The Faintest Ink (Watty Winner 2015)

Chapter Ninety-Six

Water trickled on Laon's mouth, just a few drops, but it was enough to make his lips part.

"More," he gasped. His tongue felt like it might crumble into dust, and his lips cracked with the strain of talking, but that trickle wasn't enough. "More," he said again.

His lashes flickered as he struggled to open his eyes, but they felt like they were swollen shut.

"Water," he tried again.

A soft, dry hand touched his cheek, running behind his head and lifting him up. He winced, but forgot all about the pain when a metal cup was placed against his lips. He gulped it down, draining half the cup in seconds, but it was pulled away from him before he could have his fill. He tried to follow after it, but his hand swam and he fell back against the pillow with a groan.

"That's enough for now," said a familiar voice. "You can have more later."

"Brother Corbie?" he said, breathless.

"Hush now. You need to rest."

"No," said Laon, lifting his head once more and reaching out. He managed to grasp something, Corbie's arm, and held on tight. "What happened to the book?"

"Gone. The soldiers took it with them."

"And the others?" There was silence. "Tell me!"

"Most of the books were saved. But five scribes didn't make it. They couldn't get their pages out before the flames took hold of the scriptorium."

Once again he felt the heat of the flames, and the burning touch of the flagstones under his back. Even the air had been searing hot, scorching the inside of his lungs and he sought to breath in the cloud of smoke. He could imagine well enough what it was to feel his pages burn, for his blood on the page to smoke, and the blood in his veins to boil.

Fire was what every scribe in the brotherhood feared most.

He cringed. It should have been him.

"I don't understand," he said at last, his head heavy on the pillow. "Who would do such a thing?" To destroy a name book was sacrilege, to burn one which was still being written was murder. It hurt no one but the scribes. The brothers had done nothing to deserve it, they didn't have the chance. They were kept cloistered far away from the rest of the world. They were already prisoners.

"They took the girl too," said Corbie. "It was her they were after. The book was secondary."

Without thinking, Laon squeezed his book and was relieved to feel the crunch of paper under his hand. He shuddered in agony, but managed not to cry out.

In the silence of the room, he could heat the steadiness of his heart beating, and the laboured breathing of his brother scribe. There was nothing else. No bells for the recitations, no brothers shuffling from their cells to the bath house. Not a sound made it through the thick walls. It was as if they were completely alone in the world.

"But how did they get in?" He wondered out loud. The gates had been locked. He could not imagine their prior would open them for anyone with the princess residing within their walls.

Corbie cleared his throat. "Here," he said, picking up the cup once more and lifting it to Laon's mouth. "Drink."

Laon gulped down the water, but there was something about Corbie's eyes which made him stop. He pushed the cup away, wincing as pain shot across his chest.

"Corbie..."

"A bit more," said Corbie, pressing the cup to his lips once more. Laon batted it away.