Peyton glanced at Dane as she shook Shea’s hand, grunting a greeting as she did so.
“She’s the reason for the upgrade,” Dane said with an easy smile, gesturing to the weapon he wore slung across his back.
“Powerful thing, that,” Witt said.
Dane nodded. “We’ve been patrolling the mist a few times a week, clearing out anything that tries to make a home there.”
Shea frowned. In the past, the mist had never been thick enough to support any of its normal denizens. “How long has that been going on for?”
“A few weeks,” Peyton said. “They won’t say anything, but the council is worried.”
Fallon and Shea shared a look. More signs that all was not as it seemed here.
“Figures the outcasts would stick together,” Eric sneered. Two other men stood next to him, watching Shea and the rest with hostile looks.
“Shove it, dirt pounder,” Dane said, not looking back. His voice had deepened, turning menacing. “Or do you need to relearn the lesson I gave you when I arrived?”
Eric scoffed but didn’t say anything else, backing away and taking his lackeys with him.
“Ignore him, Peyton. He’s just an idiot who is finally realizing he’s not as important as he thinks he is,” Dane said with a gentle touch to her shoulder.
Peyton didn’t respond, her expression shuttered and blank. The sight made Shea’s stomach clench. She was familiar with that sort of look, having worn it more than a time or two herself.
Peyton didn’t fit in. For whatever reason, those of Eric’s ilk thought they could get away with making her feel unwelcome, pile insult on top of insult until she tried to avoid all human interaction.
That shouldn’t have been the case. Not here, not where a pathfinder should feel most welcome.
Dane turned to the rest of them, his expression forcefully friendly. “You look tired. I’ll show you to your rooms so you can get some rest.” He turned to face Fallon who gave him an intent stare, one that Dane ignored. “Your generals and clan elders have all been given rooms. You too, old friend,” he told Witt. “The rest of your men will be put in one of the lower levels and your horses stabled. They’re a bit of a stickler about when dinner is served around here. I don’t suggest being late.”
Shea nodded and looked back at Fallon as Witt and Dane bent their heads together and walked off.
CHAPTER SIX
Dane led them past the second curtain wall and through the bailey into the main part of the Keep. They ascended several stone steps to a large, arched wooden door.
“Whoever built this place took their security very seriously,” Caden said, a faint note of approval in his voice. His sharp eyes took in some of the many defenses that riddled the Keep, a remnant of a time when it faced serious and constant threat of invasion.
On either side of the door were small loopholes, slits in the stone that allowed archers to harry an advancing enemy. Above them were stone protrusions, little more than boxes with holes cut in the bottom. In a previous age, boiling tar could be poured onto invaders massing below. These same features were on the gatehouse at the entrance of the Keep as well. To Shea’s knowledge, the defense had never been used in her people’s time residing here.
The wooden door was several inches thick, heavy and hard to move. It had metal strips running throughout to protect the door in the event someone took a battering ram to it.
The entryway of the Keep was austere and majestic with little in the way of comfort. Stone dominated the space without even a brightly covered rug or tapestry to soften the place up. It fit the Highland’s image—strong, severe, and just a little bit cold.
Dane kept up a running patter of conversation as he led them deeper into the Keep, bypassing the towers and the great hall in favor of leading them up several flights of stairs. Despite narrow windows and an abundance of stone, the Keep managed to escape being dark or gloomy. That was something most Highlanders couldn’t boast of in their own castles, those villages lucky enough to have them.
A door opened as they passed, giving them a glimpse of the lower battlements and several pathfinders, dressed in their distinctive drab greens and browns as they patrolled.
Shea noted that fact with interest. In all her childhood, she didn’t think she’d ever seen anyone set to guard the battlements. The gatehouse, yes. Maybe once in a while people were assigned as lookouts in a tower as punishment, but never the lower battlements.
It appeared they were taking the threat of beasts seriously—or else, the pathfinders knew something they just weren’t telling them.
“This is yours,” Dane said, stopping in front of a wooden door with a curlicue of metal worked into the panels.
Fallon’s face was impassive as Dane opened the door then stepped aside. Fallon barely glanced into the room before he asked, “And where are the rest of my people staying?”
“Several of your clan leaders will be on this hall. The rest will be on the floor below you. The bulk of your men will be staying in one of the minor great halls,” Dane said.
Fallon was quiet for several moments. “That does not work for us. There was plenty of space between the curtain walls. We can set up camp there.”
