The Second Death of Locke — Chapter no 29

twenty-nine

REY DID NOT KNOW how much time did or did not pass as they readiedG the Isle. She measured the days in her own way as they worked until they were tired, then slept in her great bed, too exhausted for anything but sleep (or perhaps Kier was no longer interested in that kind of relationship; but he still kissed her at every chance, so she wondered at it). On the first day, they went through the armories, making note of weapons and supplies, preparing for an army that had not yet arrived. On the second, she prepared rooms for diplomatic guests while Kier walked the Isle, learning the lay of the land, making his own maps; that evening, they set up the war room in one of the chambers that looked out toward the rest of Idistra.

She woke on the third day to a thin light streaming in from the window.

Kier’s side of the bed was empty but still warm—she sat up to see his shadow on the side of the room. She rubbed her eyes, calmed by the sound of the gulls and the crashing of the waves, the shout of the wind; all the

familiar sounds of Locke.

All the familiar sounds.

She froze. “Kier?”

“I know.”

When she looked up at him, she realized that he was not dressing in the clothes they’d worn to work over the last few days; he was laying out his armor, dark gray as the banner of Locke, the rocks, the stormy sky. He was dressing for war.

“You can keep sleeping, love,” he murmured. “I already went to the tower. We have time.”

She ignored him, slipping from the bed and going to the window. She

squinted out at the bay, at the continent: she could only just see the coast.

There were ships in the distance.

“I suspect we have an hour,” she said. She went back to the bed and sat heavily on the edge. It was no new sight, to watch Kier prepare for battle, his hair still wet from bathing in the early hours of the morning; but now it was her armor he wore, her crest of a blade over two linked rings embroidered on the surcoat draped over the chair, her battle he was preparing for. “Maybe more. They’ll worry about the shields. We should fly a banner for Scaelas and Cleoc, to let them know it’s safe.”

“We should,” he said, but his voice had changed. Grey looked up— and felt the pulse of desire through the tether.

Something had caught Kier off guard when he glanced over at her. He crossed the room and dropped to his knees beside the bed, between her legs.

His hands slipped around her calves. His eyes never left hers as he pressed a kiss just above her knee.

“It’s just… your thighs,” he confessed, almost mournful. As if to prove his point, he moved his hands upward, thumbs digging in, fingertips tracing the backs of her knees. “I could write odes to your thighs. I might actually

have dreams of your thighs.”

She raised a brow. “Is that so?”

“They’re perfect,” he lamented. She shuddered, watching the dimpling of his fingers into her flesh, falling back onto her elbows.

“You’ve never mentioned it.”

“A grievous error on my part.” He bent to kiss the freckle above her left knee.

“Kier,” she said, running her hands through his hair even as she knew it was a bad idea—but she hadn’t been with him since Grislar, and even through the exhaustion, she wanted. “We could be at war in a few hours.”

“Mm,” he hummed against her skin. Gently enough so it only just hurt, he bit the soft flesh of her inner thigh—the feeling went straight to her center. His hands came up, framing her hips. “I’m aware.”

“I have to make you look like a commander,” she said, even as her head tipped back.

“Shouldn’t take long. You never had trouble making me look like a captain.”

“And I have to look like a fearsome lady of an iron isle.”

“You are fearsome, even in only my shirt and your socks.” He pushed the aforementioned shirt up over her stomach.

“We shouldn’t be distracted.”

He pressed a kiss up higher, at the soft fold where her thigh met her hip.

“Tell me to stop and I’ll stop,” he said. “But if this is the last morning of our lives, I want to spend it right here.”

She raked her nails over his scalp. “And if I don’t tell you to stop?”

His laugh was warm and smooth against her skin as his hand parted her

thighs. “Is that a yes?”

“Yes.”

