Part Twenty-One: Raké:ni

With barely any time for the town to recover after such a violent burst and send the British on their way, Achilles hobbled into Connor's room one morning.

"Yes?"

"You're needed."

Again? "Where?"

"Our contact that you made in New Orleans, they need help finding an Officer Davidson of Lord Dunmore's Ethiopian regiment. Duncan has sent word that he's found where they are, and it's up in the mountains of New York. An Assassin from New Orleans is on the way to meet you."

Connor nodded. If a brother needed help, he would always be there, as he would be for his people. He and Achilles settled around a map. "I will make camp here and scout the area. I assume that our brother is already on their way?"

"Yes," Achilles replied. "Barring weather issues, I expect the ship to arrive within a week."

"Then I shall leave immediately to start scouting."

Achilles nodded, looking old, before he looked to Connor. "Be careful, Connor."

"Of course."

Formed in 1775, Lord Dunmore, the British Governor of Virginia, offered freedom to any slave who was willing to take up arms against their American owners. Loyalist slaves were still to be slaves. But the proclamation had the desired effect as thousands upon thousands of slaves started to flee with the promise of freedom. Dunmore founded a whole regiment of blacks, called the Ethiopian Regiment, as if all slaves came from Ethiopia, and naturally all the commanders were white. Indeed, the Ethiopian Regiment had some success down south, though they were used mostly as laborers and smallpox fought the regiment even as it formed.

But Dunmore was defeated the same year at the Battle of Great Bridge, and in 1776 the regiment had been disbanded. While the British kept the promise of freedom to any slave who escaped from the Americans and many blacks were pouring into New York City to take up that offer and be relocated, fighting units were still far and few between as arming black people was considered a revolutionary idea and still frowned upon by both sides.

Connor frowned. If the Ethiopian Regiment had been disbanded, then what was this collection that he'd found deep in the mountains? He had circled their "fort", little more than logs buried into the earth as a meager defense against the wilderness more than any army, as a canon would turn the logs to splinters within one volley. These men didn't seem to have suffered from the smallpox that took out so many of the Ethiopian Regiment, and seemed hale and healthy, if somewhat underfed. They moved like a well-trained force, with squads scouting the area and patrolling, a hunting party occasionally heading out and coming back with deer or squirrels for meat. So what was their purpose here? For a regiment, it was incredibly small, barely two hundred men, and Connor could not figure out why they were out in the wilds of New York like this.

Following one scouting party, he found a small homestead of a single family that had been burnt to the frames. No doubt they had taken any and all supplies and were already on their way back to their "fort". With a heavy heart, Connor started to pull out the corpses of the family, lining them up and gently covering them so that he may bury them.

He heard her arrival before she entered the small clearing. Her feet were light and quiet, but it was clear she did not know how to walk in such deep snow.

"Connor?" she called as she came in. Her voice, like Gérald's was accented in French and Connor was grateful that she knew English. "I'm Aveline de Grandpré, your 'brother' from New Orleans."

Connor turned, and noticed that it was the woman he had noticed when meeting with Gérald. Nearly a decade older than him, but clearly accomplished in her grace and stealth. She was not the refined lady that he had seen, but instead a confident assassin.

"Yes," Connor nodded. "Achilles told me you would come." She stood in snow up to her thighs, not having proper snow shoes, and she was holding back a shiver, no doubt because the snow was soaking through her pants. "We will camp here tonight."

Aveline nodded, glancing enviously at Connor's own snow shoes, before looking to the family. "I will help you bury them."

Connor let out a soft, sad sigh. "It is too cold to bury them," he murmured. "The ground is too hard. If we can find the cellar, we will place them there."

It was grim work, and both were covered in soot by the time they unburied a bulkhead that led down to the raided cellar, and then to bring all the family members down inside with some dignity. Night was almost upon them when Connor finally set up a fire in the skeleton of the house both to get protection from the wind, but also to prevent prying eyes from seeing the flame. Aveline, in particular, would need the time to warm her wet clothes.

Connor headed out to check his snares while she changed to a fresh set of clean clothes, and when Connor came back, Aveline offered to cook.

