Page 161 of The Thief and the Traitor Bride

Behind Nore, Cas sighed. “Fucking seas, Finch, you have the worst plans.”

It didn’t take long, unsurprisingly, for the guards to release Isla’s ship from the shield’s grasp, giving them safe passage to the Isle (should they desire it) and haul Nore and Caspian off into the second boat. From there, it was a short voyage, which Nore mostly spent catching her breath and drinking in the sight of Caspian sitting across from her in case she was killed the second they reached the harbor, which would be unfortunate indeed. Unlike her, he was unbound; he was not the High Lady’s prisoner, even if he refused to leave Nore’s side.

But he was pulled away eventually. There was no chance to say goodbye to Cas. One minute he was behind her, and then she was loaded into a carriage and he was not, and there was not a word either of them could say.

Nore comforted herself with the conviction that he would somehow find the Viper—and even if the commander cared nothing for her, he liked her husband well enough.

So Nore sat in the carriage, alone, as she was taken to the fortress. From there, she was escorted through the halls, flanked by guards, to a room where she could wash and change out of her travel clothes and into a rough-spun shirt and heavy woolen skirt. This was a kindness on Locke’s part, which annoyed her even as she was grateful for it.

An hour after their arrival, she was again bound and escorted into the throne room. She had not been into this room before—she had barely seen anything of the fortress the last time they were here.

The throne room was cold, with a pale marble stone floor shot through with obsidian-black veins. Columns of the same stone stretched down the room, all the way to the steps leading to the dais, where Locke waited for Nore on her throne. The throne itself was heavy, scarred wood; clearly ancient, perhaps as old as the Isle itself. Perched on it, Locke, too, looked old as the Isle. She wore a fitted jacket, almost militaristic in style, with a tight corseted vest over it. Metal spaulders tipped her shoulders, and her wrists were clamped in leather vambraces. Nore would eat her own fist if she wasn’t always wearing some kind of armor.

And, as always, she was armed. As Nore was led up the aisle, Nore wondered if the sword strapped to Locke’s hip would have the honor of separating Nore’s head from her shoulders in the next few minutes.

At least her suspicions had been correct, in one sense. Caspian was here, standing quietly next to the Viper. They waited three-quarters of the way down the aisle, between two columns to Locke’s left. And Ola, too, plus another few faces she recognized scattered among Locke’s guard.

Locke uncrossed her legs and stood as Nore was brought to the dais. When Nore reached her, Locke towered over Nore—not because she was particularly tall, but because she, herself, was the fortress, the Isle, the sea around it, and all contained within. Nore knelt at her feet, head lowered in supplication as Locke said, “I hear I shouldn’t kill you, Nore Gordon. Why is that?”

“Because I can help you,” Nore said.

Locke laughed bitterly. She drew her sword—Nore did not flinch, calling on all that careful training—and rested the tip of her sword at Nore’s chin, lifting it delicately. Nore’s gaze followed the movement, raising her head to look up at Locke, to see her.

“You have one chance to plead your case,” Locke said. Her tone left no room for negotiation. “I imagine my reputation precedes me.”

“That it does,” Nore said, glancing at the assembled. One of the guards to Locke’s left stood out to her—Loren, the one who had handed her the note at the party. The one who was spying for Nestria. “I would rather not speak it in front of everyone,” Nore said carefully.

“You ask me to dismiss my guard?”

“Not the commander. Not your most trusted.” Nore licked her lips, tasting blood. She must’ve bitten her tongue or lip at some point, or perhaps it was a phantom taste of the blood yet to spill. “But anyone you would not otherwise trust with your secrets.”

The High Lady looked at Nore for a measured moment, her sword not even shaking. It took a lot of muscle, probably, to hold it so still like that, and it was probably heavy—but Nore knew so little of these things.

Locke glanced away—at someone, Nore decided—then gave a barely perceptible nod. “All but Commander Seward, Et-Kiltar, Fastria, and Wyvern are dismissed.”

“But Your Highness—”

“Do you question me?” Locke asked in that imperious tone, laden with threat.

A sigh came from somewhere behind Nore, then the sound of shuffling. The sword did not leave Nore’s throat. For her part, she tried to remain still as ever, still as stone. She remembered Locke on the first day they’d met, how Nore first thought her a statue.

In her periphery, she saw the guards depart. There was the sound of some sort of scuffle behind Nore. She watched Locke’s face for any sign of fear, but the High Lady revealed nothing. The only thing Nore noticed was the moment Locke’s patience snapped: there was the smallest twitch of her nose, and then she said, “Yes, he can stay. The rest of you, out.”

More shuffling. The heavy door at the end of the hall opening, then slamming shut. Then silence—a dark, heavy kind.

“A sound shield, please,” Locke said, softer.

Nore felt her ears pop ever so slightly, and there was the lightest pressure on her lungs before everything felt normal again.

Locke shifted her gaze back to Nore. “One chance,” she said.

Nore took a deep breath. “And you won’t kill me until I’m done?”

The barest flicker of tightness across Locke’s lips. “Do people often feel like killing you midconversation, Mrs. Khari?”

Nore did not see the point in answering. Cas would’ve, she suspected. But Locke was almost smiling—and that felt like a win.

She shifted, ever so slightly, and the smile disappeared. “I’ll try my best,” Locke said flatly.