The Second Death of Locke — Chapter no 17

seventeen

ESPITE GREY’S UNSTEADINESS, EVEN Kier agreed, when morning came,D that it would be foolish to stay another day. So after she returned from her sunrise wash in the frigid stream, they dressed in what little clothing they had that wasn’t covered in her blood, sweat or vomit, ate a quick and grim breakfast of jerky and dried fruit, and prepared for the road. Grey handed out the coats from her nest, wishing she could press the full extent of her gratitude into each and every one.

Kier stood over the table, tri-folding their letters one by one. “Hold on,”

Sela said, grabbing the two she’d written: the first to Cleoc, her mother; the second to Scaelas. Sela drew quick lines next to the names on the two pieces of parchment.

Grey peered over her shoulder; Kier peered over Grey’s. “What are those?” he asked.

“Diplomatic symbols,” Grey said. “To ensure important letters reach the High Courts as quickly as possible. The second a rider sees them, they’re to put down all other duties and travel straight to the recipient.”

“How did you know that?” Sela asked.

Behind her, Eron muttered, “Told you so.” Kier shot him a withering look before taking the envelopes from Sela and tucking them in his coat.

“Let’s get going,” he said. “Five days to Grislar at our pace, and I’ve requested a party to meet us at the encampment. Those letters will beat us there.”

They set off, sore and the worse for wear. Eron and Brit took the lead, Sela and Ola behind. Kier insisted that Grey should ride Pigeon, which she accepted with minimal complaint. Kier was content to stay back beside her,

and Grey suspected it had something to do with her unsteady progress and the way he kept looking at her.

By mid-morning, they could see the edges of a city at the base of the mountains. Kier took Pigeon and his letters and rode while the rest of them ate dried fruit and complained about the drizzle. He returned nearly an hour later and confirmed that the letters had been sent with haste.

The landscape shifted again as they walked through the afternoon, the mountains behind them growing further and further away. This was the land Grey was most accustomed to, rolling hills and stands of skinny trees, intersecting dirt paths with grass growing down the middle. They walked and walked and walked, stopping for water or food more often than usual at Kier’s insistence. This, Grey decided, was so she would not tire too easily on the road, or to force her back onto Pigeon if she was taking a turn walking.

At nightfall, they camped at the edge of a copse of trees, huddled together in the gloom as a storm rolled in. It was miserable and wet and cold, but Grey had the odd feeling that soon, they’d never be this way again. She tried her best to treasure it all, from Eron’s shitty food to Sela’s face as Grey taught her a new lesson while Brit tethered and created a pale green magelight with her power. She stored up Ola’s laugh and Kier’s bearded smile (she was surprised he still had the beard, but maybe it helped with the cold) and the swell of her own heart when she looked at them and knew that even if it remained unspoken, they understood the truth of her.

The next few days passed the same, but quieter. As the third day wore on, they could smell the salt in the air, growing closer and closer; the next morning, they could see the dark expanse of the sea on the horizon. They had to work to avoid the cities and villages now, but with more travelers on the road, it was easier to blend in. At night, they told stories and asked Grey cloaked questions about the Isle she’d once known, letting the open secret linger in the space between them until even Sela understood.

“I heard the children’s godfather went searching for the son. That he got a letter from the boy,” Eron said one evening, idly sharpening a stick with one of his knives. “Everyone was so certain that one of them lived.”

“He did,” Grey said, lying on her back, her head pillowed on Kier’s thigh. “No one thought it was a forgery.” It was the closest she’d ever come to a confession.

Eron made a low noise in his throat, nodding like that was a sensible thing to do.

On another night, Ola said, “They say it’s tradition to marry off as many of them as possible to those in other nations. That it renewed the wells in those places.”

“The last Locke’s husband was Scaelan,” Kier said. “That’s why their godfather was, too. That’s why we had more wells than other nations, when the Isle vanished.”

Grey only nodded. It was nice, sometimes, to let Kier answer the questions she couldn’t stomach, and she found her thoughts turning to her father, Isaak. She remembered turning around, just as Severin led her away, to see a sword strike him in the arm, to see great gushes of blood flowing from his wounds.

It wasn’t how she wanted to remember him, but it was the last image she had.

