave a shrug. “There’s no glory in safety. I’ll risk whatever the consequences might be.”
He thrust his blade into the water. Van followed suit. Gawain looked like he was considering it, but in the end, he stepped back, shaking his head.
“Come. There’s more to see,” Shea said, gesturing to the stairs.
She preceded them up, careful to keep to the walls. There were no rails here—the better to push your enemy off. It was not the sort of pl
ace where you would want to trip. It’d be a long fall with a very painful end.
Caden stepped to the edge and looked down, making an impressed face as he stepped back.
Shea continued up until she reached the first landing. A carved mural lined the entirety of the wall up here. She reached out and traced the featureless face of a long-forgotten person, the expression lost as time wore parts of the mural smooth.
“You once asked what the pathfinders were protecting,” Shea said, not looking away from the mural. “I couldn’t tell you then.”
She finally turned toward them. Fallon’s eyes were trained on her, his expression hidden and impossible to read. He didn’t speak, the silence becoming fraught with anticipation.
She nodded as she came to some internal decision. The time to back out had passed, perhaps as long ago as their first meeting.
Shea spread her hands wide, indicating the space. “We protect the knowledge of those who came before us.”
The others looked around the landing, their expressions confused and unimpressed.
Shea dropped her hands. “We protect the past.”
“Weapons,” Fallon said.
She nodded. “Some.”
They’d all heard of what was lost during the cataclysm, weapons capable of such devastation that they remade the landscape around them. It was what gave rise to the Badlands, forever twisting them from what they had been. Shea suspected the Garden of the Gods was also affected in much the same way.
“Your people could rule this entire land,” Van said, his expression reflective.
Shea nodded. “They could.”
“Why don’t they?” Gawain asked.
That was a difficult question to answer, especially since Shea wasn’t as sure that the answer she’d been given was the truth anymore.
“Do you know the story of the cataclysm?” Shea asked.
They nodded. All the people in the Broken Lands had some variation of story that explained the death of the old world and the rise of the new one. Few came close to the truth.