The God Tattoo: Untold Tales from the Twilight Reign (22 page)

I stood there for a minute or so, listening to the quiet of my home and the weight of years that beleaguered it. The familiar scents were there but overlaid by the spice of dust. The deserted
corridors gave off a weary heartbeat of sorrowful creaks, giving up the ghost after so many years.

I was about to follow the voices of my family when a faint shadow darted at me from my right. I gave quite a start at the movement but it was only Berin’s anxious face trying to catch my
attention. Though he almost had to stoop to squeeze the tousled mop of hazel hair under the door beam, Berin hesitated to pass through it and contented himself with filling the doorway with his
large frame.

‘Your Lordship, sir,’ he began, the words tripping and stumbling over each other. ‘I went to the stable sir, to find feed for the horses. They’re in a right state there,
what should I do, sir?’ Berin was near to tears, his wide honest face turning red with upset.

‘Who are? What has happened?’

‘The ponies sir, and a pair of horses too. They’re in a poor state, been left there. Please sir, can you spare me to see to them?’

‘Gods, it didn’t occur to me!’ I cried in dismay.

My mother had only required a pair of horses for her carriage since there was no one to hunt here these days, but the small herd of ponies was her constant delight. Her walks used to take her
out beyond the ha-ha, to where the creatures spent most of the day roaming. The dwarf horses, the height of a man’s waist, would cluster about her as she fed them. It had put me in mind of
the parties held here when my brother and I were children; I think it did so for her too. It was one of the few times I saw her truly smile since my brother died.

‘Of course, Berin, do all that you can for them; you remember where the well is? Get fresh food and water out for them, we can fetch more from the stream later. I’m going to send
Dever to the village to round up the servants and bring them back. When they return, the stablehands are under your charge, understand?’

He nodded and then disappeared back to the stables. I knew him to be mild and gentle for all his obvious strength, but from his expression I suspected the stablehands would return to a nasty
shock. I believe much of his devotion to Sana was the fact that she was a slender and delicate little thing, and Berin’s huge compassion was moved by anything defenceless and weak. Though the
ponies were not any less capable than their wilder relations, shut in a stable they would have been helpless.

The family room was a picture of lifeless order when I at last followed my family in – everything neat and tidy but arranged in such a way I could tell the room had not been in use
recently. Dever had succeeded in catching a spark and was nursing an infant flame in the grate. Our aging housekeeper sat on his left, her eyes closed as though lulled to sleep by the sound of
activity in her beloved house. I was loath to disturb her and decided my questions could wait. Kneeling beside my son, I took over his menial duty while Carana and my wife flung back the faded
heavy curtains that shrouded the room in darkness.

The familiar screech of protesting brass filled the room as they did so, the thick, weighted drapes hung by tarnished hoops from the rail. Soon, shadow was supplanted by weak and reluctant
daylight. It nosed suspiciously at the high armchairs, pushed into the corners and held up the dust accumulated in its absence with a reproachful glare. That display was enough to prompt Cebana to
wrestle with the bolts and latches that held the terrace doors closed. With a gust of relief they opened and the cool evening air rushed in to reclaim its domiciled cousin.

‘Dever, I need you to go to the village, there’s still a little light left. I want a staff tending the house by tonight and your uniform will be the best incentive to overcome their
fears. If that is not enough, and by the Gods your command as scion should be all they need, tell them their wages will be paid uninterrupted if they come back with you. For those who refuse,
remind them who owns the village.’

Dever looked a little startled by that, for I am not a hard master and it would be an evil thing to evict people as autumn encroached. I hoped the fear of that evil would prove enough, but my
blood had also been stirred by the pitiful state of house, housekeeper and ponies. In a rash temper I was ready to do as I implied. After a glance to gauge my mood, he turned and departed, his
mouth set in a grim line.

I was left standing at the fireplace, my little fire struggling onward and upward, adrift in the energetic swirl of my wife and daughter as they fought to revive the house from its slumber.
I’m afraid I could not bring myself to join them, not quite yet.

