Absolution

A hundred candles burned in the alcoves and arches of the chapel. Incense rose in a wispy haze to mingle with the flickering shadows. On his knees before the Sister, Jasper de Luc gripped his pleading candle. The flame danced on the breath of his quick, quiet words. Eyes pinched shut, Jasper’s prayer tumbled out in a constant mumble. For two hours now he had been kneeling, repeating his plea on the cold stone. Long ago he had forgotten the cramps that had snaked up his legs, and now bound his hip in pain.

He did not notice the two monks in a darkened corner. Concern painted the face of the younger man, the older seemed only sad.

“Why does he plead to the Sister?” the younger monk asked in a whisper, “I can see by his dress that he is a man of the blade. Surely the Hero would be more fitting, or at least more likely to intercede on his behalf.”

The older man did not answer for a long while. Finally drawing a slow breath, he rested his hand lightly on the shoulder of his companion, “Men of the blade, and in particular that man, have seen and done things for which they can find no absolution in this broken world.” He stopped, and for a moment seemed to be done. But as he turned to walk back towards their quarters he paused, “The Sister, in his mind at least, would demand the most of him. He knows his deeds require the intercession of those he has harmed the most.”

The two monks left quietly. Jasper did not note their passing. Tears had now mixed with the dirt from the road, swirling on his face. Still his prayers went on in the wavering shadow of the Sister. Slowly the tears stopped as his frantic prayers calmed. An hour after the two monks had left, Jasper straightened. Muscles creaked in protest, and painful moan escaped his lips; he paid again for his transgressions.

Outside the Modarin Sanctuary his companion and friend waited in disapproving boredom. He stood in marked contrast to Jasper. With thick ashen hair, braided down past his shoulders, Harrig Vulgor towered over his northern companion by two full hands. In no way could he be mistaken for a religious devote, unless his faith involved the worship of long steel idols with sharpened edges.

Jasper smiled at his friend who was running a stone along the blade of his dagger. He wished he had Harrig’s thick mane in this southern climate. His own dark hair was cropped close, and his beard, though he had let it grow of late, did nothing to cut the biting wind. The land was well into spring, but still snow swirled down from the massive peaks to the south. Wrapping his cloak tighter he fell in beside Harrig as they walked to the stables.

“Did you find absolution friend?” His tone was sincere, though Jasper knew his companion did not understand the need.

“Only the Sister knows now, though in truth I feel her calm upon me now. I know not if that is for good or ill though.” He smiled up at the big man, “I am sorry to make you spend these hours alone, and without beer.”

“Ach, tis’ a brisk sunny day, with only a little snow. If I’m to sit outside, this,” he pointed to the vista before them, “Is the time and place for it.”

They reached the stables and Harrig tugged the doors open, “We’ve a message while you were praying.” Indeed, strapped and hooded, a falcon awaited them just inside the doors. “I waited for you; can’t read your spidery northern script.”

Jasper peeled the rolled paper from the raptor. As he unfolded and skimmed the contents, Herrig began saddling their horses. The big man waited patiently. Working through the stalls, he checked the shoes and teeth of his grey. He moved on to Jasper’s mount. Losing himself in the work, he was startled by the other man’s voice.

“Turas sends us instructions.” Jasper folded the paper in his gloved hands, and looked over the half wall, “We are to meet the others south of Modara at the Crossroads.”

Harrig grunted, “That’s few words for the amount of time you spent reading.” He looked out the corner of his eyes. The accusation was small, but real. “I trust you Jasper, but some scraps would be nice from time to time.”

“I’d give it to you to read if you could make it out. It pains me to repeat it though.” Jasper sighed and pushed the folded note behind his belt, “ar’Turas is not well, and his sons…well they were never meant to rule. My own family will find the times hard in the next few years.”

“Your king does me no good dead. I forsook my oaths to follow him.” Harrig looked grim and serious.

“Let us pray we can find Emrys my friend.”

“You pray.” Harrig smiled, “I have this.” He flourished the three foot length of steel, sheathed now, and strapped it to his saddle.