Chapter Two

And so the Holy Mother and the Holy Father looked upon the Birth Giver and wept plentily for He was lost. The Holy Father spoke unto the people of the earth, “Hark! Cleanse your minds of the Birth Giver for only evil dwells within its memory!”

�" The Göksel Günlüğü, Book of the End

              The walk allowed Asbed time to formulate his deceit, Oddmann quite content to listen to himself speak. By the time they had reached the imposing walls of the Greve’s residence Asbed was confident he would survive their meeting. What would happen the next… that was a matter only Blessed Ashnak could foresee.

             Oddmann made conversation with the guards manning the gate while he gawked uninterrupted at the imposing structure that lay beyond. It was a stone keep quite unlike the late Gudleif’s wooden manor. He could see two towers erupt from its mass, two banners unfurled along their height. A bodiless horse wearing an expression of supreme frustration adorned the middle of the banner. There were no such castle-buildings in Hrazda, no Keiser or Prins to occupy them.

             Talk came to an end and he was sped through a courtyard large enough to host a hundred men. Asbed could see a stable and what appeared to be a small temple pushed up against the walls.

              He was led into the keep through a set of wide doors. A servant was immediately at their side, though he was gone quickly enough. He was sent to inform the court of Brother Meryem’s arrival and to forewarn those within of the loneliness of the Brother’s company and his unkempt appearance. Asbed felt rather insulted that they spoke so bluntly mere feet away from him. Perhaps they had already forgotten this Meryem could understand Native.

             He was brought to a small waiting area where there rested only a bench. Here his party left him. He had little time to sit for soon a servant appeared and brought him to a decorative room, one better suiting his standing. There was a small bath which was surrounded by depictions of the W***e Daughter and B*****d Son’s exploits.

             A number of servants entered and promptly began shaving his beard, cutting his hair, and they had just begun to wash his face and feet when a bold looking fellow entered the room.

              “Good day to you,” The man said with a short bow. He was a stout figure, his face burdened by the weight of a magnificent beard. He had a sparse head of graying hair and his face spoke of no humor found within him. He had decorated himself in festive robing, an assortment of mismatching colors dominating their fabric. “I am the Greve’s steward, Petter. It is wonderful to see you here safe and un… harmed.” The man let out a nervous cough, and shooed the servants away. They obliged him and the two were alone.

              “Blessings of the Mother and the Father.” Asbed was not sure if such a greeting was appropriate, but it certainly sounded pious. Petter’s face bore no response so it must have been acceptable.

              “The Greve is prepared to receive you within the main hall”

              “It is an honor he would receive one as low as myself.”

              Petter seemed to ignore this and beckoned for him to follow. He wondered what rank a Brother held within court. This man, he seemed to be rather short with Asbed, though that could just be his personality. He did appear rather harsh.

              As he followed behind Petter one of the bags slapped itself against his thigh and in such a cruel manner he was reminded of the documents he had found on the woman’s person. He could not translate them, could hardly understand more than a few sparse sentences of Saraycian. It would destroy his façade should he be forced to read from them, and it very much seemed as though he would. Was this Sister Meryem some sort of messenger? He cursed his ignorance as the two navigated corridor after corridor, their lengths wider than those at the late Gudleif’s manor, though none more elegantly decorated.

              They reached a set of doors where two supremely well-dressed guards rested. They gave a solemn salute which only served to chip away at Asbed’s nerves.

              Beyond them was a long hall, far greater than the one he had attended to in the late Gudleif’s estate. He could not keep himself from looking about the room, awestruck. There were murals on every inch of wall, decorative lanterns hanging from the ceiling, and great clots of rushes dominating every inch of floor. Surely this man was of some terrible rank, would be far too learned not to see through Asbed’s disguise. But what was he to do?

              Towards the end of the hall was a group of seven men. They sat at the only table not pushed against wall. Asbed noticed that one of the men wore a fanciful quill hat and his gown had voluptuous padding about the shoulders. It was with another shudder that he recognized them to be Saraycian dressings. Beside him the men sat in more conservative robing.

