Page 127 of The Second Death of Locke
“You have no reason to be furious about this,” Grey said, her nails digging into the wood of the desk. “And if you insist on it, you can go home and be mad in your mothers’ house. When this battle is over, you are free to leave, if you wish.”
He whirled on her, face blank for the barest second as he processed, then his fury intensified. His hands were clenched into fists at his side. “You. Will. Not. Give. Up. Your. Power.”
She stared at him, jaw throbbing from how tightly she was clenching it. When it was clear he was not going to say anything else until she did, she said, “I will not take your freedom, Kiernan.”
“Give me that choice,” he hissed.
“I give you all the choices!” Grey shouted back. She wanted to throw an inkpot herself, but she did not.
He shook his head, the vein in his temple throbbing. He went over to the fireplace and picked up the biggest piece of ink-stained glass from the mantel before he threw it in the fire. “I have never made a choice without consulting you,” he said, his voice pitched so low she barely heard it. Grey watched the fight run out of him as he gripped the mantel like it was the only thing that would keep him upright through this betrayal.
She swallowed, forcing the pain down. “I love you. Every choice I have made, that Iammaking, is because I love you.”
His hand tightened on the mantel, knuckles going white. “Why must you always sacrifice yourself, and call that love?”
She drew a sharp breath. It was a fatal blow, and they both knew it.
Kier did not look at her. He did not say anything as he turned away and went out, shutting the door behind him, leaving her standing in the wake of his destruction.
Grape –
Look after him. Please. I know he would die for you, but I think it’s in all of our best interests if you don’t let him. He has given up everything for you (and I support him in this decision), but I beg of you: don’t let him give up his life.
Letter from Lieutenant Lotrain Seward to Grey Flynn, 7 yearsPD
thirty-one
THAT NIGHT, GREY SLEPTalone.
She woke too early and returned to her office, working through treaties that would never be signed if she died. After, she fled to the infirmary, helping Leonie and her handful of healers prepare for the looming battle. Kier did not tether nor pull from her. If he found it an inconvenience, being without magic, he did not tell her.
She returned to the war rooms in the afternoon and took her seat between Cleoc and Scaelas. The maps on the tables were tidier, marked now with the bases for different regiments and the plans for attack, inked with notes. Kier stood at the other end of the table, leaning over them, with Reggin at one shoulder. Reggin’s Hand sat in the chair his mage had previously occupied. Grey found her eyes often slipping to him, doing her best to distract herself from Kier’s coldness with other thoughts, wondering at their relationship. Would her own father or uncle or brother drag her into war?
She felt Torrin’s anxiety radiating off him. Perhaps her own was as thick, as noticeable—perhaps everyone misread the tension between Locke and her commander as concern for the battle to come.
“If you think you’re ready,” Reggin was saying to Kier, “then you should trust that instinct.” At Kier’s nod, Reggin turned to the restof the table. “We will focus our forces here, and here, as Commander Seward has suggested.” Grey followed the indications on the map.
“Locke?” Scaelas said. “What do you think?”
She thought her head was going to explode, and she did not have the brain for strategy. She knew, with perfect muscle memory, how to wield a blade, how to fight, how to defend. She couldn’t keep looking at Kier and seeing the disappointment lurking beneath the surface. She glanced quickly at Scaelas, then used a line she’d heard from him more than once: “I will defer to the wisdom of my commanders.”
The corner of Scaelas’s mouth twitched up. Dainridge, Reggin and Seward were all in agreement: Kier would pull down the temporary shields and open the Isle to attack when their time was up, when Grey’s final rejection of marriage was received.
“The only question that remains,” Dainridge said, pacing behind the table, “is that of Locke.”
Grey’s head snapped up. “In what way?”
“Where will you be during the battle, your majesty?”
She glanced at Cleoc. “I’llbe in the fortress, safe,” Cleoc said, perfunctory, her hands folded on the table. “I am no soldier.”
Scaelas cleared his throat. “And I will be with my forces. Fighting.”
Grey raised an eyebrow at him, daring him to tell her what to do—but he did not.
“Then Locke, too, will remain in the fortress,” someone said at the end of the table. One of Cleoc’s masters, Grey thought.
“I will not,” she snapped. “I will be fighting with—” She cut off, the thought interrupted before she could finish it: she’d been about to say,I will be fighting with my mage.
