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Voske’s kingdom! Ross began struggling again.

  “Simmer down, youngster,” the man said. “We’re not going to hurt you. And we didn’t hurt your friends.”

  “Where are they?” Ross asked.

  “Took off down the arroyo. The girl didn’t want to go, but the boy made her. She your girlfriend?”

  Ross pressed his brow into the sand to hide his relief. He’d already known, but it was good to get confirmation. No one had died on his behalf.

  The man went on, “King Voske wants you to work for him, looking for treasure.”

  Someone pulled Ross upright, and fingers touched his face. He tried to flinch away.

  “I’m not going to hurt you.” The man tied a strip of cloth over Ross’s eyes. “This is so you don’t accidentally look at the sun. Don’t take it off. You could blind yourself for real.”

  Someone patted him down for weapons. There was a tug at his waist as his prospecting tools were taken away. He hoped they wouldn’t think to check his boots, but a pair of small hands slipped in and confiscated his knives. Then they unsnapped the clasps of his gauntlet and yanked it off.

  “Hey,” Ross said. “Let that alone. It’s not a weapon.”

  A scornful girl’s voice retorted, “Do you think I’m stupid? What else would it be?”

  Ross hated the thought of Voske’s people prodding at his arm or even looking at it, but he was desperate to keep the gauntlet. He’d lost everything else. “I can’t use my hand without it. Look at the scar.”

  His left arm was released, and Ross turned his forearm over.

  A man asked, “Knife fight?”

  If they didn’t know, Ross wasn’t going to tell them. “Yeah.”

  A strong hand stretched out his fingers, then tried to force them into a fist. His fingers locked out, and a stabbing pain shot from his palm up to his elbow. A film of cold sweat dampened his face. Ross clenched his jaw, then wondered if he should have gone ahead and screamed. But the person let go of his hand.

  “Sorry,” a woman said, “I had to know. You going to hit us with that thing if I give it back?”

  “How could I? I can’t even see you,” Ross said.

  A girl snickered. Ross pulled his arm tight against his body.

  “Leave him be, Bankar,” the woman said. “Charles, give it to him. He’s not going anywhere.”

  The gauntlet was pushed into Ross’s hands. He strapped it back on, then rested his head in his palms. He had to come up with a plan, but all he could think of was how Mia had refused to leave him. His eyes stung, and he was glad that the blindfold hid them from view.

  “Want some water?” It was a young guy’s voice, breathless and tense.

  A canteen sloshed near Ross’s head, reminding him that his mouth was as dry as an old boot. He held out his hand experimentally, wondering if the canteen would be snatched away. That was the sort of game that Voske’s lieutenant and his gang had played when they jumped Ross’s claim before he first came to Las Anclas.

  But the canteen pushed against his fingers. Ross sniffed at the water cautiously. It smelled slightly stale, like canteen water always did. He supposed if there was anything wrong with it, they could pin him and pour it down his throat anyway.

  He took a gulp, and then another. Then someone took the canteen away.

  “Santiago, is that sling okay?” asked the woman. “Can you ride?”

  “Yeah. I’ll be fine.” It was the same voice that had offered Ross water. No wonder he’d sounded so strained—he must be the guy whose collarbone Ross had broken.

  “Charles, you take our guest,” the woman called.

  Guest? Ross grimaced as he was pulled to his feet.

  “This way.” Ross recognized that voice, too. Charles was the man who had blinded him. With a firm grip on his elbow, Charles led Ross to a place where he could hear and smell horses.

  “Can you ride?” Charles asked.

  “No,” Ross said. That might delay them.

  He was flung across the shoulders of a horse. When he tried to sit up, his foot got tangled in a piece of tack, and he began to slide off.

  “That part’s true,” Bankar taunted.

  “Bankar,” the woman warned.

  “Okay, okay, Greta.”

  As Ross scrabbled to get back in the saddle, someone mounted behind him. The horse took a step forward, knocking Ross off-balance again. He grabbed desperately at the coarse mane. It was hard enough to ride any time, but he’d never realized how much balance depended on sight.

  A strong arm pulled Ross upright and held him firmly. “I’ve got you,” Charles said.

