Chapter 8

  Mariette looks at him suspiciously, then, tentatively places her hand into his. He gently guides her to her feet, then proceeds to the haphazardly placed bundle of clothes and armor upon the chair in the corner. He swipes the contents onto the floor and grabs the chair by its back, brings it to the cot, and sets the chair down adjacent to it. He then sits down on the bedding and invites her to listen. "Please, sit. I shall answer any and all questions you surely have."

  Mariette sits in the chair, facing him, pointing a chastising finger, "You pull a sword upon me, after I bring you in, feed you, bandage you, vouch for you to Mother without so much as even knowing thine name!" she crosses her arms in a huff, "And that is the grace ye hold unto me?"

  The man sighs, "Please, forgive me, sister. I only intend to serve the Lord's will, and at that moment, just now, I had need of confirmation in my trust in you..." he pleads his case to her, "My name, is Sir Armen of Cathedral: Inquisitor for the Holy Covenant of Kingdoms." Mariette listens, her interest piqued, for she had not heard of this, either title or alliance, thus, she asks, "What cathedral do you speak of? What covenant? What Kingdoms art thou sent from?"

  "No. Not A cathedral, THE Cathedral. The city-state that lies upon the Great Plateau, the gateway between either kingdom. Thine domain: Antheron, and the humans in Bronne. The state that, more-or-less, is the ultimate authority over the entirety of Sanctacentri." he remarks, his voice notably tinged with incredulity, "Do you know of what I speak?"

  Mariette shakes her head, ignorant and annoyed. "I'm afraid not, Sir Armen. I hardly ever leave the convent. And I've been here since I were a baby. My parents left me here, so I'm told." her words were heavy with spite, still blatantly cross with Armen.

  "Mother doesn't send any of you out? No missions, no commune with your own people?" he asks, hoping enough words between them might soothe her annoyance.

  Mariette again, shakes her head. "No, especially not missionaries, Mother doesn't trust anyone beyond our kingdom after what transpired upon her own mission..."

  Sir Armen sighs and throws his head back at the realization that there would be a great deal of questions and teaching that must take place in such short time with Mariette. "There is so much that you do not know, and I worry that I may not have all the answers, or perhaps even the time to teach you. I fear my own charge is yet to be completed... Although..." he thinks aloud, looking at his side where his wound hides beneath his tunic, visible only by the small pit of blood that soaked through his bandages and stained it. "It seems I might be here longer than I would wish. If what I fear is indeed true, then this gouge must heal afore I may proceed further..."

  Mariette also glances upon his wound, her face soothes and her demeanor shuffles back to her concerned disposition, "It will be a few weeks until it closes, at least, enough that you may proceed in your quarrel. So long as you remain here, howe're, you must stay away from Mother. Tensions are high as of now, and further confrontation will only worsen." Mariette begins to wag a finger at him and chastise, Sir Armen nods in acknowledgment. "Indeed. Thank you for your concern. I imagine I will confine to these quarters alone, thus, you have so long to inquire what you wish." Mariette rises from her seat, and speaks gently, but curt, "I shall fetch more bandages for you." Then she leaves the room.

  Sir Armen lays down in the cot, his mind pondering, "Mariette is pure and true. Any foul beast would cower at the touch of silver, let alone blessed silver. No. It only grew hot upon Mother's presence in the chapel. There is something of her that must be rectified. How deep this influence reaches, though, is as of yet beyond me. For if the position that Mother holds is to be defiled by the satanic influence of the world, who could stand a better chance against it? I must bide my time here: kept to watch, and perhaps learn of the source, and further: to pluck it from this realm as one might a weed in a garden... That beast of the woods, though. Only spoke of a week before death. Did it omen mine?"

  Sister Mariette returned later with a bundle of fresh bandages, "Remove your tunic, please..." Sir Armen gingerly sits up, pulling his tunic up over his helm and off of his body, setting it to rest at the foot of the cot next to him. Mariette kneels down at his midriff and begins to unwind the bandages, slowly, gently unraveling his cocoon of cloth and blood. She speaks as she continues her ministrations, "Why hath you thrown your rosary unto me, earlier?"

  Armen looks down at her through the slots in his helm, "Vile cretins that are tainted of hell, or born from it, cannot stand the holy cross I carry."

  "Yet, I wear a cross... Would that not be enough of a testament of mine faith?" Mariette inquires, not looking up from the now exposed wound, that oozed pus around the amateur stitching of his skin. The deep purple of his bruising around the scarlet wound only added to the grotesque nature of its unsightly appearance. Despite its grisly look, it was a testament to her nurturing care in lieu of any medicinal training.

