The Second Death of Locke — Chapter no 21

twenty-one

REY FOUGHT.G She managed to knee the guard closest to her in the groin, then use his chin to push the gag low and out of her mouth. She couldn’t do any more before one of the other guards caught her in the shoulder with the hilt of their sword and another kicked her to her knees, then there were hands in her hair, jerking her head up, and a blade on her throat.

She froze, breathing hard, gazing up at the commander with hatred. He moved slowly, then kneeled before her. She spat at him, but he threw up a shield—he was a mage, and someone else in this room was a well, and Grey now understood why the breakbloom was only on their gags.

“You were found with him, weren’t you? Do you think of yourself as his knight? His protector?” The commander reached forward, tugging her hair.

“Or is it something else?”

“The girl is a fool. Obsessed with the captain and always has been,”

Mare said, her voice flat and emotionless. “Besotted.”

The commander laughed, like this pleased him. He moved the gag back into Grey’s mouth, then gripped her chin in his hand. “And are you just as besotted, Seward?”

A pause. “She is nothing to me,” he said finally.

“And yet she was in your bed.”

“Do you care about everyone you take to bed?” Kier asked, that awful, devious insouciance creeping back into his tone.

Blood and betrayal. She knew he was doing it to save her, the absolute bastard, but it stung all the same.

“And yet she would die for you, it seems,” the commander said,

standing and brushing his hands on his trousers, as if touching Grey had made him filthy. She felt the blade slip away from her throat, but the hand did not leave her hair, and there was another firm one on her shoulder, keeping her down.

“She’s a fool. She’s been nothing but trouble from the start,” Kier said, and there—there was just the briefest lapse into tenderness.

“Then enough worrying about the girl.” The commander looked at her over his shoulder, his gaze dripping with disdain. “Knight, if you step out of line one more time, I will kill you. And that is a promise.”

“Please,” Kier said very quietly, only for her. “Don’t.”

She wanted to—gods, how she wanted to—but she was no use to anyone if she was dead. She sagged in the arms of her captors.

The commander turned his attention back to Kier. “Severin, then. How can I be certain you’re not just another imposter? That you are truly the heir?”

“I may be a mage, but I carry the dormant power of my mother’s line. I can demonstrate it, if only you would allow me.”

“Not happening,” the commander said, arms crossed. “You will remain drugged and powerless until I can trust you won’t kill me, and I think that

will take quite a while.”

“Then how can I prove who I am?”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something.” The commander waved his hand, and Grey heard movement, then a muffled gasp. She glanced behind her to find the soldiers had moved, all of them holding blades to her companions’ throats, all of them ready to deliver killing strikes.

Kier met his gaze and held it. “It was Eprain,” he said quietly, “who attacked. Who sent the ships. Who caused the death of Locke when they tried to take control of the Isle and its power.”

Grey drew a breath, tasting only the bitterness of the breakbloom. She regretted telling Kier anything. One of the guards gasped; across the room, a few of the other soldiers eyed the commander warily. Even Mare looked surprised, her brows drawing together, as if she could no longer be certain she had made the right choice in protecting Grey.

But the commander only smirked. He looked Kier up and down. Grey didn’t know what he was looking for—Kier was younger than Severin by five years, but with the gray at his temples and the impact of battles, he

looked older than twenty-six. She wasn’t sure how anyone else would know them: she and Severin had only been away from Locke a handful of times, and their parents were very careful about who could visit the Isle.

Only they weren’t careful enough.

“Everyone else thought the elder Locke was the well,” the commander said after a moment. “None but those in the Isle’s confidence knew he was a mage, as is the way when there is more than one possibility for the heir. Did you know that?” he asked, pitching the question to the room. A few of the soldiers shook their heads, now looking uneasy.

The commander bowed his head, that grin spreading into a full, cruel smile. “My lord,” he said, his voice heavy with faked deference, “do you remember me? From your past life?”

Grey squinted at him. She could not place him.

