Here and there people crane their necks to see Quinn and Willow, the Tree People Jared trusted to give the device to Rachel and me, but still, no one responds. I’m betting that’s about to change.
A brisk breeze kicks through the camp, tugging on loose flaps of canvas. I shrug my cloak closer to my shoulders, take a deep breath, and continue. “And we need people to defend us if we’re going to stay alive long enough to get to safety.”
The crowd shifts restlessly, and people begin whispering to each other.
“You mean we aren’t staying here and rebuilding? You’re taking us into the Wasteland? That’s a death sentence,” someone calls from the left. I turn and see Adam, a boy about my age. I recognize him from the group who meets daily to spar. He stands a little apart from everyone else with his arms crossed over his chest, a clear challenge in his dark, almond-shaped eyes. The uncomfortable squirming in my stomach settles.
A challenge is much easier to face than the expectations I see written across almost every other face.
Frankie Jay, a bear of a man who worked closely with Drake before Baalboden burned, folds his huge freckled arms across his chest and stares Adam down until he looks away.
I raise my voice above the murmurs spreading across the field and say, “Rebuild with what? We don’t have those kind of supplies. Besides, we’d never get the gate repaired in time to save us from our enemies.”
“What enemies?” another man calls from my right. “We’ve never hurt anyone.”
Others voice their agreement and soon conversations erupt across the field.
“Quiet!” Frankie’s voice cracks through the air like a whip, and silence descends. He slaps one large, freckled fist into his other palm in a clear message that he’d be happy to gain their cooperation with or without their consent.
I nod my thanks to him and face the crowd. “There’s a reason every city-state is surrounded by a wall. A reason every gate is guarded.”
“Yes, and all of those reasons are in the Wasteland!” a woman yells.
“For now. But what happens when word gets around that our gate is in ruins? That our city is easily plundered? That we have girls in our camp, but we don’t have enough trained guards to be able to defend them against a mob of highwaymen or worse?” I ask.
“What could be worse than highwaymen?” a girl near the front asks.
I clench my fists and prepare to lay the truth on the table, one miserable piece at a time.
“An army.”
There’s a beat of silence, and then a tall woman with brown skin and graying brown hair says, “What city-state would send an army to attack us? We’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Rowansmark attacked representatives of Baalboden in an unprovoked act of war just before our city burned, and they control the south.”
The words have barely left my mouth when Ian, another boy my age who trains with the sparring group, steps away from the wagon he’d been leaning on. The morning sun carves deep shadows beneath his cheekbones. “Why would Rowansmark do that?”
“Because James Rowan thinks the Commander stole a very important piece of tech. He won’t stop until he gets it back,” I say, and catch myself reaching toward the device strapped to my chest beneath my tunic.
“Why not just make another one? What a waste of manpower,” Adam says.
“And let a theft go unpunished?” Ian shakes his head. “You don’t know much about Rowansmark, do you?”
No, he doesn’t. Most of us don’t. Other than Rachel, I don’t know anyone in our group who’s been to Rowansmark.
“And you do?” I ask Ian.
He shrugs. “I know what I learned in school, just like everyone else.”
Since the Commander wouldn’t allow me to attend school, I have no answer for that.
“It’s a stain on their honor,” Rachel says from beside the food wagon. “Another city-state successfully stole one of their inventions and refuses to return it. Their honor can’t be redeemed until the tech is returned and the thief pays the price for his crime.”
“Plus, they may not want anyone else to be able to copy their design,” Elias, a young man who often helps guard the camp, says.
I make sure my next words are very clear. “Which is another reason why we can’t stay here. The Commander wants to copy their design, and he’s convinced I have the stolen tech. We already know the Commander allows nothing to stand in the way of what he wants. I don’t know where he went or if he’s called in a favor from one of his southeastern allies, but I do know that he won’t let this go.”
I sweep the crowd with my gaze. “The only reason we didn’t leave earlier is because those who were injured in the fire weren’t well enough to travel. And because we needed enough time to find a way for us to escape these ruins without leaving a trail.”
“Where will we go?”
“How on earth can we travel without leaving a trail?”
“Won’t we be killed in the Wasteland?”
The questions fly at me from every corner of the clearing, and I raise my voice. “We’re going north. As for traveling without leaving a trail . . .” I look at Drake, Frankie, and Thom—the burly owner of Thom’s Tankard, who never has much to say but who silently guards my back with a steadfast loyalty I feel sure I haven’t earned—then gaze out at the survivors again. “With the help of a handful of men, I’ve been working on that. We’re digging a tunnel from the compound’s basement as far into the northern Wasteland as we can get before surfacing. By traveling underground for at least a thousand yards, we’ll be impossible to track. It will be like we just vanished off the face of the earth.”