Not much later, Kier went to the tower to raise the banner of Locke while Grey went into her mother’s room. There, she found a sharply cut coat that looked more like armor than fashion and armored trousers that fit tight to her skin. She strapped her father’s sword to her hip, scabbard shining in the first light of morning. Before she could think better of it, she slid the signet ring of Locke on her finger.

When they were ready for war, Locke and her commander walked together to the harbor in Maerin. The first of the ships had drawn closer, flying Scaelan colors, nearly within reach of the shield. The harbor was not big enough for warships, but it dropped anchor just outside the shimmering blue of the outer shield.

“They’re launching a boat,” Kier murmured. They stood on one of the long docks, the wind whipping their hair. Above, the sky was steely and gray.

Grey watched the little boat as it drew closer, her breath catching when she made out the figures of the expedition party, their own retinue waving from the deck, relief swelling through her. They were close enough to hear the collective whooping from the occupants as the boat swept unharmed to the dock.

“They’re safe,” she said, as if to convince herself. Kier moved, stooping down at the edge of the dock as Brit tossed him a line. He tied it off and helped to pull the boat in. Eron crossed over first, helped by Brit and Ola on one side and Kier on the other. His knee was bound and his arm was in a sling, but he was alive, and walking, and he hugged Kier fiercely before he

moved on to Grey.

“What did you do?” she asked, her fingers digging into his back as she

embraced him.

“You’ll laugh.”

“I won’t.”

He sighed. “I fell from my horse, in the retreat.”

She had lied: she laughed. “I’m sorry!” she said at his poisonous glare.

But he didn’t look that angry as he hugged her again.

“You fucking legend,” Brit said, kissing both Grey’s cheeks as they too crossed to the dock. “You absolute power-ridden bitch.”

“They mean that in a positive way,” Ola clarified, pushing past Brit. She gripped Grey’s cheeks, pushing the wind-blown hair out of her face as she searched for any sign of strain. “Love, how are you?”

Grey wanted to cave in to Ola. It was a triumph in itself that she remained upright. “I’m here. We’re alive.”

Ola’s grin warmed as she looked to Kier, releasing Grey. “Captain,” she said affectionately.

“Commander,” Grey corrected. Kier’s hand tightened on her hip in response. She turned back to the sea, to the new boats launching, circling closer. She reached down, found his hand, and squeezed.

“Ready, Locke?” he murmured.

“As I’ll ever be,” she said.

Boat after boat set off, unloaded and returned. Commander Reggin arrived with Cleoc’s Commander Dainridge, a gray-haired woman in her forties with a glare as cold as ice, her skin tanned and wrinkled from years of wind and sunlight. They sent ambassadors, too: Ikaaron, from Scaela, and Yearna, from Cleoc.

“The High Lord plans to arrive this evening,” Ikaaron informed Grey after their introduction, when they’d moved off the dock to the paved area near the harbor. “He wanted to come earlier, but we insisted he wait until the Isle is secure.”

“I’m sure he did,” Grey said drily. “Commander?”

“Yes, my lady?” Kier replied.

“I will take my ambassadors to their rooms. Will you show those

responsible for command our armories, then direct them into the war room and have their captains arrange their forces?”

“Yes, my lady.” He hesitated, for just a second. “Will you take Ola and

Brit with you?”

“I will, if you bring Eron.”

He nodded, and took leave of her without another word. Her new ambassadors did not seem to notice anything at all between Grey and her commander—she wasn’t hiding their relationship, but she wasn’t yet sure how she wanted to navigate it publicly.

They made their way up from the docks to the fortress. There, Grey showed the ambassadors the new war room and then the rooms she and Kier had prepared for diplomatic guests, where she left them to clean up and change.

They beat Kier and the commanders into the fortress. In the war room, without the others, Grey locked the door and turned to Brit and Ola.

“Okay,” she said. “I don’t know how much time we have, but what happened since we left? How long has it been?”

Ola winced. “About two days. After you and Kier jumped, there were a few skirmishes, but no real engagement. Waiting to see what happened next, I suppose.”