"I will handle the food if you can provide another set of those strange, wide... things on your feet."

Connor chuckled. "Snow shoes. So that you do not sink."

"I noticed," she replied lightly.

Connor had already planned on making a set for her and had gathered proper sticks and branches to bend into the proper shape. From there it was weaving strips of leather and twine and setting other strips of leather to tie around one's feet.

"I seek a Loyalist," Aveline interrupted the quiet. "Officer Davidson, of Lord Dunmore's Ethiopian Regiment."

Connor gestured to the husk of a building they were staying in. "That regiment passed through here, or their scouting party did. But the Ethiopian Regiment has been disbanded for over a year now. I do not know what this regiment is, but they are freed slaves and they are loyalist."

Aveline's thick lips thinned. "Then this must be them."

"I know where their 'fort' lies," Connor continued weaving. "At first light, we will be on our way."

The following morning, with new snow shoes, both set off at a solid pace over the thick snow, following a game trail rather than one of the regiment's scouts, staying in the underbrush until they came to a frozen over river.

"We climb," Connor said sitting to pull off his snow shoes for the large frozen waterfall before them.

Aveline whistled. "I had no idea that so much moving water could freeze."

"Do you not have winter down in New Orleans?" Connor asked, reaching for a pine tree and rubbing his fingers in its sap.

"We have a rainy season, if that's what you mean," she replied, mimicking Connor's motions. "These trees are very different than the bayou. I assume that this sticky stuff will help the climb?"

Connor smiled.

The climb was arduous, Aveline matching Connor's foot and hand holds as he explained where ice was and how to brush off snow for a better grip in certain crevices. They reached a ledge almost a third up where they could stand comfortably, but not sit. "Now we rest," Connor said. "The rest of the climb has no such spot so we must regain our strength while we can."

Aveline nodded, barely winded, but shaking out her arms. "I think I prefer the bayou," she said lightly with a wry tone. "At least there's always something to grab. A vine, a branch, and if you fall, you merely go for a swim with some alligators. This is... quite different."

"I would not know how to handle those alligators," Connor shrugged.

Aveline laughed.

They continued the climb, agonizing and slow as it was, to the top. It was nearly mid-day and they paused to have a bite to eat.

"How much farther?" Aveline asked as she tied on her snow shoes again.

"An hour," Connor replied, crouching to the underbrush. "We must be more careful now. Though the fort is not much defense, they do have sentries."

Aveline crouched down with him, frowning. "I have been searching for years to find the Company Man," she said softly. "If I merely wait an extra hour to find him to avoid another dead end, I can wait."

They moved in silence after that, each making hand signals over anything they saw and silently moving from one bush to the next. Aveline paused, and motioned. Connor nodded. A sentry was ahead. They would need to move around him to get to the fort-

But Aveline was already rushing forward, surprising the sentry as she leapt to him, shoving him down into the thick snow and a knife appearing in her gloved hand making its way to the sentry's neck.

"Unhand me!" the black man shouted.

"One chance to keep your life," Aveline hissed, her glittering knife pressing against the man's jugular. "Where is Davidson?"

"Who?" the sentry grunted.

"Come on!' Aveline growled back. "Time's up!" Already her knife was drawing blood.

"He's in the fort!" the sentry shouted. "He's in the fort! The fort!"

Aveline was off him in a flash, standing and smiling brightly. "That was easy," she giggled. "Why is it you call yourselves loyalists again?"

Connor stepped out from the brush and stood by her side.

"Easier to be loyal in the safety of the fort," the man said backing away and holding his neck, "than out in the snow with a knife to your neck."

All Aveline's amusement disappeared, as she stared the sentry down. "Run home," she ordered. "Now. And don't let me see you again." Her eyes narrowed. "You won't be able to run then."

"Y-yes ma'am!"

So the sentry ran.

They waited a moment, letting the silence of the forest settle around them, before Connor decided to talk. "That was reckless," he said. "We could have avoided him all together."

"But now we have confirmation that Davidson is there," she replied. "It worked out."

"Going into a situation blind serves no purpose," Connor replied. "We hunt. And to hunt, we must know our prey. To know our prey is to observe, watch, and learn."

