The Faintest Ink (Watty Winner 2015)

Chapter Ninety-Nine

The Princess stifled a yawn as she watched the last of the fire die down. It was late. Blue gone to her bed hours ago, leaving the princess alone to wait out the night.

The thought of sleep was impossible. She could not close her eyes without thinking the next time she opened them would be to the sight of guards leaning over her bed, waiting to fetch her for the axe.

It would once have been unthinkable for a princess, the heir to the throne, as ordained by the gods, to climb the scaffold, but now the thought of it seemed so horribly real. She touched her neck, rubbing the clammy skin, as if to check it was still intact.

She straightened her back, placing her hands in her lap. It was better to be dead than named though. Better to be buried and forgotten than married to a revisionist. She would climb the scaffold, and take the blade willingly if it meant she would leave this world a princess rather than a puppet.

Once again she saw the Calantha's shaking form, being buffeted by the wind, up on top of the scaffold. She'd stilled, as if turned to stone, when the name-magic had caught her. The princess wondered whether she'd still felt the chill, and yet had been unable to move, or whether the master had been kind enough to take all feeling from her.

It didn't bear thinking about.

The princess started as a loud crack sounded, and breathed a heavy sigh of relief as she realised it was just the fire spitting. She slipped off her seat and picked up the poker to turn over what was left. The flames rose and grew healthier, and the princess tucked herself close to them, needing to feel the warmth on her skin.

This might be the last night she ever felt the heat of a fire. It was said that the soul went to a land of dark and cold after it was separated from the body. Although, the princess could never work out how anyone actually knew that.

She didn't turn bother to turn around as the door creaked open behind her.

"Which is it to be?" she said, keeping her eyes fixed on the flames. "The book or the blade?"

"Neither," came the soft reply.

The princess twisted round. "You..." she breathed.

It was him, the assassin, standing there, dressed in a heavy travelling cloak, a short dagger gripped in his hand.

"I see," she said, relieved to hear that her voice didn't shake. She nodded and then pulled herself to her feet and smoothing down her skirts.

Then she waited. "Well?" she said, when he did nothing but stare at her.

"Well?" he repeated.

"You creep into my chambers in dead of night, quite alone and carrying a blade," she said, relieved that her voice didn't wobble. "I can only presume you are here to end my life." She lifted her chin. "The least you could do is clean the blade."

The dark metal was coated with a sheen of blood.

Larst looked down at it as if seeing it for the first time. "I had to kill a guard," he said.

"Right, of course," she said. She cleared her throat, and waited awkwardly for him to make a move.

He was still staring at the dagger, as if he didn't know what to do with it. Which was clearly absurd, considering he had already used it to great effect that night.

She found herself resisting the urge to tap her foot. "Are you trying to be cruel?" she snapped. "If you are intending to get rid of me, do so quickly."

"Get rid of you?" he said.

The princess was beginning to wonder if she had acquired her own personal echo.