The Second Death of Locke — Epilogue

epilogue

N A NIGHT THREE months after the resurrection, the Isle sparkled withO pale golden magelights. The boats had been arriving for nearly two days, pausing off the coast so the visitors could admire the glimmering new shields, before depositing guests in the harbor. For the first time in Grey’s memory, Maerin and Osar were both full to bursting, loud with sounds of mirth and happiness and laughter.

Grey was in her rooms, getting ready for the feast, the second event in a week-long festival. They’d already spent most of the afternoon in Osar: everyone wanted to bow to Grey, or kiss Kier’s hand or cheek (which was, frankly, a reaction she understood very well), or throw flowers at both of them and Grey’s close group of guards and advisers.

Pia, Kier’s ma, was behind her, pulling her corset strings tight as Laurella, his mom, absolutely destroyed her son at a game of cards. Imarta perched on Laurella’s chair, commenting on her cards in a way that made Kier more and more frustrated.

“I told you not to play with them,” Grey said, breathless, running her hands over the boning of her corset as Pia tied it off. “You always lose, and

you’re always cross about it.”

“I don’t always lose,” Kier grumbled.

There was a knock at the door. Pia, who cared more for Grey’s modesty than Grey did, threw a dressing gown over her shoulders. Tress, one of Grey’s new attendants, pushed inside. “The ship from Cleoc has arrived, your majesty,” she said.

“Oh,” Grey said, relieved. “Can you send for the others? They all can come here. I’ll meet them in my sitting room.”

“Yes, your majesty.”

“I’ll never get used to that,” Pia muttered when the girl was gone.

“Just wait until you hear what they call Kier,” Grey said.

“I’ve heard jackass bandied about a bit down in town,” Laurella offered.

There was a low noise of irritation from the table as she beat him at another hand.

Imarta moved to Grey’s dresser, going through her earring collection.

Most of it had been taken from her mother’s rooms. She settled on a pair of garnets, which she handed to Pia.

“I can put on my own earrings,” Grey said, taking them herself. “And get dressed. Truly, you’re all clucking over me like hens.”

“I’m not,” Laurella protested.

“No, but you’re putting Kier in a mood, and I’m the one who has to spend the evening by his side.”

There was no protest at that, but they also didn’t let Grey put her hair up herself. Finally, she waved them off, asking if they would please go to Osar ahead of time to make sure everything was to their liking. Imarta paused after Pia and Laurella left, her hand pressed to Grey’s cheek. Over the last two days, during long walks along Locke’s paths, Grey had told her everything—with no redactions.

“I’ll make your excuses,” she said, dropping a kiss on Grey’s forehead.

“Thank you,” Grey said, squeezing Imarta’s hand once more before she went.

Kier came to her back as she pulled on her heavy dress, his hands pushing hers aside to do up the little buttons. She knew he was annoyed, because he did not press a kiss to her bare shoulder blade or the curve of her neck.

“I told you not to,” she said, unable to hide her smile as he met her gaze in the mirror.

“Oh, shut up.” Buttons done, his hands fell to her waist, tightening around her. “You look exquisite tonight.”

She studied him in his formal suit, gray and black and severe, making him equal parts fearsome and handsome; his hazel eyes were clear and startling in their depth. “As do you,” she said, her smile deepening. She turned in his arms and leaned up onto her toes, gripping the back of his neck, pulling him down to kiss her.

“We can’t,” he said after a moment, pulling away. “Places to be, and so on.”

“We could skip,” Grey murmured, kissing his jaw.

“We shouldn’t. It’s in your honor.”

“And yours,” she protested. “If I recall, it’s also to celebrate the shields.

And the Isle wouldn’t be back and safe without you.”

“Your majesty?” Tress had returned, hesitating at the doorway, eyes lowered.

Grey stepped away from Kier. Though some who worked in the fortress had guessed the nature of the commander’s relationship with the Lady, she liked to keep it protected, close to her chest—she worried that, someday, someone might see Kier as her weakness.

It was a feeling she was trying very hard to get over.

“Your guests are in the sitting room,” Tress said, curtsying.

“Thank you,” Grey said, nodding to dismiss the girl. She moved quickly, keeping her eyes down. According to the rumors, much of Locke still feared her for her power—but that, too, was something she was trying to get over; and late at night, when it worried her, Kier told her over and over again all the reasons why a healthy dose of fear was a good thing.

They went into the sitting room. Eron had already found the wine Grey kept for guests and was pouring a round, passing glasses to Brit and Ola.

Near the door, Sela paced; when she saw Grey, her eyes lit up, and she flung herself at her. Grey caught her with a huff as Sela squeezed her even tighter than her corset.

“You’re wearing the dress,” she said against Grey’s shoulder. “It’s my favorite.”

“I love it,” Grey said. She pulled back to study the girl’s face, noting the dark marks of sleeplessness under her eyes. “The whole wardrobe has been invaluable.”

