Deception (13 page)
“He’s a Tree Person. Why is he with us? Why doesn’t he carry a weapon when he’s clearly been trained for battle?” Ian asks, and I face the trail again as it starts a gentle curve toward the northeast.
“He’s with us because he chooses to be. And his reasons for not carrying a weapon are his own.” The faint road we’re traveling winds up a steep hill, which will impact the amount of time it will take to get to a place suitable for making camp. At this point, I’m worried we’ll still be trying to travel at night. Without the ability to see roots, bushes, or holes in the path, we’d destroy a wagon or two for sure. I start calculating the distance we’ve traveled and the yardage we still need to cover. At our current rate of speed, and factoring in the weather—
“Okay.” Ian holds up his hands as if to show he meant no harm. “So what are your plans once we reach Lankenshire?”
The mathematical equation in my head dissolves, and I say sharply, “I already discussed my plans at our group meeting yesterday.”
“Fine. Don’t tell me,” Ian says, and something in his voice makes me study him closely. His fists are clenched, and the set of his mouth is mutinous.
“What’s your problem?” I ask.
He bends with me to lift a fallen branch out of the path and toss it into the forest. It lands among the oak trees with a wet thud.
“I know what this is about. I’m not stupid.” He tugs his cloak closer to his body and walks a little faster.
Gritting my teeth, I catch up to him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Ian, and I have very little time or energy to try to figure it out. In case you haven’t noticed, I have a group of scared, inexperienced travelers to lead through the Wasteland and a furious tyrant with an army at our backs. If you have an issue with me, either say it plainly or drop it.”
“You don’t trust me.”
I stare at him like I’m questioning his sanity, and he says, “Now that you know my background, you don’t trust me. You treat me differently.”
He’s wrong. I haven’t had a second to even
think
about Ian since we had our conversation in the tunnel. I’ve been too busy trying to keep everyone safe from Carrington’s swords. I’m about to tell him he’s imagining things when I notice the tight line of his shoulders. The way his I-don’t-really-care expression is plastered to his face like a shield.
How many times in my childhood did I look like that after I’d scrounged up the courage to beg a merchant for an odd job or a bit of spare food? It’s the look of a boy expecting to be kicked but too proud to show you that it hurts.
Choosing my words with care, I say, “I’m sorry I gave you that impression, but I really haven’t thought about your Brute Squad background since we discussed it. If you think my unwillingness to discuss what little I know of Quinn means I don’t trust you, you’re wrong.”
“You talk to Drake, Thom, Frankie, Quinn, Willow, Nola, and Rachel about your plans. You listen to their opinions before you make decisions.”
A headache is beginning to throb behind my eyes. Between Ian’s ability to turn the girls in camp into giggling, starry-eyed creatures and his apparent need for my approval, I’m beginning to wish he hadn’t volunteered for guard duty. It would be easier if he’d wanted to cook, or chop wood, or anything that didn’t require direct contact with me.
“I volunteered to fight off Carrington at the gate so that you and Rachel could make it back inside because I believed you were different from the Commander. That you were a leader who would listen to your people, not just to the few who already agree with you.”
His voice is quiet, but his words leave a mark.
Taking a deep breath, I say, “You’ve earned the right to speak your mind to me. But honestly, there’s nothing new to share. My plan is to get us safely to Lankenshire, demonstrate that Rowansmark has deliberately built tech that can destroy any city-state whose leader opposes them, and then prove my words by telling them what happened to Baalboden.”
We skirt a large puddle, and I glance behind me again. Not because I expect to see my people moving any faster, but because the tension that grips me insists I search the surrounding Wasteland for flashes of red-jacketed soldiers running toward us in the rain.
“Have you considered that you might be starting problems between Rowansmark and Lankenshire that don’t need to exist?” Ian asks.
“What do you mean? I thought that of anyone here, you’d be happy to have a city-state ready to stand up to Rowansmark, since your father died there.”
“I don’t hold Rowansmark personally responsible for my father’s death.” There’s a thread of ugly viciousness in his voice that promises retribution for the man he does blame. I can’t help but be grateful to have another person in the group who truly understands the depths of the Commander’s evil, and who knows that stopping him permanently is the only possible option.
He wipes at the streams of water that sluice over his cheekbones where his hood fails to cover him, and looks at me. “Lankenshire is a city of scholars. Healers. Most of them prefer books instead of swords.” He says this like he can’t fathom the absurdity of such a thing.
“And you know all of this . . . how?”
He rolls his eyes. “I apprenticed to take my father’s place. Who do you think traveled with the Commander when he visited the other city-states? Regular guards? Please.”
“So you’ve been to Lankenshire?”
He shakes his head. “My trip to Rowansmark was my first and only mission outside of Baalboden. My apprenticeship required a deeper study of each of the nine city-states. But every boy in the group knows Lankenshire is a city of scholars. We studied them in school.”
Ah, school. Something as an outcast I was never allowed to attend. Not that it stopped me from learning. I have Oliver and Jared to thank for that, though I didn’t have a chance to tell Jared. I never expected him to die in the Wasteland and leave Rachel and me alone. I have to hope that somehow he knew what he meant to me.
What he still means to me.
“My point is that Lankenshire won’t be prepared for this. They can’t stand up to Rowansmark—”
“No one can. Don’t you see?” My voice is too loud, and I work to speak calmly. Ian has surprised me once again. Clearly, his Brute Squad training was incomplete if he’s actually concerned about the welfare of a group of strangers. “If Rowansmark is the only city-state that can harness the Cursed One and use it at their whim,
no one
is safe. The only way to stand up to them is to inform the other leaders of the situation and then get busy building tech that can match theirs.”
