The God Tattoo: Untold Tales from the Twilight Reign

by Lloyd, Tom

  Dever saw us looking out of the window and gave us both a fatherly smile. It was a warming sight. Dressed in the famous green-and-gold of the Kingsguard, Dever brought a proud piece of civilisation to a corner of the realm where myth and mystery ruled. Sana took hold of my finger in her small fist and pointed out past her brother to the invisible creature of the wood.

  ‘Bird.’

  I couldn’t help but smile at the delight that accompanied her every new experience. She was four winters old and had learnt to speak earlier than the others, but for the main preferred uttering only solitary words. This habit had the peculiar effect of making the other party interpret their own meaning into Sana’s words. My wife nobly attributed this tendency to Sana inheriting my love of poetry, but I knew well enough that her intellect would quickly outshine my own. Despite her tender years and heartening innocence, there lurks an understanding of others I feel sure will see her right.

  Bird. What echoed in my head as we travelled to take ownership of my family estate was Carrion Bird. Whether the creature was a portent too I could not say. I lack the religious fervour of my parents’ generation, but it was a fitting welcome to my former and future home – one I had been reluctant to visit while my mother was alive.

  It was not long until Sana had tired of trees and we returned our attention to within the carriage. My wife half-dozed with the hint of a smile on her lips, while the other two girls were bent over some game of pebbles on a board of twelve wells that I had never fully grasped. Shifting Sana to the seat beside me, her eyes already on the game in hand, I squeezed myself into what room remained beside my wife and took the hand that was immediately offered. Touching it to my lips I drank in the heady scent that lingered on the lace of her gloves, before kissing her fingers fondly.

  She was again dressed in city fashion, her more comfortable travelling clothes abandoned to impress her status upon the housekeeper of Moorview. The high-necked dress of a married woman had been expensively tailored in fox fur and black velvet, but what caught my eye was the collar of gold and jade that was set about her neck. It had been a wedding gift; a piece of family jewellery presented to my mother by the previous king that she had passed on in a rare fit of grace.

  The housekeeper had never approved of my wife, Cebana, whose Canar Thrit origins were the only reason I could imagine for this distaste. Her family was of good name and her conduct impeccable, both with hapless servants and those abhorrent politicians I required her to charm at dinner. Madam Haparl, Moorview’s most devoted servant, would be more than reluctant to give up her rule of the household, but she could not argue with royal approval.

  With a lurch up to the left, the carriage set itself onto the gentle slope I knew could only mean one thing. To confirm this, my sons cried ‘Moorview!’ with the same breath. In the next instant all three girls were at the right-hand window, straining to see the famous castle, though they had all been there many times before. As they matured, my children had each begun to realise the effect Moorview had on our fellow citizens of Narkang. Dever, as the eldest, had been most profoundly struck by the weight of what he would inherit.

  As a recent recruit to the Kingsguard – which it hardly needs to be noted as bearing a special bond to the name of Moorview – we had kept back Dever’s family name for fear of an ill air in the barracks. With the death of his grandmother, Dever then took the title that I had found little use for in my chosen path, Scion of Moorview. He had been determined not to avoid his heritage and made a point of wearing his badges of title on his uniform before we left.

  He later confided to Forel that his courage had drained away when the barracks fell silent and Colonel Atam himself recalled aloud what family bore that crest. His brotherly confessor had told me that Dever near fainted in relief when cheers suddenly erupted from the entire company. I have heard from other sources that men wept with pride that the heir of Moorview wore the green-and-gold. Several went further still and said Dever is to be groomed as next Sunbee; champion of the Kingsguard legions and, by consequence, all the armies of Narkang and the Four Cities.

  Ushering the girls back from the carriage window I took in the sight of my childhood home; the castle that abutted a moor soaked in the blood of perhaps a hundred thousand men. Built in three distinct stages, it was made a fortress after a century of overlooking Tairen Moor. While the most famous action it witnessed never reached its walls, more blood has been spilled within Moorview’s grounds than most castles. The history I have never taken much interest in, but several volumes in the library concerned the sometimes less-than-noble history of my home.

