I couldn’t care less. I just want to find Rachel. I need to know that she’s alive. Once I’ve found her, once I know that I’m not too late, I can focus on helping to bring down Rowansmark and then on annihilating the Commander once and for all.
The rowboat bumps gently against the shoreline, and Frankie hops out to haul the boat onto the sand and tie it to a tree. I follow him, and then reach my hand back to help the others get out of the boat. Willow rolls her eyes and leaps lightly onto the shore, as does Adam. Smithson takes my hand briefly, and then turns to help Nola himself.
That leaves Connor and Jodi and the job I’ve asked them to do. There’s no way I’m bringing Connor on a surreptitious trip inside Rowansmark with the intent to stage a jailbreak and then kill the city’s leader. Clarissa stuck her neck out for me enough by sending troops. She doesn’t need me to risk her son’s life. Plus, Connor has exactly the skill set I need in the person who will take the watch and send a smoke signal to Captain Burkes—he’s calm under pressure and he thinks fast on his feet, just like Jodi.
I help him from the boat and then clap a hand on his shoulder. “I’m glad you came with us.”
He smiles. “As am I.” He reaches for Jodi, and she hops out.
“You know what to watch for?” I ask.
“When the clock tower in the center square burns, we send the signal,” Connor says.
“We’ll need to find a tree high enough to see over the wall.” Jodi sounds cheered by the prospect. Connor goes pale, but smiles gamely.
“Sounds lovely.”
Jodi laughs. “You don’t mean that, but don’t worry. I won’t let you fall. We’ll find a tree with a nice stable cradle big enough for the two of us, and then we’ll just sit up there together until we see the signal.”
“Sounds lovely.” Connor’s voice is full of enthusiasm this time, and Jodi smiles shyly.
I tell them to be safe, and then I join the others in a trek toward Rowansmark, the tracking device gripped tightly in my hand.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
RACHEL
The sewage pipe that runs beneath Rowansmark is wide enough for a wagon and twice as tall. By the time I climb out of it and into the swampland south of the city, the sun is well on its way toward the western horizon, my boots and the hem of Ian’s cloak are covered in sewage, and the energy from the little bit of food Marcus gave me for breakfast has long since worn off. I ease out of the pipe and fall a few feet into the thick, murky swamp below. My feet instantly sink into the muddy ground, and I have to hoist the cloak and wade through water that reaches my thighs.
The entire place smells like raw sewage, moldering trees, and dank, stagnant water. Taking Ian’s advice about moving east quickly so that I don’t wander into any alligator-infested areas, I push through the molasses-thick swamp water until I reach a lip of dry land covered in fine, gritty dirt that is anchored by patches of wild grass.
I can’t see the shadow of Rowansmark’s wall to the north, but I know it’s there. And somewhere north of that, Logan is coming. I don’t believe the report that Logan went north. I know him. He’d move heaven and earth to find me. I don’t know how long it took him to get around the Commander’s army. I don’t know if he took a boat or had to travel by land, but he’s coming for me.
I can’t afford to assume that it will take him much longer to get here. Knowing his mind, and all of his interminable worst case scenarios, I have to assume that somehow Logan will find a way to arrive in Rowansmark before anyone expects him to.
Which means I have to move.
I don’t waste time wiping the sludge off my clothing. My boots and cloak will be easier to clean once they’re dry. My pants . . . I’ll figure out how to clean those later.
I slip into the dense greenery of the Wasteland and move as quickly as my injured back will allow. My stomach rumbles in protest, but I don’t stop to look for food. Not yet. I want to be north of Rowansmark by nightfall.
Lacy strips of Spanish moss drip from gnarled oak branches while clusters of fetterbush swipe at my cloak as I walk. Insects sing in the treetops, and the soft soil swallows the sound of my footsteps.
I am utterly alone for the first time since I tried to escape over Baalboden’s Wall and got caught by the Commander. Unease skates down my spine in prickles of ice, and I slowly crouch, gritting my teeth against the pain that stabs through my back, and remove the dagger from its sheath.
Not that I’m in any shape to use it, but it’s better than walking through the Wasteland completely defenseless. There are predators in this forest. Coyotes. Wildcats. Highwaymen. I have to be prepared.
The dagger doesn’t help me feel any better. As I walk forward on legs shaky with hunger and pain, the sensation of being one tiny speck in a vast, unknowable land presses down on me with relentless force. The back of my neck itches as if trying to warn me that I’m being followed. I slip behind a thick tree trunk, close my eyes, and listen.
A flock of birds chirps incessantly to my right, and the leaves above me sift and sigh in the gentle late afternoon breeze. A branch creaks, reminding me of the old floorboards in Oliver’s kitchen.
There’s nothing to cause me alarm. Nothing to explain the unsettled feeling that coils through me until I want to curl up on the ground, wrap my arms across my chest, and hold myself silent and still until somehow I feel less alone.
Maybe that’s what this is. Maybe I’ve spent so much time focused on what I have to say or do or be to those around me, that when I finally have a chance to be alone with myself, I don’t know how to do it. With no immediate threats, no conversations, and no task other than to put one foot ahead of the other, I’m stripped of everything I’ve used to distract myself from the grief and longing that live inside of me.
