by T. A. White
Fallon had given him to Darius to keep an eye on when it was clear that the man had a bit of a soft spot for Shea. To Fallon’s surprise, Darius had found him useful and used him to spot check his men. He was good at finding the flaws in their training and had a good head on his shoulders.
“Give him the note,” Fallon ordered.
Caden complied, handing Darius the note.
“How did they get into our quarters, Caden?”
Caden’s face was grim and his eyes filled with a burning anger that almost matched Fallon’s own. He took any perceived failure as a personal deficiency. “I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.”
“You do that, and then you make sure this never happens again.”
Caden gave a sharp nod and turned to one of the guards who’d followed him when Fallon had called. “Find me the two men who were on duty this afternoon. I want them in front of me in the next five minutes.”
The other man nodded, his face equally grim. All of them knew that the lives of the two men who’d been on guard duty depended on what they had to say.
“Who is this from?” Darius asked. He turned the note over examining the other side before flipping it over to look at the handwriting on the front. Witt read over his shoulder, his eyebrows drawing to a deep V.
“It was left for Shea. Who do you think it’s from?” Fallon didn’t have the patience for stupid questions.
Darius nodded. “Whoever left it didn’t use our paper. I don’t recognize this blend.”
“It’s from the pathfinders,” Witt said. “Their stationary always has a faint bluish tinge to it. This won’t be the last note, I’d wager.”
Fallon stilled as a thought occurred to him. “Shut down the camp; no one leaves. Whoever left this isn’t one of us. They may still be here. Search every tent, every nook and cranny of this place until you find them.”
Darius turned and strode off, snapping orders as he made Fallon’s command a reality.
“You, stay. I want to know what else you know about the pathfinders,” Fallon ordered before Witt could follow Darius.
The man nodded, his eyes solemn. “I’m not sure how much more I can share. I’ve told your people everything I could remember.”
“Tell me again.”
“If it’ll help.”
Fallon felt a little of his anger ease. Darius would do everything in his power to find this person or persons. Fallon wanted to be out there too, searching for this invader. It would give him no greater pleasure than to hunt him down and teach him the error of his ways.
For now, he had a few other things to take care of before he could join the hunt. He strode over to Trenton and Wilhelm, both of whom watched him come with an alert cautiousness that wasn’t normally present.
“I want one of you with Shea at all times, even when she’s here. She’s not to leave your sight until this person is found.”
The two men shared an uneasy look, both aware of how much trouble that would bring them with Fallon’s Telroi.
Fallon acknowledged their hesitation, knowing it wasn’t a reaction to his order. They were beginning to feel some loyalty to Shea. That was good. It was what he was hoping for, that they would feel the same need to protect her that they did him. He couldn’t entrust this task to her friends from the scouts, knowing they didn’t have the skills or desire needed to become an Anateri.
He made it easy on them. “Say the order came from me. She can take up her dissatisfaction with me later.”
Trenton gave him a wry look. “I do not envy you that task. I’ve been caught on her bad side on more than one occasion and still have the bruises on my ego after she got through with me.”
Fallon grunted. That was one of the things he liked about the woman. She always pushed back, never letting him have an inch if she could help it. She challenged him. It was something that had been missing from his life for a long time before her.
He turned to Witt. “With me.”
Witt followed as they headed for a tent adjacent to Fallon’s. It was where he conducted less friendly talks—the ones that might involve a more forceful display of his prowess. The tent was stripped of civilized trappings. It wasn’t a place one lingered voluntarily.
There were no rugs on the ground to soften one’s step. There was only one place to sit and that was on the ground. There was a table, but it contained devices only welcome in a nightmare—devices meant to compel someone to spill their inner-most secrets.
Witt waited patiently by the entrance while Fallon prowled the small space. Patience wasn’t always Fallon’s strong suit, unless it was the patience needed for a hunt.
Fallon gave the other man credit, not once did Witt eye the space with fear. Instead he was a calm next to Fallon’s storm.
“Start from the beginning,” Fallon ordered. He folded his large arms and gave Witt a long stare, the kind of stare that drilled through a person’s mask down to the soul beneath. It was meant to intimidate, to cause a man to squirm.
Witt stepped forward, his expression open as he held his hands wide as if to say he had nothing to hide. “As I’ve said before, Shea would be the best person for this. She was a pathfinder and knows more than me.”
That wasn’t an option. Not right now. Not in this situation. She was too close to this.
“Tell me what you can. I want to hear it again.”
Witt was quiet for a long moment as he gathered his thoughts. His lips pulled down in a frown. “You know the pathfinders fulfill a vital role in the Highlands. They are the connective tissue that maintains what passes for civilization. Without them, the Highlands would be a collection of isolated villages that would probably fade and die given enough time. The pathfinders keep the communication and trade lines open. It’s still isolated but nowhere what it would be without them.”
