The Assassin & The Skald: Liberation

by C. M. Lind

  Ulrich was the first to the baths. Normally, he would have taken his time to heat the water (one of the few luxuries of the priesthood that he had taken advantage of every day), but on that morning he did not. He decided a simple, cold bath would help to cleanse his soul. He stripped away his clothes and tossed them into the empty, woven bin nearby for such things. He took a moment to look over his body, and he was greeted with a strong whiff of himself.

  He crinkled his nose and whispered a reviled, “blech!”

  He walked over to the shelves that lined the wall. Each cubby was filled with one clean set of priests’ clothing. Since all the clothes were the same size (it was up to each priest’s belt to adjust for their build), he didn’t care which one he would take. With care, he removed his amulet and set it into one of the cubbies, gently resting it on top of the clothes, as if it was the egg of a precious songbird.

  He didn’t even test the water with a toe before he splatted into the copper tub. He yelped with the dignity of a startled girl, shivered, and was thankful that no one was there to see him. He reached for a bar of soap but never grabbed it. They were heavily scented with peppermint (a gift from a local chandler), and it didn’t feel right for him to use them on such a day.

  He washed the best he could with nothing but cold water, and then he scoured himself vigorously with his towel—as if the towel would cleanse him more than the water did. Shivering, he dressed, quicker than he ever had before: in the same clean, simple robes he had worn for years.

  As he left the baths, the first priests were just entering. He smiled at them and wished them a good morning. They returned the greeting. One did so with an added dastardly wink, as if congratulating the boy on some great accomplishment. Ulrich ignored the wink, preferring to believe that perhaps the old man merely had a lash in his eye.

  He passed by the dining hall. The scents of fresh bread, sizzling cuts of pork, and cooked eggs called out to him, but he did not desire such things. The carbonated concoction from earlier still lingered on his tongue, and its taste overrode his hunger and the delicious smells of the kitchen. He passed into the main chamber of the temple. At the entryways there were small, wooden boxes (usually attended to by a priest when the temple was open). He opened it and took one stick of incense. He smelled it (that day it was lemongrass), and then he slipped it into the pocket of the robe.

  Unsurprisingly, he was the first there. The room was round (it could have easily fitted a few hundred parishioners), with a tall, ancient statue, that was covered in soot, in the middle. It was a standing testament to the permanence of the place.

  Ulrich wondered how many generations had worshipped at its feet.

  The statue was of a faceless, robed Anker. With one hand he reached stories high to the domed ceiling and the other was at his side. Even though the statue was without eyes, Ulrich always felt that it was watching him, and he felt protected by its gaze.

  There were wooden pews that radiated outward from the statue, creating an octagon pattern, and he took a seat closest to the front of the statue. An otherworldly delight filled him as he saw the empty chamber slowly fill with beams of the morning sun. The quiet spectacle filled him with peace, and, for the first time in a while, he felt content. He did not think of Vitoria. He did not think of Aela. He did not think about himself.

  His solitude did not last. Other priests (who were stuffed with salted and buttered pork, peppered eggs fried in lard, and steaming, moist bread) began to trickle in. They took seats around the room, and in silence they waited patiently. The day would start with a morning service for all the priests, and no one else. The eldest of the priests, Amaury, entered. A cane in one hand held him upright as he slowly, and tediously, inched towards Anker. When Ulrich first arrived a decade ago, Amaury was still considered old—but he was sharp and strong. Over the past two years though, Ulrich had witnessed Amaury wasting away.

  Before Ulrich’s eyes that day, Amaury moved as if he was the skeleton of a man being pulled towards something by a force no one was able to perceive. Every tap of the cane was accompanied by a grunt and a wheeze, and Ulrich was suddenly struck with the feeling that soon the temple would lose a brother.

  Ulrich looked at his own hands. While he logically knew that one day he would be old, he couldn’t see it. He couldn’t imagine how he would look, how he would feel, or how he would move. Would he need a cane, he wondered, when he was older? Would all the other priests be forced to wait upon him every morning because he could barely walk? Would his mind rust, and would he forget the prayers and stories? But the real fear he would never admit to others was peeking out from the back of his mind: Would he lose his beauty? Would women no longer blush when he spoke to them? Would life suddenly become difficult for one who gained so easily?

