The God Tattoo: Untold Tales from the Twilight Reign

by Lloyd, Tom

  ‘Then saddle Toramin, he’s battle-trained, he’ll cope with the storm.’

  Berin stared back at me for a moment but made no further argument. He hefted Dever’s great saddle in one hand while the other gathered the reins from a peg opposite. Those he passed to me, his fear of the raging storm now forgotten as he studied the flaring nostrils of the hunter. Though Toramin was battle-trained, any sudden movement might still panic him as the wind howled overhead. As it was, the horse was perfectly placid while the saddle and reins were fitted and in a matter of minutes I was astride as Berin laboured open the stable door.

  I nearly lost control as we left the stable. A great shard of lightning cleaved the sky and my steed reared in surprise. Instead of kicking and bucking to dislodge the weight, Toramin merely circled and backed away from the booming peals of thunder echoing around the landscape. It did not take me long to guide him round to the drive and then we were off, the horse more than willing to sprint away from the moor.

  We ran with the spirit of the storm on our heels. Up above, the clouds raced to outstrip us and the night roared approval at our foolish abandon. The smaller flashes of lightning were what lit our path for us, beyond Moorview the land was a dark and forbidding place. Only the good condition of the road kept either of our necks whole and only once did I have to make the hunter leap to avoid a fallen branch lying in our path. Hunched and spiteful hawthorns whipped all about, I felt several times the talons of those trees scrape down my scalp and catch my tunic but nothing would deter me.

  Then the road dipped and we charged down into the long sinister straight called Gallows Walk by the local people. The reason for such a name was forgotten even before the battle of Moorview, but never more apt as when I entered the eerie, sheltered avenue overhung by yews and pine. There was a curious calm on the needled floor, for all that the tops of these trees seethed and slashed at the air.

  I kept my head down and concentrated on the road ahead, trickles of rain working their way down through my hair and into my eyes. My vision blurred with water and I had to flail at my face to clear it. My clothes were soaked by then and my efforts did nothing more than provide vague respite. I returned my attention to the gloom ahead as a new burst of lightning lit the way ahead, a fork arcing down to strike somewhere off to my right.

  Through the fierce light I saw a fragment of what lay ahead. Framed by the trees that arched into a near-tunnel, was a figure. It was motionless, facing me but with no face I could see. All I made out was a gigantic form, clothes flying wildly in the storm though the figure itself was firmly rooted. The face must have been hooded for all I saw was the dancing edges of this spectral image, the centre of the storm as I charged on towards it.

  I had no time to reach the storm-clad spirit, nor stop or even think past the terror that wrenched at my heart. As the light drained away into shadows, a blinding pain burst on the side of my head. Stars whirled as I felt myself tossed sideways, a blur of leaves and branches spinning past on eyes before I succumbed.

  Blackness flared, then enveloped my mind as the Land receded and there was only silence.

  A Grave Understanding

  I awoke to Dever’s worried face. I could not tell how long I had been lying there, but the storm had lessened from when my eyes closed.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  I tried to sit up, planting my elbows underneath me before my strength gave way. I was lying at the foot of a pine. As Forel stood to one side holding our three steeds, Dever lifted me gently until my back was set against the tree trunk.

  ‘I feel, ah, in pain,’ I said eventually, raising shaky fingers to my head to probe for a bruise or blood.

  I was glad to find a ripe lump under my fingers, but no vital fluids. The pain was an ache rather than the stab I expected if my skull had been cracked.

  ‘Well perhaps that branch put some sense back into your head,’ snapped Forel from behind his brother. ‘If you’d been paying attention when you left, you might have noticed your ancestral home on fire.’

  I looked up in alarm and tried to stand, but Dever placed a hand on my chest and I could not resist.

  ‘Enough, Forel, that does no good. Calm yourself, Father, the fire’s out and did little real damage. About as much harm as this branch has done to your thick head.’ He raised a broken piece of wood with a cautious smile and held it out for me to see.