Fallon’s eyes were shadowed as he stared at Witt. He folded his muscular arms over his chest and adopted a wide-legged stance, as if he was bracing for whatever might come.
When he didn’t interrupt, Witt continued, “They’re also the only thing that passes for a government, though they’re really only concerned about the tithes owed them, and that their pathfinders stay safe. Anger them and they’ll cut your village off—excise it from the maps. Villages don’t usually last long after that.” Witt’s face darkened and his gaze turned inward as if he was remembering something painful. He shook his head coming back to the present. “There are rumors that they have ways to call beasts down on those villages that displease them.”
“What do you think?”
Witt frowned in thought. “I think it’s too big a coincidence how quickly the excised villages fall into ruin. They do it rarely—only twice that I’ve heard of—but when they excise a village there are few survivors.”
Ruthless—but Fallon didn’t fault them for that. It was something he would do himself, though he wouldn’t let the beasts do his dirty work. He’d ride into a village that threatened one of his own and kill the offenders face to face. It was more satisfying that way. It had the added benefit of making the rest fear you that much more. Fear, he’d found, was a powerful motivator for good behavior.
“Shea has mentioned there are different kinds of pathfinders.”
Witt’s nod was slow in coming. “It’s not something they advertise. The pathfinders who serve the villages seem to be at the low end of their hierarchy. The smaller the village, the lower the status of the pathfinder. They send other pathfinders out into the remote corners of the Highlands and beyond.”
“Their purpose?”
Witt shook his head. “I don’t know. I only know about them because they hooked up with a caravan I’d joined when I was younger and trying to find a place for myself. They stayed with us for a month and then broke away to press further north.”
“Perhaps they were heading to another village.”
“There were no villages beyond our destination. I’ve never heard of a settlement where they were heading. Nothing up there but
snow, mountains and beasts. As far as I could figure it, they were just looking around—exploring because they could.”
Fallon grunted. That would fit with what he knew of Shea. She might have served as a village pathfinder, but he suspected that wasn’t all she was. Her social skills were too poor and her mind too curious. He could see her exploring a remote stretch of land—so isolated that no one had ever visited it before—just to see what was there.
It was one of the things he loved about her, and one of the things he hated. That need to explore, the restlessness he could see in her eyes sometimes. It made him feel like he was trying to lay claim to air. There one moment and gone the next. He sometimes had nightmares of waking up and reaching for her, only to find her gone.
“They also have a type that they call a ‘keeper,’” Witt said. “From what I understand from talking with other pathfinders, the keeper safeguards the knowledge they’ve gleaned through their service to the Highlands. I knew this guy from before, who said the pathfinders had a room in their keep that held all their knowledge from even before the cataclysm, great histories of a time lost to us. Art that has not been seen in nearly a millennium. Wonders that have long passed from this world.”
Fallon found himself curious about these keepers. The ancients were said to have powerful weapons beyond anything that existed today. Such weapons might enable him to build an empire not seen since the cataclysm. The histories also interested him, having found that the mistakes of the past often formed the present. There was much that could be learned from their predecessors.
The Trateri had a strong oral tradition, passing stories of their great battles and strong leaders from one generation to the next. However, these stories tended to change after so many retellings until some clans had drastically different versions of the same story. Further, when a clan was wiped out, their stories and oral history died out with them. It left gaping holes in the history of his people.
“Have you ever met one of these keepers?” Fallon asked.
Witt shook his head. “They’re usually kept close to their stronghold. I’d wager they realized how dangerous it would be for someone with that kind of knowledge to be wandering around the Highlands.”
Fallon would expect as much. Someone armed with the knowledge these keepers were said to possess would have great power—dangerous power if it fell into the wrong hands.
These pathfinders and their hoard of knowledge reminded Fallon of a story the Trateri told as a cautionary tale to their young. In some versions the story featured an old man close to his deathbed, in others, it was a woman in her middle years. Both versions agreed that the person spent his or her life accruing material wealth—rugs of the softest material and finest weaving, tapestries from the best artisans among the Trateri people, and gold gilded furniture for them to rest their weary bones. Always gathering more and more. Every time their clan picked up and moved to the next hunting ground, to the summer camp or the winter camp, it would take longer and longer for this person to pack for the journey—until one day, they couldn’t pack everything. Their clan offered to help for the small price of one item from the tent. Always this person refused, choosing to carry the burden of the possessions by themselves.
The story always ended with the old man and woman dying alone, far from their people as the terror of nature destroyed what they had spent their lifetime hoarding. In the end they lost everything and gained nothing.
These pathfinders and their knowledge of the world benefitted no one, including themselves, locked up in their stronghold where nothing could be shared.
“What about this mist?” Fallon asked. “Shea’s mentioned that her fellow pathfinders possess a similar ability to navigate its depths.”
Witt braced his hands on his hips and looked down, his face pensive. “I’m not sure how true that is.”
