Deception (29 page)
Sylph pulls her wrist free of my grip and examines the bruise. “I guess this is from hitting my arm when I got our lunch ration. I slipped in some mud and fell against the wagon. I must have fallen harder than I realized.” She sounds puzzled, but not upset.
Poison.
The air is suddenly too thick to breathe. I’ve known Sylph for most of my life. I’ve never seen her bruise easily. Sickness crawls up the back of my throat as I make myself ask, “Any other bruises? Do you feel sick? Tired?”
She shrugs and smiles at us both. “I’m fine! I feel fine. I didn’t realize I hit my arm that hard. That’s all. Honest. Stop worrying. Both of you. I’m not used to roughing it, but I’ll toughen up. We all will. Now shouldn’t you be checking my wristmark to make sure I’m really from Baalboden?”
My fingers rub gently across her wrist, though I don’t need to check. Sylph is a bright, laughing presence in most of my childhood memories. I can’t think of my life in Baalboden without thinking of her. And I refuse to consider a life outside of Baalboden without her.
Smithson thrusts his arm at me, lets me verify his wristmark, and then carefully wraps his arm around Sylph as if she’s made of glass. She laughs and leans into him, but I meet Smithson’s gaze above her head and know the worry burning in his eyes also burns in mine.
Only he doesn’t realize how much he truly has to fear.
Unlike Logan, I’m not brave enough to put it into words. Because maybe Logan’s wrong. Maybe Sylph really did hit her arm too hard against the wagon. Maybe the knowledge that someone out there is ruthlessly determined to torture us is messing with my head.
Besides, if bruising were a symptom of poison, wouldn’t Smithson be bruised too? The X was over both of them. Holding on to that thin comfort, I continue down the row, checking every survivor with dogged determination.
All of them have a Baalboden wristmark. So do the survivors in Thom and Frankie’s row. We’re no closer to figuring out which one of us is working with Rowansmark. As Logan calls for us to start moving again, I slowly scan the faces of the survivors who walk past me.
One of them is a traitor. One of them might have poisoned Sylph. All I need is a sign, a single glimmer of guilt or treachery, and whoever painted a bloody X on her door is mine.
Ignoring the tiny voice whispering that I was once sure of Melkin’s guilt, and now I don’t know how to live with myself, I heft my Switch and take my place along the western flank.
RACHEL
W
e camp on a small rise beside a wide river. The air smells of muddy soil, fresh grass, and moldy wood. Logan wastes no time ordering his team to create a perimeter—wagons, children, and those too old or frail to easily defend themselves are in the middle. Those marginally able to fight are circled around them. And then those of us who’ve been trained take up our posts at the outer edge.
There’s a new tension in the camp. Partially because we’ve seen signs that someone else regularly travels on this faded, poorly maintained path, and the possibility of running into highwaymen or unsympathetic envoys from other city-states is a clear danger. And partially because we’re no closer to catching the killer, and the strain of wondering which of us is a traitor wears us down.
I’m stationed with two of our newer guards on the southern edge of camp. Logan has a guard with him as well and is ten yards away. He watches me with worry and regret in his eyes, and I know it’s because he can’t stop the poison when he has no idea what was used.
I suppose I should find the energy to comfort him, or at least to tell him I know this isn’t his fault, but the dread that has filled me since I saw Sylph’s bruise seeps into my bones, and I can’t find any words.
I give the men standing guard with me the first watch, and close my eyes, not intending to actually fall asleep. The Wasteland’s nighttime noises crowd around me. Owls hooting. Things rustling through the underbrush. The far-off howl of a wolf pouring out his misery to the unfeeling moon.
The howl climbs through the sky and wraps around me as I sink into a dream. It feels like I’m the one crying, I’m the one putting inarticulate sound to the things that haunt me. I don’t see clouds gathering over the face of the moon, but suddenly rain streaks from the skies in relentless streams. It strafes the canopy of leaves above me, skids down bark, and pools in the mud beneath me. I get up and try to walk—I
have
to walk—but my feet refuse to move.
Looking down, I see the mud is bubbling around my boots, a seething mass that defies gravity and slides viscous tentacles over my ankles, searching for skin.
Whipping my knife from its sheath, I beat at the mud with the flat of my blade.
It can’t touch my skin. It
can’t
. Something terrible will happen if it does.
The rain plummets down. The mud bubbles and slurps and grows until the toes of my boots disappear beneath the writhing mass.
The flat of my blade isn’t helping. I flip it around and crouch. The tip of my knife gleams silver beneath the water, and I plunge it into one questing tentacle as it slides over the lip of my boot and onto my skin.
Pain flashes, a brilliant light that explodes behind my eyes and rips a scream from my throat.
The knife is useless. The mud burrows in, and the ground beneath me becomes a crimson sea of blood crawling over my feet.
I bruise where the tentacle meets my skin—a decaying blossom filled with agony. Abandoning my knife, I rip at the crimson threads with my fingers.
“No, Rachel,”
Melkin whispers.
“You deserve this.”
His face rises from the seething pool of blood at my feet, and bubbles escape his gaping mouth.
“No,” I say.
“You’re broken. This is what happens when you’re broken,”
Oliver says gently, and Melkin’s face melts into Oliver’s full cheeks and dark eyes.
“Please. Don’t,” I say, but another tentacle reaches my skin and sinks into my veins. Another bruise spreads, the pain twisting inside of me like a living thing.
“Look around,”
Dad says, his gray eyes shining out of Oliver’s face.
“You’re alone now.”
I stand up and try to run.
“Rachel!”