  ‘A branch?’

  ‘It was lying beside you.’

  ‘But the man . . .’ I tried again to sit up, this time with greater success. Dever took my elbow to steady me as I blinked away the sharp bursts of light before my eyes.

  ‘What man?’

  ‘The . . . Oh Gods, the book!’ I struggled with my son until he let me rise, as unsteady as I was, keeping a firm grip on my shoulder when I tried to mount.

  ‘No more galloping tonight, and certainly not on my bloody horse! The village isn’t far, get on that overfed creature of your own and we’ll walk you there.’

  ‘No, there’s no time . . . the girl—’

  My protests were cut short by a tone of voice that could have come from my own father, one deserving of the title Lord of Moorview. ‘Quiet! You’re not rushing off anywhere; I’m indulging you in even taking you there. If you insist in putting yourself in any more danger we’ll truss you like a turkey and drag you home. When Mother takes one look at that lump on your head you’ll not leave your bed for a month. Am I understood?’

  I mumbled assent, resisting the urge to stare at my feet like a child. Whatever fervour demanded I get to the village, he was no doubt right that I had collapsed enough for one evening. In any case, I had lain on the road long enough for it not to matter. A few more minutes could not help the girl now. In my dazed state I felt cold and distant. I was certain that the maid would be dead, but the realisation could stir no emotion.

  I mounted my horse and Dever took hold of the reins – watching carefully for any mad break for the horizon, though in truth my whole energy was spent on keeping in the saddle. Forel trotted alongside, with Toramin’s reins in one hand, his eyes scanning all about but there was nothing to see. Even the trees had spent their energy and now only vaguely saluted our passing as the storm rumbled well off to the north.

  When we reached the village a crowd was gathered on the green, standing before the stone shell of a building as flames lit the faces of those throwing buckets of water. The fire must have burned quick and fierce, consuming everything. A man detached himself from the group and ran over, his face and clothes stained with soot and mud.

  ‘My Lord?’

  ‘Was that the inn there? Was that the only one hit?’

  ‘It was, my Lord. It’s a doubly cursed night, my niece is missing too.’

  ‘Then you must be Master Tinan,’

  ‘That’s me, my Lord. Have you seen Emila?’ Whatever curiosity he had at my manner, it was overwhelmed with fear for the girl.

  ‘I’m afraid not, but it was her I was coming to see.’

  The conversation went no further as a shout from away to my left attracted our attention.

  ‘Oh Gods,’ moaned the innkeeper as two men came into view, one carrying a body. A woman’s white sleeping shift trailed down from the still form to stick to the man’s legs

  ‘I’m sorry, Moren,’ called the man with the body as he closed on us, his face grave. When they came closer I could see that he was nearly completely soaked. ‘It were too late when we found her.’

  ‘We went looking as soon as we heard her!’ called the youth, unable to keep still at the man’s side.

  His eyes leapt from the body to us and back again while he chattered on. The girl’s face was obscured by long strands of wet hair. I caught a glimpse of pale white teeth and what was either mud or a bruise on her neck. The innkeeper met them and took Emila’s body in his own arms, holding her slender corpse as easily as he would a child.

  ‘We heard her scream, but she weren’t there when we looked.’

  ‘Qui
et boy,’ snapped the older man with a scowl. ‘I’m sorry. By the time we found her in the stream she were already gone.’

  The innkeeper sank to his knees and began to weep loudly. A woman standing by the remains of the inn shrieked and ran to his side. By unspoken agreement we all stepped away to give them room for their sorrow, and I, drained of emotion as I felt, took the man who had brought the body to one side to speak to.

  ‘You found her?’ He nodded, realising who I was from my clothes and startled that I would be there to take an interest. ‘The boy said you heard her scream?’

  He nodded again, shooting a look to Master Tinan before replying.

  ‘We did, I’ve never heard the like. Shrieked like a banshee she did, close past our house. When it stopped we went out to see who it were, but she must have fallen in the stream and been taken down by the current. We found her about thirty yards further. And oh Gods, the look on her face!’

