The God Tattoo: Untold Tales from the Twilight Reign Page 18
‘Ah yes, I saw that. What happened there? I didn’t see any disease in the stump. It was a good silver birch, was it not?’
‘It was, and none of the groundsmen could say why the storm blew it down.’
‘Could it have been the work of man?’
‘No sir, there was no sign of axe-work, only scratches made by some animal and that must have been seven feet off the ground.’
‘So what has happened here? Tell me straight, I beg of you. Tell me what curse has fallen on my family and home.’
I must have sounded as desperate as I felt, for her sharp gaze softened as I spoke. She loved this place as much as I, perhaps more so, and I knew whatever distress I felt would be shared.
‘I cannot, not for fear but I just don’t know. I know only as much as the others; that some horror walks the moors at night, and the woods and the grounds and the very house too perhaps. I know to be afraid of the shadows. I know not to be alone. I know the spirits of the moor are restless for something. Dogs can feel the unnatural and hounds that wouldn’t hesitate to make for a Brichen boar were so terrified they’d mess their own beds before going outside.’
The honesty in her rasping voice chilled me and I found myself unable to reply. It was Cebana who came to my aid, a comforting hand appearing on my shoulder though I recoiled from the unexpected touch.
‘My dear, are you well?’ she asked, alarmed by my reaction. I managed a weak smile that hardly convinced her, but she understood enough not to press the matter. ‘The sheriff would like to speak to you, to pay his respects.’
My mind was blank for a moment before I returned to reality and struggled to my feet. Cebana ushered me toward the house, saying as she did so, ‘Go on, he’s in the library with Dever. I’ll help Madam Haparl back inside.’
I did as I was told, the murmur of Cebana’s voice receding into the background as I returned to my duties.
The sheriff was a solid, thoughtful man of thirty-odd winters. His bushy, sandy-coloured eyebrows jutted out to cast a shadow over his face, their wild excesses a strange contrast to his neatly trimmed beard. While his face appeared guarded, his manner could not have been more open. Though he was a landowner in his own small right and not my tenant, he was courteous and accommodating in every available aspect.
The maid had admitted stealing some minor trinkets, nothing grand that we would have missed unadvised. Dever had already decided that she simply be released from service and ordered to leave the district. This, the sheriff asked me to confirm – a suzerain has nearly as much legal power as a magistrate and it would save the man a trip if I agreed. I would have preferred her to feel a few stripes on her back but the decision, perhaps rightly, had been taken out of my hands and we moved on to other matters.
The details he gave me of my mother’s death were as Madam Haparl had, lacking the atmosphere perhaps but congruent none the less. When summoned, he had inspected the scene and entire house as best he could. There were several ways a man could enter the house with no hurscals manning the walls, squeezing himself through easily tackled windows and the like, but no evidence that it had been done. Other than the look of fear on my mother’s face, there was no sign of foul play to be found.
Forel and I watched the sheriff leave with the dejected maid trailing on the heels of his mount, then returned to the house to set our minds to the task of assessing my mother’s belongings. Her jumble room had in former times been a painting studio. In summer it was a delightful place to spend the afternoons, light and airy with a bank of shutters on either side of the window to enhance the vista. Unfortunately, these days it lived up to its new title.
From that very room a whole host of paintings had been produced to hang in pride of place wherever they were gifted. Indeed, one great landscape painted there is hung in the great hall of Narkang’s Silver Palace. Secretly, we have always felt it inferior to its sister piece here, but both kings have taken great pleasure in it and the scene is much copied for the nation’s taverns.
Forel pushed open the door and we regarded the mess with a dispirited eye. Antique dressers, an ornate writing desk, stacked and forgotten pictures, all of these merely added surfaces for trinkets, papers of all sorts and ages, hats, scarves, ornaments and much more. For a full thirty seconds we stood there and contemplated how to even enter the room.
‘It looks as if she was looking for something,’ commented my son as he overturned a ribbon-bound packet of papers with his toe. It did indeed, for all the drawers were open and in places, letters had been placed with the individual pages side by side.
‘But what could have persuaded her to create such chaos?’
Forel had no answer to that. He shrugged the question away and stepped carefully through the room. Picking up an official-looking document he brandished it in my direction.
‘A deed. Perhaps she needed to raise some money?’
‘I’d have heard of it surely?’ I replied.
‘Perhaps not. She was a proud woman, and independent. She was happy to live here all alone as the dowager countess rather than give up the estate to you. If she had needed money, would she have asked?’
I nodded at the truth in his words, though I felt for sure our nearest neighbours, the Winsans would have heard of any sale and informed me. Our families had always been close and to not offer any property to some part of the Winsans first would have been extremely strange.
As Forel picked his way about the room, lifting odd things and ‘hmm’ing at what was revealed, I decided that we first needed to collect all the papers together, then they could be sorted and we could investigate what other treasures were here. I suspected that I would find one of the writing boxes on the floor would contain my mother’s favourite jewellery. No doubt an evening would be spent trying to remember the tricks to open the various compartments.
