But I can’t. Because whatever is holding me won’t let me slide under the surface again. By the time we reach the shore, my lungs are burning for air, and the peace I felt is gone.

I’m tossed onto the shore, flipped over on my back, and Melkin looms over me like a giant wet twig. He puts his hands together, one over the other, and slams them into my chest.

Water gushes up my throat, burning and suffocating, and fills my mouth and nose. He reaches forward and turns my head to the side as I spew the water onto the sand. Twice more, he hits my chest and I have to spit out mouthfuls of water. When he raises his hands a fourth time, my lungs contract, and I start coughing on my own. He lowers his hands, turns me to my side so any water I cough up can dribble onto the ground, and collapses next to me, his breathing harsh.

I don’t know how much time passes before he turns over on his side to face me.

“You gonna live?” he asks, and I see my pack is still strapped to his back.

My throat burns as I answer. “I’m fine.”

I should thank him. Between this and catching me before I fell from the branch below him during the Cursed One’s attack, he’s saved my life twice today. I should, but I don’t. Because even though he’s saved me, even though he claims to have lost almost everything, he works for the Commander. I don’t need anything else to justify the slow burn of anger I feel every time I look at him.

It should be Logan who caught me. Logan who saved me from drowning. Logan who asks if I’m okay.

“I’m sorry for what I said back there,” Melkin says.

I frown. I don’t know what he means.

“I know your daddy’s been missing for months. I saw what happened during the Claiming ceremony. If anyone has a right to bitterness, I guess it’s you.” His dark eyes wander away from mine, and he heaves himself into a sitting position, my pack dripping water, creating tiny streams on the riverbank.

I wish he wouldn’t apologize. Wouldn’t sit there like he understands and ask for nothing in return. It makes it hard to aim my anger at him.

I sit up as well, digging my fingers into the wet sand beneath me as my head spins slowly, and look around us. Nothing is familiar. We’ve traveled so far down the river, I’ve lost any place markers to show me where we are. The distant horizon is free of smoke, a clear indication we traveled for miles in the swift embrace of the water.

“Where are we?” I ask, and wish for the hot, syrupy drink Oliver always gave me to cure a sore throat.

The memory of Oliver stabs into me, and I force myself to breathe through it.

“About past the king’s city,” Melkin says, raising one bony arm to point to the bank above us to the left.

I turn to see a huge metal rectangle, its legs long ago turned into twisted wreckage, leaning against the top of the bank, one corner deeply entrenched in the ground. A man with jet-black hair and a smirk on his lips peers at us from the middle of the rectangle, his image sun-worn, the paint falling away in long strips. Vines twine around the top, obscuring the upper left corner, and tall grasses hide the base, but the word KING stretches across the center in faded, peeling red letters.

“How many days between this and Rowansmark?” I need familiar markers. A road I can remember. Something to help me find Dad’s safe house. Every courier establishes his own off-the-main-path places to stock with essentials and use on their journeys. To share the location with others is to invite robbery and maybe even torture by those who would lie in wait hoping to extract any secrets they know.

“Maybe fifteen. We’ve been pushed off course by about five or six days,” Melkin says, and stands, adjusting the weight of the pack on his back.

My pack. With my weapons.

I stand too, and though my knees wobble and my legs shake, I have no trouble remaining upright. A glance at the sky tells me we still have four hours until sunset. More than enough time to get past the King’s City and find a safe place to camp. I unfasten my cloak, my fingers fumbling with the soggy leather bindings, and take it off. The damp garment is a dead weight against my shoulders, and I need the sun to dry my tunic and leggings as we walk. The copper cuff Logan gave me stands out in sharp relief beneath the wet material of my tunic. I hope Logan had the good sense to make the tracking device waterproof.

Melkin reaches a hand out for my cloak, and I jerk it toward my chest.

He frowns. “It’s heavy. I’ll carry it until you’re feeling a bit stronger.”

“It’s mine. So is the pack.” I reach for it.

He backs away. “You’re in no shape to carry it.”

My hands curl into fists. He has my Switch. My bow and arrows. Does he think if he takes most of my weapons, he’ll have me at a disadvantage? I reach for the knife sheath strapped to my waist.

He holds his hands up, and I can’t read the expression on his face. “You’re a stubborn, suspicious one, aren’t you?”

“With good reason.” The knife slides free and I palm the hilt. “I want my weapons. You can carry the pack if you insist, but I carry my own weapons.”

Never again will I be caught unaware. Unable to act.

He shrugs, but watches me closely as he slides my Switch free of its sleeve and hands it to me. The bow and arrows follow, and I see I’m down to three arrows from the original twelve. The rest must be swirling along the bottom of the river.

I strap the bow and arrows to my back, return the knife to its sheath, and hold the Switch with my right hand.