But someone else is too.

Taking a few minutes to eat and rewrap my rib, I think through my options.

I can continue with my current trajectory and hope to intercept Rachel near the second safe house before she finds the package and her whole world goes to hell. Or I can pick up the Rowansmark tracker’s trail and try to reach him before he acts against her.

I might be giving a slight advantage to the tracker by alerting him to my presence as I join Rachel, but his advantage is mitigated by my knowledge of his agenda.

And I can’t bear to break the promise I made to Eloise. I might not be able to stop Melkin from following through on the Commander’s orders, but I’m honor-bound to try.

Climbing down the tree starts a fire in my ribcage. I gently shake out my cloak, readjust my weapons, and put a tiny pinch of pain medicine beneath my tongue. Then I take a moment to assess the quality of the silence around me.

Owls hoot mournfully in the tree tops. The whispery rustle of an evening breeze slides across leaves. And the occasional animal pads quietly across the moss-covered ground.

I’m reassured. If the animals feel safe, I’m safe too.

Best Case Scenario: I make good progress and don’t run into anyone.

Worst Case Scenarios 1–3: I stumble onto a gang of highwaymen as I cut across their favored trails; I lose my footing in the dark and injure my rib further, making speed difficult; or I cross paths with the tracker.

The answer to each is caution, but too much caution on my part may cost Rachel her life. Hoping to strike a balance between good sense and quick progress, I pick up my pace and strain to hear any change in the cadence of the forest around me as I enter highwaymen territory, my hand on the hilt of my sword.

CHAPTER FIFTY

RACHEL

The stew tastes like ashes in my mouth, but I chew with dogged determination. It takes everything I have to force myself to swallow when I’d rather gag, but I do it.

Revenge takes energy.

Melkin doesn’t eat. Instead, he sits hunched forward like a giant praying mantis, digging the tip of his knife in the sand, while he watches the rest of us in brooding silence.

The package rests beside me on the ground, a lifeless reminder of everything I’ve lost. What could be worth such bloodshed? Such single-minded greed from both Rowansmark and the Commander?

Setting aside my stew bowl, I reach for it.

“Don’t open it.”

I meet Melkin’s dark stare in silence, my fingers still tugging at the bindings holding the thick paper in place.

“Don’t.”

I unknot the bindings and rip the paper off. Beneath the paper, a heavy black cloth is rolled up like a log. Laying it in my lap, I carefully unroll the cloth until I see what rests at its center.

A slim wand of smoke-gray metal with a hole at one end, like a flute but with only three raised finger pads along its length, gleams dully beneath the flickering light of the single torch that Melkin has allowed us.

“What is this?” I look up, first at Quinn, who shows no inclination to answer me, and then at Willow.

Her brown eyes are alive with excitement as she leans forward and says, “It’s tech from Rowansmark. See the three finger pads?”

I nod, and Melkin shifts closer to me, his eyes on the wand.

“There are symbols on each pad.”

I run my finger across the circles and discover a different raised design on each. “What do they mean?”

“Willow.” Quinn’s voice is gentle, but his sister darts a quick glance at Melkin and subsides.

I can’t read the subtext of their communication, and I don’t want to. I just want to understand what I’m holding so I can see the Commander’s endgame and thwart it.

I need Logan. He’d know how to figure this out. How to get the information from them and make a plan.

And I need Logan because he’d understand that something inside me is broken. Something I have no idea how to mend. He’d understand, and if he didn’t know how to fix it, he’d dedicate himself to learning how.

I need him, but he needs me more. He needs me calm. Focused. He needs me to get the information, make the plan, and rescue him. I’m not going to let him down.

Turning to Quinn, I speak in a voice as hard as the packed dirt beneath us. “I need to know what they mean. You told me men are looking for this. Clearly my father didn’t want them to have it, or he would’ve just returned it. The leader of my city is looking for it too.”

“Rachel, that’s enough.” Melkin’s voice is low and furious.

I ignore him.

“If you don’t tell me everything I need to know, people may die. I might die. And you said yourself, you didn’t want my father’s …” Death? Sacrifice? I can’t put his loss into words. There aren’t any terrible enough to convey how empty I am without him. My hand creeps up to clutch the leather pouch I wear around my neck, and Quinn’s eyes are sympathetic.

I hate him for it.

“You said Dad was a hero.” I throw the words at him. “You said he died saving you.”

“Yes.”

“I’m not asking you to die. I’m not asking you to risk anything but the truth. You can be a hero if you just tell me the truth.”

“Your father didn’t want you to use that.” He looks at the wand.

“You have no idea what my father wanted.”

He looks wounded, and the fury inside me lashes out. I grab the wand and wave it in his face. “What does this do? Tell me!”