“I get it.” I hold my hand up to stop the flow of words. “You study people the way I study technology.”
“Oh, you study people, too. But you’re less concerned with their inner emotional landscape than with their usefulness to your agenda and with any possibility that they might sabotage your plans.”
I stare at him and nearly get smacked in the face by an errant branch for my trouble. “That’s harsh.”
He raises a brow. “It wasn’t meant to be. Your ability to assess motives, strengths, and weaknesses makes you a good leader. The fact that you also have the integrity not to use that ability to harm those who trust you makes you great. And like all great leaders, you know when to keep your secrets, but Frankie seems to be a close friend of yours. Which is why I’m trying to figure out why you lied to him.”
“You may not have your mother’s skill at making people uncomfortable when you walk into a room, but you get there eventually.”
“Indeed. So now I’m curious—why hide your true feelings from a close friend?”
“It doesn’t matter. You’re observant. I get it. And I’m glad, because we’re going to need . . .” I can’t finish the sentence, even though I’ve just proven him right. I do assess people’s strengths, looking for how they can be useful to my plans.
“You’re going to need my observations when you deal with Chelmingford, yes. It’s not a crime to use your people’s strengths, especially when they’re freely offered.” He looks at Frankie as we crest the hill we’ve been climbing and see the vast darkness of the northern Wasteland, ribboned with glittering bodies of water, spread out before us. “But you talk plans and strategy. Contingencies and fallbacks. You don’t talk about why you never sleep well, or why Willow bullies you into eating enough, or why when you’re lost in thought, you look like you’re on the brink of losing everything that matters.”
“Connor—”
He holds up a hand. “I’m not asking you to tell me the truth. I’m simply saying that a truth that eats away at you shouldn’t be shouldered alone. Frankie cares enough to ask. Why not let him in?”
I take a deep breath of the spicy, pine-scented air and find that I have nothing to say. I don’t know how to let people in. I never learned. Besides Oliver, Jared, and Rachel, every encounter I had with the people in Baalboden was guarded. Adversarial. I knew better than to show weakness, fear, or doubt.
I guess some habits are hard to break.
I turn away from Connor and urge my horse to move a little faster while I sort through my heavy thoughts. How to approach Chelmingford. How to transform the stolen transmitters hidden within my pocket into a weapon the Commander will never see coming. How to defeat the three armies waiting for us at Rowansmark when they have the advantage of knowing the terrain and when they must have a supply of tech that my handful of transmitters can’t equal.
But mostly, I think of Rachel. Of missing her. Of how I can’t keep secrets from her, but I don’t know how to stop keeping them from everybody else.
I have no idea how to change that, and so I focus on the problems I can control and tell myself that the secret doubts I’m holding on to are better left unsaid.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF–NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
RACHEL
Someone is screaming—raw, anguished sounds that flay the air and hurt my eardrums. I try to swim up through the layers of hazy darkness that keep dragging me into unconsciousness, but I can’t get my bearings. I’m drifting. Spinning. Weightless and heavy at the same time.
Pain slices into my right arm, sharp and bright, jerking me through the layers of darkness and thrusting me into the harsh reality of consciousness.
The person screaming is me.
“She’s waking up. Hold her down.” Samuel’s voice is calm.
“Might be easier to just knock her out again,” Ian says.
“With what?” Samuel asks as more pain blazes up my arm and seizes my chest. “Get her legs before she kicks out my teeth!”
Something heavy lands on my legs, and I pry my gritty eyelids open to see Ian sitting on me while another man holds my right arm steady enough for Samuel to dig into my wound with a thin silver blade.
Blood and pus gush out of the wound and drip down my fingers. My throat feels thick and raw. I’m lying on the second bed in the medical bay. I can’t see if Heidi still occupies the bed closest to the door, and I have better things to worry about than who shares the room with me.
