Defiance

  The idea warms me with something more than fury.

  Something that feels like another tiny fragment of hope.

  I lay my damp cloak out to dry near the flames, and take a seat beside Melkin. Far enough away that I can draw my knife before his long arms could reach me, but close enough to indicate I’m not trying to shut him out.

  He glances at me, but says nothing.

  I force myself to say the words I know he deserves to hear. “Thank you.”

  He uses a stick to nudge the meat and flip it over. The scent fills the air and makes my mouth water.

  “For what?” he asks.

  “For saving my life. Twice. For carrying the boar. And for”—here I choke on the words and have to push them past my lips, their inflection sounding wooden and insincere—“understanding my attitude.”

  He stays silent for the time it takes to skewer three large pieces of meat on a stick and hand it to me. Then he says, “Didn’t think I’d hear that from you.”

  I shrug and bite into the meat, which burns my lips but explodes against my tongue with glorious flavor. I watch him skewer his own before answering. “You work for the Commander.”

  “So do you.”

  “Not by choice.”

  “And you think I do?” He looks at me, and I’m struck by the depth of misery etched into his too-thin face.

  I feel my way carefully through my next words. “You’re a tracker. You’ve worked for the Commander for years. I figured this was just another assignment to you.”

  He looks into the fire. “You figured wrong.”

  I’m not sure I have. I have only my instincts to rely on, and my instincts tell me that Melkin doesn’t wish me harm, and that he carries an inner grief of his own. If I can soften him toward my cause, maybe we can be a team against the Commander.

  “Maybe I’m wrong,” I say. “But how am I to know for sure?”

  He laughs, a small, brittle sound, and looks at me. “How can either of us know anything for sure? We’ve been backed into a corner, threatened with losing everything, and then set loose to circle each other like South Edge dogs afraid to lose a prize bone.”

  I stare at him, my mind racing. Is he really in the same situation as me? Or has he been coached to say this so I’ll trust him?

  He shakes his head. “One of us has to tell the truth here. I’ll start. You can do with it what you will.”

  I say nothing, but watch him carefully for signs he might be lying.

  “It’s true I’ve worked for the Commander for eleven years now. And it’s true that he assigned me to accompany you.”

  “Why?”

  “Apparently, he thought you might need the help. You’re just a girl, after all.” A ghost of a smile flits across his face. “A girl who knows how to keep her head in the face of the Cursed One, who can nearly drown and still trek for four hours, and who has the skill to bring down a boar. Bet the Commander has no idea how far he’s underestimated you.”

  I bet the Commander hasn’t underestimated me at all, and Melkin’s true role is to make sure I don’t commit treachery. Which means Melkin could make it look like we’re on the same side when all he’s trying to do is buy my confidence. Calculating the odds makes me ache for Logan, who could assess the options, list the worst-case scenarios, and come up with plans to address it all in half the time it will take me to decide if I should just sneak away from Melkin in the middle of the night and do my best to survive the Wasteland alone.

  “So why do you say you didn’t take this assignment willingly?” I ask, and Melkin swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat like a cork.

  He’s quiet so long, I begin to think he won’t answer the question. When he finally speaks, he addresses his words to the flames in a voice so low, I have to strain to hear him.

  “I would have. I would’ve tracked the package with you and returned it, just like I’ve done with every other assignment he’s given me. But he didn’t give me a chance to prove my loyalty.” He looks at me suddenly, desperate grief in his eyes. “He threw my wife in the dungeon. She’s due to give birth in a few weeks, and he threw her in the dungeon.”

  I don’t doubt him for a second. The raw, aching pain in his voice reminds me of my own loss, and I want to stuff my fingers in my ears and pretend I can’t hear him. His emotions are real, but that still doesn’t mean I can trust his words.

  “What do you have to do to get her out?” I ask quietly, because here is the crux of the issue. If he tells me the truth, perhaps we can work our way toward trusting each other. But if he lies … if I even think he’s lying, then I’ll have to think like Logan and start planning for worst-case scenarios.

