Page 14 of The Second Death of Locke
This time, she was too tired for fear. She focused on that tiny thread of power, easing it out as she worked. Leonie helped her, handing her instruments when she asked for them, holding together tissue, wiping away blood. She didn’t offer to tether her own powerto Kier, to give Grey a break—she’d worked with Grey long enough to know better.
To her credit, the assistant at Kier’s head didn’t ask questions or black out, even when the effect of Grey’s power and direction had his flesh pre-emptively knitting back together and they had to cut him open again.
Grey lost track of time, focusing only on the slippery feeling of his insides and breathing evenly. Finally, she surveyed her work, probing for anything out of place, and sighed with relief. “Let’s close him up,” she said, glancing at Leonie—but it wasn’t Leonie at all.
Hand Master Mare Concord stood on the other side of Kier’s body, waiting for instructions. Grey didn’t even know how long she’d been there. She had only seconds to recover before Mare was handing her a needle and suture.
Grey was too tired for this. She focused on maintaining that last little thread as she stitched the layers of Kier back together. Mare was a great help, at least: she was ready with the tools Grey needed before she even asked.
Of course she was. She had probably done very similar surgeries on her own mage.
Grey cleaned the stitched wound one final time and affixed gauze. Once that was done, she washed her hands three more times until every trace of Kier’s viscera was gone from her skin, if not her shirt.
“Good work, Hand,” Mare said. “Neat stitches.” At some point while Mare was watching, the assistant had left too—it was just the two of them, three if Kier counted.
“I’m very good at mending socks, too,” Grey said, sorting the equipment into the appropriate wash buckets. She did an internal check for her well. It was waning again, but not empty. Worse than it had been in years, but she could deal with that. She focused very hard on finishing the conversation—the sooner she could curl up in her bedroll, the better. She’d settle for the break room in the back of the infirmary at this point.
“It’s a dangerous game you two are playing. Your mage should know better than to use that much of you. If you need to file a complaint with a request for retraining, Hand Captain—”
“He doesn’t take any more than I’m willing to give,” Grey snapped. She was so, so tired of these conversations.
“You have… quite the capacity,” Mare said carefully. “We’re meant to report high-capacity wells, you know. In case a higher-ranking officer is in need.”
Grey stiffened. Mare was the type of weathered that wells usually didn’t live long enough to become. Grey forced herself to focus, to watch her face for any sign of—well, anything. “I’m already serving a captain, Hand Master.”
Mare shrugged, allowing this. “Unless there’s another reason for the capacity you’re able to offer Captain Seward.”
Grey did not let any emotion show on her face. “What are you trying to say?”
“I’m just saying,” Mare said firmly, steely, “it’s notably unusual, and there are very few reasons for unusual power.”
That was enough, the last of it her brain could handle. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Hand Master, but I’ve used quite a lot of myself today and I cannot keep going.”
“Hand Captain Flynn…” Mare reached out, gripped Grey’s shoulder, but Grey shrugged her off. She always made her worst decisions when Kier was indisposed.
It was insubordination to leave this room, risk on top of risk, but she did it anyway. Grey dragged herself out of there, freezing, and across the encampment, barely upright when she slipped into the safety of her own tent. As soon as the flap closed behind her, her knees hit the floor and then she was slumped, the air running from her lungs. She forced herself up, clawed her way onto her pallet. She was still sticky with Kier’s blood.
She’d be punished for that, she knew. For leaving without being dismissed. For not answering Mare’s questions. But to stay, to try to cobble together something coherent—that was an even greater danger.
She gave up and let herself slip into emptiness.
Fire. When she dreamed, she always dreamed of fire.
This time, the fire was in the shape of a boy in front of her. Hesat cross-legged, and she was no longer a soldier, no longer a woman, no longer a well. She was a girl, a child. She might’ve been fire, too.
The fire-boy said, “Stay quiet.”
She stayed quiet. They were sitting on hard-packed ground in a stone room. A basement. It smelled like salt and ash. When she snuffled, raised her fist to wipe her nose, the boy caught her hand. It did not burn, but it should’ve.
There was pounding overhead. She was covered in blood, drenched in it. She remembered whose it was, but she did not let herself think of it.
“Do you promise,” the fire-boy whispered, “to let us go?”
“No,” she whimpered. She wanted to hug him, but she was afraid; she was so afraid that her heart pounded rabbity in her chest and her hands were sweaty and her teeth ached from clenching her jaw. Just an hour ago, she and the boy were at the big table, squabbling over dessert. She could still taste the sour tang of sugar between her teeth.
He gripped both of her hands so hard, and this time, it hurt.
“You have to,” he said, leaning his fire-head close to hers. She remembered the color of his eyes under all that licking flame: they were silt-brown, shell-brown, sargassum-brown. “I can’t hold it much longer, but I will until you promise.”