He took a step toward Kier, his hand on his sword. A touch lower, he said, “Do you remember my daughter?”

Her stomach dropped as it became clear: Lady Polenna. The girl who came with the ships, the girl Severin killed as his final act before he took Grey to safety. The girl who wasn’t supposed to die—who was only meant to act as a decoy.

This was her chance. If Kier got it wrong, they would know he was not Severin. But, of course, he was too smart for that, because he was her other half and she had told him too much.

“I remember her death,” he said, his voice steadier now, back to his captain’s manner. “You may think her blood is on my hands, but you underestimated the Isle. Her blood is on yours.”

The commander’s hand moved, almost too quick for Grey to see—but she heard the sound of flesh on flesh; she watched Kier’s head whip to one side. The commander’s ring cut into his cheek, leaving a gash within the reddening skin.

“You know what I’m capable of,” Kier said, a deadly undercurrent to his voice.

The commander stepped back, recovering his composure. Flatly, he said, “I do.”

“Then you know that if you do not safely release my companions, I can —and will—kill everyone here.” Kier’s voice was smooth, deadly, beautiful. “And then, when you are dead, I will find your family,

Commander. Anyone and everyone you love. And I will look them in the eye and tell them exactly why they are sentenced to die. I will tell them how you sent your daughter to the slaughter; how you were so determined to kill my line that you did not care to spare her. I will find your High Lord, Commander, and end him too. You think the company you found was the worst of what I can do? I will make them all suffer, and I promise it.”

The commander regarded him. “Pretty words, for a man who ran from his own dying family. You are just as guilty as I, and you have no power.”

Grey winced.

“But I will,” Kier said, moving forward until the restraints stopped him.

She could not see his face, but she could see Mare’s, and the Hand master looked like she had never really seen Kier before. “Sometime soon, your guard will fail.” Somehow, impossibly, Grey felt the sensation of a thread from Kier, reaching out, pushing through the dullness of the breakbloom.

He’d been ungagged long enough to be able to tether, but she was still drugged. She had no control of her power… They were bound. They were bound, and she was Locke, and her power called to him. She felt the barest thread of a tether take, then the faintest trickle of power flowed from her stomach. He was siphoning from her.

A guard in the corner shouted out, gripping his heart. Before anyone could grab him, he fell. Another fell shortly after, and Grey felt the slice of pain in her stomach, the awful forced pull of power through the haze of drugs in her system.

Chaos fell over the room: the commander threw up a shield, the magic shimmering in the dimness, and two of the guards near Kier pushed him to the ground. Someone shouted, “Flynn!” and another guard took down Eron, pushing his face into the damp stone. A few others gathered around their fallen comrades, attempting to revive them—but it was no use.

“You cannot draw from your well,” the commander snarled. “That should be impossible.”

“I am Locke,” Kier seethed from the floor, his bloody side pressed down. “I can draw any power. It is my right.”

It was a lie. A bluff. But he had them afraid, and Grey was terrified alongside them. With Kier on the ground, he was nearly close enough for her to touch. She sagged forward, trying to get closer, to give him any contact with her skin if that would get them free, but she was still too far

away.

“Enough.” The commander’s voice rang through the scuffle. “I will free your companions, if I must. But you will stay, and you will resurrect the Isle. If you do not comply, Locke, I will not hesitate to kill you—and I will not use magic to do it. Is that understood?”

“Yes,” Kier said.

The commander spun on Mare next. “You told me,” he hissed, “that he was bound to his well. That they were useless without one another.”

Mare shook her head. “I… I don’t know. I only thought—”

“You are of no use to me anymore.”

Mare’s eyes filled with fear. She looked at Grey—they never need you as much as you need them, she’d told her once.

“Concord—” Kier started, but it was too late.

One of the soldiers moved forward, quick as a viper, and cut Mare Concord’s throat. Her eyes locked on Grey’s face, Mare barely even flinched as the blade carved a deadly path.

