Author's note is attached at the end, and I guess . . . enjoy =)

Chapter 3

"I cannot give you a girl for payment," the Bishop whispered loudly, sending cautious eyes to watch as his other dinner guests left the room to seek out their beds. "This is a human being we talk of! How can I give you something I do not own?"

Conrad flicked his bored eyes to the Bishop. "She is a slave."

"Not since the day I brought her family to Jerusalem. The Church does not own slaves," the Bishop replied. "They are my servants."

"Servant or not, it is her I want," Conrad said. "You have no gold and nothing else you possess interests me. So what is it to be, Philip? Your holy mission or the girl? Tyre is the ideal city for you. You said it yourself."

The Bishop wrung his hands together in contemplation. How could he promise another being's life to someone else? Could he do it? His answer was this: He would do it for his Lord. He could do it for the power of the Pieces of Eden.

The Bishop glanced up at Conrad. "She'll not come easily, you know. Aliya will not accept this, and will put up a great fight about leaving her family. She's a tad stubborn like that."

"I wouldn't have her any other way," Conrad replied, grinning.

The garden seemed strangely still and silent compared to how it had been just a few hours ago when it was filled with men's voices and laughter, servants' footsteps pattering back and forth in-between the kitchen, and even the clank of silverware against plates. Now, only the fountain made any noise with its soft trickling.

The servants, along with Aliya's parents, were in their beds already. The Bishop tended to rise early in the mornings, and expected his servants to follow his example. Usually, she would have been asleep by now, but she couldn't seem to ease her mind enough to lay still.

It was because of the flower.

Aliya twirled the large Iris blossom in her fingers, the long purple petals spinning and spinning until they threatened to fall. Stopping, she held it in her palm studying the yellow, blue, and white steaks sprouting from the middle. Wasim's gift was sweet, thoughtful, and . . . the sort of thing a man did for one he courted. Sighing, she placed it on the fountain's ledge beside her.

Wasim came to her mind quickly with his kind brown eyes, narrow face, and shaggy black hair. He was nothing extraordinary, but he was compassionate and understanding. Romantic even, Aliya added, staring hard at the flower he had left. So what was the matter with her? Why could she not just accept the inevitable? Her mother knew it was coming, and even her father had conceded that although he had not picked Wasim out for her, she could do no better than Rasha's older brother. Her brothers' would willingly accept Wasim, as they were all three friends since a young age.

It should feel perfect, but it didn't.

Her face fell as she stared at her reflection in the water. Green eyes looked back at her beneath the arches of her brown eyebrows. Her hair fell nearly to the middle of her back with a slight curl towards the ends. Typically, her full mouth fell into an easy smile, not on purpose, but just as a habit. However, tonight it remained straight and grim.

She was a recipe herself, she guessed, a mixture of different ingredients. Her mother had been European, and it was evident that her father had been a Muslim man. While she had the dark coloring of many Arabic women, she possessed the delicate bone structure that many of the European women. Even her green eyes seemed to tell her secret.

Muslim men wanted Muslim wives, and European men wanted European wives. She was neither, but then again she was either. It was a hard balance to understand, because while she looked mostly the part of an Arabic woman, the men knew she was not. There were some that would look pleasantly upon her, but that was all they would do. There were not many men willing to accept a mixed-breed wife.

Except Wasim.

Splashing her hand through the water, she erased her image from the water's surface. It was the merchants, the travelers, and the scholars that had made her this way—uneager to marry—she supposed. Their tales of faraway places, historical heroes, and tales of adventure had not helped her mother's attempt at training her for marriage and motherhood. Instead, she had spent her free time learning to read and write from the local scholars, discussing the movement of the world with the travelers, and listening to the merchants as they wove their tales of dangerous journeys for expensive products. She had dreamed of perhaps traveling the world herself, having an adventure of her own to tell before marrying, but as she grew older, the chances of those dreams were growing slim.

