“Not if I build you a device that can overpower theirs.” I hold out my hand. “I will give you tech capable of freeing you from Rowansmark’s tyranny in exchange for an alliance with my people. With me.”

She turns to look at Maxwell and Portia for a long moment. I’m not sure how to interpret their expressions, but Clarissa doesn’t share my difficulty. She turns to face me and takes my hand.

“We are allies.” Her grip is firm. “We will give you a workspace in the council building under the guise of allowing you to borrow our library to research the city-states north of us. That should help keep the trackers from becoming suspicious. Make a list of supplies you need and meet us there in one hour. Elim can show you where it is.”

Without another word, Maxwell, Clarissa, and Portia turn and leave the room. The second they reach the hall, Willow says, “Close the door. We don’t need an audience for what I’m about to tell you.”

Chapter Fifty-Three

LOGAN

“I’ve got good news and bad news. Which do you want first?” Willow asks as Adam shuts the door behind the Lankenshire triumvirate.

“The good news,” I say, and hope she knows better than to admit that I gave her the task of hiding the device in the Wasteland. It’s not that I don’t trust everyone in the room. It’s that the fewer people who know about it, the less likely it is that Rowansmark trackers can torture my people and discover the truth.

“I caught the tracker who was on the field when the fires were set. Or at least a tracker who looked just like him.”

“Where?” I ask, as Rachel, Quinn, Frankie, and Adam lean forward, their eyes riveted on Willow.

“About forty yards into the eastern Wasteland. He must have thought any chance of being caught was gone now that we were inside the city wall.” She shrugs. “He thought wrong.”

“What were you doing out in the Wasteland?” Quinn asks, his voice just as raw and raspy as Rachel’s.

“Hunting.” Her eyes gleam. “And I found what I was looking for.”

With the tracker in custody, perhaps I can get some answers of my own. Not that a tracker will give me information of his own volition. I’ll have to get my hands dirty, maybe do a few things that until a month ago I’d have sworn I’d never do, but I will have answers. Whoever is masquerading as a loyal Baalboden survivor is going to be caught and punished.

“What’s the bad news?” I ask, and Willow purses her lips like she’s just sucked on a lemon.

“He didn’t survive.”

“What didn’t he survive?” Frankie frowns at her.

She shrugs. “Me. He found it necessary to try to kill me after I’d already defeated him. I defended myself, and now he’s dead.”

I swallow the harsh tang of disappointment, and force myself to say, “It’s okay. At least you removed that threat. Now we just have to figure out which of our people knows about my past and—”

“Oh, I don’t think we’re looking for one of your people.” Willow’s dark eyes find mine, and something feral lies in their depths. “The tracker had a wristmark on his right arm. It looked identical to the ones everyone in camp wears.”

“Rowansmark trackers don’t have wristmarks,” Rachel says.

“Well, this one did.” Willow fists her hands on her hips as if daring us to call her a liar.

I feel sick. Unsteady. My blood roars through me, and I have to grab the end of Rachel’s bed to hold myself upright as the final pieces fall into place.

“No wonder we couldn’t find the traitor in our camp. He had a wristmark. He’d studied Baalboden. He knew just enough to masquerade as one of us, and we never questioned it because he looked the part.” I can’t stand still. Not when so much fury fuels me. Right under my nose this entire time. A tracker. Sneaking into my tent and leaving messages. Slitting throats. Poisoning us and then watching us burn. I stalk across the room and wheel back around to see the rage that burns in me reflected on every face I see.

“I know you said to leave the last message in the middle of the road, but it’s a clue. After seeing the wristmark on that tracker, I figured we needed all the clues we could get,” Willow says as she thrusts a piece of parchment at me.

It hasn’t survived the night very well. It’s stained with damp, and the ink is smudged in several places. I wish I could go back and reverse my decision to leave it where it lay, but wishing won’t solve the problem.

“Spread it out,” I say, and pull the small table beside Rachel’s bed over to me. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

Willow lays the parchment on the table’s surface and secures two opposing corners by placing a mug on one and a jar of salve on the other. I peer at the words scrawled across the page and try to force it all to make sense.

Traitors d erve to ie. You h ve b n dged.

“The first sentence is obviously ‘Traitors deserve to die.’ Not quite sure about the end of the second sentence, though.” Adam taps the parchment lightly.

“Traitors deserve to die. You”—I draw my finger in a line beneath the other words and go for the obvious—“have been . . . what? You have been—”

“Judged?” Adam asks.

“Sounds like the same pile of self-righteous idiocy he’s been saying all along.” Willow waves her hands in the air with more drama than I realized she possessed. “Your debt is unpaid! Traitors deserve to die! You’ve been judged!” She looks at me. “Wait until we catch him. Then I’ll show him what it’s like to be judged.”