They continued their fireside questions, and she allowed it. Often, Kier would reach out during these times and squeeze her hand, or send reassurance through the tether: he knew, better than anyone, how closely she guarded her secrets, and how vulnerable she felt revealing herself.

And worst of all, she felt something changing within her, shifting. She stopped trying to push the others away.

She knew now, exactly, how Brit had three variations of their laughter, based on the appropriateness of any joke; and that they’d been paired with Ola for only two years, after their previous well had died in their arms; and that they were the oldest of four, and took more difficult assignments in order to keep their siblings out of the war. She knew that Ola was probably the best swordsman among them—in bored sparring sessions around the fire, Ola had laid her out on her ass more than once; and that her acid tongue hid the fact that she was incredibly easy to love, and fiercely protective of the people she cared about, which was a group that now included Grey herself. She discovered that Eron used to play the fiddle; that his father was Arkunish and had never returned from a visit to the continent when Eron was thirteen; that he’d started transitioning three years before and now loved and understood himself in a way he had only dreamed of before.

She even knew that Sela had no siblings but a slew of cousins who all

threatened to kill her to take the title of Cleoc—jokingly, she insisted, at the quickfire glare that Ola aimed in a general northerly direction.

For all she learned, she knew they were watching her just as closely, learning her just as much. It was almost enough to make her uncomfortable —but then Eron handed Kier a warm compress for his knee without being asked one night as they sat around the fire, and Grey decided that it wasn’t worth fighting her affection for these people when they were somehow tied to her.

An hour from nightfall on the fourth day, Kier made them stop at a stream because he was “not bringing a filthy group of thieves into camp.” So they splashed in the water, Sela grim-faced at their lack of modesty; then they all turned around and dried and brushed their hair while she bathed alone. Grey glanced over at Kier and saw him shaving in his reflection on the water and sighed at the end of an era.

That night, after their watch, they lay nose to nose in their bedrolls while everyone else was asleep. After dinner, Sela had spotted a light in the valley below and Kier grimly informed her that it was camp: Grislar was in sight.

“Do you remember when we were here last?” Grey asked. She reached her hand into the minuscule space between them. Kier laid his hand on top of hers.

“Of course,” he said. “Our first assignment together.”

“I was so scared.”

“I know. I could feel it, even then.” He leaned forward and kissed her on the nose, then very gently on the lips. “There’s nothing to be afraid of this

time.”

“Mm. You sure of that?”

“No,” he said, considering. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Grey sighed. “They could know, immediately, that I’m Locke.”

“How?”

She didn’t know how to explain it. There was no way to know if reports of the company they’d slaughtered had reached Grislar, but if they had, that kind of power was out of the question for a normal well.

“Because I’m your Hand,” she said, which was somewhat convincing. “I don’t know. I look like my mother, kind of. If someone sees me, and

associates me with that power… I don’t know how to hide it, Kier. If I even can.”

“It will be fine,” he said. “We’ll protect you.”

She traced the line of his jaw with her fingertips. “You can’t protect me from everything.”

“Yes, well. I imagine I still have a few tricks up my sleeve when it comes to your safety. Even if it calls for… unsavory finagling.” He slipped his hand to rest on her waist. Since his declaration the other night, she’d developed a new personal obsession with all the ways he touched her during the day, the casual affection that remained unchanged from before, now heavy with meaning. She thought again of his challenge—his promise —and shivered with anticipation. It was almost convincing enough to be a result of the cold.

“You inspire confidence with every word, Captain Seward.”

He smiled, his teeth bright in the darkness. “Just doing my duty to the nation, your majesty.” His hand slipped further—cheeky bastard, she thought—and she shimmied him off with a quiet laugh. It was so easy, with him, to pretend.

It was nearing noon the next day when they reached the edges of the city.

Grislar was an old place, stone buildings crowding closer and closer until they reached the cliffs. The soldiers’ quarters were on the far side of the city, close to the fortress that served as Scaelas’s summer residence, pressed up against the sea. They’d sold Pigeon to a kindly farmer in the valley just after sunrise, so they walked into the city in a loose knot around Sela.

There was very little fanfare when they made it to the camp, but quite a lot of staring. There were whispers in town about the High Lord’s approach the day before, unscheduled. Even more rumors circulated about a party with diplomatic immunity moving down from Cleoc Strata, and an armistice between the nations while the High Lord was in residence.