"And now we have confirmation that Davidson is in that fort."

"Which we already knew," Connor replied firmly. "We have combined our information networks. They work together as one. Once Achilles knew of where Davidson was, so did Gérald."

Aveline frowned, looking away. "Désolé," she apologized. "Trust... is not easy for me."

"It is not easy for any who do our work, for we face the white man's ability to lie."

"Not just the white man," Aveline said so softly, Connor was uncertain if he was meant to hear. So he did not respond, and instead, continued on their way.

A half hour later, they came to an old covered bridge that crossed a ravine with the frozen river down below, showing them to be higher in the mountains than when they had climbed the waterfall. Unfortunately, it seemed an earlier storm had damaged it. Updrafts from the ravine had broken apart the flooring and while it remained steady, vast gaps over open air remained. Connor was confident that he could cross the gaps but not the last one. It was too far apart. He'd have to climb to the roof and beware of ice and snow.

He glanced to Aveline. "We may have to go over the roof."

But Aveline was focused on the gaps in the floor.

"Can you get across?"

She flashed him a charming smile and took off, as fast as Connor, and at the last gap, she didn't even pause as she pulled out a long whip and used it to swing across. She turned and gave a bright smile. "You mean like that?" she called.

Connor couldn't quite hold back a chuckle, though he still thought of her as reckless. He still climbed to the roof of the covered bridge to cross, as there was no way for Aveline to give him the whip (not that he would have the skill with it) nor was there any way for her to make a bridge across the gap.

The sun was still high in the afternoon when they crested a hill and looked down to the 'fort'. "The officers," Connor explained, "are using that structure," he pointed to the only house on the interior, isolated from the rows and rows of tents that the average private was using. "I will go around and divert attention." After spending a week scouting the fort, he knew where the powder magazines were, and that would make a fine distraction.

Aveline was studying the layout, and Connor could almost see her own eagle focusing and staring, as his did. He wondered if she also had that other sight, the Eagle Vision, as Achilles had called it, to guide her eyes to what she needed to see.

"Bien," she said softly. "Give me ten minutes." And without even waiting for an answer, she was taking off her snow shoes and climbing the trees to get to a branch that hung over the fort.

"Reckless indeed."

Connor waited the ten minutes she asked for, then crept through the underbrush to a weakness in a set of logs that he'd noticed before and used to sneak in to get a better sense of the layout. The gunpowder was stored in a root cellar, so as to keep it dry and protected from the elements. While the only true structure was the officer's quarters, there were many bushes and trees inside the 'fort'. This made it easy for Connor to sneak through, undetected. At the cellar was a single sentry, and Connor pulled out his bow and arrow. More silent than a pistol or rifle, and just as deadly. The arrow pierced the man's heart and he didn't even have the chance to grunt. Connor rushed forward, pulled out his arrow, and dragged the man down into the cellar with him. He offered a small prayer to the man, hoping that his family was also free of slavery, before taking down a lantern and setting the cellar on fire.

Connor snuck out of the cellar and rushed as fast as he dared from the impending explosion, hoping to get back out the wall to avoid the concussive wave that was about to be unleashed inside the fort. He could only hope Aveline had enough time with Davidson to get what she wanted. He was indeed able to get outside, just as the explosion went off, throwing everything inside the fort into chaos. Earth and rocks soared high into the sky, before slamming back down to the tents and soldiers within, and Connor offered another prayer for them to the Sky Goddess. These were men who wanted freedom and had been dragged into a Templar's game. They had not deserved this, and Connor hoped that Iottsitíson forgave him for all this death.

In the confusion, he saw one man, an officer, but a black officer, leap onto a carriage and go charging out, leaving his men to suffer.

That must be the Templar, Davidson. With his snow shoes back on, Connor surged forward, hoping to catch the Templar. Aveline must have lost him.

Or she had been killed...

Either way, Connor would question that Templar and make sure the information was passed on.

To Connor's displeasure, however, a small squad had managed to form and have some semblance of order, and they saw him running away. After a musket ball flew past his shoulder, he turned to face them. In truth, it wasn't much of a squad. Only five black men, and Connor did not wish to fight them. So he did not pull out his tamahaac. Instead, he used only his fists, disarming and choking until they were all unconscious at his feet.