  Ross tried to move with the horse’s gait as the animals galloped. Every step took them farther away from Las Anclas. Yuki and Mia wouldn’t get back until the day was done, and even if a rescue party set out immediately, it would take them another day to get as far as the ruined city. If Ross was going to escape, he would have to rescue himself.

  He couldn’t fight the whole gang, but they’d have to camp sometime. He might get a chance to slip out while they were asleep. Then he’d have to cross the desert without even being able to see if the ground in front of him was solid, or a pit mouth’s funnel trap, or the edge of a cliff.

  But he’d seen Gold Point, and he’d seen the heads of Voske’s enemies stuck on poles along the walls. Maybe walking blind through the desert wasn’t as crazy as it sounded. He’d traveled on moonless, foggy nights. He knew the desert through the soles of his feet, and by its smells and sounds and textures. He was blind, but that didn’t mean he was lost.

  He opened the door in his mind, to seek out the crystal trees. His own tree, back in Las Anclas, must be too far away. He couldn’t sense it. But the trees around the ruined city were bright in his mind. If he were free, he could feel where they were and walk toward them. Once he got to the ruined city, he should be close enough to Las Anclas to sense his own tree, and use that to navigate back home.

  The horses alternated between a gallop and a fast trot until the sun beat on the top of his head: noon. They’d set out before dawn. Horses from Las Anclas would have been exhausted by now. These horses were obviously bred for endurance.

  Greta called, “Bankar, pass out lunch.”

  The horses slowed to a walk. Charles pushed a lump into Ross’s hand. It turned out to be a dry cornmeal cake, nothing like the nice moist ones that Dr. Lee baked. Ross forced it down. He’d need the energy. After that he got a piece of jerky, more salt than meat and tough as his saddle. To his relief, when everyone finished choking down the jerky, the canteen was passed around again.

  Horse hooves clopped up, accompanied by clinks and rustles.

  “Anything interesting in the guest’s pack, Bankar?” Charles asked.

  “No . . . Wait. Wait.” Metal rattled fiercely against metal, then Bankar asked, “What’s this thing?”

  “Part of a pipe,” Charles said.

  Bankar replied, “It’s solid.”

  Ross didn’t have anything like that in his pack, so it had to be Mia’s mystery gift. It had only been a few hours since he’d last seen her, but he already missed her. Whatever she’d given him, he wanted to snatch it out of Bankar’s hand.

  “Hey! You!” A finger poked Ross’s arm. He barely stopped himself from slapping it away.

  “What’s this metal cylinder thing?”

  “No idea. I found it on the way here.” If Ross said it was a tool, they’d examine it until they figured out what it did, and then they’d steal it. Mia had made it, so it must do something.

  “What does it do?” Bankar asked.

  Ross shrugged. “I don’t know what half the stuff I find does. I just find it and trade it.”

  “You must get ripped off all the time,” jeered Bankar. “How do you sell your finds? ‘Here’s a valuable, uh, I have no idea! I’m asking a sack of flour for the whatever-it-is.’”

  “Break’s over,” Greta announced. Ross wondered if she was as sick of Bankar as he was. “Let’s get moving.”
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  The horses broke into a trot. Ross lost his balance and grabbed for the mane. They already think I’m an idiot. Good. He deliberately exaggerated the lurch, almost sliding out of the saddle. Charles grabbed him by the shoulder.

  Once Ross got used to the rhythm, he reached out with his mind again. His sense of the singing trees was getting faint with distance. If they went too far, he wouldn’t be able to feel them at all. He had to escape tonight.

  *

  The heat had faded into evening cool when the horses began to descend, making Ross clutch at the saddle. The air smelled more of minerals than of dust, and sounds echoed slightly. They were heading into a canyon.

  Greta raised her voice. “Let’s dismount and walk. The horses are tired. And so am I.”

  “I’m not!” Bankar piped up.

  “Santiago?” Greta asked. “How’s your arm?”

  “I’m fine.” Santiago sounded like he barely had enough energy to get the words out.

  “We’ll camp soon,” Greta said as they pulled up. “No, Santiago, don’t dismount by yourself.”

  If they decided to tie Ross up, it was over. His only chance was to appear so helpless that they didn’t need to bother. Hearing Greta help Santiago down from his horse gave Ross an idea.

