“This isn’t the first time there have been problems with beasts, Gerald,” Shea said with a tight smile. “I sincerely doubt it will be the last.”
“So, you deny that your incursion to the Badlands has anything to do with what is happening now,” Eliza said, her voice sharp.
Fallon read the barely visible flinch in Shea’s eyes.
“I was not aware this dinner was to be a trial,” she said, recovering swiftly.
“You don’t deny it, then.” Eliza leaned back, satisfaction on her face.
Shea was stiff next to him. Her back was so straight and her body so tense that she seemed almost brittle. He set one hand on her knee and squeezed, letting her know without words he was still here—that if she gave him the sign, he would be happy to step in and slaughter them all. She only had to ask.
“I am given to understand that the mythologicals are a more recent occurrence,” Shea said, her voice steady. “My journey was years ago. It is a stretch to assume that whatever is happening now is because of what happened then.”
These people were scared, Fallon was interested to note. It was why they had dragged their prodigal daughter home, and why they required an army at her back. They wanted someone to blame for what was happening. Someone who could fix it. His telroi just made a convenient scapegoat.
Fallon’s scoff was faint. In that, they were disturbingly similar to many Lowlanders he had encountered, something he had never thought he’d say.
There was a faint movement from the matron who stood at the head of the table, directing the room with barely seen movements. Fallon’s eyes sharpened on her before he focused back on the quarry at hand.
“I had not expected such useless conversation from your people, Shea,” Van said, his voice laced with irritation. “An endless round of casting blame. They show little more backbone than a grub. We would have been better off eating on our own for the sake of our digestion.”
The Lion clan leader tilted his head, looking down his nose at those across from him. Half a head taller than Fallon and built like a mountain range, Van was the type who intimidated simply by looking at you. He was the man Fallon sent in when he was having trouble with a village and didn’t have the time or patience for a more diplomatic solution.
More of a blunt instrument than a sleek blade, he got the job done, usually by obliterating everything in his path. Subtlety wasn’t his strong suit, but then it didn’t need to be. Most times he could handle anything that came his way, using his large size and skills honed from a lifetime of battle to achieve the outcome he desired.
Of all Fallon’s advisers, he was usually the one who most often advocated for bloodshed. Not because he was a particularly vicious man, but because he genuinely enjoyed battle.
It had led many to underestimate him, overlooking the keen intellect hidden inside until it was too late. They saw the big size and striking face and made assumptions, only finding out later what a skilled foe Van was.
Whether he meant it to or not, Van’s question broke the tension around the table, the pathfinders across from them relaxing and settling back.
Shea’s father smirked. “Indeed, you are correct. There is time for such arguments. This is not it. Our guests have not had a proper meal in weeks.”
The lady’s lips tilted up, humor glinting in her eyes as she stepped forward. “Of course, here is your food now.”
As she spoke, servers appeared over their shoulders. Platters of food were set on the table, some heaped high with vegetables and slices of meat on others. The scents were tantalizing after weeks on the trail where the closest they’d gotten to a hot meal was in their dreams.
There were even bowls filled with sauces in which to dip the oven-baked flatbread and platters of fruit intermixed with everything.
More than one of Fallon’s people looked at the spread in surprise. There was a variety here that seemed unlikely given how isolated these people were, including fruits Fallon knew didn’t grow this far north.
It left him to wonder if this meal was another political maneuver. A way to say they weren’t backward mountain people. That they knew what was outside their narrow world even if they didn’t often take part in it.
None of the pathfinders made a move toward the food.
“Please, help yourself,” Patrick said, gesturing to the dishes.
Fallon couldn’t help feeling like this was another test, though he couldn’t see how or why. He sat for a long moment studying Shea’s father and thinking. Sometimes in battle, you had to be patient, wait for that perfect opportune moment to strike. It was the same in diplomacy. There were hidden currents to be considered before you made any move, outcomes to be decided before a single blow had been struck.
He narrowed his eyes and glanced back at the lady who watched the gathering with a placid face. This woman had unsettled Shea for some reason. His telroi was not easily ruffled. She might get mad, lose her temper, and say things that while true would be best put in a different way, but she didn’t shut down. She didn’t avoid.
There was only one person he could think of to make her act in such a way.
He peered closer at the lady. Ah, so that was it.
“Wouldn’t you care to join us, lady?” Fallon asked, his smile pointed. “I feel it is only proper that I break bread with the mother of my telroi.”
There was a brief silence in the hall. Patrick’s face went blank and he stared at Fallon with an intent expression. Fallon met his eyes with a mocking calm, before flicking a glance back at the lady who stared at him while seeming mildly amused.
