Part Twelve: To Understand Failings
Ezio sat in his study, looking at the third disk he had acquired and taking a moment to contemplate the meaning of it. The map had hinted that there were five keys, with this he was just over halfway. Twice now Altaïr had shown him a glimmer of the man's past, twice about that man Abbas, who hated Altaïr so fervently. Would this third memory hold a similar pattern? What question would the great mentor of old be contemplating as he created the key? Would he arrive have an answer at last? Ezio flipped to a fresh roll of parchment, quill and ink ready. He had Sofia to thank for these gains, and he paused before he began his meditation, coming to realize something.
He had been happier in the last few days than he had for months, even years. His affection for the book merchant was deeper than he initially realized. This was not the series of beds he found in the cold Decembers of his youth, nor was this the affair with Caterina Sforza. This was closer to his love of Cristina, and that was when he realized how far he had fallen for this woman. He wanted to share things with her – not just stories of his family, but also brazenly showing off his skill at climbing, bringing her along to find the books. He wanted to tell her what it all meant; she wanted to know, but it was as he told Claudia. The dangers in his life were not something to share, and ignorance, as the saying went, was bliss. Was that fair to her? Was that right by her? Ezio didn't know, but the very last thing he wanted was to see her in any kind of pain because of the life he lead. He had seen all too often what happened to those who followed this path – he had a long string of bodies behind him to pointedly demonstrate the fact, and Ezio was not sure he could bear another loss such as that. Most especially if it was Sofia.
She was full of a type of innocence that assassins didn't have, of belief in the world. Ezio wanted to cherish it even as he wanted to revel in it. She challenged him intellectually; her sheer breadth of knowledge was impressive and extended in areas far beyond what Ezio knew from his very singular education. She flirted with him with abandon – and though he now knew it was because she more than found him attractive – he found the chase invigorating. He felt young again, with her, and the intimacy of their relationship was more than physical. She... she made him feel good, and something as simple as that had enamored his heart. Already, he was making plans after he had found the keys: taking her to Venezia, then to Firenze. Claudia would have to be introduced of course, and Federica and her lover (and their child... when he had finished killing Concetto). Machiavelli would like her, and so would the novices and apprentices and members of the guild...
And once again his brain caught up with him, and he realized just how much of his life had to be hidden from her if he wished to pursue this relationship as thoroughly as he did. Hiding that much would only hurt their still budding feelings, secrets of that size only brought tragedy.
But for all that there was danger in his life and in those around him, he was not the amateur of his youth. It was Sofia's decision to involve herself in his danger, and she could only make that decision if he told her the truth.
… Later.
After the keys had been found. After he had found the wisdom in Altaïr's library. After his pilgrimage was complete. He would have all the time in the world after that.
He looked to the key, thinking of Altaïr, and slowly began to meditate on the faintest of voice it offered.
How long does it take for a man to understand his failings?
For years I thought my shortcomings had been laid bare to the world when Al Mualim demoted me. I had broken the Creed on all tenets, had cost my beloved friend Malik both his arm and his brother, had brought Templars to Masyaf and lost many brothers. My failings, my weaknesses, were obvious to all, and slowly obvious to me, as I worked my way back up the ranks. When it was over, I had thought I knew every sin I had committed, every failing in my person.
I was wrong.
For years I sought to prevent those mistakes. I worked intensely with Malik, and later Maria, and dedicated myself to the Order in ways I had never considered before that trial. To be Al Mualim is a difficult task, not one to be taken lightly, and I considered every decision I made carefully, thoughtfully, and – I hoped – with wisdom. But the one failing that had never been realized to me, perhaps the one failing I still cannot perceive, is my passion that so drives me as to care not for thought for others. It was that lack of thought for others that drove me to my demotion, and it was my passion that bade me spare the lives of Abbas and his followers. Simply killing them for breaking the Creed would cut our numbers down even further, it would sow seeds of distrust in others, and it would be a breach of the Creed in itself. I spared them, much to the chagrin of Malik and others, because I thought I could show them the world I saw.
My term as Al Mualim was not easy; I changed many things, angered many, and in my drive to bring the Order to meet the future, I did not see the dissension I was seeding with my own hands.
This was my greatest failing.
And I would feel its cost for the rest of my life.
Altaïr rode up the mountain and took a deep breath, breathing its scent as he had not in ten years, and a flood of memories and images and sounds and thoughts entered his head. Maria and Darim flanked him, feeling similar thoughts, as they rode under the ancient Roman arch that marked the boarder of the Assassins. Their journey had been obscenely long, fraught occasionally with danger and often with frustration, but at last Temujin – Genghis Khan – was dead. Darim, now thirty-three, had at last come into his own. No longer was he a boy trying to find his place in the world out from the shadow of "son of the master," he was a man of his own means, an expert bowman, and comfortable with himself as a man. Altaïr and Maria had watched his growth with quiet pride, and when he had been the one to at last land the fatal strike, the boy had turned with a stoic face and said, simply, "Now we may go."
Maria, as always, was a sight to behold. The grey slipping through her hair and the lines on her face did nothing to reduce her beauty. She was strong as so many women were not in this day and age; she had come in to the brotherhood under suspicion and taken the garden visions and turned them into more than pretty faces to console lost brothers. The women of those gardens were now educated, given marketable skills, in charge of cleaning and maintaining the castle. They had lives that were no longer languid but filled with purpose; they debated with brothers and proved to all that women were not so sinful as the Bible implied, or so degraded as so many in the Holy Land deemed necessary. All because of his wife. Their ten year journey had brought them closer than ever, and the two of them had spawned the radical idea of allowing women to do more than comfort the men. A woman assassin would be invisible, unexpected, a boon to their cause. Maria was already making plans to implement the idea, and Altaïr both dreaded and looked forward to breathing the idea to the council in the lower library. The debate would be energizing, but he did not look forward to the resistance from Abbas and his followers.
… How was Abbas? Altaïr frowned at the thought even as they continued the climb up the mountain.
Before leaving, Altaïr had at last wrestled with himself to tell Malik about his history with the old lion. As children, their fathers were intimately tied, both having infiltrated the camp of Salah ad-Din to prove a point. Abbas' father had been captured, and under torture had given up Altaïr's father's name. The deal that Al Mualim had been brokering with the conqueror had, because of that, been contingent upon the death of Altaïr's father. All of this, he learned, when Abbas' father had confessed it to him in the middle of the night in tears, right before slitting his own throat.
Malik had been utterly shocked at the revelation, as any should, perhaps.
Altaïr explained the events following Abbas' father's suicide, running to Al Mualim, being sworn to secrecy, and watching Abbas – who had been told his father was a hero and would come back one day – slowly twist in anxiety and confusion. Altaïr had sought to ease his boyhood friend's pain, and instead instilled a hatred that had culminated in his attempted coup after the death of Al Mualim. In the thirty years since then, he held to the oldest, most conservative, most esoteric traditions of the brotherhood. Altaïr could not hate Abbas, indeed accepted the challenge of convincing the old lion of his new ideas and thoughts. It was in debate with Abbas that he could garner the support of the rest of the assassins to implement the various plans he had for the Order. But the anger was still there, and Altaïr had confessed his past in the hopes that Malik could manage the old lion to prevent him from doing something desperate.