Samuel lowers his blade, and brilliant agony sears me. I scream, arching my back off the mattress and doing my best to send Ian onto the floor. I claw at Samuel with my left hand, trying desperately to reach him. He evades my grasp, and seconds later Ian snatches my arm and anchors it to the mattress with his own. Samuel raises his knife again, and I crack.
“Stop. Please. Stop,” I say. I hate to beg Samuel for anything, but I can’t bear more of that pain.
“It’s infected, Rachel,” he says. “I’ve done my best to remove the bad tissue and squeeze the infected fluid out, but I have to get it all, or you aren’t going to survive this.”
“Give her some pain medicine,” says the man holding my arm in place. I stare at him with his pale eyes and ridiculously large blond mustache and decide of everyone in this room, he’s my favorite.
“No.” Ian’s voice is cold. “She swore she could handle any pain I could give her. Let her prove it.”
“And what good will that do?” Samuel asks quietly.
“I’ll feel better about the way she broke her promise. The way she chose to take what wasn’t hers in the first place, just like her father.”
“If a young girl’s screams make you feel better, then you need help,” Samuel says.
Ian swears. “I don’t need help, Samuel. Not now. And certainly not from you.”
Samuel sets the blade on the table and dabs his hands with a white towel. I look away from the flowers of crimson blood that dot its surface and try not to think about Oliver’s blood staining my white tunic while I sat in the back of the wagon trying to understand that he was dead.
“Give her some medicine,” Samuel says to the blond man. “Once it kicks in, I’ll finish.”
Ian laughs, a mocking, bitter sound that seems to bow the set of Samuel’s shoulders. “I see. Take care of the little Baalboden girl whose father helped destroy mine.”
“Her father didn’t intend the harm that was done.”
I blink at Samuel in surprise. I never thought I’d hear him defend my father, especially when it means going against his own leader.
The blond man offers me a pinch of gray-white powder, and I obediently open my mouth. I don’t know what he’s giving me, and at this point, I don’t care. My arm hurts more than I ever thought was possible. I’ll do anything to make it stop. The powder coats my tongue with a fine grit that tastes sour and is hard to swallow without water. As if he understands my thoughts, the man brings a cup of lukewarm water to my lips and tips a little of the liquid into my mouth.
“Did you intend the harm that was done?” Ian asks Samuel, a challenge in his voice.
Samuel looks at the blond man. “Thank you. Can you give us a moment, please?”
The man leaves without a sound, and Samuel grabs another clean towel and begins mopping up my arm, careful to avoid touching the open seam of flesh. I wish he wouldn’t be so gentle with me. I can’t reconcile this treatment with the man who would let Ian poison innocent people and trap an entire group in a ring of dangerous white phosphorous fire.
Finished with my arm for the moment, Samuel sets the bloodstained towel on the floor and presses a cool palm against my forehead. Until that moment, I hadn’t realized that the fever that had turned my thoughts sluggish and my body weak is nearly gone. He must have given me something for that when I lost consciousness. I wonder how long I’ve been lying here, and i
f Quinn was able to return to the supply room without being seen.
“How long have I been out?” My voice is nothing but a hoarse croak.
“We found you on the deck just before midnight last night. It’s now midmorning,” Samuel says. “You were feverish. Delirious—”
“Kept calling for someone named Oliver. Does Logan know?” Ian smirks at me, his blue eyes hard.
I don’t have enough spit in my mouth for the tirade of abuse I’d like to aim at him. I settle for looking away like nothing he has to say matters to me in the least.
It’s not very satisfying.
“You’d tried to treat your wound yourself. Do you remember?” Samuel asks as he holds a cup of water to my lips.
“This is stupid.” Ian jumps off the bed and grabs my face, knocking aside the cup. “You don’t deserve water. You don’t deserve medicine.”
“Ian.” Samuel’s voice is still calm, but there’s pain inside it.
Ian digs his fingers into my cheeks. “You deserve to be staked to the deck and left to burn in the sun until your skin peels away from your bones and you beg for relief that isn’t coming.”