Although the daughter of slaves, she had led a fortunate life in the midst of violent times, but one couldn't have everything they dreamed of in life.

Wood scraped against stone as the men around the table pushed their chairs away, leaving their wine goblets for the servants to gather later. Such was the life of the wealthy. They shook hands, exchanged parting words, and then slowly begin to trickle out of the room en route for their beds. The candles were blown out, leaving the room dark. He waited a moment, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the lack of lighting.

Waiting, Altair stifled a yawn as he silently stretched his chest to relieve the tension, and decided that perhaps it was time that he return to the Bureau to update Malik on the information he had gathered from tonight's meeting. Notes would be taken, discussions and arguments made, and finally they would decide the Brotherhood's next move. Eventually, he would be able to reclaim his place among the pillows and sleep in peace without the disturbing bells tolling about for hours.

Once he was confident enough about his vision, he started retracing his footsteps towards the Bishop's office. Luck must have been on his side, as no one came across his path, and he effortlessly slipped into the Bishop's office. Taking one longing glance at the flimsy lock that guarded the Bishop's correspondence, Altair climbed out of the window into the night.

Aliya picked up the flower once more and sighed. Perhaps she should marry. Perhaps it could be Wasim. Perhaps she could be a wife and a mother.

It was all that she was willing to admit at that moment.

She sat there for a few minutes, closing her eyes, content on listening to the water spill over the edges of the fountain into the pool below. The night was silent beyond that small interruption. A few more minutes and—

It was probably just her imagination, but Aliya felt as if something was watching her. Or someone. Her eyes looked about the empty courtyard. Paranoid, she looked closely at the shadows. Although she found nothing or no one, it was hard to shake the feeling of being watched away. It clung to her, breaking through the calmness that had enveloped her moments before. She stood up, paying close attention to the walls that surrounded the garden. Her attention was so focused on the walls that she barely noticed the figure coming through the kitchen entrance.

"It is a pleasant night, is it not?"

His voice grated against her nerves, and she quickly stood as he walked towards her. She could not run or walk away from Conrad, because he was a guest in her master's home. "Do you need anything, sir?" she asked, making her voice calm and even as not to portray how much this man bothered her with his stares. "Wine? A snack?"

Chuckling, Conrad stepped closer, which in the dim lighting of the moonlight made it easier to see his face. "No . . . thank you, though," he said, his voice oddly amused. "I couldn't sleep and I noticed a shadow out here in the moonlight. However, I did not expect to find such a beautiful night owl out here."

Aliya nodded her head in acknowledgement. "Well I have never been compared to an owl, but perhaps that is a compliment where you are from. Good night then." She attempted to move past him, but he clamped onto her upper arm, holding her in place.

"Aliya," he said, and she hated the sound of her name on his lips, "we seem to have started off the wrong foot, so to say. I would like for us to get along."

It sounded like a cruel joke to her ears, but she could not manage a polite laugh. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, realizing that he was staring right at her. "I am sorry if I have insulted you, sir," she replied. It was the best she could do, and she moved to wrench her arm from his grasp. He held on tightly.

"You have not insulted me," he whispered now. His mouth was very close to her ear, and she felt the air from his mouth touch her skin. She cringed. "No, Aliya, you please me greatly."

"Let me go," Aliya demanded, any kindness she had inserted into her voice was gone now. He trailed a finger alongside the skin of her neck, causing her to move her upper body away quickly. She glared into his eyes. "I will scream if you do not let me go."

"Is this how you treat all men? So much hostility. I will have to rid you of that habit." He grinned. "I look forward to the first time I visit your bed, sweet."

Aliya was not stupid when it came to sexual overtures. She opened her mouth to scream, thinking it the best way to stop his advances without having to injure one of the Bishop's guests. However, as soon as her mouth opened, his mouth swooped down to capture her lips. Her scream was muted. Struggling, she beat her fists on his back, but he would not release her. When his tongue attempted to enter her mouth, she bit down hard. He roared with pain, pulling back from her.