Malik... He was as inseparable to Altaïr as Maria and his sons. He was the first to forgive Altaïr his sins at Solomon's Temple, when his sins had cost Malik so much. The two argued often, sometimes even bitterly; Malik had a harsh tongue and did not pull his punches, but through it all he was Altaïr's staunchest supporter. Where Altaïr did what he thought was necessary, Malik badgered the council into seeing the eagle's point of view. Where Altaïr cared little for what others thought, Malik played the politics necessary to keep the order from breaking apart. Where Malik's own sharp tongue made trouble, Altaïr stared down the accuser and ended the argument in simple sentences. The two complemented each other as Maria complimented him; they were a force of nature in the Order, and Altaïr more than looked forward to giving his report to the council and learning what his best friend had done in the intervening ten years.
"Abi," Darim said softly. "Where is everybody?"
Pulled out of his thoughts, Altaïr took a broader sense of his surroundings, asking the eagle that lived permanently in his mind to show him what he was missing. Age had yet to dull the graceful bird, and Altaïr's enhanced senses took in everything around him, soaking in sights, sounds, scents. The traffic was greatly reduced, there were little sounds of the approaching village, and most disturbing, there were no patrols. His son was right, where was everyone?
"Wouldn't Sef at least come to great us?" Maria asked.
"... Yes," Altaïr said slowly, looking for his second son. Married at a young age, Sef was a dreamer; free and happy in ways Altaïr could never be. Surely he would be here, with his wife and daughters to welcome the rest of his family.
His eagle was whistling in his ears, warning of danger, and Altaïr could not understand why.
"Altaïr."
The grandmaster turned to see an assassin leaning against the gate, looking up with them, his eagle whispering danger in the man's posture, the minute expression on his face upon seeing the sixty-two year old master assassin. Danger? From a brother?
"Your name, assassyun?" he asked.
"Swami. I am here to great you."
"Where is Sef?" Maria asked. "And Rauf?"
"Ah, yes, Rauf," Swami said, a faint grin that Altaïr's eagle picked up. "I'm sorry to inform you, but a fever swept through the mountain years ago; many were lost to it."
"Oh," Maria said, eyes wide as a hand went up to cover her mouth. "How many?"
"Many," Swami said simply, "We were devastated by the losses."
"Is that why there are so few patrols?" Darim asked, eyes still sweeping about.
"... Yes, most assuredly."
"Then what of recruitment?" Maria asked. "Surely the numbers were replenished if it were some years ago, as you say. And you have yet to say where Sef is? He and his family would surely have greeted us."
Swami had yet to stand straight to greet the returning grandmaster, he simply leaned against the gate, looking up at them. His face was wrong, and Altaïr could not reconcile what his eagle was telling him and what was right in front of him. A brother...? How? Why...? He shook his head, dismounting.
"When the fever came," Swami was saying, "Sef was afraid for the children. He fled to Alamut. When you are done with the horses, I will escort you to the keep." Still he did not straighten.
The three went into the stable, Altaïr looked to his family. "What is wrong?" he asked, trying to find a way to explain his eagle. It had never been wrong before, not once, but he could not understand... "Do you sense the air? Is it not different?"
"A far cry different," Maria said, huffing. "No novice to take care of the horses, no standing at attention in the presence of the grandmaster let alone calling you by your given name instead of your title, not one hint of respectful tone in his voice. One would think him greeting a bitter rival: only barely respecting the bounds of courtesy."
"I don't like it either," Darim said, "But if a fever did thin us out, it would explain much; and I have no doubt whatever of Sef taking his girls and running if he thought they were in danger. He dotes on them almost as much as you doted on me, Ummi."
Altaïr frowned, watching Maria's haughty indignation and Darim's reserved acceptance. Did they not sense the ill intent? Did they not see the hint of contempt? Or was he imagining things? He was getting older, minds sometimes fled the aged before their bodies followed, but Altaïr did not think himself that old. Surely, he would not notice such a creeping disease? He shook his head, stilling his thoughts before he spoke. "There is a scent here I do not understand," he said softly, his tenor cautiously neutral. "I am uncomfortable with what I see and sense. Darim," he looked to his son, "We are all weary of travel, but could you ride to Alamut and see if this Swami's words are true? See if Sef is there?"
Darim and Maria both blinked, surprised.
His son nodded, though, his face serious. "You have never been wrong in matters such as these, Abi. I trust your judgment. I'll get a fresh horse."
"... Hurry."
Altaïr and Maria moved back outside, and the young Swami lazily shifted into a standing position and began walking up the hill, expecting the grandmaster and his wife to follow without even a glance back. The village was not as Altaïr had left it. Decades of work and new ideas and experiments had slowly brought the village of Masyaf into some modicum of wealth. Strong merchant families brought money in from the village's sheep, goats, small grains, and fresh water. The protection of the Assassins and twenty years of peace brought security and the willingness to take risks. But now the village was noticeably poor; well-made clothes were now worn and patched, sandals had disappeared, gazes were cast down instead of nodding to family and neighbors. What had happened? Had the fever truly cost so much?
And still there were no brothers.
"What has Malik done to curtail the losses?" he asked, still mistrustful of the young Swami but having no other source of information.
Swami said nothing for a long time, his back to Altaïr, but the grandmaster's eagle continued to keep him on edge. He could feel the talons of his toes curling, energy spinning tighter and tighter in his muscles, and Altaïr felt the need to spread his wings and look threatening, to goad this hatchling into speaking the truth. But, at last, Swami said,
"Ask Master Abbas."
… What?
… What?
Altaïr stared, uncertain he had heard right, but a glance at Maria showed she shared his shock. Master Abbas?
Swami led the pair into the keep, and at last he saw brothers, but even this was different. The men were languid, talking and drinking – drinking! - instead of wrapped around the ring and training. There were no children about, he could find no scholars with scrolls or books or tending to duties. Women were nonexistent, and he saw Maria looking more and more fervently for signs of her precious garden visions. The fever had certainly not done this, and Altaïr was lost as to understand what had happened to Malik to make him slip so far. More still, he could not ascertain why he was being lead to Abbas instead of his best friend.
And, in fact, they were not led to Abbas, but to a journeyman's quarters in the west wing of the keep. Altaïr looked at Swami in askance.
"Your quarters," he said, a snide tone that Altaïr's eagle once again picked up.
"Our quarters?" Maria repeated, outraged. "This is the grandmaster of the Order! What of those quarters?"
"They are occupied."
"By whom?"
Altaïr put a hand to his wife's shoulder, instead leveling his full gaze at Swami, narrow and penetrating. His eagle saw many things, but none of it made sense. He saw satisfaction, arrogance, contempt, anxiety mixed with anticipation, laziness and opportunity. He could not connect the pieces, because whatever the range of personalities in the Order this was a brother, and ally, and he could not, would not, believe that this boy was an enemy. He did, however, ask a question.
"Why do you hold such contempt?"
The boy drained of color, and at last he straightened and stood at attention. His gaze was still baleful, though. "Master Abbas will speak with you in the morning. He is at a meeting right now and does not wish to be disturbed."
The door shut in their faces, and Altaïr's sharp ears heard the young assassin all but running away.
Maria muttered for thirty minutes over their arrival, cursing colorfully and pacing back and forth, scathing their accommodations, working herself up to a violent explosion. Altaïr allowed it for the moment, his mind trying to connect the dots he had been given. He looked out the windows at the dying light, hoping Darim rode hard, and watching the brothers below in disgust. "Perhaps a night's rest will help," he said softly, "it will help us make sense of the darkness in these halls." Once the sun had set, he guided the burned out Maria to bed.
