The God Tattoo: Untold Tales from the Twilight Reign

by Lloyd, Tom

  ‘There’s a storm comin’, s’all I know. My cousin said the ragged man brought a storm with him.’ A man’s voice now, clearly this was not just the idle, foolish gossiping of the younger kitchen maids.

  ‘But Madam Haparl said he wouldn’t come, not with a Kingsguard here!’

  ‘I told you, the old bitch’s mad, she’s scared t’be here alone. We should leave, ’fore tonight.’

  ‘We can’t. I heard ’im say to the sheriff to turn out our relatives if we ran away again. What do we do?’

  I guessed from the voices that they numbered only three, but it was clear that something had still been kept from me by the servants, whether fact or random fear.

  ‘Can we stay? Surely they can’t turn us all out?’

  ‘You ’eard the scion; bastard’ll do it. Asked their man Berin I did, ’e said the suzerain’s some man of the Narkang council an’ you know what they’re about.’

  ‘So what do we do?’

  I thought I could tell which voice belonged to whom now. There was a tall, surly faced house-servant who would fit the thick accent of the man’s voice; a sickly kitchen maid of no more than fifteen winters was the one who had overheard everything, while a round-faced upstairs maid came to mind at the softer, less abrasive accent of the second girl.

  ‘What can we do, but keep our ’eads down and out the way.’

  ‘That’s all?’ gasped the upstairs maid.

  ‘All I know of. We can’t get out of ’ere, but when it got the mistr’ss, none of us saw nothin’. Reckon it’ll be after the suzerain and ’is family, but we done nothin’. Jes keep to your room and don’t leave each other, understand?’

  As the two girls murmured assent, I heard heavy footsteps in the corridor outside and the meaty tones of cook.

  ‘Abela, Nyan, where are the pair of you?’

  I hurriedly rose, pulled my tunic straight and strode out with what I hoped was an imperious expression. As I reached the door, I met cook on the way in, fairly terrifying her when she saw me. She was not a large woman, solidly built perhaps but with less fat than muscle on those arms. I managed to stalk past her without stopping while she stood with one hand to her mouth to stifle a cry of alarm. Behind, I heard the skitter of footsteps up the stone steps, but the image of their faces was not enough to bring a smile to my face. That remained troubled as I went to the family room and slumped down into one of the high armchairs.

  It was time I put my brain to use in this matter, but where to start I just could not imagine. The fear that saturated the house, my mother’s death, the man on the moor, this ‘ragged man’ – these were pieces in a puzzle I could not quite grasp. Glimpses flashed before my eyes but I had no way of knowing truth from rumour and superstition. My head began to ache at the intangibility of the situation and so I resolved to find a way to remedy that. Much of my position in the City Council deals with the bureaucracy of city life. I am at my best when distilling information from a pile of papers and thus my mind turned to the chaos of my mother’s room.

  I stood with renewed purpose, my eyes meeting the portrait that hung above the fire as I did so. It was a powerful image – my father in his prime as youth met experience in his middle years. He had died while I was still only young and this was as I remembered him, the steely gaze that I knew could soften into the same heartfelt laughter my brother had also possessed. The artist, an odious weasel of a man but one of undoubted talent, had depicted father as local legend told after the battle of Moorview.

  The sitting had been only three months before my father died in battle – at least, I prefer to think of it that way rather than the ridiculous little skirmish it was – and a full fifteen since the battle of Moorview, but the strength had remained. He wore a weary but triumphant expression, a shining broadsword lowered to the ground as his foes lay slain. Father had laughed, then scowled, when he saw the painting. He had declared it fitting for the Lord of Moorview and the pages of history, but willing to admit the truth. I can still remember the waver to his voice as I sat on his knee and he told me a closer reality.

  The shining sword that gleamed so perfectly had been presented to him well after the battle, after he’d returned from the Waste with the battered remains of the army. His weapon that day had been a plain blade, the end of which was lost out there on the moor. It had broken during the desperate last defence where father had fought side-by-side with King Emin, the ferocious last assault that had made a name for both him and all those few Kingsguard who survived.

