Page 98 of The Second Death of Locke
“We have more to lose if she deigns to murder us in your absence,” he said, devoid of humor. He turned his attention back to Cleoc, quirking a brow. After a pause, a weighted moment, Cleoc inclined her head and waved a hand. Her guard shifted, looking uneasy, but they filed out with the Scaelans and Grey’s own retinue. When Sela did not move, Torrin looked at Cleoc. “Your daughter?”
“I am—”
“Go, love,” Cleoc said, squeezing her hand. Frowning, lodging a lingering glance at Grey, Sela went out after Ola.
Grey sat back down. The three of them were silent for a long moment, all eying one another, until Scaelas spoke.
“You and your mage are very powerful.”
Grey looked at him coolly. “I am Locke,” she said. “You did not have to dismiss our guards to tell me this.”
“That was what I thought, until today.” Scaelas spoke slowly. “But another idea has occurred to me: that you are bound. I hope I am wrong, because surely, as Locke, you know the risks.”
Grey went very still. If Torrin was going to punish her for binding, scold her like a child, she was prepared to remind him that it would be overstepping on his part. She was no longer a Scaelan soldier, no longer within his control. There were no restrictions on binding on Locke itself.
“I don’t see why it matters.”
Torrin winced. “So you do not deny it?”
“No,” she said, without hesitation. “I am bound to Captain Seward.” It was a relief to speak the words so openly, to claim them. To claimKier.
“Maryse,” Torrin said, his eyes slipping shut. “You didn’t.”
“Can she not bind? SheisLocke,” Cleoc said, looking between them.
“Don’t speak to me as if I’m your child,” Grey said, her tone colder than she intended, but still not cold enough to encompass heremotions.
Torrin rubbed the bridge of his nose. “We have a conundrum,” he said, meeting Cleoc’s gaze in a way that Grey did not like. “Whoever controls Locke controls power. Of course, when we thought Seward was just a mage, it did not matter if he was being sacrificed to resurrect the Isle. If they had him try to call it back from the sea, it would be unsuccessful.”
Grey winced. Itdidmatter, but not for the reasons Torrin meant. “Itwillbe unsuccessful,” she said. “Kier is not a Locke. He doesn’t have the blood.”
“Ah, but that is where you are wrong,” Torrin said. Grey looked with alarm at Cleoc, but she looked just as confused as Grey herself felt, her lips pressed into a thin, grim line. “When you bind to a mage, as a Locke, they take your power as their own. He is the blood of your blood now; you and he are one in a complete exchange of power. That is the way of the Isle, Maryse. Binding is a sacred act, a union even stronger than marriage.”
True names are for Hands and husbands.
Grey’s heart thundered too loud in her ears. What else did she not know about her own nation’s rites? “So Kier…”
Torrin nodded. “Kier is now a Locke himself, and has just as much claim to the Isle as you do. He doesn’t need you. If he discovered the means to bring back the Isle, call it forth, Locke would rise to his command—granting Eprain and Luthar the Isle restored, and all power therein.”
Over the years, I have managed to learn something about our opponents. Nestria fight because they have to, but they would rather return to their ballrooms and parties. Cleoc Strata is just as vicious as its lady is rumored to be. Luthar is cunning, twisting our strategies into dust. And Eprain would rather poison you before battle than meet you on the field. Yet we are caught in the middle of them, forced to fight them all.
Journal of Hand Master Mare Concord, 7 yearsPD
twenty-three
SCAELAS AND CLEOC, WORKINGtogether after realizing the ruinous possibilities of the situation they found themselves in, decided the best course of action was to blast the entire business wide open. Grey helped as much as she could as they wrote to the sovereigns of the other three nations, urging them to come together to discuss the unfolding situation surrounding Locke. The letters to Luthar and Eprain were, as Grey surmised, diplomatically threatening.
After the missives were sent, Scaelas himself walked Grey to a room in the imperial wing of his fortress. Night had already fallen. She felt the ache of the day on her, the lack of sleep from the night before catching up. Ola, Brit and Eron were already sleeping in rooms near hers; Scaelas left his own guard to watch them overnight.
In the hall, Grey hesitated. She didn’t know when she would next have the High Lord alone—she figured it was a rare occurrence.
“Why did you send that letter?” Torrin asked. “Claiming Severin survived.”
There was no reason to keep it from him, not anymore. “I was afraid,” she said. “I was only a girl. The soldiers you sent to look were not kind or gentle. I didn’t want you to find me.”
“Ah,” Torrin said, so quiet she barely heard.
“What do you know about the Isle’s death?” Grey asked, since he had opened up the door to questions.
