As we pass each pair of steel ribs, I count the yards in my head. By the time we reach the solid wall of dirt at the end of the tunnel, I estimate we’ve traveled three hundred sixty-eight yards. That’s about one hundred seventy-three yards past Baalboden’s perimeter and into the northern Wasteland.
“You really do need to fix the machine,” Ian says. He sounds surprised. When I look at him, he tugs on the silver chain he wears around his neck and says, “You’ve never asked for my help before. I figured you had ulterior motives.”
I study him for a moment and say, “I could use the help, but yes, I had ulterior motives. I wanted to talk to you. Alone.”
He grins. “Never thought the first person in camp to try to get me alone in a dark, private place would be you, but—”
“Where did you learn how to fight?”
Ian stiffens and slowly raises his gaze to mine. Torchlight flickers against the blue of his eyes. “What makes you think I know how to fight?”
I step closer. “Answering a question with a question is simply a way to gain enough time to think of a plausible lie.”
His lips thin, but his voice is calm. “I wasn’t trying to think of a lie. I was asking to see what gave me away.”
“You have one minute to explain to me where you learned how to fight and why you’ve been hiding it from the rest of us before I decide you’re the one with ulterior motives here.”
“It was Rachel, wasn’t it?” He slaps his hand against the wall behind him. “I knew she was watching me too closely this morning. She should be happy that someone on that practice field knows what he’s doing.”
“You should be happy I’m the one questioning you instead of her. You’d already be missing a few vital organs. Who are you really, and what are you hiding?”
His shoulders sag, and he seems to shrink a little before my eyes. “I want your promise that what I tell you will stay between us.”
“Absolutely not.”
Something flickers in his eyes, but he blinks it away before I can identify it. “If you don’t—if you tell the others about this, they’ll kill me in my sleep.”
“If you deserve death, you won’t be leaving this tunnel, never mind getting another opportunity to go to sleep.”
He holds his body still, his eyes locked on mine. “I don’t deserve death, Logan. But others might not see it that way.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
The torchlight dances in his blue eyes like inner flames, and he nods slowly. “Judge and be judged.”
“What?”
He shakes his head. “Just something my father used to say.”
“Answer, Ian. Now.”
Without taking his eyes from mine, he says, “My father worked for the Commander. He was . . . loyal.”
He lingers over the word as if it holds some secret meaning for him as he pulls the silver chain out from under his tunic. A small copper dragon-scale charm hangs off the middle of the chain.
“What was your father’s job?”
Ian looks away. “Brute Squad.”
Brute Squad. The Commander’s elite group of guards tasked with torturing prisoners, scaring the population into compliance, and publicly flogging those who broke the law. My palms are suddenly damp, and I clench my fists. “And you?”
“Apprenticed to take his place.”
It takes every ounce of willpower I have to force my expression to remain neutral. Ian’s right. Every person in our group would want him dead if they knew who he was.
When I don’t reply, Ian looks me in the eye again. “In the interest of full disclosure, because I wouldn’t want to be accused of having ulterior motives”—he brackets the words with air quotes—“I know more about Rowansmark than the average survivor in our camp.”
“How?” The stolen Rowansmark tech I wear strapped beneath my tunic suddenly feels heavy and obvious.
“My father died in Rowansmark. Punished at the hands of a tracker for being loyal to the Commander. I was there.” He dangles the dragon-scale charm between us, his gaze locked on the trinket like it hurts him to look at it. “This was the last gift my father gave to me. It’s all I have left of him.”
His voice is crisp. Almost emotionless. I’m not fooled. I can see the horror in his eyes. The scars that rot him from the inside out. I know what it’s like to watch a parent die. To stand helpless while someone bigger and stronger destroys someone you love and leaves you with nothing. I know how the loneliness sours into bitterness until every memory is tainted with the dregs of a sorrow you can never quite shake.
I take a slow breath. “Why didn’t you follow the Commander? Or leave with the group who went to find him?”
“Follow the man who put my father in that position in the first place? No.”
I understand the anger. The desperation to keep his background a secret from the others. He wants a fresh start.
I do, too.
“I’m sorry about your father,” I say, and step back from him. “I won’t tell you it will get easier or that you’ll move on or any of the other useless things people say to make you feel better.”