  By the end of the day his sword had been nicked and blunt, only fit for beating a man to death. Mud and gore covered father’s face – his helm also rusted out there somewhere – and he claimed to have been so tired he hardly cared to ask how the day had been won. He did not witness the death of the Menin conqueror – none near enough to witness it survived Cetarn the Saviour’s storm of magic, whatever anyone claims – but he was one of the heroic few to survive the fort. The old king and he saved each other’s life several times as the grief-mad Menin heavy infantry fought to the death, and even now their legend is one of the greatest of the nation.

  As I stood there, lost in my childhood, a maid scuttled up and nervously informed me that the priest had arrived. Since we had no butler, and the housekeeper no longer strode about her domain watching all, the servants were in the unusual position of having to address us directly. I hardly minded myself, for our home in the city is an informal place, but the maids here had lived under the savage tongue and traditional mind of my mother. This girl fairly trembled as she spoke, her words blurting out chaotically before she bobbed a curtsey and fled. With a sigh, I straightened my jacket and went to meet the man.

  ‘Unmen, welcome to Moorview,’ I said as I entered the formal reception room.

  The room was not in the best of states, faded rather than opulent, but that had not prevented the priest from perching delicately on the edge of a chair, as though trying to touch it as little as possible.

  As I entered the room, he was sitting with his hands folded neatly in his lap. It put me in mind of a child, left by its mother somewhere with instructions to behave and disturb nothing. As soon as he saw me, the unmen leapt to his feet with a guilty expression though he had been doing nothing more than admire a painting from afar.

  ‘Thank you, my Lord Suzerain, I’m honoured to be asked, though I wish it could be under happier circumstances.’

  I faltered somewhat, wondering what rumours had reached him until I saw he meant nothing more than the passing of my mother. ‘Did you see the countess often? I don’t believe you were unmen here when I last visited.’

  ‘That’s correct, my Lord . . .’

  ‘Please,’ I interrupted, ‘I never became used to the title of scion and “My Lord Suzerain” sits even more uncomfortably. Minister Derenin is how I’m known in the city, that’s the only title I’ve earned.’

  The unmen bobbed his head rather awkwardly. I suspected he had been careful to memorise the protocol for addressing my family. As a country pastor he would have little experience of the ruling class, but could hardly afford to offend a suzerain and I commended the respect he offered, even if I did not require it.

  ‘Thank you, Minister Derenin. I, um, I was only made unmen a few months after your last visit, but at the beginning I saw your mother quite frequently.’

  ‘I’m sure you did!’ I said with a smile. Loving my mother dearly as I did, I would be the first to admit that she would have found this timid and humble young man an irresistible opportunity to bully someone. ‘But that changed, did it?’

  ‘Well, yes, it did. About six months ago, after her trip, she became withdrawn.’

  ‘Her trip? Where did she go?’

  ‘You did not hear?’ The unmen looked suddenly terrified that he might be guilty of gossip. ‘She ah, well she . . .’

  The man looked up at me with such a pathetically helpless expression I almost laughed. Instead, I managed to keep quiet and wave him to continue.

&n
bsp; ‘Your mother, the countess, went to visit some knight who lives sixty or so miles north of here, along the moor’s border. I’m afraid I cannot remember his name but no doubt your mother will have corresponded with him. There, ah, there was a degree of talk in the villages as you can imagine, but by the groom’s account the knight was extremely elderly and there could, well . . .’

  I smiled inwardly as the unmen turned slightly red and he floundered hopelessly. No doubt there was crude talk, a dowager countess paying visits in the autumn of life.

  ‘I would not concern yourself with that. Tell me, did you see her at all after this visit?’

  ‘Occasionally, of course. She rarely made the trip to the temple so I had grown accustomed to making the journey here once a fortnight and performing a service in Moorview’s chapel. It was the least I could do for the woman who had paid for all of our recent repairs. At any rate, more often than not over the past six months the countess would send someone down to tell me that she could not spare the time. I only visited a handful of times during that period and each time she seemed more distracted.’

  ‘Do you know what she was doing?’

