The Faintest Ink (Watty Winner 2015)

Chapter Forty

From the windows of the throne room, Hawth had an unsurpassable view of the Citadel's courtyard. While once it must have been teeming with horses steaming in after long rides across the country, and ladies stepping into carriages, now it was deserted. Save for Straw, who was building a bonfire.

Since Larst gave the order, the man hadn't let himself still for a moment. He'd spent the last few hours lumbering under the weight of the name books, back and forth. Hundreds of them now. He'd found a barrow from somewhere, and was tipping them out onto the cobblestones. He did it utterly without ceremony, so that the pages flapped about in the wind, the pages ripping under the combined pressure of their companions.

As if feeling her gaze on him, Straw looked up, shading his eyes from the last rays of the sun as they ducked behind of the walls of the courtyard. Her first instinct was to shrink back, but she held her ground. They stood like that, watching one another, for what felt like hours, but two servants skittered into the courtyard, tripping over their own feet as they carried far too many books than was sensible, and Straw's eyes snapped away.

With brusk tones, he ordered them to throw the books into the pile. For a man who had grown up living the life of a near hermit in the woods, he was surprisingly good at giving orders. No doubt growing into a body with shoulders to rival an ox meant that people tended to do what you said.

Even those creepy red-robed librarians hadn't been a problem for him. Hawth had been relying on them fighting back as their work was torn down from the shelves. But only one of them had dared question what was happening, and even he ran scared when Straw had turned on him. A few well aimed books, thrown across the library at the shivering mass of onlookers had been enough to send them scurrying away.

From somewhere about his person, he brought out a small tinderbox, and set to work with it. In his practised hand a small spark flew up and he quickly applied it to his treasure pile. For one hope filled moment, Hawth thought it wouldn't catch in the damp air, but Straw moved around a few papers and soon the fire took hold, spreading at an alarming rate through the books until they were all smouldering.

She leaned her forehead against the window frame. She should have known. If there was one thing Straw knew about, it was fire. The man could conjure a flame under water.

As the flames licked the ink from the pages, Hawth closed her eyes trying not to remember the night the soldiers came.

Heather had been laughing. She recalled that with absolute clarity.

Her sister's face had lit up by some silly comment their brother had made. Ash had always been a difficult child, and things hadn't been getting any easier as he grew into a man. Their father needed extra help in the workshop, handing the huge press, but Ash hated being cooped up in the small room and couldn't be trusted to be left there unsupervised.

In the end, it had been Hawth who'd been trained to use the huge press, and to set type. She worked from morning to night, her eyes growing cloudy from staring at proofs until the light gave out. And Heather, sweet Heather, had taken it upon herself to care for Ash. She had endless patience, sitting with him for hours to teach him the simplest game, so that he could amuse himself while she looked after the house.

That evening, he'd managed to beat her in a game of Bones. Heather had stared at the pieces, amazed that she had been outwitted and wondering if she'd missed something. And Ash had just smiled, slyly, before revealing the hidden piece in his hand. He'd cheated of course, but so well Heather was delighted to concede him the victory.

"Show me!" she'd demanded, clapping her hands together, and Ash had repeated the move, flicking his wrist so that the bone slipped down his sleeve. Heather stared in wonder before her face split and she laughed with such joy that even their father, tired from a long day with the new manuscript, had joined in.