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  "Not quite, no. The cross in of itself is not holy. The value of the cross is only displayed in the value that one places upon it. The faith that one might hold within their own, is what gives a cross its nature. If a villainous being would not regard the cross as a testament of their faith in the Lord, then it is no more than just a trinket. The shape is not what divines the object. No, my test was that of if you might shirk at the touch of silver. Silver is detriment to evil, especially if it were blessed by a priest, much like my rosary, and my sword. Moreover, the cross I wield encases an amount of holy water, blessed by the council of bishops in Cathedral. In the presence of demonic evil, it boils and grows hot to touch."

  "Oh... I see..." Mariette replies, somewhat skeptically, as she grabs one of the bottles from the table, and soaks a rag in its peculiar fluid. As she dabs the soaked rag onto his wound, he winces as it stings and burns, feeling as if it were a hot iron.

  "What is this medicine?" Armen asks through gritted teeth, to which Mariette replies, "A cleaning brew we make here in the convent. Aloe and dandelion root, boiled, strained, then with honey, it is fermented over a few months. It cleans very well and helps prevent infection. Though we mostly use it if someone suffers a burn in the kitchen."

  Mariette unravels a roll of bandage, then proceeds to wrap it around his mid, tightening each new pass over the last. As she toils, she can't help but stare at his form. Despite his thin body, she could feel his muscles, hard and taught with strength unbecoming of his size. His musculature was only emphasized by the skin, bereft of fur, only painted with a light dusting of hair upon his chest and abdomen. His oily skin was an alien feeling to her. Never before had she felt the texture of a human until Armen fell upon the stoop last night, so smooth, so slick. Her hands trail along his abdomen, fingers staying longer than they should. She hath never seen a man so bare, let alone the curiosity that is a human man.

  "Mariette... art thou well? What keeps you fixated?" Sir Armen's voice slaps her back into her work, she feels her cheeks warm at his notice of her entrancement, "Oh, I simply inspect your wound. Your bruise seems to grow, which is good." she sheepishly covers her lapse in judgment and quickly finishes wrapping him. She asks, hoping to change the subject, "How did you get into Antheron? What caused this wound?" her query was implicit in asking if he were here upon invitation, or if Mother were correct in her assumptions.

  Armen runs his thumb underneath the hem of the topmost bandage, loosening its constriction before he pulls his tunic back over his body. "I crossed at the gate with no issue, if that is what you inquire. We of the Holy Covenant of Kingdoms do not belong, nor answer to either throne. We are a separate entity entirely." Mariette listens as he speaks, her head tilted to the side in curiosity, she asks of him, "Holy Covenant of Kingdoms?"

  Armen looks at her momentarily with concern of the lengths that she doesn't know, then continues deeper into explanation, just as promised to her: "After the Hundred Years war between Antheron and Bronne, both kingdoms suffered a severe rise in magic and devilry from the peoples of either nation; both humans and manolons like you. Mostly it were the common citizens that suffered under the subjugating costs of war; desperately, they searched for any reprieve and found immediate solace in deals and sin. Thus, both kings, along with their courts and respective religious heads, held a moot, upon the Great Plateau in Romania, directly centered on the border of either kingdom, and they agreed upon both nations to give equal parts in the creation of a new, self-governing power. Thus was created the Holy Covenant of Kingdoms, comprised of many orders of knights, nobles, tradesmen; anyone that might be in a kingdom can be found there too. I belong to the Inquisition; the wardens of faith within both kingdoms. All citizens that enlisted into this new power, citizens of either kingdom, had their allegiances revoked, and they only adhere to the laws and instruction of Cathedral- both the name of the city and the governing power that lords over it- surpassing the laws set by any king. Still, however, we are instructed to take care in respecting the laws of any nation in which we are visiting. Or, in my own trespass here: hunting."

  Sister Mariette nodded along, each new sentence giving her an iota of knowledge of the world outside of the convent, and it was entrancing. Armen continues his answers to her question, "This wound, however, is from no man. Nay, suffered by a beast from the forest. The creature that the farmers hath sought aid with, as I told you this morn, is what grieved me so." Mariette's eyes glow with interest, "A creature? What kind of creature?"

  "A wolf-man. And before you might ask, no, not one of your kind. At least, I might assume so. It were certainly feral. It were even subject with unnatural proportions and an arm devoid of its flesh, yet functioned as well as a normal hand might. It were preying upon the livestock, consuming their flesh to grow its own. I also am suspicious, as well, that it was a thrall gone awry. Mayhap the creator hath met their demise by its hands, or they had sent the beast into the world to fend for itself, I do not know. What troubles me more, however, is that it spoke..." Armen says, his voice grave and inflected with worry. Perhaps he did slay an innocent person. Mariette's ears flit up in surprise, "It spoke?" to which Armen nods. She ponders for a moment and then asks, "Can you regale me the entirety of how you ended upon our door?" a note of excitement but mostly of curiosity in her voice, as if he were telling her a child's story. Armen nods, then starts from the beginning, when he first received his charge back in Cathedral.