The Faintest Ink (Watty Winner 2015)

Chapter Sixty-One

Larst's childhood hadn't been flush with luxuries like golden blankets, diamond candles, or jewel-encrusted chamberpots. But even he knew that a three hundred year old handpainted map probably shouldn't be used as a pillow. The southern coastline of Serrador swam before his eyes as he drifted back into consciousness.

In fact, the whole sleeping thing was one he really should give up on. Every moment spent on the other side just made him feel weaker. Being awake wasn't much fun either, but anything was better than the dark thoughts which invaded his dreams. Or at least one thought. One thought was more than enough. He blinked away the images of dead flesh and hard steel which had haunted his sleep. He definitely wouldn't be doing that again.

A stifled gasp told him he wasn't alone.

Keeping his cheek down on the table, he reached under it with one hand and felt around. There, jammed into the underside, the blade rammed between the frame and top, was his dagger. He ran his fingers down over the blade, feeling his way over the crossguard until he reached the handle.

He breathed out a sleep filled sigh and relaxed his shoulders, all the while listening hard. There, a floorboard creaked on the other side of the library, close to one of the windows. He waited. Nothing. So one person. He could handle that.

He tried not to think of the last time he faced a single man with only a dagger in his hand. Especially not on the feeling of his blade sinking into cold flesh, and the utter failure of blood to spurt out of the wound like the gods intended.

Dead men shouldn't walk.

With a yank, he pulled the dagger free and in one fluid move twisted round and rose to his feet, the dagger held high, ready to throw.

"Sir," gasped a frilly-capped woman, crashing into the side-table and knocking over the candle.

Larst stared at her in confusion, until reality caught up with him and he sprinted around the table towards her. She let out a scream, flinging herself back against the wall, but he ignored her, instead launching himself at the candle and righting it on the table.

"Don't want a fire now, do we?" he said, smiling weakly.

She nodded, the frills on her bonnet quivering. Her eyes darted down to the dagger, still in his hand, and back to his face.

"Ah," he said. "Sorry about that. Seem to be a bit..." He cleared his throat. "Nevermind." He tucked the dagger into his belt and stepped back. "Please, just carry on with whatever you were doing."

"I was just changing the candles, Sir. You do go through them fast."

"Right." He nodded and went back to his chair, sinking into it with a groan, which only seemed to alarm the woman even more. She rattled each candlestick in turn as she swapped the waxen stumps over for long tapers. There was still at least a half-hours light left in every one. Larst tried not to think of the gross expense of it all. Although, he doubted the royal household had to pay candle tax.

And at least the servants got to work by clean light. He'd knew well enough the agonies working in the dark. Back at the farm, they only had reed light to see by, making the hot stink of frightened animals cramming every inch even more suffocating.

Sometimes one of the workers would catch a fairy, and they'd stuff in a jar to hang from the rafters. That was even worse. They could see the heaving mass of creatures passing through then, and watch as their eyes turned glassy under the work of their knives.

Those days when the pigs were taken from their pens and herded over to the slaughterhouse, the air was thick with the copper scent of blood. But at least they died like souled animals, not like the unholy creature that stalked his dreams.