  He scrubs a hand over his face, breaking eye contact with me and looking at the fire again. “I have to deliver the package. Whether you agree or not.” He looks at me. “I can’t allow any obstacles to stand in my way.”

  And there it is. If I plan treachery against the Commander, he’s the one tasked to stand in my way. No matter what it takes. And he will. Because his wife and unborn child are at stake.

  I can’t blame him for doing exactly what I would do myself.

  And I can’t help feeling empathy for his position. I know what it’s like to have the Commander hold my loved ones over my head at the point of a sword. The difference is that I no longer believe the Commander’s promises.

  I don’t share my conviction with Melkin, though. It wouldn’t change the danger his wife is in. It would only wound him further. Or turn him against me.

  Instead, I slide a little closer to him and say softly, “I have to deliver the package too. Or I lose someone I care for.”

  “And your chance at revenge?” he asks, and captures my gaze with his as if the fate of the world hinges on my answer.

  Maybe it does. Maybe he needs to know someone is willing to take a stand against the Commander, and his current suffering won’t be swept under a rug.

  “Yes. I need to deliver the package so I can rescue Logan. And so I can get my revenge.” The words sting the air between us.

  Melkin nods once as though he’s gained the answer he sought, and turns back to the fire to take first watch. I curl up on my still-drying cloak, my back to the fire, my face toward Melkin.

  We might have reached a new accord between us. We might be working toward the same goal. But my knife is a comforting weight in my hand as I quietly pull it from its sheath and hold it, blade out, where I can strike anything that comes for me.

  Just in case I’m wrong.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  LOGAN

  She didn’t kill me. Whatever the lavender-scented girl put in my water, it soothed my feverish thinking and kept the pain somewhat at bay. I’m able to wrap myself in my cloak, lean against the wall, and sleep until the next guard makes his rounds.

  By the time he reaches my cell, I’ve slumped to the floor and I huddle there, shivering. It isn’t hard to do. The stones beneath me radiate cold. He studies me for a moment, then makes the trek back to the main door, locks it behind him, and leaves the dungeon in silence again.

  I wait a few moments longer to make sure he’s truly gone, and then slowly sit up, making it look like it’s a struggle to do so. That isn’t hard either. My muscles protest the slightest movement, the scorched skin on the side of my neck throbs, and my broken rib aches fiercely.

  But my fever is gone, and I can think clearly again.

  Along with the return of reason comes the knowledge that I’ve wasted precious time succumbing to my injuries. I don’t know what day it is, or how long Rachel’s been gone. My body is weak from lack of food and lack of movement. And the Commander is probably due to arrive at any moment to toy with me.

  I can’t fix it all at once. I have to prioritize and determine an appropriate course of action. Whatever I choose, it has to be something I can do without raising suspicion if I’m being watched by more than just the occasional guard.

  Food is the first order of business
. I double over as if in excruciating pain and feel within my cloak pockets until I find the wrapped lump the girl left for me. Inside the cloth is a chunk of oat bread with cheese and dried apples inside. I take small bites, rocking back and forth to simulate pain so I can hide what I’m doing. My stomach has been without food for hours, maybe days. I need to take it easy.

  One third of the way through the food, I stop eating. It’s enough to get my system working again, and I need to conserve what I have left. I don’t know when I’ll be getting more.

  I settle against the wall again as exhaustion overtakes me. I’d hoped to get up and walk a bit, but my head is already spinning, and I can’t risk another fall. Instead, I slowly stretch each limb and tighten my muscles for the length of time it takes to recite the Periodic Table. By the time I’m done, I’m shaking and slightly nauseous.

  Water would be nice, but that’s one problem I’m helpless to address.

