by Tom Lloyd
I mounted my horse and Dever took hold of the reins – watching carefully for any mad break for the horizon, though in truth my whole energy was spent on keeping in the saddle. Forel trotted alongside, with Toramin’s reins in one hand, his eyes scanning all about but there was nothing to see. Even the trees had spent their energy and now only vaguely saluted our passing as the storm rumbled well off to the north.
When we reached the village a crowd was gathered on the green, standing before the stone shell of a building as flames lit the faces of those throwing buckets of water. The fire must have burned quick and fierce, consuming everything. A man detached himself from the group and ran over, his face and clothes stained with soot and mud.
‘My Lord?’
‘Was that the inn there? Was that the only one hit?’
‘It was, my Lord. It’s a doubly cursed night, my niece is missing too.’
‘Then you must be Master Tinan,’
‘That’s me, my Lord. Have you seen Emila?’ Whatever curiosity he had at my manner, it was overwhelmed with fear for the girl.
‘I’m afraid not, but it was her I was coming to see.’
The conversation went no further as a shout from away to my left attracted our attention.
‘Oh Gods,’ moaned the innkeeper as two men came into view, one carrying a body. A woman’s white sleeping shift trailed down from the still form to stick to the man’s legs
‘I’m sorry, Moren,’ called the man with the body as he closed on us, his face grave. When they came closer I could see that he was nearly completely soaked. ‘It were too late when we found her.’
‘We went looking as soon as we heard her!’ called the youth, unable to keep still at the man’s side.
His eyes leapt from the body to us and back again while he chattered on. The girl’s face was obscured by long strands of wet hair. I caught a glimpse of pale white teeth and what was either mud or a bruise on her neck. The innkeeper met them and took Emila’s body in his own arms, holding her slender corpse as easily as he would a child.
‘We heard her scream, but she weren’t there when we looked.’
‘Quiet boy,’ snapped the older man with a scowl. ‘I’m sorry. By the time we found her in the stream she were already gone.’
The innkeeper sank to his knees and began to weep loudly. A woman standing by the remains of the inn shrieked and ran to his side. By unspoken agreement we all stepped away to give them room for their sorrow, and I, drained of emotion as I felt, took the man who had brought the body to one side to speak to.
‘You found her?’ He nodded, realising who I was from my clothes and startled that I would be there to take an interest. ‘The boy said you heard her scream?’
He nodded again, shooting a look to Master Tinan before replying.
‘We did, I’ve never heard the like. Shrieked like a banshee she did, close past our house. When it stopped we went out to see who it were, but she must have fallen in the stream and been taken down by the current. We found her about thirty yards further. And oh Gods, the look on her face!’
I didn’t need to ask. I remembered Madam Haparl’s words about my mother’s corpse. My heart ached for another lost to this mystery as Dever came to join us.
‘There’ll be nothing of the book left. Emila’s … was staying in the attic; it’ll have been the first to go.’
‘The poor girl, dead for the love of her mistress. If I’d been quicker perhaps …’ My voice trailed off. What use were words now? Emila was dead, killed for her loyalty. No words would change that.
‘Perhaps we can still salvage something from this night.’
I looked back from the mourning aunt and uncle in surprise, but had no strength to chastise Dever for his lack of respect as he continued.
‘From what I remember of grandmother, she would not abide untidiness. That day book was pristine always, she’d even trim the edges if they started to look ragged. I can’t believe she would have kept the letters loose inside. Surely she would have copied them down and put the originals away if the information was that important.’
‘But we looked through her papers already,’ I protested.
‘The writing boxes. We took the papers out of them, but you always said they had hidden compartments. We didn’t open any of those.’
‘Gods, I forgot all about them! But that means …’ He matched my gaze and nodded, a spark of fear in his eye.
‘That means we should be at home. Forel!’
We both ran for our horses and mounted directly. I was weak and light-headed, but the dignity of grace is an easier sacrifice than the safety of my family. Forel looked up from his conversation and by instinct leapt up into his saddle to follow us. There was no time to speak as we rode, no time to explain.
I couldn’t force the image of that limp and soaked figure hanging dead in the man’s arms, but this time it bore my wife’s face. The image was too painful to bear and I kicked my heels hard into the flanks of my horse to escape the pain of such thoughts.
As we reached Moorview, Daen ran out to greet us. The storm had abated but it was no summer evening and she hugged herself to disguise her shivers. Worry was etched into her face, but it relieved me still to see nothing more.
‘Father, at last.’
‘Is everyone well?’ I replied, slipping off my mount as fast as possible. The boys followed on my heels leaving the three horses untethered for Berin to collect.
‘We’re all fine, but about an hour ago the wind suddenly became as fierce as before. The shutters in the jumble room must have been loose, it ripped out the entire frame. The wind was so strong down here; the Gods only know what it was like up there.’
I stopped and took her by the shoulders. She looked tired, drained by the course of today’s events and unable to endure more.
‘What about the writing boxes? Where are they?’
