I can’t stand without help. Crawling toward the wall is a slow, agonizing process, and I stop frequently to rest, laying my face against the filthy stone floor and shivering both from external cold and the internal heat that blazes through my head but refuses to warm my body.
How does one cure a fever? I can’t remember. My body shakes as I force myself to keep crawling. Keep moving. Keep pushing my muscles to work through the bruises because he’ll come back. And I refuse to let him kill me.
I reach the wall sometime later and discover my nose is bleeding. I don’t know how long that’s been going on, and I decide I don’t care.
From a distance, I hear the main dungeon door open, and I know I should be afraid, but that takes too much effort. Instead, I dig my fingers into the rugged texture of the wall beside me, and pull myself to my feet.
The room spins in slow, sickening circles. I try to breathe through the nausea this creates, but dragging air into my lungs ignites the terrible pain in my side.
Someone is walking along the row between cells. I don’t know who it is. I can’t seem to turn my head to look. Instead, I lean my forehead against the cold stone of the wall and shake uncontrollably.
Rachel is out there. Somewhere. I know I should remember something important about her situation, but with fire eating at my brain, all I can think about is her hair in the sunlight. Like flames. Like the flames pounding at the inside of my skull.
I bang my head against the wall to put out the flames, but they just multiply.
Move.
I have to move.
If I don’t, he’ll kill me before I can escape.
I slide one foot in front of me, but it wobbles, and I have to hang on to the wall to keep from falling over.
Someone opens the door to my cell. The noise explodes inside my head, sending brutal hammers of pain into my temples. I let go of the wall to cover my ears, and pitch forward onto the unforgiving stone floor.
Footsteps hurry my way, and I reach for my sword. It isn’t there, and the motion triggers the pain in my side until I’m gasping air in quick, shallow breaths.
The owner of the footsteps reaches me and crouches down. I can’t see who it is, but the soft scent of lavender seeps through the stench of my cell and makes me want to close my eyes and pretend I’m in a field. Safe. Free. Lying on a bed of crushed lavender while the pain in my body subsides into nothing but memory, and those I love are still alive and well.
“Oh,” a girl’s voice exclaims in a whisper. A cool hand presses against my forehead.
I’m dreaming. I must be. There aren’t any girls walking freely through the dungeon. My brain has cooked up a fantasy, and if I don’t snap out of it, whoever is truly inside my cell with me will kill me before I can keep my promise to Rachel.
Rachel.
Rachel doesn’t smell like lavender. She smells like citrus and midnight jasmine, and I wish the lavender would disappear and become Rachel’s scent instead.
It doesn’t.
Instead, the same cool hands that were pressed to my forehead are busy pushing something into the pocket of my cloak.
“Food,” she whispers against my ear. “I’m putting medicine for your fever in the water. When the fever goes down, eat.”
A cup tips against my lips and a trickle of bitter-tasting water dribbles into my mouth. I swallow reflexively, though part of me is screaming that this is a trick. A trap. Another wicked ploy of the Commander’s to torture me. Maybe it’s poison. Maybe it’s something that will scrape me raw inside, doubling the pain until I want to kill myself just to make it end.
I turn my face and let another mouthful of water leak out onto the floor.
A girl lays her face next to mine, her outline blurry through the swollen slits of my eyelids. “Swallow,” she says softly. “We’re trying to help you.”
I want to ask her who she means. No one helps you once you’re in the dungeon. No one has ever helped me outside the dungeon either, except for Oliver, Jared, and Rachel.
The hard, brisk steps of a guard echo down the row, coming swiftly toward my cell.
“Hurry!” she whispers and presses the cup to my lips.
The water feels good, even if it tastes vile, and I swallow. It might be a trick. It might make things worse, but the heat beating at my brain won’t allow me the luxury of thinking through my options, and I’m desperately thirsty.
“What are you doing, girl?” the guard demands.
“Watering the prisoner as you asked,” she says, her tone low and respectful.
“He’s had enough. Get out of there.”