  Through it all, the knowledge that Oliver is gone aches within me, a constant source of pain I rub against with every thought. For just a moment, the image of my mother’s smile, the feel of Oliver’s arm around my shoulders, and the warmth of Rachel’s trust in me bleed together into one gaping pit of loss. I’m hollowed out. Empty of everything that once gave me reasons to live.

  Grief is a deep pool of darkness, and I huddle against the damp, cold wall as it sucks me under. I had something worth losing, and now that’s it’s gone, now that they’re gone, I’m realizing the life of solitude I always thought I wanted isn’t good enough anymore.

  I don’t want to be alone.

  I don’t want to have only the cold comfort of my inventions to keep me company.

  I want my family.

  I want Rachel.

  Not because she’s beautiful. Not because she’s my responsibility. I want her because she makes me laugh. Makes me think. Inspires me to be the kind of man I always hoped I’d be.

  I want Rachel because the thought of a life without her is more than I can bear.

  The grief recedes. It won’t help me plan. I haven’t lost Rachel. Not yet. I lean my head against the wall, careful not to rub my burned skin against the damp stone, and consider my options. Movement catches my eye, and I turn to see Melkin’s wife, Eloise, staring at me.

  I don’t greet her. I don’t need to announce to anyone that I’m capable of that. But I hold her gaze, trying to assess what I see there.

  Best Case Scenario: She’s an innocent caught up in all of this and means me no harm.

  Worst Case Scenario 1: She means me no harm but will unwittingly gather information she’ll later deliver to the Commander under duress.

  Worst Case Scenario 2: She’s cunning enough to realize she might leverage her way out of here by providing the Commander with secrets about me.

  Worst Case Scenario 3: She’s his spy dressed up to look helpless and pregnant. Hoping I’ll pity her. Hoping to play on the sense of honor the Commander swears I don’t have.

  The answer to every scenario is the same. Give nothing away and set in motion my plan for escape before anyone realizes I’m well enough to do so.

  She’s still looking at me, but I close my eyes and turn away. It’s easy to look exhausted and sick. I don’t even have to feign it. Let her report my weakness. The fact that I can’t even stand. Let her tell them the Commander has me beaten.

  By the time he realizes the truth, I’ll be gone.

  “Stop him,” someone whispers, a mere breath of sound I barely catch.

  I open my eyes a fraction, and she’s still watching me, her eyes pleading. Stop whom? The Commander? Melkin?

  This is exactly the kind of conversation I need to avoid. I close my eyes again, and keep my silence.

  “Please.”

  Another breathy whisper. I tamp down on the surge of irritation that wants to snap my eyes open so I can glare her into silence. Does she think I’m so easily led that I’ll fall for this?

  Does she really think I have the power at the moment to stop anyone?

  “He isn’t a killer. He isn’t …” Her whisper chokes off into stillness as the dungeon door opens with a clang.

  If “he” isn’t a killer, she can only be discussing Melkin. But how she thinks I’ll ever be able to reach him in time while I’m lying indisposed in a dungeon of stone is a mystery.

  Not that I don’t have a plan for it, of course. But she has no way of knowing that, and her misplaced faith in me rings false.

  Another sign I need to be careful what I allow her to see.

  The footsteps traveling the aisle are light. They stop at the first occupied cell and a door slides open with a high-pitched squeal. A girl’s voice, light and calm, murmurs through the air, and my stomach tightens.

  This must be my secret savior. The one who gave me hope that someone on the outside is interested in helping me. I need more information, but I have to hide the transaction from Eloise.

  I slide down to the floor and curl into a ball with my back facing the cell door. The girl is talking to every prisoner she encounters. Seeing her talk to me will raise no alarms, while seeing me question her will give more away than I can afford.

  She moves to the cell with the young man in chains, and her voice is clearer now. I listen to her offer him food and water and then quietly suggest he put the paste she’s placed in his tin of food on his abraded wrists rather than in his mouth.

  She could be arrested for that alone.