  ‘She hardly spoke to me, but I do know she wrote and received a number of letters. The boys in the village did well out of it, she paid a dozen copper pieces to ride and take letters for her.’

  ‘Do you know who she was writing to?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, I never saw any of the letters myself and they’re commonly left at a local tavern for collection. I can ask if you would like; perhaps compile a list of where they went.’

  ‘Thank you, that would be good of you.’

  I stood in silence for a while, thinking of the piles upstairs. While this is a remote district, there are four or five towns within a week’s ride. The king’s peace was strong enough these days for a child to safely travel such a distance to deliver a letter and their parents would be glad of any extra money.

  Before we could continue the discussion, I felt a tap on the shoulder and whirled about in surprise. Dever’s broad smile greeted me. I believe he was beginning to look for opportunities to catch me unawares and lost in dismal thoughts, but before I could discern anything from his expression he kissed the lapis lazuli ring of the unmen and introduced himself. Only after the niceties had been concluded did he return to me.

  ‘Father, Forel is removing grandmother’s coffin from the sinkhole. We’re just assembling the staff so you should go and change. I’ll take the unmen out to the lawn and we’ll wait for you there.’

  I stood there for a moment, ready to delay the interment so I could question the unmen further before realising that would be inexcusable. The rites of the dead must of course come first. Once that was over I could fully throw myself into my investigations, but until then I had a duty.

  The effort of ascending the great stone staircase grew with each step. The strength drained from my legs, my leaden feet sluggishly rose and fell and I was forced to grasp the thick oak banister that ran up one side. With a firm grip on this I dragged my reluctant frame onward, urging my feet to make up the ground before I fell. Eventually I found myself at the top of the stair and on the second floor of the main house.

  With one hand resting lightly on the tapestry that covered the wall here I slowly manoeuvred my way down the passage. After a few steps I paused to catch my breath and calm myself. The events of the past few days were taking a significant toll upon my mind and the prospect of the ceremony sapped almost my entire reserve of energy. In its place came a gnawing guilt that I had been too long absent, that I had parted with my mother on frosty terms after my last visit. My body cried out to be allowed to curl up and sleep, to hide away from the cloying loss that coursed down each echoing corridor and collected inside of me.

  Taking deep gulps of air to clear my head, I found myself absently inspecting the fading material before me. The tapestry had been there for most of my life but, as much here, the colours had waned – the threads jutted out like the ribs of a starving man and the pungent odour of dust hung about it like the stench of death. Taking down the huge depictions took half-a-dozen pairs of hands so they had not yet been disturbed. I doubt anyone really paid much attention to them these days, but as I did so now I realised that there had been some damage done, and recently or so I guess.

  The tapestry illustrated the Final Judgement of the Gods. There were two areas of damage, on either side of the Chief of the Gods but stopping short of touching His divine form. On His left was a blackened and burned patch that I eventually recalled had once shown the armoured figure of the War God.

  The other side had been slashed or torn but by lifting the material back into place I could see the kneeling form of the last king, Aryn Bwr, the leader of the rebels as he heard the proclamation that cast him to the Dark Place. Such a deliberate defilement was obscure, but obviously not without meaning. The vandal had carefully singled out the two figures for his attack, but taken obvious care not to damage the central image.

  What sort of a mind could have a grudge against opposing figures, one long dead, I could not fathom. It seemed as unlikely that any vengeful spirit could bear a grudge against those two as it was that one of our own servants might. I began to conjure all kinds of alternative hypotheses that jostled in my mind with the creeping pain of mourning. The pressure mounted and assailed my mind, sending the corridor swimming before my eyes. As I reeled, my questing hands found a doorframe to support me. The feel of unyielding wood beneath my hands gave me a rock to cling to, a reminder of the here and now. I felt my fingers digging into the grain of the wood, breathed in the ancient scent that faintly lingered and rested my brow against the merciful cool of my support.

