Deception

by C. J. Redwine

  “I should’ve waited for you,” I say quietly.

  She says nothing.

  “When I went over the gate, I was sure you were right behind me, and I was focused on catching the soldiers who already went through. I didn’t know that I’d be leaving you to face the Commander alone.” I swallow hard as the unwelcome image of Rachel lying dead at the Commander’s feet taunts me.

  “You did the right thing,” she says, but her voice sounds detached. Like she’s saying the words she thinks I want to hear, but keeping the truth locked somewhere inside.

  “The right thing is to protect you.”

  Her shoulders straighten, and she shifts the load of boots and knives she carries. “The right thing is to take care of those who can’t take care of themselves. You don’t have to worry about me. I could’ve taken him if Quinn hadn’t interfered.”

  It takes a second for her words to register, but when they do, I have to grit my teeth to keep from raising my voice. “Are you saying you deliberately stayed outside the Wall so you could face him? Alone?”

  “Not at first. A soldier caught me.” She still sounds like the words she says mean nothing to her, and the fear that slides through me flickers into anger.

  “And you got away from him. Didn’t you?”

  “Of course.” She sounds insulted.

  A gust of wind snatches her hair and flings it in my face. I swat it away, trying to figure out how to get through to her. How to make her care that she nearly sacrificed herself for vengeance and left me with yet another loved one to miss.

  A sharp turn takes us north, and I clench my jaw as we walk past the ashes of Oliver’s bakery. I try to remember the way his dark eyes would rest on me, filled with gentle acceptance and later with love, but already his memory blurs around the edges. I know from experience that I can’t hold on to it. Not exactly. The smell of his baking, the warmth of his hand, and the way he would quietly encourage me will keep fading with every day that passes without him. But I can hold on to what he built into me—the strength to do the right thing even when it feels impossible and the belief that if I put my mind to it, I can accomplish anything—I can hold on to that, and a part of him will never leave me.

  I can do that for Oliver, but I don’t want to have to do it for Rachel. I don’t want to struggle to remember the exact shade of her eyes or the way she smiles when she thinks she’s bested me. I don’t want to be left with nothing but regrets and the heartbreaking certainty that if I’d only done something differently, I could’ve saved her.

  Keeping my voice low, I say, “So you got away from the soldier and had a chance to follow us into the city, but you chose to stay and face the Commander?”

  Something in my tone gets through to her, and she frowns at me. “He was right there. The man responsible for all of this.” She gestures at the remains of Oliver’s stall and then at the ruined city itself. “He took everything from us, and he was right there. Tell me you wouldn’t have done the same thing.”

  I stop and face her. “I wouldn’t have done the same thing.”

  She shakes her head, and this time, I don’t bother trying to speak quietly. “No, Rachel. I wouldn’t have stayed out there to face him alone. Not when an entire army was surrounding me.”

  “They weren’t attacking anymore. They were waiting—”

  “For him to kill you!”

  Sudden fury blazes across her face, and her voice shakes. “I would’ve killed him first, Logan. In case you’ve forgotten, I know how to do it.”

  “And then what?” My voice shakes as much as hers. “If you managed to kill him first, what was your exit strategy with the entire army of Carrington surrounding you? Death?”

  “If that’s what it takes!” Unshed tears gather on her lashes, but her expression is fierce.

  I can’t breathe. Can’t think beyond the terrifying realization that the pain Rachel has endured at the hands of the Commander has led her to this precipice. How can I save her if she doesn’t even want to be saved?

  “Rachel—”

  “He deserves to die. There won’t be any peace for us until he’s dead.”

  I drop the load of supplies I’m carrying and reach for her. She doesn’t pull away as I grip her shoulders and gently tug her toward my chest, but her spine is ramrod straight. I wrap my arms around her and lean my face against her hair as I search for the words I need.

