Chapter Two

Jerusalem, 1192

The stars and moon burned brightly against the dark sky, illuminating the garden with its natural light. Wax candles were placed strategically among the area to chase the night shadows away from the large dinner party that sat in the middle. The table was richly covered with large platters filled with all sorts of foods. The traditional Arabic dishes painted beautiful colors with startling greens, yellows, and reds from the fruit and vegetables that were combined. Fresh rice and bread were producing wisps of steam among the table as a caressing breeze blew through the garden. Large booming laughs echoed off the walls that surrounded the Bishop's home, and echoed back to the diners' ears. Goblets were clanked together by the Crusaders, as aromatic wine was being constantly poured by the Bishop's servants. Meanwhile, the Muslim men drank sweet coffee with their meals, their religion prohibiting the ingestion of alcohol. The sound of multiple conversations swirled together creating a jumbled mess of words, incoherent to anyone passing by.

Even Aliya, who stood behind the Bishop's chair, waiting to be called, should the diners need anything, could not decipher the rambles. Demurely, she kept her head down, and observed the stones that rested below her feet.

Boredom brought forth the thoughts of Rasha's insistence that Aliya consider Wasim's wish to someday marry her. She pictured herself cooking, cleaning, and fussing over her husband when he returned home. The image was depressing, and so she attempted to clear her mind. It was not that she did not wish for love or even marriage, but she did not want the same things Wasim wanted. Wasim would expect her to stay home and take care of their children, while staying pregnant with yet another child. The image of kids did not sound horrible either, but she wanted more from her life than that. She wanted to be able to explore, learn, and . . .

What use were foolish thoughts as these?

Aliya knew that in order for those things to occur she would have to consider growing a lengthy beard and develop body parts that would be impossible to acquire naturally.

Perhaps her only hope was to marry Wasim. At least Rasha would always be near.

The sounds and voices became muted as time had passed, and so it took the Bishop's increasing call to pull her away from her thoughts.

"Aliya," the Bishop called her. He was turned in his chair now, looking over his shoulder. The richly made cloth that was used to create his robes fell over the arm of the chair, and for a moment, her eyes were transfixed by the gold stitching that lit up from the candles. "Aliya."

She swiftly moved forward, carrying the jug of wine that she had been using to refresh the guests' thirst. "I am sorry, Bishop," she apologized.

He waved his hand in the air, as if to say that it was not a problem. The wine he had already drank was relaxing his features and making displeasure and anger harder to claim. "We would like more wine, and the new king of Jerusalem has requested some of Mehar's delicious pastries. He does not wish to wait until dessert." Her master then looked jovially at Conrad, even clapping a friendly hand on the man's shoulder. Aliya's eyes naturally followed the movement, finding the guest of honor.

Conrad's blue eyes stared at her face for a moment, before lazily trailing the length of her body. Aliya concentrated on carefully pouring the wine from the mouth of the jug, watching the red liquid fill the cups. She focused on keeping her hand from shaking, not from fear, but from embarrassment and anger. Although she knew her shalwar and kameez did not cling tightly to her body, she had to resist from covering herself with her hands. Instead, she hardened her kind eyes at the man as she poured his wine, before turning back to the Bishop.

"I will fetch them quickly," she told him.

Aliya could not help but imagine the new king's eyes burning a hole through her back, and she gripped the jug's handle tightly. She entered the busy kitchen as Mehar directed the rest of the servants as to what to take out and what to bring back in. Her mother's round face was covered with sweat. Mehar took a rag from her apron pocket to wipe her face before turning to Aliya.

"They have not finished, have they?" she asked, concern drawing on her face. "I still have a few more dishes and dessert to be served. I even prepared—"

"No, no. Conrad wishes for the pastries now rather than later," Aliya informed her, searching the tables for them.

Mehar grinned. "The Bishop must have boasted of them since he can never get enough," she said, finding a platter easily. "Watch the King eat them so you can describe his reaction to me later!"

Aliya looked at her mother strangely for a moment before turning to take the desserts to the table. The presence of those in power always seemed to have a strange affect on her mother, while producing almost none in the European servants that the Bishop had either brought with him or purchased off other wealthy Christians. Aliya, Mehar, and their family were the only servants with an Arabic background, and that fact was credited due to the time the Bishop had dined at Mehar's old master's home. Once he had tasted her cooking, he wished for Mehar to replace his old cook, and paid a heavy price to purchase the rest of the family so that Mehar would willingly come. Or she should say that his church paid their price. As a result, Aliya knew her mother wanted to impress the guests with her cooking skills and knowledge, and prove to the Bishop once more that she and her family had been worth the trouble . . . but to ask Aliya to watch Conrad eat her dessert and describe it to her later? It was almost bordering insanity!