“So you really mean to do it? Copy their design and build weapons to match it? Give every single leader, regardless of his moral compass, a weapon of that magnitude?”
“I don’t think I have a choice.”
He’s silent for a moment and then asks, “Can you build it fast enough to protect Lankenshire from both Carrington and Rowansmark?”
I have no idea. It depends on what tech supplies Lankenshire has. On how fast I can interpret the nuances of the device currently strapped to my chest. On how fast the Commander tracks us down.
Best Case Scenario: We reach Lankenshire safely, they listen to me and agree to an alliance, and I’m able to quickly duplicate the device.
Worst Case Scenario: We’re caught before we reach the city-state, Lankenshire refuses to work with me, or the tech is beyond my skills.
Ian is watching me, his question still lingering in the air, and even though I know he wants to be taken in my confidence, I can’t bear to put into words the thought of failing. As we crest the top of the hill and start down the other side, I meet his eyes and say with as much confidence as I can muster, “Yes. I can duplicate the tech in time to protect us all.”
As the rain lets up and the late afternoon sun begins baking the ground we travel, I pull Jeremiah’s map from my cloak pocket and begin planning tomorrow’s route, hoping that somehow I can deliver on everything I’ve promised.
RACHEL
W
e make camp on the eastern edge of a small clearing. The rain stopped hours ago, but my cloak has yet to dry. Once we’ve erected our shelters and eaten a cold dinner—Logan refused to allow torches or cooking fires in case Carrington is following us already—I hang my cloak over the thick tree limb that props open the jagged canvas flap of the tent I share with Logan and crawl into my bedroll.
I expect to lie awake, listening for threats. Thinking about the Commander. Trying to figure out how to make a plan to separate him from Carrington’s army so that I can honor Logan’s wishes if possible.
But instead, the soft carpet of moss beneath my blanket cushions my body, and the sight of Logan hunched over his tech bag, muttering to himself while he tries to work by starlight, makes me feel safe. Before I know it, my eyelids drift closed, and I sink into the dark embrace of sleep.
Blood surrounds me. It stains the sky with viscous swirls of crimson and snakes down tree trunks to drip from leaves. Thick garnet drops cling to me. I raise my hands above my head to ward it off, but it flows over me in a river of rust. Sticky trails of heat bite into my skin and burrow toward the bone. Tilting my face up, I stare in horror. The blood has drained from the sky and abandoned the trees. Instead, it leaks from my fingertips and gushes from my palms, an unending tide that covers me from head to toe.
“
Guilty
,” it whispers, and Melkin lies beneath my blade, calling for his wife.
“
Alone
,” it says, and Dad turns to dust beneath the shining white cross on his grave.
“
Broken
,” it cries, and Oliver’s cold hands grasp mine while the bloody wound in his neck pours and pours and pours.
Their voices waver, solidify, and then join together into one deafening stream of accusations.
Guilty, alone, broken. Guilty, alone, broken.
Worms, pale and wriggling, pour from Dad’s mouth, leak out of Melkin’s eyes, and squirm in the gaping wound at Oliver’s neck.
I scream and the crimson crawling over me slides past my lips and coats my tongue with bitterness. I gasp for air, but the blood is there instead. Tearing at my throat and plunging down to fill my chest, my stomach, and my lungs. I can’t breathe.
I can’t
breathe
.
“Shh,” someone says.
Another scream gathers at the back of my throat and claws its way through the blood filling my mouth.
“It’s all right,” someone says.
I stretch my lips wide, seeking air that refuses to come. Something warm and heavy presses against my cheek. Jerking my head to the side, I snatch a quick breath of blood-tainted air.
“Rachel. Wake up.”
My eyes fly open. A shadow looms over me, blotting out the faint light from the tent’s doorway. The shadow’s hand rests against my cheek, pressing close.
I whip my knife up and aim for the throat. The shadow twists, water-quick. Grabbing my wrist with its free hand, it slams my arm to the ground with enough force to knock my weapon loose.
I dig my heels in and wrench my body to the side. The shadow pins me and leans down.
“Shh, it’s Logan,” he says quietly against my ear.
It takes a moment for his words to penetrate the panic. My heart pounds against my chest, and my lungs are convinced I don’t have enough air. Not nearly enough air.
“Rachel?”
Slowly, the scent of blood fades, and I exhale, forcing my muscles to relax beneath him.
He releases his grip on my wrist and slowly slides his hand over mine, tangling our fingers together. I press my palm to his, desperate to imprint his skin where seconds ago the slick heat of blood had poured.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
My body shakes, my teeth chattering like I’ve been left out in the cold for hours, but I say, “I’m fine.”
It’s a lie, and we both know it, but I can’t bear to remember. I can’t bear to strip myself down to nothing but the blood that haunts my dreams. If I let it into my waking hours, I might drown in it.
“You’re shaking,” he says, but what he means is, “You’re lying.”
“I’m cold.”
He pulls me close, fits me against his side like a puzzle piece that was always meant to be there, and warmth seeps onto my skin.
“Rachel, please talk to me,” he whispers, but the voices in my head are louder.
Guilty. Alone. Broken.
A chorus that sounds like the only truth I have left. I push it away from me with desperate strength. I refuse to feel it. I
refuse
. It sinks into the silence, but I still feel covered in blood and shame. Logan leans closer, his dark blue eyes filled with worry, and opens his mouth as if to ask me another question. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to sift through the nightmare and find the reasons behind it. I just want it all to go away.
“What happened—”
I raise my head to kiss him, swallowing the rest of his words.