Unable to bear the oppressive atmosphere that ruled Moorview, I slumped into a chair, facing out through the terrace doors to the loneliness beyond. The light was fading fast, the gloom rushing
out from under rock and heather towards us. It felt a vain effort to light the lamps, throw open the windows and set the fires blazing, but my family did just that.

Never mind the creeping chill of the air, my wife forced Moorview to breathe it in, to stir from its decaying slumber and return to the world of the living. By the time the servants returned,
trailing disconsolately behind Dever’s horse, Moorview had begun its rise back from the otherworldly grasp of the moor. Though darkness surrounded us, we shone our light as defiantly as we
had before that great battle almost forty years ago.

It was late before we at last found ourselves back in the family room, resting a few precious minutes before retiring to bed. Supper was a meagre affair, a fatty broth and hard lumps of bread
that was nevertheless hot and sustaining. I looked over my little flock with pride. Even little Sana now dozing in her mother’s arms had helped. Though all five children appeared worn out,
there was at least a satisfied smile on each face.

The rooms of the house had been tidied and cleaned as best we could, the stables would see no deaths, fires were lit in our bedrooms and fresh linen put on the beds. For all the work still to
come on the morrow it was enough for tonight.

I took a moment at the window, staring out into the void made impenetrable by the flickering lamps behind me. From the dark of the moor came the sounds of night, the sudden crack of a falling
branch, the hoots and howls of the wild. A soft shower of rain began to patter through the leaves of the trees that flanked the castle.

The rain did nothing to calm the creatures of the moor; if anything they seemed incensed by its failure to dim our lights. A discordant concert of insects, the click of bats and the bark of
distant hunters assailed me as I stood resting against the shutter frame, but at my side I felt the uncaring strength of stone. When Cebana came to fetch me back, I felt a curious victory as I
closed and secured those shutters.

Whatever worries I had could not penetrate that heartening sense. The thieving maid, the damaged roof, the broken cistern, and the chaos my mother had left behind; all only a few of the tasks I
had to come. At least I felt at home again. That the servants crept about with fearful stares, jumping at the slightest noise and finding all manner of excuses not to be alone, I dismissed as the
least of my concerns.

The Cold Light of Day

The next day came all too soon. After a light breakfast, we took a turn about the grounds to survey our home in the light of day. Berin delighted us all by bringing a pony to
the lower gate, as Sana had requested as soon as she opened her eyes. As most of them were, it was a gentle and affectionate creature – thin but with a shaggy coat hiding that from Sana. My
daughter wasted no time in proclaiming the little mare her property, hugging it fiercely while her eyes dared me to deny her it. Needless to say, I could not. I had done the same many years
ago.

There was a slight ground frost that morning, nothing severe but it added a sparkle that managed to redeem the muddy and overgrown features of Moorview. The sky was grey and unhappy, holding
more than a promise of tears from heaven, but our turn about the grounds saw none and we were in as good a cheer as could be expected. Only the nag of my mother’s interment spoiled the mood
at all. She had of course been sealed in a coffin after her death, but family tradition stated that no one went to the final rest without a family member at their side.

My mother’s unexpected death had made that impossible, but at least I could be there when we took her to the crypt. By some peculiarity, the family crypt was located more than fifty yards
outside the walls, nestled at the foot of a rocky outcrop and overlooking the moor. The crypt itself drove a fair way into the rock, exploiting a natural fissure that had originally been used as a
temple. Some ancestor of mine had built a shrine within the house itself and thus the temple had proved unnecessary since, during my childhood at least, our weekly worship was conducted in the
village temple. Since it was consecrated ground, and secure, it had become a family tomb and served very well in that respect for many generations.

Seeing Madam Haparl being slowly helped out to the rampart terrace, I left my family and made my way up through the lower gate and up the stone stair that led up there. The main tower was set
against the perimeter wall, at the near-side of which was a large terrace at rampart height that afforded an uninterrupted view of the moor. My intention was to chide her obstinate refusal to rest,
but the gleam in her eye defeated such intentions. Despite the footman supporting her weight, her face was determined enough and she gave me no time to speak.

