Page 30 of The Second Death of Locke
Brit shrugged. “I made them. I’m a materialist. A metalworker.” Which Grey knew, of course—she knew the affinities of everyone in their company. But she hadn’t realized what Brit was capable of.
She and Kier exchanged a long look.I told you Ola was powerful, Grey tried to convey.They could not have done all of that without a strong well, and I knew she was good, and I told you so.
This mission is fucked, Kier’s expression said, his lips pressed tightly together. Finally, he sighed, raising his eyes skyward. “Okay. Ola, you navigate. Brit, you’re in charge of weaponry. Fastria?”
Eron looked up. He was quieter than the others, and always had been—when he was promoted to be one of Kier’s officers, Grey had questioned it at first. But whenever he did open his mouth, it was like he always said the right thing, at exactly the right time. She’d wondered sometimes what he would be like if she was actually in his confidence. Perhaps, on this mission, she would find out.
No. She caught herself—they were not here to become friends, or confidantes. She sent a pulse of annoyance down the tether to Kier, hoping he’d wrap up this foolishness soon.
“I’ll cook, I guess,” Eron said.
Kier raised an eyebrow. “Are you good at cooking?”
“Guess we’ll find out,” Eron said. “I’ve always wanted to try.”
Kiernan, Grey thought at her mage with all possible force.
“And what about me?” Sela asked. Badly timed—Grey turned a glare on her. To her right, Kier sighed.
“Your job is to listen,” Kier said. A beat. “And not piss Flynn off.”
“Not piss Flynn off any further,” Brit amended. It was the only sensible thing they’d said since the retinue left Mecketer.
“Don’t lose focus,” Grey said. She nodded to Kier, and they re-formed their pod around the girl, falling back into silence.
The signs of failure should’ve been obvious, because it was Eron who questioned the mission first, to her surprise—Eron, who was usually much more considered.
He caught up to the pair of them when they were safely in the woods. Eron cleared his throat, looking between the two of them. “Captains? A word?”
Grey and Kier exchanged a glance. Kier nodded. “Yes, Fastria?”
“It’s confidential,” Eron said, rubbing the palm of one hand with the thumb of the other. A nervous tic if Grey had ever seen one.
Kier pulled a trickle of power from her, then drew a sound shield around the three of them. “We’re protected,” he said, his voice going fuzzy for the barest moment.
“Right.” Eron took a deep breath. “The prisoner. She’s meant to be the heir to Locke. But isn’t Maryse… dead?”
Grey winced. “She’s meant to be,” she said. She did not like her own name in so many mouths after so long, distorted by the Scaelan accent.
“Severin lived,” Eron said, pressing forward. “He even wrote to Scaelas. Fled to the continent. No one has ever suspected Maryse of surviving, given the proof. So why are we on a mission to the death to protect her?”
“It is believed, due to recent discoveries,” Kier said shortly, “that the letter from Severin was a forgery.”
He sounded like that, Grey thought grimly, because theyknewit was.
“We are to protect the girl and deliver her safely. If Scaelas believes she is the heir to Locke, then we are not to question it,” he went on.
A pause. A beat. Eron ran a hand through his close-cropped hair—another fidget. Perhaps he, like Grey, wore his anxiety in his inability to stay still. “Yes, Captain. Very well.”
“Thank you for your honesty, Eron,” Kier said, the dismissal clear as anything. When Eron fell back, Kier aimed a long, telling look in Grey’s direction.
The truth was, therewasa letter. The first time Scaelas’s forces came to Leota, searching all the children for any trace of survivors, Grey was so ill with the pox she was nearly unrecognizable. Imartahad carried her to meet the soldiers, showing her face for only the barest of moments before they demanded she take the contagious girl away. It was a lucky thing she had been far too sick to tether.
The second time the soldiers came, weeks later, she was struck with such unbelievable terror she could hardly move. If they saw her, they would know. If they tethered to her, they wouldknow.
She poured these fears into Kier, who summoned Lot down to their protected cove by the sea. Lot paced as Grey spoke, telling him of Severin’s death, of her own identity, of the destruction of Locke.
Except buried in all of that, she kept one final lie.