A brisk breeze kicks through the camp, tugging on loose flaps of canvas. I shrug my cloak closer to my shoulders, take a deep breath, and continue. “And we need people to defend us if we’re going to stay alive long enough to get to safety.”
The crowd shifts restlessly, and people begin whispering to each other.
“You mean we aren’t staying here and rebuilding? You’re taking us into the Wasteland? That’s a death sentence,” someone calls from the left. I turn and see Adam, a boy about my age. I recognize him from the group who meets daily to spar. He stands a little apart from everyone else with his arms crossed over his chest, a clear challenge in his dark, almond-shaped eyes. The uncomfortable squirming in my stomach settles.
A challenge is much easier to face than the expectations I see written across almost every other face.
Frankie Jay, a bear of a man who worked closely with Drake before Baalboden burned, folds his huge freckled arms across his chest and stares Adam down until he looks away.
I raise my voice above the murmurs spreading across the field and say, “Rebuild with what? We don’t have those kind of supplies. Besides, we’d never get the gate repaired in time to save us from our enemies.”
“What enemies?” another man calls from my right. “We’ve never hurt anyone.”
Others voice their agreement and soon conversations erupt across the field.
“Quiet!” Frankie’s voice cracks through the air like a whip, and silence descends. He slaps one large, freckled fist into his other palm in a clear message that he’d be happy to gain their cooperation with or without their consent.
I nod my thanks to him and face the crowd. “There’s a reason every city-state is surrounded by a wall. A reason every gate is guarded.”
“Yes, and all of those reasons are in the Wasteland!” a woman yells.
“For now. But what happens when word gets around that our gate is in ruins? That our city is easily plundered? That we have girls in our camp, but we don’t have enough trained guards to be able to defend them against a mob of highwaymen or worse?” I ask.
“What could be worse than highwaymen?” a girl near the front asks.
I clench my fists and prepare to lay the truth on the table, one miserable piece at a time.
“An army.”
There’s a beat of silence, and then a tall woman with brown skin and graying brown hair says, “What city-state would send an army to attack us? We’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Rowansmark attacked representatives of Baalboden in an unprovoked act of war just before our city burned, and they control the south.”
The words have barely left my mouth when Ian, another boy my age who trains with the sparring group, steps away from the wagon he’d been leaning on. The morning sun carves deep shadows beneath his cheekbones. “Why would Rowansmark do that?”
“Because James Rowan thinks the Commander stole a very important piece of tech. He won’t stop until he gets it back,” I say, and catch myself reaching toward the device strapped to my chest beneath my tunic.
“Why not just make another one? What a waste of manpower,” Adam says.
“And let a theft go unpunished?” Ian shakes his head. “You don’t know much about Rowansmark, do you?”
No, he doesn’t. Most of us don’t. Other than Rachel, I don’t know anyone in our group who’s been to Rowansmark.
“And you do?” I ask Ian.
He shrugs. “I know what I learned in school, just like everyone else.”
Since the Commander wouldn’t allow me to attend school, I have no answer for that.
“It’s a stain on their honor,” Rachel says from beside the food wagon. “Another city-state successfully stole one of their inventions and refuses to return it. Their honor can’t be redeemed until the tech is returned and the thief pays the price for his crime.”
“Plus, they may not want anyone else to be able to copy their design,” Elias, a young man who often helps guard the camp, says.
I make sure my next words are very clear. “Which is another reason why we can’t stay here. The Commander wants to copy their design, and he’s convinced I have the stolen tech. We already know the Commander allows nothing to stand in the way of what he wants. I don’t know where he went or if he’s called in a favor from one of his southeastern allies, but I do know that he won’t let this go.”
I sweep the crowd with my gaze. “The only reason we didn’t leave earlier is because those who were injured in the fire weren’t well enough to travel. And because we needed enough time to find a way for us to escape these ruins without leaving a trail.”
“Where will we go?”
“How on earth can we travel without leaving a trail?”
“Won’t we be killed in the Wasteland?”
The questions fly at me from every corner of the clearing, and I raise my voice. “We’re going north. As for traveling without leaving a trail . . .” I look at Drake, Frankie, and Thom—the burly owner of Thom’s Tankard, who never has much to say but who silently guards my back with a steadfast loyalty I feel sure I haven’t earned—then gaze out at the survivors again. “With the help of a handful of men, I’ve been working on that. We’re digging a tunnel from the compound’s basement as far into the northern Wasteland as we can get before surfacing. By traveling underground for at least a thousand yards, we’ll be impossible to track. It will be like we just vanished off the face of the earth.”