The wagon would not have gotten far in the deep snow, so Davidson was still near. A sleigh would have been a better choice given the terrain, but this worked to Connor's advantage. Connor set off again to find Davidson and get the information that Aveline needed. He saw the wagon ahead and was already gaining on it when he heard a pistol shot. The barrels on the back of the wagon exploded, the man, Davidson, sent flying as the horses panicked and screamed.

Aveline dropped down from a tree, looking tired and worn, but determined. She stepped forward to the bleeding man, and Connor gave her the time with her Templar. He looked to the panicked horses that couldn't move in the thick snow with the overturned wagon behind them. Both were too badly damaged and would not survive. With a heavy sigh and a soft thanks, Connor ended the lives of the two horses.

"I had hoped it would not come to this," Aveline said softly, holding the man's dark, bloody hand. "Now, in death, eternal freedom."

"You... mock me!" the Templar Davidson spat. "I chose my destiny. That... is real freedom. Perhaps," he grunted, "one day, you will... know it too..."

"I..." Connor watched Aveline struggle, before her eyes hardened. "Who is the Company Man?"

Davidson gave a coughing, bitter laugh. "The answer... has been in your own backyard... all along... Just... open... your... eye..."

Off in the distance, a lone wolf howled, and Davidson slackened into the snow. Aveline stayed by his side, staring at him for a long time. Finally, she put his bloodied hand over his mangled chest, and gently closed his eyes.

She stood, wiped her eyes, and turned with a pained smile towards Connor.

Connor walked over, uncertain what to say. They stayed silent for a moment, before Connor turned away from the 'fort' and started to head into the woods. "I am glad you are well. When I saw Davidson leaving and no sign of you, I worried."

Aveline said nothing. Only sniffed, either from tears or the cold, Connor did not know.

"Did you find what you sought?"

"Oui," Aveline said. "And much that I didn't."

"Such it always is, with Templars," Connor replied, thinking of how much he had learned from Hickey, and looking back, what Pitcairn was after, as was Johnson. "Finding one Templar always reveals more than one thought. And sometimes more than one wished."

Aveline nodded. Then wiped her eyes again.

"It seemed you knew that man."

She nodded again. "I... He was a slave I helped free and escape. I was able to smuggle him to the British colonies so that he had a chance. I did not realize... I had given him to the Templars."

Connor nodded, again uncertain what to say.

"And now you know the Company Man?"

"... Regrettably."

Much like Conner would have to deal with Haytham Kenway, it seemed Aveline would need to deal with someone similar. Connor could certainly empathize.

Two days later, as they were riding through Massachusetts to return to Rockport, Aveline, who had been reticent the whole ride, turned to him. "Connor? Are you always... certain in the means and ways of the Brotherhood?" she asked.

Connor kept looking ahead, not liking how her words struck him. She was doubting the Assassins? What was she facing down in New Orleans that shook her faith in their Order so strongly? But Connor thought of Achilles, of the doubts he had of what his Mentor had done when he'd presided over the war before Ratonhnhaké:ton had even been born. Connor let out a heavy sigh.

"I... trust my own hands," he said softly. The Old Man left many questions for him, but Connor knew what was right and wrong, and to not act was to not be a person. "How can a person see brutality and not act? It is how I was raised, it is how I live and breathe. No matter what happens around me, that is what I trust in."

"Of course," Aveline replied. She gave a smile, one more sincere, and they continued on. They returned to Rockport and Connor was surprised to see Warren and Prudence come running up to Aveline.

"Aveline!" Warren greeted.

"It can't be!" Prudence said, holding Hunter close. "Aveline must be a legend!"

"It seems you are well known," Connor observed.

Prudence blinked. "You mean she is?" She immediately hid behind her husband, completely embarrassed.

Aveline gave a warm smile. "I do not think myself well known," she said.

"Oh but you are!" Warren gushed. "I grew up in the islands, and all with connections to the slaves, knew of Aveline and her hard work to free any she can!"

