Without another word, he motions us inside the cramped little box of a room, leaves the pair of Lankenshire soldiers to stand guard outside the door, and locks us in.

“The one person who can make it happen . . . we must be meeting with Clarissa before the trial starts,” I say.

Clarissa Vaughn—leader of Lankenshire’s triumvirate and quite possibly the most formidable woman I’ve ever met. Enduring the soldier’s frustration at my lack of a plan will be nothing compared to facing her.

Willow paces the room, scanning the plain white walls and the knotted pine ceiling like she thinks she can find a secret exit that will dump us straight into the Wasteland. I’m scanning the walls too, for all the good it will do me. We need a plan. A real one. And I’ve got no ideas and no more time to figure it out.

As if she can read my mind, Willow asks, “Still got nothing?”

I meet her eyes for a second, letting her see the sheer desperation churning through me, and then turn to the door. I have to tell Clarissa something. Maybe if I look at this from a different angle. If I examine ways we can neutralize the beacons to take the teeth out of the trackers’ threats. If I talk to Coleman Pritchard, head of Lankenshire’s security, about methods to defend the city against the Commander . . .

Who am I kidding? I know nothing about defending a city against an army, and I can’t tell Clarissa how to neutralize the Rowansmark beacons without seeing one for myself, and even then . . . what if I can’t figure it out? What if—

“Hey!” Willow smacks my shoulder lightly. “Stop disappearing into your head and listen. I know what to do.”

I blink and stare at her. “You do?”

“Don’t act so surprised. I just figured the fastest way to get out of here and into the Wasteland is to remove the obstacles in our way. We’ll start with the trackers and then move on to the army—”

“You want to take out an entire contingent of Rowansmark trackers—”

“I don’t see why not.”

“—and then go after an army—”

“Don’t be an idiot. Not the whole army. Just the leader. Cut off the head and the rest of the body just sort of flops around uselessly.”

“You want the two of us, who are currently weaponless . . .” I pause as she wriggles her wrist at me. The silver wire she took from her braid shimmers. “Fine, you want the two of us who are mostly weaponless, and who are chained up like criminals, to take out a group of Rowansmark trackers. What are we supposed to use against them? We need a bigger weapon than chains and attitude.”

“That’s a very negative way to look at this.”

A bigger weapon than chains and attitude.

I stare at Willow, but I don’t see her. I finally see possibilities. Scenarios.

Plans.

The pain in my stomach eases.

“We can’t kill all of the Rowansmark trackers,” I say.

“Speak for yourself.” She glares at me.

“We need to leave a few alive to testify that Lankenshire had nothing to do with our escape in case other trackers come to the city,” I say slowly as a risk-filled plan for how we can break out of prison without endangering either Lankenshire or the Baalboden survivors takes shape inside my head.

“And how are we going to escape?”

“I have a plan.” I can’t believe what I’m about to suggest. “It’s stupid and bold and could fail in a hundred ways before we even get fifteen yards.”

She grins. “You cover stupid. I’ll take care of bold. Now, what’s the plan?”

“We’re going to get the Commander to break us out of prison.”

CHAPTER TWO

LOGAN

The air inside the little room grows stale while I pace the floor, talking through the details of the riskiest plan I’ve ever conceived and waiting for Clarissa Vaughn to tell me I’m crazy and that I’ve just cost her people their lives.

When I’ve finished, I meet Clarissa’s gaze. Her expression tells me nothing. Beside her stands a girl who looks like a younger version of her—right down to the proud tilt of her chin and the air of power wrapping around her like she was born to it. Clarissa introduced her as Cassidy when they arrived. Cassidy’s shoulders are ramrod straight beneath her white tunic and dark-green cloak. A black scarf is pinned to the right shoulder of her cloak by a gold medallion with a scale etched onto its surface. Books lie on one side of the scale. A dragon’s head lies on the other. The books weigh more.

She’s a courier for Lankenshire. An official emissary charged with handling state business with other city-states. For a moment, I imagine that if Rachel had been born in Lankenshire instead of Baalboden, she might’ve been an emissary for a city-state that valued her brains and her skill without worrying about her gender. Or she might be in the army. Or, eventually, in the triumvirate.

A small part of me wishes that had been her path. The rest of me holds fast to the girl with the fiery hair who defended me when schoolboys caught me scrounging for food in a trash heap, who challenged my ideas and my sparring skills, and who kissed me like I was the air she desperately needed to breathe.

Clarissa and Cassidy are still watching me in silence, and I clear my throat.

“That’s it,” I say. “That’s the plan.”

“Let me get this straight,” Clarissa says. “You want me to send an emissary to the army outside my gates, tell the Commander that you will give him the device in exchange for freeing you from our dungeon, and then have that emissary lead him to the dungeon through the underground tunnels at midnight to break you out of prison.”