              They were close to the table when the Saraycian-dressed man rose and made towards them. Asbed was quite sure the man was the Greve because the moment he had left the table so did those men seated around him. They all appeared shocked at his action, and Asbed was again left to wonder what his own rank was among these royals.

             There was a shuffle beside him and he turned to see Petter having fallen to his knee. Asbed was not quite sure if a Brother knelt to any man. He felt as though the False Faith would forbid a Brother or Sister from kneeling before any but the W***e Daughter and B*****d Son. He decided to bow deeply, as was custom in Hrazda and Saraycik.

              “Brother Meryem!” A boisterous laugh filled the hall. Asbed maintained his bow as he spoke his line.

              “Blessings of the Mother and Father, honored sire.”

              “Please, stand. By the Father’s Name, what has happened to you?”

              The Greve was a fairly old man. His hair was graying, leaving small tufts of blonde poking out from the blizzard that sat atop his head. The cap covered most of it. His face was loose and pudgy speaking well of the man’s appetite and comfort, though the rest of his form betrayed such depravity.

              Asbed almost launched into his tale, but realized how unusual that would be. “Much, honored sire.” No, theatrics would be paramount here.

              “I can see as much.” Asbed wondered if he really did look so awful. He had caught a brief glimpse of himself in the water the servants had washed him with. He had not appeared so horrid at the time… “What would much be? I have received word you have arrived in Bryne alone. Where is your party?”

              “My party, honored sire…” So even the Greve had expected a party… He had planned to say that they were dead, that he alone had survived some terrible ordeal, but in that moment he felt it to be such a terrible tale, one so weak and unmoving that it would only serve to fuel suspicion.

              “Are you in pain, Brother? Petter, call for the physician! Please, sit.”

              Asbed looked at the Greve in confusion. Had he been making such a face? He followed the Greve despite his own misgivings, surprised at how friendly the man was, how he seemed to treat Asbed as an equal. He was brought to a wonderfully decorated chair and when he sat down he could not help but let out a pleasing sigh.

              “Your generosity… is an inspiration before the Mother and Father.” He wondered if a Brother mentioned the Mother and Father so much. He should probably restrain himself just to be sure. “But I am quite… well enough… Though I cannot say the same of my party… We were attacked… Bandits, they seemed to be. I am not sure if they recognized us, but they attacked us all the same.” And so Asbed decided to tweak his tale. He allowed himself moments of silence, allowed his face to be consumed with terrible anguish. None rushed him.

             “With the Mother and Father’s blessing we overtook them… and took many of them captive. We…” He allowed himself a faint shake of the head as though shaken by the memory. Why had he said they had taken them captive? It would have been far simpler to have killed them all. “We took them with us and arrived, oh!, we arrived at such a horrible sight! It must have been such a wondrous manor, but it was…” He realized with a pain in his gut that he did not know if the late Gudleif’s manor had burned in its entirety. “So terrible and not a soul to say what had happened of it. It was there…”

             He began coughing violently. He waved his hand towards no one in particular. The gesture had the intended effect. An unknown voice shouted for wine, and two men seemed to wrestle for the right to rub Asbed’s back. The drink was brought promptly, and by the time he had finished the cup the story was complete. He struggled to keep the superfluous glee that filled him from reaching his face.

              “Forgive me, and bless you, friends. We arrived at what once appeared to be a grand structure. Many of us were wounded from our fighting, surely, and still we had these ragamuffins with us… They came out of nowhere… Led by a terribly frightening Hrazdian.”

              His story was interrupted by a collection of gasps. The royals devolved into their own private mutterings.

              “Mother and Father preserve us… He has comrades?”

              “Had, honored sires. We rebuffed their attack and for the next day we pursued their party. We captured them and burned the Hrazdian at the stake, thanks be to the Mother and Father.”

              “That is wonderful news, Brother.” The Greve seemed to bite his tongue after he said this. In a subdued tone he continued, “I did not mean to say…”

              “I am humbled by your praise, honored sire.”

              There was a silence as the men looked expectantly at Asbed. An inappropriate smile crept across his face as he began to grow anxious. He understood why they would stare at him, but why with such expectant gazes?