Lyle stepped forward as well. "Oh yes, those I've helped have mentioned you," he said warmly. "Lady Aveline, you will always be welcome here."

"I wish I could stay," she replied. "But I am only on my way home. There is much to do."

"Oh do come visit again!" Warren said.

"Travel safely," Connor said, nodding his head.

Aveline offered a grim smile. "It's the arrival that concerns me."

Connor gave his own smile. "Then you are on the right path."

It was the last week of December when Connor and Aveline had returned to the homestead, days shy of winter. The air was still and sharp with grim homestead sensed it too, and went about their work with uncommon urgency, the bloodbath of Dave's confrontation making them nervous, tasting the war much closer than any of them had ever imagined. Connor wanted to help them, but more pressing matters demanded his attention. The Atenenyarhu had targeted George Washington directly - and would not rest until he was dead. Connor had hoped to shield him from this knowledge, but Thomas Hickey ended any hope of staying silent. Over a year had passed since then, and still the commander did not know the danger he was in. Connor had long ago resolved to share everything he knew - of the Templars and their plots - of who he really was.

Achilles pursed his lips as they covered the same topics again, Connor trying to press the need to let the commander know, the Old Man to let ignorance remain. When Faulkner and the Aquila docked from their most recent trade expedition, Aveline ready to go back to New Orleans, Achilles demanded Connor go with her as escort.

"But she is a skilled Hirokoa," Connor said, "She does not need the protection."

"Non, I don't," the woman agreed.

"Yet, all the same, you need to go," Achilles replied. "I have an assignment for you there regardless."

And then Connor thought back to all the trips he had taken, all of the assignments he had been given, all of the traveling he had done, and he realized exactly what was happening.

"This is deliberate," he said softly, eyes wide as it all continued to fall together in his head. "All this past year, you have sent me up and down the coast to keep me away from him. Away from Washington. You're trying to keep me from telling him."

And the Old Man said nothing, held his gaze evenly, and did not deny the accusation. Tension bled into the air, more and more memories flashing in Connor's mind, this one trickle of doubt now sending his thoughts through his entire childhood, wondering in what other ways the Old Man had held him back, done more than discourage him. All that negativity, all the rebuffs of his success, the constant usage of the word "child" and "boy," suddenly he realized just how cantankerous Achilles really was with training a recruit, and all he felt was anger.

Blind. Anger.

"I am leaving," he said quietly, danger in his voice.

"Do not," Achilles said, voice equally soft, equally dangerous.

"Iá."

Ratonhnhaké:ton turned on a moccasined heel and left the study, pounding up the stairs and to his room. Aveline ducked out of his way, confused at how suddenly the conversation had changed, uncertain if she should step in or not. He barely even noticed her, his ears and mind were pounding with anger, the sharp sting of betrayal. Connor had looked up to the Old Man for over eight years, drank every word he ever spoke, taken his advice to heart and listened ardently, and now he knew it was all for naught. It was exactly as that first day, when they had met: Achilles had slammed the door in his face, and nothing, nothing had changed since then. Now, however, now Ratonhnhaké:ton was older, wiser, and self-sufficient. He no longer needed the Old Man to caution him, hold him back, slam the door in his face. Now he had the skills to do this himself. Perhaps Aveline was right, perhaps the means and ways of the Brotherhood were not as he had believed, the same way that the Templars, save Charles Lee, were not the Stone Coats that he had thought as a child. It was not the ideal he had sought. In one lightning strike of realization he understood exactly where Aveline stood, and now he, too, was there on that precipice, but unlike Aveline, he did not waiver.

If the Assassins would not help him, then he would do it himself.

He grabbed the rich, deep blue blanket, given to him by Oiá:ner when he first set out on this quest given to him by Iottsitíson, rolling it up and grabbing his saddlebags, still stuffed from his journey with Aveline. Slinging the latter over his shoulder and the former under and arm, he grabbed his bow and quiver, and his dream snare, and marched out of his room, back down the stairs, and out the door.

Achilles moved to follow, brown face hidden under the wide brim of his hat.

"Don't do this, Connor," he said, limping after him out into the snow.