  I marvel at her courage, even while I tense for the appearance of a guard. No one comes, though, and she moves on to Melkin’s wife. I strain to hear their conversation and catch snippets of admonitions to eat everything in front of her and drink her water slowly. Then there’s the sound of fabric hitting the floor.

  “You can’t give me your cloak,” Melkin’s wife whispers. Because apparently she is incapable of realizing the best way to punish a good deed is to announce it to everyone else. Or because she thinks turning in the girl will somehow grant her favor with the Commander.

  Her mistake could simply be one of youth and ignorance, but I have precious little sympathy for either at the moment. Rachel is young too, and she’d be far too smart to make such a stupid mistake.

  The door to my cell creaks open, and I’m swamped with the delicate scent of lavender a second before she drops to the floor beside me, clutching a tin water pail and a cup.

  The concern on her face doesn’t falter, even as she takes in my steady, fever-free gaze. She’s tall, thin in a lithe, graceful way, and the torchlight flickers beautifully against her dusky skin. The cloud of dark hair hanging down her back throws off the lavender scent every time she moves.

  She seems familiar, and I try to recall where I’ve seen her before. One of the stalls in Lower Market? A merchant’s place in North Hub? Neither of those locations fit.

  She scoops a cup of water out of the pail and leans toward me.

  “Day?” I mouth silently before accepting a few swallows. The water is tepid and tastes of tin. It’s the most refreshing drink I’ve ever had.

  She frowns as if I’ve spilled the water out my mouth and fishes around in her skirt pocket for a scrap of cloth. Bending down, she pretends to mop my face with the cloth and keeps her face level with mine, her hair obscuring her features from anyone outside my cell.

  “Tuesday.” She says, and presses a small, paper-wrapped packet into my hand. “For the pain.”

  Tuesday. The Claiming ceremony was Saturday. I’ve lost three days.

  She sits up and scoops more water into her cup. I drink obediently, and watch her calm, competent movements. I’ve seen those movements before, but my brain still refuses to make the connection, and I let it go. I have more important things to think about. She’s risked death today, not just for me, but for each of the prisoners here. I can’t quite understand it.

  “Why help?” I mouth to her, though I feel the answer may be too lengthy to share like this.

  She dips her cloth in the remaining water and scrubs
gently at my face, using her hair once more as a cloak to mask her face from any observers.

  “Things must change,” she says so softly, I barely catch it. “Someone needs to lead that change. We think it will be you.”

  I’m stunned into silence, and wait a beat too long to ask her the other questions that burn within me. She’s already leaving, shutting my door behind her as if she hasn’t just ignited a firestorm of speculation within me, when I remember where I’ve seen her.

  Thom’s Tankard. Wiping down tables while acting as a lookout for Drake and his men.

  Drake’s group has moved from trying to recruit me as a member to nominating me as a leader? I’d laugh if it wouldn’t hurt my ribcage. I’m injured, locked in a dungeon, and the only people I still care about are far away from Baalboden. What part of that description makes me fit to lead a revolution here?

  Not that I’m not sympathetic to their cause. The citizens of Baalboden desperately need change. I’d been wrong to think my mother’s death meant the price of dissent was too high to pay. Silent acquiescence in the face of tyranny is no better than outright agreement. My mother knew that. Now, so do I.

  But revolution and change must wait their turn.

  Rachel needs me.

  Melkin needs to be stopped.

  Jared needs to be found.

  And the Commander needs to be brought to justice.

  If I have to lead a revolution to accomplish that, so be it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  RACHEL

  We’ve been traveling the Wasteland for a week now. Four days ago, we skirted a Tree People village without incident. Not that I’ve ever known Tree People to get involved with the affairs of those who leave them alone, but we can’t take any chances. I never used to understand why people would choose to build houses in the trees in hopes of avoiding the Cursed One rather than live beneath the protection of a city-state. Now, I know that sometimes the protection of a city-state comes at too high a cost.