  Minutes passed laboriously as the priests waited for Amaury to shuffle to the statue. Once he made it there, he let out a long sigh. It wasn’t a sigh of exhaustion, or consternation, but one of a man who was happy to be home after a long absence. Using the cane for support, the old man dropped to one knee. Then to the other. He set the cane behind him, and, with a deep love in his words, began to pray.

  Amaury pulled a stick of incense from his pocket. He brought it to his lips, and touched the tip of it to them. He spoke a few breathy words that no one could overhear, onto the incense. At the base of the statue laid a small pool filled with loose, small stones, and a constant mortar of ash, outlined by lit lamps (lamps that had never gone out). The stones were occasionally interlaced with small trinkets that sparkled in the light of the flames: simple gems, pebbles of quartz, occasional coins, broken jewelry, shavings of gold, and flecks of silver. Amaury tipped the incense into the open flame of the lamp, and it caught fire with an amber throb. He planted the incense into the stones and blew the flame out. Long wisps of smoke wafted upward, caressing the statue, and carrying his pleas to Anker.

  It was not Ulrich’s place to be the first to pray at Anker’s feet (even though he wished it to be), and he had to wait for Amaury to finish—but he was ready to rush forward to light his incense.

  The old priest’s knees creaked as he pushed himself up with the help of his cane, and he turned away. The other priests flocked to the statue, and Ulrich was next to Amaury in a moment. Amaury smiled gently at him. Reflexively, Ulrich returned the smile. Ulrich had never seen the man smile, and most certainly not at him, but then he realized that the man wasn’t smiling for him. He was smiling for Anker, the ritual, the temple—all of it.

  Embarrassed, Ulrich turned his attention to the shrine. He went to his knees, brought his incense out, pressed it to his lips—but no words came. What would he ask for? He looked around him. The other priests rattled off their requests, made their thanks, and lit their incense. Smoke erupted around him, but still he sat there, thinking what best to ask his god. He was blessed, he thought, to have the life he had. He knew no real sorrows nor felt any great loss. He thought for a few moments longer about what he desired for himself, and suddenly he knew what he would ask for.

  “She doesn’t have the brothers I have, nor the peace I feel having a real home, nor the drive or dedication I have for you.” He paused. “Please, bring her peace. Give her,” he thought of how to phrase it but was at a loss, “anything to help her.”

  It wasn’t the first time he had prayed for her, but it was the first time that he opened his prayer to his god’s will. When he first met her he prayed for mercy for her, that others would treat her with kindness while she was in The White Cliffs, believing that such gentleness would temper her anger. Then he began to pray for her spiritual awakening, that if she would find faith in a god, like Anker, that then she would be set upon a good path. He prayed for her health, that perhaps some of her misery would be lessened, and then her mind and spirit could be contented. He prayed for her freedom, that maybe she could find new drive and happiness if given the chance. All these things he had prayed years for, but it seemed to him that Anker did not hear him. Nevertheless, he st
ill hoped that this one simply worded plea would reach his god’s ears.

  He held the incense over the flame; it flared. Between two pieces of smoky quartz, he planted the lit incense. The light roused a twinkling life from within the stones, but, as he blew out the flame, it fled. A long, thick thread of smoke drifted upwards and lingered near Anker’s cheek.

  Others were waiting to pray, so Ulrich stood—even though he wanted nothing more than to stay kneeling for a while longer. He wanted to watch the sparkling of the trinkets and stones, as one by one the other priests lit their incense and made their prayers. He always thought of it as a night sky being born from nothing. He walked a few paces back and settled into a pew.

  Every entrance into the domed chamber had its own box for incenses, and they usually contained different scents. He smelled bright lemongrass, warm sandalwood, sweet lime, and a faint aroma of ginger as he leaned back in the pew. The smoke lingered near the vaulted mosaic of the ceiling before the wisps escaped through the small slits of windows near the peak, out into the sky.

  Ulrich stayed in that pew.