  With great gulping breaths I drove my way up to the surface, where Moorview was waiting in silent patience for its master. Though sweat streamed down my face to mingle with the tears of loss, I found the strength to stagger to my chamber. With each successful step, the load grew lighter and though I was near exhausted by the time I sat myself down on the corner of our bed, my strength and resolve had returned. I took a moment, perhaps a minute, to compose myself and then returned to the struggle of normal activities.

  Dressing in the formal robes of a suzerain, draped for the first time in years in Moorview’s colours, is an effort even with a manservant to help, but I was glad for the extra work if it gave me time alone. Though I felt terribly weak, sickened and in need of the moral support of a cane, I believe none of the assembled faces remarked anything particular about my appearance. Even my perceptive wife didn’t see any more than the heavy grief of a son. It was an encouraging arm that she slipped under mine as I nodded for the procession to begin.

  A Letter of Note

  I shall not recount the interment. It provides nothing of note to this history other than to have intensified the air of oppression surrounding Moorview. The family tomb was as it has ever been; past an iron gate bolted into the stone of the hillside, just inside a bottleneck of rock, icy cold and eerily lit by candles – yet at the same time quite still and unnaturally peaceful. Ledges had been cut at intervals into the rock. As you move deeper within you pass through the generations of ancestors and advance toward your own grave. It is a disconcerting progression, but my mind was distracted and absent. I remembered my childhood and feeling a distinct pleasure in knowing where I would ultimately rest, one that later grew into a faint dread. Now I felt neither fear, nor interest – just a numb emptiness.

  A slight strain of guilt ran through me as I felt myself muttering the words of the service by rote, not registering their meaning as the unmen prayed and offered fervent blessings. In what felt like a matter of minutes we were out again in the daylight, or what little managed to evade the marshalled legions of storm-cloud and illuminate our dreary scene. Cebana and I lagged behind the others to watch them as they went about their lives again. I held her close, her perfume wafting delicately past my nose, waxing and waning against the thick wet odour of pine and heather.


  ‘Is it right to be so proud of one’s children?’ I asked suddenly.

  Cebana gave me a quizzical look, but said nothing so condescending as to question my motives. ‘I cannot see any reason against it,’ she replied. ‘To claim their successes as your own would go beyond pride, but to be glad of their abilities and potential? You’re so devoted to your children it surprises me you even ask such a question.’

  I shook my head to rid myself of the notion, but my eyes lifted to the happy figures striding on ahead. Dever walked tall and confidently, Carana nestled under his arm as the pair meandered down the edge of the ha-ha. Forel had made for higher ground, his little sister held tightly in his arms. For all his sharp wit, Forel was as helpless before Sana’s innocence as Berin and spoiled our angel whenever she required. Sana herself was glad to be carried, that the whole world might better see her new pink frock and hair tied up in bows.

  As I watched, one of those delicate hands shot out to point to the ponies up ahead and Forel let Sana slide to the floor, keeping hold of her hand as they trotted forward together. I heard Forel’s easy laugh, and though I missed his words I knew he’d be soon taking the girl in to change her delicate clothes. Then Sana stopped dead, the sudden change in her manner drawing my eye. Forel turned back to ask what had happened but she ignored him, staring out north-east though I could see nothing there.

  Forel crouched down beside her and she turned to look at him. I caught a glimpse of her face, now grave as she exchanged a few words with Forel. He cupped her tiny face in his hands, I could not make out what he said but she nodded in agreement or understanding. With a last glance in the direction of her concern, Sana permitted Forel to pick her up again and start off to the house. I would have caught them up but she saw me watching and gave a slight wave that eased my heart. Whatever she had heard, or sensed perhaps, had been dismissed with a few words so I made myself ignore it, aware of my own agitated state.

  Daen had taken herself off down the little rabbit run that sloped gently down, past the family tomb and through a small copse of gnarled, stunted yew trees. The tomb was built into an outcrop of rock surrounded by such trees, glaring out through those ragged branches like the craggy scowl of a giant. The slope was steep, but the rabbit run took the safest path down to a slight clearing and it was there Daen had gone. I could see her back as she stared out toward the sky; I think perhaps she was fixing the image in her mind for when she found time to unearth mother’s easel and paints.