The rowboat bumps gently against the shoreline, and Frankie hops out to haul the boat onto the sand and tie it to a tree. I follow him, and then reach my hand back to help the others get out of the boat. Willow rolls her eyes and leaps lightly onto the shore, as does Adam. Smithson takes my hand briefly, and then turns to help Nola himself.
That leaves Connor and Jodi and the job I’ve asked them to do. There’s no way I’m bringing Connor on a surreptitious trip inside Rowansmark with the intent to stage a jailbreak and then kill the city’s leader. Clarissa stuck her neck out for me enough by sending troops. She doesn’t need me to risk her son’s life. Plus, Connor has exactly the skill set I need in the person who will take the watch and send a smoke signal to Captain Burkes—he’s calm under pressure and he thinks fast on his feet, just like Jodi.
I help him from the boat and then clap a hand on his shoulder. “I’m glad you came with us.”
He smiles. “As am I.” He reaches for Jodi, and she hops out.
“You know what to watch for?” I ask.
“When the clock tower in the center square burns, we send the signal,” Connor says.
“We’ll need to find a tree high enough to see over the wall.” Jodi sounds cheered by the prospect. Connor goes pale, but smiles gamely.
“Sounds lovely.”
Jodi laughs. “You don’t mean that, but don’t worry. I won’t let you fall. We’ll find a tree with a nice stable cradle big enough for the two of us, and then we’ll just sit up there together until we see the signal.”
“Sounds lovely.” Connor’s voice is full of enthusiasm this time, and Jodi smiles shyly.
I tell them to be safe, and then I join the others in a trek toward Rowansmark, the tracking device gripped tightly in my hand.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
RACHEL
The sewage pipe that runs beneath Rowansmark is wide enough for a wagon and twice as tall. By the time I climb out of it and into the swampland south of the city, the sun is well on its way toward the western horizon, my boots and the hem of Ian’s cloak are covered in sewage, and the energy from the little bit of food Marcus gave me for breakfast has long since worn off. I ease out of the pipe and fall a few feet into the thick, murky swamp below. My feet instantly sink into the muddy ground, and I have to hoist the cloak and wade through water that reaches my thighs.
The entire place smells like raw sewage, moldering trees, and dank, stagnant water. Taking Ian’s advice about moving east quickly so that I don’t wander into any alligator-infested areas, I push through the molasses-thick swamp water until I reach a lip of dry land covered in fine, gritty dirt that is anchored by patches of wild grass.
I can’t see the shadow of Rowansmark’s wall to the north, but I know it’s there. And somewhere north of that, Logan is coming. I don’t believe the report that Logan went north. I know him. He’d move heaven and earth to find me. I don’t know how long it took him to get around the Commander’s army. I don’t know if he took a boat or had to travel by land, but he’s coming for me.
I can’t afford to assume that it will take him much longer to get here. Knowing his mind, and all of his interminable worst case scenarios, I have to assume that somehow Logan will find a way to arrive in Rowansmark before anyone expects him to.
Which means I have to move.
I don’t waste time wiping the sludge off my clothing. My boots and cloak will be easier to clean once they’re dry. My pants . . . I’ll figure out how to clean those later.
I slip into the dense greenery of the Wasteland and move as quickly as my injured back will allow. My stomach rumbles in protest, but I don’t stop to look for food. Not yet. I want to be north of Rowansmark by nightfall.
Lacy strips of Spanish moss drip from gnarled oak branches while clusters of fetterbush swipe at my cloak as I walk. Insects sing in the treetops, and the soft soil swallows the sound of my footsteps.
I am utterly alone for the first time since I tried to escape over Baalboden’s Wall and got caught by the Commander. Unease skates down my spine in prickles of ice, and I slowly crouch, gritting my teeth against the pain that stabs through my back, and remove the dagger from its sheath.
Not that I’m in any shape to use it, but it’s better than walking through the Wasteland completely defenseless. There are predators in this forest. Coyotes. Wildcats. Highwaymen. I have to be prepared.
The dagger doesn’t help me feel any better. As I walk forward on legs shaky with hunger and pain, the sensation of being one tiny speck in a vast, unknowable land presses down on me with relentless force. The back of my neck itches as if trying to warn me that I’m being followed. I slip behind a thick tree trunk, close my eyes, and listen.
A flock of birds chirps incessantly to my right, and the leaves above me sift and sigh in the gentle late afternoon breeze. A branch creaks, reminding me of the old floorboards in Oliver’s kitchen.
There’s nothing to cause me alarm. Nothing to explain the unsettled feeling that coils through me until I want to curl up on the ground, wrap my arms across my chest, and hold myself silent and still until somehow I feel less alone.
Maybe that’s what this is. Maybe I’ve spent so much time focused on what I have to say or do or be to those around me, that when I finally have a chance to be alone with myself, I don’t know how to do it. With no immediate threats, no conversations, and no task other than to put one foot ahead of the other, I’m stripped of everything I’ve used to distract myself from the grief and longing that live inside of me.
