“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.