Someone screamed, muffled by their gag. Grey watched, nauseous with fear, as the blood poured from Mare’s throat, staining her shirt. She fell; the soldiers released her as she dropped to her knees, then her hands, then landed face-down. The pool of blood around her grew and grew.

We’re all going to die in this armor. Grey closed her eyes.

“I will release your companions,” the commander said, “but if you do not cooperate, Locke, I too will kill everyone you love. You are not the only one capable of threats.”

They were led away, Grey dizzy with the breakbloom and adrenaline and fear. Kier was taken with them down the hall, to a small room with a door.

“I would just like to say goodbye,” he said.

The commander shook his head. “You ask for too much.”

Kier met his gaze, unfaltering. “I am the High Lord,” he said loftily, daring the commander to protest. “Would you not treat me in a way befitting my station?”

In the end, they let him say goodbye. They each were injected with a dose of breakbloom and given civilian clothes to dress in. Afterward, they were taken to the entryway, and the supplemental guards backed to the wall, leaving the Lord of Locke to say farewell.

Grey could only stare at him, silent with anger, as he spoke to Brit and Ola and Eron, still held back by the guards. It was a death sentence, what he was doing. Finally, he turned to her, to where she glared at him.

“And you,” he said finally, so quietly it broke her heart. “Would you leave without saying goodbye?”

He was three paces away, his own guards giving him healthy space even as hers didn’t—it was as close as he could come to her before someone swung at them. They shifted uneasily as it was, and she hated him in that moment, more than she had hated anyone before. It was easy to hate him like this, when he was making sacrifices, because she could not look in his face and accept that she was about to lose him.

She wanted to curse him. She wanted to fight him. She wanted to kick him in the shin with her heavy boot. She would’ve, too, if her ankles weren’t tied.

“Beloved,” he said, because he could not say any of her names without revealing the truth. She wanted to throw herself against his chest and beg him to never leave her—she wanted to hate him all the more for this. She made a sound that he seemed to interpret as If you could try to tether, you could kill them, because he said, “It is too weak and there are too many.”

Grey bit the gag, a low and awful sound rising in her throat.

“Tell Lot I will see him soon, and give my love to our mothers,” he said, quiet and grave.

She could not respond, so she only glared, forcing as much emotion as she could into her gaze since she could not put it through the tether.

For a long time, he looked at her, as if he was trying to memorize her face. She could not force herself to do the same, not when he was half blood, not when he had betrayed her.

“We either release them or we don’t,” one of the men behind Kier said sternly. “Your call, Locke.”

Kier sighed. Leaned forward. “You deserve to survive,” he said, very quietly.

Survival is not a meritocracy, Kiernan, she thought. Because if it was, Lot would be alive, and Severin, and her father, and all those who were so much better than her.

Then he stumbled, the move unlike him, and Grey felt something slip into her boot as he caught himself against her. The soldiers moved forward

and he murmured, “I’m so sorry.”

For an instant, she thought he’d smuggled a knife in—but the object in her boot was small and blunt.

“Locke,” the commander said, coming up behind them.

Kier nodded. He straightened, his eyes not leaving Grey’s as he said, “Take them away. And if any harm does come to them, I will keep my promise, Commander, and you know I will do it.”

That was it. They started to lead them away, and Grey fought with such ferocity that even Kier looked disappointed. She tried to do as much damage as possible until they finally drugged her, and as her eyes slid shut, she held his gaze and tried to convey with all of her might that she would never forgive him for this.

When Grey woke, she found herself slung across Ola’s lap, her head pillowed on the other woman’s thigh, Ola’s fingers stroking her hair. She felt a surge of panic, then an unbelievable rush of bitterness. Her whole body was heavy, weighted, like she’d never move again. She kept her eyes

closed.

Kier.

Above her, Ola was saying, “… and the closest encampment is Grislar, but I don’t know where we are, and if we’re in Luthar, it doesn’t seem sensible to go asking.”