“The armor did fail, though,” Kier said, smirking, as he took Sela from

Grey’s arms for his own hug.

“It was decorative!” she protested.

“First lesson of working with Flynn? Anything that looks like it could be fought in will be fought in.”

Sela sighed, but she didn’t maintain a frown for long. She sat between Grey and Kier on one of the plush sofas, kicking her feet up to rest on the

edge of the little table. Grey accepted the wine from Eron and took a sip.

“We can’t stay long,” she said sadly. “At any moment, any number of clerks or guards or attendants could burst in and demand my attention.”

“We get it,” Ola said, shifting her weight. She kept her right arm tucked tight to her chest, the shirt pinned just under her elbow. “You’re important.”

Grey winked at her. “But never too important for you.”

Ola scoffed. “Tell that to your damn guard. I swear, I tried to come see you the other day, and that burly one with the eyebrows—”

“Rabbit?” Kier offered helpfully.

“What kind of fucking name is Rabbit?” Eron said.

“Nickname,” Kier explained. “Big as a tree? Curly hair?”

“Well, fucking Rabbit told me I didn’t have the clearances. The clearances! Gods alive, Grey, the fact that I was turned away by some brute called Rabbit.”

Grey sighed. “I’ll have a word,” she said, letting her head fall back on the cushions. Only months ago, the three of them had been her only guard, but she had forced them to take the six months of leave they’d been promised for delivering Sela. If they chose to return to her service after that time? Well, Kier would have space for them.

And if they chose to do anything else, go anywhere else? That was fine, too.

In the meantime, it made it easier for Grey to keep slipping her guard if they were strangers.

Brit was waggling their eyebrows at her; for her part, Grey was doing her level best to ignore the question in their eyes.

“Good. Because the next time I see your bunny, I can’t promise what my hand will do.”

“He’s not that bad,” Kier murmured. “And he keeps Grey safe.”

“Oh, shut up, Kier,” Ola sighed without heat.

“Eron?” Grey said, shifting her gaze. “Any grievances to air, while we’re here?”

“None at all,” Eron said primly. He was, Grey had discovered recently, spending a lot of time in the kitchens. She did not know if it had to do with the fact that he was now interested in the art of cooking, or because there

was excellent food there at all hours.

“Brit?” she said, wincing.

The mage only looked at her, taking a long sip of their wine. “Oh,” they said, “you know. Feeling a little… burdened with anticipation.”

Grey raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps,” she said slowly, “that is something we can discuss tomorrow.” She had taken a risk, trusting Brit with a secret —she trusted Brit with a lot, but secrets were an entirely different territory —and she wasn’t going to let them ruin it now, mere minutes before she shared it with Kier.

They flashed her a bright smile. “Excellent news. I will be up at dawn waiting for your summons.”

Grey rubbed the bridge of her nose. On Sela’s other side, Kier looked a little confused, but he was smirking, as he always did when they didn’t feel so keenly the weight of their new roles.

“We should go, though,” Eron said sadly. “Yearna had some very pointed threats for me if we kept Sela away from her guard for too long.”

The others shuffled to prepare, pulling on jackets and finishing their wine. Kier moved to follow them out the door, but Grey grabbed his arm and held him back. “We’ll meet you there,” she said to Ola, who shot her a questioning glance. Brit only smiled; Ola shook her head and muttered something under her breath about other rabbits.

“What’s wrong?” Kier asked, moving to adjust one of the jewels that

had shifted in Grey’s hair.

“Nothing. Just a surprise.”

He raised a brow, but did not ask for further clarification.

Grey pulled on her cloak and led him out. When she dismissed her guard, telling them to go to the feast without her, they protested. “I’m with the commander,” she said. “I will be fine.”

“Sir?” one of them said tentatively. He never unmade her decisions— but he did push for her safety.

Kier only shrugged. “Go on, then.” Grey couldn’t fight her wicked smile as they left.

She pulled Kier across one of the courtyards, down through the fortress and toward the walls. There, he lifted the gate with magic, and quietly drew a golden magelight as Grey led him toward the cliffside path. She barely noticed the power he pulled from her now; in her mother’s journals, she came to understand what Torrin had been trying to tell her. It was the nature of the sovereigns of Locke to not always be bound and married, but always

tethered. After all, it was Kier who maintained the shields, Kier who kept the golden magelights burning, Kier whose wards guarded her door. There was power flowing through him constantly since the night months ago when they’d stood before Kitalma at her altar and given his freedom away.

“I suppose I don’t get to ask what this is,” he said, his arm looped

through hers.

“We’re almost there,” she promised.

He sighed, looking down at her hem. “You’re going to get your dress all muddy.”

She shrugged. It was all posturing anyway; she was used to being covered in mud, and nearly everyone on the Isle had seen her in far worse shape. The finery was an active disruption from her usual state of disarray.