‘My Lord, forgive the intrusion, but the sheriff is here as you requested.’

‘Thank you, Madam Haparl.’ I went to the battlements and leaned over to call out to the new scion. ‘Dever, the sheriff is here, could you deal with him please?’

Dever nodded and, giving Sana a brotherly poke on the way past that produced a sudden burst of giggles, walked back with all the carefree confidence of youth. Returning to our housekeeper I
dismissed the servant supporting her and directed Madam Haparl to a bench. It provided a fine view of the moor, but the slight camber of the ground was such that my eye drifted again and again off
to the right. I could feel the presence of the family crypt lurking heavy and dark there, just beyond the trees.

‘The priest will be here in an hour or so. He’ll have morning rituals before he can come to see over the interment.’

A slight inclination of the head acknowledged my words, but it seemed I would have to be more direct.

‘Your words yesterday – afraid of what got my mother – what did you mean by that?’

She flinched and pulled her shawl close about her, fixing her eyes as low as possible, now fearful rather than evasive. I took hold of her arm, then withdrew hurriedly as I remembered her
stroke. She flinched at the touch but made no sound.

‘I’m sorry . . .’ I began. As I did she gave a weak cough to clear her throat and I kept quiet to let her speak.

‘Did the doctor not tell you, sir?’

Our voices were a remarkable contrast – mine loud and urgent, hers weak and incapable of haste. ‘His letter was short and not very helpful. He said her heart gave out, nothing more.
This house isn’t the one I left; there’s a stink of fear in everything now. Just what happened?’

‘Her heart gave out, there’s no doubt of that.’

‘But what more?’ I exclaimed impatiently. ‘Had she been ill? Yesterday you near made out that she had been murdered!’

She made no reply at first, just stared out over the desolate moor. I followed her gaze, but instead of losing myself in the gentle curve of the ground my eyes came to rest on a small bird, a
speckled wren if I remember my childhood accurately. It hopped a yard or so in our direction, cocked its head slightly and then kept still. For a few seconds I was sure the wren was watching us,
its quizzical stance directed toward Madam Haparl as if the creatures of the moor also required an explanation.

With no apparent warning, the bird stabbed downward then took flight, a writhing worm in its beak. The unexpected movement made me flinch, only very slightly but enough to wake Madam Haparl from
her reverie. Slowly, and with more than a little difficulty, she turned herself enough to look me straight in the eye. It was a cold face that regarded me, wary eyes made malevolent by the change
of the stroke.

‘I wouldn’t know about that, sir, but the look on her face – it was like nothing I’ve ever seen, nor care to again. Your mother had no weakness of the heart, none that I
knew. I was fetched when she was found. I stood by while the priest was called and I wrapped the body with her maid. I’ll not forget the look upon her face, not if I live another sixty-four
winters. The countess died of fright, terror that stopped her heart cold. What she faced there I don’t know, but . . .’

‘But it was enough to kill her?’ I breathed, the icy hands of dread clutching at my heart.

She inclined her head again.

‘And no one saw anything? The dogs didn’t . . . The dogs! Where are they?’ How I had failed to noticed before I could scarcely believe. One reason the house struck me as so
empty was the lack of dogs underfoot, something that had escaped me entirely. My mood had been so affected, their absence had just been marked as yet another aspect of Moorview’s gloom.

‘The dogs are gone, sent away a few months back.’

‘But why? What possible reason was there?’ There had always been dogs at home; they were part of every estate and manor in the country. To send them away seemed absurd.

‘They would have been no help. Didn’t guard no more, just hid indoors and kept to the kitchen for the main part. They howled all night every night. None of us could sleep, so the
countess sent them away. Only Cook’s little rat-terrier was interested in going out, forever after a scent as the others yammered all night. Whatever afeared them all, Scraps was after.
Chased trails all day around the house he did, till he got out one night.’

‘And then?’

‘Then we heard him scream. Never heard a dog scream before. They’ll yelp when you tread on them, howl when they’re lost, but Scraps, he screamed. It set the others off worse
than before. That’s when the countess said to take them away, give them to the villagers or the Winsan family.’