“A few weeks now.” Clark’s voice was hushed. “They take turns standing up and speaking. We’ve even started noticing scouts from other divisions attending.”
“Bet that causes problems,” Trenton said.
Shea cocked her head, not understanding why it would.
Seeing the question on her face, he supplied, “The divisions are largely manned by the different clans.”
She still didn’t get it.
“Every clan hates every other clan,” Wilhelm explained. “It’s about the only thing you can always count on. Just because Fallon has united them in name doesn’t mean that there aren’t still blood feuds between them.”
“There’s a lot of history, spanning generations. It’ll take time to truly unite them,” Daere said.
Shea knew that. Eamon and the others had told her at some point, but she didn’t know if she had fully realized what that meant. To most of the Lowlands, the Trateri were all painted with the same brush.
“It would help matters if the bloodlines mixed,” Braden observed, not taking his eyes off the front. “If the Hawkvale had ties of blood to some of the other clans, they would be much less likely to fight him on some of his policies.”
Shea sucked in a breath, the comment unexpected. She blinked rapidly, grateful that he wasn’t looking at her so she could compose her expression. The shock. It had never occurred to her to think Fallon’s position would be more stable if he had taken a proper Trateri woman as his telroi—and it should have.
She took another breath and let it go slowly.
Before she could think of a response, Daere stepped into the awkward silence. “Such a move could also result in further instability, as one clan is elevated above the rest.”
“He could just have children with a woman from every clan. Of course, you’d face the same problem when it came time for one of those children to take up the mantle of leadership.” The response was out of Shea’s mouth before she could stop it.
The only acknowledgement from Braden of her sarcasm was a slight turn of his head toward her. Daere smothered a smile and lowered her eyes to the ground.
Shea fought to keep still, not wanting Braden to know how such talk of Fallon and other women had disturbed her.
Trenton stepped into the silence. “Until then, there are flare-ups when they come into contact with one another.”
“As the Telroi you should understand this,” Braden chided. “You cannot lead if you do not know how to control your people.”
Shea stiffened next to him, taking issue with the rebuke in his tone. Daere quickly looked away, having said something similar a time or two. Shea narrowed her eyes at the two of them. For two people who barely talked to one another, they sure thought alike.
Shea gave Braden the same response she gave Daere. “I have no intention of leading. Fallon is the warlord; he’s the leader.”
Braden arched an eyebrow at her. “That is a surprisingly na?ve outlook from someone I had assumed was smarter than this.”
Shea gave him a stony-faced expression, not letting him know how those words smarted.
Braden kept speaking, his voice crisp and matter of fact. “Whether you have the intention or not doesn’t matter. The fact that you stand at his side means people are going to look to you for leadership in times of crisis. How will you guide them if you don’t even understand the most basic facet of their existence? To say nothing of those who covet your influence over the Warlord, and see you as a means to manipulate him by simply bending your ear to their agenda. A wise woman would learn all she can, so she can determine the snake in the grass before she is bitten.”
Daere shifted beside Shea, drawing her attention. The other woman’s face was impassive, offering Shea no insight to her thoughts. Shea looked between the two of them. Yup, basically the same speech. She wondered if Daere had coached Braden on what to say, or if he had come up with that little talk all on his own.
“I’ve heard something similar before,” Shea finally said.
Braden looked briefly at Daere, who had still not given him her attention and was intently focused on the class. “It is sound advice.”
Shea shrugged one shoulder. “Probably.”
A man in the back raised his hand. He was dressed a little differently than the rest, his leathers a little rougher, and the crest on his back not one Shea was familiar with. A few of the others gave him a sideways glance that made it clear they weren’t quite happy with this stranger in their midst. Shea assumed he was one of those not from the Wind Division that Clark had spoken about earlier.
Charles stopped speaking and looked at him expectantly. “Yes, you had a question?”
“What about this mist that seems to be popping up everywhere all of a sudden? You haven’t given us any information on that.”
Charles looked momentarily nonplussed, glancing around the class as if they might have the answer. When everyone looked at him expectantly, he said in a hesitant voice, “The mist is a new threat that we don’t have a lot of information on yet. Does anybody here have any observations?”
There was a long pause as the rest of the men and a few women glanced around. None stood to offer their opinion. A few shook their heads and sat back.
Another stranger, this one also with a patch Shea didn’t recognize, asked, “Isn’t that what we’re here for? So you can tell us how to survive this thing?” His voice was impatient, with the barest edge of derision in it.
The feeling of the crowd shifted, the undercurrents ugly and rife with anger as the scouts and soldiers from the Wind Division glared at the man.
Charles looked around with unease, sensing the worsening mood. Everyone was on edge. It was a situation that could explode into violence as the people present turned their skills to something they could control—beating each other senseless.
He made a placating motion with his hands. “We’re all a little uneasy about what this mist is and what it can do. The purpose behind these classes is to bring our heads together so we can figure out sound strategies to overcome the obstacles we face on a daily basis.”
“This is ridiculous. I bet you have no idea how to handle this. I can’t believe my war band insisted I attend.”
A man in the front stood up. He was big, easily taller than most of the men here. He looked like he had been cut from stone with a blunt chisel, his features rough and half formed. “How ‘bout you keep your mouth shut if you’ve nothing helpful to add?”
If a man who looked like that—with a body built for violence and a face that looked like it belonged on a berserker—spoke to her like that, Shea thought she might do whatever he asked, especially when his question had a tone that made it clear what the consequences would be if you didn’t listen.
Charles looked overwhelmed and out of his element as he tried to intervene. “Let’s not let our emotions get the best of us. We’re all just looking for answers.”
“Stay out of it, cripple,” the stranger snapped.