He sees me staring and mutters, “It was a gift.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it at any of the weapons vendors in the city.”

“Because it isn’t from this city. Now, you got any weapons, or am I going to be responsible for keeping the both of us alive on this trip?”

I unclasp my own bag. Minutes later, the bow and arrows are strapped across the outside of my pack, where I can easily reach back and grasp them; my knife rests against my hip; and my Switch is in my hand.

“Where are we heading?” he asks.

“Somewhere in the vicinity of Rowansmark.”

“Care to be more specific?”

“No.”

He shrugs, and we pause for a moment, listening, but the Wasteland offers nothing beyond the sound of birds chirping over their morning meals. Which doesn’t mean there aren’t highwaymen lying in wait, but at least we don’t have to worry about fending off the Cursed One at the moment.

Melkin steps off the cobblestones and slides into the dark tangle of trees, vines, and undergrowth waiting for us. I follow on his heels, my Switch ready in case of trouble.

The smell hits me first. Wet moss, crisp leaves, and the soft, musky scent of tree bark. If I close my eyes, I can imagine I’m standing next to Dad, listening to the deep, reassuring rumble of his voice quietly instruct me how to listen. How to walk without leaving an obvious trail. And how to survive anything the world throws my way.

I ache for him, a sharp, sudden longing that reminds me that missing him is how I started this entire nightmare. I draw in another breath, savor it against my tongue, and let myself feel a tiny sliver of raw hope. Maybe Dad is with the package. Maybe, by searching for it, I’ll find him too. Maybe if I find him, he’ll know how to make everything right again.

“You coming? Or you planning on sniffing trees all day?”

I ignore Melkin and start walking. The Wasteland is a strange mix of overgrown forests, bogs, and fields and the ruins of the sky-climbing cities destroyed or abandoned over five decades ago when the Cursed One was first released.

“Mind the thorns,” Melkin says quietly, swinging his walking stick in the direction of a patch of pretty green undergrowth adorned with needle-sharp thorns.

I skirt the plants and use my Switch to swipe hanging vines out of my way as I walk. Melkin stops to listen, and I halt as well, though my ears don’t pick up anything beyond the usual whisper of bug wings and breeze that mark the forested area of the Wasteland closest to Baalboden.

“Hear that?” he asks in a voice designed to carry no more than a few feet.

I listen harder and finally catch it—a faint shush of sound that could be an animal foraging for food, or could be the slide of a boot against the branch of a tree. I release the Switch’s blade with a muted snick, and catch Melkin’s slight frown as my walking stick becomes a weapon.

I don’t hear the sound again, but I don’t make the mistake of assuming a threat doesn’t exist. Clutching my Switch closer, I rest my other hand on my knife sheath.

We walk as silently as possible, but don’t hear sounds of pursuit again. I see the moment Melkin decides it was nothing but an animal. His shoulders drop, and the hand curled inside his bladed glove relaxes.

I don’t sheath the Switch’s blade, though. Better to be ready to deal violently with others than to be caught off guard.

Rowansmark is an eight-day journey southwest. Ten if the weather is foul or we have to go around a gang of highwaymen. I pace our progress by the familiar markers we pass—the lightning-struck oak, the creek with the stepping-stone bridge, and the swaying once-white cottage almost completely covered by kudzu. We’re making good time, in part due to Melkin’s pace. His long legs eat up the terrain, but I have no trouble keeping up. Fear for Logan’s life demands nothing less. And the anger I feel toward the Commander refuses to let me rest.

I’m going to retrace Dad’s route to his Rowansmark safe house and find the package. Once I find it, I’ll figure out a way to secure Logan’s safety while making the Commander pay for what he’s done.

A tiny inner voice whispers that if I find Dad with the package, I won’t have to figure it out alone. I tamp down the buoyant sense of hope that wants to blossom within me. The tracking device on my arm is silent, the wires cold. I have no reason yet to hope for anything.

The sun melts lazily across the sky, turning the forest we walk though into a damp, humid jungle. It’s too early in the spring for mosquitoes, but beetles and gnats swarm the trees, and I keep my cloak on despite the warmth.

Twice more, we hear a rustle of sound behind us, but when Melkin circles back, he finds nothing. As we’re sharing the Wasteland with a host of wild animals, hearing noises isn’t unusual. Still, the lessons I learned about the Commander’s lack of honor are carved into me with deep, crimson letters, and I’m not reassured.

When the sun reaches the middle of the sky, Melkin drops to a crouch against the thick trunk of an ancient oak, opens his pack, and offers me a flask of water and a hunk of oat bread. I take them and find my own trunk to rest against, keeping him well within my sights while I listen closely for sounds of human pursuit.

We eat in silence until Melkin looks up, wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his faded blue tunic, and says, “Your daddy taught you well.”

I stare at him. “How do you know he’s the one who taught me?”

“The Commander told me. I didn’t fancy on taking a helpless little girl across the Wasteland with me, but you know how to move quietly. You keep your head up, eyes open. Looks like you know what to do with that stick you carry too.”