What would a tracker do to me to get the location of the package stolen from his leader? My skin is icy as I turn to Melkin.
“We need to leave.”
Melkin nods, and together we slowly circle back to the house. I crouch in the shadow of a tree, my knife ready, while Melkin slips inside and snatches up my pack, my Switch, and the bag of food supplies. When he returns, we melt silently into the tree line behind the house and make our way south, our weapons out, our ears straining to catch the sound of pursuit.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
LOGAN
I pace my cell, willing the blood to flow into my legs fast enough for me to leave before a guard decides to investigate my conversation with Eloise. The dungeon is full of the sounds of dripping water and heavy sleep. I’m chilled without my shirt, but I can’t yet put on my cloak.
I need to dismantle it first.
My legs still tingle, but they’ll hold me when I need to run. Approaching the far right corner of my cell, the one with the draft seeping in through the cracks, I run my fingers along the damp, craggy stone, judging distances and looking for a weakness I’m not convinced is there.
It doesn’t matter. I’m about to obliterate the whole thing, weakness or not.
Turning to my cloak, I remove the five buttons lining the front flap. They come loose with a soft pop and reveal the plain steel fastenings underneath. Ignoring those, I flip the face of the buttons over and smile. The back of each holds one of my most destructive inventions to date—the gears of an ancient pocket watch attached to two tiny vials of liquid. One holds acid. The other holds glycerin. All my experiments have proven the combination to be explosive.
I hope it’s enough to turn the back half of my cell into rubble.
I slide my fingers along the bottom of my coat until I feel a tiny knot of thread. Pulling on it, I rip out the extra seam I painstakingly installed just days before the Claiming ceremony and remove a length of wire already spliced into five pieces at one end. Finally, I sit down, tug my left boot free, jiggle the sole until it comes loose, and remove a tiny, copper-sheathed detonator.
The buttons attach to the wall with ease, the same gluey substance that stuck them to the plain steel fastenings on my cloak easily clinging to the wall like a second skin. I carefully wrap the loose wire ends around the central gear in each button, and then back away to the cell door, taking the thin straw palette of a bed with me.
Pulling my cloak over my shoulders, I fasten the toggles, flip the hood over my head, and crouch beneath the palette, my back to the wall. With steady fingers, I wrap the other end of the wire around the coils on the detonator and take a deep breath.
Time to show the Commander which of us can truly outwit the other.
I press the trigger on the detonator and hear a faint clicking sound as the pocket watch gears engage and set the vials on a collision course with each other. Then the entire dungeon shakes with the force of the explosion at my back.
I don’t give the debris time to stop falling. I can’t. The main door at the end of the row is already opening, and a guard is shouting an alarm. Keeping the palette over my head to protect myself from the worst of it, I stand and face the destruction of my cell.
The back corner is nothing but crumbled bits of stone and dust. A slippery pile of dirt is sliding in through the hole, but above that pile, the night sky beckons. I race forward, scramble over the debris, and dive through the hole as someone rattles a key in the door of my cell.
The straw palette wedges against the opening as I go through it, and I push as much dirt as possible against the back side of the hole while climbing my way toward level ground.
From the main compound, an alarm bell peals, disturbing the darkness with its insistent clamor. I scan my surroundings, take in the distance between me and the iron fence surrounding the compound, and start running.
I’m still ten yards from the fence when someone shouts behind me. I don’t bother looking. It would just slow me down. Instead, I reach inside my inner cloak pocket and remove what look like two slightly thick Baalboden coins. A quick toggle of the tiny switch embedded in the ridges of the coins releases the spring-loaded mechanism inside, and they become a smaller version of the handgrips Rachel tried to use on her disastrous escape attempt.
More shouts echo across the yard, and I catch guards with NightSeer masks running along the fence line, primed to intersect with me if it takes me longer than twenty seconds to scale the iron poles.
