When the male guard returns with orders to open the gate, the columns behind us sheathe their spears and slowly sink beneath the ground again as we walk into the city. I scan the compact brown buildings, see a scattering of Rowansmark beacons, and smile grimly as an idea hits me.

A circle of destruction. Impossible to survive. Aimed straight for Commander Jason Chase.

I know exactly how to build that.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

LOGAN

Lyle Hoden doesn’t keep us waiting. A woman with long dark hair and a vibrant red dress that brushes against her ankles meets us just inside the gate. Her focus is on the Commander as she strides toward him with the kind of confident power that reminds me of Clarissa. One of the Hodenswald guards leads our horses away. I notice that Connor has removed his green Lankenshire cloak and emissary’s pin—a smart move, making sure the trackers within the city are unaware of Lankenshire’s affiliation with us in case something goes wrong.

I desperately hope nothing goes wrong.

“Commander, how nice to see you again. Welcome to Hodenswald. How many in your party?” She turns to scan the rest of us and falters briefly when she sees Connor. A tiny frown puckers the skin between her brows, and then she looks at the Commander again. “Will you require separate rooms for each of your people?”

He barely spares us a glance. “Do what you want with them. Where’s Lyle?”

With another quick, sidelong glance at Connor, the woman turns on her heel. “He’s waiting for you at his home. Please follow me.”

The streets of Hodenswald are as straightforward and no-nonsense as the exterior. Dark stone paves roads that divide the city into neat sections. Tall lampposts made of iron hold oil lanterns on simple hooks and are spaced about twenty yards apart. We move quickly past buildings on either side, but everything is the same brown stone with little to no exterior adornment, and it’s impossible to tell what each building is used for.

I move to walk beside Connor as the woman ahead of us makes a sharp left turn and approaches a compact building with three stories, a narrow front door, and black curtains blocking out the windows.

“She knows you,” I say quietly as the woman marches up the low set of stairs leading to the building’s front door.

“Yes.”

“Who is she?”

The woman opens the door and steps aside to allow the Commander to enter. The Brute Squad follows closely on his heels.

“Her name is Amarynda Buehrlen. She’s the sister of Clarissa Vaughn and the daughter of Lyle Hoden.” Connor looks at me. “But I just call her Aunt Mandy.”

Frankie and Willow disappear through the doorway with Adam close behind. I grab Connor’s arm and slow his progress as we approach the steps.

“Are you telling me that the leader of Hodenswald is your grandfather?”

He grins. “Did you think Mom sent me on this mission because of my stunning expertise in navigating the Wasteland?”

“I didn’t . . . no. No, I was wondering why Clarissa chose to send you, actually.”

Something dark flashes in his eyes, and I hurry on before the hurt I just saw can take root and grow in him. “Not that I’m not happy to have you. You’ve already proven yourself to be both brave and smart.”

“Not smart about the things the rest of you take for granted, but I have influence here. I won’t be completely useless on this trip,” he says quietly.

Jodi nods to the woman—Amarynda—and enters the building with Nola, Drake, and Smithson behind her.

I meet Connor’s eyes, and we stop at the base of the steps. “You aren’t useless. You came into this with a different skill set than the rest of us, but that doesn’t mean you have nothing to offer. Besides, two months ago, nobody but Willow and I had experience traveling the Wasteland either. They learned, and so will you.”

A corner of his mouth quirks up. “I can see why your people follow you.”

My chest tightens, and I look away.

“Come on,” I say, and take the steps quickly.

The interior is well lit and furnished with plain, utilitarian pieces. Amarynda leads us down another set of steps and through a pair of double doors at the end of a long hall. We find ourselves in a square, windowless room where oil lanterns glow against the white walls, straight-backed benches fill half the space, and a large table dominates the north end of the room. The benches are empty, but a man flanked by two Rowansmark trackers sits in a wheelchair at the table, watching us as we walk toward him.

“Jason! Excellent to see you as always.” The man’s voice booms out, shaky with age but still powerful. His broad shoulders and compact build remind me of the buildings in his city. He sweeps our group with a sharp gaze, and then turns his brown eyes on the Commander. “Right on time for our yearly trade negotiations. Punctual. I’ve always appreciated that about you.” His glance darts toward the trackers who flank him and then returns to the Commander. “We must discuss how much you expect us to pay for corn this year, of course. The prices you wanted last year were highway robbery.”

“Still getting right to the point, I see.” The Commander gives no indication that he knows Lyle is lying for the sake of the trackers. “While we’re laying our issues on the table, I’ll tell you right now that the ale you sold to us last year was subpar for the price you charged. And I’ll not be giving you a small fortune for oil, either.”

Lyle laughs and reaches down to wheel his chair away from the table. “Subpar ale! You didn’t think so when you were busy drinking my samples.”