Arriving back at the dinner party, she presented the platter to the Bishop and Conrad, watching as Conrad's large, callused, and hairy hands grabbed a select few, while the Bishop's smaller, smoother ones snatched the rest. Once the platter was empty, she moved back to her place behind the Bishop's chair.

Her conscience battled against sneaking a look at Conrad's reaction and ignoring the vermin until he had left. Aliya didn't wish to set eyes on the man any more than necessary, but Mehar was her mother. Sighing, she concentrated on slowly lifting her face to watch Conrad as he inhaled her mother's food. A flaky pastry lifted to his mouth, and he placed the entire thing in. After chewing for a few minutes, he smiled, and gave an enthusiastic nod towards the Bishop. She barely noticed the small smile that formed on her lips at her mother's success, but it quickly disappeared when Conrad's eyes found her once again.

His eyes deliberately held hers before he gave what looked to be a promiscuous leer. Aliya didn't hide her face or break the eye contact, but stared back as she watched his eyes travel down her body once again, resting on her chest. When the blue eyes were once again looking into hers, she narrowed her eyes in warning. She was not a slave that he could just look at for his pleasure. This was not Europe were she had heard tales of nobility and masters abusing their servants for pleasure. This was the Holy Land where women were held in reverence, even if she was a slave, and below him . . . he should not look at her that way.

Even though she should have returned to her submissive state and lower her face to the ground once more, Aliya could not help herself as she lifted her chin in defiance. Looking down her nose at him, she dared him to continue his study.

Conrad chuckled, lifting his goblet to her, before returning his attention to the Bishop and the guests around him. He pushed back his chair, and now held the same goblet in the air to toast. "Gentlemen, we have enjoyed a rich and bountiful dinner from our gracious host, the Bishop. He has time and time again provided meals and shelter to those who request it, whether they be soldiers or simple Christian pilgrims, and tonight, we have been deemed worthy enough to share his table. To the Bishop of Beauvais, a man who remains an inspiration to us all."

The guests around the table lifted their drinks high in the air, toasting the Bishop and his goodness. After the supporting cries and drinks had been done, the Bishop stood up—no glass in hand—and announced that dinner was coming to a close. "We have business that still requests our attention tonight, gentlemen, and by the grace of God we will succeed."

The church's lofty towers and detailed architecture added a certain magnificence to the building, and could inspire any visitors to stare up in awe at the sheer beauty of their Lord's home. The shadows casted by the towering heights and the nooks and crannies that resulted from architects wishing to create the most elaborate designs . . .

Well, they made for the best hiding places.

Altair watched the boisterous guests push back their chairs, taking only their goblets with them as they followed the Bishop inside. He grimaced as he moved slightly to stretch his cramped legs, and attempted to massage the painful tingling sensation that was driving up his calves. If the dinner party was moving inside, then so would he, and that involved moving quickly to find where they were meeting. Ignoring the stabs of pins and needles, he crept along the shadows, climbing down the church's building.

He landed softly on the stone, limping a little until his legs were limber once again, and followed the length of the wall that surrounded the garden. Carefully, avoiding the flickering lights of the candles, he maneuvered around the trees and bushes.

The servants were rapidly clearing the table of the dirty dishes, platters, and napkins. They moved much like one being, each servant having a function and purpose. A few grabbed the dishes, while others grabbed the bowls. One servant—the only Arab servant, he noticed—grabbed the napkins and moved about the perimeter, extinguishing candles.

Reaching a dead end on the ground, Altair leapt up to pull himself on top of the wall and from there climbed upwards. He needed to find an entrance near where the men were meeting. He peeked into a few windows finding empty guests rooms and even the Bishop's private office. His eyes caught sight of a few leafs of parchment that lay on the desk. Slipping into the empty room via the open window, he scanned the letters, finding only family correspondence. Altair checked the desk, but found the drawers locked. Had he more time, he would have picked the locks, but it was important to spy on the Bishop's meeting far more than delving into the Bishop's secret letters.

He pressed his ear to the door, listening for footsteps or creaks that told of someone walking near. Finding none, he cautiously opened the door to sneak along the halls. Altair walked quietly, pausing only when he heard the servants' voices to listen where their feet took them.

