I don’t even have to ask the silence to take it from me. It’s already gone. Slipping into the emptiness before I make the conscious choice to send it there, and leaving me numb.

I push away from Quinn, and he lets me. Why shouldn’t he? I mean nothing to him. I’m just a broken girl who lost her father and then killed a man. And I’m about to go kill another.

Gathering my belongings, I stow them in my pack and then turn to find Quinn and Willow packed as well, standing by Melkin’s body.

I can’t abandon him for the forest animals to eat. Leaving my pack beside Dad’s grave, I use my knife to start digging a new one a few yards away. Soon, Quinn and Willow drop down beside me and dig as well.

“I’ll do it.” I don’t want their help. I need to do this for Melkin. Alone. A small piece of atonement in the lifetime of penance I’m going to serve for my crime.

“We can help. It will get done much faster,” Willow says, but Quinn lays a hand on her arm, and they pull back.

It takes me almost an hour. I use my knife and then scoop dirt out with my bare hands, letting the dust of his grave mingle with the stains of his blood on my skin. Then the three of us lift him and lay him gently down. When Willow picks up his walking stick to lay across his chest, I hold out my hand for it.

On our first day in the Wasteland, the Cursed One incinerated everything but Melkin’s weapons. His sword is far too long and heavy for me to carry across the Wasteland, but I can bring this back. A reminder of what I’m capable of. A faint comfort for the wife he left behind.

Together, we push the soil back into place until all that remains is a little hill of dirt. Quinn stands beside me, a solid, reassuring presence I refuse to lean on. Willow stands across from us, scanning the surrounding trees, her bow already in her hand. I should say something. A eulogy. A good-bye. But Melkin deserves to be memorialized by someone other than the girl who took his life, and I don’t know how to put into words the cost of what I’ve done.

I turn away. I have a mission to complete. When it’s over, I’ll look for absolution. When it’s over, I’ll find what comfort is left to me.

I refuse to brush the dirt from my hands. Scooping up my pack, I arrange it against my back and slide my Switch into its slot so I can carry Melkin’s ebony walking stick instead. When Quinn and Willow pick up their packs too, I frown at them.

“You don’t need to come. I can find my way back on my own.”

“Can you?” Quinn asks.

“I can find what I need to find.”

“We’ll go with you.”

“Why? You don’t even know me.”

“I knew your father.” His voice is steady, but pain runs beneath it. “And you were right when you said we still owe him a debt. I’d like to pay that debt by escorting you through the Wasteland.”

There’s a quiet insistence in his voice, and I’m too tired to argue. Besides, what do I care if two Tree People tag along? It isn’t going to slow me down or change my plans.

“Fine. But remember how you insisted on coming with me when you find I’ve landed you right in the middle of a war.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

LOGAN

I’ve been traveling hard for three and a half days. Tree-leaping. Sleeping in the wide crook of an oak curtained by Spanish moss. Watching the wires on my tracking cuff get brighter by the hour as I cut across the safer trails Rachel would use and shave time off my journey.

I’m closing in.

So is the Rowansmark battalion. I’ve seen their signs. Heard thin snatches of conversation floating back to me. I don’t know how close I am to them, but they’re still between Rachel, Melkin, and me.

I haven’t seen any sign of the tracker, and that worries me. He could’ve circled behind me. Gone ahead of the battalion to find the safe house. Caught up with Rachel and Melkin.

The scenarios are endless, and they all spell disaster.

Stopping to rest in another oak tree as the sun climbs toward noon, I assess my strategy. Following the battalion isn’t getting me anywhere. I need to flank them. Get ahead of them. Intersect with Rachel and Melkin before they run into them.

Moving with care, I open my pack. I’m running low on food since I haven’t been able to go to ground and hunt, but I still have a few jars of preserved fruit and some sheep jerky I took from the safe-house pantry. Choosing a small ration of each, I eat quickly and then grudgingly use a small bit of pain medicine.

I’m going to have to move fast. I can’t afford to feel the full effects of my journey until later.

After packing my bag and assessing the noises around me to gauge the relative safety of moving forward, I aim southeast and start tree-leaping. Within twenty minutes, all sounds of the battalion are gone, and I’m deep in the Spanish moss–draped forest of the southern Wasteland, surrounded only by birds, bugs, and the occasional rabbit or squirrel.

When I judge I’ve traveled far enough south to risk cutting back toward the west without running into the battalion, I take another short rest, refuel on water and some jerky, and start leaping again.

The sun is sinking toward the west, about three hours from sunset, when I glance down at the tracker cuff I wear and freeze. The wires glow at one hundred percent. My heart pounds, and I have to remind myself to breathe.

I’ve found her.

Somewhere in a thirty-yard radius around me, Rachel is traveling the Wasteland. I’m not too late. I’m busy scoping out my surroundings, trying to determine the best direction to take, when I hear her approach.