  To an adult eye it was not hard to see why local legend had always held Moorview in wary regard; cold and unyielding stone walls, the arrow-slits looking like suspicious eyes, the musty corridors and labyrinthine collection of cellars cut into the rock. With the wild beauty of the moor stretching so far into the distance, this region had inspired more than its fair share of tales even before the battle. I wondered how I had never felt anything but peace there until I noticed that there were no figures in the grounds before us. Devoid of life in attendance my home took the air of a mausoleum to past glorious dead. By contrast, my early years had been attended by scores of servants tending the castle and grounds. The lonely presence of the moors beyond had not encroached onto the grounds as I felt now.

  The nearer we got to the castle the more noticeable was the disorder of the place, one I had never seen here before. Autumn is never the neatest of seasons, but now the feral reach of the moor encroached on this bastion’s walls. In my heavy heart I could not help but wonder what else had come with it.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ muttered Cebana, shivering slightly under the same sensation as myself. She shot me an anxious glance before returning to the bleak scene, lips pursed.

  I didn’t answer, but she knew my moods well enough for that to be unnecessary. Instead of expecting a response, she distracted the girls by fussing over the ribbons threaded through their hair. Daen had successfully argued against being forced into a bonnet at her age, and fifteen-winters-old Carana had demanded to follow suit. The pair of them wore nine white ribbons threaded through their hair instead, fixed by tiny silver and ruby clips that were the height of fashion and the bane of my pocket.

  ‘Ponies?’ piped Sana suddenly.

  This would be her first visit to Moorview as anything more than a baby and Carana had spent hours regaling her young sister with tales of the ponies that lived on the moor. For generations, Moorview’s groundsmen had ensured there was a small herd kept half-tame here.

  ‘Yes little one,’ replied Daen, ‘but not today, it’ll be dark soon. We’ll explore the house instead. We might find some of those secret passages father’s always telling us about.’

  Sana’s enthusiasm was deflected admirably and her smile lit up the dark looks that marked her so closely to her brother, Forel, and their maternal grandparents.

  Leaning out of the window I knocked on the wooden frame of the coach and the driver reined in. Cebana threw me a questioning look as I took my wide-brimmed hat and long coat from the rack above the seat.

  ‘I have as much a need to arrive in the right fashion as you, my dear,’ I said in reply.

  She smiled, the delicious curl of her lips drawing a kiss from me as I sat back down. Several times I had confided in Cebana that I had never felt suited to the role of Lord of Moorview. Only the cruelties of chance had thrust it upon me. Now, with its great grey stones in view, I seemed more of a pretender than ever.

  ‘Moorview will not adapt to me. It has seen too many great men within those walls. I must become what it expects.’

  ‘You’re talking about Moorview as though it were alive again,’ interjected Daen with an irritated tone. The image of her mother, she had always been a most practical child and saw no reason to change when she entered adulthood.

  ‘There’s more life within those walls than you might think,’ answered her mother, reaching out to touch her eldest daugh
ter on the cheek. ‘I remember when your father brought me here to be married. I had eighteen winters – barely a few months older than you are now – and was suddenly presented with this place that would one day be my own. Your uncle had died six months beforehand so there was a queer mood anyway, but I was struck by a powerful impression that I had to prove myself worthy to Moorview as much as its inhabitants.’

  ‘Mother, that’s ridiculous,’ snorted her daughter, unimpressed but still attentive.

  ‘Perhaps so, but I took myself off after dinner and wandered the long gallery with a lamp; just myself and Moorview.’

  ‘The one with that ugly stone at the far end?’ interrupted Carana.

  ‘That “ugly stone” is a memorial to the dead,’ I snapped. ‘You know very well what they died for so give them a little more respect, young lady.’

  The long gallery of Moorview took up the entire end of the north wing. The roof of the gallery always reminded me of the peaked temples of Nartis, overlapping wooden beams of oak rising sharply toward the sky, while four tall windows occupied each end to illuminate the faces of those who had lived here. At the moor end was a massive chunk of stone, removed from the hillside on the order of the previous king, Emin the Great. A team of masons had worked day and night to smooth the surfaces until it was ready to be carved with the names of men and regiments slain on the moorland visible from that chilly vantage.