He did not sleep well; the eagle that had forever been awoken in his mind kept calling his mind back from unconsciousness. Constantly he felt eyes on him though he knew for certain none watched him. At dawn he went down to the training ring to work off some of the tension. A small handful of novices appeared and watched, wide eyed, as he moved through the forms he had known since his boyhood. He had practiced even on the road; at sixty-three he was still a force to be reckoned with, despite having long passed his peak. Altaïr looked to the novices and asked if they had a question or comment. To his surprise they scurried away, his eagle-eyes telling him they were terrified to be spoken to directly by a superior. What did that mean? Why had that happened?
Maria found him, her normally fiery disposition subdued. "The gardens are empty," she said simply.
"Then we can wait no longer," Altaïr said. "If Masyaf is like this because of a mere fever, then we must know what has happened to Malik. We cannot wait for a summons."
"I agree."
The two moved into the keep, the two journeymen at the door eying them warily. Malik was not in the upper study, Altaïr did not see his friend twisted around the banister, legs contorted, and so they moved to the lower library. In the center of the circular room was a circle of chairs, slightly less than half filled. At the center was not Malik, Altaïr's best friend, but Abbas. What...?
"I thought Swami told you I was busy," Abbas grunted, looking up at the grandmaster.
"This can't wait," Maria said, her English accent thick with warning. "Where's Malik?"
Abbas' face gave away nothing, but Altaïr's eagle once more warned him of danger, picking out the set of the other man's shoulders, the shift of his feet, a telltale blink. Something was not right, in fact something was very wrong, and Altaïr dreaded to know what it was.
"First," Abbas said, rubbing his whitening beard. "Your report. Has Khan finally been killed?"
Maria was aghast. "You dare demand my husband the grandmaster of the order to make a report? Such are not the trappings of his position, and this is not the first that such disrespect has been shown."
"Be at ease, beloved," Altaïr said softly to her ear. "I do not mind."
Maria snorted. "You wouldn't," she muttered back.
Altaïr gave his report, first clinically and brief, and then in grindingly overdone detail. Abbas asked question after question, pressing points or making a show of something. Altaïr watched carefully, not only Abbas as he drew out the report to outrageous lengths, but also the others assembled. No one else asked questions, many looked to Abbas for direction, and many more looked bored. These were men of weak minds, of flimsy will and poor intelligence. Why were they on the council? Where were the others? If Rauf was lost in the fever, what of the others: the aged Ibtisam, Aamil, Malik?
… Where was Malik?
At last Altaïr had enough. "I assume you have sufficiently made your show of power, Abbas," he said, soft tenor thin as energy started to seep into him. His eagle was so loud in his ears he could no longer ignore it. "Now I would ask that the hierarchy be peaceably restored. I wish to know where Malik and Sef are, what our losses were with the fever that was mentioned by your man Swami, what our stores and provisions are, how the training is going, and who was so possessed as to allow drink on the grounds of the keep. There is also the concern of the lack of presence of the garden visions, and the fearful regard novices have of fully trained assassyun. That is just a start of course, but what is your accounting of this?"
"Altaïr," Abbas said, his rich voice smooth, almost oily. Altaïr adjusted his footing in instinctive reaction to the tone of that voice. "You have not been here for a decade, assembling numbers and reports for something like that would take time, and those kinds of reports only go to the grandmaster."
"He is the grandmaster," Maria hissed, face flushed in anger.
Abbas ignored her completely and continued talking. "I will, however, out of generosity, relieve you of some answers: Malik is in the dungeons."
"What?"
"He is there and has been for the last two months because he broke the Creed. He killed your son, Sef."
The energy in Altaïr pulsed, throbbing so hard his hearing could only take in his heartbeat; there was a heated desire to see blood, and the Apple burned in the small of his back. His son was dead? His son was dead? Malik had killed him? Maria gave a startled shriek and advanced aggressively upon Abbas, shouting things Altaïr could not hear because his son was dead...! What of Sef's wife? His daughters? What had happened? Why had it happened?
Memories and images flooded Altaïr's mind: Sef's birth, the night he was conceived in Acre, holding him through the night waiting for him to sleep, drawing in the dirt, chasing his brother, dozing over his lessons, running with his arms outspread pretending to fly, fifteen and frightened as he confessed that he had created a child with his sweetheart, riding to Damascus and speaking with her family, their rushed marriage, the birth of their daughter, watching his head slowly be pulled from the clouds with his newfound responsibility, the reports of his apprenticeship in Alexandria, watching his boy come up the mountain as a man, eating with his son's family... Too much. It was too much to believe Sef ibn La-Ahad was dead. There was no way...!
And by the hand of Malik? That was incomprehensible! Impossible!
Malik was Altaïr's best friend, his strongest supporter. Malik came closer than any other man to seeing the world as Altaïr saw it. The friendship was forged through fire; the strength of Malik's character was evident with his ability to forgive Altaïr for his worst sin: compromising the brotherhood and being directly responsible for the death of Kadar. That terrible summer taught Altaïr his greatest lessons from the one-armed dai – caution, planning, suspicion. One could not know everything, only suspect. That seed of thought lead ultimately to the confrontation of Al Mualim, and everything that happened after. Malik agreed to be Altaïr's second in spite of being uncomfortable with the responsibility, he had consistently smoothed over the feathers Altaïr ruffled in his quest to prepare the Order. It was Malik whom he trusted to kill him when he studied the Apple and show signs of betraying the Order. It was not possible for two men to be closer; to even suggest...!
"What happened?" he asked, his soft tenor low, menacing. Rage was coursing through him, bloodlust was hazing his vision, but he worked himself through the emotion and leveled his gaze on Abbas, ignoring the sham of a council and putting a quieting hand on his wife. "What. Happened," he asked again.
Abbas was clinical in his recitation: "Young Swami here witnessed Malik threaten to kill your son in the course of a conversation. The next day Sef's body was found, stabbed in the back, and a bloody knife was found in Malik's room. A conclave was held, and it was revealed that Malik had never forgiven you for the death of Kadar, and was planning a coup. We assume Sef learned of it, and therefore he was killed. That was two months ago."
Sophistry. All of it.
Altaïr knew it was a lie even as his eagle warned him of the same. His body was too tightly wound, all he could manage to do was grind out a flat, "I see."
Maria was not nearly so reticent.
"Where is he?" she hissed. "Where is Malik? I demand to see him and judge him for myself."
"He is in the prisons," Abbas said, almost negligently, "But you cannot see him."
"What?!" Maria growled.
"He's still a brother, after all," the aged lion said, fingers rubbing through his fading beard. "Whatever else he's done, I must still hold to the Creed. Malik stabbed your son in the back, and as parents that were especially close to their children, you cannot be trusted to act rationally. I will not have him harmed."
"You will not have him harmed?" Maria interjected, "Who are you to give us orders, Abbas? You're the captain of the guard, not the grandmaster! How dare you be so presumptuous as to -"
Abbas nodded, and Altaïr's eagle saw the barest trace of a contemptuous smile. "The conclave agreed to it," he said, his voice light. "You've been gone for years, Altaïr, and your letters nonexistent. We all thought you died, and so I was appointed Al Mualim. We would need another conclave to decide if your claim is still legitimate – and apparently an assessment of your skills if you performed so badly that your son and an infidel needed to eliminate Khan – and many are only just settling back to their homes. Let's give them time before we yank them back here again, don't you agree?"
