The God Tattoo: Untold Tales from the Twilight Reign (25 page)

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.

‘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.

‘It just seems, impious, that’s all,’ I replied, recalling that I had left my wife’s words unanswered.

‘Impious?’ That from anyone else might have sounded mocking, but Cebana was too good a person.

‘That I should see so much potential in them. That I should hope and urge them to so much, when I feel I have not the capability myself. The Gods made me as I am, and I act dissatisfied
with my lot. I expect more of them, of all of them – I felt it only natural that Dever would be celebrated within the Kingsguard, but why? My father was a warrior, but not I. Why then do I
expect Dever to become champion of the Kingsguard? Have I turned some formless dissatisfaction into a drive to make my children more than they might themselves? To be more than the Gods perhaps
intended?’

‘Oh Coran,’ cried my wife. Whether her tone was of frustration or affection I could not tell for at that moment, perhaps in answer to my question, the heavens opened. We had no
choice but to run for the shelter of the castle amid monstrous crashes of thunder, laughter and shrieks, while fat raindrops burst like flowers flashing through spring in one dramatic instant.

Clattering through the lower gate and up the steps we bundled into the family room as one, stamping and shaking like our ponies out in the meadow. Even in such a short space of time, the force
of the deluge had been enough to fairly soak us. The girls fussed over their hair, the boys their dress-uniforms. Cebana rushed off with Sana to dry her head before she caught a chill and I . . . I
stood back to watch with a slight smile. For all my forebodings, my fears and foolish doubts, this simple scene reminded me that life continues and no amo unt of brooding will change that.

There is still laughter in the world after death, no matter how dear the deceased. I had observed at the funeral of Cebana’s cousin that laughter is all the more important when the dead
will be sorely missed. There was grief all around that day, the loss of a smiling friend to all had cast such a deep shadow on the assembled family. With one idle comment breaking the gloomy hush,
the man’s sister had caused greater healing than the priest’s kind words. The smile of memory was still fixed upon my face when the unmen opened the door, a letter in his hand.

‘My Lord, I hope I’m not intruding . . .’

‘Of course not, please come in.’

He hurried around Daen and pattered up to me with a rather comical urgency, offering the letter up directly. ‘A boy from the village brought this to the house. He said a wool merchant had
left it at the inn and then it had been forgotten with your mother’s passing – no one was willing to bring it here. It’s addressed to the countess.’

I looked down at the letter and saw the careful calligraphy that indeed spelt out my mother’s full name – and curiously, her full title too, something that seemed overly formal for a
personal correspondent.

Forel offered a knife over. I took it and turned the grubby vellum over to see a blob of wax stamped with a seal I did not recognise. Sliding the dagger underneath the seal I freed the letter
and opened it up to read what would again plunge my spirits.