Grislar was one of the more established forts: real stone walls and a great tower looking out to sea, shining a light toward Eprain for any supply ships that entered the Bay of Locke. Grey paused on the hill that led down to the command building, staring out at the bay.

Home. She felt the press of it, the call of the sea, of the Isle that was

once there.

Kier’s hand graced her arm, barely a touch. She looked at him, the weight of his stare, as if he could ask if she was okay. She nodded, and they moved on.

They were hustled through corridors until they reached a nicely appointed office, usually reserved for the highest-ranking officer, who had been temporarily moved.

“Commander Reggin will be with you shortly,” the lieutenant said, before he left the group to wait.

“Commander?” Brit whispered when the door shut behind the man, leaving them alone.

Kier stood at rest, perfectly at ease near the window. Grey felt she could not mirror any ounce of his easy grace. “I imagine they realize the importance of what is happening,” he said.

“But a commander?”

He shrugged. Scaelas had two commanders, one for the east and one for the west, the dual-headed authority of his military. Commander Reggin, the eastern commander, generally operated out of the capitol.

Grey watched Sela, who kept looking anxiously at the door, then the window. The room they were in faced out to sea. Sela perched on the wide edge of the window, back flattened to the wall, as if she could see the cliffs of Cleoc Strata in the distance if she only looked hard enough.

Grey moved to lean against the wall next to her, then caught the girl’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “You have nothing to be afraid of,” she said quietly. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Sela looked at her for a long moment, and Grey thought she was going to claim she wasn’t afraid. But then she shifted closer, resting her head on Grey’s shoulder. “Do you promise?” she asked.

Grey wrapped her arm more securely around her. “I swear it.”

Kier came close, dipping his head toward Grey. “Will Scaelas recognize you? If you look like your mother?”

Grey chewed her lip. “It’s not impossible.”

“Hmm.” He frowned. Before she could react, he pulled the tie out of her braid and arranged her hair so it fell around her shoulders, partially

obscuring her face.

“Kier—”

He didn’t wait for any further discussion; just moved off toward the other three, leaving Grey blinking after him. She did not hear what he said to them.

It was only a few more minutes of anxious shuffling before the door opened again, admitting a tall, stern man. The assembled guards straightened immediately; Sela did not move, other than to squeeze Grey’s hand even tighter.

“Leave us,” Reggin said to the guards, who obeyed immediately, leaving the commander alone with the retinue.

Grey regarded him, from the gleaming polish of his boots to his salt- and-pepper hair, the serious set of his mouth, the absence of his sword. His Hand followed only a few steps behind, a young person with close-cropped auburn hair. The commander only nodded to the retinue as he went around the desk and sat down. Grey watched him watch them, then studied the way the Hand commander stared straight ahead, hands behind their back, firmly at rest. She wondered how such a young well had ended up at Reggin’s side.

“Captain Seward,” the commander said finally, folding his hands on his desk. “I have received… interesting reports from your journey.”

“We only did what we were told,” Kier said, slipping back into his captain voice. She hadn’t realized how much authority he carried in these meetings, but it was all posturing. Even now, in worn travel clothes, he looked just as refined as the commander.

Reggin nodded to the chair in front of his desk. Kier sat down. Before Grey could move to her place behind him, Eron stepped forward, blank- faced. Grey froze, every muscle tensed as she watched him stand behind Kier and rest his hand on the captain’s shoulder.

No one else moved. No one even looked surprised. Looking from face to face, Grey realized that they had planned this. She knew Kier well enough to understand: he would present Eron as his Hand when they met the High Lord too, allowing Grey to slip into the background, posing as a typic.

“Hand Captain,” Reggin said, nodding at Eron. Eron greeted the commander formally, in the perfect posture of a Hand. Grey squeezed Sela’s hand back fiercely.

She never got to watch Kier’s face in these meetings, since she spent most of them behind his back with her hand on his shoulder. Now she

watched Eron—she hadn’t realized before how similar they were in height and build, though Eron’s skin was medium brown whereas Grey was pale, and his hair was black and curly against Grey’s brunette.

But with only a name and rank and maybe a few statistics, who would know the difference?

“It’s good that you left when you did,” the commander said, sitting back in his chair. “Mecketer was attacked shortly after your departure.”

