IX

“Look how far the lights extend.” I pointed past Brook’s shoulder as she and I hovered in the front of the VAN while it lurched over the uneven land. The light from the headlamps of the vehicle stretched into and past trees and boulders, penetrating every space it came in contact with, and even bounced back at us. The headlights turned the night into day, revealing a hostile landscape that looked like it could chew our VAN up and spit it out.

It had been years—more than I knew, really—since vehicles like this had been commonplace in Ludania. Paved roads, real ones, the kind with flat surfaces that were unmarred by pits and rocks, were rare. There were some, though, and a few were even maintained to keep them passable, mostly by cart, but also by the occasional, albeit rare, motorized vehicle.

Most roads, however, were broken and cracked. Weeds, shrubs, even groves of trees had overrun them. Many had been smashed into unrecognizable fragments of their former selves, and were often impassible even on horseback. But even those that hadn’t been preserved were still used as trade routes, to demark the way from city to city, village to village. Along many of these forgotten thoroughfares, we could see the abandoned hulls of what had once been vehicles, long-since stripped of anything valuable. Time had corroded what had remained.

We stayed close to these trade routes, using the map Caspar had marked for us to show which roads were safe, and which were most treacherous.

I tried to imagine what it had been like centuries ago, before Sabara—with Ludania in its prime—when vehicles like these had been plentiful, and all of the roads running in every direction had been teeming with them, day and night. When technology had been on our side, and fuel had been plentiful.

For decades now trains had been our most dependable source of transportation, and now many of the rail lines were under repair after Xander’s revolutionaries had destroyed them in his efforts to overthrow his grandmother.

Ludania was in sad shape.

“You know, it’s hard to concentrate with the two of you breathing down my neck,” Eden grumbled. Her point was emphasized when we hit yet another hole in the pocked ground and the VAN pitched, throwing both Brook and me backward into a pile on the gritty floor.

“Oomph,” I gasped when Brook landed on top of me. She floundered, like she was having a hard time getting up, and I half-believed she was doing it on purpose, trying to get a rise out of me as she became an uncoordinated mass of elbows and knees—everything Brook wasn’t.

I shoved her off me when she wasn’t making enough progress on her own.

She laughed at my attempts to free myself. “You, Layla,” she accused between giggles, “make a terrible cushion. It’s like you were trying to be lumpy.”

“Well, you,” I shot back, deciding to play along with this more jovial Brooklynn, and grabbing a handrail to pull myself up, “are an even worse guard. Shouldn’t you have tried to catch me or something?” I brushed the sand from my backside decisively.

Brook’s eyebrow lifted as she started to say something more, but then Eden called out, “HOLE!” in warning.

Brook and I both reached for the rail just as one of the giant tires dropped into another of the craters in the ground and the VAN listed heavily to the side.

We both giggled now and clung to the bar. We refused to let go as Eden continued to shout out warnings. It became a game to us, seeing which of us could stay on our feet the longest.

Brook won, like she always did in feats of strength or agility, and eventually I had to call a truce when both my arm and my head were aching. I released the bar and wandered down the short aisle, then sank onto one of the thinly padded benches. I stared out ahead, still marveling at the panoramic view spread before us. From behind me Brooklynn began rummaging through crates that had been crammed together on the shelving to keep them from shifting.

The rocking motion of the VAN, which had at first been jarring, began to take on a rhythmic motion, lulling me as exhaustion took its toll. Sure, I’d slept, but not soundly, with Brook’s bunk right at my back, and not nearly long enough, since Eden had woken us before the sun had risen.

My eyes had just started to drift close when I heard Brooklynn’s voice, low and filled with awe. “Man, these kids have some serious firepower. Check out this Stinger, Charlie.” “Layla,” Eden corrected from the front of the VAN, and I wondered how she’d even heard us above the rumble of the engine, which sounded like successive bomb detonations. “Yeah, right . . . Layla. Check out this Stinger, Layla,” Brook drawled, and I turned to see what had her so enthralled.

The Brook I’d grown up with had always enjoyed the finer points of femininity: wearing pretty dresses, impractical shoes with tall heels, dancing with boys, kissing.

The Brook I stared at now would most surely have preferred a switchblade to a high heel, or a grenade launcher to a party gown. I could tell as much when I saw her stroking the shiny carbon crossbow she held, with its sleek scope and fine-tipped arrow. It looked like it was fresh from the manufacturer, which it likely was, considering the work camp had been a munitions factory. Still, it was hard to imagine that these kids had access to so much firepower. As far as I’d known, only the military had access to items like these, not wards of work camps who’d been abandoned and forgotten. Sabara still had so many secrets I had yet to discover.

I jumped up from my seat, as fascinated by the firearm as Brook was. “Wow,” I breathed, rubbing my fingertips over the smooth metal surface.