Grey nodded. It had been longer than two days on the Isle, but she was glad for the time dilation and the reprieve it granted. “Did you have the

chance to see Scaelas?”

“Yes. He was furious at you.”

“They didn’t really know what to do with us at first,” Brit said, leaning against the table, already spread with maps. “Sela was with us for a bit and told us what she could, but otherwise we just kind of… watched. And waited. Pretty much as soon as you two jumped, there was this thick fog over the bay—both Scaelas and Epras sent ships, but it was the oddest thing. They came sailing back within the hour, turned around and redirected. No one could get the full way across, through the fog.”

Grey nodded. She had suspected some sort of shielding, some natural protection as the Isle came back into existence.

“We thought you were dead,” Ola said, not meeting her eye.

“You know me better than that.”

Someone tried the door, paused, then knocked. Grey sighed and reached

for the handle. “Let me,” Ola murmured, shooing her away. Grey went, taking her seat at the head of the table.

Ola opened the door to Kier, Reggin, Dainridge and a few other assorted masters and captains and their Hands. Grey watched as they filed in, seating themselves around the table: Kier to her right, Reggin and Dainridge close beside with Reggin’s Hand behind them. In the absence of their sovereigns, Ikaaron and Yearna sat in the positions of Scaelas and Cleoc. Brit and Ola fell into position behind Grey; she presumed Kier had left Eron in charge of organizing the forces still assembling in the harbor.

Every eye was on her, expectant. After a beat, she turned to those around her. “Commander Reggin, Commander Dainridge. Masters. Ambassadors. I welcome you to Locke, though I wish it was under better circumstances.

This is Commander Seward, the head of my forces on the Isle.”

Beside her, Kier very nearly smiled. She couldn’t tell if it was because she’d referred to him by his title, or because he was the entire extent of her forces on Locke.

“If we could be informed of the situation in Idistra, we can begin from there,” she said.

“Lady Maryse,” one of the Scaelan masters at the end of the table started, speaking out of turn. “It appears that—”

“Locke.”

A silence spread over the room as every eye turned to Kier, Grey’s included.

“Sorry, Commander Seward?” the master said. He was old enough to be Kier’s father.

Kier raised an eyebrow. “Would you call your own High Lord by name?” The silence was not broken; Grey forced herself to sit straight and tall, unflinching. “She is Locke, Master.”

The master glanced at her, and to Grey’s surprise, he did not look angry —he looked ashamed. They did not hate her.

They feared her.

“My apologies, your majesty,” he said.

“Thank you, Master,” Grey said, pushing away any lingering discomfort. She nodded to her allied commanders. “Your reports, please.”

“Your majesty,” Ikaaron said, bowing his head. He glanced sidelong at Yearna, then launched into his explanation. “Epras and Luthos have

declared that their prisoner, Captain Kier Seward, was rightfully captured by their forces, and wrongfully freed by Scaelas. Now that your new Commander Seward has been revealed and is clearly not Locke…”

Grey looked at her hands, and did not correct them.

“… they have insisted that a repayment is due. In return, they have declared that the High Lady should accept the same terms Commander Seward agreed to: marry a suitor of their choice and restore power. If these terms are accepted, they will agree to a treaty with the Isle, and will cease their wars with Scaelas and Cleoc in return.”

Grey raised an eyebrow, trying to keep her features as cool as possible.

“They want to marry me?”

“Yes, my lady,” Ikaaron said. “With you married and bound to their suitor, they will see a re-emergence of power simply by being aligned with you, and when you bear an heir, it would be in your line. It has been custom, as long as Locke has existed, to marry strategically for such

redirections of power.”

Grey winced. “And if I do not?”

He nodded to Commander Dainridge. Grey turned to face her.

“They have threatened to turn their combined forces on the Isle,”

Dainridge said. “Either to decimate everyone who remains here and take you prisoner, or to circle us until we starve.”