“I’ll feel better when the man responsible is punished.” Ian stuffs his necklace beneath his tunic again and pushes away from the wall.
Another thing we have in common. We both want the Commander to pay for his crimes.
“You really do need to fix the machine,” Ian says. He sounds surprised. When I look at him, he tugs on the silver chain he wears around his neck and says, “You’ve never asked for my help before. I figured you had ulterior motives.”
I study him for a moment and say, “I could use the help, but yes, I had ulterior motives. I wanted to talk to you. Alone.”
He grins. “Never thought the first person in camp to try to get me alone in a dark, private place would be you, but—”
“Where did you learn how to fight?”
Ian stiffens and slowly raises his gaze to mine. Torchlight flickers against the blue of his eyes. “What makes you think I know how to fight?”
I step closer. “Answering a question with a question is simply a way to gain enough time to think of a plausible lie.”
His lips thin, but his voice is calm. “I wasn’t trying to think of a lie. I was asking to see what gave me away.”
“You have one minute to explain to me where you learned how to fight and why you’ve been hiding it from the rest of us before I decide you’re the one with ulterior motives here.”
“It was Rachel, wasn’t it?” He slaps his hand against the wall behind him. “I knew she was watching me too closely this morning. She should be happy that someone on that practice field knows what he’s doing.”
“You should be happy I’m the one questioning you instead of her. You’d already be missing a few vital organs. Who are you really, and what are you hiding?”
His shoulders sag, and he seems to shrink a little before my eyes. “I want your promise that what I tell you will stay between us.”
“Absolutely not.”
Something flickers in his eyes, but he blinks it away before I can identify it. “If you don’t—if you tell the others about this, they’ll kill me in my sleep.”
“If you deserve death, you won’t be leaving this tunnel, never mind getting another opportunity to go to sleep.”
He holds his body still, his eyes locked on mine. “I don’t deserve death, Logan. But others might not see it that way.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
The torchlight dances in his blue eyes like inner flames, and he nods slowly. “Judge and be judged.”
“What?”
He shakes his head. “Just something my father used to say.”
“Answer, Ian. Now.”
Without taking his eyes from mine, he says, “My father worked for the Commander. He was . . . loyal.”
He lingers over the word as if it holds some secret meaning for him as he pulls the silver chain out from under his tunic. A small copper dragon-scale charm hangs off the middle of the chain.
“What was your father’s job?”
Ian looks away. “Brute Squad.”
Brute Squad. The Commander’s elite group of guards tasked with torturing prisoners, scaring the population into compliance, and publicly flogging those who broke the law. My palms are suddenly damp, and I clench my fists. “And you?”
“Apprenticed to take his place.”
It takes every ounce of willpower I have to force my expression to remain neutral. Ian’s right. Every person in our group would want him dead if they knew who he was.
When I don’t reply, Ian looks me in the eye again. “In the interest of full disclosure, because I wouldn’t want to be accused of having ulterior motives”—he brackets the words with air quotes—“I know more about Rowansmark than the average survivor in our camp.”
“How?” The stolen Rowansmark tech I wear strapped beneath my tunic suddenly feels heavy and obvious.
“My father died in Rowansmark. Punished at the hands of a tracker for being loyal to the Commander. I was there.” He dangles the dragon-scale charm between us, his gaze locked on the trinket like it hurts him to look at it. “This was the last gift my father gave to me. It’s all I have left of him.”
His voice is crisp. Almost emotionless. I’m not fooled. I can see the horror in his eyes. The scars that rot him from the inside out. I know what it’s like to watch a parent die. To stand helpless while someone bigger and stronger destroys someone you love and leaves you with nothing. I know how the loneliness sours into bitterness until every memory is tainted with the dregs of a sorrow you can never quite shake.
I take a slow breath. “Why didn’t you follow the Commander? Or leave with the group who went to find him?”
“Follow the man who put my father in that position in the first place? No.”
I understand the anger. The desperation to keep his background a secret from the others. He wants a fresh start.
I do, too.
“I’m sorry about your father,” I say, and step back from him. “I won’t tell you it will get easier or that you’ll move on or any of the other useless things people say to make you feel better.”
“I’ll feel better when the man responsible is punished.” Ian stuffs his necklace beneath his tunic again and pushes away from the wall.
Another thing we have in common. We both want the Commander to pay for his crimes.
