The God Tattoo: Untold Tales from the Twilight Reign

by Lloyd, Tom

  She nodded at the strange words, suddenly hating the blinkered fear they’d been taught all their lives. ‘He’d never believe anyone would dare be past the fence at night, even he’s too frightened to ever do such a thing. I’ll call him, show him how wrong he is.’

  The figure inclined his head, indicating the ground beside him. ‘Join me out here, prove to him who’s the braver.’

  Cara giggled with fearful delight. ‘He’d be so frightened, he’d scream and wet himself like a baby!’

  Summoning her courage, Cara shouted her grandfather’s name as loud as she could and hopped over the line to the stranger’s side. Her voice carried well over the lessened wind and in moments the front door of their home jerked open. Cara felt a flicker of victory rush through her shivering limbs as her parents and grandfather all rushed out, pausing for a moment before spotting them beyond the fence.

  With a scream, her mother rushed forward, shrieking Cara’s name, only to be held back by her own husband. Grandfather Ozhin seemed rooted to the spot for a while, then staggered forward, crying out but the wind swallowed the sound.

  Cara watched their horror with a fading sense of jubilation, the terror on their faces only increasing with every moment. The moment of shock had gone, now she saw her mother wailing and screaming in a heap, her father’s arms wrapped tight around her chest in a desperate attempt to stop her coming any further.

  She looked up to her new friend for explanation. Only then did she see his face, the ice and teeth. Sharp eyes and night’s haunting music shrouded her from the distant cries, dulled by a descending veil.

  And then there was only white and the sound faded to nothing. The Land turned perfectly still and silent as the cold wrapped its arms around her.

  THE PICTURES OF DARAYEN CRIN

  ‘Who’s there? What do you want?’

  ‘Oh it’s just you – both of you is it? Goodness, you gave me a fright. Well don’t just stand there silently, come and give your father a kiss. No, no; nothing’s the matter. I was asleep, that’s all – asleep and dreaming.’

  ‘Of course I can see in my dreams, you little scamp, I wasn’t always blind you know!’

  ‘Oh, you didn’t know? Well, all the same, I remember enough to love my dreams. I was just a child when I lost my sight. My fourth birthday if this old memory of mine can be trusted – a short time for certain, but I saw something of the Land at least.’

  ‘Yes, it’s hard sometimes, hard indeed. Makes my heart ache so bad it’s fit to burst sometimes, but I’ve lost less than most and I thank the Gods for that. I remember only glimpses mostly; enough for me to know what a house looks like, or a person, but not so much I weep for the sunset over the valley or the view from the Bale Tower.’

  ‘Well, yes; I do weep when I sing the ballad of Mistress Bale, but that’s because it’s a beautiful song. If folk choose to believe I’m weeping for any other reason, that doesn’t bother me when it earns the coin to put food on your table! Hah, don’t be so shocked, Ethia! Being blind doesn’t mean I’m a fool. If the Gods wished me this way I’ll not complain, but if fools choose to see some grand nobility in it that’s not my fault either.’

  ‘Yes, it’s this house I’ve seen – your mother moved in here when we married; your grandmother had taken Ethia’s bedroom the year we started courting. She lived with us long enough to see one of you born and that helped her find peace. I like to think the house hasn’t changed a scrap over the years. I’m sure it has, but even today I see it with the eyes of a child, one ten winters younger than you, Daken.’

  ‘What took my sight? A fever, or so the doctors claimed.’

  ‘Believe them? How am I to know, I was a little boy at the time. I remember the fever well enough and the failing of my sight. It took a few weeks I recall, no blowing out of the lamp there; more like a shadow gradually— Hmm. It’s funny, I’ve been so careful not to say it that way for years. I wonder why it came to mind now?’

  ‘Oh, your grandmother. Perhaps no one’s asked me about my sight since she died, more than likely I suppose. Well, that’s how it was, a shadow descending, darkening everything around me. It upset Mother to hear it described that way, don’t ask why.’