              “And what of your party, Brother Meryem?”

              (Blessed Ashnak, why do you give me such imperfect memory?!)

              “Y-You must forgive me. I am still quite tired. Many of us were too injured to continue. With every day more succumbed to weakness and could continue no further.” He did not like how it sounded as though he had abandoned them, though that had been his intention. It did not seem as though such behavior fit a Brother. “They were not left to die, of course, but left in village and hamlet alike. When they recover they shall join me here in…” Where was he?

              “Petter, said word to Elof. Brother, where is your party resting?”

              “I would not know the names. Small hamlets… a number of them… Your concern, your concern is appreciated, but not needed. None were ill when I left them, only tired.”

              “It is I who am appreciative, Brother Meryem, that you would continue your trek alone. You have my utmost thanks. You appear haggard. I am humbled that you would put yourself in such disrepair to arrive all that sooner. Petter, have the servants prepare a bath and fresh gown for Brother Meryem. Please, wash yourself and join us again, Brother. We can speak of the Plague later.”

              The Plague? “Mother bless you, honored sire.”

              When Saraycians spoke of Plague they spoke of the Enlightened… but this man was no Saraycian. Besides, how could there be such souls so far from Hrazda? The Greve must be speaking of some kind of epidemic. Was this Brother, rather, Sister Meryem a healer?

             

              Asbed was led away by a servant and brought to a conservative room. There was a shelf full of bath stuffs, and the servant produced a bucket, a stool, and a piece of soap. He had almost forgotten the bathing custom of these Nordnens. They would briefly wash before entering the bath to keep the water from dirtying. It was one of the few Nordnen oddities he had come to appreciate. The servant filled the bucket with water and then removed himself from sight.

              Asbed undressed and poured the hot water over himself. It felt magical. He quickly scrubbed his body over and was given back the bucket, the servant having filled it. Again he drenched himself in water, removing much of the suds.

              “This way, sire.” The servant said, motioning towards a set of doors.

              They entered an enormous bath, one that seemed half the size of the Greve’s hall. A layer of mist hung over the girth of the room; beautiful tiling dominated every inch of wall. Spaced throughout the bath were four statues. He soon realized they depicted a… young Greve. Each carried a jug from which water poured endlessly.

              “His Excellence the Greve has always loved the bath. He has been continuously renovating these quarters for the past fifteen years. You will not find a bath which matches its grandeur in the entire realm.”

              Asbed gave no reply. He fell into the waters and let out a faint moan. The waters were heated and felt wondrous against his weary frame. He had never experienced such luxury before.

              He heard the doors behind him close and soon after another set open. From across the room he saw the hazy figure of a woman. Asbed felt a warming of his loins at the sight of her. Were Brother’s celibate? He hoped not.

              “It would be my honor to please you, Brother.” She spoke in hypnotic tones as she rested against the side of the bath. She beckoned Asbed closer.

              He obliged her and began swimming to where she sat. She laughed at this and Asbed felt his face redden. He reached her and was struck by how young she was.

              “Please, show me your back. The Greve has often commented on the majesty of my hands.”

             Disappointed, he turned away from her and allowed his back to press against the cool stone wall of the bath. He waited, but she did nothing. He turned to see what might be the problem and found that she had disappeared. Frowning, he craned his neck further and found her hurrying away through a set of doors. She appeared quite stricken. Over the relentless sound of water being poured into the bath he had heard nothing of her flight.

              He remained in the bath, confused, and a little anxious. His immediate thought was that his manhood had frightened her. (Asbed felt himself particularly… endowed. Praise be to Blessed Ashnak.) He heard tale that Nordnen males were rather… lacking. Perhaps she simply could not bring herself to touch him? While the Nordnens respected the Saraycians, he knew from infrequent eavesdropping that many held qualms about their muddied complexion.

              But she would have known who he was, would have seen as him as he lounged in the bath. When had she abandoned her kindness? Was it not when he drew close? Could the woman have…? Asbed leapt to his feet. She must have recognized him. It seemed the only explanation. While he had no idea who she was, it seemed she had some idea who he was.