The hallway extended for a few more feet, and he was about to turn back around and head back outside to perhaps find another way in, when the sound of men's voices reached his ear. Turning his head, he listened carefully trying to gauge where their location was. He crept towards the voices and eventually the hallway opened into a library.

An empty library.

Curious, he relaxed his guard and walked straight into the room. Turning to his right, he observed merely bookshelves. Turning to his left—

Shit.

Altair ducked, hiding himself behind the wooden banister that enclosed one side of the library. Berating himself thoroughly in his head, he progressed towards it; eventually peering over it to see that below the odd library was the dining room where the men were crowded about a long wood table.

It reminded him of some sort of witchery gathering. The kind that was performed in the dim lighting of a few stubbed candles, wax melting trails along the sides of their holders and finally pooling onto the table. The kind of magic that was dark and forbidden would have boded well in the room among the men that sat there, shifting slightly in their chairs and taking casual drinks of their wine. Their eyes swished back and forth, alert and ready for whatever business was at hand. Altair knew they were not there to cheer and toast the new king of Jerusalem, but instead they were huddled in the dark room to discuss things that could not be whispered in the night air where anyone might hear them.

Like an assassin.

The thought curled his lips into a grin, and he settled himself comfortably behind the solid wood barrier that rested between him and discovery. It was a miracle they hadn't spotted him moving in the room above them, especially with their suspicious eyes roaming the room, but they probably were not worried of shadows above, but instead casted their bets on the men beside them to be a possible culprit.

Altair slowly peeked over the banister.

"Saladin's army is still fighting against Richard in Jaffa," the Bishop was saying, waving his hand as if in a casual conversation. "If the Crusaders cannot stop Saladin and his army from taking back the Crusader's states, then I fear for our future here."

"King Richard has been pushing us to save our resources to prepare for a long battle. He will not give in to the enemy so easily," Gilbert Horal interjected. "Our numbers are still strong, and as long as King Richard is alive, Saladin will not step foot in Jaffa. The only thing we are lacking is a Grand Master. Since Robert de Sable was murdered, I have been stepping in as a temporary leader, but we need a permanent leader to refocus the Order."

"You believe you are a true leader? A man who leaves his men fighting, while he eats and drinks like a king?" an Arabian merchant asked, his cunning, dark eyes appearing over the rim of his goblet as his finger trailed the rim.

Gilbert's anger was quick to rise as his hand reached for his sword, but the Bishop placed a calm hand on his. "Gilbert came at my insistence that he be here this night. I can personally attest to his bravery, skill, and honor," the Bishop addressed the table, but his eyes focusing especially on the merchant.

The merchant consented with the incline of his head, but the look did not disappear from his eyes as he gave a knowing smile towards his comrades.

The Bishop ignored the discourse, standing up to regain the room's complete attention. "Gentlemen, I brought you here all tonight not to only celebrate the new king of Jerusalem, but to also ask for your cooperation in the Church's important work here in the Holy Land." He cleared his throat for a dramatic effect, before continuing. "Although I stand here today on the holiest land, our place here is not secure. Richard and Saladin will not be contented until the other side has been slaughtered, so that they may proudly place their flags on the city of Jerusalem once more. It is a battle of the Cross and the Crescent, and I cannot help but think there will be no winner in the end."

Conrad rubbed his beard in thought, before speaking. "I am assuming you have a plan, Bishop? One that does not solely rely on the power of prayer, I hope?"

"I do," the Bishop said proudly. "I have recently acquired the knowledge of . . . important artifacts that I believe will be able to help finally bring peace to this land. Holy artifacts called Pieces of Eden that have been once held by our Savior to bring salvation. With these artifacts, we can do the same to the people of the Holy Land."

"Where are the artifacts?"

"What exactly are they?"

"Pieces of Eden? Are they shrubs?"

"What are we to do with it?"

The Crusader's questions came abruptly and loudly, while the merchants simply grinned as if they had been in on the conspiracy since the beginning. Smacking his goblet against the wooden table, the Bishop called for order among the men's questions. "Gentlemen! I will do my best to answer questions, as you are all important to the Church's success in this endeavor."

Conrad narrowed his eyes at the Bishop. "Just what are you asking of us?"

"I am asking each of you to give of yourselves and your possessions to the Church during our search for these Pieces of Eden." The Bishop turned to look at the young Templar knight, Gilbert, that sat on the right of him. "Gilbert, I called you here today to ask that you lead your knights to the known locations at all haste."

"We fight with King Richard," replied Gilbert, his brow furrowed. "We cannot possibly leave to go on a scavenger hunt!"

