C. Redwine - Deception

Didn’t he detonate the bomb? Didn’t he at least try to remove the threat and save the world? We were raised in Baalboden on stories of the Commander’s heroism in a time when heroes were in short supply.

Apparently, someone else has a different version of events.

The final panel shows the nine remaining team members—those who fled the beast’s lair—standing in a semicircle, surrounded by the destruction of their world. Each of the nine wears an expression of regret and shame, but already the shame on the Commander’s face is hardening into brutal anger, as if daring the survivors to dispute his claim of heroism and pay the consequences.

I wonder if regret over his cowardice still lives somewhere beneath his viciousness. No wonder he refuses to allow anyone to contradict him. No wonder he needs absolute power like the rest of us need air. Without it, he’s just a man who dressed up like a hero only to discover he was a coward at heart.

The conference room is an elegant oval with a huge slab of cherry wood polished to a gleam and surrounded by chairs. Jeremiah is ensconced at the table, a plethora of parchment and quills spread out in front of him, while beside him a short, thin man who resembles a toothpick with a shock of red hair growing wild carefully pens a line on a piece of parchment.

“Mind if I interrupt?” I ask as I step into the room and close the door behind me. It’s easy to make my voice sound calm and confident. It’s much harder to banish the sight of the Commander’s cowardice and its larger implications for our world from my mind.

“Come in, come in.” Jeremiah waves me forward. Darius keeps his eyes on his parchment, his lip caught between his teeth as he concentrates. “I’ve been mapping out what I remember of the northern territory back before Brooksworth refused to allow the Commander to visit. It’s been, what, two decades? My memories of this area are hazy, but Darius was able to fill in the details.” Jeremiah holds up two sheets of parchment as if to show me his progress.

“How’s your progress on Hodenswald and Chelmingford?” I ask. “I need detailed maps to all of the northern city-states.”

“Planning on leaving us so soon?” Darius asks. Setting his quill carefully on its blotter, he looks up at me.

“Darius Griffin, meet our leader, Logan McEntire,” Jeremiah says.

Darius’s eyes widen. “Logan McEntire? Son of Marcus and Julia McEntire in Rowansmark?”

I stare at him. “No, Logan McEntire from Baalboden.”

He slowly rises from his chair, his eyes never leaving my face. “Oh, I have no doubt you’re from Baalboden now . But we both know you were born in Rowansmark.”

“We both know you were born in Rowansmark . ” Darius’s words linger in the air between us, and I frown. “You’re mistaken. Now about Hodenswald and Chelmingford—”

“It’s uncanny,” Darius says, leaning forward as if he wants a closer look at me. “You have Marcus’s eyes, but everything else looks like Julia.”

“I don’t think you heard me.” I take a step back as Darius comes around the table. “I’m from Baalboden.”

He stops a yard from me and slowly sizes me up. “How old are you?”

I’m getting very impatient with this whole thing. “Nineteen. Now about the maps—”

“It has to be him.” He turns to Jeremiah, who looks as confused as I feel. “He looks like Julia, he has the same name, and he’s nineteen. Why didn’t you tell me you knew the lost McEntire boy?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jeremiah says, but now he’s examining my face like it’s the first time he’s seen it.

“That makes two of us,” I say.

“You really don’t know, do you?” Darius asks.

I stare him down. “I know exactly who I am. You’re the one who seems to be having difficulty.”

“I just thought . . . I didn’t realize it would be kept a secret from you.” Darius frowns at Jeremiah, who just keeps staring at me. “I lived in Rowansmark for a five-year scholarship exchange when I was fifteen. I was apprenticed to various scholars within the Rowansmark government so that our city-states could share knowledge and culture with each other. I remember the McEntire incident like it was yesterday.”

Jeremiah slowly shakes his head, but I don’t like the expression in his pale green eyes. It’s a cross between dread and worry, and a finger of unease skates up my spine.

“What McEntire incident?” I ask.

“Commander Chase from Baalboden was in town for his annual state visit, and things were already tense because he and James Rowan didn’t like each other much. There were areas of the Division for Technological Advancement that literally went into a lockdown while the Commander was visiting because James Rowan was afraid of spies and treason. A day after the Baalboden people left, it was reported that Marcus McEntire’s newborn son had disappeared. Marcus claimed that the boy died, but he couldn’t produce a body. Said he’d already buried the boy. Everyone suspected that the Commander took the baby as a way to gain access to the Division for Technological Advancement, since Marcus ran the entire operation. But when years passed and nothing happened, people forgot about it or decided maybe Marcus was telling the truth. Maybe little Logan died.”

I look at Jeremiah. “This is a coincidence. I was born and raised in Baalboden. My father died before I was born. Tell him.”

He takes a deep breath and says, “I can see the resemblance, but as far as I know Logan is right—he’s from Baalboden.”

Darius snorts. “Look at his eyes . Those are Marcus’s eyes, and you know it. He’s the right age, has the right name, and is the spitting image of his mother except for having his father’s eyes. I don’t believe in coincidences.” He turns to me. “Who raised you?”

The world tilts beneath my feet, and I grab the back of the nearest chair to steady myself. “My mother. She told me my father died. She was already pregnant, and he died. She wasn’t a liar.”

“She wasn’t your mother, either.” Darius shakes his head, and I can’t tear my gaze away from his shock of red hair, which quivers with his every movement.

My pulse is a deafening hammer pounding at my head. “This is ridiculous.”

“Nineteen years ago, the Commander took his annual trip to Rowansmark. I wasn’t head groom yet, so I stayed behind. But that year, my job changed.” Jeremiah looks in my eyes. “That year, the Commander returned home, accused the few who’d accompanied him on the trip of treason, and executed them immediately. That’s how I became head groom.”

“It’s not like executing people without cause is something the Commander never did. It doesn’t mean he was trying to cover up a kidnapping,” I say, because someone has to reach for logic and reason. “My mother—”

“Your mother had recently lost her husband and hadn’t been assigned a new Protector yet. She’d been grieving inside her home for several months, unseen by all but the older neighbor who checked on her sometimes and brought her food. When she reappeared, she had you. Everyone assumed she’d been in confinement due to pregnancy. But I don’t know, Logan.” Jeremiah’s eyes lock on mine. “I never had cause to think about it before now, but you do look a lot like Julia McEntire. She used to make it a point to visit the Baalboden staff when the Commander visited Rowansmark. At least she did for a few years. I never knew why she bothered, but maybe she was looking for you. You’re the right age, the right name . . . plus the Commander always treated you like you didn’t belong in his city. Darius is right. That’s too big of a coincidence.”