              Asbed began running through the water towards where he had undressed. He could not very well flee in the nude. His dark skin attracted enough suspicion as it was! It took far too long to exit the bath’s bulk and return to the waiting room.

              As he flung open the doors he was met with a familiar servant. Asbed noted shirt and pant resting atop a drawer pushed against one of the walls.

“Finished?” The man spoke this word in a squeal. Nothing of his previous humility remained. It was all too clear that he had been recognized.

              “Yes, it was wondrous. Where are my clothes? Oh, there they are.”

              Asbed tried to keep his tension from showing. (Nothing is wrong. Give him no reason to cry alarm.) He dried himself and slipped into his new clothes, traditional Nordnen attire. He had been expecting something Saraycian after seeing the Greve. This would be better.

              He approached the servant who was watching him with beady eyes and quivering lip.

              “I must speak with the Greve,” He said lightly. “Would you bring me to him?”

              The servant did not reply. Asbed noticed slight tremble as the man struggled over what to do.

              The door behind him was flung open and the servant let out a yelp as it struck him in the rear. Two armed men in leather jerkin entered. At the sight of Asbed they drew steel. The sight was too much for Asbed, simply too much. It took a supreme force of will not to laugh at the spectacle. Blessed Ashnak had such a wondrous sense of humor. To send him from one vipers nest to the next! Surely He was laughing horribly in Paradise.

              Another figure entered behind them, a smallish man with an explosive beard. It was Petter, the steward, in his horribly colorful robe.

              “What is the-” Asbed began, forcing venom into this voice.

              “Shut up!” Petter cut across his speech with unrestrained hostility. His face was pink and growing only redder. “Strip him!”

              One of the men sheathed his sword, and very roughly pushed Asbed to the ground. Roughly, he began tearing the clothes off of Asbed.

              “I did not say tear! Do you know how expensive that was! Idiot!”

              “Sorry, sire…”

              After the man had torn off the shirt he moved to Asbed’s side. He kept hold of his arms and pushed his face into the flagstone. He watched Petter round his back, felt a hand brush against his shoulder.

              “What did you do with Sister Meryem?”

              Asbed made some muffled sounds, his face too strongly pressed against the floor to adequately speak. He was let go, though his arms were kept in place.

              “Good Petter! What is this madness?!”

              “Good Petter… Damn your deceit!” Asbed let out a grunt as he felt the tip of Petter’s foot jab him in the side. “I asked did you kill Sister Meryem? What of the rest of her party? Speak now, you filthy mudskin!”

              “You shame yourself!” Asbed roared. He would die, of that much he was sure. Blessed Ashnak seemed to have grown tired of this game. What mattered now was that he ended it on a strong note, that he kept this fleeting hysteria alive for even the briefest of moments. He would leave Blessed Ashnak in such wondrous hysterics! “This is insanity! Do you not know who I am?! Do you not fear the Mother and Father’s judgment?!”

              “Silence, slave!” Again he was kicked. “Do you think us blind?”

              “What consumes you!? What drives this heresy?!”

              “Enough of your lies! You cannot hide the truth. It is branded on your very being!” Branded? Asbed remembered the touch, and was struck with such hatred for his stupidity. His back! How could he have forgotten?! It had been seven years ago, when he had first arrived at the Gudleif’s manor. They had branded him as one would livestock, burning into his flesh the symbol of the late Gudleif. “Did you kill Sister Meryem?! You shall know far greater pain if you do not answer me here!”

              “The truth?! Branded on my being?! I have spoken nothing but the truth!” If he had only remembered he would never have allowed anyone near him. It would have been so easily arranged. All those of the False Faith were such terrible prudes. “You speak of my devotion to the Mother and Father?! You hound me because of the burdens I have gone through to give them service?”

              Another kick. “Do not speak of the Mother and Father! You lie through your teeth when his mark rests so cleanly on your shoulder? Do you think us dumb? I shall ask you once more before I have you thrown in the dungeons; did you kill Sister Meryem?”