She immediately turned to run back to the kitchen door, praying that someone might still be awake or heard them out in the garden.

"You bitch!" he loudly whispered, but because of the pain, it came out sounding, "Ew 'itch!"

The sound of heavy footsteps behind Aliya spurred her on, but she tripped on her own feet, pitching her forward. He caught up to her, wrapping an arm around her midriff and lifting her off the ground. She attempted to escape, causing him to lose his balance. He danced around trying to stabilize himself, but holding her wriggling form caused them both to crash hard against the ground.

Aliya's head ricocheted off the stones, causing stars and dots to dance before her eyes. Her back ached where it had landed heavily against the hard surface. She groaned as she tried to sit up, but Conrad was there before she could, straddling her midriff as he tried to clear his own stars and dots.

"I cannot wait to get you to Tyre," he gritted between his teeth, touching his fingers gently to a nasty looking scrape on his temple. "You will soon regret doing that, I can promise you." Aliya said nothing but lay there impassively beneath him trying to figure out what he had meant by 'wait to get you to Tyre'. She opened her mouth to ask a question when Conrad clamped his fingers around her wrist like a manacle, jerking her upright with him. He brought her face close to his. "You will not make a sound when we go inside otherwise I will slit your throat, and damned those Pieces of Eden. You're coming to my chamber for the night so I can ensure that you will not run away."

No. She pulled viciously on her arm, but it accomplished nothing except to cause her to grind her teeth at the pain of it.

"Stay still!" he growled. "I will teach you who lies beneath who, Aliya. Tonight you will finally understand who is master."

"I will never be your whore," she told him, spitting into his eyes. Another growl emitted from the back of his throat as he wiped her saliva off his face. "I would rather die."

"Then you will," he responded. "After I am finished with you, I will gladly slit that pretty little neck of yours."

A strange sensation swept through her veins. It was unlike any feeling she had ever experienced. Thoughts, rationalization—anything other than the urgent call for survival—diminished. Conrad was pulling her, tugging at her as they neared the kitchen entrance. Her heart was like a drum beating a steady rhythm in her chest. Her body and mind felt unattached as her eyes located the glint of a dagger on his belt. She watched her hand reach out and grasp the hilt of it, pulling it quickly before he could stop her. He turned quickly, and upon seeing the weapon in her hands, moved to disarm her. Her hand reached up and deflected the maneuver, turning her body to thrust her elbow upwards into his nose. He cried out, cupping his hands around his nose as blood ran down over his mouth.

Aliya watched her hands and body move in what seemed like a synchronized dance, but the problem was that she did not command her hands to move that way or her body to turn this way. It felt as if she was a spectator and not the participant.

He dropped his hands, attempting to protect himself as the hand that held the dagger came shooting forward in a feint attack, but just as quickly came forward once more, slicing a clean crimson line along his throat.

Blood fell like velvet curtains down his neck, until he dropped to his knees before her.

The beating drum of her heart led up to a crescendo as her breath came out in small gasps and her hand dropped the dagger. Metal clanged against the stones, splattering his blood in a chaotic pattern. Blood still poured from his neck and now came from his mouth, staining the ground under him.

A deafening roar erupted in her ears, so she neither heard or saw the shadowed figure move from the top of the wall and into the courtyard. She simply stared at Conrad's still form, trying to still her shaking hands. What had she done? Drawing her eyes away, she spotted the movement of candlelight in the upper hallways, and panic increased tenfold as she tried to figure out what she could say. Oh, God.

"If you want to live, you are going to have to start moving," a voice whispered from behind her. It was deep—a man's voice—slightly tinged with sarcasm. Turning quickly, she saw a white hooded figure standing there. The dark night and the shadows of his hood made it impossible for her to see his face.

"I—I don't—" she stumbled around the words trying to figure out something to say to explain. Had this stranger seen what happened? "I didn't mean to do this. I swear upon my own life, I never meant to kill him."

