Deception

Chapter Thirteen LOGAN

Ian walks beside me as I lead the group toward what I’m hoping will be a usable campsite for the night. According to Jeremiah, we have only another hour or so to walk before we get to a large rock that will shelter us from at least some of the elements.

Rain is a merciless companion as we struggle through the Wasteland. It pools on our shoulders, our hoods, and our boots, chilling us to the bone. It flattens the grass with quick-moving streams of mud and lashes stray twigs and leaves from the trees above us. It drastically reduces visibility.

It’s the best travel companion I could’ve hoped for.

Highwaymen won’t brave the storm, so we’re safe from them for the moment. And the sudden streams that make walking difficult also wipe the land clean behind us, destroying all evidence of our passage. Unless the Commander is able to track our wristmark signals, he won’t know which way we went once we reached the Wasteland.

We’ve traveled hard for most of the day and have seen no sign of the army at our backs. Even the rain can’t dampen the relief I feel. A relief I see echoed on most of the faces around me. We’re free of the Commander. Free of the threat of Rowansmark coming after us.

For the first time in three weeks, I feel like I can breathe.

It’s a temporary reprieve. Once the storm passes, the water that wipes our tracks away will become mud that holds the proof of our journey in sharp relief. We have to put as much distance between us and our starting point as possible before then.

A tree in front of me shakes gently, and Quinn drops from a low branch and walks toward me. He’s limping.

“Tree leaping instead of walking?” Ian asks beside me.

Quinn shrugs. “It’s how I was trained to travel. Leaves fewer signs for a tracker to follow and offers better visibility. Even in the rain.” He pulls a slim sheaf of papers from beneath his tunic and thrusts them at me. “Jeremiah’s map. He says the terrain gets tricky in the next two hundred yards or so and wanted you to have this.”

I roll up the papers and tuck them into an inner cloak pocket where they’ll remain dry. “What happened to your leg?”

“Got sliced by a sword.”

“How deep?”

He waves his hand in the air as if swatting away any concern I might feel. “It’s superficial. I’ll be fine in a day or two.”

“What happened?”

“Jeremiah was in the hall when Carrington broke down the compound’s door. Rachel went to rescue him. Willow and I helped.”

“You’d be better able to protect yourself if you carried a sword of your own.”

“That’s not an option.”

I swipe rain out of my eyes and look at him. His dark hair is plastered to his head, and his shoulders are hunched against the downpour, but his eyes are full of resolve.

“Do you need to ride in a wagon until the leg heals?”

He raises a brow. “I think you just insulted my manhood.”

I smile. “I think you’re right. Sorry about that.”

Before he can leave, I reach out and clasp his shoulder. “Thank you. For bringing the map and for helping Rachel. Both with Jeremiah and with the Commander.”

He holds my gaze for a moment and then says, “Happy to help.”

“I hope you mean that, because I need to ask you for a favor. It’s about Rachel.” I pause, but I can’t think of any way to ask for help protecting her that doesn’t make it sound like I think less of her skills. I don’t. I respect her tremendously. I also understand her, which means I know without a doubt that if the Commander is within reach again, every cautious word I’ve spoken, every careful plan we’ve constructed, will turn to ash in the flames of her need for vengeance.

“I’m always kept busy now,” I say, gesturing toward the crowd behind us. “And while Rachel is very capable of taking care of herself in a fight, if the Commander shows up again . . . he hurt her.” I push the memory of Rachel, broken and silent after Oliver’s death, away from me. “If he’s near her, I don’t know what she might do.”

“I know what she’ll do,” Ian says, grudging admiration in his voice. “She’ll kill him. Probably while extracting as much pain from him as she can. You have to admire that kind of dedication.”

“And what would be left of her when she finished?” Quinn asks. Ian looks away, and Quinn locks eyes with me. “She won’t sacrifice herself on my watch.”

“Thank you.” The words are inadequate, but they’re all I have.

As Quinn hoists himself into the closest tree again, Ian asks, “What’s his story?”

“What do you mean?” I glance at the crowd behind me, their chins tucked down and their cloaks clutched close to their throats as they trudge through the rain. I can’t see Rachel, though I know she’s near the back of the line. The people walk slowly, mud sucking at their boots, and I bite back a surge of impatience. I want to prod everyone to move faster. To ignore the discomfort and do what it takes to survive.

“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.