Page 125 of The Second Death of Locke
“It’s odd, hearing you talk like a noble.” Leonie smiled, easing herself into the chair. She wore a gray coat over her black skirt, and the sight of it brought a lump to Grey’s throat. “And it’s towhom. It’s the same answer as always, since neither of you is capable of lookingafter yourselves without the other getting involved. The commander sent me.”
“Ah.”
Leonie shifted her arm, and Grey realized she carried a basket. She drew out a bottle of wine and two glasses. “Think it’s still good?”
Grey snorted. There was no point explaining the time dilation, the unchanging nature of the Isle, the bodies. “I suspect we’re going to find out.”
Leonie’s grin widened. She uncorked the bottle with a thin knife from her belt, then poured two glasses. “Not too much,” Grey cautioned. “I need a clear head, and Kier thinks I should go to bed.”
“I don’t believe we need to heed his every word. After all, he also said Eron would beat Ola in a fight, and that’s certainly false.”
“What kind of fight?” Grey asked, accepting the glass Leonie handed her, and the subsequent clink of their glasses as they toasted. She took a sip: the wine was rich and dark, probably plum. Probably a gift from Nestria sixteen seasons ago.
“Oh, you know. No magic, sparring, the usual.” Leonie sighed, sitting back. Grey watched the tension leaving her shoulders, and wondered if she herself would ever be able to relax again.
“You didn’t have to follow me here.”
Leonie looked over her shoulder, watching the crackling fire. It was a novelty to the Scaelans, Grey supposed; even with its familiarity, it was a novelty to her, too. Magefire did not crackle like real flames; it did not smell like clean pine and woodsmoke.
“I told you I would be here if you had need of me.”
Grey closed her eyes. “I do not want to bring people close to me if it’s only sentencing them to death.”
“Do you really believe that’s what this is?” Leonie said, taking another sip of her wine. Grey wanted to throw caution to the winds, drain the entire glass to the dregs and let her hair loose as she stood on the highest tower of her own Isle. “Do you have so little faith that we may live?”
She swallowed hard, taking a mouthful of wine with it. “They expect something great of me,” she said.
“Of course they do. You raised the Isle with blood and intention alone.”
Not alone.
“What?”
Grey looked up. She hadn’t realized she’d said it aloud. But Leonie was watching her with care, and caution—and gods, she just wanted someone else to know about her decision. Not to help; but just to hold it, so she did not have to carry the weight of it alone.
“If I tell you something,” she said, running her fingertip along the rim of the glass, “can I trust your confidence?”
Leonie snorted. “I knew you were Locke for the better part of a year, and I said nothing then.”
Grey scrutinized her. Leonie only refilled her glass. “You did?”
“With the way you manipulated power? With how you healed your captain? Of course I knew, Grey. I’m no fool.”
“Kier is dead.”
Leonie’s hand slipped; she nearly dropped the bottle, but recovered quickly. She set it down, out of the range of the papers, as Grey took a long sip of her wine. “Grey—I just saw him. Hesentme. I told you.”
Grey shook her head. “That’s not what I mean.”
Leonie raised a brow and leaned in closer, her elbows on the desk.
“When we raised Locke,” Grey said miserably, the ache of it returning to her chest at even the slightest thought of it—she wondered if she would always have it, right there within reach, when she recalled the absence of his heartbeat. “Kier… was not alive when we arrived on the Isle. I checked his pulse. I tried to bring him back. For awhile, Leonie.”
Leonie nodded slowly, looking away. She knew Grey’s training: if Grey had declared Kier beyond saving, if she had given up on him coming back, then he was surely dead.
“My mother appeared to me, and my father and brother, and the goddess Kitalma. They told me that to resurrect the Isle, a sacrifice was needed.”
“And that sacrifice was Kier,” Leonie said. “But…”