I lunge forward, slam my hands onto the metal, feel the magnets latch onto the iron like they’re soldered to it, and start climbing.
My rib screams at me, even through the pain medicine I took, but I ignore it. I won’t get a second chance at this, and I refuse to fail.
The top seems impossibly high, and my arms tremble with the effort of ignoring the weakness on my right side, but I reach it just as the guards converge below me. One grabs at my foot, but I slam my boot into his forehead, wrap my hands around the top of the fence, and vault over to the other side.
I don’t wait to see who’s following me.
The compound is located in the eastern quarter of the city. I turn north and run, hoping the guards take note of my direction and report it back to the Commander. Let him fortify the North Wall. Let him comb the city streets. I won’t be there.
Once I’m sure I’m out of sight, I change my trajectory and head southwest, trusting the magnetic field of my hand grips to block my wristmark from any Identidiscs being used to find me.
The only way out of the city is over the Wall or through the gate. Over the past week, thanks to Rachel’s prodding, I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time thinking of another way to escape.
Most of the ideas I came up with had one fatal flaw: They were obvious choices, and the Commander isn’t a fool. I discarded them all and decided the perfect solution is the one no one would be crazy enough to try. The one that could end with me accidentally calling the Cursed One to devour me in a single, fiery gulp.
I’m going out under the Wall.
I enter North Hub, avoiding the street torches by using backyards and alleys, and circle Center Square in favor of moving west. When I’ve gone far enough to be sure I won’t be seen by any upstanding citizens, I cut south and hurry toward Lower Market.
I’m sure the travel bag I left behind in Center Square is long gone. I’m equally sure the bag I always keep at Oliver’s has been confiscated too. If the Commander thinks he’s backed me into a corner where my only two choices are heading home for more supplies or hitting up merchants who’ve undoubtedly been warned that the penalty for doing business with me is death, he’s wrong.
I have Rachel to thank for it. When I chased her to the Wall, I went through the alley between the armory and the deserted building at the base of Lower Market, and realized it was the perfect place to hide a backup escape plan. No one ever goes into the abandoned building. And as I have no ties to the place, the Commander would never suspect it as a base of operations for me.
It takes me nearly an hour to reach it. I stick to the shadows, sometimes sacrificing speed for stealth, but I never see any signs of pursuit. Either the bulk of the guards are converging on the North Wall, or the guards in the western edge of the city have the brains to keep silent about their search.
It doesn’t matter which is true. All that matters is that I’ve reached the building. I duck inside and use the faint moonlight streaming in through a broken window to sort through my stash.
Tossing the handgrips into my pack, I don a new tunic and pants and hastily chew on some mutton jerky to replenish my flagging strength. The leather of my cloak chafes the burn on my neck, so I take a minute to snatch salve and gauze from my first aid kit and secure a bandage in place. Then I strap on a sword, slide a sheathed dagger into my boot, wrap my cloak around myself again, and pick up my travel pack, ignoring the way my rib aches against the weight.
The distance between the building and the Wall is relatively s
hort, but it takes me nearly twenty minutes because I’m constantly checking for guards. I aim for the curve of the Wall nearly at the halfway point between the two closest turrets. When another scan of my surroundings shows no glowing NightSeer masks, I drop to my knees at the base of the Wall, open my pack, slide on a mask to protect my eyes and filter the air I breathe, tug on a pair of heavy leather gloves, and remove a machine that looks like a metal crossbow with a thick spiral-shaped steel drill jutting out the front. Fastening my pack to my back securely, I slide my arms into the straps for the device, secure another strap around my waist, and flip the switch on the battery pack I built beneath the spiral drill. It comes to life with a muted whine.
Bending forward, I apply the spinning metal drill to the ground at the base of the Wall and it chews through the dirt, flinging debris to the sides. The vibrations send sharp jabs of agony into my ribcage, and I have to constantly remind myself to breathe through the pain. When the hole is large enough to accommodate me, I slide forward and switch my goggles to NightSeer, trusting the green glow to illuminate my path even as I quickly calculate angles, trajectory, and all the possibilities for failure.