  I didn’t need to ask. I remembered Madam Haparl’s words about my mother’s corpse. My heart ached for another lost to this mystery as Dever came to join us.

  ‘There’ll be nothing of the book left. Emila’s . . . was staying in the attic; it’ll have been the first to go.’

  ‘The poor girl, dead for the love of her mistress. If I’d been quicker perhaps . . .’ My voice trailed off. What use were words now? Emila was dead, killed for her loyalty. No words would change that.

  ‘Perhaps we can still salvage something from this night.’

  I looked back from the mourning aunt and uncle in surprise, but had no strength to chastise Dever for his lack of respect as he continued.

  ‘From what I remember of grandmother, she would not abide untidiness. That day book was pristine always, she’d even trim the edges if they started to look ragged. I can’t believe she would have kept the letters loose inside. Surely she would have copied them down and put the originals away if the information was that important.’

  ‘But we looked through her papers already,’ I protested.

  ‘The writing boxes. We took the papers out of them, but you always said they had hidden compartments. We didn’t open any of those.’

  ‘Gods, I forgot all about them! But that means . . .’ He matched my gaze and nodded, a spark of fear in his eye.

  ‘That means we should be at home. Forel!’

  We both ran for our horses and mounted directly. I was weak and light-headed, but the dignity of grace is an easier sacrifice than the safety of my family. Forel looked up from his conversation and by instinct leapt up into his saddle to follow us. There was no time to speak as we rode, no time to explain.

  I couldn’t force the image of that limp and soaked figure hanging dead in the man’s arms, but this time it bore my wife’s face. The image was too painful to bear and I kicked my heels hard into the flanks of my horse to escape the pain of such thoughts.

  As we reached Moorview, Daen ran out to greet us. The storm had abated but it was no summer evening and she hugged herself to disguise her shivers. Worry was etched into her face, but it relieved me still to see nothing more.

  ‘Father, at last.’

  ‘Is everyone well?’ I replied, slipping off my mount as fast as possible. The boys followed on my heels leaving the three horses untethered for Berin to collect.

  ‘We’re all fine, but about an hour ago the wind suddenly became as fierce as before. The shutters in the jumble room must have been loose, it ripped out the entire frame. The wind was so strong down here; the Gods only know what it was like up there.’

  I stopped and took her by the shoulders. She looked tired, drained by the course of today’s events and unable to endure more.

  ‘What about the writing boxes? Where are they?’

  ‘The storm destroyed everything. When we managed to open the door the desks were overturned, the papers flung out over the grounds and sodden—’

  She had no time to continue as I turned and smashed my fist against the uncaring stone wall behind me. A deep rage welled up inside me – this had all been for nothing. Shouting curses at the world, the spectre that plagued the moors and my own damned luck, I hardly noticed Daen shout at me until she took me by the shoulders and pulled me around to face her.

  ‘She took the letters out! Listen to me! When you left to get the book, Mother went to take the letters out. She remembered grandmother showing her how to open the compartments so she went to look there and found some letters.’

  I stared back like an idiot, wordlessly gaping while Dever and Forel gave a shout of victory and clapped each other on the shoulder. Of course Cebana would know how to open them. She would be the one to inherit a lady’s writing box, why rely on a man’s memory to work them? Some imitation of joy surged in my heart until as I pictured the limp sodden figure of Emila and wondered what danger Cebana had exposed herself to.

  We ran to the family room where Cebana stood, a small packet of papers in her hand. She wore a faint smile on her lips, half hidden by the papers that were still bound in ribbon. Embracing her fiercely I pressed my lips against hers, murmuring words of love. When I could draw myself away, I took the packet from her hands and led her off to another room. Our children looked furious at the move to exclude them, but I ignored their faces and shut the door behind me.