“Ian!” Samuel wraps his hand around Ian’s wrist, and Ian jerks away from both of us, his eyes wild. “She isn’t to blame for everything that upsets you.”
This from the man who told me if I had only returned the device to Rowansmark in the first place, Ian wouldn’t have been broken.
Of course, he also told me that he’s afraid of what more sanctioned violence would do to Ian’s spirit. I look into Ian’s eyes, at the light of furious need that burns inside him, and shiver. Samuel’s right. Ian is broken, and every time he lashes out, hoping the pain he causes others will somehow soak up his own, he loses himself a little more.
I’m relieved that I chose not to put the blood clot medicine in Heidi’s wound while she slept. I don’t want to end up like Ian, spilling my hurt over others like a poison that has no cure.
“Then who is to blame? Who?” Ian yells and smashes his fist into a jar of something green and goopy. Viscous liquid slowly drips off the shelf, and blood wells from a web of cuts across Ian’s knuckles.
“Me,” Samuels says. His voice is quiet and full of the kind of guilt that once drove me into my inner silence. “I’m to blame, Ian. Me, and your dad, and James Rowan. We failed you, and I’m sorry.” His voice breaks. “I’m sorry.”
Ian vibrates like a plucked wire. “You’re sorry. What good does that do me now? He was your friend, and you didn’t help him. You didn’t warn him. You just let them come for him and sentence him to death.”
“I know.” Samuel looks at the floor. “And then I made it worse by allowing you to be the one to carry out the sentence. I should’ve protested. I should’ve volunteered. Found a way to convince James that I was the better person for the job.”
“I did my job.” Ian’s jaw clenches. “I’m a good tracker. I’m a loyal citizen. I did my job. I didn’t need you to do it for me.”
“Yes, you did. And I failed you.”
Ian whirls away and starts pacing the tight quarters while a warm fuzziness slowly encroaches on my thoughts. Whatever the blond man gave me is taking effect.
“And then I thought that if I helped you clear your family’s honor, if I did what I could to make it easier for you to carry out the pain atonement against those who took the controller, it would make up for my failure. It would heal you—”
“I don’t need to be healed. I just need to finish this.”
“And then what? What will you have left after you’re done? A string of murders to your name, starting with your father’s—”
“I did not murder my father!” Ian leaps across the room, crashes into Samuel, and wraps his hands around the older man’s neck. They slam into the wall beside me, knocking the table awry and sending the thin silver blade tumbling to the floor.
Samuel does nothing to defend himself. He just leans against the wall with Ian’s fingers digging into his neck, and closes his eyes as if he’s willing to die.
For a moment, the only sound in the room is the harsh rasp of Ian’s breath, and then he curses and drops his hands. His voice shakes as he says, “Marcus McEntire broke the law and did not survive his pain atonement. His death was just.”
“Ian—”
“It was just. It restored his honor. And everything I’ve done since then has been just. I only have to finish it. Just finish it.” He sounds impossibly tired.
“Let me finish it for you.” Samuel straightens slowly, but Ian is already backing toward the door.
The fuzziness presses down on me, and my eyelids flutter as Ian says, “I don’t need your help anymore, Samuel. You were my dad’s friend. You aren’t mine.”
The door shuts behind him as my lids close and the darkness takes me once again.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF–NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
RACHEL
When I open my eyes again, I’m alone in the medical bay with Heidi, who lies propped up on the other bed, slowly lacing a boot on her injured leg. She glances at me as I lift my right arm and examine the crisp white bandage that covers my wound. A yellowish-brown stain lines the bandage on my inner forearm, but it isn’t discharge from my wound. It smells sharp and bitter.
“It’s goldenseal,” Heidi says when I sniff the bandage. “Disinfects the wound and kills off bacteria that cause infections. You won’t be smelling pretty for a while.”
I cut my eyes toward her leg. “Your leg wound doesn’t smell so great either, you know. He must’ve used the same stuff on you.”