Maria sucked in a heated breath, vitriol on the tip of her tongue, but Altaïr touched her shoulder again, and looked at her tear filled eyes. He had never had a gift for words, but Maria was one of the few that could see his ominously still body and read his intent.
He turned to Abbas. "We will retire for now and grieve," he said softly. "We will speak later."
"I'm sure we will," Abbas said, and they departed to the journeyman quarters they'd been assigned.
Maria, ever the firebrand, paced and cursed and sobbed as the different emotions overtook her. Altaïr left her to her grief, and instead immediately pulled out parchment and quill, writing to Darim and calling him back to Masyaf. He left the room and found a novice – he had little trust for the other ranks – and asked that he be courier. It would take longer, novices were young enough to be easily distracted and his skills at riding were anyone's guess, but a novice at least was not aware of the strife in the Order and would not second guess an order or the man who gave it.
When he returned, Maria was wailing and sobbing, and Altaïr held her, envious of her ability to express her emotions.
Sef... was he really dead? His son? His dreaming, hopeful, eternally positive son?
They spent the rest of the day in their grief, clinging to each other at night and talking softly for hours to try and discern the truth. They both believed deception existed, but neither could fathom what was true and what was not, let alone why.
Darim did not return the next day; Altaïr had expected that, and he and Maria silently agreed to investigate. Maria disappeared to find the garden visions, and Altaïr ghosted about the keep, watching, listening, asking questions.
Brothers whispered to each other behind his back, speaking of sympathy over the loss of his son, muttering that he must be in shock. Younger men, apprentices and journeymen pointed and named him, speculating if he was the old mentor that had created the evil known as Malik A-Sayf. He asked after that, what had created such an opinion. Three spat and walked away with blatant disrespect. Others spoke of the infamous trial, Malik's coarser qualities were blown out of proportion: acerbic words, foul attitude, grousing, deep-seated hatred of Altaïr, recitation of their many fights over the years. And Abbas leading the assault. There was talk of a dread prophecy by the disgraced dai, but few wished to talk about it.
Altaïr left his investigations with a clearer idea of the center of this mystery: Abbas. This was not a series of unfortunate events, but rather a carefully orchestrated bit of theater with clear consequences. Altaïr had always known the old lion hated Altaïr, had always been shown by his eagle as an enemy, but he had never known Abbas to be clever or calculated, only opportunistic.
The garden visions, Maria said, were nowhere to be seen, and the women left were left in terror of anyone in power.
"We can speculate no longer," Altaïr said. "We must speak with Malik."
"Is that wise?" Maria asked. Now that she had burned through her anger she could think rationally. "Abbas is very secure in his seat; this would upset him."
Altaïr took a deep breath, looking out the window to the training ring below, brothers lazing about, weighing his options. There was only one choice, however. "I must know what has happened. Let us go."
There was but one guard in the prisons, sitting and far removed from the actual cells. Dead asleep, half of Altaïr blessed his good fortune while the other growled at the unfathomable lack of discipline. The two passed silently, not disturbing the sleeping guard, and moved deeper into the prison.
The reason for the distance became blatantly obvious – the entire dungeon stank, leaving both to cover their noses as they walked. "My girls were to clean these cells bi-weekly," she muttered, "What has happened?" One by one they checked the cells, finding many and varied sources of the stench, until Altaïr's eagle ears picked up the faint sound of a cough.
"Here," he said, moving purposefully to one of the cells and unlocking it.
Inside was a wraith; what was once a dark djellaba was faded, tattered, and filthy. The robes beneath were in a similar state. Dark hair was matted, smudged with filth, unkempt and oily. Feces permeated the air and stained several parts of the floor; hay was moldy and rancorous, and several rats were nibbling at the squalor. Malik was unrecognizable, but Altaïr's eagle recognized him just the same. His breath caught in his throat, and for one blinding moment he thought the Apple had at last driven him mad.
His wife's startled gasp pushed him into motion, he fell to his knees and reached out, touching his dear friend's shoulder.
"Malik," he said. No response. "Malik."
A slow blink, nothing more. Was he, too, dead?
"Malik!" he pressed, shaking a bony shoulder gently. "What have they done to you?" Under the grime and filth, Altaïr could see an ugly wound at his friend's temple, sallow cheeks and dark circles. Everything about him was bony, and Altaïr dreaded the thought of what lay beneath the soiled clothes.
At last the eyes moved, focusing on Altaïr, taking in the grandmaster's features slowly before widening in an open display of shock. "Alt-" His voice was thin, papery, cracked with obvious disuse and Malik burst into a fit of coughs. Maria bent over him, fingers probing and listening to the terrible noises.
"He's been sick," she said, eyes glancing about the dai. "How long were they keeping him here? Much longer than two months..."
Altaïr leaned forward, pained by the sight of his beloved friend. "Malik...?"
Senses appeared to be restored, at least a little, because Malik responded immediately, locking his gaze on Altaïr as if he were a phantom about to disappear. "Is this..." he tried to ask. He coughed and tried again. "Is this real...?"
Altaïr was moved to distraction to hear such a disbelieving tone. He had been gone for too long, asked too much of Malik, and to see the king of swords so shriveled, reduced to this state was entirely his fault.
"Yes, brother," he replied, his voice shaky. He smiled, hoping to be encouraging, before turning to his wife. "I will be back," he said softly, unaware of how intense his voice was. "I must deal with the guard."
Maria nodded, and Altaïr stalked out of the cell, rage driving him forward and blinding his eagle. Abbas had done this to Malik, had done this to a brother. Even Al Mualim had only ever locked Altaïr and Abbas down here for a month, there was no reason for this level of base cruelty. Bloodlust hazed his vision so strongly he almost extracted his hidden blade to be rid of such a vile nuisance that clearly knew nothing of the Creed. Only thirty years of tempering his anger stilled him, and he moved from a powerful pounding gate to a more stealthy approach. This brother was barely old enough to be a journeyman, and with a deep breath Altaïr schooled his rage and lifted a fist instead, knocking the boy out. He felt no satisfaction in the violence, indeed felt nothing at all and just walked back to Malik's cell.
Gently, shocked at how light and how thin he was, Altaïr lifted Malik and shrugged him onto his back. He shared a pained look with Maria. "We'll take him to our rooms," he said. "Go ahead and prepare for him; I imagine he needs food and water, perhaps medicine."
She nodded, already a step ahead. "Here's hoping they haven't changed where the supplies are kept. I'll go to the kitchens first."
"Ask if Lady Barakah has returned," Malik called out weakly, his voice barely carrying. "She is a scullery maid there."
Maria's face slacked in shock, but she nodded and disappeared around a corner. Altaïr followed at a more sedate pace, careful not to jostle the delicate frame of the one armed dai. Thoughts were crashing through his head faster than lightning, too many connections were firing back and forth to be coherent. Deduction and suspicion and his eagle and emotion burned through him as they vied for attention. Where did he even start to get to the bottom of this? Whose blood did he need to spill to rectify this? He thought his heart would burst...!
"You are really here," Malik said, his weakened voice piercing through Altaïr's conflicts. His friend had a look of lost elation on his face, relief mixed with hope. His eyes were locked on Altaïr, drinking in the grandmaster's face, still trying to convince himself he was experiencing the truth. Altaïr almost couldn't stand it.
"How long were you down there?" he asked, passing the unconscious guard and leaving the filth and stench and degradation. He would burn those cells to cleanse them.
"What season is it?"
Altaïr's lips pressed into a thin line, realizing the depths of this depravity. "It is early summer," he said in a tight voice.
