The God Tattoo: Untold Tales from the Twilight Reign (19 page)

Kastan nodded, that was well known. The Lady – Fate herself – was unconventional among the Gods, perhaps unique. She wielded little power and commanded few servants, yet was
respected as if she were a member of the Upper Circle of the Pantheon. Kastan was burning with curiosity. He had attended his studies well enough to know she gave no straight answers. He would have
to earn anything he learned. She was here to tell him something, but Gods were capricious at the best of times.

The Lady stopped, looking north past a copse of gnarled olive trees and into the vast golden rapeseed fields. Kastan took up position slightly down-slope of her, noticing for the first time that
she was not much shorter than he. That was rare for any man, but she didn’t appear to be oversized in any way. She merely met him on his own level. Tearing himself away from the burnished
curls that spilled down her back, Kastan followed her eyes to focus on a kite hovering ahead.

‘We will sit,’ said the Lady suddenly.

Her words came unnaturally loud to Kastan’s ears, and the compulsion to obey was terrifyingly strong. Turning, he saw two tree stumps where he would have sworn there had been none before.
And yet there they were, weathered by sun and rain and perfectly placed behind the Lady and himself. He sank down gratefully, her command having drained his will to stand. She followed suit with
perfect elegance and never once losing sight of the fields ahead.

Once seated, Kastan recovered his wits and wondered what this would mean for his future. He was leaving home today to establish his place in the Land, to seek the fame and glory that was all a
white-eye could hope for. That Fate herself had come to speak to him was enough to set a worm of unease in his gut.

All the priests said she was a harsh mistress to those she chose for her designs, and what future could he have serving a God other than the Patron of the Menin? The hand of Fate was as likely a
curse as a blessing. But how do you refuse a God when you cannot even remain standing in her presence?

‘What do you hope for in life?’

The question was as abrupt as it was strange and Kastan replied with a blank face. He had been expecting many things, but not such a seemingly idle question.

‘Well, boy? You must have some reason for leaving home.’

‘I . . . my reason for leaving home? I’m a white-eye; I wasn’t born to stand behind oxen all day. Why does any man want to leave home?’

Kastan looked at the perfect features of the Lady and his mind went disconcertingly blank. Her ethereal skin seemed to glow with an inner light rather than the bright rays of dawn.

‘Are you as unthinking as that?’ she replied scornfully.

‘Well . . . I . . . no.’ He gestured to the cultivated fields surrounding the village. ‘I want more from life than this.’ Kastan felt as if a weight had suddenly been
lifted from his shoulders. If it hadn’t been ridiculous, he’d have sworn from the expression before him that she had seen it go.

‘Then tell me.’

‘My family’s poor. We’re farmers and nothing more. But I can make up for the death of my mother in some measure by winning a title or lands – no dynasty of my own but
cousins aplenty and a father who’ll soon be too old for ploughing.’

‘You think your mother’s death was your fault?’

‘More mine than anyone else’s!’ he snapped. ‘It was my birth that killed her, my birth that killed my twin.’

The Lady showed no anger at his sudden outburst. Instead her face became softer, her voice gentle rather than commanding.

‘But that’s just what you are. That’s how your kind are born. There’s no fault to atone for.’

‘I’ve seen my father’s face when he sees his nephews – when his brothers cradle their grandsons. Not once has he blamed me, but everyone knows it was because I’m a
white-eye. By making something of myself, I can build a future for those who can appreciate it.’

She looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘It’s a hard thing to blame yourself for being born. Whatever the benefits for the tribe, it’s a cruel way to bring a child into the Land.
But put that aside for the moment, we must speak of the future. The past is who you are; the future is who you will become.’

‘And who will I become?’ Kastan asked brusquely.

She laughed and looked up at the sky. ‘Indeed; that, my boy, is the question.’

He followed her gaze. White bursts of cloud hung motionless above them, strangely shaped as though almost something he could recognise.