“Who would know the difference?” Brit asked from somewhere close by. “Who would care? Let’s head east, then follow the coast north.”

“We can’t leave him.”

There was a silence, then, and Grey couldn’t take it. She shifted, the others immediately focusing on her with a lot of soothing sounds that did absolutely nothing. She opened her eyes to find they were in a clearing surrounded by a dense wood of skinny, light-colored trees, in the middle of nowhere. Eron was pacing back and forth next to a magelight that Ola and Brit were maintaining. Grey felt the ache in every part of her body. She needed to speak, but the words were too heavy. They would not form. They would not come.

“Grey?” Brit was saying, looming over her. “Did you hear me?”

She didn’t. She couldn’t. She tuned them out because nothing mattered,

not anymore, not when Kier was gone and good as dead. She sat up, nearly hitting her head on Ola’s chin, and hugged her knees to her chest. Ola’s fingers were there on her back immediately, scratching down her spine.

“He did what he thought was best,” Eron said, and Grey wanted to throw something, because that sounded like Kier was already dead. Before she could stop it, a sob clawed its way out of her throat. She slapped a hand against her mouth, nails digging into her skin.

She wouldn’t cry for him. Not when he’d done this to her. Not when he’d abandoned her, taken her name and her title and her heart and disappeared.

She could cry for Mare, who deserved it. For Kier, she would just remain angry.

“Fuck Kier,” she said, too loud, her tongue still thick with sleep. She lurched up, pushing off Ola and Brit, nearly careening into a tree with the unsteadiness of a monumentally pissed-off newborn deer.

“Grey!” Ola called after her. “Where are you going?”

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t look at any of them, not with this anger brewing up within her. She pushed through the trees, wobbling unsteadily, breathing hard and grappling at the tether in her middle as if it would connect to Kier. She felt nothing.

An arm wound around her, right on her bruised stomach, pulling her against a chest—Eron, she realized. “No,” she gasped, grappling against his arm, but he said, “We need you.”

She turned on him. “What the fuck was that back there?” she demanded, the words clawing out of her. He gripped her wrists so she couldn’t swing, accidentally pressing on the bruises left behind by her restraints. “You just let him lie.”

“We can’t lose you, Grey,” Ola said over Eron’s shoulder.

Grey shook her head. “You should’ve let me go. You should’ve let them take me.”

“Kier needs you alive and functioning,” Eron said firmly, “and you are only doing half of that.”

She looked at him, the rage clear in every line of her body, even though it wasn’t Eron she was mad at. She wished Kier was in front of her if only so she could shout at him, and the thought was so devastating and overwhelming that she did not know what to do with all the feelings she

could not contain.

“I’m Locke,” she said, loud enough so the others could hear her as they moved toward her, unease on their faces.

“We know that,” Eron said. “Now what are you going to fucking do about it?”

She stared at him, wordless. Kier was gone—Kier was in her place. But she was Locke, and Locke was her, and she was a well with the power to actually do something. Even now, she felt it, curling inside of her, vibrant and visceral with anger, a wounded animal ready to strike. She pressed one hand to her stomach as if she could grip the power in her fist and drag it out of her.

She sat down heavily on the forest floor. As she did, something in her boot pressed to her shin. She dug into the top and pulled out Kier’s ring.

She stared wordlessly at the silver in her palm, everything aching.

Not Kier’s ring, not at first. Lot’s ring. Lot, who had lied for her, who had died in the war the sovereigns started because she was not strong enough to tell the truth, to claim her Isle; Lot, who had died because she ruined everything.

“They’re all dead,” she said to the others, to Kier, to no one. “Do you know what that’s like? Everyone who ever cared for me is dead.”

“You’re not,” Ola said. “We’re not.”

“Not yet, but the odds aren’t promising,” Brit pointed out. Someone hit them; they swore in response.

Grey looked up at the sky far above. It was impossible to tell where they were. Her heart, broken and bruised, had retreated somewhere deep inside of her.

