Page 176 of The Thief and the Traitor Bride

“Kier,” Caspian said. “This will be the hardest one.”

“I’m ready,” Kier said.

Caspian went again for Locke. This time, when he reached inside of her, he reached for her heart. Nore winced as she made a noise, a tight sob as the pain tore from her—and then it was over.

Caspian took the knotted mass of power and handed it to the commander. Now, Locke’s head was tipped back, eyes open, tears pouring over her cheeks as she stared up at nothing.

“Are you ok—” Ola started.

“Finish it, please,” Locke stammered. “I can—I cannot hold it much longer.”

“Terlo,” Caspian said.

Behind her, near the altar, Terlo resumed their chanting. Caspian went back to the altar for a moment, then returned with the blades. He passed it to Brit, for Ola. “Like we practiced,” he said.

Ola nodded. She, too, looked a little sick. She pushed the wriggling mass of power down, all those threads, and said, “I am the child of Locke, and my blood and bones live on forever in Eprain. By the stone and sea, I call for the power of my home.” Nore could not watch, but she had to: she shivered as Ola placed her hand, palm down, over the power, then Brit leaned forward. They held Ola’s eye for the barest moment—then drove the blade through her hand and the mass of gold, all the way to the dirt below.

It was Locke who screamed, not Ola.

Brit leaned back, swallowing hard. It was their turn next, and their hand was already slick with Ola’s blood when they spoke for Luthar, then drove the blade through the back of their hand, pinning the power to the ground.

Nore felt sick all the way until it was her turn. She took the blade from Caspian, her stomach turning. “Easy, Finch,” he said. “It will be over soon.”

She couldn’t be certain of that. Nore took the blade, felt the blood in her mouth. She’d been stabbed before, but she’d never done it herself.

But the commander was looking at her, possibly daring her to disobey, to put Locke at risk. Nore wrapped her fingers around the hilt. She looked at Kier, nodded once, then focused back on Caspian. She took that wriggling mass of power and pushed it down, finding the threads resisting the soil.

“I am the child of Locke, and my blood and bones live on forever in Cleoc Strata,” Nore said, forcing her voice to remain steady. “I call for the power of my home.”

She slammed the blade down. It hurt, and it hurt, and there was a version of this second that wasn’t imprinted with pain and blood. She gasped against it as the pain grew and flickered—and then there was Caspian’s hand on her cheek.

She was in that room again, his blade sinking between her ribs, his face over her—

No, she was not. She was here, on Locke, a woman making her own sacrifices. She was not bleeding for Celestine. She was in agony, but it was for her own beliefs, of her own making.

The pain echoed in her hand, radiating up her arm. She felt Locke’s pain, the agony of it rippling. She felt as the others completed their roles, as Leonie spoke for Scaela and Eron for Nestria. Next to her, the commander did not even flinch as he drove a blade through his hand, claiming the Isle itself.

“Your power is shared. Blood is spilled in your name,” Caspian said, turning to Locke.

Raggedly, she said, “Let the sea and sky know. Let the rocks and soil drink. Let the trees and flowers grow in this blood, and in this power. Blood of my blood and bone of my bones, I hear you. I see you. I am you.” Nore saw the ragged shape of her as she struggled to breathe. “Let this place know me, and let the power call you home.”

Nore was certain she was looking at Locke, but for a flickering moment—she wasn’t. She was looking at someone else, someone she had not seen before.

She felt the heat under her palm, the blood and the power, as the Isle opened to it. As the power stopped resisting the soil—as the ground itself swallowed the power. Nore glanced up, watching the others, as similar relief sagged their shoulders. Terlo was still chanting, a string of syllables that Nore’s pain-addled mind had long since stopped trying to make sense of… But then she realized she was no longer in pain. Nore lifted her hand and realized that the blade, hilt and all, had passed through it. She was free, with only a slim, glimmering scar left behind. The soil was saturated with her blood, the threads of power pulsing with it, but her own hand was healed.

She pressed it to her heart like she could protect it that way.

Gradually, she watched as the threads sank into the ground, the thousands of threads now stringing out in all directions from the Isle itself. The blades remained, driven to the hilts into the ground in a circle, but the power shimmered from the very core of the Isle.

“One last step,” Caspian said, possibly to them, possibly to Locke. Nore saw the sweat on Locke’s brow, pasting the hair to her skin. Her shirt was damp with it, her cheeks flushed—but at least she was flesh and blood. Nore could no longer see her bones or organs, which was an improvement.

Caspian went back to Kier. He took some of the power back from the commander, the thick bond of magic between them, and carried it back to Locke. She sat with her hands on her knees, palms up. When Caspian pressed it into her chest, the corona blaring into her heart, she squeezed her eyes shut. Locke pitched forward—and Caspian’s hands were there on her shoulders, holding her, just as he snapped, “Do not move.”

Kier was already halfway up. He sat back down, slowly, his movement weighted with concern.

“Finish it, Terlo,” Caspian murmured, still holding Locke’s shoulders. Nore watched the way her head slid forward, her eyes shut. She couldn’t be certain Locke was conscious anymore.

Terlo said three more lines in that odd, barely familiar voice, and then there was silence. The threads of gold shimmered, then faded into nothing. For a long time, the only sound was Locke’s labored breathing.