  ‘What part of “don’t ask” was unclear, eh Daken? No, you’re too young to hear about that, why don’t I tell you a story of the man you were named after? No? Are you sure? He was a savage one in his earlier years, bloodthirsty and brutal; hardly the trusted general he ended up – isn’t that the sort of story boys like to hear?’

  ‘Ah, the pair of you! No, I don’t think you’re old enough. Oh enough of whining, you both should be getting ready for bed shouldn’t you? Where’s your mother?

  ‘No, stories of the Mad Axe are different; bloodthirsty white-eye he might have been, a story’s different when it’s about your own family.’

  ‘Yes they are – dammit, Daken, they are! Enough of this, to bed the pair of you! Shut up and go to your rooms or I swear by the Gods I’ll cane you myself.’

  ‘Children? Children, are you in here?’

  ‘Ethia, please, shush. I know, I frightened you. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, I just lost my temper. You have to understand, this is a subject I’ve not talked about for twenty years.’

  ‘No, it’s more than just my losing my sight; I wish it were only that. You don’t remember her but my mother was always a lovely woman, so kind and caring, but before I was born she was also a happy woman. This is something my grandparents told me when I was about your age, they thought I should know. The only memory I have of her face is a smile like the sun, but when you lose your sight you have to get better at hearing things instead.

  ‘My mother was, for much of my life, frightened – frightened and sad. When I was younger I thought it was my fault. I still remember the day I described losing my sight as a shadow falling over me. She wept for two whole days, all the grief for my father that she’d hidden from up until then.’

  ‘You’ve no idea the effect your birth had, Daken. Yes, you too Ethia, my mother never saw you born but you were on the way and it was the final touch that allowed her to let go of the fear she’d carried half her life. I’d always wanted a family, a proper one that was more than just my mother and I – one full of happiness rather than loss. The two of you made us complete, but you did something else I didn’t expect. You gave me my mother back, the one I remember smiling down at me in my early years. The woman who’d been full of joy, returned to me for that last year of her life. For that I can never thank you both enough.’

  ‘My father? Yes, this is about him. You know he died when I was very young, don’t you? I don’t suppose anyone said anything more than that though.’

  ‘They did? An accident in Narkang? Well, of a fashion, I suppose. I, ah – I probably shouldn’t tell you this, not until you’re a little older, but I think you deserve an explanation for my temper. Before I do, mind, both of you just remember this is all over – there’s nothing to fear now. That’s what brought back my mother’s happiness, the sight of Daken alive, whole and happy. It’s over and there’s nothing more to fear.’

  ‘Yes, I know I’m repeating myself. Thank you, Ethia, but it’s important you understand. Very well, where to begin?’

  ‘At the beginning, yes, Ethia. Something you will learn in class soon enough is that history is a complicated beast, and the beginning is often hard to discern. For a start, not everything they will teach you is quite the truth, sometimes there will be little details left out.’

  ‘Sorry, I’ll get to the point. My father was called Darayen Crin and he was a merchant. Two years before the Menin invasion – do you remember when that was? Good, well, two years before that a man and a woman died in mysterious circumstances in Narkang.’

  ‘No, I don’t know what those circumstances were, no one knew. That’s why they were mysterious. You have to understand, this story was told to me by my grandparents when I was a boy. I’ll tell you what I know, but I just don’t know everything. All I ca
n say is that the old king was involved; the man who died was a friend of his and one memory I do have is of a King’s Man standing in the parlour talking to my father. He was the tallest man I ever saw, tall with blond hair and a long scar down his face. That man frightened me, enough that I had to be taken out of the room by Kolus while they spoke.’

  ‘Kolus? He was the estate foreman; already an old man by the time I was born. I don’t remember much about him, only that he was always very gentle and had a gravelly voice. He was a soldier once I believe, during King Emin’s wars of conquest, but he never even raised his voice to me. Anyway, the King’s Men – there were two, but I don’t remember the other – they had come to tell my father to stop writing letters and asking questions about the deaths in Narkang.’