Grey’s heart dropped. The others exchanged uneasy glances. They all had friends back at Mecketer, and though they were not planning to return… “What happened?” Kier asked, obviously stressed. “I left Lieutenant Chappelle—”

“Chappelle lives,” the commander said. “As does most of your company. They fought well.”

Kier did not answer. Most did not mean all. Even now, death followed them, darkening every place they’d once been.

“I’ve received word from Scaelas that we’re to host a convoy from Cleoc Strata—you must understand how much trouble it has been to prepare for such a change in plans—and though it’s a shame we haven’t found Locke, your diplomacy in this situation has been noted.”

“Thank you, Commander.”

So Reggin knew that they didn’t have Locke. Grey let a pulse of relief slip free to Kier.

“If you will hand over the girl, we will make sure she is comfortable until the assembly from Cleoc arrives.”

Sela squeezed Grey’s hand so tightly her nails dug into Grey’s palm.

Grey shifted, wrapping an arm around the girl’s waist.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said—she was never good at holding her tongue, but Kier would’ve wanted her to speak, she was sure—“but if it’s no trouble, we’d like to remain with Sela until then.”

The commander’s eyebrow rose as he regarded her. “And you are?”

“Officer Eron Fastria, sir,” she said. That was insubordination, but she was going to retire anyway. What were they going to do?

“Fastria,” he repeated. Grey did not look at the others, but she felt a pulse of warning down the tether. That muscle in Kier’s jaw was tense again. “Do you not trust my guards? I have hand-selected them for the task.”

Grey shook her head. “It is not that, sir. But we all promised to keep Sela safe until we handed her personally into her nation’s care. It would be disrespectful to my gods to leave her now.”

It was a lie, but so was her entire life.

“To… your gods,” Reggin repeated slowly. Religion was not widespread in Scaela, but other soldiers had dedicated their lives at the knife-edge of death and remembered to stop at altars and pray for the rest of their lives, certain they had survived due to a deliverance. Perhaps he would think her a fool.

She shrugged. “And as a matter of the captain’s honor.”

Kier only sighed.

“Dutiful to the last, Captain,” Reggin said mildly.

“Unfortunately, Fastria is right. We would be honored if you would allow us to keep watch over Sela until we can hand her over. And we will, of course, ensure her safety.”

“I’m sure you will,” Reggin said, shuffling through papers on his desk.

“I’ll allow it. If that’s settled, there’s one more matter at hand: Captain Seward, you have been put forward for promotion to master.”

Silence settled in the room, and now Grey knew the others were watching her face. She kept her eyes on Kier, watching as his hand twitched —it was his only break in composure. “That’s not what was agreed,” Kier said.

Reggin frowned. “And what is it you have agreed to, then?”

“Papers, please?”

Grey reached into her jacket pocket, where she’d made sure the papers were this morning. She handed them to Eron, who gave them to Kier.

“Signed orders,” he said, putting them down a bit too forcefully in front of the commander. “Hand Captain Flynn and I have been promised retirement.”

It would be a challenge, Grey thought grimly, to switch back now—but it was doubtful that the commander would meet either her or Eron ever again; and if he did, she was fairly certain her own position would be significantly different.

She glanced at Eron, who met her gaze. There was a twinkle in his eye and a smirk on his mouth, and she was fairly certain he wasn’t mad at her for dragging his perfect record through the mud.

The commander read the letters and sighed. He looked back up at Kier —and Grey looked too. If he agreed to it, he’d be the youngest master in Scaela. Perhaps the youngest master ever in Scaela.

“Is there anything I can do to change your mind?” Reggin asked.

Kier said, “Hand?” He glanced at Eron, but Eron let his gaze slip to Grey, eyebrow raised.

She nodded, the smallest movement of her chin. Even that was probably conspicuous, but right now, she didn’t care.

“No,” Eron said, speaking as Grey. “The captain and I are ready to go home, if you please.”

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Her grandmother killed her own sons to give Cleoc’s mother a direct line to the throne. Her mother murdered her father when it was found he was cheating the treasury. Cleoc has held her throne, avoided a civil war and even made peace with one of the five nations. Is it any surprise that they fear her as much as they love her?

Report from Merrick Porter, Scaelan spy in Cleoc Strata, undated

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