Tahn
TAHN
© 2005 by L. A. Kelly
Published by Fleming H. Revell
a division of Baker Publishing Group
P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287
www.revellbooks.com
Printed in the United States of America
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Kelly, L. A.
Tahn : a novel / L. A. Kelly.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-8007-5999-0 (pbk.)
1. Good and evil—Fiction. 2. Middle Ages—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3611.E44965T34 2005
813'.6—dc22 2004018096
Scripture is taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
With thanks to my literary agent, Alan Youngren, for believing in this story from the beginning; and to Emily and Jan and my pastors Terry and Debi Cain, for their continued support and valuable advice.
Soli Deo gloria
Contents
O
ne morning I woke up and just knew what Tahn looked like. I hadn’t been thinking about this story previously. It was a whole new idea, and it presented itself to me in one big lump. I knew what the guy looked like. I knew what his life had been and how he felt about that. I knew the things he was going to have to do to survive and that he would be doing them not for himself but for a lady named Netta and a group of scared and dirty kids. It was huge. It consumed my thoughts. I grabbed paper and started trying to get down all the details that I could.
I knew how the story would start, with Tahn climbing up a wall by night to steal the lady out of her room. I knew where he would take her and why he would leave her to go back for the kids. That day, I began the story. For weeks it nearly consumed me. I took paper everywhere, even to the grocery store or the playground with my kids, and I struggled to put on paper all the things that were flowing through my mind.
I knew the story I was writing had a medieval sort of flavor to it, and yet it was unlike our real medieval history. I knew it might seem European, but it was taking place in no actual setting in Europe or anywhere else in our world. This was a story that was practically trying to write itself. And I was very aware that it claimed a place and time all its own and would defy every attempt to define it as truly “historical” fiction.
The characters in
Tahn
are very real to me because of the intense level of writing energy I experienced during the summer in which I wrote the rough draft. My heart pounded in the midst of suspenseful scenes, and I could feel the intensity all the way to my toes. I cried several times, laughed once or twice. I must have seemed a little crazy to some family and friends, but I knew it was a gift. I knew it was a story that had to be told, whether or not it was ever published and regardless of what it might be called if it was.
Tahn
is special to me, though it is not my first book, because finally I accepted what I knew all along. I am a writer. And that is a calling I cannot deny. God has his purpose for me in it, even when I don’t know what that purpose is. Partly because of my experiences with
Tahn
, I had the confidence to finish other books I was working on, as well as more ideas that I had set aside for so long.
I knew as I was writing
Tahn
that there was a message in it about the incredible mercy of our loving God, who reaches down to the lowest depths of humanity with his saving grace. But the story also speaks of the forgiveness necessary among men. Even when the peril of the story had lessened and the villains were no longer such a present and direct threat, I knew the story could not end until certain choices were made. Love or self-guarded preservation? Forgiveness or the bitter hate that hangs on so tightly and begs for justification?
It is my hope that readers of this story will think about such choices in their own life. I hope they remember
Tahn
and see past the surface of the next ruffian they meet. I hope they see a potential hero in every lost and wayward child and pray accordingly. Then
Tahn
and I will have done our jobs.
T
ahn crept up the stone wall like a reptile silent after its prey. Almost he hoped that the young woman was not in the room above him, he so loathed what was to come. But he knew she was there. He had seen the flicker of her candle and enough silhouette in the window to know it was her.
He stopped for a moment, almost three stories up, to take a breath and prepare his mind. Lady Netta would be terrified of a stranger taking her by force from her family home. And she would be even more terrified if she remembered the one time they had seen each other before this night.
But what choice did he have? She would not leave willingly. Not with him. And Tahn knew that if he did not steal her away this night, someone else would. Someone who cared far less for her dignity or her life.
He hoped she would not struggle too much, for the thought that he might hurt her pained his heart.
Everything was quiet. The nobleman Trilett and his kinsmen were sleeping in their regal manor, the pride of Onath, most blessed of all the towns of Turis. Cool wind rustled in the trees beyond the wall and gate, defenses in which the Trilett family had long placed far too much confidence.
Guards should have been posted, many of them and not at the gate alone, to protect the lady and those she loved. By morning this grand home would be a shell emptied of its glory. And there was nothing he could do but try to ensure that none of the Lady Netta’s blood would be shed there.
Her window above him was dark as he pulled upward toward it. Even his boots on the weathered stone made no sound. The lattice shutters were not difficult to push aside, and he was up and over the sill quickly.
He thought of another stone home in the Trilett hands, a different wall he had once climbed to a roof garden. Karll had been the young man’s name. He had screamed to his bride in warning and had fought so valiantly.
Tahn shoved those thoughts from his mind. The Lady Netta. She lay on the bed here now, already sleeping. In an instant he was upon her. With one hand he squeezed both her wrists tight together. And with the other hand he pressed down firmly over her mouth. Even in the darkness, he could easily read the terror in her suddenly opened eyes.
“Do not scream,” he ordered her. “Do not struggle, and I’ll not hurt you.”
But she struggled. She squirmed beneath him like a wild thing, but he was too strong for her and too good at anticipating her efforts. “You must cooperate with me tonight, or you will die,” he warned. “Do you understand?”
His hand still pressed against her mouth, pushing her into the bed. The sight of her trembling nod made his insides burn. She would never understand. Her fear would be joined by so much more hatred when she realized who it was that had come to apprehend her. But he could find no alternative. Her family would never have listened to him. No more than a peasant could believe that a fox among chickens would protect them from the approach of wolves. He would have to get her out and hope that at least some of the Triletts would try to follow.
He rose from the darkness beneath the canopy of her bed, pulling her up with him. Clouds parted from the moon outside as the lady gained her footing in the middle of the room. He could not bear the look in her eyes. Did she know him already? Did she know that her black-garbed demon had returned?
“I will tie you,” he told her quickly. “Because I cannot risk you escaping. But first I will let you gather warm clothing and whatever else you need. Without a sound. And very quickly, do you understand? If you wish to live, you must cooperate.”
Slowly he released his hold on her. “Hurry,” he commanded. “Or you will leave with nothing.”
Feeling numb, Netta forced herself to obey the frightening intruder. How could this be happening? What might he do?
She pulled her warmest, bulkiest dress over her nightgown and laced on her shoes. Her comb, a sewing bag, and a few pages of handwritten script lay on the bedside table. She stuffed all of them into the pocket of her cloak and pulled it around her shoulders. Her mind was racing, hoping for a way of escape from this man. He’d surely kill her if she screamed or tried to run from the room. He’d already warned her of that.