‘The storm destroyed everything. When we managed to open the door the desks were overturned, the papers flung out over the grounds and sodden—’
She had no time to continue as I turned and smashed my fist against the uncaring stone wall behind me. A deep rage welled up inside me – this had all been for nothing. Shouting curses at the world, the spectre that plagued the moors and my own damned luck, I hardly noticed Daen shout at me until she took me by the shoulders and pulled me around to face her.
‘She took the letters out! Listen to me! When you left to get the book, Mother went to take the letters out. She remembered grandmother showing her how to open the compartments so she went to look there and found some letters.’
I stared back like an idiot, wordlessly gaping while Dever and Forel gave a shout of victory and clapped each other on the shoulder. Of course Cebana would know how to open them. She would be the one to inherit a lady’s writing box, why rely on a man’s memory to work them? Some imitation of joy surged in my heart until as I pictured the limp sodden figure of Emila and wondered what danger Cebana had exposed herself to.
We ran to the family room where Cebana stood, a small packet of papers in her hand. She wore a faint smile on her lips, half hidden by the papers that were still bound in ribbon. Embracing her fiercely I pressed my lips against hers, murmuring words of love. When I could draw myself away, I took the packet from her hands and led her off to another room. Our children looked furious at the move to exclude them, but I ignored their faces and shut the door behind me.
We walked down the corridor to the library, taking two lamps off the wall as we passed and using them to light the fire there. I do not deny that I was taking my time through an apprehension of what we might discover. Any sense of victory had faded into nothing as I was reminded these letters had caused at least two deaths, that the truth within them might be horrific and terrifying.
At last I developed the courage to start. We settled down onto a small sofa near the fire, huddling together with the comforting presence of books around us. The tall window was still shuttered and the heavy drapes drawn so I felt s
ecure and comfortable as I began to read. Cebana reached for another of the letters but I held on tight, selfishly perhaps but I wanted to know their contents before exposing my wife to it. There were nine letters in all; some from correspondents whose names I recognised but several I did not.
I cannot say what suspicions they provoked in me – only that they dealt with a single event in one form or another. Most seemed idle hearsay until combined with the others, while one was remarkable that it had ever been written and another quite shocking for the damage it could cause to so many, hinting as it did towards heresy, blasphemy— But I must say no more.
My mind returned to the despoiled tapestry upstairs, to the damaged figures of that most famous scene. My stomach tightened as I understood why it had been done. The eighth letter told of a glimpsed scene that seemed a fever-dream, but as I recalled those marred depictions I realised the horror in the author’s mind had not been madness.
Cebana tried again to read what I had but this time I was sharp in my denial. I could see her anger and hurt, but my fear was manifest. She saw it in my eyes and it caused her to cry for me. There we sat for the best part of an hour I think, holding each other tight and weeping as only lovers can.
Three times did she demand to share my pain and each time I was more resolved to keep it from all of them. Dever flew into a fury that I refused him, Forel was prepared to force the packet from my breast pocket, but my calm silence eventually won through. All I could think about was enduring the night and returning to Narkang in the morning. Eventually they realised this and helped me, but Forel and Daen especially continued in their questions.
Firstly, we saw to the house. Doors were locked and windows barred, we kept weapons close to hand as though preparing for a siege and in truth that was how we now felt. The servants felt our mood and those who I asked to stay awake took to their assigned stations with knives and cleavers taken from the kitchen. It was a curious collection of sentries that stood guard that night, as the womenfolk kept to our bedchamber.
Sana had picked up on the fear of the house and our main concern other than to stay awake was to keep her calm. There was a wild look in the girl’s face, as if she had guessed the truth though it would have meant nothing to one of her years. She spoke as little as normal, but without one of her family holding her she would draw herself into a ball and whimper.
The night drew on. I paced the corridors, sometimes alone, sometimes with my sons. Each of us carried a blade and a lamp, but we heard nothing. Only once did I open a window to mark the weather. The storm had ended. The air was still and I could make out the black outlines of clouds in the sky with the light of the uncovered moon. I tasted the fresh night air, the rising scents that follow the storm and almost smiled. The worst, it seemed, was over. There was a peace on the Land I had not detected since arriving. The moors seemed merely that, no more than empty miles of heather and peat soaked in rain. And then I noticed the quiet.
It was not the silence of night, for what night is ever silent? It was not calm, there was no peace out there but the empty noise of a dead place, of a noiseless brooding or lurking predator. It is hard to understand that utter quiet for one rarely hears it. The absence of disturbance falters before this weighty space – devoid of sound but clamouring with sharp thoughts and buzzing anger. I slammed the window as fast as I could and latched it well, locking the door of the room behind me and stamping my way downstairs to pierce the fog about me.
I awoke to a haunting flurry of notes that rang out through the house. I had no idea of the hour, but as I raised myself to my feet I felt leaden, as though it had been the sleep of the grave. My body protested each movement, cried out at each step and my head was so fogged I twice found myself pressed against the wall for support. Still the music played. The high unearthly notes of a virginal or harpsichord echoed in ancient tones through the wood and stone of this rock in history – a hypnotic song that caused my eyelids to droop. I had to fight to stop myself from sagging to my knees such was the weight I felt on my shoulders.
