The God Tattoo: Untold Tales from the Twilight Reign (30 page)

‘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 can 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.’

Gennay Thonal got up from her desk and stretched. Somewhere behind her, muffled by a heavy drape, a window shutter rattled its bolt under another gust of winter wind outside.
On her desk the flame of her oil lamp leaned slightly away, as though under the breath of someone who’d been sat beside her, but Gennay was quite alone in the still library.

The fire nearby hissed lazily and for a moment the curtain of shadows around the walls drew back, before settling comfortably back into position. It was dark there with only two lamps and a
fading fire to light the large, empty room, but neither the chilly breath of night nor the gloom on the ground floor were enough to disturb Gennay a shred.

She reached up towards the timbered ceiling with a slight moan of effort, but the stiffness in her back wasn’t enough to stop a smile from stealing over her face. Young and supple, Gennay
felt the ache fall away as she continued the movement around and down again until her fingers brushed the rug underfoot. The exercise was one she’d done most days for more than a decade and
proved no difficulty even now.