  In anger I thrust the door to the carriage open and stepped out into the early evening light. Under the gaze of Moorview my anger waned and I reached back to touch Carana on the arm. Peace was gladly restored. Forel had already collected my horse from the second carriage and waited with exaggerated patience as I struggled my way into the thick folds of my long coat.

  ‘Can I help, Father?’

  I stopped my ineffective flapping and looked up at him with a needlessly sharp expression. He took no offence and, instead, slid from his horse to turn me around with an amused cluck of the tongue before extracting my elbow from its predicament. He then took my hat from my hands so that I might work at the problem more effectively.

  ‘Thank you, and yes, I’ll manage to mount a horse alone.’

  Forel chuckled softly and jumped back up into the saddle of his beloved Farlan stock pony. I had offered to buy him a hunter like his brother’s, but each time he had hushed me down and declared himself content with the nimble creature.

  ‘Right then, do I look more like a suzerain now?’ I asked once I had mounted, albeit less dramatically than Forel.

  ‘No; the only suzerains I’ve met have been fat, stupid and rude. You’re closer to the king than any of those fools,’ was the laughing reply.

  ‘Never fear, my brother,’ Dever called as he rounded the carriage to join us. ‘We’ll feed him up on sweet meats and honey, take away his horse and get a pretty young maid to rub his feet soft. Then he’ll be as venerable as the rest.’

  ‘If you two have both quite finished,’ I said with a rare smile, ‘I would remind you, Dever, that you’ll be a suzerain too one day!’

  ‘Aye, my Lord, and I’ll be the best of them all – fatter, stupider and with an ever ready supply of hot air to either speak in council or expel in polite company!’

  I couldn’t help but join in their foolishness and our laugher brought the girls to the carriage window.

  ‘Well my Lord Suzerain, Lord Scion, do you think we could continue the merriment within perhaps?’ asked my wife in her sweet tones. I gave a flourish of my hat in response.

  ‘Of course, dear Lady Countess. Scion Derenin, while you remain able of body and mind, please lead the way.’

  The brief respite from my mood had stiffened my resolve and I was suddenly anxious to be over the little bridge and through the creeper-wreathed walls that shielded Moorview from the world.

  The First Evening

  The gravel crunching and grating underhoof was the only sound to herald our arrival. The absence of greeting figures had never happened before in my lifetime. My idea of arriving with dignity fell by the wayside and I stumbled off my horse at a firmly closed door. It was a tall slab of heavy oak, sat at the top of five crescent steps and studded with iron pegs. I could clearly imagine the massive bolts driven home at top and bottom. Somewhere in the distance the crow saw my dismay and cawed its derision.

  Dever and Forel slid from their mounts, running their eyes over the gloomy autumn appearance of Moorview. They were both grim now, contrasting the memory of a summer two years ago with this cold image. It truly looked as though the soul of this fine place had died. Our coachman, Berin, dropped from his seat and glanced over the horses before turning back to the coach, only to be waved back to the horses by Forel.

  The main house, the oldest part of the castle flanked by newer wings and the single tower, was a monument to fading grandeur. Sly trails of ivy stole across the gravel paths while the creeper dug its claws into the stonework, marching upwards to tear into the slate roof. Dark-leafed weeds had sprouted through the hard-packed drive and those cultivated plants in view stared disconsolately at the ground, cowering from the insidious creep of the moor. The wet smell of autumn and stone mixed with pungent moor heather, an achingly familiar odour that brought me back to reality as surely as the deep clunk of bolts from behind the door.

  Dever straightened his uniform and stepped up beside me, feathered hat under one arm and pride brimming. Forel clicked the carriage door open and offered his arm to his mother, who stepped down with stately grace.

  With a serene face, Cebana took in her surroundings while the girls bustled out behind her. Raising her hand to touch the brim of her slanted hat, my wife absorbed all those details of my home that assailed my spirits and dismissed them with a shake of her fingers. Reaching left she placed a calming hand on Sana’s shoulder, glanced over her elder daughters with approval, and then stepped forward to take my arm as the door swung back.