Except that failure isn’t a possibility.
Not when so many depend on me.
The drill eats through the ground, and I aim deep. Deep enough to bypass the Wall’s foundations. Deep enough to avoid causing any trembles through the tons of stone and steel resting above me. Deep enough that calling the Cursed One is a real possibility.
My mask lights the dirt around me a few measly feet at a time, and the air feels damp and cloying as it brushes against my skin. Every breath ignites a fierce agony around my broken rib as if I never took any pain medicine. The need for space crushes me, whispering that I’ll go crazy if I don’t get back into the open now.
I ignore it. Mind over matter. I have plenty of other things to think about. There are math equations to solve. Minute adjustments to make. And beneath it all, a terrible grief for Oliver mixes with a desperate worry for Rachel until I can hardly tell the difference between the two.
I will not be too late.
I will not.
When I calculate that I’ve traveled well beyond the width of the Wall, I begin slowly tunneling my way back to the surface, making sure to continue my trajectory until I’m beyond the circumference of Baalboden’s perimeter. I break the surface with caution, instantly shutting off the machine so I can listen for threats.
I’ve come up between two ancient pin oaks. Keeping my NightSeer mask on, I scan the area. I’m far enough into the Wasteland that Baalboden is a distant, looming bulk on the eastern horizon. The western Wall appears quiet.
Best Case Scenario: No one discovers my true escape point until daylight.
Worst Case Scenario: The Commander realizes my flight north was a false trail and orders a search of the entire Wall.
The answer to both is the same: Run.
I close the machine, slip off the mask because I’d rather let my eyes adjust to the dark than announce my presence to others with the mask’s glow, and pack them both away. Then I slide a copper cuff from my bag, the gears on it lined with the same blue wire I used for Rachel’s, and pull it over my arm.
The wires glow faintly, but they’ll light up like a torch the closer I get to her. By my best guess, she should still have a week’s worth of travel before she hits Jared’s Rowansmark safe house. I take a moment to mentally review the map Jared once had me commit to memory for the day when the Commander would allow me to leave Baalboden on my first courier mission. If I push myself, using dangerous shortcuts Jared would never have used while on a journey with Rachel, I can cut the distance between us in half in just four days. Three if I don’t sleep much.
I have to hope Melkin didn’t want to risk bringing Rachel through highwaymen-infested trails either. If Rachel was spotted, she and Melkin would be viciously attacked within hours. Melkin would never make it out alive, and Rachel would wish she’d died too.
Shoving that thought aside before it takes root, I settle my pack between my shoulders and brace my arm against my aching side. Then I turn my face to the south and disappear into the Wasteland.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
RACHEL
We’ve barely slept in the five days since we left the first safe house. The maples have turned back into oaks, and huge gnarled roots rip their way through the moss-covered ground. Traveling by day and catching naps at night while one of us remains alert for the presence of the Rowansmark tracker, we run ourselves ragged.
Melkin feels it more than I do. Lines of strain take up permanent residence on his face, digging bitter furrows across his brow. I think he worries someone will destroy his plan to return the package and ransom his wife. I can’t be sure because he’ll barely speak to me. The closer we come to the second safe house, the more he shuts down.
It doesn’t matter. The wires on my arm cuff are glowing brighter with each passing day. Soon, it will be over. Soon, I’ll find Dad, and we’ll go rescue Logan.
We’re less than a full day’s journey from the safe house when I sense we’re no longer alone. Melkin is ahead of me, using his staff to brush aside the moss that drapes across the branches around us like ribbon. I slow as if examining a mark on the ground, and whirl around, expecting to see a Rowansmark tracker.
An olive-skinned face stares at me from a branch in a tree I passed not thirty seconds ago. We lock eyes, blink, and in a flash of black hair and graceful limbs, she’s gone.
