The Faintest Ink (Watty Winner 2015)

Chapter a Hundred and One

It was much easier for Larst to find his way back into the Citadel than to get out of it. The guard on the gate let him in with barely a glance. Not that he was surprised, not anymore. The guard was one of the Chancellor's men. Larst was finding it easier to spot them now. There was something about the eyes, something flat about them. It was as if their soul had left, leaving room for the masters to step in and take over.

He should have seen it in Straw. Hawth had noticed something was wrong, back in the chapel. But then she would. Hawth was the noticing type. And Straw had been in love with her, he thought as he sprinted up the steps and through the great doors. The Chancellor had thought of that. He hadn't anticipated that Straw was a more complicated man than his bulk and strength hinted at. But of course, Hawth could never have guessed the truth. No doubt she had put it down to the horrors of what they had seen, or the lack of sleep.

She was always telling him that he should rest more. He probably should have listened to her at some point.

He had been a fool not to realise himself though. But the truth of the matter was, he'd had his mind on other things. Idiot, he cursed himself. He should have known that the Chancellor would stop at nothing. He'd seen proof enough of that.

When Straw had gone after Hawth. That's when it must have happened. He should have stopped him, insisted that they all stay in the Citadel. But then they wouldn't have listened to him. He wanted people whose blood burned with righteousness, and he'd damn well got them. He couldn't blame them. It was all his fault.

He'd let the Chancellor manipulate him as easily as if he'd been named. And it was poor Turnip and Straw who'd paid for his idiocy. And all because the Chancellor thought he'd make a good match for his... he paused a moment, trying to work it out. The first King, who'd united the tribes to form Serrador - Hawth would know how far back that was. He'd been kept alive by magic so he could retain all that power right through the generations - for hundreds of years. Perhaps more. And now he wanted him as some sort of son-in-law, bought in like some prize pig to sire the next in line. As if affection and partnership could be arranged like that. The face of the princess flashed before him, but he banished it just as quickly.

The rooms they had taken over were empty. Even the body had been taken away, with nothing but rumpled sheets to show for that night's activities.

He eventually found Hawth in the council chamber, pouring over a pile of papers. She'd changed back into men's clothes. But not the rags they had travelled across the moor in. Her doublet was a soft pink silk, with delicate flowers embroidered around the collar, and lace cuffs escaping from the sleeves.

She'd finally managed the servants to dig her up something other than a gown then. It suited her.

Hawth's tight curls were pulled back from her face, held with a matching pink ribbon, revealing a tightness about the jaw, and redness around her yes. She'd been crying.

"Larst," she breathed as she spotted him. The chair scrapped as she pushed back and stood. "Thank the gods. I thought..." she said. Her hands rested on the table as if to support herself. "I thought..." She stopped and searched him with her dark eyes. Larst knew what she was looking for.

From his belt he pulled out his dagger. She didn't flinch, but he could see her throat working as she swallowed and the papers rustled as her hand quivered a little on the table.

He streaked the sharp edge across his palm and waited for the blood to start flowing before showing it to her.

She breathed a sigh, and nodded. "Thank the gods," she whispered. "I don't know what I would have done if I'd lost you too."