  “You’re right,” I say, and she trembles. “He deserves to die. But you don’t. Don’t you see that? You don’t deserve to die, and I can’t stand the thought of losing you. Please, Rachel, you’re all I have left.”

  Her spine slowly curves toward me until she presses her forehead to my shoulder. I hold her, all lean muscle and soft curves, and for the first time in all the years I’ve known her, she feels fragile in my arms.

  When she pulls away, I have a hard time letting go. But she starts moving north again, so I pick up the slippery Dragonskin tunics and walk beside her. It takes a while to weave past the splintered wood, scorched brick, and shattered glass on the streets of Lower Market and into the less damaged area of Center Square. The Dragonskin grows heavy in my hands. I look away from the remains of the Claiming stage and the memories of Rachel in her beautiful blue dress trying desperately to stand up to the Commander, who was so sure he had her firmly under his control.

  He was wrong, and his mistake destroyed countless lives.

  I’m not going to let him destroy anyone else. Including Rachel.

  “Quinn was going to fight with me,” she says as we turn a street corner and see the blackened, spindly structures that were once the opulent homes of North Hub.

  Forty yards past the Hub, the Commander’s compound, largely undamaged, squats behind its iron fence—all fierce turrets and unblinking panes of glass. Most of the medical and food supplies we’ve managed to recover have come from the compound. Still, every time I see it, part of me wishes it had burned, too. It’s impossible to look at it without seeing the Commander’s merciless eyes as my mother lay dying on the cobblestones for the crime of leaving her home to find food for her starving child. Without feeling the damp of his dungeon and the sole of his boot against the brand he burned into the side of my neck.

  Without seeing the back of his hand slam into Rachel’s face.

  My eyes find Quinn as he carefully navigates around a pile of debris before turning north, heading for the compound. The others are already out of sight.

  “He helped me escape from the soldier who had me.”

  “I thought he didn’t approve of violence,” I say, though what I really mean is that I’m thankful he chose to stand by us.

  By her.

  “I don’t think he does. He was trying to get me to go into the city, and when I refused, he decided to stay with me rather than leave me to face the Commander alone.” Her voice catches. “I didn’t ask him to put himself in danger for me.”

  Neither did I, but I’m grateful he did. And after witnessing just how far Rachel is willing to go for revenge, I’m hoping Quinn will be willing to watch out for her anytime my back is turned. Not that I’m going to tell Rachel that. I like my internal organs right where they are.

  “We’ll punish the Commander,” I say. “But we’ll do it with a plan. With an exit strategy that doesn’t involve either one of us dying.”

  “Do you have a plan?” she asks as we trudge up the hill that leads to our camp.

  I swallow hard and refuse to look at her, because I don’t. I don’t know how to punish the Commander and still get the survivors to safety like I promised. I don’t know how to defeat two armies just to get to one man.

  But I’m going to figure it out. I’m not going to let the Commander take another person from me. Once I deliver the survivors to Lankenshire, I’ll devote every minute of every day to tracking him down. . . .

  Tracking.

  Wristmarks.

  Sonar.

  “Yes.” My voice grows stronger as an idea—a bold, risky, nea
rly impossible idea—hits me. “I have a plan. It’s going to take several weeks to build the tech I need, but I have a plan.”

  Her eyes meet mine as we crest the top of the hill. The camp is already in motion, with people hurrying to tear down shelters and pack up supplies. A few survivors head toward me. No doubt with questions, arguments, or worries they need me to solve.

  “Can you build the tech while we travel through the Wasteland?” Rachel asks.

  “Yes. As long as I have the right supplies, I can build anything.”

  “Too bad you can’t come up with a way to let Lankenshire know we’re coming. And to warn the other city-states about Rowansmark.” Enthusiasm lights up her voice. “Or invent something that would let us know where Rowansmark’s battalions are and how fast they’re traveling. Maybe you could—”

  “Hold on a second.” I laugh a little. “The Cursed One destroyed the infrastructure that existed between cities in the old civilization, and we can’t build more without risking another attack. If there are no wires laid between city-states, we can’t build technology that would allow us to communicate with them. Or spy on them. We can, however, build tech that is individually targeted at specific people or local tasks by using sonar. The Commander used the science of sound to keep tabs on his people, and now I’m going to use it to destroy him.”