  ‘They were called Marshal and Lady Calath, I believe. Marshal Calath was my father’s cousin; I think the family still live up in Inchets, not too far from here. As for his wife, she was related to the king’s first minister, a powerful man called Count Antern. I don’t think we ever found out what happened, but once I spoke to a travelling minstrel from Narkang about it. He remembered the matter because the city had been aflame with rumour for a few days; all sorts of ghostly talk about them being murdered in a locked room, but then a common thief confessed and was executed for the crime.’

  ‘He laughed about it at the time – said the whole instance had become a byword for the power of rumours. I don’t know if it exists today, but at the time he said the phrase “a marshal’s reflection” was used to describe something repeated so many times it became distorted beyond all recognition. Why the King’s Men felt the need to travel here and warn my parents about such a distortion I’ve never understood, but in some ways I think my mother was as frightened of them as much as anything else in the Land!’

  ‘Now, my father had been very close to the marshal despite being many years younger. He had, in fact, visited the couple mere weeks before their murder. He was on his way home when a rider caught up his wagon train and gave him the news, asking him to return to Narkang to answer some questions. On his way back a second rider cancelled the request and told him the culprit had been executed so he returned here, knowing he wouldn’t arrive in time for the funeral and having a family of his own to attend to.’

  ‘Stop interrupting, Daken. Now where was I? Ah yes, he returned home and life went on as normal. I assume my father was grieving, but I was too young to remember, I’m afraid. I do know that one day, a few weeks after he came home, a letter arrived from a distant aunt in the city he’d seen briefly during his stay – some gossipy old spinster, nothing like your aunt at all of course.’

  ‘Hah, yes indeed, but don’t tell your mother that! Anyway, after receiving her letter my father became very depressed, he refused to attend to the estate’s affairs and spent most days locked away in his study. He wouldn’t speak to my mother for long periods, I remember her being very upset and hugging me while she wept. What was said and what happened I don’t remember, but he started writing to city officials and the Watch commander about the murder, which of course prompted the visit by the King’s Men.

  ‘After they came and warned him off, intentionally frightening Mother in the process I’m told, Father became even more withdrawn. He wouldn’t eat, he refused to sleep or work. He became obsessed with this murder, quite forgetting his own family. Out of desperation my mother took me to visit a mage called Archelets who lived nearby. He owned Beller Hall, you know the one?’

  ‘Yes, that’s it. He was a rich mage who didn’t have to work for the city guilds or anything, he was of a good local family and my parents knew him well. My mother went to Mage Archelets and begged his help. He agreed, naturally, and suggested my father come and help him with his experiments. My father was an educated man and, while he wasn’t a mage of course, he was skilled with his hands and the mage needed some practical assistance.

  ‘I’m told a mage is a difficult person to refuse – but all I remember of his visit was the tricks he performed for me, far in excess of anything some hedge wizard at a fair would be able to manage. Needless to say I was as delighted as I was terrified of the man, but I’m told my father took a lot more persuading. What transpired has been lost to history, but eventually my father agreed to work with the mage and the next morning travelled to Beller Hall to begin.’

  ‘It seemed to work; he came back after sundown and hugged me for the first time in weeks apparently. Whether because of the activity, distraction, or a stern telling-off from Mage Archelets, my father remembered he had a family to take care of and did so. He had moments of melancholy and was frequently exhausted by the work he was doing for the mage – of all things, carpentry, glass-blowing and overseeing work by the blacksmith over in Garranist – but much of the man he had once been returned and life started heading back to normal.’

  ‘No dear, it didn’t turn out that way. The mage was conducting experiments with mirrors – the details I never heard, but somehow he was using magic to etch an image onto the silver-back of special mirrors.’