Now, voices were coming from the rooms and doors could be heard as they were opened and shut. Footsteps were coming down staircases, and Aliya threw a terrified look towards the doors that led out to the garden. She looked back at the stranger, seeing that he was assessing the sounds coming from the house also. He turned his head towards her, and she heard his quiet command, "Then run."

He took off fast in one direction, towards the surrounding walls. "Are you coming?" he called over his shoulder. It took a moment for Aliya to push herself and follow, for she had no idea what she was doing. No idea how she would explain how she was able to slit Conrad's throat. It was still a mystery to her. What had come over her? The fear of not being heard, not being able to explain, but instead judged on the spot was a terrifying thought. And so, she ran. Her gait was hindered as she kept peering back to see if anyone had come out of the doors.

They would know it was her eventually. The servants and the guests would account for themselves and others, and finally, her family would announce that she was missing. It was only common sense to label the one who runs as the murder.

Suddenly, the wooden door cracked against the stone façade of the house as people poured into the courtyard. She pumped her arms harder, trying to make her legs reach the wall faster, where the white clad figure was crouched waiting for her. Her dark hair was streaming behind her, and her footsteps clicking against the ground beneath her. Coming up on the wall, she threw up her arm and jumped. His hand secured hers and pulled her up.

Their faces were drawn together, and for a moment, she locked her eyes on to his. Brown eyes the color of rusted gold. They fairly glowed through the black night. Her eyes flicked down to see the scar crossing the right side of his lips. The assassin.

"It's you," she said, as he pulled her to a standing position. "You're the—"

"Assassin," he finished for her. "Yet, it seems that you are the one that have done the killing tonight. If you want to escape this alive, you're going to have move faster," he chastised, pulling away.

She glanced over to the group that now surrounded Conrad's body, and saw the identifiable silhouettes of her parents. Her father's tall form with hunched shoulders and the woman that stood wrapped in his arms had her mother's long dark braid. Aliya could pick them out even from a distance. She looked back to where the assassin had last stood only to see that he was off in the distance running along the wall's ledge towards the church.

As Aliya hurried after him, her mind echoed the proverb that she had been taught from a young age. Respect the assassins, but never trust them. Citizens had long repeated this mantra as the soaring figures in white started making their appearances among their cities. While they claimed to bring peace to the land, their blades did not always come away with guilty blood. Yet, as she heard the cries of her name and the accusations of "Murderer!" echoing into the night, she had no choice but follow him. Survival, it was all that matter at this point.

Never compromise the Brotherhood.

Altair glanced over his shoulder to see the servant girl stumbling along the rooftops, trying to keep up with him. He was no stranger to breaking the Assassin's Creed, but before it had been a case of arrogance and ignorance. However, by bringing a civilian to the Assassin's Bureau he was potentially putting his brothers in danger. Malik would be furious when he discovered her among the pillows of the main chamber, but Altair could not erase the image of her struggling with the large figure of Conrad, trying to escape her impending rape.

He had been sneaking out of the window, and was moving stealthy across the wall towards the grand church when he heard a man's voice in the garden. At first, Altair thought he was being addressed, but then he heard a quiet woman's voice respond. Curious, Altair hid himself, listening and watching. He chanted to himself repeatedly that he should not be involved, and managed not to, until Conrad had overpowered the girl and began pulling her towards the home. Cursing himself for having the hero complex that always sent him rescuing threatened civilians, he ran back across the wall, and jumped off into the courtyard. His quiet rapid footsteps making their way quickly towards them.

The only thing that caused him to pause was the sheer beauty in the way she had stolen his dagger, blocked his attack—the grace in the way she smashed her elbow into his nose—and then slicing the blade against the skin of Conrad's throat.

He slowed his movements, warily approaching her now. Her fingers released the dagger, dropping it onto the stones beneath her, and her gasping breath came in short, heavy bursts. Shock. It wasn't the sort of things trained killers often experienced, but he kept his distance nonetheless. He had stopped, thinking about turning back, but . . . well, Altair wasn't sure why he had intervened, saving her from discovery, but it was too late to turn back now.

