“Oh, it’s you,” he said in a dour voice.
“Who were you expecting?” Shea asked.
“Not you.”
“Bullshit,” she scoffed. “You knew my voice as soon as you heard it.”
He huffed. “I’d hoped I was mistaken.”
She rolled her eyes, letting him know how much she believed that. Which was to say not at all.
“You going to let me in?” she asked.
He got a very vexed look on his face as he shuffled back, his old bones making his movements slow and laborious. “I already did that. You’re the one that had to dither in the doorway like one of those annoying students they keep sending my way.”
He ambled over to a desk covered in paper and fat rolls of parchment.
“Might as well invite your friend in. Goodness knows we wouldn’t want anything to happen to you under my care. Your warlord might slaughter us in our sleep,” Whelan said as Shea stepped inside and prepared to shut door.
She let out a heavy sigh. Now that he’d invited Wilhelm in, it was pointless telling the man to stay out. Whelan would just gripe about it the entire time, and it would lead to an argument later. Better to give in now so she could put her foot down when it actually counted.
Shea waited until the door was closed to pace around the chamber.
“No one is watching or listening. Not down here,” Whelan said, not looking up from the paper in front of him.
She paused and gave him a suspicious look.
He gave her a put out one in return. “It’s the dungeon, girl. There aren’t any peepholes down here. You can speak freely without worrying about being overheard.”
Shea studied him. “There are spy holes everywhere.”
He gave her a humorless smile. “Not down here. Why do you think I chose this place? To keep your mother and her enemies’ spies out of my hair.”
It could be true. It would certainly explain why he’d never taken a spot above, despite her mother offering it to him many times.
Whelan was one of the oldest and canniest pathfinders she knew. If he said it was safe to speak freely, chances were he was right.
“What do you want?” he asked impatiently.
Shea was quiet before she took out a notebook. “I need maps and information.”
He laughed, the sound dry and reedy, his eyes sharp and intelligent in that old face. Age hadn’t dimmed his intellect one bit. His body might be failing, but his mind was still as vibrant as it’d been when Shea was young.
“You always were a bold one,” he said.
Shea studied him. Once upon a time, he’d been her first mentor. He’d been in charge of the children, those too young to decide whether they wanted to follow in their parents’ footsteps. It had been a task that shouldn’t have sat well on his knobby shoulders. He was entirely too short with others, especially those he considered too stupid to live.
Somehow, he’d ended up being Shea’s favorite teacher. Always willing to feed her eager mind with more information, even when he had to whap her upside the head because she’d done something ill-advised.
He was also probably one of the most perceptive people in the Keep and a valuable source of information if he so chose.
It was getting him to agree to share, that was the hard part. His loyalty to the pathfinders was undeniable, but she was hoping that he had some vestige of old sentiment towards her that would convince him to help.
He studied her. She remained still, knowing no amount of protestation or argument would convince him if he’d already set his mind against her.
“You already visit Allyn for primers?” he asked.
Shea inhaled, debating how much of the truth to share. Not that there was much that would escape him anyway. He was too crafty for that.