  “So let’s get these people to Lankenshire, convince them to offer us shelter, and then hunt down the Commander and obliterate him. We’ll use your plan if it’s working. We’ll do it my way if our other options run out. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  Best Case Scenario: I can build the invention that is slowly taking shape inside my mind, and we destroy the Commander before he ever sees us coming.

  Worst Case Scenario: The invention fails, the Commander somehow anticipates us, or Rachel gets impatient with my plan and decides sacrificing herself is an acceptable price for delivering justice.

  Before I can think of any solutions to those scenarios, a huge boom echoes across the ruins. We spin on our heels and scan the blackened city laid out before us. Nothing moves, but a cloud of ash and dust rises from the direction of the gate.

  Seconds later, another boom shatters the stillness. The cloud of dust grows thicker.

  “They have a battering ram,” I say as yet another crash ratchets my pulse into overdrive.

  “How long before they get through the gate?” Rachel asks, and the same dread that fills me is written all over her face.

  “It’s an unstable structure. It could take them days to make a dent, or the whole thing could slide into Lower Market in a matter of hours. We have to get everyone inside the compound now.”

  As the battering ram slams repeatedly against the pile of debris blocking the gate, I hurry into camp praying that we still have enough time to tunnel to the surface and leave this place of death and destruction behind us.

  Chapter Eight

  RACHEL

  “Get to the compound,” I shout as Logan grabs Drake’s arm and begins giving him a list of instructions about the tunnel, the wagons, and erasing all traces of camp on the hillside. “Grab your travel pack and anything else that still needs to be loaded on a wagon and move.”

  “We can’t sleep inside the Commander’s compound!” a woman says even as she snatches up a pile of blankets that were drying on the soft spring grass and looks around to see what else she can carry. Several others voice their agreement.

  “Why not?” Logan asks as Drake hurries off toward the compound.

  “Because”—the woman’s hand flutters toward her throat—“it’s forbidden.”

  In the distance, the steady boom, boom of the battering ram echoes through the air.

  Logan’s voice is gentler than his words. “The Commander isn’t going to punish you for entering the compound. He’s not looking over your shoulder anymore.” He points west, toward the distant ruins of the gate. “He’s out there with guards and the Carrington army trying to find a way inside the Wall. When he does break through, and he will, being caught out in the open is a death sentence.”

  “Being caught anywhere is a death sentence,” Ian mutters as he hoists his pack on his shoulder and grabs his armful of Dragonskin.

  I glare at him, but Logan nods. “Exactly. Which is why we’ll take shelter in the compound tonight, and I’ll have the tunnel ready for us to leave first thing in the morning.” He scans the crowd and pays close attention to Adam, who is standing near Willow as usual.

  “Why not just surface in the Wasteland now?” a young man named Keegan asks as he walks past us carrying a load of canvas. “The tunnel is far enough along to get us into the forest, right?”

  “Not far enough that we could safely travel by torchlight, and we can’t travel with wagons in the dark.”

  Boom. Boom.

  Adam walks by, carrying Willow’s travel bag for her and laughing at something she says. He stops laughing when he catches Logan watching him, but Logan just turns away and starts giving Jodi directions for helping Quinn pack up the weapons.

  A few people stand and stare in the direction of the gate, terror rooting them to the ground. I grab their arms and give them a little shake.

  “Get your stuff and get into the compound. We can outwit the Commander and his stupid army, but only if we keep our heads. Now go.”