"Then two years." Two ye- "I don't know much of what Abbas has been doing in the interim."
"And Rauf?" he asked, containing his fury.
"Killed before the conclave. I don't know how."
"... And Sef?"
The elation immediately disappeared, snuffed out like a candle. Malik at last turned away, unable to meet Altaïr's gaze, and the aging eagle knew the truth. Sef was dead, and the grief made him stop in his tracks, fighting to keep himself contained. A hot, heavy breath escaped his lungs and he moved again.
Malik had passed out by the time Altaïr brought him to his rooms, and the grandmaster laid his beloved friend out on the bed. He sat for a moment, contemplating everything that had brought him to this point and the consequences to those around him.
Altaïr had not been an easy grandmaster, the years of his leadership had been wrought with strife, his ideas and policies generated internal conflict after internal conflict. All he knew was that he had to correct the mistakes of the past that had created men like Al Mualim, and he had to make the Order ready for the mysterious future the Apple had hinted at. A larger story was being told, Altaïr but an ignorant part of it, and he did everything in his power to be ready. He cared not what others thought, only of being ready.
Now, at last, he saw the bitter price of his failings. In a thunderbolt of clarity he realized how many enemies he had made in the brotherhood, how many traditions that were once held as sacred he had dismantled or rewritten. His not caring what others thought equated to them little caring what he thought and, quietly, under the surface, dissent brew. Abbas was not the center of the mystery, he was the apex, the logical – even inevitable – conclusion to the decisions Altaïr had made. And now Sef was dead, and Malik a mere shadow of his former greatness.
Filled with regret, Altaïr grabbed a cloth and dampened it in the wash basin, wringing it out and going through the process of cleaning his friend.
Malik's eyes opened slowly as Altaïr tended him, taking in his surroundings slowly, before looking once more onto Altaïr, confusion on his features.
"Our quarters, apparently." Altaïr took a deep breath and plunged into what he wanted to say. "Abbas claims I am no longer grandmaster. We only arrived a few days ago. Abbas has created a senior council of idiots; and he says that you killed Sef when he learned you wanted to supplant me."
"Altaïr-" Malik started to protest but the grandmaster – no, he could no longer consider himself that – the master assassin raised a hand.
"I am sorry," he said, "I placed burden after burden on you and never even realized it. When I first became grandmaster you told me you preferred middle management, but I dragged you into being my second, and I left you over and over to set up branches in other cities, leaving you a duty you hated. I am sorry, I never thought about you and your needs. I-"
"Shut up, novice," Malik groaned, turning his head away from Altaïr's sincerity. "I should be the one to apologize to you. It is because of me that Sef-"
"I'm back," Maria had returned, sitting on the other side of Malik with a tray of materials. She left again, briefly to fetch a bucket of water. Further chance at conversation fell away as the couple worked to heal their beloved friend.
Malik was stripped of his soiled and dirty clothes. Altaïr used the bucket of water and cleaned every inch of skin; his hands shaking slightly as he counted ribs and saw little more than skin and bones. Malik had been starved. Maria trailed after his work with ointments and salves, trying to do what she could with the old blow to Malik's head. "It's such an ugly scar," she murmured.
"... It's no more than I deserve," Malik whispered, his eyes unfocused as he drifted off again.
Maria gave Altaïr a look that mirrored nearly every concern he had, and they slowly finished cleaning him, dressing him in a simple smock and slowly starting to feed him. "His body isn't used to having food," Maria explained, "We have to give him small, thin portions first. Water above all else; he's dehydrated."
It was perhaps an hour later when Malik woke again, looking at the thin millet and his changed clothes. The master assassin didn't know how long Malik's mind would remain, and need for truth was slowly beginning to supersede the need to be gentle. "Malik," he prompted, "Start at the beginning."
And, slowly, painfully, Malik told them everything. There had been a day when Malik had joked that their senior council was full of old men. Abbas used that to reveal his intentions of changing the old guard. Letters from Altaïr had long stopped by that point, no one was sure what he was doing or how things were going, but Malik realized the potential destruction Abbas could wreck. The dai had immediately made Sef his assistant to protect him, and started consolidating forces. Then That Day came; when Malik was talking to novices and Abbas and Swami and others burst in with accusations and locked Malik up. Rauf had visited, and Malik learned of Sef's murder. Incarcerated as he was, the one-armed dai had been forced to rely on Rauf to spread the truth before the conclave and create a political block to prevent approaching disaster. That was when the "fever" struck killing Rauf and all of Malik's supporters in one bloody coup. The trial was a farce after that, the proceedings public and one-sided and ugly. Malik, in one last gambit, predicted how Abbas' future would unfold, knowing the old lion as he did and how he would react. He was struck in retaliation, and after that the cells had a high turnover for months as dissension was weeded out and presumably eliminated.
That was when Barakah, a garden vision, reappeared as a scullery maid to sneak in information and aid as she could to Malik. The garden visions had fled, Maria's stand-in killing herself before their escape could be tortured out of her, and many deliberately scarred themselves to prevent being utilized again, and some few snuck back into the keep, biding their time to strike.
Malik's tone was not clinical, nor his opinion objective. Blame, the dai firmly believed, lay at his own feet.
"I knew what it was like to hate you," he said through his tears. "I empathized with that hateful old lion, and that blinded me to what was right in front of me. I was not the leader I should have been, the leader you would have been, and my weakness has brought the Order to this. It is my fault Sef is dead. It is my fault..."
Altaïr could take no more, and he quickly reached forward and pulled Malik into a tight embrace.
"Forgive yourself, brother," he whispered, "Forgive yourself as I do not need to, for you have done nothing wrong. Absolve yourself of your imagined sins, and come back to us as you were before you were left with this burden."
Malik sobbed until he was asleep.
That night Altaïr paced about the room, trying to work through the revelations he had learned. Maria felt all of her emotions at once, burned through them one after another until at last nothing left but rational thought. Altaïr, by contrast, was unable to release his emotions so easily; they built and built inside him until his body could no longer handle the energy and he burst with action – usually violence – and now he could feel the coils in his body tightening as he realized how far the world had fallen. Maria watched him, sitting by Malik's sleeping form. Grunting, he increased his pace, flicking his hidden blade in and out, pounding his feet, trying to burn through the energy before the bloodlust took over.
Abbas was behind it all. He had orchestrated this power play when Altaïr was away and Sef vulnerable, using it to remove Malik and place himself in charge. Was there anything more despicable? And what had he done with his power? Nothing! Brothers lay about, lazy and complacent, drinking and full of themselves. It was only ten years! The order had many people who were old enough to remember the time of Altaïr, surely, surely, they remembered the discipline, the fields of study, the practices, the training. Even if the young were corrupted, what about others? Just how many had Abbas murdered to prevent someone from standing up to the weak leadership? How were the other branches doing? Jerusalem? Cyprus? Alexandria? Alamut? He needed to know what was happening outside, he needed to be updated on the status of the Order. Who could he even go to? He growled, rage building up in him, and he knew nothing good could come of such a negative emotion. He could not burn through it fast enough. Their quarters were too small, and as a journeyman he did not have access to the ring at night. He looked to his wife, lost on what to do, unable to show his weakness and unable to snuff it out, either.
"Talk to me, Altaïr," she said. "Tell me what's on your mind."
"Maria," he said, soft tenor hoarse with built up emotion, "when we left Masyaf ten years ago, this Order was strong. But all our progress has been undone."