She stands immediately and exits the cell, her steps hurried. The guard laughs as he looks at me lying on the floor, shivering while blood slowly seeps out of my nose.
I close my eyes and wish for a world where Rachel and Jared are safe and Oliver is alive.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
RACHEL
The water snatches me with icy arms as I plunge beneath its surface. The sound of the fire becomes muted, a distant roaring that can’t compete with the swift rush of the river’s current. I lose my grip on Melkin’s hand as I’m flung downstream. I can’t stop spinning. Can’t break free of the current. Can’t get to the surface.
My lungs burn, and my brain screams at me to take a breath, but I’ve spun so many times in the dark embrace of the river, I no longer know which way is up. I kick out, lash with my arms, and fight against the water.
It’s useless.
My ears roar, and a strange hum grows louder within my brain as my chest convulses and I cough, sucking in a mouthful of water in exchange.
The water burns my lungs, and I cough again.
More water. More coughing. More pain.
And then it’s gone. The pain recedes. My chest relaxes. My lungs stop demanding air. I’m at peace.
I let the current spin me as the world darkens into nothing, but something wraps around me, hauls me through the water, and I break the surface.
I cough feebly, but my lungs are used to water now. They don’t know what to do with air. And I don’t care. I want to close my eyes and let the water take me. Let the tiny sliver of peace I felt swallow me whole.
But I can’t. Because whatever is holding me won’t let me slide under the surface again. By the time we reach the shore, my lungs are burning for air, and the peace I felt is gone.
I’m tossed onto the shore, flipped over on my back, and Melkin looms over me like a giant wet twig. He puts his hands together, one over the other, and slams them into my chest.
Water gushes up my throat, burning and suffocating, and fills my mouth and nose. He reaches forward and turns my head to the side as I spew the water onto the sand. Twice more, he hits my chest and I have to spit out mouthfuls of water. When he raises his hands a fourth time, my lungs contract, and I start coughing on my own. He lowers his hands, turns me to my side so any water I cough up can dribble onto the ground, and collapses next to me, his breathing harsh.
I don’t know how much time passes before he turns over on his side to face me.
“You gonna live?” he asks, and I see my pack is still strapped to his back.
My throat burns as I answer. “I’m fine.”
I should thank him. Between this and catching me before I fell from the branch below him during the Cursed One’s attack, he’s saved my life twice today. I should, but I don’t. Because even though he’s saved me, even though he claims to have lost almost everything, he works for the Commander. I don’t need anything else to justify the slow burn of anger I feel every time I look at him.
It should be Logan who caught me. Logan who saved me from drowning. Logan who asks if I’m okay.
“I’m sorry for what I said back there,” Melkin says.
I frown. I don’t know what he means.
“I know your daddy’s been missing for months. I saw what happened during the Claiming ceremony. If anyone has a right to bitterness, I guess it’s you.” His dark eyes wander away
from mine, and he heaves himself into a sitting position, my pack dripping water, creating tiny streams on the riverbank.
I wish he wouldn’t apologize. Wouldn’t sit there like he understands and ask for nothing in return. It makes it hard to aim my anger at him.
I sit up as well, digging my fingers into the wet sand beneath me as my head spins slowly, and look around us. Nothing is familiar. We’ve traveled so far down the river, I’ve lost any place markers to show me where we are. The distant horizon is free of smoke, a clear indication we traveled for miles in the swift embrace of the water.
“Where are we?” I ask, and wish for the hot, syrupy drink Oliver always gave me to cure a sore throat.
The memory of Oliver stabs into me, and I force myself to breathe through it.
“About past the king’s city,” Melkin says, raising one bony arm to point to the bank above us to the left.
I turn to see a huge metal rectangle, its legs long ago turned into twisted wreckage, leaning against the top of the bank, one corner deeply entrenched in the ground. A man with jet-black hair and a smirk on his lips peers at us from the middle of the rectangle, his image sun-worn, the paint falling away in long strips. Vines twine around the top, obscuring the upper left corner, and tall grasses hide the base, but the word KING stretches across the center in faded, peeling red letters.
