Page 31 of The Second Death of Locke

“Eron,” Ola said. “I can hear your wheels turning. What are you thinking about?”

Eron looked up, nearly knocking the pot over. “Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “How do we know for certain that someone survived Locke? What if the whole survivor thing is a lie? Didn’t the entire isle… explode?”

“If everyone had died,” Ola said, “there would be no magic at all.”

Eron considered this as he poured in the mush to soak. “But how do we know ?” he asked finally. “It could still be possible that the letter from Severin was forged, and no wells have been born since the Isle’s destruction. How do we know that that isn’t because Locke is well and truly dead?”

“Because Locke is the root and foundation of power,” Sela said quietly. Grey focused on Brit’s skin, on the task at hand. “There is no power at all without Locke.”

“Then how were you born a well, if you were born after Locke?”

“Cleoc was pregnant with me when Locke disappeared,” Sela said, like it was a normal thing to know. “I was born just a couple months after. That’s probably why I don’t… have much to draw on. I’m barely a well at all.”

Grey did not want to think about this anymore. Because Sela was right: Locke was power; Grey was power. If she took her secret to her grave, kept fighting other wars and perished in them, she would take all of Idistra’s power with her.

If she did not reclaim Locke before her death, the nation’s magic would die. For good.

This was what she lay awake thinking of late at night; the one thing she could not fully discuss with Kier. He would push for her safety at any cost. Even if it meant the death of magic.

And the truth? She was afraid. She knew the death of each remaining member of her family—she remembered when word came of her beloved aunt Wren, who had been slaughtered in Nestria.

She understood, then, how her godfather, Scaelas, immediately went to war with Nestria in retaliation—if Grey had been a sovereign and not a girl of eight, she too would’ve set the very seas on fire to avenge Wren’s death.

She knew of her cousins and aunts and uncles, those who had not been heirs to the Isle’s power and had instead been sent to marry into other nations to strengthen alliances. All of that fell away when Locke perished. None of them were safe, and Grey least of all.

She was a coward, at the end of it, willing to let the entire system die instead of putting herself at risk of facing the same fate.

She did her best to tune the others out. She finished her ministrations and tapped on Brit’s arm, signaling for them to move. They nodded, pulling their shirt down and shrugging back into their coat.

There was no further discussion on the topic. Kier marked his page and set his book aside, face-down, then looked out over nothing. Grey left the fire and went to sit by his side.

She leaned her head against his shoulder. After a moment, he wrapped an arm around her back and tugged her close. “How are you holding up?” he asked.

“Just dandy.”

“Less than two weeks, Flynn. Then the rest of our lives awaits.”

She sighed.

Lower, he said, just for her, “Power in bravery.” It was the motto of her family, her house, her isle. It was as if he knew what she’d just been thinking. Sometimes she wondered if he could take one look at her face and see every thought her brain held.

“I don’t feel very brave,” she admitted. “Or powerful.”

“Nor do I.”

She leaned further into him, looping her arm over his knee. The cliff face sheltered them from the swirling snow that had started, but it was cold against them—the wind was so loud here that she couldn’t hear the others; it was just as effective as being in a bubble.

“The wind,” she said, “reminds me of home.”

There was a beat of uncertain silence. “Does it?”

“Not that one.”

“Ah.” His arm tightened around her. “You dreamed of them last night.”

“Is that a statement or a question?”

“Statement. Your breathing changes when you do.” He laced his free hand together with the one she had on his knee, and the power flowed through them, a full unbroken circuit. “Has this been bringing up memories?”

“Here and there,” Grey admitted. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Do you remember when we were her age?” she asked.

He was quiet for a moment. “I do,” he said finally, his hand tightening over hers.

It had been the last close call they suffered in Leota—and it had terrified her. Lot left during the summer before her fifteenth birthday, going to train, leaving them behind in a lopsided arrangement made worse by the fact she could no longer hide from her affection for Kier.

That winter, in a brutally cold storm that whipped the sea into frothy peaks below the cliffs, they had been sitting in Leota’s village square with a new letter from Lot and hot tea clasped in their hands.

They were there when Mika, the town’s bailiff, strolled through with a group of his friends.

Grey had always wondered how he managed to hold his post with his proclivity for drink—she preferred to just avoid him and his crew.

She’d been leaning on Kier, her cheek on his shoulder as they read, when she heard the laughter from the group of armored soldiers loitering nearby.