  Charles dismounted, then tapped Ross’s free hand. “Here, take my arm.”

  Ross gripped Charles’s arm, then dumped himself out of the saddle like a sack of beans and collapsed on the ground. When Charles tried to give him a hand up, Ross let his knees buckle and sank back down to the canyon floor.

  Charles pulled him up. “We’re all tired. Just a little farther, now. You can do it.”

  “I can’t see. How can I walk?” Ross threw out his right arm, and was relieved when he touched stone. “Oh. I can lean on this.”

  He spread out his fingers. The stone was grainy and hard. Granite. When he brushed his palm upward, he hit a seam of crystalline rock, smooth and faceted. Quartz, probably. He’d bet the entire canyon was striped with seams of different types of stone. The cracks under his hand were barely big enough to get his fingers into, but he knew this type of canyon. There would be bigger cracks and fissures all over.

  “We’re losing the light. Let’s get a move on.” The speaker was one of the people whose name Ross hadn’t figured out yet.

  Ross needed to figure out the size and depth of any crevices he might find without making it obvious what he was doing. Also, he had to make sure no one wondered why he was walking so close to the wall. He deliberately stumbled over a rock, and fell flat on his face. He let out a yelp.

  Bankar laughed.

  “You’d better lead him,” Greta said.

  “I can manage.” Ross got up and pressed his body into the side of the canyon. “If I stick close to this wall.”

  No one argued. They plodded on. He found several cracks and caves big enough to fit into, but they were either too shallow for concealment or so large that they were obvious hiding places. A couple emitted the dank, nasty smell of bats, which wouldn’t put him off, or the sharp chemical odor of tarantulas, which would.

  Then he found the one. It was a narrow crevice, so small that no one would think he could fit into it. But he’d gotten into tighter places than that. Better yet, the floor was lower than the entrance, no doubt gouged out by water ages ago. If he lay down in it, anyone glancing in by flickering torchlight would only see a shallow crack and the back of the cave wall.

  Ross began counting his strides away from the crevice.

  Chapter Ten. Las Anclas.

  Jennie

  Jennie picked up her wooden practice sword, wishing she’d gone to the ruined city with Ross and Mia. What was wrong with her? Why did she keep pushing them away?

  She wished she was doing anything but preparing to play an attacker in the battle drill that Mr. Preston had promised would be “the most realistic one yet.”

  Jennie tapped the sword against her nails, reminding herself that it was only wood. Realistic didn’t mean real.

  Indra waited at the front gate with the other Rangers, dipping his cloth-wrapped sword into a bucket of red dye. His black braid slithered over his shoulder as he waved at her.

  Jennie’s chest tightened with emotions that didn’t make sense: she was glad to see him, but she was afraid to look at him; she was thrilled to be training with the Rangers, but she couldn’t stand the thought of another battle, real or false.

  Mr. Vilas loomed over them, his eyes shadowed under his hat as he rubbed his sectional staff with chalk. He looked as sinister as ever. Jennie still thought of him as the bounty hunter. Though Julio Wolfe had officially taken over Sera’s position as leader of the Rangers, it was the Defense Chief who gave the orders, and Mr. Preston’s real second in command seemed to be the bounty hunter.

  Sera would have kept Jennie by her side, so Jennie could hear all the details of her plan. Sera would have moved little, spoken softly, and missed nothing.

  Julio, bouncing from toe to toe, began giving a pep talk to the townspeople he would lead in the attack, then broke off and started another pep talk, this one directed at the Rangers. When the townspeople began to chit-chat, Julio returned to exhorting them. The bounty hunter stood alone, ready and alert, but ignoring his supposed comrades.

  Neither of them could ever take Sera’s place.

  Indra beckoned to Jennie, the orange light from the setting sun catching in his long eyelashes. “Don’t forget to dip your sword.”

  A flash of gold scuttled past Jennie’s ankles, making her jump. Then she recognized Felicité’s rat, with Felicité close behind. Jennie couldn’t decide which was most inappropriate for a drill: Felicité’s frilly dress, feathered hat, long scarf, or high-heeled shoes. Probably the shoes.

