Page 16 of The Second Death of Locke
“Unfair. I’m the reason you’re alive.”
“Doesn’t change anything.”
Grey sighed, pulling her hand away. She had to stop—any further healing and people would start asking questions. Kier’s eyes rolled back open. “Thank you,” he said.
“A draft to ease the pain, Captain,” Leonie said. Grey’s gaze snapped up to her, her apron, her tray, her neutral expression. She was favoring her right leg again—always did, in the rain, and there was near-constant rain here—but it would do no good for Grey to ask how she was feeling. Leonie’s left leg had been amputated from the knee down years before, replaced with a wooden materialist-crafted prosthetic, and she’d confessed to Grey once that the rain made her badly healed hip throb.
“Thank you,” Kier said, taking the draft like a good patient. Grey and Leonie exchanged a glance. Both of them would’ve refused. Neither of them were good patients.
“And as soon as you’re able to get up, Attis has requested you.”
“He is unable to get up,” Grey said quickly, which didn’t stop Kier from trying. A firm push to his shoulder was effective enough.
“Noted,” Leonie said. “It can wait.”
“Did she say why?” Grey asked.
Leonie shook her head. “Something to do with the prisoner you recovered, I think.”
It wasn’t a guarantee, but perhaps Grey wasn’t completely fucked for her behavior the other day. Maybe Concord still owed her for saving her life. Maybe—though Grey very much doubted it—she would get off easy this time.
Leonie took note of her fidgeting. “Hand Captain, if you’re going to be loitering here, I’d appreciate your help if you have time to spare—but I will require you to clean up and eat first.”
“And that’s an order,” Kier said.
“You still don’t outrank me,” Grey said, but she conceded anyway.
Torrin–
It is over. It is done. Let me live in peace, I beg of you. It is barely a life at all, and has not been since they died by my side. The last thing I ask of you is to let all of it die, as I should have.
I know, in your stubbornness, you may never stop looking for me, but I ask as the last of my name that you do.
Letter from Severin of Locke to Scaelas, 3 monthsPD
five
“GIVE ME ONE REASON,Captain Seward,” Attis said, fingers steepled in front of her on the desk. Her clear, stern eyes were focused on Kier as if Grey wasn’t even in the room, and Grey chewed on the inside of her cheek at the weight of that stare, glad it wasn’t anywhere near her. “One reason why I shouldn’t demote you, separate you and your Hand, send her on the first convoy out to an infirmary as far away as I can manage and keep you on the front as a typic. One.”
Because Kier was a pain in the ass first and a mage second, he said, “Because we’re too good for that.”
Grey very nearly kicked his chair.
They were in Attis’s office, Kier seated in front of her desk, Grey positioned behind him with her hand resting on his shoulder. He was fully dressed, which was an improvement, and only winced occasionally when he moved—partially for the drama. She’d possibly gone too far in healing him, into a territory that was nigh unattainable for a regular well, but having him whole and hale was more important than anything else.
She’d warned him about what Concord had said, but shockingly, Grey was not the one being reprimanded, and no one had askedabout her capacity. Hopefully Kier was playing it up enough that Attis wouldn’t want to see his wound, wouldn’t want to look any closer.
“You nearly killed your Hand.”
“Hand Captain Flynn knows her limits.” A dangerous line of conversation, if they went probing into Grey’s limits.
“But doyou?”
Grey’s fingers dug into Kier’s shoulder: a warning. “I trust her,” he said, very carefully. “She untethered from me, Master Attis, when it became too much, as she was trained to do.”
Behind Attis, Mare’s face twitched—the only indication that she was paying any attention at all. Grey wanted to jump over the desk and shake her:What did you say?
“You let your guard down,” Attis snapped, and that was the one thing Grey couldn’t argue with. With Kier in the infirmary, she hadn’t had a moment to speak to him alone. Why had he given the girl his armor? Why had he untied her restraints? What had the girl said to him? These were the questions she’d wrestled with the night before, alone and insomniac in their tent.
