In the morning Conrad received a summons from his masters, if the seal was of any indication. He felt the fear he escaped the night before return to him ten-fold. His hands shook, ever so slightly, as he held the parchment at waist length with Garrick reading over his shoulder.
Garrick finished before him, as it took the Siege Lord twice as long to read between the carefully crafted lines of diplomacy, where suspicion and peril lurk beneath. The easterner stood by the door, his hands clasped behind his back patiently.
"No..." Conrad mumbled. Garrick tilted his head curiously.
"No," he repeated, "No, they suspect the assassins. They wish to see me for other reasons, or at least, reasons other than myself."
"Are you sure?"
The Siege Lord crumpled the letter and tossed it to the floor carelessly. "Never, but refusing them is an option I do not have."
"When did they request you?"
"Later, midday," Conrad sighed, bringing a tabard from a chest and lifting it, letting the red and white cloth unfurl to reveal the Templar cross. "What a dark day it is."
The sun was high, midday was close. The cathedral would take him an hour to walk to, two hours if he hesitated and moved slowly. He would bring escorts to the doors. His own men. No Templars, no Garrick. "I go alone," he said.
Garrick lowered his head respectively, though the disappointment showed clear on his face. "What a terrible idea," he said, "but I respect it. And you should leave. Soon."
Conrad had already donned the armor, cloak, and demeanor of his station and became the Siege Lord once again, hiding his injuries and his doubt, perhaps even subconsciously mimicking the assassin he both feared and sought so feverishly.
Dread bloomed anew deep within him, now quite the familiar feeling. The timing of the Templars' letter was alarming and unsettling, but he could not ignore their summons. Perhaps he was walking into a trap, perhaps not.
Only time will tell. Conrad shrugged into his tabard and left his quarters, his worried attendant following him to just the edge of the battlements. Four lavish knights surrounded their Siege Lord, and they solemnly stalked into the city, headed towards the den of wolves.
The path they took, who they saw, and how long it took them to reach the cathedral was lost to him. Who met them at the cathedral, how long it had been since he walked through its heavy doors, what events took place after his escorts were left standing on the steps was lost to him.
He gained consciousness in a dimly lit room, his head spinning, his knees against the stone floor. Someone held him secure by his neck from behind, someone towered over him, and several more stood around them. An unbearable agony rippled through his chest with every breath he took. His face, however, was surprisingly left unharmed.
The only constant being the thought of how wrong he had been repeating itself over and over in his muddled head.
"Did you think us fools?" the figure that towered over him whispered. His hood was drawn and his voice, although altered by volume and tangible rage, was of the one to whom Conrad had gone about the letter.
He let out a strained cough, but could not speak more than a few words at a time. "Master..." he said, addressing the mysterious figure in a way he assumed would befit him. There was little doubt to who he could be, if not a Templar Master.
"Our knight saw someone fall clumsily from the roof, running from our burning flag." Abruptly, the Master took a step forward and grabbed the Siege Lord by his collar, jerking him in a manner that conflicted with the hold on his neck. The Master's other hand shot from his robes, clutched Conrad's bruised shoulder, and twisted it with such pressure it nearly made the Siege Lord vomit. He coiled away, any illusion of innocence dissolving with his betraying wound.
Conrad winced further as the Master leaned down close, his spiced breath washing over him in a terrible wave as he spoke. "Do you have any words with which to explain your treachery? And why we now sit beneath a charred roof?"
A knight fidgeted in the background. He was the same knight who stood by when the assassin was caught and the same knight who pursued him after the Templar flag was set ablaze. Conrad realized with frustration that he had been followed for days, most likely since he ever so slightly exposed his true feelings to this hooded figure in the cathedral some nights ago.
Conrad, instead of answering, looked away ashamedly. There was no explaining his way out of the situation he found himself in, there was only the truth, and facing his judgment now, he would have died rather than admit he was conspiring against the Templars.
He was let go abruptly and his face met the ground, too fearful to realize his hands had been bound behind his back. With a few embarrassingly clumsy movements, he managed to roll over and kick himself up into a sitting position. He stared up at the Templars.
Shaking, he opened his mouth to speak, but held it for a moment. They waited.
"I was there when the flag went up in flames," he admitted.
"Your wounds, bruised along your right side, if I am correct. From your fall from the roof?"
Conrad forsook his inhibitions in a desperate bid to survive. "I was lost, Master," he groaned. "So lost in this world without light, where killers roam the streets freely, and the people walk ignorant and complacent. Could my Lord blame me for feeling doubt in a world where nothing seems true?"
A long, tense moment followed in which the figured considered him carefully. Heads turned slightly, curiously. Finally, one stepped forward. "We are not without mercy, Siege Lord. Your choices are simple, then."
Figures in the background moved to reveal the source of the dim light and the soft crackling sound that Conrad had scarcely noticed: a brazier alive with burning embers. The color drained from Conrad's face.
"Commit to us, as you should have been from the beginning-" he then gestured to the brazier, "-or die."
Left with no other option, Conrad bowed his head once again. "I submit myself to you," he said, "and pledge my loyalty."
With the glimmer of the firelight shining its fullest, Conrad could swear he saw the Master's lips tugged into a smirk. "Well said."
Conrad was jerked back again as the man behind him clutched his neck again, holding him in an iron grip. Panic blossomed anew.
"However," a figure near the fire said, his voice low and dangerous, "No bad deed goes unpunished, no sin forsaken. Penance is necessary." He pulled the iron rod from the coals, glowing red with tendrils of stream drifting menacingly from its surface.
As the figure approached him slowly, Conrad struggled futilely against the grip on his neck, but he remained rooted to the spot as the crimson rod was pressed against his skin.