C. Redwine - Deception

After the tragedy in Baalboden, I’m not willing to risk our lives by relying on unmodified Rowansmark tech again.

I’m nearly to the room I share with Rachel when a faint scratching sound from inside catches my attention.

In two strides I reach the door. Wrenching it open, I cross the threshold and stare. Jeremiah is hunched over my bedroll, his twisted, arthritic fingers digging through the outside pockets of my travel pack.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I close the door behind me and walk across the room.

He jerks his hands away from my pack and struggles to stand. “I was looking for the map. Thought I’d add some more detail to it, seeing as how we’re getting close to Lankenshire.”

“You told me you’d finished the Lankenshire portion of the map before we left Baalboden.”

“But what if Lankenshire turns us away? What if we need to go to Hodenswald or up to Brooksworth? I didn’t finish those parts yet.”

I stare at him in silence, my arms crossed over my chest. Maybe he was only looking for the map. Or maybe he was getting ready to leave me a note like the one I fished out of my tech bag in Baalboden.

“I’m sorry.” He yanks his hat from his head and twists it beneath his fingers. “I shouldn’t have been in here without your permission. I know that. I just didn’t know where you were, and my old knees can’t handle climbing up and down those stairs the way you young people can.”

I push past him and grab my pack. Flipping it open, I search the contents. Nothing seems to be missing. And there isn’t a cryptic note about debts to be paid either.

“I swear, I was just looking for the map,” he says.

Maybe he’s telling the truth. Maybe he isn’t. But considering our current circumstances, giving him the benefit of the doubt isn’t something I can afford to do.

“What else were you hoping to find?” My voice is calm, but my thoughts are racing. Now that I know he wasn’t leaving a note, I have to consider other options. My pack has spare clothing, tech supplies waiting to be built into working inventions, and an extra dagger. The only item in my possession worth stealing is the Rowansmark device, and I wear that at all times. Not that I’ve made that public knowledge. Most of my people were busy running into the forest and climbing trees to avoid the Cursed One while I was unstrapping the tech from my chest. For all Jeremiah knows, I keep the device in my travel pack.

Was Jeremiah one of the survivors who advocated returning the device to Rowansmark and asking for their protection? Would he steal the device himself and try to broker his own deal?

Or have the unsolved murders of our eight boys and our theory that the message points to Rowansmark made me so paranoid that I’m looking for problems where none exist?

“I wasn’t looking for anything else.” His voice is quiet. Sincere. His pale eyes hold mine without wavering.

I watch him for a long moment, but he doesn’t look away. Finally, I move past him, grab my cloak, and pull the map out of the inner pocket.

“Here,” I say as I thrust it at him.

“I’ll work on it some tonight,” he says, and pushes his hat back on his head. “And again, I’m sorry, Logan. I should’ve waited for you, or sent one of the young ones looking.”

I nod once, and he walks out of the room, the map curled inside his hands.

For his sake, I hope he was telling the truth. I’d hate for my first public punishment as leader of this group to be an execution.

With less than an hour until dark, I make my way to the long rectangle of a room at the end of the hall where Rachel is drilling our recruits on fighting techniques. Thick ivy clings to the windows. The sunlight that seeps past it is a sickly green-gold color that bathes the room in a verdant half-light. Rachel stands in the middle of the room, her sleeves rolled to her elbows, her Switch in hand, and her eyes locked on Ian’s. A scattering of others—Jodi, Elias, Keegan, Cassie, Eric, and Thom—lean against the walls, watching Rachel and Ian spar.

Ian lunges forward, his practice stick whistling through the air.

Rachel blocks him and swings the weighted end of her Switch into his thigh. I wince in sympathy. I’ve been on the receiving end of that move a few times. It took every ounce of pride I had to walk without limping afterward.

“You can cry if you need to,” Rachel says as she drives her elbow into his stomach and then whips around to swing the Switch at his head.

He dives under the blow and slams into her, knocking them both to the ground.

“You first,” he says as he tries to pin her to the floor by holding her arms down.

I sigh. This is going to get bloody, and Ian’s wearing his best tunic.

Rachel goes limp and drops the Switch. Ian relaxes his grip for a second, tossing a quick grin toward his audience, and Rachel attacks. Bringing her knees up, she plants her boots on his chest and sends him skidding onto his back. Flipping into a crouch, she lunges for him before he can get to his feet.

She’s got him. He’s on his back, out of position, and she’s dropping toward his chest. He’ll be lucky if he can breathe without pain for the next hour once she lands.

But before Rachel can deliver, Ian scissors his legs and rolls to his left. Rachel lands where seconds before Ian was lying. With controlled, methodical movements—movements that speak to years of training—he lashes out and sweeps her legs out from under her, flips onto his stomach, and whips her arms into a submission hold.

Rachel swears, and both Jodi and Cassie applaud Ian’s win. He grins.

The second he lets go of her, Rachel gets to her feet and shoves a finger into Ian’s chest.

“Where did you learn how to do that?”

“You’ve been training us for over a month now,” he says.

Her eyes narrow. “I never taught you how to do that. I don’t even know how to do that.”

He casts a quick, pleading glance my way, as if hoping I have some magic answer that will derail Rachel once she’s on a roll. I’m not going to be the one to tell Rachel that Ian apprenticed to be on the Brute Squad. Not after what they did to her on the Claiming stage. Not after they were a party to Oliver’s death. She’d tear him to pieces. I’m also not going to lie to cover Ian’s mistake. I give him a little head shake. He’s on his own.

He raises his hands slowly as if to placate her, and says, “You weren’t our only teacher, remember?”

“Quinn taught you that?” she asks, and I can see she believes it’s possible.

He’s spared from answering when there’s a commotion in the hall and Quinn himself strides through the door, Willow right behind him. Relief weakens my knees for a moment, and I steady myself with one hand on the wall beside me. I’d truly thought I’d have to leave them behind in the morning.

“You made it,” I say, and Rachel rushes to my side.

“We’re two days late. You shouldn’t have waited,” Quinn says, but he smiles at us both.

“We only arrived an hour ago, and plan to leave in the morning.” I walk forward and clap him on the shoulder. “Did you find the killer?”

“We found his boot prints,” Willow says. “Twice. He’s following the group.”

“Pretty sloppy for a tracker,” Rachel says.

Willow smiles a little. “Not where these prints were. We had to move leaves and underbrush to find them. He’d done a good job of covering his tracks, but he made the terrain a little too perfect, and that’s usually the sign of someone trying to be invisible.”

“Could you see a maker’s mark on the print?” I ask.