  We walked down the corridor to the library, taking two lamps off the wall as we passed and using them to light the fire there. I do not deny that I was taking my time through an apprehension of what we might discover. Any sense of victory had faded into nothing as I was reminded these letters had caused at least two deaths, that the truth within them might be horrific and terrifying.

  At last I developed the courage to start. We settled down onto a small sofa near the fire, huddling together with the comforting presence of books around us. The tall window was still shuttered and the heavy drapes drawn so I felt secure and comfortable as I began to read. Cebana reached for another of the letters but I held on tight, selfishly perhaps but I wanted to know their contents before exposing my wife to it. There were nine letters in all; some from correspondents whose names I recognised but several I did not.

  I cannot say what suspicions they provoked in me – only that they dealt with a single event in one form or another. Most seemed idle hearsay until combined with the others, while one was remarkable that it had ever been written and another quite shocking for the damage it could cause to so many, hinting as it did towards heresy, blasphemy— But I must say no more.

  My mind returned to the despoiled tapestry upstairs, to the damaged figures of that most famous scene. My stomach tightened as I understood why it had been done. The eighth letter told of a glimpsed scene that seemed a fever-dream, but as I recalled those marred depictions I realised the horror in the author’s mind had not been madness.

  Cebana tried again to read what I had but this time I was sharp in my denial. I could see her anger and hurt, but my fear was manifest. She saw it in my eyes and it caused her to cry for me. There we sat for the best part of an hour I think, holding each other tight and weeping as only lovers can.

  Three times did she demand to share my pain and each time I was more resolved to keep it from all of them. Dever flew into a fury that I refused him, Forel was prepared to force the packet from my breast pocket, but my calm silence eventually won through. All I could think about was enduring the night and returning to Narkang in the morning. Eventually they realised this and helped me, but Forel and Daen especially continued in their questions.

  Firstly, we saw to the house. Doors were locked and windows barred, we kept weapons close to hand as though preparing for a siege and in truth that was how we now felt. The servants felt our mood and those who I asked to stay awake took to their assigned stations with knives and cleavers taken from the kitchen. It was a curious collection of sentries that stood guard that night, as the womenfolk kept to our bedchamber.

  Sana had picked up on the fear of the house and our main concern other than to stay awake was to keep her calm. There wa
s a wild look in the girl’s face, as if she had guessed the truth though it would have meant nothing to one of her years. She spoke as little as normal, but without one of her family holding her she would draw herself into a ball and whimper.

  The night drew on. I paced the corridors, sometimes alone, sometimes with my sons. Each of us carried a blade and a lamp, but we heard nothing. Only once did I open a window to mark the weather. The storm had ended. The air was still and I could make out the black outlines of clouds in the sky with the light of the uncovered moon. I tasted the fresh night air, the rising scents that follow the storm and almost smiled. The worst, it seemed, was over. There was a peace on the Land I had not detected since arriving. The moors seemed merely that, no more than empty miles of heather and peat soaked in rain. And then I noticed the quiet.

  It was not the silence of night, for what night is ever silent? It was not calm, there was no peace out there but the empty noise of a dead place, of a noiseless brooding or lurking predator. It is hard to understand that utter quiet for one rarely hears it. The absence of disturbance falters before this weighty space – devoid of sound but clamouring with sharp thoughts and buzzing anger. I slammed the window as fast as I could and latched it well, locking the door of the room behind me and stamping my way downstairs to pierce the fog about me.

  I awoke to a haunting flurry of notes that rang out through the house. I had no idea of the hour, but as I raised myself to my feet I felt leaden, as though it had been the sleep of the grave. My body protested each movement, cried out at each step and my head was so fogged I twice found myself pressed against the wall for support. Still the music played. The high unearthly notes of a virginal or harpsichord echoed in ancient tones through the wood and stone of this rock in history – a hypnotic song that caused my eyelids to droop. I had to fight to stop myself from sagging to my knees such was the weight I felt on my shoulders.

  ‘Father,’ came a voice from behind me, choked and wavering though whether it was my head or the voice I could not tell.