I decided to investigate the box room at the end of the corridor, hoping to find some convenient container there to collect all those papers and then spend a relaxed evening investigating the past. This part of the house had been hardly attended by the servants. Their quarters were all on the other side, in the south wing, and it was the least important area for day-to-day use. Dust lay undisturbed on the long, worn rugs that ran down the centre of the passageway. Only the occasional draught or passing human had disturbed its rest since long before my mother’s passing.
The sight caused me to wonder whether the maids had been forbidden to come up here. This isolated section of the upper floor seemed to have been hardly inhabited from the desiccated remains of some flowers in a dry vase on the landing. I made a mental note to ask Madam Haparl about this as I made for the handle of the box room. Just as I touched one finger to the speckled brass handle, a sudden shout of alarm broke the musty peace.
I ran back to the jumble room, reaching the doorway only to collide with my son as he stormed out, bellowing at the top of his lungs. Forel swung himself sideways to avoid me, but succeeded only in hitting the jamb and rebounding off to slam his shoulder squarely into my chest. As a tangle of generations we flew back across the thin passageway to hit the wall behind. I had no time to collect my thoughts, nor chastise his recklessness and discover the source of the excitement, before he took hold of my arm and dragged me with him.
‘On the moor! Come on, we’ve got to get the horses!’
Forel wouldn’t let go, or pay any heed to my protestations, so on we went in a madcap descent. We clattered down the wooden staircase that led from the attic level, then Moorview echoed with the deep clump of boots on stone as we descended the central stair. Servants scattered before us, panic on their faces at Forel’s incoherent cries. Skidding to negotiate a corner, I caught sight of his face. The youth was flushed with excitement and a manic grin on his lips.
‘Forel! Who’s out there?’ I called as our eyes met momentarily. The boy didn’t stop to speak, but shouted his answer as he darted off into the main hallway.
‘Who knows? But they’re out on the moor!’
Dever came running around the north wing as Forel took the reins in one hand and raised his cavalry bow to me in mock salute. The horse was unsaddled, but Forel was a light cavalryman and they all learned to ride and fight bareback in the Farlan style.
‘Dever, go with him! He’s off onto the moor!’ I shouted to my eldest as Forel spurred past his brother. Dever ran up with a questioning expression, either through incomprehension or having missed my words.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Follow your brother, he’s seen someone on the moor and is chasing them.’
‘Right, get Toramin saddled while I fetch my sword,’ he replied in an infuriatingly level voice.
‘There’s no time for that!’ I protested, only to have my son take me by the shoulders and look me calmly in the eye as one would an excitable child.
‘Father, I can’t catch him anyway. A stock pony over a wet moor will outpace any hunter; I can’t sprint Toramin out there for fear of breaking his ankle. If I can’t stop Forel then the least I can do is have a blade ready when I catch him.’
Eventually I realised the sense of Dever’s words and nodded, wasting no time for chat before going to the stable. I entered to see three startled grooms standing stock still, but behind them was Berin with Dever’s saddle already lofted on one shoulder. The man might have been simple, but he knew Forel’s wild streak well enough to realise Dever would be sent out after him, wherever the boy was headed.
I ran around Toramin and pulled the halter over the powerful hunter’s head, the superbly trained warhorse unfazed by the commotion and remaining quite still while he was attended. As we led the creature out, Dever emerged, fixing his swordbelt around his waist while slung over his shoulder was Forel’s cavalry sabre. He nodded to me and lifted himself easily up into the high saddle. With a gentle kick of the heels the hunter eagerly leapt forward, reaching out into that effortless long stride the breed is noted for. I went on foot, my horsemanship rusty enough that I decided not to follow. Moorland in autumn can be treacherous even for an experienced rider and my own horse was a fine image of myself; grown portly and whiskery for all his enthusiasm.
By the time I had made my way around the northern extremity of the house and out the lower gate, Toramin had already crossed the wooden bridge over the ha-ha and was flying through the meadow beyond. They disappeared down the slope at the far left-hand corner, trees concealing their passage down to the moor until at last I saw them emerge at a significantly slower pace. Forel was already out and making his way across the moor, seeming to making little progress covering the miles of land that stretched into the distance.
As for his prey, it was nowhere to be seen. The only quarry was a single grouse, rising up in alarm at Forel’s passage and winging east out over the moor. The game would have been welcome in the house, but Forel’s mind was not on the practicalities of country life and he ignored it. Even when the bird wheeled suddenly in the air and almost retraced its path toward us it was ignored and headed undisturbed for the forest to the north of the castle.
Moorview, as one would expect, was built at the edge of the rise that separated the wilds from our inhabited section of this part of the Land. With nothing higher than gorse bushes to obscure the eastern vista, it was possible to see many miles into the distance, though there’s little enough to see. Indeed my mother had often told me those celebrated victors, King Emin and the scarred pretender who fought alongside him, had stood in her very studio to plan the battle.
