The Faintest Ink (Watty Winner 2015)

Chapter Thirty-Eight

It had taken a great deal of effort on Corbie's part to ensure that Scribe Laon stayed out of the scriptorum. He'd spent the day coughing and shouting, acting as if shivers of pain coursed through his body whenever one of the novices dared to touch him, until poor Laon was forced to stay by Corbie's bedside out of sheer guilt.

The long hours had eventually taken their toll and Laon had slipped into an uncomfortable doze, which, with a bit of manoeuvring from Corbie, had seen him curl up on Corbie's bed in a slumber unwakeable by any mortal means.

But the spirits had been very insistent. Laon could not be distracted forever from his task by a sick old man. There were things which needed to be done to ensure that his visits to the scriptorium were put to an end.

He could see why the man liked it though. The huge windows either side of the room gave it the air of an otherworldly palace at night, the starlight tinting everything with a silvery glow. He shivered as a breeze wafted through, ruffling the pages on the drying racks. "Hush, you," he whispered to them. "Calm yourselves." Slowly they settled back down into place.

Feeling exuberantly elated, he hopped on the desk of the head scribe and settled himself down. He'd barely felt his joints creak. The spirits had been working their magic today. He almost felt young again.

He sat cross-legged, and tilted his head, listening to the spirits chatter in his head. They had plans for him that night.

Leaning over the desk, he pulled a sheet of smooth paper and quills towards him. It had been a long time since he had done this kind of thing. He had not taken on a new commission in almost half-a-decade, having turned his skills to teaching some of the younger scribes as they joined the brotherhood, but even that poor use of his time had fallen away.

Prior Chelles had said it was time for him to rest, and that he was to spend his years dedicated to the recitations, but Corbie had never been one for chanting. He'd avoided it as best he would when he was still a valuable member of the brotherhood, he was hardly going to take it up as a hobby during his retirement.

Corbie reached into his robe and removed the lancet he'd secreted there earlier that day. He tested the edge with his thumb. Nice and sharp. Even in the dim moonlight he could see the tracing of scars covering his forearm, like a spiderweb after it had been ravaged by the rain.

As he raised the tool, his arm jerked away as if fleeing the onslaught. Corbie frowned. He had not feared the blade since he was an apprentice. As one, the spirits shook their heads. There would be no need for a blood sacrifice on this night. The arm, controlled by a will which wasn't his, crept across the desk and reached under to open a draw, returning with a small black cake in hand.

There was little need for such ordinary ink within the walls of the brotherhood, so the flat cake was etched with cracks, releasing carbon black dust onto his fingers. He laid it down on the desk and wiped his hand over his robes.

A little spit and the workings of his little finger was all that was required to bring the ink back to life. Corbie almost laughed at the ease of the thing. He fancied he might have enjoyed a life dedicated to the written word if it had always been as easy as this.

He set everything up in front of him, and poising with the quill just about the paper, waited for the spirits to begin dictating.

It did not take them long, and he signed the missive with a great flourish. The spirits murmured their approval as they used his eyes to check over the work.

There was just one final touch to be added. He folded the paper, and then from his robe brought out the wax seal of the Chancellor. He held it above his candle flame for a few seconds before applying it to the letter. There, it was almost perfect. Corbie frowned. A little too perfect.