“I reckon.” She bends toward her boot and winces as she brushes against her leg. “We’re coming into port. Be off the boat in thirty minutes, more or less.” She glances at my hair. “Might want to clean yourself up a bit before you meet James Rowan.”
I have no intention of meeting James Rowan, cleaned up or otherwise, but I’d be a fool to pass up the opportunity to bathe. I have no idea when I’ll get another chance at clean water and some soap.
I push myself into a sitting position. My fever is gone, but my throat still aches, though this time, I’m pretty sure it’s raw from screaming. My thoughts still feel a little bit fuzzy from whatever pain medicine the blond man gave me, but the room doesn’t spin as I stand up.
“Bathroom’s on the other side of the deck. Use the middle hallway to cut across. Masterson has been assigned to watch you,” Heidi says.
“Fine.” I wiggle the fingers on my right hand. They’re still swollen, but at least I can bend them somewhat now.
“You’re supposed to swallow that before you do anything.” Heidi gestures toward the table between our beds.
I turn and find a small cup half full of a pale-yellow liquid. It smells atrocious.
“What is it?”
“More medicine to fight the infection.” Heidi straightens her injured leg slowly.
Another thing I can’t afford to refuse. I hold my breath, toss the nasty medicine down the back of my throat, and head for the door.
“Don’t go far. Just to the bathroom and back.” Her voice is thick with warning.
“Where am I going to go? Overboard?” I yank open the door and step outside.
I’ve slept nearly the entire day away. Dusk hangs in the air, a mantle of purple slowly smothering the western sky.
I glance around the deck, hoping to catch sight of Quinn even though I know he’d be a fool to be out of hiding while there’s still daylight left. I don’t see him, but the knowledge that he’s on the boat warms me.
The air carries the soft, musty scent of wet bark mixed with the sharp tang of the bright-green algae that blooms in the water. Ahead of us, the river spills into a huge lake. At the far end of the lake is the dam with its system of locks that keep the enormous amount of water in the river from flooding the city-state of Rowansma
rk.
Heidi was right. If we’re already nearing the first gate, it won’t be long before we make port. I need to hurry.
Voices murmur above me, and a tracker with thick arms and unsympathetic eyes stands near the hall that bisects the lower deck. He looks at me, gestures toward the hall, and then watches carefully while I obey his silent instructions. I’m guessing this is Masterson.
I hurry past Masterson and find the bathroom. It’s a small, windowless box of a room. Closing and locking the door behind me, I stare at myself in the mirror bolted to the wall above a small, pump-operated sink. I barely recognize the wild-haired, hollow-faced girl looking back at me.
Gone is the pride, the complete confidence that I could take on the entire world with nothing but determination and the things I learned from my father. In its place are shadows of grief and guilt and a weary understanding that there are few easy answers, and even fewer easy roads to walk. The confidence I have now has little to do with my ability to win a fight, and everything to do with the knowledge that my choices have consequences, and that if I’m not prepared to face the consequence, then I have to make a different choice.
I pump some water into the sink and grimace at the floating bits of silt and algae that flood out of the pipe. This water must be pumped straight from the river. Pressing my lips closed to avoid getting any in my mouth, I grab the bar of soap sitting on the side of the sink and use my left hand to scrub clean as much of my skin as I can reach without stripping out of my clothes.
Then I finger-comb my hair and tame it into a long braid like the one Willow wears. I don’t have anything to tie off the end, so I rip off a bit of the bandage on my right arm and use that.
The girl staring back at me looks more presentable now, though the hollows in her cheeks can’t be fixed so easily. Nor can the hollowness in her eyes. I decide I don’t want it fixed. I don’t want to go back to the girl who glibly thought she could make life bend to her will if only she pushed hard enough. I don’t want to pretend that everything is black and white, that people are either all good or all bad, and that I’m the one best qualified to tell the difference.