“Right,” Grey said flatly.

“You’ve been given three days to make your choice, and if you are not presented for marriage in that time, they will attack.”

She rubbed her temple. She reached through the tether to Kier, but found it curiously blank—he was holding back his own emotions until she made a decision without his influence.

“Those are the terms proposed,” Ikaaron said. He glanced at the others gathered, focusing for a second on Yearna, Cleoc’s ambassador, before he continued. “I have been instructed that we will assist you in defense of the Isle, if you choose to fight; but you could marry instead, if it pleases you. I recognize I am only the Scaelan ambassador and not your own adviser, but if my lord were here, he would offer this counsel: though marriage may seem a bloodless option, he personally would not advise it.”

She was growing quite tired of decisions like this, the choices predetermined and ironclad.

“I will not. That sounds like the fastest way to get killed in my own bed.” She felt an instant, undeniable rush of relief through the tether.

“I would think so too, your majesty,” Ikaaron said. “With your permission, we will send a messenger with your response.”

“So we will fight,” Kier said, “to keep the Isle.”

Grey got up and set to pacing. From here, she could not see down the Isle to Maerin, but she could see the choppy sea, and the ships that had started circling.

“Commanders, what do you propose?” she asked.

They argued over maps and troop formations for hours. If Eprain and Luthar were permitted onto her shores, they would not stop until Grey was dead, so they had to do everything in their power to hold the Isle, to ensure that didn’t happen.

“Is there something we can do?” Reggin’s Hand said when Grey’s head had already been aching for the better part of an hour. “A show of strength?

A manipulation of power?”

Grey shook her head. “I don’t know what I could do.”

“Don’t you control it?”

She looked at him, the boy whose youth she hadn’t been able to see past when she first met him. Now, she wondered at it. She glanced at the list she had in front of her, of the names of those sitting before her: the commander’s Hand was listed as A. Reggin. She would eat her own hat if he wasn’t related to the commander, and something about that made her uneasy.

“We could send Locke back to Scaela,” one of the captains near the end of the table said. “Or Cleoc, if they will have her. Just until the Isle is secure.”

Grey glanced at Kier. He looked like he was actually considering it.

“No,” she said. “I will not leave again.” If she did, it would require her to leave Kier—and who knew if she’d be back before the next full moon, to tell Kitalma of her choice? She could not risk it.

They argued until the sun was high in the sky, at which point Grey ordered them to take a break. When she left the war room, she was surprised to find the Isle caught in a swell of activity. She told Ola and Brit to rest and eat,

then set off for the highest tower.

No one had established a base there yet. She leaned against the crenelations, wind whipping her hair, threatening to tear it from its braid. At sea, the ships circled, but no one moved to attack.

There were soldiers camped in both Osar and Maerin, with tents pitched in the hilly fields and taking up the villages between. She could see the progress at the harbor, the workers small as ants, as little boats brought supplies ashore, which were then carted to the cities and the fortress. She watched the progress of those tiny people, of those great ships.

Boots sounded on the stairs; she did not turn. “Why won’t you consider

going back to Scaela?”

She snorted. “Not a chance.”

Kier came behind her, framing her hands with his, resting his chin on top of her head. “It would be safer,” he said, but it was already a losing

battle, and he knew it.

“Safety is overrated.”

He sighed. “Spoken by someone who has never really known it.”

She turned in his arms, tracing the line of his healed collarbone. Safety was one thing—but freedom was another.

She realized that with the flurry of activity on the Isle below, the tenuous nature of her position, and the fact that other nations were already petitioning for her hand, she might not find more time alone with Kier.

Perhaps she had already missed her chance to tell him what she’d done.

Perhaps she would never need to tell him at all—but that depended on the choice she still had not made.

“Kier,” she said, her fingers fussing with the curve of the crest on her surcoat. “Would anything change, do you think, if I didn’t have power?”

