The Anateri shared a glance before giving a nod to show they understood.
Fallon ducked inside, his eyes immediately drawn to the prisoner. Reece had moved from the chair to the cot where he reclined with his hands folded behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling as if he could see beyond it to the sky above.
Fallon had caught Shea staring at the sky on more than one occasion but had never asked what so fascinated her. Seeing Reece do something similar reinforced the relationship between the two—a relationship Fallon found himself mildly jealous of, a feeling he wasn’t comfortable or familiar with.
“I’ve noticed Shea always looks to the sky in moments of rest or when she needs reassurance. It seems you do something similar. Why is that?” Fallon asked with a casual voice.
Reece didn’t stir from where he lay, simply turning his head slightly to keep Fallon in view. “Does she now? That’s interesting. I hadn’t realized.” He fell quiet again. Fallon waited with all the patience of a hunter, one accustomed to letting his prey set its own trap. “It’s probably a remnant of our training. The sky is an ever-changing canvas, but for those who know where to look, you can find set points that can tell you your location.”
“Like the West and East stars,” Fallon said. His people used the night sky to navigate as well. There was a star in the east and a star in the west that never changed its position in the sky. Using them, you could always be assured of the direction you were traveling.
“Just so.”
Fallon studied the other man, noting the micro expressions in his face and the way his eyes slid away from Fallon’s.
“You’re lying.” Fallon was sure of it. “I have no doubt that she and you can navigate by the stars, but that’s never her first choice. They’re good for a general direction check but useless during the day.”
Reece stared at Fallon for a moment, his thoughts hidden. “You’re not as stupid as you look.”
Fallon crossed his arms, not perturbed in the least by the insult. He’d endured much worse things said about him. If the other man thought to gain information from Fallon’s loss of temper, he’d have to work much harder at his insults.
Reece sat up. “When we were children, Shea spent much of her time training in the various pursuits her parents deemed worthy of a pathfinder. She took it very seriously. Even back then she was focused and driven. It left little time for play.”
“Were you not in the same training?” Fallon asked.
Reece’s smile was humorless. “More or less, but my parents didn’t expect the same level of excellence of me. They used to send us out into the wilderness, with little more than a compass and knife for survival. Shea and I would entertain ourselves by watching the clouds and telling stories using the shapes we found there.”
Fallon found himself fascinated by this rare glimpse into Shea’s childhood. He’d noticed when she told him stories of her journeys, that they were always about the places she’d visited and the things she’d seen. There was rarely much insight into her as a person. He was charmed by this bit of whimsy Reece had revealed. It made him wonder if she would tell their children stories set in the clouds when it came time.
“But you didn’t come here to hear more about our childhood,” Reece said, with a canny look.
Fallon arched an eyebrow, grimly amused. “Guess you’re smarter than you look as well.”
Reece’s quirk of the lips was less than humorous. “Let’s get down to business, shall we?”
Fallon grabbed a chair and pulled it over so he could sit facing Reece. He settled into it and observed Reece, letting the other man feel the full weight of his regard.
“I want to talk terms,” Fallon said, letting the other man see his resolve.
Reece’s lips broadened into a smug smile, the kind the cat gave a mouse that had just played into its paws. Fallon felt a small tug of amusement at the other man’s assumption that he had everything under control. Many men had thought similar things before, yet the Warlord was always the one to come out ahead. Reece and his fellow pathfinders would soon learn the full meaning of what it meant to poke a warlord.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
IT WAS nighttime before Shea made her way back to her tent after checking on her friends. They were lucky. They’d come through the attack with minor injuries. Clark and Charles had been in the underbrush tracking down those Trateri who hadn’t made it back to the starting point at the assigned time. Once they’d heard and seen the attack, they’d led those with them to shelter under the web of roots from the soul tree. Neither one had suffered any injuries.
Eamon and Buck had been less fortunate. Both had been in one of the fields competing when the attack began and instead of taking cover had rallied those around them into small groups to harry the birds. Both had taken minor injuries. Buck would have a scar from his shoulder to the middle of his chest from the eagle’s claws as a reminder.
She was just glad they were safe. She didn’t need even more deaths to feel responsible for. Though according to Fallon, she had assumed a responsibility that wasn’t hers to begin with.
Both Trenton and Wilhelm were a silent presence at her side throughout. She was too tired to resent their presence.
She stepped inside her tent after murmuring a greeting to the Anateri standing guard. Trenton, her ever present shadow, stopped to have a discussion with them as she pushed her way inside.
Darius, Braden, and several of the clan leaders were gathered around the dining table, maps spread out before them. Everyone was still dressed in their battle armor and armed with weapons.
Fallon looked up at Shea from where he leaned against the table. He nodded his head at the plate by his side.
Shea was tempted to just keep walking. The events of the day had drained her. She didn’t know if she had it in her to sit through whatever this was. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since the morning meal.
She walked to Fallon’s side. He nudged the plate piled high with her favorite foods her way as Darius gave a status report.
“We lost twenty during the attack,” he said, looking around the table. “Most of those were unable to defend themselves—the old or the very young. A few warriors but mostly noncombatants.”
“A relatively minor amount, considering some of the battles we fought down south,” Van said, his face pulled into a frown.
“The problem is the blow to morale.” Braden’s serious gaze touched on Shea before moving on. “Our people take attacks aimed at our heart seriously. They will be out for blood once they’ve recovered their equilibrium.”
“My men are already threatening to lead a war party to these eagles,” an unfamiliar man said. Shea guessed he was the clan leader for Ember or Rain. She wasn’t sure which.
“They’ll have to travel quite a ways,” Shea inserted, after swallowing the piece of meat in her mouth.
“And you are?” The man’s gaze was cold as he observed Shea the way one might a bug.
She didn’t let his tone deter her, used to it by now. “Someone familiar with the golden eagles’ territory and habits.”
She pulled one of the maps closer to her. They’d chosen one that represented most of the Broken Lands, though the spaces where the Badlands and the Highlands should have been were mostly blank. Just a few mountains drawn in, with the Trateri sign for danger interspersed throughout.