She nodded in the moonlight. "Abbas must answer for this."
"But answer to whom? The Assassins obey only his command now." Weak minds following weak minds... nothing good could come from this. Sef was dead because of this...!
"Resist your desire for revenge, Altaïr," Maria said softly, glancing at the sleeping Malik. "Anger will prove his accusations right. Speak truth and the assassyun will see their error."
"He executed our son, Maria!" Altaïr growled. "He deserves to die!" His blood was on fire now; the more he thought about it the more he felt right. Abbas was the source of all this, the cause of all this suffering. Altaïr may have made the rift, but it was Abbas who set all of these terrible events in motion, all this blood was on his hands. He was a heretic to the Creed, a heathen to the laws he claimed to follow. Wretched, cursed, damnable cur! He deserved to die.
"Perhaps," she replied, unflappable to Altaïr's rage. "But if you cannot win back the Order by honorable means, its foundation will crumble. The heights you and Malik achieved will never be reached again."
The master assassin looked at Malik, emaciated, ruined, disgraced Malik, and he remembered the insight he had gained earlier. All at once the energy left him, the red haze receded, and he sank to his friend's side. Gently he reached out to touch the ugly scar on Malik's temple, and he gazed at the missing arm. This man had suffered so much because of him, he had no right to wish ill on others when Malik had found it in his heart to forgive Altaïr's sins. Altaïr could not afford to repeat those mistakes. "You are right," he said softly. "Thirty years ago I let passion overtake my reason. And it caused a rift that has never fully healed. This debacle is my fault as much as it is Abbas'. I must share in this responsibility and fix what I have broken."
A small hand reached out and touched his. He looked up to see his wife gazing at him with assurance. "Speak reasonably," she said, "and reasonable men will listen."
There was truth in those words. But some... "Some will," he replied, "but not Abbas. I should have expelled him thirty years ago when he tried to steal the Apple."
"But you earned the respect of the other Assassins because you let him stay."
Altaïr blinked, surprised. "How do you know this? You were not there."
She smiled. "I married a masterful storyteller."
In spite of himself Altaïr smiled, and for a time his anger abated. He drew his love into a soft, grateful kiss. Only she could navigate the overwhelming emotions of his mind and bring him clarity. Not even Malik could, and she was his partner in every part of his life. He loved her from almost the moment they met, and he was forever grateful that she continued to be in his life. He would be lost without her.
The next day Altaïr went down to the kitchens and brought foot up to feed Malik. The one-armed dai was weak from his malnourishment, and Altaïr quietly insisted on helping him before he dropped a bowl or cup. Malik glared at him balefully, but the master assassin would not bow. "I will never neglect your needs again, brother," he said.
Malik smiled, softly, before muttering, "Novice."
But Altaïr had made a small series of decisions. The first of which would be to value those around him as he had not as grandmaster. Malik was at the top of that list, and he had a very long list to go through and express his gratitude. When he was done, he would talk to the novices and apprentices, those who did not or could not remember life under his rule, and he would offer to teach them. Whatever his decisions as a grandmaster, he was a masterful teacher, and he hoped to engender some with his work. That would take time, as would Malik's recovery, but Altaïr apparently needed to learn humility again, and he promised himself to once more be a dutiful student. He needed to confront Abbas, as well, there was no way that could be put off, but he wanted Darim with him; the boy was a masterful orator and could persuade many people when he put his mind to it. Between his wife to steady his emotions and his son to drive the point home, Altaïr hoped that Abbas could be quietly removed and a conclave held to find someone worthy. The master assassin did not trust that he would be nominated, given the debacle two years ago, but he could help the Order in other ways.
First he needed to know about the other bureaus.
Malik fell asleep again, and he and Maria went down the mountain to talk to the villagers, find those who remembered them and learn more of what had happened in the last two years. They left Malik to rest, closing the door behind them. The keep was still an embarrassment to behold, and Altaïr was once more aghast.
"Look at this place," he muttered. "Masyaf is a shadow of its former self."
"... We have been away for a long time," Maria said after a pause, sadness overlaying her disgust.
"But not in hiding. The Mongol threat demanded our attention, and we rode to meet it. What man here can say the same?"
"I still cannot understand how it is that your letters never reached here," Maria said. "You wrote constantly. I understand one or two being lost, but not all of them. Malik spoke of your communication drying up entirely. How is that possible?"
"I suspect Abbas, as captain of the guard, intercepted the couriers and had them delivered to himself instead of Malik or the council. He has been planning this overthrow for years. Likely he had every detail accounted for."
"Despicable."
The pair split up when they reached the top of the village, going to their normal circles before their departure to see what had changed and what had not. The market, once growing steadily and diverse, was now half its original size. Villagers moved about their tasks with weary eyes up to the keep. Ghassan, basket weaver of the village, had left after the coup, living with his sister in Acre. Aquila, Zamil's wife and one of the strongest merchants in the village before her daughter took over, was still there and gladly took the master assassin in. From her he learned how Masyaf felt about the bloody coup, the fights that had broken out in the streets and Abbas putting swords to his own people to quell the strife. Her daughter had been killed for not doing as her station demanded. Her startlingly beautiful eyes bored into him, hard and unforgiving. "Remove that parasite," she said simply.
By the end of the day he rejoined with Maria and compared notes.
"As I walk these streets," he concluded, "I sense a great fear in the people, not love."
Maria shook her head, rubbing her temples. "Abbas has dismantled this place, and robbed it of all joy. It is abominable."
When they returned to their rooms, however, they found more horror.
Malik was gone.
Maria grabbed the first brother she could find in the halls, Swami, and demanded to know what had happened. "Where is the man we were tending in there?"
Her answer was a snide grin. "He was an escaped prisoner," he said, "Lying in wait to kill you. We removed the threat."
All color drained from her face, and Altaïr quickly grabbed her arm before she moved to violence, dragging her back to their chambers and slamming the door closed. She shrieked and cursed and slapped and kicked, knocking over furniture and finally breaking into a fresh fit of sobs. Altaïr stood at the window, pressing the cool glass against his forehead and struggling to work through his emotions before he committed blind slaughter.
They could not wait for information after that. They could not wait for Darim, either. There was nothing left to do but confront Abbas in a battle of wit, break the man down with logic and reason that neither of them felt capable of expressing, and that morning they were moving to the central halls of the keep, into the gardens and ready for... anything.
"Abbas... I almost pity him," Altaïr said, trying to work through his emotions and work himself to the point where he could handle this meeting as he ought. "He wears his grudge like a cloak."
"His wound is deep," Maria said, taking his hand and holding it as they walked. "It will help him to hear the truth."
"... We may be walking to our doom, Maria."
"We may. But we walk together."
His love for her bloomed in his chest, and he at last felt calm.
Abbas was in the gardens, surrounded by Swami and other members of the inept senior council, shielded by his supporters. Altaïr and Maria turned heads at their arrival, Altaïr in his master assassin's garb, Maria similarly dressed in whites and reds, accented by her green cloak; both of their hoods were up, showing for all the world they were assassyun, pillars of the faith even in the face of this debauchery. Several stepped forward, protests on their lips, but Abbas held up a hand, his face hard and unforgiving.
"Let them speak," he said.
Maria squeezed his hand.
"We seek the truth about our son's death. Why was Sef killed? Why was Malik killed?"
"Is it the truth you want," Abbas asked, glancing at his acolytes with a snide grin, "or an excuse for revenge?"