  A gust of stale air rushed out to greet us, withered and gloomy. The house smelled old and dead; as damp and musty as a sepulchre, and Sana gave a squeak of fright at the figure that appeared to greet us. My words of admonishment at our lack of greeting died when I saw how cruel the years and my mother’s death had been. The stooped figure of the housekeeper forced her head up and through the dirty wisps of greyed hair she squinted at my face until a jolt of recognition shook her body.

  ‘My . . . my Lord,’ she slurred through a ravaged and cracked voice.

  As one I believe, Cebana and I gasped in shock, but the sound was drowned out by Sana’s scream as she saw the woman’s face. The little girl darted behind Daen who clutched both of her sisters tightly, her face pale and rigid.

  ‘Madam Haparl,’ I exclaimed, at a loss what further to say. The woman had obviously suffered a stroke since I last saw her; the left-hand side of her face sagged while her left arm seemed to be tucked and bound tight into her waist. In my shock I only vaguely registered Cebana marshalling the boys into action through my dumb gaping.

  ‘Dever, Forel, help Madam Haparl inside. Coran, what’s happened to the servants that she had to greet us herself, and alone? Daen, can you remember the way to the kitchens?’

  Daen nodded rather apprehensively, but she wasted no time in stepping through the breach once Madam Haparl had been seated in the hallway. I heard my daughter stamping down the corridor and the echoes brought me to my senses as I imagined her considerable temper being vented on anyone she found there.

  ‘Madam Haparl,’ continued Cebana. Crouching down to be on a level with the withered woman she gently took her hand. ‘Where is everyone?’

  ‘They . . .’ The old lady paused to catch her breath, worn out by the exertion of her surprise. ‘Most have gone, they won’t stay here.’ Her voice could not reach beyond a whisper but though her words were badly formed, I was relieved to see her mind had not been so affected.

  ‘They won’t stay here? In the name of the Gods why not?’

  I spoke rather more harshly than I intended, but my remorse w
as assuaged when some of her old fire reasserted and I heard the scorn in her reply.

  ‘They’re scared. Only two stay in the house now; one don’t know better and the other’s a greedy little thief.’

  ‘But what are they scared of?’

  ‘Of what got to your mother,’ came the soft reply. It sent me rocking on my heels as though struck physically. I opened my mouth to ask more, but a tap on my thigh from Cebana halted my demands.

  ‘Not now, she needs to rest. Here, touch her hand, she’s freezing.’

  There was a vengeful fire in Cebana’s eyes that I had rarely seen. For all of her conflict with Madam Haparl she had clearly been touched by the old woman’s loyalty to remain in the house when those fit and healthy had fled.

  ‘Forel, you go after Daen and find those maids. Whichever one seems like the thief, drag her to her room and see what’s there. If you find anything then lock her in and we’ll deal with her later. Here, take the house keys,’

  Forel nodded and took the heavy iron ring. He disappeared after his elder sister, the jangle of keys setting an angry tune for her distant raised voice.

  ‘Dever, go to the family room and get a fire going there, it’ll warm up soon enough. Carana, go with him and find your grandmother’s wheeled chair. Can I assume it’s still there, Madam Haparl?’

  The frail woman before her nodded through a tear of thanks and Cebana nodded to her daughter who also darted off. ‘Sana dear?’

  The little girl looked up nervously from the doorstep, perhaps fearing being sent off into the black depths of the house, and hugged her cloth doll to her chin.

  ‘Sana, go out to Berin, help him with the horses.’

  The girl bobbed her head and darted back out to her devoted friend Berin. The coachman was teased by our other servants as a simpleton, but to us he was a trustworthy fellow who would die before seeing his beloved little mistress harmed.

  Carana returned in a matter of seconds. Mother had found stairs difficult for years now, ever since a fall damaged her hip and pride. She had insisted on still using her jumble room at the top of the main house, but the ascent tired her and excursions around the garden had been conducted in her chair, assisted by a stablehand.