“Locke,” Eron said, crouching so his face was level with hers. He had such kind eyes; she’d always envied the soldiers who’d kept any kindness after so much bloodshed. “What are we going to do?”

Grey sighed. It wasn’t the sacrifice that was the hard part; it was the running head-first off the cliff that she and Kier had always been so very good at. Perhaps it was the surviving that was worse. She remembered his face on the night she’d given him all the power she had, the flash right before he used it; she remembered his gaze last night, which now felt so long ago, the way he’d gripped her as he said, You are everything I’ve ever wanted.

She slipped Lot’s ring onto her thumb, as it was too big for her other fingers. Grey stood up. She squared her shoulders, wincing at the ache even as she remembered Kier’s broken collarbone, the echo of the pain she would’ve felt through the tether.

“Well?” Brit said. “Are we marching into the sea?”

Grey was quiet for a long moment, turning over the rumors and her memories, examining each of them in turn. The truth was, she was one person, one sovereign without a nation, and she had gone so long without thinking about what that meant. She thought of Cleoc and that little obsidian moon, of Scaelas’s hand in hers when she was only a girl.

“I think we need to speak to my godfather,” she said. “Because there is an imposter claiming my title, and my commander has been taken captive,

and we may still have allies yet.”

“Who is her godfather?” Brit asked.

“Contextually, I would assume it is Scaelas, you cretin,” Ola murmured back.

Grey ignored them, stretching out her hands, looking at the scars that marred them from fighting Scaelas’s wars. “I’ve given most of my life for him. The least he could give back is his protection.”

She started through the woods, not caring which way she was going— she would find her home; Locke was always there within reach when she went looking. “Kier has made a mistake trying to save me. And we’re going to find him and force him to his knees and make him fucking beg for forgiveness.”

“There she is,” Eron said quietly. “That’s our girl.”

“Going in the wrong direction, Locke,” Ola said, not unkindly.

It was hard to be the High Lady of Locke while traipsing through the mud without direction in borrowed boots, but Grey made the best of it. At the next village, they realized they were just over the Luthrite border, and though there were some close calls with patrolling forces, they made it

safely into Scaela.

Getting into Grislar was another story.

“I’m Hand Captain Grey Flynn,” Grey hissed at one of the guards at the city’s gate. The town was in lockdown due to the presence of both Cleoc

and Scaelas, the gates guarded, the towers peopled with soldiers. She could see the streets of the city, the encampment spread far below, the rolling hills that dropped off at the cliffs. “We need to speak with Commander Reggin.”

But the boy—he was a boy, dammit, probably barely older than Sela— said only, “I have instructions to only allow in those who have papers.”

Grey very nearly punched him. Ola slid neatly in front of her and said, “Do you know who you’re talking to? Captain Flynn led the retinue that saved Cleoc’s daughter.”

“Then she should have papers,” the boy said, exasperated.

Ola rose to her full height, still shorter than the guard, and pointed at Grey. “She is a war hero. In two nations.” An icy pause swelled between Ola and the guard. “And frankly, if I had my papers, I would shove them up your ass.”

“So close,” Brit murmured. “So good, until the last moment.”

“I have orders,” the boy said.

Frustration welled up inside of Grey, fierce and insistent and— If she was going to be this, be her, then the least she could do was get through a fucking gate. “I come with a message from the nation of Locke,” she snarled. “And I require an audience. It’s a life-or-death matter, and your commander needs to know about it immediately.”

The others looked at her with mixed expressions of pride (Ola) and consternation (Eron). She wondered how often she’d deferred to Kier, letting him lead as she worked quietly in the background.

The boy hesitated, an unknown emotion flickering on his face. “The best I can do,” he said finally, “is fetch my captain.”

“Then go fetch your captain,” Grey said through gritted teeth.

