A tree in front of me shakes gently, and Quinn drops from a low branch and walks toward me. He’s limping.

“Tree leaping instead of walking?” Ian asks beside me.

Quinn shrugs. “It’s how I was trained to travel. Leaves fewer signs for a tracker to follow and offers better visibility. Even in the rain.” He pulls a slim sheaf of papers from beneath his tunic and thrusts them at me. “Jeremiah’s map. He says the terrain gets tricky in the next two hundred yards or so and wanted you to have this.”

I roll up the papers and tuck them into an inner cloak pocket where they’ll remain dry. “What happened to your leg?”

“Got sliced by a sword.”

“How deep?”

He waves his hand in the air as if swatting away any concern I might feel. “It’s superficial. I’ll be fine in a day or two.”

“What happened?”

“Jeremiah was in the hall when Carrington broke down the compound’s door. Rachel went to rescue him. Willow and I helped.”

“You’d be better able to protect yourself if you carried a sword of your own.”

“That’s not an option.”

I swipe rain out of my eyes and look at him. His dark hair is plastered to his head, and his shoulders are hunched against the downpour, but his eyes are full of resolve.

“Do you need to ride in a wagon until the leg heals?”

He raises a brow. “I think you just insulted my manhood.”

I smile. “I think you’re right. Sorry about that.”

Before he can leave, I reach out and clasp his shoulder. “Thank you. For bringing the map and for helping Rachel. Both with Jeremiah and with the Commander.”

He holds my gaze for a moment and then says, “Happy to help.”

“I hope you mean that, because I need to ask you for a favor. It’s about Rachel.” I pause, but I can’t think of any way to ask for help protecting her that doesn’t make it sound like I think less of her skills. I don’t. I respect her tremendously. I also understand her, which means I know without a doubt that if the Commander is within reach again, every cautious word I’ve spoken, every careful plan we’ve constructed, will turn to ash in the flames of her need for vengeance.

“I’m always kept busy now,” I say, gesturing toward the crowd behind us. “And while Rachel is very capable of taking care of herself in a fight, if the Commander shows up again . . . he hurt her.” I push the memory of Rachel, broken and silent after Oliver’s death, away from me. “If he’s near her, I don’t know what she might do.”

“I know what she’ll do,” Ian says, grudging admiration in his voice. “She’ll kill him. Probably while extracting as much pain from him as she can. You have to admire that kind of dedication.”

“And what would be left of her when she finished?” Quinn asks. Ian looks away, and Quinn locks eyes with me. “She won’t sacrifice herself on my watch.”

“Thank you.” The words are inadequate, but they’re all I have.

As Quinn hoists himself into the closest tree again, Ian asks, “What’s his story?”

“What do you mean?” I glance at the crowd behind me, their chins tucked down and their cloaks clutched close to their throats as they trudge through the rain. I can’t see Rachel, though I know she’s near the back of the line. The people walk slowly, mud sucking at their boots, and I bite back a surge of impatience. I want to prod everyone to move faster. To ignore the discomfort and do what it takes to survive.

“He’s a Tree Person. Why is he with us? Why doesn’t he carry a weapon when he’s clearly been trained for battle?” Ian asks, and I face the trail again as it starts a gentle curve toward the northeast.

“He’s with us because he chooses to be. And his reasons for not carrying a weapon are his own.” The faint road we’re traveling winds up a steep hill, which will impact the amount of time it will take to get to a place suitable for making camp. At this point, I’m worried we’ll still be trying to travel at night. Without the ability to see roots, bushes, or holes in the path, we’d destroy a wagon or two for sure. I start calculating the distance we’ve traveled and the yardage we still need to cover. At our current rate of speed, and factoring in the weather—

“Okay.” Ian holds up his hands as if to show he meant no harm. “So what are your plans once we reach Lankenshire?”

The mathematical equation in my head dissolves, and I say sharply, “I already discussed my plans at our group meeting yesterday.”

“Fine. Don’t tell me,” Ian says, and something in his voice makes me study him closely. His fists are clenched, and the set of his mouth is mutinous.

“What’s your problem?” I ask.

He bends with me to lift a fallen branch out of the path and toss it into the forest. It lands among the oak trees with a wet thud.

“I know what this is about. I’m not stupid.” He tugs his cloak closer to his body and walks a little faster.

Gritting my teeth, I catch up to him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Ian, and I have very little time or energy to try to figure it out. In case you haven’t noticed, I have a group of scared, inexperienced travelers to lead through the Wasteland and a furious tyrant with an army at our backs. If you have an issue with me, either say it plainly or drop it.”

“You don’t trust me.”