No amount of washing seemed to cleanse his hands. Could he not have healed the first lieutenant and then breached him to change his memory? Surely he could have done. But it was too late. The predawn light seeped slowly through the window. He shuddered, longing for his chill flesh to be warmed. The first lieutenant’s dying pleas harrowed him by name. “Save me, Eamon!” He thrust his hands back into his water basin and scoured them again. Was this what service to Hughan meant – murder? He anxiously shook his hands dry. Desperate to distract himself, he paced back to his bed and took from his jacket the papers he had picked up in Ellenswell. Most were faded with age – odd words or drawings could be distinguished here and there. They angered him. Had he saved worthless papers over a man that day? Only one leaf caught his eye. On it was a simple sketch: a watchtower on the crest of a hill, overlooking a wooded valley. There was no name, mark, or indication of any kind. Inked soldiers stood at their posts and a flag was raised above them.
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