              “His mark?! You dare speak ill of…” What was a Saraycian name? He could not very well use a Hrazdian one. “…of Saint Suleiman?! Curse you! Curse all of you demon worshippers!”

              Asbed braced himself for yet another blow, but it did not come. “Saint… Sule…? What garbage do you speak! The symbol of the late Gudleif Friherre von Nälden rests upon your shoulders. You are-“

              “Gudleif?! Who is this Gudleif!? How dare you spit upon the blessed diamond of Saint Suleiman the Merciful, the Purger of the Unclean?!”

              “Do… Do not lie!” Petter’s tone seemed completely transformed as he spoke these words, but within a moment his tone was again consumed with rage. “You think us fools!? There is no such mark upon your back, only that of the Friherre who you killed!”

              “You?! You think I?! You!” Asbed’s voice was nothing more than a shrill scream as he spat this. He allowed terror to infect his voice, for tears to commandeer his face as he continued. “Oh, Mother and Father, forgive these souls! They know not what they do!”

              At this Asbed pushed his face against the floor and began a most heartfelt prayer to Blessed Ashnak, spoke in the most reverent Hrazdi he had ever uttered.

              “Blessed Ashnak, sender of the good fortune and the bad, your faithful servant has given you much mirth these past days. You have sent him worry after worry, each time disguised as a gift. He does not resent you for this. He shares in your merry. Such humor! But your servant has grown tired. He does not wish death’s release. Your servant offered his life unto you moments before, so sure was he that you had left him to death, but you have sent him a great chance of life and he so very much desires it.”

              The men around him were rather taken aback by the outbreak of prayer, though they would not have understood a word of it. Asbed felt control of his arm return as the guard appeared to release him. Not allowing the chance to pass, he picked himself off the floor only to throw himself back down. He remained flat against the floor for a moment before rising. He threw himself back against the floor, all the while continuing his desperate plea.

              “Blessed Ashnak, if you but spare this servant’s life he will promise you much greater shows of humor, much greater shows of life. He will continue to impress you with such a wondrous story. He will also offer onto you, when the time allows him, eighteen… twenty-four! chickens! He has still not had the chance to send unto you the blessed knife which began this journey. Your servant begs you! I don’t want to die!”

              Overcome with exhaustion and worry, Asbed collapsed onto the floor where he did not move. Nothing seemed to move.

             Remembering the purpose of his ruse, Asbed managed to dribble, “And may the Mother and Father hold no grudge against those who tarnished His memory…”

              Slowly, Asbed raised his head. In-front of him the servant and one of the armed men knelt. He rose to his feet and turned to find both Petter and the other armed man kneeling in what seemed to be prayer.

              Some noise escaped Petter, none of it intelligible. Asbed allowed himself a moment to think of what to say next. He leaned forward and placed a hand on Petter’s shoulder. The steward’s body shook at the touch.

              “Good Petter, you have been forgiven. Please… Rise.”

              “I…” Petter choked.

              “No words are needed. The Holy Mother has spoken to me. You have been forgiven. There is no grudge I could hold.”

              Petter rose and looked into Asbed’s eyes, some tears escaping their lids.

              “You… I… Never have… I seen… such kindness… such… such… reverence… How can you… ever forgive… me? I… I…”

              “Enough. You will…” What will they do? “You will all,” Asbed said, raising his voice. “Donate a tenth of your wages for the next two years to the Shrine of the Holy Father and a fifteenth to the Holy Mother.”

              The two armed men rose, though they kept their faces fastened to the floor. Only the servant remained kneeling. He was shaking violently.

              “As for the servant girl… She is to be beaten thirty times for inciting this… tragedy by…” Asbed realized he did not know the servant’s name. “You.” He pointed to the man, who one of the guards roused.

              “Petter, I do not wish to see you punished for this, for the Mother has forgiven you. Do not burden the Greve with news of this affair; burden none with this… shameful play.”

              Asbed began towards the door, a slight limp in his step, before realizing the haggard condition he was in. He turned to the steward and smiled.

              “And Petter, I need new clothes.”

Author's Note

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