Page 87 of The Second Death of Locke
In the atrium, they were shackled to the wall a few feet apart from one another. The guards were conversing now, in quiet tones—their accents sounded Luthrite, but she couldn’t be certain. She shifted her weight from leg to leg, trying to keep herself from going numb. The stone against her back was wet with rivulets of water, chilling her further.
She leaned her head back anyway—Kier was chained next to her, just out of reach. The side of his head she hadn’t been able to see was crusted with blood. He’d been hit by something—the hilt of a sword, she thought—and it looked like it hurt terribly.
If she could just tether to him, push some power into him, she could negate the worst effects—maybe put her hands on him, try to force a tether with contact, if that would keep him stable. But with the breakbloom on her tongue, she was absolutely useless.
A soldier walked into the room, dressed in armor. Not just anyone, Grey realized, taking in the embroidered sash he wore across his chest, over his breastplate and surcoat: a master at least, possibly a commander. She couldn’t remember how many Luthar had, nor why they would take them prisoner.
No. Not Luthar. Grey squinted. Though the commander’s crest was Eprainish, the guards that accompanied him wore a mix of Eprainish and Luthrite crests on their surcoats.
Eprain and Luthar were working together. She could not even begin to grasp the implications of that: if both turned on Scaela, using their combined forces…
She was not sure if an alliance with Cleoc Strata was enough to save them from that.
The commander paused, taking them in. Grey felt her muscles tense without being told, a shakiness in her thighs, a catch in her breath. Kier glanced over, and she felt the useless pull of him, trying to tether to her power, unable to.
“And this,” the man said, his eyes scanning over them, “is the retinue that led the false Maryse of Locke across the country.”
They said nothing—they could say nothing, gagged as they were. But Grey took in Eron and Ola and Brit and Kier; perhaps they were fools for letting their guard down, for getting captured, but they were still broken and fierce andhers. She would die for every single one of them.
“Who is in charge of this operation?” the commander asked.
“The tall one, with the dark hair,” one of the soldiers said. Grey’s head snapped in his direction, immediately sending her headache flaring, but she recognized the man who’d spoken. Though he now wore Luthrite garb, she was almost certain he’d been at the ball the night before. Judging by the way the blood drained from Eron’s face, he must’ve recognized him, too. She remembered how drunk Eron was when she and Kier had left the night before—if the other man was a spy, searching for information, she had no idea what Eron had given up.
She could only trust that, even incoherent, he knew to keep his knowledge close to his chest.
Beside her, Kier stood straight and tall—a remarkable thing, to look so leaderly when he was dressed only in trousers, dried blood brown on his skin—and raised his chin at a defiant angle. The commander nodded to one of his soldiers, who stepped forward with a blade. Grey made a noise despite herself, struggling to move toward him—but they only cut his gag. It came away wet, and Kier spat a knot of thick blood out when they removed it. He had to have some other injury, something else that Grey couldn’t see.
“And you are?” the commander asked.
But Kier only stared defiantly, insouciant to the last. Grey loved him with a fierce, unholy desperation—she wished, more than anything, that he could pull from her and decimate every person in this room.
After too long of Kier’s silence, the soldier from the party spoke up. “That’s Captain Kier Seward, sir.”
“Seward.” The commander crossed his arms over his chest and stepped forward carefully. “What are you?”
No answer from Kier, and the soldier didn’t try to respond either. The commander’s mouth twitched into a smirk. “Fine,” he said. “We’ll do things your way.”
The guard next to Kier moved before Grey could react, before she could think, striking him square in the shoulder. Grey watched his quick, pained breath; she gasped herself as his collarbone cracked. She made a noise that sounded like an animal caught in a trap—the commander’s eyes snapped to her immediately.
“You were the two found together,” he said, and Grey tried to focus as much hate as she could in her gaze. If only her gods had given her the ability todosomething with her power, she would smite this man where he stood.
“Who is she?”
It wasn’t like Grey could answer with the gag in her mouth anyway. Kier, too, said nothing.
The commander sighed. “Bring in the prisoner,” he said over one shoulder. A few of the guards scurried away to follow his order. For a heartbeat, Grey panicked—had they found Sela, too? She thought it would be impossible to get past her guard, but…
He paced the stretch of stones in front of them. “I’ll make this quick. The girl you returned to Grislar was not Maryse of Locke, but you know that. WhatIknow is that you managed to eviscerate an entire company of trained mages and wells without a single blade, which is, frankly, impossible. Unless one ofyouis a Locke.” He scanned their faces, lingering on each one. “So who is it?”
Grey tried to breathe and tasted only poison. It was a mistake—it had all been a mistake. They never should’ve taken this assignment.She and Kier shouldn’t have stayed the night. They should have left the second they handed Sela over, taken their papers andrun.
The guards returned with another person between them, their head and face covered with a dark hood. They wore the plain clothes and padded shirt that went under armor, caked in mud and dried blood.
“So nice of you to join us,” the commander said placidly, as if the prisoner had come willingly and not been dragged out of a cell.
There was no response. One of the guards discarded the hood, revealing her face. Hand Master Mare Concord stood looking dazed, gagged like the rest of them. Grey heard Ola draw a quick breath.
Mecketer was attacked shortly after your departure. That was what Reggin had told them—and none of them had thought to ask for a casualty list, had thought to check if Concord or Attis, who knew their mission and route and the details of their arrival, were safe.
