Page 65 of The Second Death of Locke

twenty-eight

U PSTAIRS, ALONE WHILE KIER built a fire downstairs, Grey opened the taps on one of the bathtubs.

It was run by a clever web of magic put in place by one of her great-uncles, which filtered the seawater under the fortress and turned it into steaming, clean water at the turn of a tap.

There was still soap in a cabinet under the sink—she fought back the memories at the familiar smell of it, which she’d never been able to find or replicate in Scaela.

She stripped off her clothes and sank into the depths of the tub, submerging herself fully for a second before coming back.

She washed, drained the water, refilled it and washed again.

Kier knocked once on the door just as she was getting out, wrapping herself in a fluffy towel she’d pulled from the linen closet.

“Are you okay?” he asked through the wood.

She took a shuddering breath. “No, but I will be.” And she would.

She had the oddest feeling that the bodies in the cathedral were the only ones left; that the Isle itself had protected her from any other casualties.

It was as if everyone in that horrid hall had been there to guard their fallen lord and lady, even in death; and now that Little Locke was newly returned, safety was restored.

Despite the horrors of earlier, when she focused, she felt something almost like peace. Like the very Isle had sighed in relief now that its dead had been laid to rest.

She found thick socks and a dressing gown in the room next door, which had once belonged to her aunt before Wren was sent to Nestria to marry before Grey was even born.

While Kier was bathing, she went downstairs to search for provisions.

He’d already lit a fire in the great hearth in the dining hall, which brought a smile to her face, despite everything.

In the pantry, the meat and produce was unrotten, the bread still soft and fresh, but Grey could not bring herself to touch it.

She found a jar of honey and a bin of rolled oats.

She took these, some spices and a tin pot into the dining hall.

Kier was back and dressed in clean clothes, dragging in cushions and blankets from one of the parlors.

“What did you find?” he asked.

She held up her haul. “Better than unflavored porridge and bits of jerky.”

He snorted. “I can’t wait to tell Eron you did better with a sixteen-year-old pantry than he did with provisions.”

“Eron could never ,” Grey agreed.

Kier went back to the kitchen to fill the pot while Grey stoked the fire and urged it to roaring warmth.

When he returned, she made a thick porridge and seasoned it with honey and cinnamon.

It wasn’t much, but it was edible. They sat cross-legged in front of the fire, draped with one of the big knit blankets, surrounded by the eerie quiet of the Isle.

She craved the sound of the wind and sea as much as she feared it: in her heart, she knew that when those sounds returned, so would the rest of her worries of the world beyond Locke.

“I’ll only ask once more, then I’ll leave it,” Kier said finally, setting his empty bowl aside. “Are you okay? Because we can go. We don’t have to stay; we don’t have to do this.”

Grey swallowed hard, the porridge turning to dust in her mouth. Your power or his freedom . For all she knew, if they left the Isle, Kier would die—and that was not a reality she was willing to face. “I’m okay,” she said. “I think that was the worst of it.”

He nodded. “Then, the magic.” He turned so he was facing her, close enough that his kneecaps brushed hers. “I don’t really understand how you’re doing this. It feels like I’m pulling a lot from you, and you’re not even fazed.”

Grey set her own bowl aside with Kier’s. “On Locke—Locke is power. I am not just a well for power that can run out. I am a faucet, a doorway, a river. Power flows through me to you, but here, there is no end.” She coughed delicately. “It’s why the sovereign of Locke always marries a mage.”

Neither of them commented on that.

His eyes slipped shut. He hadn’t untethered from her all day, and she realized that she didn’t feel quite so ill.

Perhaps that was the problem of Locke, too: it didn’t ache so much when she had someone to share it with, when she had some way to direct the power rushing up through her from the Isle.

“Can I?” he asked, flipping his hands palm up, resting on their knees.

“Yes,” Grey said. She laid her hands flat on top of Kier’s to close the circuit. He hummed, low in his throat.

“This will take some getting used to,” he said. A shudder rolled through his shoulders, down his back. “I don’t know how to control this much power,” he admitted.