The Bishop gave him a sharp smile. "You naught but a temporary Grand Master, are you not? I am sure there are other men that would be willing to do the Church's work."

Gilbert said nothing.

"If you cannot support the Church in their time of need . . .," the Bishop said, shrugged his shoulders.

"This is blackmail and treachery!" Gilbert exclaimed, shooting to his feet and looking around the room for an ally of which he could rely on. Finding none, he turned back to the Bishop. "You would have us abandon our king to look for these Pieces of Eden?"

"To do the Lord's work, Gilbert," the Bishop insisted. "That is what the Templar Order was founded for. These Pieces of the Eden are important and a vital piece of our survival here. Your mentor, Robert de Sable understood this, and do not play ignorant with me when I ask you if you are willing to aid the Church in their acquisition of these artifacts. You were his second in command, surely you heard or saw something during the past few years."

"He spoke of it once," Gilbert finally gave in, "but I never have seen it. Bishop, why do you want these Pieces of Eden so badly?"

Ignoring the question, the Bishop leveled his gaze to Gilbert's, and snapped his fingers. "I can change your future that fast, my son. With a letter to the Pope of a 'vision' or recommendation of some sorts, I can decide your place in history. So I ask of you once more, will you aide your church during its time of need?"

Altair watched the man wrestle with himself, battling back and forth between his loyalty to his king and to the Church. He wanted to believe that perhaps the man would decline and leave the room, but Gilbert was not a fool. The temptation of being Grand Master of the Templars was a great honor to the Crusaders, and if he did as asked, his name would be remembered in history as a leader. The name of Gilbert Horal would be written as one who led men into battle, rather than follow behind another. Positions came with power, and power was something all men seemed to strive after.

"I—I will help the Church," Gilbert said, his voice broke at one point, but remained strong. "I will lead my men to the locations and search for these holy artifacts."

Shaking his head, Altair closed his eyes, pondering the events that were being laid out by the Bishop to these men.

The Bishop grinned. "Good boy, my son. I will send word to the Pope immediately of my wonderful vision, the Lord sent me, of you being granted the title of Grand Master."

Gilbert's head had fallen, his eyes staring deeply into the wine in his cup. He mumbled, "Thank you," before falling silent once more.

"You will want us to give him the letters before he leaves?" a merchant asked the Bishop.

"No, no," the Bishop replied. "I will take them, and give him his instructions."

"What letters is the man talking about?" Conrad spoke up.

The Arabian merchant, who had insulted Gilbert before, leaned forward. "Before Robert de Sable was murdered, he had contacted many of us with the proposition of expositions in numerous locations around the world." His English was heavily accented, but it flowed smoothly and the Crusaders followed his every word. He continued, "It was later that another man contacted me, requesting the same thing. He wanted us to visit locations, and seek out these things called Pieces of Eden. We kept the letters, even after they stopped coming."

"The letters contain key locations that these men believed had other Pieces," the Bishop explained, sitting down in his chair.

"Bishop, you have only mentioned these Pieces of Eden in passing, but you have yet to explain what they are," an older European man spoke from the end of the table. He wore the outfit of a Crusader, but it looked new and bright, as if he had never marched along the lines of battle. "What exactly will the Templars be looking for?"

The Bishop leaned back against his chair, creating a steeple with his fingers in front of his mouth. "It is unclear what these Pieces of Eden truly are, but my source details them to be powerful tools of our Savior. They have been held in the hands of Jesus during his time on Earth. Now that they are scattered about the world, we must collect them and return them to the Church."

"And you wish us to give our resources to the Church to go on some wild goose hunt?" the older European man questioned. "We have a bloody war happening, and you want us to give away coin and food so that you can get some shrubs?"

"They're not shrubs!" the Bishop exclaimed. "They are powerful tools of our Lord!"

"So they're hammers?"

"Perhaps, saws or some sort?"

The Bishop pinched the bridge of his nose to calm his nerves. "Gentlemen, all I ask of you is to help the Church in any way you possibly can. Whether it be gold or allowing the knights to camp on your lands. Those that do, will receive multiple blessings in this life and beyond for it is the Lord's work we are doing here."

"That is all?" Conrad questioned, his brow arched suspiciously over his keen blue eye. "You ask nothing else?"

The Bishop looked a bit sheepish when he turned to look at the king of Jerusalem. "I would especially like to request the use of your home in Tyre to provide shelter and supplies for the knights before they begin their journey. It is the furthest Crusader state from Richard and Saladin, which is desirable. I would also like to bring myself and a guest there to lead the hunt,"

"Why?" Conrad asked. "Why are you abandoning your church to come to Tyre?"