  All the other priests finished their morning prayers, and after that, the morning service began. He listened attentively as the priest selected for the service (something that was determined by lottery), decided to speak about what was important for the day. That day the priest decided to speak about forgiveness of others. Ulrich was attentive as the young man gave a speech that had been given many times over (forgiveness being a safe, rote topic for the newly initiated).

  Behind Ulrich, two priests talked in hushed tones, saying that it was no surprise that the boy would speak about forgiveness. Apparently his lover was upset by the fact that he had at least one other.

  The whispers behind him did not dampen Ulrich’s enthusiasm. Forgiveness, he thought, yes. Forgiveness was simple, yet difficult. Common, yet sometimes unfathomable. Forgiveness of others, but also of oneself.

  Following his speech, the young priest stepped aside and joined the other priests in the pews. The part that Ulrich loved most was about to begin. A trio of talented priests sang the morning prayer in harmony. The eerie tone always made Ulrich’s skin shudder as if Anker himself was right behind him, staring into his soul. The song lasted ten minutes, and it was full of calls interspersed with responses from the congregation. Ulrich eagerly would respond to the trio’s voices. A part of him yearned to practically yell, but he restrained himself.

  As the song concluded, each voice dropped one at a time. Ulrich closed his eyes. The tenor was the first to disappear, followed by the baritone, leaving the bass to rumble into silence. The pew he was sitting on jostled as the others around him stood and left. He stayed on that pew, holding onto the last of the bass in his mind.

  He smiled.

  He stayed true to his dedication. He ignored hunger and thirst, and he did nothing other than stay in that room and pray. He did so until the noon service came about. He volunteered to greet parishioners as they entered the main chamber for the service, and his brothers seemed genuinely happy at his exuberance.

  Ulrich took his place near the box he had taken the incense from that morning, and, with a smile, one by one he greeted the faithful. Many touched his hand (believing such a touch would bring good luck in the day ahead), some returned his welcome, others nodded, and a few women smiled and blushed. Some came towards him with copper petals in hand. He took their petals, opened the box, set the petal within, and handed the patrons three sticks of incense.

  The heavy iron bells rang, signaling all that the service would begin. He stood by the box, as was his duty, but his attention was at the statue. Around it there were thirty or so priests, all facing Anker in a ring. They began to sing the noon prayer, starting with the rumbling of the basses. He wondered why so many of the priests were basses, and wished he could have half of their talent. All he could do was croak off key.

  Ulrich felt his core vibrate with the choir’s song, and he couldn’t hear anything else but their voices. The air in the chamber was layered with scents, but, even then, Ulrich could smell it. He cringed as he turned his head to the hall.

  A man that was as tall as him, dressed in fifthly rags, was calmly, and assuredly, walking towards Ulrich. His hood was drawn; his clothing was covered in stains of filth, dirt, wine, and what else Ulrich did not wish to guess. The man’s dirty, tanned, rugged hand was outstretched towards Ulrich.

  Although the hood was drawn, Ulrich felt as if the man was looking him right in the eyes. Ulrich gritted his teeth, and the familiar stench of decay filled his nostrils again as the man walked right up to him.

  The stranger drew close to Ulrich, but he kept his head turned away. He stretched out his clasped hand, and with the one long nail of his index finger, tapped against the box. “Priest.” His voice was a forceful whisper. The man then turned his weathered palm up to Ulrich, unfurled the rest of his fingers, and, inside, laid one copper petal.

  Ulrich’s hand faltered for a moment, but he took the coin. “You’re a long way from Powder Street.” Ulrich flipped the top of the box open, never taking his eyes from the beggar in front of him, and plopped the coin in. It clanked against the others.

  “I’ve found myself in the neighborhood recently.” His oddly convivial words were, strangely, not lost in the sound of the choir.

  “I guess this means we’ll be seeing more of you.” Ulrich grabbed three sticks of incense, closed the box with a snap, and offered them to the filthy man. The idea of the man’s stench filling up the chamber regularly made Ulrich’s skin squirm.

  “Yes.” The man took the incense. “You will.” He shoved them into his tattered, stiff leather belt.