  ‘No, not like the one your mother has, mirrors he and my father made especially for the process. I never saw it myself of course, but my mother for a time had kept one of their early successes – not very detailed but my grandparents said you could clearly make out the lines of my father’s face in the mirror. He’d posed before the fireplace in the mage’s study, grinning with joy at the shared success.’

  ‘Somewhat like a painting, yes, but more accurate and only in the finest shades of grey. The process was to expose the mirror before whatever scene they wished to have etched and use some magical process to set that into the mirror. How exact it all was I don’t know, but I do know they discovered something strange the more they experimented with the process. The greater amounts of magic they used, the worse the images turned out. The pictures were blurred in parts, on occasion some details hadn’t been etched at all – it was as if they didn’t exist.’

  ‘No, not Father – a vase was the only one I can remember. The picture showed the line of the panelling on the wall behind, unbroken as though nothing was there. Another had a blur across most of the mirror, from one side all the way across to where my father stood at the fireplace. The image of him was poorly etched, as though he had been moving throughout the process, but he was very careful to be still. The process was not a quick one and neither of them had any desire to waste the mirrors they had to make themselves – it was a costly and time-consuming process.’

  ‘What was the cause? Well they didn’t know, they couldn’t understand it. In desperation they tried to increase the magic used even further, at which point something very strange happened. The next image was of my father as usual, but there was another figure in the room. It was indistinct, but at the window there stood a woman where of course there had been none in real life.’

  ‘Yes, so they realised. Mage Archelets recognised the figure at once, despite the lack of detail. It was his mother; a woman dead some thirty years by then, before the conquest. Both men were terrified, this hadn’t been their intention at all. Mage Archelets realised the increasing levels of magic used was bringing out echoes of the past. The more they used the further back they could reach. The vase had stood there not long before they started work so it had left only a small impression on the Land – he described it as ripples on a pond, the biggest of which might last for years. His mother had often stood at that window, looking out over the gardens beyond, and some echo of her had remained.

  ‘To my father this awakened only one thought, the obsession he had tried to bury those past weeks. For what could leave a greater impression on the Land than a murder? All this he kept from his friend, but his sullen nature returned and he left for home early that day.

  ‘That night my father broke in to the mage’s house and stole the apparatus and several plates they had already prepared. He never came home again, but travelled with all speed to Narkang – determined to discover the identity of his cousin’s
murderer.’

  ‘Yes, Daken, I’m afraid he did. Mage Archelets was naturally distraught, but beyond sending a message on to a friend of his in Narkang there was little he could do. He was an elderly man, my father in the prime of his life. With a heavy heart he went on with his experiments with the remaining equipment he had, pursuing them further still.

  ‘What he discovered prompted him to send a second message, this time by fast courier to the king’s uncle with whom he was acquainted. They acted with all haste but it was too late, they didn’t reach the former home of Marshal Calath in time. Watchmen broke in and discovered my father in the upstairs study – dead on the floor with some hedge wizard he’d hired in Narkang a few hours previously, both lying amid the smashed wreckage of the mage’s equipment.

  ‘They had to break down the study door as well; it had been barred from the inside. Mage Archelets told my mother the last pictures he’d created had used greater magic still and in them could be seen my father.’

  ‘Yes, my father who was by then on the king’s highway to Narkang. My father who was standing there in the same pose as he always adopted in the pictures, for ease of comparison. But he wasn’t alone in the pictures – there were other figures. One was Archelets’ mother, another a man he guessed from the stature to be the Hall’s previous owner.

  ‘Except now, each was facing my father – looking straight at him and reaching out. In the very last, the other figure had almost touched the image that was my father’s echo. My mother never discovered what was etched in the pictures in Narkang, only that there were three of them. The last was still in the broken picture-box when my father’s body was found. He never saw what was on it.

  ‘Around that time I came down with a fever. For a week I sweated and raved, close to death. When I recovered, my sight was already failing, but of that week I had only one memory. It was the dream of a room where the furniture was all covered by dust-sheets and a figure stood facing me – a shadow with claws, reaching for my eyes.’