‘Whoever you want to be,’ the Goddess said at last. ‘I think that best describes your future. Do you know why I’m here?’ She looked back, but Kastan merely shook
his head and her smile glittered.

‘I wanted to meet you. I couldn’t wait any longer.’

She smiled as confusion flashed across Kastan’s face. This was not how Gods spoke in the tales. They commanded and nations tumbled. They reached out their hands and mountains split
asunder.

‘I shall explain. My goal is destiny. My tools are people, the great and the lucky. I can fashion a man’s life as I see fit, beat him into whatever shape I require. His whole
existence dedicated to one deed, to one swing of a sword or misplaced word. This is what I am and when I saw you I found a servant without equal. Your future is bright, young Kastan, so very bright
it burns my eyes. And yet . . . and yet I cannot touch you.’

Kastan looked up in surprise. Embarrassment and pride mingled in the Lady’s voice. Her eyes were blazing now, shining so hard he could feel the light in the deepest recesses of his
head.

‘I have little use for priests – that has always been true. But for those who possess greatness . . .’ She tailed off for a moment and shook her head, a sad smile on her face.
‘And yet even at your tender age I can hardly compel you. When I forced you to sit I could feel your resistance. You almost overcame it and the years to come will see your power
flourish.’

Kastan didn’t know what to do now, hang his head in shame or look up with pride. He found both strangely absent under the green lustre of her eyes. Slowly he allowed himself to sink into
that light. Her voice continued and Kastan felt the rest of the Land recede.

‘Within you is greatness, pure and unsullied. Within you lies the power to choose your own fate – to bend my machinations for yourself and become truly who you dream to be.

‘I come to you today to present you with your future. Two paths branching out – yours alone to determine. Both will end unrealised if you don’t become all that you can be, but
if you succeed where you choose your deeds will blaze a trail through history, and whatever you do I cannot interfere. There is a purpose woven into the fabric of the Land that even I must obey.
Some rules transcend all.’

She stood and looked down at Kastan, her face unreadable. ‘I have been granted one boon, to speak to you now and tell you of your choice. I cannot affect who you will be, but what I am
gives me the right to be present at that choice.’

Kastan stared back at her, unable to form words as a tumult of confusion swallowed him. He swayed slightly, rocking back on his seat at the weight of her words. His legs would not have been able
to hold his weight had he been standing and even seated his body almost betrayed him. The weight of years was suddenly upon him; lifetimes flashing before his eyes, possibilities and horrors
screaming through his soul. The sun flashed overhead, cloud and rain swirling around and fading to nothing in the same instant. The landscape changed. Kastan felt the Land age beneath his feet
– an echo of the future that coursed through his veins.

And then it was gone. The sun was still climbing, the morning mist still slinking home. Kastan shook his head, gasping for breath that escaped him. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his
thighs, forcing his lungs to work again. Slowly he found his way back to normality. It felt as if he’d not breathed for years, that he had almost forgotten how. The cool clean mountain air
scorched at his parched throat but gradually his heart slowed and the Land returned around him.

When he looked up again the Lady had not moved. She stood with her hands demurely clasped, a regal calm set into those smooth, full lips. She made no movement towards him, simply watching in a
remarkably inhuman manner.

‘Wha . . . what happened?’ Kastan asked, massaging his aching throat with his hand.

‘A taste of the future. I’m going to show you who you could be, but for you to make your choice the feelings must come from within,’ the Lady answered.

‘I don’t understand.’

‘The paths before you are not static. They will change as you make choices in your life, as they would for anyone. To simply show you an image of one possible future is not enough. You
must feel what you could become – understand what it means in your soul, else the choice is a false one.’

Kastan took a few more deep breaths, readying himself for what might come, and then nodded.

‘Very well; do what you came to do,’ he said, with an instinctual boldness that wasn’t echoed in his heart.

The Lady nodded and raised one upturned palm to her lips. Her hand appeared empty, but when she blew him a kiss something rushed towards him. Sparkling threads of emptiness surged up and around
Kastan’s body, tenderly wrapping him in the inky oblivion of the night sky. The cocoon of dark contracted around his body and Kastan felt himself moving, soaring through the air and across
the years.