  Ulrich nodded, and he motioned for the man to join the other faithful. The man entered the chamber, but he did not go far. He took a place on a pew farthest away from the central statue and the choir, and, also, it happened to be the closest seat to Ulrich. The back pews were normally never full for the midday service, so the man had three rows between him and the other parishioners. Even then, those in front of him glanced back, whispered at each other, and pointed at him. One made a rude gesture his way.

  From the edge of the hallway to the main chamber, Ulrich watched the man quietly and motionlessly sit through the service. He seemed completely unaware of his distracting presence. Ulrich thought all about how many of the people in the temple were in need. They were poor, hungry, or scared of death and the unknown—and that had never bothered him before. He had always welcomed such souls. But this one man? He didn’t deserve to be there, Ulrich thought. The man was a snide jerk: insinuating that Ulrich was out for lustful reasons the other night, teasing him for simple directions, and now he bothering the genuinely faithful with his stench. That such a man would enter the temple reeking of such putridity seemed blasphemous to Ulrich. He daydreamed about throwing the man out (sure, he seemed tall, but Ulrich figured he was scrawny and undoubtedly ill), but he knew such daydreams would never happen. They would never ask someone to leave. Ulrich recalled when a man came in with feces smeared on his clothes, and the priests never even discussed asking the man to leave.

  Even with Ulrich’s fixation on the strange beggar, he tried to enjoy the service. It went beautifully, he decided, much like it always had in the past. Once the choir was over, and the last of the prayers were said to the congregation, the statue was opened up to the parishioners. The people rushed forward, like ants towards spilt honey, all wanting to be the first to beg and pray, kiss their incense, and set alight their request. The priests all moved to the sides of the round room, making space for the people, but also making themselves available to any of the faithful.

  As soon at the smoke began to float, Ulrich noticed that the beggar hadn’t moved from his spot. Ulrich silently thanked Anker that the man at least must have had the good sense to wait for the other to finish praying before approaching the shrine. Perhaps he had been too hard on the man. He had, after all, sat in the back. Maybe he knew of his stench, could not h
elp it, and merely wanted to inflict the least amount of repulsion on others as he could?

  Ulrich’s thoughts were interrupted as more people approached him with petals, asking for more incense. Ulrich happily took their coins and handed out their incense. One young lady, a redheaded woman quite a few years younger than him, even asked for his blessing, saying she was to be married soon, which he gave without hesitation. She took his hand, and held it to her warm, soft breast, thanking him. He let his hand linger a little longer than he probably should have before pulling it away. The woman’s grasp tightened, and she held it a moment longer, to bring to her lips. She kissed his hand. At first it was soft, but there was a hot fervor behind her lips that made his skin prickle.

  Ulrich cleared his throat as she finished, and he pulled his hand away. He wondered, briefly, if he would have been so curt if there weren’t others around. She looked up at him with dazzling, silvery-blue eyes that had hints of peachy freckles around them. Peachy, he thought, much like her. A sweet, ripe thing that was just there, begging to be taken home and enjoyed. She raised her eyebrow at him, and he blushed. Such animalistic carnality both excited and embarrassed Ulrich.

  There was tap at his shoulder. He turned to see an initiate he barely knew. The new boy was from southern Aveline who was raised by an overprotective, smothering Venari mother. He couldn’t have been older than fourteen perhaps. He had a heavy (almost ridiculous) islander accent and a nervous quiver to his voice when around women. Nico, he thought, he had said his name was Nico-something.

  “Yes, Nico?” Ulrich asked the boy. He said the name with confidence, as if he hadn’t had wracked his brain for the lad’s name.

  Nico looked at the woman (who was still staring at Ulrich) with widely stretched eyes. “Ulrich?” He pronounced it Ool-wreckt.

  Ulrich looked back at the woman, and she faintly raised her eyebrow again, completely disregarding Nico. He could still feel the red in his cheeks. He turned away from her, and with his free hand, took Nico by the shoulder to lead him into the hall—and away from the young seductress. There were other people all throughout the hall, some trickling in, others leaving, and a few who just lingered. “What is it?”