“How many days between this and Rowansmark?” I need familiar markers. A road I can remember. Something to help me find Dad’s safe house. Every courier establishes his own off-the-main-path places to stock with essentials and use on their journeys. To share the location with others is to invite robbery and maybe even torture by those who would lie in wait hoping to extract any secrets they know.
“Maybe fifteen. We’ve been pushed off course by about five or six days,” Melkin says, and stands, adjusting the weight of the pack on his back.
My pack. With my weapons.
I stand too, and though my knees wobble and my legs shake, I have no trouble remaining upright. A glance at the sky tells me we still have four hours until sunset. More than enough time to get past the King’s City and find a safe place to camp. I unfasten my cloak, my fingers fumbling with the soggy leather bindings, and take it off. The damp garment is a dead weight against my shoulders, and I need the sun to dry my tunic and leggings as we walk. The copper cuff Logan gave me stands out in sharp relief beneath the wet material of my tunic. I hope Logan had the good sense to make the tracking device waterproof.
Melkin reaches a hand out for my cloak, and I jerk it toward my chest.
He frowns. “It’s heavy. I’ll carry it until you’re feeling a bit stronger.”
“It’s mine. So is the pack.” I reach for it.
He backs away. “You’re in no shape to carry it.”
My hands curl into fists. He has my Switch. My bow and arrows. Does he think if he takes most of my weapons, he’ll have me at a disadvantage? I reach for the knife sheath strapped to my waist.
He holds his hands up, and I can’t read the expression on his face. “You’re a stubborn, suspicious one, aren’t you?”
“With good reason.” The knife slides free and I palm the hilt. “I want my weapons. You can carry the pack if you insist, but I carry my own weapons.”
Never again will I be caught unaware. Unable to act.
He shrugs, but watches me closely as he slides my Switch free of its sleeve and hands it to me. The bow and arrows follow, and I see I’m down to three arrows from the original twelve. The rest must be swirling along the bottom of the river.
I strap the bow and arrows to my back, return the knife to its sheath, and hold the Switch with my right hand.
“Better?” Melkin asks softly.
“I don’t need your pity.” I snatch up my cloak with my left hand.
“What do you need, then?” he asks, and it sounds like he really wants to know.
Oliver, alive and unharmed. Logan, by my side. Dad, waiting for me with the package, able to help me figure out what to do next. The Commander, dead at my feet.
That’s what I need, but I can’t tell Melkin that. He works for the Commander, and he’s only interested in the package.
“Rachel? What do you need?”
I remember Melkin saying he’d lost almost everything, the weight of unspoken grief hanging over his words, and wonder if giving him one piece of the truth might work in my favor. Especially if what I need is something he might secretly want as well. Looking him in the eye, I say, “Revenge. I need revenge.”
His eyes darken and slide away from mine as he hefts the pack against his back. “Try not to harshly judge those of us with more than that left to live for,” he says, and starts up the bank without looking to see if I’ll follow.
Does he think I have so little left to live for? I have Logan. I have Dad. And I have a score to settle. None of those can be taken lightly. I clench my teeth around the words that want to burst free and scorch the air around me. Arguing would only give him more information than he needs to know. Instead, I dig my Switch into the soft sand beneath me for balance, and start the climb toward the King’s City.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
RACHEL
We stop for the night in the shelter of a concrete box of a building with only two sides still standing against the ravages of time and weather. We left the King’s City behind two hours ago, and I’m grateful. The twisted metal remains of buildings that once housed a vibrant civilization are now blackened husks coated in ash and wrapped with kudzu. Walking among them makes me nervous. A harsh reminder of what the Cursed One is capable of doing to us if we don’t remain with those who’ve proven their ability to protect us.
Since I have no intention of remaining beneath anyone’s authority again, I turn my back on the ruins of the city and refuse to consider the idea that I may have just glimpsed my future.