  Even in the battle, Felicité had been dressed for a party. Jennie had watched her running along the ridge, her lace veil floating around her face, just before Ross had fallen . . .

  Ross, falling . . .

  Jennie bit the inside of her cheek to distract herself.

  “Indra, is there anything you need?” Felicité asked. “Wu Zetian could run a message.”

  Henry elbowed past Jennie to stand beside Felicité. “I can send one of the brats, if you forgot your equipment, Indra.”

  Ever since they were little kids, Henry had always worn a grin. Sometimes it was a small grin, sometimes a wide one. But he wasn’t grinning now as he flung an arm around Felicité’s shoulder. “You don’t have to waste time on his errands, Felicité. You or your rat. You have more important things to do.”

  Indra shot Jennie an amused look. “I quite agree.”

  Felicité and Henry walked off, Felicité laughing. “Henry, this is a drill, not a dance. You can’t be jealous!”

  “Does anyone appreciate you like I do?” Henry retorted.

  A flash of anger burned through Jennie. Sera had died when Voske had attacked Las Anclas. Indra and Ross had almost died. How dare those two treat battle preparations like a joke!

  Jennie took a deep breath, willing her anger away. Felicité had been trying to be helpful, and Jennie needed to be calm and focused. She motioned the Rangers, the Ranger candidates, and Julio’s squad into a huddle.

  Mr. Vilas stood aloof, listening. Mr. Preston had given him a solo assignment, but hadn’t told her what it was.

  Conscious of Sera’s example, she said, “Let’s review the plan.”

  “Me and my team attack the armory,” Indra said.

  Jennie nodded. “Then my team fights across the square to the north granary.”

  Julio turned to his team of townspeople, flashing his broad smile. “We’re attacking the front, where we’ll encounter a fierce defense! But when the granary goes up in smoke, drawing off the defenders—”

  Jennie continued, “—we come around to the back of the town hall.”

  “Where we join you, and attack from the rear,” Indra said.

  Julio clapped his hands. “Trapped between us! Then we capture the town lea
ders. Got it, everybody?”

  Jennie glanced at Mr. Vilas, and noticed the other Rangers doing the same. The bounty hunter stood silently, tall and menacing.

  She raised her fist to signal Ms. Lowenstein on the wall, silhouetted against the sunset. The archer’s yellow cat eyes gleamed in the dimming light.

  “Okay, Brisa,” Ms. Lowenstein said. “Blow out the gates.”

  Grinning, Brisa tossed two rocks high into the air. They exploded with loud bangs, sending dust and gravel raining down.

  “Let’s go!”

  Jennie’s team moved into position. To her relief, Mr. Vilas took off in the opposite direction.

  *

  It was dark by the time Jennie and wiry, silent Frances got past the last roving patrols of defenders. Jennie crept behind the surgery while Frances snuck up on the bell tower. The granary was in sight. When they reached it, they’d send up one of Mia’s skyrockets, indicating that the building was on fire.

  Jennie’s grin of anticipated success faded when she remembered what it meant: the townspeople had once again failed to protect Las Anclas.

  At this rate, Preston will have us drilling every day for the next ten years, she thought. Jennie joined Frances in a dash across the last open space.

  Paco straightened up from behind a trellis of ripening squash, sword held high. Another head popped up, and Tommy Horst charged Frances with a yell.

  Paco gave his sword a threatening swing. “Surrender?”

  “No chance.” Jennie launched herself at him.

  Two months ago she would have flattened him in three moves. Today Paco stood his ground, meeting her attack with a blow so fast that she had to leap back. He followed up, trying to drive her backwards.

  She smiled to herself. Teacher after teacher had uselessly tried to get Paco to do more in training than going through the motions. It looked like he had finally found his warrior spirit.

  As she slashed to force him back, she lifted her left hand and mentally yanked his sword. His swing broke from its smooth course, and the tip of his sword dipped.

  Paco jerked up the blade up, stepping into a pool of light from a hanging lantern. Every sharp angle of bone that he’d inherited from his father cast shadows across his face: Voske. Jennie stumbled back, recoiling from the memory of Voske, silver hair glittering, signaling to his soldiers in the firelight . . .