  They hurry toward their shelters, and I turn to see who else might need motivating. Logan is already heading up the compound’s steps. Probably to see about bringing the tunnel to the surface. No one else seems to need me to prod them into action. I cast one more glance over my shoulder toward the gate and feel torn. On the one hand, I know we need to be far away from here before the Commander gets into the city. On the other, it would be nice to dip one of my arrows in some sort of slow-acting poison and nail the Commander in the face when he rode up the hill on his horse.

  It takes nearly four hours to pack up the camp and get our belongings inside the compound. We move fast, heads down, lips tight, as the constant noise of the battering ram hangs over our heads like a blade. There’s no way to know how much longer the gate can withstand its incessant strikes. The faster we lock ourselves inside, the safer we’ll be.

  People stream out of the campsite, following the supply wagons, and head up the steep hill that leads to the compound.

  Sylph walks beside Smithson in the middle of the group. Her unruly dark curls bounce against her shoulders with every step, and she smiles at those around her with genuine affection.

  I don’t know how she does it. She lost her parents, her grandparents, and her older brother. I know she’s devastated. But instead of closing herself off to mourn her loss, she reaches out to others with an unflinching generosity that both baffles me and makes me envious.

  Sylph sees me and leaves Smithson’s side to hook her arm through mine so we can walk up the steep hill together. The air is heavy with the spicy-sweet perfume of apple blossoms and the drowsy buzzing of bees that move slowly through the trees. People walk the packed dirt path in clumps of twos and threes. Most walk in silence.

  “I’ve learned a lot in sparring practice,” she says.

  “You’re doing well.”

  “You hold back with us. I was in the watchtower when the army attacked. I saw you. Saw you fight your way to the gate and then get away from the soldier who grabbed you. You could’ve been killed.”

  “But I wasn’t. I’m fine.” I hold my hands up as if to offer proof but drop them to my sides when they start to shake.

  I’m many things, but fine isn’t one of them. Not when the man responsible for so much pain still breathes freely on the other side of the Wall.

  “I never knew you could do that,” Sylph says, her voice subdued. “Ever since seeing you fight the guards on the Claiming stage, I’ve been trying to figure out how I could be your best friend and still not know something so important.”

  I can’t think of anything to say, and the silence between us begins to feel awkward.

&nb
sp; “You were always different from the rest of the girls. You thought for yourself. I didn’t mind. In fact, I admired you for it. But I think there’s a lot I don’t know about you.”

  What can I say to that? We may come from the same world, but her parents obeyed the Commander without question. Mine defied him at any cost. I won’t make apologies for the way I was raised or for the intimacy I sacrificed in our friendship by hiding the truth. I had to protect my father from the consequences of breaking the law. She might understand that, but while I can let her see the girl I really was, I can’t bear to let her see the hollow, silent girl I’ve become.

  “Yes,” I say, “I’m different from the other Baalboden girls.”

  “I want to learn.” There’s a quiet determination in her voice that takes me by surprise.

  “What?” I look at her and find her wide green eyes fixed on me.

  “I want to learn how to fight like that. I want you to stop holding back with me. This isn’t the same world we grew up in.” She waves her hands at the blackened streets behind us. “There aren’t Protectors lined up ready to save us. We need to learn how to save ourselves.”

  I squeeze her arm closer to me. “It’s nice to have my differences be an asset instead of something that makes me the most unfeminine girl in the room.”

  Sylph smiles. “You aren’t unfeminine. You just stink at setting a nice table or sewing a decent dress.”

  “I can sew a decent dress.”

  “You are the worst seamstress Baalboden’s ever seen. And possibly the worst cook as well.”

  “I can cook when I have to,” I say, and return her smile.

  “Well, you don’t have to. We need someone who knows how to use weapons and win a fight, and you’re the best girl for the job. I’ll never forget the way you launched yourself into that mess on the Claiming stage. I thought you were going to die.”

  “So did I.” I should be trembling at the memory of being surrounded by the Brute Squad and held at the Commander’s mercy, but the ashes of my fury lie cold and silent within me.