He laughed. “Did Reggin’s Hand get to your head?” He swept a hand over her hair. “It’s nothing to worry about. You won’t lose your power—it’s

an impossibility.”

“But if, say, it happened.”

He rolled his eyes. “It won’t. It can’t.”

“But if I chose to give it up—”

Now he looked at her, narrow-eyed. “What are you thinking of?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Grey said, blush heating her cheeks. “It’s just speculation.”

He leaned close, kissing her forehead. “Like I said. It’s nothing to worry about—nothing will happen to your power. I won’t let it.”

She could not meet his gaze.

“Scaelas and Cleoc should be arriving soon,” he said after a moment.

“Shall we go receive them?”

“It’s probably best,” she said, pushing away all thoughts of what she was still considering.

She absorbed the changes in her Isle, the life, as they crossed the paths between the two towns. She was thinking of this when they passed a large stone house in Maerin with carts lined up outside the door. Leaning against one was a familiar figure, making marks in a notebook, her curly black hair secured on top of her head with a spare pencil.

Grey stopped short and felt her heart clench in her chest. “Leonie?”

The medic looked up from her notebook. She was confused for the shortest span of a second before her eyes locked on Grey, then she’d set the notes aside and was walking as quickly as she could into the road. Grey didn’t care for decorum; she ran.

Leonie caught her in her arms. She smelled of herbs and soap and lavender, and Grey buried her face in her neck.

“I didn’t think I would ever see you again,” she admitted.

“Funny,” Leonie said, “because I was explicitly named on your list.”

Grey laughed, pulling back to look her in the face. Leonie had a newly healing scar on the edge of her jaw, straight, from a blade. “I didn’t know you’d have time to get here, after Mecketer.”

Leonie shook her head. “I was moved after the raid, shortly after you left.” She saw something over Grey’s head and her smile grew even wider.

“Captain Seward—or Commander now, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Kier said, leaning to kiss Leonie’s hand. “We’re lucky to have you.”

“Ah, better than the last place I was in,” Leonie said. She gently slipped out of Grey’s arms and went back to her list. “It’s good you’re here,

actually. For supplies, who do I ask?”

“Um. Me?”

“You’re the High Lady. You shouldn’t worry yourself with trivial matters.”

Grey looked at Kier, but he only shrugged. “Report to me,” she said. “If

you come to the fortress and ask for me directly, I’ll make sure they know to admit you.”

Leonie eyed her shrewdly over her notebook. “Be careful who you tell that to, Locke,” she said. “Or else you’ll have everyone in the Isle asking for you.”

Grey rolled her eyes. “I’ll be back when I can,” she promised.

Scaelas and Cleoc did not linger at the harbor, but went into the war room for more arguing as soon as they reached the Isle. Though she had not been reunited with him long, with every look at Scaelas, Grey could tell with absolute certainty that he was furious, and she had little doubt as to the object of his anger.

They were served food as night fell, still debating strategy; as the hours crept on, one by one the captains left to assign watches and make sure their camps were properly established, followed by the masters, until only the commanders remained. It was nearing midnight when Kier finally said, “There’s not much more we can do tonight. Locke?”

She hated the uncertainty, but she agreed.

Reggin and Dainridge and their Hands moved to stand; Cleoc and Scaelas did not move. “If we may have a moment with the Lady?” Scaelas said. At Kier’s withering look, he sighed. “Commander, you may stay.”

The four of them lingered in the room. Cleoc said, “It was a worrying decision, to directly attack one of your ally’s commanders then jump off a cliff.”

Grey crossed her arms. She would not be chastised like a child. “I saved your soldiers’ lives.”

“Nearly at the risk of your own. It’s like you learned it from Seward.”

She leaned back against the table. “I did what I had to do.”

“You nearly died,” Scaelas said, his voice full of scarcely concealed rage. “That is certainly not what I agreed to. Now that we only just have you, you threaten us with your death?”