Dad yells my name, but I don’t look down. I don’t look at his ruined face hovering over Oliver’s while their blood slides over my skin, leaving a trail of agony in its wake.
“Rachel!” A hand shakes my shoulder, and the blood disappears. Noises rush in—shouts, the rasp of a sword leaving its sheath—and my eyes fly open.
Logan looms over me. “Wake up. We’re under attack.”
He whirls away and lunges forward as a man nearly twice his size lumbers out of the trees, a pair of mismatched swords in his fists. The man’s clothing is a collection of bits and pieces of cloth from the old civilization patched and stitched into a haphazard outfit that is specifically geared toward surviving outdoors—tough fabric, thick lining beneath the tunic, and heavy rawhide coverings strapped around his legs.
A highwayman.
Two more men explode out of the woods on his heels, their expressions feral and hungry in the wash of moonlight.
My knife is already in my hand as I jump to my feet. Beside me, the men Logan and I recruited to stand guard with us are waving their weapons in the air like they can scare off our attackers if they flash enough silver.
I bend down and snatch my Switch from the ground. The highwaymen are too big and too well armed for knife work. I need to keep my distance.
More men pour out of the tree line and the sounds of battle fill the air—hoarse cries of fury, the clash of metal, and the solid thunk of a body hitting the ground. I sheath my knife and release the blade on my Switch as two of the highwaymen race toward me.
The guards sharing my post step in front of me as if to protect me.
“Get back!” I shove my way through them. “Stay behind me. When I knock them to the ground, you finish them, do you understand?”
I can’t wait to see if they agree with my strategy. The highwaymen are converging on me. I widen my grip, plant my left foot, and whirl out of the path of one and directly into the second. Slamming my Switch into his stomach, I dive out from under his feet before he can finish swinging his sword at me. His momentum carries him past me, and I slash the tendons behind his knees with my blade.
I’m already on my feet as he falls to the ground screaming. The second man is attacking one of my fellow guards with a curved blade that flashes like quicksilver beneath the stars.
“Get the one who’s down!” I yell to the other guard as I sprint toward the fight and launch myself at the highwayman swinging the blade.
The weighted end of my Switch smacks into his shin, knocking him off-balance. He whips toward me, his weapon slicing with terrible speed. I slam the middle of the Switch against the hilt of his sword, blocking his blow. Breathing in heavy pants, he sizes me up.
“A girl?” He sounds amused and interested in a way that makes my skin crawl. “This is going to be fun.”
He’s bigger than me. Stronger, too. He leans his weight against the Switch, and the sword slowly edges toward my face.
I let my arms tremble a bit as I quickly assess his weaknesses. I’m not going to choke this time. No one is going to have to rescue me.
And no one is going to get the chance to rescue him.
A smile smears his face with malice and his rancid breath fills my nose as he chuckles. “Give up now, sweet thing, and I won’t kill you.”
“I can’t say the same.” I go limp and drop to the ground. The sudden lack of resistance causes him to stumble forward a single step.
That single step is all I need.
Dropping my Switch, I snatch my knife and lunge to my feet, burying my weapon in his sternum as I stand.
He deflates slowly, and I shove him away as he crumples. My knife glistens beneath the moonlight, and I shudder, but I can’t stop to count the cost of adding more blood to the overwhelming tide I’ve already shed.
“Logan!” I yell his name as I run toward the place I last saw him.
“Here,” he says, and I find him crouched beside Keegan, who is moaning in pain. A quick glance around shows all is nearly quiet again.
Two of the intruders are attacking Adam and Ian. I take a step forward, already sizing up the situation to see where I could make the most impact, when Adam just comes undone. Screaming, he dives at one of the men, his weapon flashing. It’s like watching a tornado—all fury and strength and very little finesse. Not that he needs it. The intruder is motivated by greed. Adam is fueled by loss and a desperate need to make someone pay for it. It’s over in seconds. When I see Ian can handle the second one, I scan the rest of the meadow.
One highwayman peels away from the camp and runs toward the tree line. The soft
thwing
of an arrow disturbs the air, and he falls to the ground. It’s almost frightening how accurate Willow’s aim is even in the dark. The other highwaymen appear to be dead or wounded. No one is fighting. No one is looting. We won.
We
won
.
I crouch beside Logan. “We did it. The camp arrangement worked. We held our perimeter. The new guards got a taste of experience.” I look around again, afraid we might have sustained losses that will destroy this small moment of hope. “I don’t know how many wounded we have, but we did it, Logan. We defended ourselves.”
His hand finds mine and squeezes. “We did it.” His voice holds wonder and weary satisfaction.
Neither of us points out the obvious: This was a small group of highwaymen. Twenty at the most by the looks of things. Defeating twenty highwaymen is a far cry from defeating the Commander’s army, but still, it’s a victory. We’ll take every victory we can get.
RACHEL
W
e killed twenty-three highwaymen. Two of our inexperienced recruits died, and five others are injured seriously enough to need medical attention.
The loss of two of our own hurts, but even through the pain of more death, the people stand a little taller, and I imagine the spark I see in their eyes is a tiny glimmer of hope.
I help Logan carry Keegan, the guard with the stab wound in his leg, to the medical wagon. Blood pours from his wound, and he shivers uncontrollably. Sylph meets us at the wagon’s entrance, her dark curls thrust into a messy bun, her sleeves rolled up.
Another bruise spreads across her left wrist like an indigo stain.
“Your wrist!” I say.
She shakes her head. “One of the injured was thrashing around. It’s nothing. Let’s get him into the torchlight.”
I meet Logan’s eyes, my stomach clenching. This much bruising isn’t normal. Not for Sylph. Not for anyone.