“Grey,” Brit said when the boy darted into the guard tower. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“There’s no taking it back now,” Grey said. And more than that: she let the power slip over her, the strength of her mother’s line running heavy in her veins; they were the only nation in which the founding family had remained in power, even after all this time, and she would not break that now. She had always been a Locke. She would always be a Locke. “It’ll be even more conspicuous when I raise a dead island if I don’t claim it now.”

It didn’t work quite as effectively as she’d hoped: they were taken to the boy’s captain, who agreed to bring her to the commander because Grey was

both of rank and part of the Stratan girl’s retinue, though he only sighed when the guard said she had a message from Locke. He looked at her, then at the boy, and said, “For a dead nation, I’ve been hearing quite a lot of it lately.”

They were taken to the commander, who looked almost chipper. His expression dimmed significantly when he took them in, their clothing and the blood on it, and the conspicuous absence of Kier. “I was expecting Captain Seward,” he said, almost mournful. “I thought he’d considered my offer.”

“Captain Seward is indisposed,” Grey said through gritted teeth. Even speaking his name hurt.

He shuffled through papers on his desk. His Hand stood resolutely behind him. Grey couldn’t help her gaze flicking back to him, thinking with some grief of Mare Concord. How resigned they all were to being devoted and used.

But wasn’t she the same? Here she was running into more danger after Kier. The difference, she supposed, was that Kier hadn’t asked her to do it.

In fact, he’d explicitly asked her not to do it. If he had his way, she’d be halfway to Lindan by now.

“Yes, well. Where did you go the other night? I haven’t received Captain

Seward’s report.”

“Commander.”

Reggin looked at her, then narrowed his eyes. “What happened to your face, Fastria?”

Oh, what a tangled mess they’d gotten themselves into. They’d be lucky, Grey thought grimly, to be granted an audience, let alone get out of Grislar

without visiting the prison first.

“Flynn,” Eron corrected.

“Sorry?” Reggin’s eyes flicked up, already impatient, like he didn’t have time for them.

Grey sat heavily in the chair in front of his desk. She felt Ola and Brit move to flank her, Eron behind her. One of them touched her very lightly on the back, where Reggin couldn’t see. She was grateful for this, that they stood by while she found the words. They let her lead in her own way. It was all or nothing—there was no backing down now.

“Captain Seward has been taken by a combination of Luthrite and

Eprainish forces. I believe the two nations are allied, and they are convinced that Kier is Severin of Locke.”

She’d managed to stun the commander, who blinked at her owlishly.

“And why would they think that? He’s a mage, yes, and a powerful one at that, but…”

Grey stretched her hands out on her knees, twisting the silver ring on her thumb. “They’re not exactly wrong. Kier is a powerful mage, but it’s only because I’m a powerful well.”

“But you’re not a well,” Reggin said. His own well’s hand tightened on his shoulder. “Flynn?” he said, looking at Eron.

Eron smiled grimly. “I’m sorry. I’m not Hand Captain Flynn—she is.”

Reggin blinked at them, confusion clouding his face, turning quickly to anger. They wouldn’t have his attention much longer before they were all punished for insubordination.

Grey pressed on. “The issue is, Kier is not Locke. I am. And I request an audience with Scaelas under the banner of my nation.”

“If you expect me to believe…” Reggin started, that anger brewing.

Grey, hours removed from breakbloom and restored to her full power, shook her head. “Believe me or don’t. If you refuse, I will go to Cleoc, who will believe me. And unless you want to be at war again, I suggest you listen.”

He regarded her distastefully for a long moment, long enough that Grey started to doubt the merit of this idea. “All I can do is ask. I cannot guarantee he will accept, Hand Captain Flynn.” He spat her name as if it was an insult.

For the first time since Kier was taken, Grey smiled, all teeth. “He will.”

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You don’t have to marry her, you martyr. You could come home again, return to my side; we can continue like adventurers across the nation. If she’s as fearsome as you say, then surely that’s a better option.

Letter from Vearn Torrin to Isaak Masidic, 18 years AD

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