Page 20 of The Second Death of Locke
“Trying to save me?” she snapped, turning back to face him. His cheeks blazed with color, his eyes alight with anger. They fought so rarely that the effect was something to be savored. She wondered with a fierce swell of desperation if this was what he looked like in other fits of passion, then pushed it away immediately—that was a thread she couldn’t bear to untangle.
He reached out, tugging her against him. It was awkward with the pallet between them, banging against her shins. She caught herself with both hands against his chest. His hand cupped the back of her skull, nearly big enough to cradle her from ear to ear. He loweredhis mouth so his lips were against the shell of her ear when he spoke the name she’d only said to him a handful of times, always under the cover of darkness.
“What will we do,” Kier said, “if they discover thatyouare Maryse of Locke?”
She has my eyes and her mother’s power, and she will not stop screaming, no matter what any of us do. We are all, predictably, besotted.
Letter from Isaak Masidic Locke to Genevieve Masidic, his mother, 8 years Ante-Destruction (AD)
six
WHEN GREY REACHED THEinfirmary, she found Leonie and a few assistants moving through the wards, checking bandages, removing stitches, administering salves and remedies, and doing whatever else they could to make the patients comfortable. There hadn’t been more than a skirmish since Grey’s company returned, so most of the patients were either there for long-term treatment or had sustained minor injuries during practice bouts.
Leonie glanced up when Grey swept into the ward. “Back for another round?” she asked.
Grey snorted as she moved past Leonie, past the beds, into a small room at the back of the ward full of changes of clothes and cots for healers taking breaks. She shrugged off her cloak and pulled on one of the navy-blue aprons the healers wore to protect their clothes from bodily fluids.
“When was your last break?” she asked, returning to the line of beds and taking the tray of labeled poultices and salves from Leonie’s hands.
“Yesterday,” Leonie said. She was many things, but she was not a liar—there was no reason to hide her exhaustion from Grey.
“Go. I’ll take care of things. I have a few hours.”
Leonie looked at her, lips pursed. “Are you okay?” she asked. “You look—”
“Go.”
Leonie sighed, but she didn’t argue. “We’ll talk when I’m back,” she said. She hesitated, just a second, laying her hand on Grey’s arm. “Thank you.”
Grey only nodded. Leonie didn’t need to know that she wasn’t just here to help. She was hiding.
When Leonie was gone, Grey settled into the familiar pattern of the infirmary with the easy relief of an old routine. It wasn’t required of her to do anything when Kier was injured—as his Hand, as a Hand captain herself, her duties extended only as far as his. But she had never been particularly good at staying still, and she’d worked in Scaela’s infirmaries long enough to know the need for extra hands, particularly capable ones. So she’d made a habit of filling in when she could. When they had a few days between skirmishes, or in instances when Kier needed time to recover, she found herself drawn here. Unlike her previous tenure as a healer, as Kier’s Hand she was not required nor requested (nor able) to use her power for speeding up the healing process for mages who were not her own. All she needed was her own natural skill. That suited her just fine.
She didn’t allow herself to think of their usual routine: often the captain accompanied her, providing company for the injured while she worked, or doing some of his endless paperwork at one of the empty tables used for writing notes. Too many times she looked up to see him staring into space, chewing on the end of a pen, or tracking her around the infirmary with his ringed hazel eyes.
Perhaps it was a relief to be alone for once. To have the time and space to think. So she distributed remedies, and when that was done, she started on the cleaning. They were always creeping toward filth, the infirmaries, and with all the mud, this one was no exception—despite Leonie’s careful cleaning schedule, it was impossible to keep everything sterile and tidy.
As she cleaned, her thoughts turned to their argument: Kier’s grip on her, the words he’d whispered in her ear:Maryse, always Maryse;but Maryse was not her true name. Kier knew that, too, but he wasn’t fool enough to say it out loud.
When she was little, she’d hated it: Gremaryse, named after the old god of the sea, one of the mythical protectors of the Isle. But that was her true name, at least the first of it; and in the short span of time she spent having one, her mother always said,Keep it close to your chest, Maryse. True names are for Hands and husbands.
If her brother, Severin, was around to hear it, he always laughed and responded,More like mages and mistresses, which never failed to earn him both a loving thwack to the ear and a small smile.
So her true name stayed close to her chest, and it was shortened for public knowledge, and she was Maryse of Locke until the Locke name and nation died underneath her feet.
Days after the destruction, she was found by a Scaelan regiment. She’d wandered perilously close to the burning remains of a town Eprain had reduced to rubble, so she was left with the rest of the rescued orphans. At first, when they asked her name, she’d said nothing. It was only later, when she was handed over to Imarta, that the problem presented itself.
Hands and husbands. Mages and mistresses.Locke is gone, and I am gone with it.
Grey, she decided, was a better shortening anyway. She couldn’t bear to be Maryse anymore, nor could she risk it. Close enough to cling to something of her old self in desperation, close enough that she couldn’t fully forget.
Grey of Locke, she whispered to herself sometimes, alone in the small hours of the morning. It was the name of a girl who had never existed.
If she had grown up, grown into herself, she wouldn’t be GreyorMaryse anymore, anyway—when a ruler came of age in Idistra, they took the diminutive of their nation. Their true name, then, was known only by the closest family members. Scaela had Scaelas; Cleoc Strata had Cleoc; Eprain belonged to Epras and Luthar to Luthos; and Nestria was ruled by Nestrias. It was only the High Sovereign of Locke, the oldest and most traditional of Idistra’s nations, who took the name of the Isle, unchanged.
Grey’s mother had herself been Locke, both the heart of the nation and its High Lady. It was only fitting, Grey thought exhaustedly, that the name died with her.
She did not whisper any of her lost names now, as she cleaned—she was not a fool. No one spoke the name of Locke lightly anymore.