“Better figure it out,” Grey murmured. “We might be here for a while.”

The corner of his mouth quirked up. He leaned forward, just enough to steal a kiss before rocking back down.

“Can you ward some rooms?” she asked.

“Of course. Grey—if it’s too much, we don’t have to stay here. We could find our own place to settle, once everything is calm.”

They couldn’t. The Isle was the only thing keeping Kier alive. The words were on her lips, but she could not say them.

She shook her head. Besides, this was her birthright, her home, the place she had raised with her own blood. It was all she had left of her family, of those who had died for her sake.

“Then we’ll stay,” he said.

“It’s not a cottage in the hills,” she said mildly, “but perhaps it would be good to retire here.”

He laughed, sounding so well and normal that she felt the shadows fleeing the deepest caverns of her heart.

“I think we’ve retired from retirement,” he declared.

He pushed to his feet, offering her a hand, and Grey was quick to follow.

“Give me a tour of our new home, and we can ward all the rooms you want.”

In a middle floor just off the tallest tower, she found a suite of rooms that had been unoccupied for ages, with a bedroom in the rounded turret that looked out to Scaela.

She threw open the windows to let the sea air clear the room of stuffiness as Kier lit a fire in the grate.

Grey found clean sheets and made up the bed, barely tutting when Kier straightened her corners.

“There’s a free room down the hall,” she said, hesitating, “should you want it.”

He raised a brow. “I can take it officially,” he said. “But if it is all the same to you… I’ll stay with you.”

“Then it can be yours officially,” Grey said, the corner of her mouth lifting.

There was no further consensus needed. She pulled on a thick winter shirt from the chest of drawers, full of old things; Kier found a rattling jar of tooth tabs in the small bathroom as they prepared for sleep.

He drew the curtains, as dark had not yet fallen: the world was still misty and white, unchanged.

Kier set the pale golden magelight above the bed as they crawled in. She draped a leg over his hip—his hand went to her thigh, gripping tight.

She wasn’t sure what reminded her, if it was his grip or something else, but she felt the ring around her thumb. “This is yours,” she said.

“Mm.” He bent to kiss her hand, the ring on it. “Keep it.”

“But it was Lot’s.”

“If I’m to be your commander, I face too high a risk of degloving,” he said solemnly. “Has no one in the army told you?”

She swatted his shoulder. “Are you not even afraid? We might be at war tomorrow.”

“We’ve been at war our entire lives.”

It was true, but this felt different. It was her banner, her nation, her war—and she didn’t want it.

“I want peace, Kiernan,” she said, running her fingers through the too-long hair that curled over his ears.

“I’ll do my best to get it for you,” he murmured. “I’ll do my best to get you anything you want, Locke.”

Grey turned this over. “What if I don’t know what I want?” she whispered.

She had to tell him. The words were there, if she only just said them: You died, Kier. You died and I fought the gods for you, and you’re not even really living now. What would you choose? What would you want ?

His lips pressed to her temple. “Then I’ll wait for you until you decide,” he said. “But we’ve been following everyone else’s orders for so long—I want you to have a genuine choice, Grey. A future you have picked for yourself.”

She thought of him sacrificing himself for her, the look on his face when he had told her to say goodbye to his mothers.

The truth was: if she posed the choice to him, Kier would choose his own sacrifice. He would give up his freedom for her and leave her power. He would remain here on this Isle, growing older and more bitter, forced to accompany her all the way to her grave.

She rolled onto her back, staring up at the ceiling as his breathing grew even and his grip on her loosened. She could just… not tell him. But it would be its own kind of betrayal, to keep the truth from him.

And yet.

He had run away for her, become a soldier for her, risen in rank for her, gone into battle for her, lied for her, nearly been killed for her, been kidnapped for her. He had died for her.

If he had the choice, he would always make the decision that saved her, that supported her. Maybe, for once, she wanted to make a decision to sacrifice for someone else, after he had given everything up for her. She could not bear to take more than that.