“You shouldn’t run,” Shea said, her voice ringing through the air. The statement was strange enough and out of context enough that both men paused to glance her way.
“Shea.” Charles looked unhappy as he glanced from her to the other man.
Many of those gathered recognized her, having been on missions with her, or having heard her story. She was a bit notorious with the Wind Division scouts. Clark and Buck liked to brag on her, trying to convince any who listened that they knew her first and taught her everything she knew. A lie, for the most part.
“The first thing to know about the mist is that you shouldn’t run from it. One—you’ll never be fast enough, and two—it knows when someone acts like prey. Running will just attract it.”
The stranger guffawed, a sound of stunned disbelief. “What’s this? Superstition is what you’re teaching these people? Who is this anyways?”
He took in her appearance, his lip curling in a sneer. Guess he didn’t recognize her. She sighed. She’d thought she was past having to deal with idiots. Looked like she was wrong. She was beginning to think there was one in every group. Perhaps it was simply her burden to bear.
“Someone who knows considerably more about the mist than you, obviously.”
Clark snorted back a laugh at her dry tone. He always got an odd joy when she put others down with the sharp edge of her tongue.
“I seriously doubt some throwaway knows anything of worth.”
There was a rumble of anger at the last statement. Clark puffed up and looked like he was going to leap to her defense. Shea shook her head at him and he settled back.
Assured that Clark wasn’t going make things worse or get himself hurt, Shea took the time to study the other man. His face was set in a belligerent expression, but she couldn’t tell if that was a cover for fear or whether he’d come here specifically to start something. Knowing the Trateri, it could be either.
She gave him the benefit of the doubt and attributed some of his hostility to fear of the unknown and the rest to having to turn to his enemy for answers. Fear was difficult to gauge. Everyone reacted to it differently. Some took it in stride, using it as an opportunity to rise to the challenge and meet it head on. Shea had seen people pull together when faced with what seemed to be insurmountable odds and overcome them. Others, when faced with fear of the unknown, became their most base selves, committing atrocities previously at odds with their core beliefs. These were the people who would sacrifice everything—including pieces of themselves and others—to survive just one more day or even an hour longer. Their fear was a wind that fanned the flame of destruction, both in themselves and what they once loved.
Perhaps it was the cynic in her or just that she was unlucky, but Shea had considerably more experience with the second reaction, having seen it time and again.
How to address this? The easy answer would be to reveal she was the Telroi of the Hawkvale. She was actually surprised that the men with her or Daere hadn’t already disclosed that little secret. She was grateful for their restraint. If she was to make a place here, to lead as Braden had said, she needed to make her own way, build respect on her own. The respect Fallon had built would only extend so far.
Shea gave an internal sigh. It seemed no matter how far she’d come, or what she did, she always came back to having to prove herself, to demonstrating she wasn’t just some throwaway with air in her head or an insignificant woman wanting a seat at the men’s table.
“The first time I walked into the mist, I was six. My mother thought early exposure would help me overcome it when it was time.”
There was a murmur among those gathered at Shea’s words. Daere’s gaze jumped to Shea’s face. Braden looked thoughtful at the revelation.
“The second time I was twelve and during my apprenticeship as a pathfinder. I’ve walked through the mist and come out the other side more times than I have fingers on my hands.” Shea let that sink into their minds, noting that the stranger seemed watchful now, as if he was weighing her words and looking for loopholes. “Treat the mist as you would a beast. It is mysterious, and dangerous, and beautiful. It will make you lose your way if it can, never to walk this world again. Be vigilant. Be brave.”
“If we can’t run, what should we do?” the question came from the mountain of a man in front, the one who had threatened the stranger.
Shea was quiet as she thought. She’d been truthful with Fallon when she said it was impossible for her to teach them how to walk in the mist. That would offer little comfort to these men who risked their lives every time they set foot outside the camp’s perimeter. She needed to give them something to hold onto, no matter how small. Something that would offer some protection, even if it wasn’t much.
“Carry rope on you at all times. Your biggest challenge in the mist is getting lost. It’s easy to get separated. If you can, gather your people and have them hold onto the rope. It’ll at least give you a chance.”
As Shea spoke, she saw that several of those present began to write—their faces as attentive and intense as they had been when they listened to Charles. It made Shea uneasy to know they were giving her words such weight. She hoped she didn’t fail them by offering useless advice.
“There are many things that are still unknown about the mist even in the Highlands where it is a constant threat.” She rubbed her hands together as she thought. “This may just be observation and hypothesis. Not everything is proven. What I can tell you is that the mist has limitations. Most of the time it seems to avoid large populations of life, leaving it alone or barely skirting along the edges. Its effects are greatly mitigated where there are large settlements. You have more of a chance of coming back to this world in a group than you do by yourself.”
She chose to leave out the fact that after the cataclysm, when the mist was at its worst, it could carry off entire cities teeming with people. That’s how the Badlands formed. Once settled by thousands of people, they were now a desolate wasteland where only the insane, foolhardy, and desperate visited.
“Some of Eamon’s men said you had them tie themselves to one of these trees,” Fiona said from the front, her eyes piercing and intent.
Shea hadn’t noticed her among the crowd. She nodded. “I did. The soul trees are deeply rooted in this world and their size acts as an anchor. My suggestion would be to find one and stay with it until the mist abates.”
The stranger snorted, a sound filled with skepticism. “This is all you have? If you walked out of the mist when you were six and twelve, it doesn’t sound too dangerous. Why should we believe you?”
Shea shrugged, the gesture careless. “Believe what you like. It’s your life to live as you choose. Its loss makes no difference to me. I think, though, you know on some level that the mist is dangerous. Why else would you be here? Why else would any of you be here?”
“Easy words for a throwaway to say. You’re not the one who is going to be out there. For all we know everything you just said will get us killed.”
Shea gave him a long look filled with disdain. Guess she should have expected that as his next volley.
Before she could reply, Daere’s voice was a whip through the air. “Watch how you speak to the Hawkvale’s Telroi.”