Riding a horse is foreign to me, and I nearly fall from the creature the moment it breaks into a trot. I sink into a rhythm with time, but my body is beaten weary. I squeeze the horse’s torso with my legs, thighs aching. My palms burn as the reins rub them raw. My tailbone and back throb.

The pyre was indeed in a rocky valley. Following the hoofprints of Twill’s steed, it doesn’t take me long to climb back to level land. From here, Bedrock is easy to spot but far enough off that, with any luck, I look like nothing but a wasteland vagrant to any bino-sporting Loyalists on watch from the dam.

“I’ll be back for you, Bay,” I whisper. “I promise.” Then I slap the reins, urging the horse to go faster.

The temperatures are blistering, and I’m sweating like mad beneath all my layers, but I make remarkable time. No wonder the Loyalists prefer horses for their mounts. A mule can’t move like this—so swift and smooth—and I imagine that with a saddle, the riding would be even easier.

Like the southern entrance of the Barrel, the northern pass is marked by faded flags along the rim of the canyon. Gunners wearing Loyalist black patrol the walkways, staring down on me as I approach. I touch a hand to my forehead as I saw Reed do once in the fields. I’m in black, riding a steed, just another Loyalist. The man overhead returns the gesture, and I nudge the horse with my knees, entering the chasm.

Shadows engulf me. It’s immediately cooler between the rocks, but instead of feeling relieved, I only feel trapped. I keep my head down, knowing that showing my face will lead to questions I can’t answer. I don’t look up until I’m in the open-air market, the chatter of bartering townsfolk echoing off the rocks.

My eyes lock with a familiar establishment: the Vulture’s Roost.

I check the sun. It’s nearly high noon.

I slip from the horse, secure the reins on a rickety fence, and lift the doorway curtain.

Chapter Seventeen

Dried grass and wood chips cover the floor, but the scent of murky moonblitz, urine, and days’ old vomit lingers. Tables are spaced sporadically through the pub, a single candle flickering atop each. Seems risky, given the chips at my feet. Maybe they’re so damp they’d never catch.

Several faces snap up to greet me, but when the curtain falls at my back, I realize folks are more bothered by the light that momentarily sliced into the Roost than by my actual presence. They hunch back over their drinks, pull their glass jars of blitz nearer. A man standing behind a waist-high counter with a dirty rag slung over his shoulder is the only person to keep me in his sights.