It was a girl. I’m sure of it. Which means she isn’t a tracker, a guard, or a member of a highwaymen gang. She must be Tree People.
I’m not threatened by her presence—it’s natural for Tree People to be curious about the outsiders wandering through their area of the Wasteland—but there aren’t any Tree People villages in these parts except for the one near the second safe house, and that’s still hours away. It’s unusual to see a Tree Girl so far from home. I file it away for further thought if necessary, and forget about her until we stop for lunch two hours later and I see her again.
This time, she doesn’t pull back when I catch a glimpse of her peering out at me from the branches of a tree several yards back from where we sit. Instead, we stare at each other as I let my cloak hood drop, and she leans out of her tree enough for me to see we’re about the same age. A quiver of arrows is slung over one shoulder, and she holds the bow in one hand. A long black feather dangles from an intricately swirled silver ear cuff wrapped around her left ear. Her dark eyes are full of aloof confidence.
I can’t explain her, and I don’t like what I can’t explain. She shouldn’t still be following us. I’m about to draw Melkin’s attention to her when she pulls back into the tree and disappears.
I watch for her as I finish a cold lunch of turkey leftovers and the potted plums I took with us from the first safe house. Watch for her as Melkin barks at me to keep up. And watch for her as the shadows slowly lengthen into pools of darkness beneath the dying sun.
She never reappears.
Instead, the blue wires glow brightly, and I forget to be concerned about the insignificant wanderings of a Tree Girl. It will hurt to tell Dad about Oliver. It will also hurt to tell him I had to leave Logan behind, but Dad will know how to fix it.
I still haven’t told Melkin we’re about to find Dad. Five days ago, I would have. Five days ago, he seemed approachable, concerned only with saving his wife, and determined to protect me.
Now, he’s a cold, silent ghost of the man I thought I knew. The closer we come to the package, the more he turns inward, until I catch myself shivering a little when he turns the miserable darkness of his eyes toward me.
Maybe he’s finally realizing the Commander isn’t a man of his word. Maybe he’s beginning to understand that if we give our only leverage over to him, those we love are dead.
Maybe he’s bracing himself for the worst.
We emerge from the forest, and I recognize the line of ancient oaks, their trunks
as thick as one of the steel beams supporting Baalboden’s Wall, their branches arching over a moss-covered path as if offering protection.
We’re almost there.
I push ahead of Melkin, who offers no protest. The column of trees seems to go on forever as I hurry forward.
Almost there.
The cuff against my arm glows like the noonday sun.
Almost there.
At the end of the row of trees, a graying one-story farmhouse with once-red shutters faded to pink will be standing, and he’ll be waiting. His big arms will open wide, his gray eyes will glow with pride, and I’ll be home at last.
I skid on the moss as I reach the last tree, and grab on to the trunk for balance. And then I hang on to the trunk for one long desperate second, fighting vertigo as my eyes take in the impossible.
The farmhouse is gone.
Nothing remains but a sweeping patch of scorched dirt and a gaping hole where the Cursed One slid back to his lair.
I look around wildly, searching. My cuff is lit up like a torch. He’s here.
He’s here.
But he isn’t. I can’t see him. All I see is destruction.
“Oh,” Melkin says behind me as he takes in the sight.
That tiny little word makes me want to hurt him, so I leave the shelter of the trees and walk toward the debris on shaking legs.
My cuff still glows. I scan the treetops. He could be there. Waiting for me. Staying hidden from trackers.
The soil beneath me turns to ash. Cold black flakes that cling to my boots as if trying to hold me back.
Where is he?
Something moves in the trees across from me, and the Tree Girl steps out, followed by a boy who looks about Logan’s age. Both of them have dusky skin and straight black hair. The girl wears hers in a long braid. The boy lets his fall loose to his shoulders. He moves, and my eyes are drawn to a white paper-wrapped package the size of a raisin loaf in his hands.