Fallon’s eyes sharpened, piercing in their intensity. “You’re suggesting she lied.”
Witt rubbed his neck with one hand, looking a shade uncomfortable. It reminded Fallon that Witt felt a depth of indebtedness that might affect how much he was willing to share. He didn’t blame the man for the feeling. No, he respected him for it, even as he knew he’d have to compensate for it, or find another way to get the information out of him.
“Not so much lied, as downplayed her abilities,” Witt finally said. “I’ve never heard of any pathfinder doing what she did when she went deeper to find you. It’s not just heard of; it’s damn near suicidal. I don’t think any other pathfinder could have done that. They wouldn’t have even tried.”
Fallon felt his blood freeze in his veins at that statement. Shea had not shared with him just how dangerous her actions had been. The thought that he could have lost her did not sit well with him. It made some of that rage that had been banked surge forward.
Whatever expression was on his face was fierce enough that Witt stiffened, looking very like prey when faced with a bigger, much deadlier predator.
Fallon took a deep breath. He needed to maintain control. Losing his shit right then would help nothing and could cost him more than he was willing to afford. He had an invader to hunt and a woman to confront about her reckless actions.
“Even for a pathfinder, there are shades of abilities,” Witt continued when Fallon didn’t react further. The man was brave; Fallon would give him that. “Just like there are differences between great swordsmen. You pick your Anateri, your elite warriors, because they possess a level of ability, born with it or refined after endless hours of blood, sweat, and struggle. Shea lived and breathed that life. I don’t know what happened to get her demoted to the back edge of beyond, but I know her skills are not easily replicated or replaced. I wouldn’t count on other pathfinders showing the same level of ability when faced with the mist. Even they sometimes enter and don’t come out the other side.”
Fallon’s face was grim as Witt finished his speech. He rubbed his chin in thought. A half-formed plan had been forming after Shea’s display in ability—one that involved storming the Highlands to demand pathfinders for his army or finding a way to replicate their training in his own men. From what Witt had shared, that plan might not hold enough positive returns for such a risky undertaking.
That was to say nothing of the anger Shea would feel if he invaded her homeland. It was something he’d avoided until now, an action so at odds with his personality that some of his generals had questioned him. Among them was Braden, who upon hearing that Fallon had no immediate plans to invade the Highlands, had expressed extreme reserve about Fallon’s relationship with Shea.
There were even whisperings of bewitchery and sorcery. As if Fallon was susceptible to such things. Those were ridiculous ideas designed to undermine Fallon and cast doubt upon Shea.
Fallon knew that he still had detractors among the Trateri. He could name three people off the top of his head who were actively plotting for his downfall so they could take over in his stead. It was one of the reasons he was so adamant that Shea have guards with her at all times. He knew she didn’t realize the danger, being utterly uninterested in Trateri politics, or any politics he’d guess.
The advent of this mist would give them further fuel for their fire.
He’d rotated Braden back into the fold to consolidate his power base. With Darius and Braden at his side—his two most powerful generals, he had a chance at withstanding some of the storms that were gathering.
“Is there anything else you can share?” Fallon asked.
Witt shook his head. “Shea would be your best resource. She was one of them. If anyone would understand their reasoning behind the note, she would.”
That was what Fallon feared.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
AFTER FALLON left, Shea and Daere stared at each other for a long moment before the other woman excused herself.
Alone again, Shea laid down on the bed, her arms thrown over her head and feet on the ground as she stared unseeingly at the ceiling. It swayed gently in a stray breeze.
She sat up on her elbows. Maybe the note hadn’t come from Wayfarer’s Keep. Maybe it was a ruse. One aimed at impacting her relationship with Fallon. Or maybe the note writer had intended some other outcome Shea just couldn’t anticipate right now.
One thing was for sure—Shea didn’t trust that note and she had no intention of leading the Trateri on a suicide mission into the Highlands where the pathfinders and their guild held the advantage.
Shea spent over an hour staring up at the canvas ceiling, waiting for Fallon to come back. He never did, and she ended up falling into a fitful sleep.
It was late in the night when Fallon’s warm weight slipped into bed beside her. His arms slid under her, shifting, and arranging her until she was sprawled on his chest. Her face automatically burrowed into his shoulder in a move that had become familiar over the months they’d been together.
Her fingers toyed with the bare skin of his chest, tugging lightly on his chest hair before soothing the sting. His hand settled over hers.
“Did you find the person responsible?” She held her breath, almost dreading the answer.
“No.”
She exhaled.
It took a moment for her to realize how stiff his body was under hers, like a board instead of the warm heat she was accustomed to.
She lifted her head to look at him in the dark. He was glaring up at the canvas.
“What is it?”
“We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” His voice was a whiplash of ice in the night.
She drew back a little to get a better look at him. His arms tightened around her in warning. She didn’t appreciate him shutting her out nor did she appreciate the threat in his tone.