Page 36 of The Second Death of Locke
“To be shared?”
Grey hesitated. “Not yet.”
She followed his tracks through the darkness back to camp. He roused Ola and Brit while she stretched out on her bedroll. The rough-spun shirt she wore was uncomfortable, but she’d deal: they each only had space for one other change of clothes in their packs, so she wouldn’t switch until they had the time and means to properly wash.
Sela and Eron slept soundly, Eron snoring just slightly. After a moment of consideration, Grey abandoned her own bedroll and slipped into Ola’s recently vacated pile of blankets instead, putting herself closer to Sela in case the girl tried to escape in the middle of the night. Years of training had made Grey a light sleeper. Plus, Ola’s blankets were already warm.
Kier mirrored her, slipping into Brit’s bedroll and turning on his side to look at Grey over Sela’s head.
She looked back.
The corner of his mouth quirked up and she tried not to read too much into it, first because it was half scar tissue, after all; and second because they’d gone to sleep like this every night for years, face-to-face and sometimes closer, though never with someone between them like Sela was now. Maybe it was because they were out of camp and only three weeks of gruel and hiking stood between them and the rest of their lives, but she ached for him to reach out and push the hair out of her face like he sometimes did when they were on the edge of sleep, as if he couldn’t bear to drift off without seeing her face.
Somehow, in the indeterminate haze of Eron’s snoring and Sela’s measured breathing and the liquid hazel of Kier’s gaze, Grey fell asleep.
The situation in Idistra has become beyond unstable. It’s their fault for destroying the very root of their power—I cannot think of a single other nation that would do something so unbelievably foolish. I will be surprised if any magic survives this war as the nation states continue to cannibalize. It’s been years, and there’s been no sign of that boy—chances are he’s either far from here, or dead.
Nowhere in this damned island feels safe. Our own lord is still impulsive with his anger, and still bitter with grief.
Official report from Piotr Ralkonikov, Ruskayan ambassador to Scaela, 3 yearsPD
ten
FOR THREE DAYS, THEYfollowed Kier and Ola’s bickering negotiations through the forest. Grey found herself mildly amazed. She herself had the directional awareness of a blindfolded toddler dropped mapless into the middle of Nestria at all times, without exception. She didn’t know how either managed (though she couldn’t fully discount some odd magical transference from the number of cartographers Kier had reportedly fucked). After the first day of monotonous walking and night of watch shifts, no one seemed keen on talking, so they passed the time in relative silence, with the occasional remark from Ola or Eron about a nice bird or plant.
If Sela spoke at all, Grey did not hear it.
“Be on guard,” was all Kier said to the group.
When they stopped to eat the first of their mid-morning rations, he showed Grey their location on the map. The distance between them and the encampment was miserably short, the distance between their location and Grislar frustratingly far, and they still had the mountains to worry about.
“We’ll have to pick up the pace,” he murmured to her.
Out of the woods, they kept carefully alert for signs of other travelers. They were on an infrequently used supply road, so it was hoursbefore they saw anyone else; even then, only a handful of travelers shared the road with them, and all traveled in the opposite direction. Few were going to the mountains at this time of year, when the shepherds were leading their flocks down from the hills, which made them more conspicuous than Kier liked, and on the morning of the fourth day, he directed them back to the wood, parallel to the road, until the trees ran out.
Grey’s back ached so much that Kier kept eying her, clearly feeling her discomfort through the tether. When their afternoon rest came, he insisted on shouldering her pack. On the next bladder relief break, Grey was grimly unsurprised to find the onset of her monthly and instantly annoyed she’d given Kier her pack.
“Need something?” Eron asked, catching her grimace. He unshouldered his own pack and dug around in it for his pouch of supplies. “Take what you need. Mine is finished.”
Grey thanked him with all the gratitude she could manage when caught with her trousers down.
When they rejoined the group, she allowed Kier to re-tether, cursing the sluggishness of her power and her craggy irritability, which possibly had more to do with the fact that she’d spent the better part of the week sleeping on the dirt and hadn’t changed her clothes in as many days. Kier took one look at her face and sighed.
“I think,” he said, “we need a supply run. A night in an inn, if we can. We’ll be starting on the hills tomorrow—I want everyone rested.”
No one actively cheered, but the slackened shoulders and tired smiles were just as clear as any sign of relief. After Kier’s declaration, he and Ola bent over the map, tracing along the path once more until he said, “That’ll do. There should be somewhere for travelers on the road to Pista.”
Grey had never heard of Pista. It wasn’t a surprise—they were in the middle of the country, in the nowhere of farmers’ fields, the exhausted recovery zone for those who couldn’t be bothered with the fighting or who’d left the army years before but still grew the food and paid the taxes to support them.
They found an inn by late afternoon. It was alone, not even in a village, which was probably why Kier had chosen it.
“Will we be noticed here?” Grey asked.
He sighed. “Hopefully not. It seems to only be travelers.” He didn’t tell her that they were stopping because she was tired, grumpy, and in pain and he wanted her to rest—he didn’t have to.
She sighed, knocking her shoulder against his arm.
The windows of the tavern glowed with warmth, and the smell of roasting meat and grain was enough to send Grey’s stomach grumbling the instant it hit her nose. The other four dragged two tables together while Grey and Kier went to the counter to inquire about rooms. There were a few others in the tavern, and Grey regarded them carefully as they waited: a pair of sunburned farmers with pints of ale in the corner and a woman and a child eating dinner near the door. Grey kept her eyes open, but she did not feel as if they were threatening.