Cleoc shot him a warning glare. “It is more worrying for an ally to make such rash decisions without consultation,” she said. “I have put my trust in you. Do not make me regret that.”

Before Grey could answer, Cleoc swept out of the room. The door

slammed shut behind her.

“Commander Seward,” Scaelas said quietly. “A moment alone with the High Lady?”

“Whatever you need to say to Grey, you can say to me.”

Grey sighed. “Go, Kier. I’ll be up soon.”

He paused for a second, two; then, seeing she wouldn’t change her mind, he too left. Grey turned to face Scaelas, her hands balled into fists.

“I am not your daughter,” she said. “You cannot come here to find me, a grown woman, sovereign to my own nation, and deign to parent me.”

“A cliff, Gremaryse?” Torrin seethed. “A cliff?”

“You told me I could save him!”

“I told you, whatever you did, to not do it alone.”

She threw up her hands. “What else was I to do! Let Kier die?”

“You asked for my help, and then you did that! I don’t know—you could have followed the rules, for once in your life. Even if you ran off with Captain Seward, you should’ve brought him back to the fort, to your allies.

We could’ve handled this correctly and safely.”

“I was doing what I thought was best.”

“You don’t know anything about how this works,” Torrin snapped.

“You’ve made your stance on the matter very clear. But as I would remind you, your majesty—you are not my father.”

Torrin shook his head slowly. “I am not,” he said. The fight went out of him; he, too, leaned on the table, his arm against hers. “Do you feel them press upon your heart, Maryse?”

She felt her jaw tighten, the weight of them crushing down. “Yes,” she said finally. “Sometimes.”

“As do I.” He looked down at her—he was nearly a foot taller, built like one of his nation’s hulking trees—and she saw the sadness in his eyes.

“Your father was like a brother to me. The first person in this world I ever knew. They say, in the old religion of Scaela, mages and wells were one soul cleft in two: if that was true, he was mine.”

“We don’t have that story on Locke.”

“I know. Probably because it requires trusting another person.” Blood and betrayal. That is your legacy.

She pushed that aside. “You’re a well,” she said.

“Yes.”

“And my father’s Hand, before he married my mother.”

Torrin looked away. “Yes.”

“Did you love him?”

“Not in the way of you and your commander,” he said, considering. “But in my own way. As, I suppose, we all do.”

Grey nodded. That she could understand.

“To lose you would be like knowing his death all over again,” Torrin said quietly. Behind them, the fire was crackling low in the grate; soon, it would be only embers. She did not move to prod it back to life.

“I am not yours to lose,” she said, but gently this time.

“I know,” Torrin said. “That doesn’t make it easier.”

Kier barely stirred when she finally came down from the tower, where she’d been pacing and watching the sea. She found one of his shirts, exchanged her own clothes for it and slid into bed. He immediately turned, pulling her against his chest.

“You’re cold,” he said against her shoulder, adjusting her so her back was flush with his front, his legs pressed to hers.

“I wasn’t ready for sleep,” she admitted. “Did anyone question you, when you came to my rooms?”

“No. You have no guard. The others went to sleep hours ago.”

“Oh.”

He pressed a kiss to the space under her ear. “Was he very disappointed?

Scaelas?”

“No,” Grey said, unable to fully account for the lump in her throat. She laced her fingers with Kier’s and pulled his arms even tighter around her.

“He told me about my father.”

Kier was quiet for a moment. “Perhaps it’s a good thing,” he said, “to have some part of him. Of his memory.”

Grey nodded. “Perhaps,” she said. But she lay awake in the dark for a long time after that, thinking of her ghosts.

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Blood of my blood, soul of my soul, thine hand is over my heart. When you ache, then shall I ache; when you perish, then shall I perish. What is known to me is known to you. Let me not break this troth.

Verse 27, The Holy Verses of the Isle, often used in rituals of binding and marriage

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