A moment later the surge slowed and held. Kastan felt himself settle somewhere else; almost disembodied until he realised it was his own form, but utterly different also. He looked up and saw a
storm on the horizon, recognised the Menin standard beating at the harsh wind. The sun was a wounded and dying creature impaled upon distant mountains, the clouds dark and malevolent as they swept
over the Land. Before him was a huge host, dark armoured knights swarming in their thousands over a defeated foe. Lines of archers were spread out west, still and watching, while a division that
could only have been the Reavers bellowed their wordless triumph amid a swath of torn corpses.

The whole scene looked like a dream, but Kastan could taste the blood on the air and hear the echo of steel still ringing in his ears. And no dream ever felt this free. Kastan didn’t need
to move his arms to feel the astounding power within them, to know how easily he had ripped men in two just moments ago when his sword slipped from his grasp. The tang of magic hung thickly in his
throat, intoxicating and addictive but now under his control in a way Kastan had never dreamed of, let alone experienced. So much control; so simple to wield these tools and craft the Land to any
shape he desired.

Great furrows had been driven into the earth, the rampant energies so hungry for ruin they had gorged on rock and earth once no man was left alive. The devastation was horrific and Kastan fled
within himself to discover what he had become. He had no wish to become a ravening monster. To his relief he found greatness there, not madness. A warrior and conqueror, but not the despoiling
fiend he had feared. There lurked the burning red of pride alongside the sparkle of genius, but with such power how could pride be faulted? His achievements were his own, hard won and deserved,
while his failures fuelled endeavour and been turned right in time.

‘This is greatness,’ came a whisper at his ear, ‘heroism personified – matchless ability and limitless ambition. The greatest mortal ever to be born. The destiny of the
Land is an unknown entity, any path encompasses us all and even I can only tell that it exists, nothing more. If this is where you choose to be, this destiny will be your companion. You shall be
the driving force, the relentless energy behind history. Your place will be that of first among men.’

‘At what price?’ asked Kastan huskily, near overwhelmed by his sudden strength.

‘The price? What change could come without a terrible price? You’ll destroy nations, tear down temples and slaughter tens of thousands. Suffering follows any war, and your hand will
touch the furthest corners of the Land. This destiny will be what is necessary; your part will be what must be done and you will be feared above no other. As a Menin you should understand the Long
March that took your people to the Ring of Fire was never kind, but always necessary.’

Kastan nodded, his thoughts lost in the tale every child in his tribe knew. The Long March had left less than a third of the tribe alive, but brought the strong and the faithful to this fertile
ground and made them great once more. The man who had brought it about was both lauded and reviled by his own people, both monster and saviour, but his place in history was assured.

‘To be the engine of change is not to be a hero. Upon this path you will cause enormous pain to the very Land itself. Your life will be won alone, without the hand of your patron or any
God. Your position you must fight for, your abilities you must teach yourself, your son you must desecrate for . . .’

‘My son?’ Kastan could hardly believe the words as he said them. White-eyes could only have children with their own kind, and the females were so rarely born they were almost myth.
He’d grown up in the belief that his father’s line ended with him; that the Styrax name would survive only through his two cousins.

‘Oh yes, a son and heir. A child who will grow loving you and jealous of you – who will never betray you but always resent the shadow he stands in, not realising your shadow lies
also upon the entire Land. But your bride will have no love for you. Upon this path, you must take everything you want, sacrifice any principles and risk your very soul to strive for all your
ambition demands. No mortal shall ever defeat you in combat, you shall be matchless throughout the entirety of history, and when the Land has need of such strength you will find a legacy like no
other.’

Kastan felt the older form he inhabited call out to him, crying to be joined as one. Only the Lady’s presence held him back and with a sudden blaze he was torn from the body and returned
to the enveloping night. The memories ran deep, permeating his soul with enticing promises but the cool emerald light reminded him of who and when he was.