Page 79 of The Second Death of Locke
She had been to formal dinners before, honoring commanders and masters and marking high holy days, but she’d always been a guest at one of the far tables with Kier, watching their soldiers like hawksfor any signs of childish misbehavior. They’d never been the guests of honor themselves, and the feeling was, frankly, startling.
They’d also never been in a diplomatic meeting-slash-hostage situation. Grey felt positively posed, her and Kier flanking Sela. Eron, still standing in as Kier’s Hand, was on Kier’s other side. Brit and Ola fidgeted next to Grey.
They waited in a reception room in Scaelas’s summer residence in Grislar, overlooking the sea. Grey stayed closest to the window, drinking in the sight with a desperation that surprised her, seeking any trace of familiarity in that ever-changing ocean.
It was better than searching for familiarity in these rooms. She had been here, in this fortress-like palace, only once before, when she was a very, very little girl. She remembered how she’d spent most of the time being carried around on her father’s shoulders as he laughed with Scaelas, while her mother, Locke, kept telling the pair of them tojust be serious; you’re not boys anymore. She kept catching the memory of her father’s laugh, echoing in the corners of every room. If she was to make it through the night without breaking, it would be best not to think of that at all.
If only, Grey thought, they’d arranged this meeting within the military fort. She already knew there was nothing there to send her spiraling—she and Kier had worked at Grislar for nearly a year. They had spent so many nights on watch on the parapet, wind whipping their hair, listening to the call of the gulls and staring out into the emptiness of the waves.
The carpet was too soft, squishy and unstable under her boots. She kept shifting her weight anxiously, earning her a look from Kier over Sela’s head. The retinue stood at rest, hand clasped over hand.
Grey glanced every so often at the clerk across the room. He sat reading a book, sheets of parchment and pens spread out in front of him. He was to take a transcript of whatever unfolded between the nations—after all, it was still a hostage situation, and a diplomatic one at that, even if it was disguised as a party. Two armored soldiers flanked the door, staring straight ahead at nothing.
Grey let her gaze slip to Sela. “You okay, kid?” she murmured.
“Fine,” Sela said, her voice betraying her even if her posture didn’t.She looked impossibly different now with her dark hair washed and pulled away from her face, rouge on her cheeks and kohl around her eyes. A dress appropriate for her station flowed around her body, slate gray and structured on the shoulders, cut in at the hip in a fashion that was almost like armor. It made her look like a war hero in training, with her shoulders thrust back and her chin held at a severe angle—it reminded Grey of that night in camp, when she had gone to threaten the girl.
She broke rest to squeeze Sela’s hand.
“What if she doesn’t want me back?” Sela said very quietly, so the soldiers on the other side of the big room wouldn’t be able to hear.
Grey broke fully, turning her head to look at her. “Of course she wants you back,” she said.
“But when I went to Lindan… She sent me. She didn’t want me here.”
Grey thought of her own mother. Not her cool hands or the silver of her necklace, not the delicate kisses she pressed to Grey’s temple. She thought of the blades Locke always wore, the poison she kept sewn into her hair ribbons. She thought of all the ways, from such an early age, she’d taught Grey to be on her guard.
The legacy of Locke, her mother had told her, brushing Grey’s hair at night,is blood and betrayal.
“She was trying to keep you safe,” Grey said. “I can guarantee it.”
A knock sounded on the door, two quick raps, and Grey squeezed the girl’s hand once more before falling back into rest. The door opened, allowing for a sequence of guards; they were followed by a short, severe woman with ink-dark hair and a bear-like man with a red beard and russet hair, then eight more soldiers, who fanned out around the room, half of them keeping with the woman, the other half with the man. The woman paused three steps into the room, took an unsteady breath and pushed her shoulders back. She looked like she wanted to break into a run.
Sela broke first, staggering forward, then throwing herself at her mother—the guards moved to stop her, but Cleoc shot them a look so savage that Grey made a mental note to study it later, to figure out how to create the expression on her own face—and shuddered intoher arms. The High Lady of Cleoc Strata pulled her daughter into her chest, her hand pressed firmly on the back of her head, holding her as close as she possibly could.
Grey noted Commander Reggin standing with the bear-like man—Scaelas, she knew; Scaelas, the High Lord, with his red hair.
Her father’s voice:Like when all the leaves go at once. We were boys together, you know—before I knew your mother.
She couldn’t run from the memory. Since she’d opened her heart to memories of Locke, they would not stop. She’d thought, after a whole childhood of keeping them at arm’s length, they were gone for good, only for them to come bursting back in at the first glimpse of someone who had known her.
Scaelas, her own godfather, when she was Gremaryse of Locke; who had known her from the moment she was born to the moment Locke fell.
But he took no notice of her. She supposed this was something to be grateful for—if he looked at her straight on, she did not know how she would react. She could not fight the sense that she was play-acting.
“Is she whole and hale?” Scaelas asked the High Lady. She pulled back enough to look at Sela, to take her face in her hands. “I hope you find her as promised.”
Cleoc said something to Sela that Grey could not hear, but the girl nodded. “She is as promised,” she said, turning to Scaelas but keeping Sela in her arms as if she could not bear to let her go. “We can proceed as discussed.”
“Excellent. I will draw up the agreed terms and meet with you back in the council chamber. I’m sure you want a moment with your daughter’s rescu—”
He paused. He paused, and looked right at Grey, and Grey’s stomach lurched. She met his eyes timidly, waiting, her heart in her throat.
“I’m sorry,” he said. He recovered himself, tearing his gaze from her. “Please excuse my mind—always on the edge of something, you see.” More directly to Cleoc, he said, “I will have my commander escort you to the appropriate room when you are done here, and we can finish this happy day with feasting and merriment.”
“Thank you. I hope we can find an agreement shortly,” Cleoc said. If she’d noticed the High Lord’s oddness, she did not comment.
But Kier had noticed. As soon as Scaelas and his guards were out of the room, leaving the two original soldiers and the commander with Cleoc and her guards, he glanced at Grey with a brow raised.