"If the truth gives us an excuse," Maria said, "we will act on it."
"What truth?" he countered, spiteful. "We already told you everything."
"Not everything," Altaïr said, his gaze heated and level. "You claimed Sef's death was two months ago, many others have contradicted you, saying it was two years ago."
"I misspoke."
"Did you? When you used such a short time as an excuse from holding another conclave to ascertain my claim to lead the Order? One of your lies has been exposed, and we wish to know what others exist. Then, too, there is the issue of Malik A-Sayf. I remember all too well when we nearly killed each other as boys, Abbas, and even the twisted mind of Al Mualim only imprisoned us for a month. The rare cases of treachery in the last thirty years had specific sentences, but Malik was locked away for two years. Moreover, even traitors are treated with the dignity of a clean cell, and yet the entire dungeon was left to rot for those two years, Malik left to starve. He was emaciated, weak, dehydrated, and unable to stay awake for long periods of time. Your man Swami's claim that he was plotting to kill Maria or myself upon our return to those rooms is sophistry. That is two lies, now."
"And there is the mystery of the letters," Maria added, head held high. "We wrote frequently, too frequently for them to have completely disappeared for years as you and others have suggested. Would a search of the keep find a pile of them locked away, or were they all burned? What would questioning the couriers for the last five years unearth? Where are the garden visions, the sisters who are trained to heal the mental damage that occurs to brothers? Can you possibly explain why they are all gone, the stories of them disfiguring themselves to never be a vision again, their heartfelt desire to have nothing to do with you?"
"And why was Sef killed?" Altaïr asked. "It is impossible to conceive of Malik performing the act, and bloody knives can be planted. The events of the last two years prove to be shaky, and we demand answers."
Several men glanced about, frowning or uncertain.
Abbas was leveling a hateful glare, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, before an oily smile spread across his features.
"Surrender the Apple, Altaïr, and I will tell you why your son was put to death."
The Apple...? Why would he want...
"Ah," Altaïr said as it all fell into place, "the truth is out already!" He turned to the others. "Abbas wants the Apple for himself. Not to open your minds, but to control them. Even after sacrificing my son and ridding himself of Malik, he still feels insecure with the power he has attained for himself. His paranoia has made his desperate, and he will not feel safe until the Apple is in his hands."
"You have held that artifact for thirty years, Altaïr," Abbas growled, bald hate spitting from his mouth, "reveling in its power and hoarding its secrets. It has corrupted you. You have stamped out almost all of our traditions in your madness."
"Yes," Altaïr admitted. "I accept part of what you say as truth." Several men gasped, murmurs rippling through the crowd. "I have disbanded many of our traditions. Perhaps I moved too quickly. I take responsibility for not explaining myself better, or taking the time to make people understand. I pushed my goals forward without taking into account the feelings of others. I have professed all my life that I care not what others think, and now I understand the price I have paid for that. I will spend the rest of my life apologizing to those I have injured, but I will not apologize for the decisions I made. One need only look at the Order as it was before I left to see that it was strong. Versatile. Capable. Can the same be said for now?"
"The Apple, Altaïr," Abbas said, not budging.
"Very well, Abbas. Take it."
"What?" Maria said, shocked.
Altaïr leaned in, lowering his voice. "He held it once, Maria, and it drove him mad. He cannot withstand it."
She frowned, not approving but accepting his choice.
Abbas frowned, hesitation visible to the master assassin's omnipresent eagle, and with a gesture he sent Swami to collect it. Several noticed his cowardice, Altaïr was certain his gambit would work.
But then Swami opened his mouth.
"Before I executed your son," he whispered, "I told him you ordered it yourself. He died believing you had betrayed him."
Shock.
Unbelieving shock.
Altaïr stiffened as if struck by lightning, the Apple in his hand, the world dissolving and slowing to the pace of a dream, and the words rung in his ears, over and over. He died believing you had betrayed him. He died believing you had betrayed him. He died believing you had betrayed him. He died believing you had betrayed him. He died believing you had betrayed him. He died believing you had betrayed him.
He died believing YOU had betrayed him.
Then, rage.
Blind, unthinking, blood-letting rage.
Light burst from the Apple, gold lines erupting into the air and then the ethers, reacting to Altaïr's fury and sending an arc of light straight into the murderer's mind, face erupting in pain and possibly crying out, but all Altaïr could comprehend was that this man killed his son and he made Sef believe Altaïr ordered it. This man, no, this thing had to die and die quickly and die bloodily and just die die die die die die die-
"Altaïr! Altaïr, no!"
Maria's face filled his vision, and for a brief moment he didn't even recognize her. He didn't because her face was filled with fear, and seeing that finally brought his focus out of his bloodlust; he saw Swami behind her, dagger to his throat and inches away from slitting it, and he realized what he had done. A startled noise escaped his throat and the Apple's light faded, energy draining out of it and out of him. He opened his mouth to say... something, anything.
Swami, however, recovered his senses, took his dagger, and stabbed Maria in the back.
There was a pained grunt, a collective gasp of everyone in the garden, and all Altaïr saw was the love his life starting to fall.
His hidden blade extracted, removing the threat to his wife instinctively and cradled her, gently guiding her to the yellow grass. Maria...! Maria...!
She was clutching his frame, taking a gurgling breath. That meant a lung had been pierced, a clean strike to let a life linger long enough for last words. No. No. Not like this. Not like this... Please... Please... He reached up and cradled her head, heedless of the shocked crowd behind him; he looked in her eyes, touching her face, praying, praying, that this would not be, that this could be stopped. Not like this...
She looked at him, Christian skin paling even further, desperate to hold on. "Strength... Altaïr..." she said, voice heavy and strained. Did death always look this painful? Were the last words Altaïr granted always so meaningless? So useless? He needed more time!
"Maria..." he said, his voice watery and cracked and pained beyond imagining. Sef, Malik, now her? How could a heart endure it? How could he get beyond this? "Beloved..."
Her eyes closed.
Her grip loosened.
Her hand fell.
She died.
And then,
"He is possessed! Kill him! Take the Apple! Now!"
Altaïr looked up, dumbfounded, confused, to see brothers with swords drawn and edging towards him. He clutched his wife closer to him, brain unable to work, animalistic instinct creating a dangerous beast. His glare stilled many of the assassins, catching sight of his grief, hesitant to reap the consequences of interrupting him.
"What are you waiting for? Kill him now before he tries again!"
Fear motivated them, moved them forward, and the only way for Altaïr to live through the encounter was to run.
Crying out in grief, he did so, shoving two brothers aside and running full tilt up the terraces, leaping over bannisters and bursting into the keep. Several assassins looked up, startled and unaware of what had just happened, and but his eagle could only see enemy after enemy, and what little was left of his mind refused to break the Creed, not with his beloved begging him to be strong, and so he shouldered past them and up the steps to the upper study. Others were on his heels, all he could do was react to stimulus, and in a desperate gambit he leapt up and then through the pigeon windows, the glass shattering around him. Landing was hard, his legs were six decades old and not as springy as youth, but any pain he might have felt failed to register, he pulled up into a tight roll and sprinted around the training ring and to the gate. No one was around, all having been summoned to the gardens. How was Abbas even going to spin this...?
He shook his head, survival pushing out other thoughts, and he pelted down the mountain at top speed reaching the edges of the village when his eagle pointed to a sorely needed face.
"Abi!" he called out. "I got your message. What has happened?"