They rounded the hairpin turn on the path, and Grey’s stomach pulsed with anticipation. Beside her, Kier paused, drawing a quick breath.

“Grey,” he said, her name barely a sound in the dark. He stopped. She watched his face carefully as he swallowed unsteadily. She felt suddenly full of hollow anxiety, as if she could’ve made the wrong decision in giving

him this.

“It’s yours,” she said.

Kier nodded, but he did not let go of her; he just moved to hold her hand and brightened the magelight. She kept a step behind him down the last bit of the path toward the ledge, protected from the worst of Locke’s winds.

The little cottage was pale bluish-gray stone, the same shade as the clapboard houses on Scaela’s shores but sturdier, nestled in with one wall built against the cliff. Kier hesitated for just a second before he opened the door. They stepped into the kitchen, painted pale yellow, and he gripped the back of a chair for support as he looked at it in wonder.

Grey said nothing.

He moved through the rooms: the kitchen, then the parlor, with its great fireplace and cushioned chairs and sofas. She had selected everything with comfort in mind, writing to Laurella and Pia when she was stuck. In their final letter before coming to Locke, Laurella had included a sketch she’d done of Lot and Kier when the pair were boys. He held it now, his face unreadable as he took the frame from the mantel. He studied it for a long moment, unreadable, then put it back and moved up the stairs.

He peered in at the bathing room, the two bedrooms (“For your mothers,

and anyone else you want to visit,” she told him quietly) and the study, before he went up the final set of stairs. There, on the top floor, he found a bedroom with a wide bed and a trunk, and a great window looking out at Scaela. At his home.

He sat down hard. It was lucky, she thought, that the bed was there to catch him when his knees went weak.

She sat carefully beside him on the floor, resting her head on his knee. A very Locke quiet settled over them as they stared out to sea. Even the crashing waves and the shouting wind did not seem all that loud when they were in this little haven.

“Grey,” Kier said quietly, his voice breaking.

She looked up to see tears on his cheeks. She pushed herself to her knees and took his face in her hands, wiping them away with her thumbs.

“Is it okay?” she asked.

He drew a breath, looking at the window over her shoulder. “It’s… I don’t think I have words,” he admitted. He brought his hands up, covering hers. “How did you do all this?”

Grey chewed her lip. “Brit and Ola,” she admitted. “I was sure they would spoil the surprise.”

Kier laughed, breathy and uneven. “Fucking materialists,” he said, looking around the space in wonder, taking in the dark beams that crossed the ceiling and the quilt on the bed. His smile quirked up; he must’ve recognized that the quilt was one his mothers had brought from home.

“No one else knows it exists,” Grey said.

He looked at her, realization dawning. “And you asked me to shield and ward this path so you and Ola could spar in peace…”

“Yes.”

“So no one else can come down here.”

“Yes,” she said, her own grin widening.

“And you warned me of loose rocks on the cliff so I wouldn’t come here alone.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to see it until it was finished.”

Kier shook his head in astonishment, sitting back, taking it in. “A house,” he said.

“A cottage, really. An apology, for ruining your retirement.”

“Grey…”

She looked away then, letting her hands fall into his lap. He put his own over hers. “I want to be clear,” she said. “This is your house, Kier. Not mine. I will not come here unless you invite me. It is your place, and yours alone. I cannot give you your freedom back, but I can give you your space.”

He was quiet for a moment. When she looked up, she found him studying her face. He moved his thumb to tilt her chin up, bringing his magelight closer so he could see every detail of her face. Then he shifted, kneeling carefully in front of her. He traced his fingers across her collarbone—she was unable to suppress her shiver—and bent to kiss her,

very gently.

“Will you stay the night, if I ask it?”

“That defeats the purpose of your own house.”

He nudged his nose against hers. “What if I ask very, very nicely?”

“Yes.”

Another soft kiss, like the press of his golden light. “And we don’t have to go to your party?”

She smiled, feeling his lips curve up in response. “Our party,” she said, her fingers moving up his sides and across his chest, skimming over the details of his coat. “I might have… already asked Imarta to give our regrets, if they didn’t see us in half an hour,” she admitted.

Kier laughed, his eyes sparkling. “Oh, Locke,” he said, moving his hands to grip her waist, his fingers digging in between the boning of her corset. “Your foresight remains astonishing, as always.”

She kissed his nose. “The nation of Locke accepts your compliments, but suggests you support your declarations with action, Commander.”

He twined his fingers through hers. “And am I not Locke, too?” he asked, the barest hint of hesitation in his voice.

“If you wish it?” she asked. She did not dare to hope.

That hesitation did not fade. “If you wish it.”

Far below, the waves crashed on the rocks, the sea rushing against the dark cliffs of the iron isle. She skimmed her fingers across his cheek, searching his face, the grin spreading across hers before she could stop it.

“That you are, Locke,” she said.

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