‘Father,’ came a voice from behind me, choked and wavering though whether it was my head or the voice I could not tell.
Contriving to turn around I fell onto one knee, but held my head up to see Dever and Daen clasping each other in their own efforts.
‘The music …’ was all I could say, wondering which of my children was playing such a wonderful tune. I had no memory of any of them learning to such a proficiency.
‘Sana’s missing!’ blurted Daen out as they reached me. Her voice was a tired slur, drunken with the music.
Behind them, I saw Forel and Cebana making a slow journey down the stair from upstairs, Carana close behind. Fear clarified my mind once more. Though my body was treacherously weak I lurched down the stone steps that led toward the discordant, beautiful sound. The ground slipped beneath my feet time and again – the music dragging at my heels so that each step safely gained was a victory won.
I reached the ground floor and turned left, towards the ballroom and long gallery that lay at the north end of Moorview. My destination was fixed firmly in my mind, the memory of a virginal propped in one corner of the ballroom, lit by the moonlight until I’d closed the tall drapes. Even as I crashed into a table on the corridor I did not take my eyes off the door ahead of me.
With a painful lack of speed I dragged myself to the door. With each step the musical strains grew to abominable levels. When I reached it and placed my hand on the tarnished brass handle, the melody was singing so violently at my ears I felt a wet touch of pain that felt like blood seeping from them.
I turned the handle, only to find it unyielding. In my weakened state it might have been carved from a single piece of stone for I could not move it even a fraction. And then suddenly the music stopped, so abruptly the last note seemed to vanish from the air rather than gradually fade away. As the ache of the music receded, my head began to clear and my strength started to return, even as the voices of my family behind me grew more insistent and real.
The door would not budge, but with the end to that awful, enchanting music I remembered another door off to my right. I turned to see it slightly open and ran with my last remaining strength. I threw the door open, hand on my sword but it remained in its sheath as I saw Sana before me, sitting placidly at the virginal which had been rolled out from the corner to stand before the ballroom’s great windows. The drapes had been opened and clear moonlight shone through, bathing her delicate features with cool white light.
I could see no one else but still I walked cautiously, looking all about me with my blade slowly emerging. Only my daughter giggling at my actions broke that caution and suddenly I threw myself toward Sana to gather her up. Her arms felt cool and smooth as she wrapped them about my neck, unconcerned and unaffected. It was a complete departure to the whimpering and nervous child of earlier, but profoundly welcome.
The others burst in but I ignored them, instead placing Sana back down on the stool she’d been sitting on. The stool had a cushion placed on it to raise her up to the correct height, but she could not have been the musician.
‘Sana, who was playing just now? Was it you?’
She gave me her best smile, innocent and knowing in one bright flash, and shook her head.
‘Man.’
‘What man? Where did he go?’
A flicker of confusion crossed her face and she looked to her left at the other half of the virginal stool beside her. Patently there was no one there so she looked back over her other shoulder to scan the room. The ballroom was almost entirely empty of furniture, certainly it contained no places to hide and she returned her attention to me with a shrug – that and a smile was the only response I received.
‘What did he look like?’ I urged.
‘Big.’
‘And his face?’
‘No face.’
Perhaps any other parent would have slapped a child for being so foolish in conversation, but this was how Sana spoke. It was a cur
ious habit, but one that made clear the anxiety of before was gone without trace.
‘No face? What do you mean?’ questioned Cebana as she appeared at my side.
I held up an arm to stop her going any further in case it distracted the girl’s flighty mind, but Sana only waved a little greeting. ‘Do you mean he had no nose perhaps? Or was an eye missing?’
‘He had a nose. Silly! Had eyes, had a mouth, had a nose. No face.’
There was something about her speech that made me believe her. Whichever way she meant it, Sana was sure that the man had no face.
‘How about his clothes? How was he dressed?’
It was a question I dreaded to ask, but knew I must. The child screwed up her face in thought for a moment, her button nose wrinkling before her smile shone again in the moonlight.
‘Ragged.’
The warning was clear enough. Neither barred door nor proud walls of history could protect us. It was the final reminder of my inadequacies and of the rank and name and history I had never wished to inherit. Thus I have written these words, through night and day till dusk is now at hand. The cloud-wreathed moor has sullenly waited for my emergence and now the hour comes.
Though my hand trembles at the prospect of what I must do, I believe I can bring these events to a conclusion. Those letters I have read again and again. They linger at the edge of my sight as I write now. My eye has drifted to them constantly and though what they reveal is an awful truth, there remains a chord of hope in this dismal symphony. The letters are now collected with a variety of more innocent correspondences that might provide directions to the foolish. All will lie safe in my jacket pocket.
As you must know, I was named for one whose body lies somewhere out on the moor. He was hardly a celebrated figure. He received no hero’s funeral and his death was recounted as a terrible one, however heroic, but he did what was necessary and was remembered warmly by those who owed him a debt. I go now to join him and the other lonely voices of the moor – to face the ghosts of the past and the fate I have chosen.