Melkin hasn’t spoken to me since our words on the riverbank, and that’s fine with me. I have nothing left to say. I just want this leg of the journey over with.
Thankfully, I have flint and fuel in my pack, so we don’t have to worry about keeping ourselves warm or keeping wild animals at bay. I work with Melkin to gather firewood and stack it in the center of the makeshift shelter. I also still have my flask of fresh water, and I offer it to him.
He raises a brow at me, but accepts it and swallows three times before handing it back. I lay my pack against one of the still-standing walls of our shelter and grab my bow and arrows.
“Where are you going?” he asks as I stride out of the shelter.
“To catch dinner.”
“I’ll come with you.”
I toss a glance over my shoulder. “I can handle this. You get the fire going, and stop worrying that I need a babysitter.”
Which might not be fair, considering I needed his help twice today. But I can handle hunting, and I need some time alone without his watchful eyes tracking my every move. Without the strain of trying to appear like I don’t want to scream in frustration when we’ve traveled for hours, and I still don’t know where we are.
He doesn’t follow me, though he moves to the edge of the ruined building and watches me as I go.
Our shelter is settled against a soft swell of land covered in tall grass already gone to seed. Beyond the hill, the broken remains of an old road wind through the grass and disappear for yards at a time. On the other side of the road, a copse of trees stretches as far as I can see.
The sun is drowning beneath the weight of a purple twilight as I enter the trees, walk twenty yards into the middle of them, their skinny trunks and thin, graceful branches reaching for the heavens as if hoping to scrape against the stars, and find what I’m looking for.
A bush hugs the base of a tree, its branches curving like a bell, its leaves brushing the ground. Beneath it, a small, hollow space rests, and I crawl inside, string an arrow, and wait.
Night has nearly reclaimed the sky when I finally catch a glimpse of movement. I tense, hardly daring to
breathe. My patience is rewarded as a creature about the size of a small sheep wanders close, nose to ground, snuffling. I draw in a slow, deep breath, rehearse each step in my mind, and then whip the bow up, close one eye to sight down the center, and release the arrow.
It flies true, striking the side of the animal, and I leap from cover as my quarry jerks around and starts to run with faltering steps. Crossing the distance between us in seconds, I yank my knife free, leap on the animal’s back, and swing my arm beneath its neck to slice open its throat.
It dies instantly, and I wipe my knife clean on the ground beside it. Retrieving my arrow, I clean it as well and pack my weapons away. Flipping the animal over, I see I’ve caught a boar. A young one, by the size of its tusks.
I can’t easily lift it, plus I refuse to get its blood all over me. The thought makes bile surge up my throat, and I cough, gag, and spit on the forest floor. I solve the problem by grabbing its hind legs and dragging it to the edge of the trees. I don’t want to drag it across the grass and broken pieces of road to our shelter because the trail of blood could lead a wild animal straight to us while we sleep.
I don’t have to.
Melkin is standing on the road, watching the tree line, his knife in his hands.
He doesn’t see me at first, and I’m struck by the harsh, predatory silhouette he makes, caught in the moment before the sun’s final death and the moon’s rise. Before I can continue this line of thinking, he notices me and approaches, his long stride eating the distance like it’s nothing.
“Nice,” he says as he sees the boar.
I shrug, though his continued attitude of tolerant courtesy toward me is starting to make me feel uncomfortable in my own skin.
He lifts the boar with a grunt and turns back toward our camp. I follow and list the reasons I have for keeping my distance from him. For being angry with him.
It all boils down to the fact that he’s in the Commander’s pocket.
Of course, he could think the same of me.
I mull this over as Melkin carves the boar, separating muscle from bone with swift hacking motions, and tosses choice pieces of meat onto the flames to sizzle and snap. Maybe I’m supposed to feel enmity toward him. Maybe the Commander knew anyone he used to replace Logan would be a target for my mistrust. Maybe we aren’t supposed to be a team working toward the same goal, because if we begin to think for ourselves, the Commander could be in danger.
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