"The Pope has granted me special leave in the midst of the fighting," the Bishop explained, shrugging his shoulders. "Will you grant me shelter?"

Conrad contemplated the decision for a moment, taking a long drink from his wine. Finally, he nodded. "Fine, but I wish due payment for my losses."

"But—"

"Hush your tongue, Bishop. I do not wish for the Church's coin. What I wish for is a particular servant girl of yours in lieu for my . . . my extra services to the Church," Conrad negotiated. "

"Which one are you speaking of?" the Bishop asked, curious as to which of his employees had caught the king's eye.

"The servant that stood behind you," Conrad said. "You called her Aliya."

(A/N) I know this chapter was a bit dry filled with mostly conversations and observations, BUT I promise the next chapter will be much more action filled.

However, I did enjoy writing this chapter because we are getting to know Aliya more, and Altair is sneaking about discovering that perhaps things aren't as easy as he thought they would be when it comes to finding the Pieces of Eden. I also like the fact that he makes mistakes like just walking into a room and his legs fall asleep when he has been observing his potential targets for a long while. Makes him a bit more human to me.

Okay, so onto the main portion of this note . . . the research. Some may not care and scroll on, but others may be interested in the history of the Crusades. It is for those people that I spent 3 hours watching a History Channel documentary, which I highly recommend to anyone interested in this time period. It's called The Crusades: The Crescent and the Cross. I make reference of it in this chapter if you caught it.

Anyways, this is the history that I have changed to fit my story OR just a further explanation of what is happening:

(1) The Bishop of Beauvais was indeed a real man, and Conrad was a friend or at least friendly acquaintance of his. However, the Bishop and Conrad both lived in Tyre, but I needed to place Aliya in Jerusalem since that is where Malik lived and that is where Altair would go after he returned from Egypt. The Bishop did grant a divorce to Conrad's wife Isabella so that Conrad could marry her to gain the title of king of Jerusalem through marriage. However, it was not until April 1192 that Conrad was elected into the position. Soon after he had been elected, he had visited the Bishop of Beauvais home to have dinner, but found that the Bishop had already eaten. He headed home, only to be assassinated by two assassins (hm, foreshadowing? =) )

Also, I do not know if they would have allowed a Bishop to stay in Jerusalem since it was not under Crusader control in 1192, but in my story, they have sympathy and let the Bishop stay there in his imaginary church that I moved from Tyre to Jerusalem.

(2) During the Bishop secret meeting he talks about Saladin and King Richard fighting in Jaffa, which is a town further up the coastline from Jerusalem (refer to a map if you are curious). For those who do not know, the Third Crusade was King Richard's campaign to regain the Crusader's states from the enemy, of which Saladin was the head of. Richard had fought and pushed back the enemy towards Jerusalem (which was the main goal of the Crusade), and arrived in Jaffa in September of 1191-the town the Crusaders needed to take before heading to Jerusalem. Saladin attempts to hold him there, and it is in the Spring of 1192 that Richard realizes that perhaps he does not have enough troops to overtake Jerusalem. So he instead regroups back in Acre to perhaps leave room for another Crusade to happen from there. HOWEVER the armies continue to fight until they ultimately come to a standstill in a year later in September 1192 in which the Third Crusade will end in a truce. The Crusaders can keep the cities of Acre, Jaffa, Tyre, and Caesera but Saladin will keep Jerusalem. Saladin allows the movement of Christian pilgrims to the city. So in October 1192, Richard leaves the area to return to Europe, and within a few months in March 1193, Saladin dies. Which historians say that if Richard would have stayed in the area until that time, he could have used his enemies loss of their commander to overtake Jerusalem.

But it was not meant to be.

(3) I actually wasn't the one to change this next one, Ubisoft actually did it with their AC storyline, but technically in 1192, Robert de Sable was still the Grand Master of the Templars. However, since they killed him off, I couldn't keep him around, so I used Gilbert Horal which was the Grand Master after de Sable in 1193. I do not know if the Templars ever had temporary Grand Masters nor if Gilbert was his second in command, but I made it so for my own devices.

So now that you have had a bit of a history lesson and enjoyed yet another chapter of Impulsion, perhaps you should review, comment, or criticize me. It is all welcome as they will all make me a better writer and I oh so love receiving them!

Ahem, you know this was coming, so . . .

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Assassin's Creed or any of the characters belonging to the series.

Crystal