Not now, not now, not when his mind was closed and his heart was dead and broken and bleeding and left in the gardens. "Darim! Turn back!"
His son saw the string of assassins dashing after Altaïr, swords brandished, calls for blood, curses filling the air. "Have they all gone mad?"
"We have to go," Altaïr pressed, grabbing his son's arm and dragging while trying to sprint at the same time.
"Brothers! We need not fight."
"Forget reason, Darim. They have been poisoned by lies."
"But Abi, I don't understand... where is Ummi?"
Altaïr couldn't say it, couldn't make it real, but the look on his face spoke volumes. Darim tried to ask how, but survival was still overlaying all of Altaïr's priorities and at last his son began to run, the mob behind them making the how all too clear. "Was it Abbas?" he asked. "Did he kill her?"
"He killed your brother, Malik, Maria, and countless others."
And all at once it was real. It hit him like a sledgehammer. They were dead. They were dead. His family was dead at his feet... why was he trying to run? What life could possibly exist with them dead...?
"Do not worry, Abi," Darim said, grabbing his father's arm and jerking him forward. "He will die. One day he will pay."
… What was the point? What was the point of any of it? Why... why... why...?
They made it to the stables and leapt onto two horses. Darim turned his mount long enough to free the other steads, and he herded them down the valley at a gallop, he and a numb Altaïr following behind.
His eagle carried Abbas' final words.
"I will have the Apple, Altaïr! And I will have your head for all the dishonor you brought upon my family! You cannot run forever! Not from us, and not from your lies!"
It was senseless babble to him. None of it made sense. Life did not make sense. Not without Malik. Not without Sef. Not without Maria.
Maria... his love...
Life was never the same after that.
…
… All I had left was Darim after that, and he was the only thing that kept me alive those first few years.
Ezio dropped the key onto the desk and held his head in his hands, emotions overwhelming him; he hunched forward and weathered the storm, trying to process what he saw. Altaïr... he was not the god that Ezio had unwittingly made him out to be; his life was filled with strife, and now loss. His reign was not perfect, men did not bow to his wisdom immediately. The great mentor of old seemed to show all his flaws and failings in that memory. Why? Where was the lesson in this?
Like Ezio at seventeen, Altaïr at sixty-three had lost his entire family in one fell blow. The emotions over losing his wife and son, of his best friend... How would Ezio feel if he ever lost Leonardo? … Sofia? Her face came unbidden to his mind, and the thought of losing her was irrationally terrifying. He had only known her for six odd months, and yet she had dominated his heart so completely that the thought of being without her was devastating. Where was the lesson in this?
Ezio had left Altaïr in the memory in the exact frame of mind he was in when he started this pilgrimage: lost.
How did he endure it? What was left after this memory? There were still two keys to find, what could possibly be left to show...?
What was Ezio's greatest failing? Impatience? Complacence? Passion? Florentines were always passionate, but Ezio's passion drove him to moments of blind emotion: mourning Cristina or his family, his ugly behavior with Vieri de' Pazzi, his near defeat in Roma at the Vault, his leaving Rodrigo Borgia alive because of his passion and the fall of Monteriggioni that resulted in it. He envied Altaïr even as he saw the danger of his ancient mentor for his ability to control his emotions into a tight coil. Were that he had that, then perhaps some of his defeats would not have happened. But in its place would be other problems, as Altaïr had so painfully demonstrated.
Still Ezio could not understand the lesson to be had in this disk, in any of the disks he had garnered to date. What were they leading up to?
"... Ezio?"
He looked up, startled, to see that Sofia was there, Yusuf quietly closing the door and disappearing. He looked at the redhead in askance.
"Messer Yusuf said you needed me. What happened?" Her face was open in concern, pulling over a chair and reaching out to touch his hand.
… How could he explain it? "I... found a story," he said slowly, trying to piece together his thoughts. "The story of a man named Altaïr ibn La-Ahad. He... he has much to do with the history of this." He gestured vaguely to the underground cistern they were sitting in. "I had known of him all of my adult life, respected him greatly, but now I see he was just a man, and I just learned... I just learned that he lost his family and I..." He trailed off, memories flitting back and forth in his mind's eye, reliving the gallows and other low points of his life.
Sofia squeezed his hand, and for the next two hours Ezio talked of pieces of his past.
Author's Notes: This chapter. This. Chapter.
We'll start small: the beginning of the chapter is perhaps the most important for the development of Ezio and Sofia's relationship in that Ezio realizes what many movies, super hero comics, novels and other media have yet to figure out: you cannot have a healthy, meaningful relationship if you are hiding half your life from your partner. You cannot make the decision for your partner on what they should and should not know - that's a decision only the partner can make. Ezio's life is dangerous, and there is a body count, but Sofia needs to know that if she wishes to pursue the relationship, and Ezio at last realizes this. It is for this reason he shows her he can climb, he takes her on field trips, and other things that have yet to happen. Even now, at the end of the chapter, he tells her about his past, more conversations about his family and his loss, and likely the connection to Altair. It's the only way a relationship like this can work.
But really, that's pittance compared to Altair. Altair chapters have been excessively long - and this one is the longest to date for obvious reasons. We had a lot of ground to cover - not only in the otherwise weak confrontation with Abbas and making it make more sense but also touching on Order's Best Years. We read the last four chapters of that fic in preparation for this. We had struggled for a long time with how to fit in Mr. Bowden's interpretation of events, but a head in a burlap sack being thrown at Altair's feet was a little... I'm not sure what the word is, but in our opinion it's actually more powerful that we don't see what happened, only know that it did. This memory is supposed to have a tension, and emotional high note of uncertainty that is not felt at all in the game, nor in the novel. We thought the reason why was because it drops us right into the confrontation rather than setting it up. The dialogue is great, to be sure, but there's a difference in telling vs showing, and we thought it was necessary to take the time to illustrate how far the order had fallen, to create the tension and uncertainty rather than just saying there was. Most of this chapter Altair doesn't completely know what's going on.
But that doesn't mean Altair still isn't completely awesome. His best feature was displayed in AC1: he was shown his worst flaws and he learned. I cannot emphasis how rare that is and how important it is for human development. It's hard, painful, and in some cases utterly destructive, but that doesn't make it any less meaningful, and that's what makes a chapter like this so poignant. Even as Altair's very life is ripped away from him he's still learning, and that makes him one of the strongest characters ever written, in our opinion. His character arc is an arc that can be repeated, at various stages of life, and is infinitely interpretable. This is why he always beats out Ezio for us, and er, it kinda shows in the writing. :P
Muslim Lesson: Christianity has varied interpretations of the Bible and how a soul gets into Heaven, depending on if you're Catholic, Lutheran, Baptist, etc. In very (very, very, very) broad strokes, people get into Heaven because Jesus opened the door, and if you pray hard enough and believe in God with the right amount of fervor you get to go to Heaven. Islam has a more... is laid out the right phrase?... approach. To get to Jannah, Heaven, (again, in very broad terms) your good deeds need to outnumber your bad deeds. It's a straight tally sheet. This is why things like charity are so highly valued, because they count as good deeds: smiling, clearing the road, giving water to animals, etc are all considered good deeds. Sins are things like not being on one's best behavior for their parents, speaking ill of someone when s/he isn't around, etc. It all gets measured.
It reminds me of the old saying that there are two wolves in every soul, one good and one bad. The one that survives is the one that you feed. That is the key principle of the Islamic faith: you want to feed the good wolf more.
Next chapter: another memory is done. Time to check in on Desmond.