Witt was quiet for a long moment as he gathered his thoughts. His lips pulled down in a frown. “You know the pathfinders fulfill a vital role in the Highlands. They are the connective tissue that maintains what passes for civilization. Without them, the Highlands would be a collection of isolated villages that would probably fade and die given enough time. The pathfinders keep the communication and trade lines open. It’s still isolated but nowhere what it would be without them.”
Fallon’s eyes were shadowed as he stared at Witt. He folded his muscular arms over his chest and adopted a wide-legged stance, as if he was bracing for whatever might come.
When he didn’t interrupt, Witt continued, “They’re also the only thing that passes for a government, though they’re really only concerned about the tithes owed them, and that their pathfinders stay safe. Anger them and they’ll cut your village off—excise it from the maps. Villages don’t usually last long after that.” Witt’s face darkened and his gaze turned inward as if he was remembering something painful. He shook his head coming back to the present. “There are rumors that they have ways to call beasts down on those villages that displease them.”
“What do you think?”
Witt frowned in thought. “I think it’s too big a coincidence how quickly the excised villages fall into ruin. They do it rarely—only twice that I’ve heard of—but when they excise a village there are few survivors.”
Ruthless—but Fallon didn’t fault them for that. It was something he would do himself, though he wouldn’t let the beasts do his dirty work. He’d ride into a village that threatened one of his own and kill the offenders face to face. It was more satisfying that way. It had the added benefit of making the rest fear you that much more. Fear, he’d found, was a powerful motivator for good behavior.
“Shea has mentioned there are different kinds of pathfinders.”
Witt’s nod was slow in coming. “It’s not something they advertise. The pathfinders who serve the villages seem to be at the low end of their hierarchy. The smaller the village, the lower the status of the pathfinder. They send other pathfinders out into the remote corners of the Highlands and beyond.”
“Their purpose?”
Witt shook his head. “I don’t know. I only know about them because they hooked up with a caravan I’d joined when I was younger and trying to find a place for myself. They stayed with us for a month and then broke away to press further north.”
“Perhaps they were heading to another village.”
“There were no villages beyond our destination. I’ve never heard of a settlement where they were heading. Nothing up there but snow, mountains and beasts. As far as I could figure it, they were just looking around—exploring because they could.”
Fallon grunted. That would fit with what he knew of Shea. She might have served as a village pathfinder, but he suspected that wasn’t all she was. Her social skills were too poor and her mind too curious. He could see her exploring a remote stretch of land—so isolated that no one had ever visited it before—just to see what was there.
It was one of the things he loved about her, and one of the things he hated. That need to explore, the restlessness he could see in her eyes sometimes. It made him feel like he was trying to lay claim to air. There one moment and gone the next. He sometimes had nightmares of waking up and reaching for her, only to find her gone.
“They also have a type that they call a ‘keeper,’” Witt said. “From what I understand from talking with other pathfinders, the keeper safeguards the knowledge they’ve gleaned through their service to the Highlands. I knew this guy from before, who said the pathfinders had a room in their keep that held all their knowledge from even before the cataclysm, great histories of a time lost to us. Art that has not been seen in nearly a millennium. Wonders that have long passed from this world.”
Fallon found himself curious about these keepers. The ancients were said to have powerful weapons beyond anything that existed today. Such weapons might enable him to build an empire not seen since the cataclysm. The histories also interested him, having found that the mistakes of the past often formed the present. There was much that could be learned from their predecessors.
The Trateri had a strong oral tradition, passing stories of their great battles and strong leaders from one generation to the next. However, these stories tended to change after so many retellings until some clans had drastically different versions of the same story. Further, when a clan was wiped out, their stories and oral history died out with them. It left gaping holes in the history of his people.
“Have you ever met one of these keepers?” Fallon asked.
Witt shook his head. “They’re usually kept close to their stronghold. I’d wager they realized how dangerous it would be for someone with that kind of knowledge to be wandering around the Highlands.”
Fallon would expect as much. Someone armed with the knowledge these keepers were said to possess would have great power—dangerous power if it fell into the wrong hands.
These pathfinders and their hoard of knowledge reminded Fallon of a story the Trateri told as a cautionary tale to their young. In some versions the story featured an old man close to his deathbed, in others, it was a woman in her middle years. Both versions agreed that the person spent his or her life accruing material wealth—rugs of the softest material and finest weaving, tapestries from the best artisans among the Trateri people, and gold gilded furniture for them to rest their weary bones. Always gathering more and more. Every time their clan picked up and moved to the next hunting ground, to the summer camp or the winter camp, it would take longer and longer for this person to pack for the journey—until one day, they couldn’t pack everything. Their clan offered to help for the small price of one item from the tent. Always this person refused, choosing to carry the burden of the possessions by themselves.
The story always ended with the old man and woman dying alone, far from their people as the terror of nature destroyed what they had spent their lifetime hoarding. In the end they lost everything and gained nothing.
These pathfinders and their knowledge of the world benefitted no one, including themselves, locked up in their stronghold where nothing could be shared.
“What about this mist?” Fallon asked. “Shea’s mentioned that her fellow pathfinders possess a similar ability to navigate its depths.”
Witt braced his hands on his hips and looked down, his face pensive. “I’m not sure how true that is.”
Fallon’s eyes sharpened, piercing in their intensity. “You’re suggesting she lied.”
Witt rubbed his neck with one hand, looking a shade uncomfortable. It reminded Fallon that Witt felt a depth of indebtedness that might affect how much he was willing to share. He didn’t blame the man for the feeling. No, he respected him for it, even as he knew he’d have to compensate for it, or find another way to get the information out of him.