It didn’t take Forel long to slow and permit his brother to catch up. By that time a fair audience had appeared on the terrace. The grooms had been first to arrive of course, followed by the maids we had passed on our descent. Then my wife and daughters appeared, Sana uninterested in the lack of spectacle and preferring to swing herself through the air between her anxious sisters.
‘What are they doing?’ muttered Cebana in my ear, not taking her eyes off her beloved boys for a moment.
‘Forel thought he saw someone on the moor. Ah! If I’d stayed upstairs instead of letting him drag me down, I’d have seen where they went.’
She scanned the empty miles of open ground on either side. ‘But how could anyone hide out there? Even on a horse it would have taken them too long to get to cover. The nearest is directly towards us.’
She was right and the idea set a prickle of trepidation down my spine. Forel was not prone to fancy for all the excitability of youth. If there had been someone there I could see only two conclusions. Either the traveller had hidden somehow, though cover was low and horseback affords a good view, or they required no mortal means to disappear. Whatever the truth, I felt sure that this incident would contribute to the air of ghostly visitation that enveloped Moorview and its occupants.
I was still a sceptic, but the queer mood had spread from the servants to myself. There was a chill in the air that bore no relation to our current season. I looked up to the sky and saw ugly clouds forming. Rolling in over the heads of my sons were dark and threatening shapes, promising a storm to come and soon. I heard Cebana shoo everyone back to work, but I stood a long while and watched Forel’s disconsolate return, shivering slightly at the change in the heavens as I remembered the burial still to come today.
The Storm Begins to Break
I remained out on the terrace until my sons returned, staring over their heads at the empty moor as they trotted glumly home. As the pair crossed the ha-ha, I noticed Dever nudge his horse over to his brother’s and reach out to grasp Forel’s arm. Though the younger of the two hardly lifted his eyes, I knew that the gesture was the best consolation he could get. Rarely were words required between them. Dever knew his brother’s moods better than his own. Forel’s breezy calm was sometimes eclipsed by fierce passion, and at such times any failure was taken most gravely, however it came about.
They walked the horses past me and around the north wing, the sleek flanks of Toramin glistening slightly with sweat though it was Forel’s steed that had been through the greatest effort. The stock pony – the excellently named Mihn for he was perfectly quiet and loyal – looked as fresh and willing as ever, his thicker coat hiding any evidence of exertion.
As for Forel, his eyes remained downcast as he passed, though I was sure his shame was unjustified. Dever nodded to me as they passed, having dropped slightly behind his brother, and I saw no real concern on his face so I left the matter. If Dever felt the melancholy would pass soon enough, then I could busy myself with other matters.
The cloud over the moors continued to mass. It was clear that a storm was imminent. All I could hope for was that it held off until after the interment and the running repairs to the roof held. The work had been rough and ready since we had no craftsmen employed here, but the castle had endured worse and I feared no storm.
Returning inside I made for the kitchens, a pang of hunger catching me unawares. It was such a short walk to the kitchen I decided waiting for a maid to answer the bell would be pointless. I still found a childish delight in raiding my own kitchen and made my way down the dim panelled corridor towards it. I paused to take in the atmosphere of the house – the servants seemed to have melted silently into the woodwork. Enclosed in silence I could not detect a single presence, as though I were alone in the entire castle. Only the occasional beat of a hammer somewhere high above, a distant pulse running through the body of the house, reassured me that it was not so. At least one person remained hard at work repairing the roof in anticip
ation of the impending assault.
I walked into the upper kitchen and stopped to take in the unfamiliar sight. A long pine table stretched out before me, bare and scrubbed clean, while a great fireplace crackled off to the right and steps on the left led down to the stores. A kitchen is a grim place to be; weak light, a cacophony of smells that often are less than pleasant, grease and blackened fat caking pans and implements. Hardly somewhere a gentleman spends any more time than he can help.
Quickly I realised that I didn’t know where anything was and in the dirty light I couldn’t see anything that looked appetising. A cat prowled in the far corner, silent and alert for the slightest of noises. The high sloping windows afforded little luxury of detail, but with the fire crackling away angrily the shadows could not entirely swallow the dirty grey hunter. Cats in these parts are only partly domesticated; it is best to call them encouraged.
Our rat-catcher paused as I watched, holding my breath for fear of disturbing its quest. The cat crouched slightly, dipping and cocking its head to one side as it waited for its prey to venture out. The shoulders tensed, its entire body freezing into readiness. I felt my hands tighten, imagining the spring, the reaching claws and teeth puncturing like hot needles. Suddenly a burst of noise from below ground startled the cat into life once more. I also jumped at the flurry of whispers from below and it was I the cat fixed with a contemptuous glance before disappearing behind some casks.
I held a hand to my chest to feel the sudden pounding of my heart, but as I did so, words floated up to me from the stores below and I crept forward like a thief to discover what was being said. As I neared the open stairway I saw faint lamp light spread over the rough stone. Moving around the stair I closed as far as I dared, for some reason suddenly obsessed with a hunt of my own.
‘I ’eard the suzerain say it, they saw a man on the moor.’
‘In daytime? It can’t be!’