“All’s I’m saying is this.” Mika’s voice carried across the square, his words slurred with drink. “That boy can’t hide forever. Someday, someone’s gonna find him. And if I got my hands on ’im…”

At first, she thought he was talking about one of the village boys. She glanced up, frowning, wondering what they’d gotten into now.

“Could ransom him,” one of Mika’s friends said. “Imagine the payout.”

“Scaelas would find out,” another said.

“Nah,” Mika replied. “Nah nah nah. You’re thinking all wrong. You know what I’d do? I’d kill him. Stop this whole bloody business. No more power, no more magic, no more stuck-up mages with their bullshit. Then I’d chop ’im up and sell his parts.”

Grey froze—not even the hot tea in her hands could ease the chill in her bones.

One of his companions snorted. “Well, that’s one way to do it. You really think killing that kid would kill the whole system?”

“I think that if I had the chance, I wouldn’t hesitate to find out. Fuck Scaelas, and fuck this war. Let me rule, eh?”

More boisterous laughter filled the square, but Grey barely heard it. Her stomach swam with bile. Kier’s arm was tight around her, drawing her close, shielding her—because even at seventeen, he knew.

They had left the square, risking death on the icy cliff path that led to the shore; in their favorite pebbled beach cove, there was no risk they’d be heard. Grey’s panic was a tangible thing in her chest, her breathing uneven.

“Do you think,” she had asked, pacing back and forth, “others would feel the same? That it’s easier to kill me than to restore Locke?”

“I don’t know,” Kier admitted. He leaned back against the damp, cold rock, watching her. “But they’re not looking for you. They still think it’s Severin.”

Grey shook her head. “We can’t bank on that forever. Someday, they’ll figure it out.”

“Would that really be enough? If someone killed you, would they kill all power? Couldn’t someone else find the source again, or create it?”

“Yes,” Grey said bitterly, rubbing her eyes.

“It would kill the power, to kill the source. The only way to take the control of power away from me is to get an heir, forcing a new line of inheritance, and then control that. I’m old enough to bear a child now, if forced, and I’m sure they would kill me after I gave them a well who could take on the power—”

“Grey, stop,” Kier said, gripping her arm. Her voice had taken on a new, high pitch of fear. He was pale, confronted with the truth of her worst fears. “That’s barbaric.”

She laughed, a short, harsh sound. “Then you doubt they’d do it?”

He pressed his lips together, a muscle ticking in his jaw. It was not the first time he’d been furious on her behalf, and she had the awful suspicion it wouldn’t be the last. “I won’t let that happen to you, okay?”

“You can’t control what happens to me.” She let him pull her into his arms, to wrap her up. She tried to time her breathing to his own, pressing her cold nose against his neck. “If Mika ever finds out—”

“He won’t, and I’ll kill him if he even gets close. But we can’t stay here waiting for someone to find you.” A pause, a beat. “Do you… want to be Locke?”

“No,” Grey said immediately, remembering the blood, the smoke, the flame. She pulled away, putting space between them—he was just comforting her, as any friend would. “I would rather die.”

“Then we’ll find a way to keep them from finding you. We’ll find somewhere to hide.”

“There is nowhere to hide,” Grey said, covering her face with her hands, her stomach heavy with the truth. “No matter where I go, the knights will be looking for me.”

“Unless,” Kier said, looking away from her, “you were one of the knights.”

She looked up at him. He did not seem afraid, nor did he wear that mischievous smile he had when they were doing something deliciously impulsive and ill-advised. He looked completely serious.

“Join them, you mean,” she said. “Follow Lot to training.”

“We could go together. They would probably let us stay together, even.”

She’d nodded, bitterness blooming. “When the patrol comes back next summer,” she said, arms crossed over her chest, leaning against the salt-soaked rock, “we will join up.”

“You’re too young to do it next summer. But if we wait a couple of years, train more…”

“We’ll lie.”

“Grey…”

She shook her head, fierce. “I’m not going to sit here and wait for someone to find me. To kill me. Maybe my father trusted Scaelas, but I—” She broke off, the tears ragged in her throat. “I don’t know if I can. I don’t know if I can trust anyone.”

“You can trust me,” Kier said. He reached out, his hand brushing hers. “Grey, no matter what happens, you can always trust me.”