This Poisoned Tide: The Last Water Witch Book One

CHAPTER 37

The bone-shivering chill of the undercroft below the barracks did not feel as particularly harsh as it usually did. Even the cloying dampness that clung to every wall did little to bother Juda's nose and throat as he made his way through the murky passageways, his thick woollen cloak pulled up around his head.

He was vaguely aware of the pain that cut across his chest from where his opponent's blade had slashed through the leather of his vest and into his skin, but the wound was surface only and the sting easy to ignore. The small jar of healing salve given to him by Commander Grim had gone unopened, left discarded by the basin, where Juda had spent twice as much time scrubbing the bloody smears from the bowl and the floor, as he had scrubbing it from his body.

For all the injuries sustained—and there were few, such had been his fortune—the only one that served as a constant reminder of the battle in the bloody square was the bruising that had swollen and split the skin over the knuckles of his right hand. It throbbed constantly and he wondered if he might have fractured something. It was certainly a possibility and if so, then he might find he needed more than a healing salve to fix it. After all, soon he would leave this place and take up his new position by the King's side, and his body needed to be intact and healed if he were to fulfil his duty.

Following the trail of muted lanterns that lined the route from the stairway leading up to the novice quarters to the exit doorway out onto the citadel streets, Juda's eyes soon adjusted to the gloom. The light was pitiful, diffused by shadow and by the black rock itself, which made Juda feel he were walking through the belly of some gigantic sea monster, the walls slick with moisture.

A memory flickered then, unbidden, unwanted, of damp walls glistening with dragon's gold. Of how the azure light rippled reflections of the water off the cavern roof, as the steady drip, drip, drip oozed into his ears like honey, thick and warm. Of how water droplets lingered upon smooth skin.

Raising his fist to his mouth, he slicked his tongue across his grazed knuckles and tasted the sharp tang of his own blood and then the memory was gone as if it had never existed, as if it belonged to someone else. Good, let it. He did not want it.

But what did he want? Strange that the idea of wanting should seem like some far-off point on the horizon now, when he had done nothing but want his entire life. Revenge. Pain. Suffering. Death. He had wanted to inflict all of that and more, as if a fire burned constantly under his skin and the only way to douse the flames was to get what he wanted. And yet now, it was as if he were adrift on the cold, black sea, with no sight of land, nothing but him and a stretch of water so vast he could not see the end of it.

Somewhere inside, Juda knew he should feel something, but the fact remained that he did not and what's more, he found he did not care that he didn't. It was easier not to feel. How many moons had he burned? For how long had he been tortured by the flames? Far better to be adrift. Besides, he could tread the waters alone. He always had done. Now need not be any different.

Juda's tread was soft as he moved through the dimly lit maze of the undercroft, but the silence in his head was softer still and it should have disturbed him—for he'd never lived in silence—and yet he welcomed it. Better not to think. Better not to listen. Better not to feel. It was all so much better.

Preoccupied with that nothingness, Juda almost passed through the passageway unheeded, and indeed, would have made it to the rear doorway of the undercroft if it wasn't for the sharp bitterness of vinegar and fireroot spice hitting his senses and stopping him in his tracks.

The strong scent stung his eyes, and he blinked a few times to clear the irritation. He wasn't going to enter the chamber. After all, what would be the point? Juda had done what needed to be done and that was all. Far better to wash it away, like smears of bloody prints on a basin. And yet, he found himself moving to the doorway carved into the rock, where the odour was strongest of all, and where the body of his slain opponent lay cold on the slab.