The bells had not yet been rung, which would alert the city of potential danger, still giving them some secrecy to their movements as they made their way towards the Bureau. Even the guards were not aware of the killer sneaking above them, however, as the girl tripped, almost sending herself into the streets below, Altair wondered if she would escape this after all. She silently fought to pull herself up, finally rolling onto the roof's surface.

Still moving, he scanned the rooftops, watching for the guards that patrolled the skyline for assassins and thieves that utilized the usually abandoned roofs for their own advantages. Seeing none, he charged ahead, choosing a path that was easier for the girl to follow. They were close now, only a few more buildings and they would be standing on the Bureau.

He leaped across a large gap in between the buildings, clearing the obstacle easily. Altair turned to see his shadow coming closer, and was pleased that she seemed to be moving faster than before. As soon as she reached the building across from him, hesitation written clearly on her face, he opened his mouth to instruct her on how to make the jump, but before he could, the bells began to ring. Their chimes reached the entire city, alerting other bell ringers to do the same.

Time was short now.

Altair looked towards her once more. "The guards will be looking more closely for you. Just step back, and push with your legs. You have to angle your body so that you are jumping more forward than up. Can you do it?"

Saying nothing, she stepped back a few steps, before launching herself forward, barely touching her feet to the edge of the roof. He caught her hand, saving her once more. Ducking her head, she charged forward.

He caught up to her easily, passing her within seconds. Altair knew she was pushing herself, but as the streets below them came to life with guards and civilians, he had to stamp down any sympathy he had for her as he continued. It was either move or die, and he didn't prefer the latter for either of them.

The hiss of the arrow came too quickly for Altair to call out warning. He spun around seeing an arrow barely miss her right leg. He didn't have to urge her from there, because she came rushing forward.

"Stop, murderer!" the yells came from behind them. "Assassin!" There were two guards behind them, shooting their arrows as they were in pursuit. An arrow zoomed in between them, the heat of its movement brushing past his ear. The zings of more arrows coming and the closing distance between them and the Bureau, caused him to wrap his hands around two throwing knives, but before he could turn to throw them, an arrow shot straight through his shoulder. He gritted his teeth for a moment, fighting off the pain, and then turned quickly, sending the knives spinning through the air. They hit true in the guards' chests.

Altair looked over at the servant girl, her eyes on the arrow that was sticking out from his shoulder. "Keep moving," he said. "Just keep moving."

They came to the Bureau's entrance, Altair all but pushing her down into the hole. His shoulder was burning like hell, and he had no patience for theatrics if she refused to go down. Once he heard her land among the pillows, he dropped down himself.

The dim lighting of the main chamber, the feel of soft pillows beneath his feet, and the sound of running water from the fountain . . . Altair sighed with relief.

That was until he heard a very annoyed voice asking, "What have you done, Altair?"

The plan was compromised. The girl had vanished along with the Assassin.

No matter the costs, he would have his revenge.

And by the looks of how the past 4 entries have been, I would say that I will probably update at least once a week, and the chapters have been anywhere from 4,203 and 5,137 words. If this seems too long, let me know!

And as for the death of Conrad, well, he was a jerk [in my story] anyways so I was happy to kill him off. However, like I said in the previous chapter, he was really killed by two assassins after leaving the Bishop of Beauvais' (Philip) home in April 1192. Just trying to keep your facts straight.

So . . . that's chapter 3. I would really, really, really appreciate some reviews on what has happened so far, if you think Altair is too much out of character, what you think of Aliya, and all that jazz. Basically, I am begging for some more reviews or asking to be flamed . . . however you want to look at it. There have been a lot of hits and visitors according to my traffic thing, but not many reviews. If you love it, let me know! If you hate it, let me know. take note of no exclamation point at the end of that last one, but seriously, who get's excited to get the hate reviews, but alas, I am asking for them.

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

Crystal