No. He would not listen. Not ever again. He was too angry. "Then what would you propose we do?" he threw over his shoulder, marching to the stables. "Sit and watch while the Templars take control? We are sworn to stop them. Or have you forgotten?"

The Old Man was struggling to keep up, Aveline slowing to a halt at the edge of the house, unable to intrude on the brewing fight.

"Assassins are meant to be quiet," Achilles said. "Precise. We do not go announcing conspiracies from the rooftops to all who pass by."

Another lecture? Connor had had enough of those. Rage pounding in his head, noise in his mind, he turned and threw out the first words that came to mind. "Who are you to lecture anyone? You locked yourself away in this crumbling heap and gave up on the Brotherhood entirely. Since the day I arrived, you've done nothing but discourage me. You have spent the last year lying to me to keep me from my duty. You have prevented me from going after targets and chasing the enemies of my people. And on the rare occasions you've chosen to help you've done so little, you may as well have done nothing at all!"

And, for the first time since knowing the Old Man, he reacted. Color drained from his face, eyes bulging in shock before rage proportionate to that felt by Ratonhnhaké:ton filled his face. "How dare you!"

But the young native was not done yet, anger still filling his half formed words. "Then tell me," he said derisively, "On whose watch did the brotherhood falter? Whose inaction allowed the Templar Order to grow so large that it now controls an entire nation?" He saddled his black mare, tossing the saddlebags and blanked onto her flank, leading her out of the stable, refusing to look at the source of his rage.

"If I sought to dissuade you," Achilles shouted, his voice echoing over the snow, "it was because you knew nothing! If I was reluctant to contribute, it was because you were naive. A thousand times you would have died and taken God knows how many with you. Even now as a grown man you are still frozen as a child! Even after all of this you have yet to learn the most important lesson of all! Let me tell you something, Connor: Life is not a fairy tale and there are no happy endings."

Again a child! He turned cold eyes to the Old Man.

"No," he answered softly, "Not when men like you are left in charge."

Pain, raw pain, crossed the Old Man's face, a reaction Ratonhnhaké:ton had not expected, but his haze of anger prevented him from truly recognizing it. He got a foot in the stirrup and mounted, taking the reins to see that the Old Man had grabbed them himself, holding the animal in place.

"In your haste to save the world, boy - take care you don't destroy it!"

He did not even dignify that with a response, just kicked the mare and rode off, willfully ignorant of that pained look, willfully ignorant of the look on Aveline's face as he rode out. He exited the homestead at a full gallop, the horse slipping over the icy wood of the bridge and up the ridge into the forests.

It was not until the next day that the look of pain finally entered his consciousness, and as he reflected on the words he said, the accusations he made, he admitted to himself no small amount of regret. For Achilles to show any emotion on his face at all meant that he was feeling that emotion deeply, and for him to show pain... Ratonhnhaké:ton had been hurt, was still hurting with the realization of what the old Mentor had done; the young native had lashed out in his anger, and in his desire to hurt back, he had done a great disservice to Achilles.

The Old Man had helped him, had trained him, had taught him, and for him to throw it back in Achilles' face... he had been wrong. He would apologize when he returned.

But he would not return until after Washington was safe. On that, he would not bend.

It was three hundred and fifty miles from the homestead to Valley Forge, the place where Washington had finally set up winter quarters. He rode through Boston and Worcester, into Connecticut and through Hartford and New Haven, following the coast to New York and its City, across New Jersey and into Pennsylvania. It took almost three weeks, snow showers and winter storms slowing his journey, but he arrived in the middle of January.

Located twenty miles northwest of Philadelphia, the encampment lay along the Schuykill River on high ground, on plateaus named Mount Joy and Mount Misery respectively, it was just far enough from the British camps to prevent surprise attacks and just close enough to fend off any enterprising redcoat from going deeper into Pennsylvania, standing between London and the Congress in York, effectively creating a standstill. The forests were thick and dark, hiding everything and providing ample sources of wood, which Connor saw was immediately being put to use in constructing log cabins to house the poor excuse of an army that the commander was in charge of.

Further south than Ratonhnhaké:ton's home, it was moderately warmer, but no less miserable for the 11,000 men ill prepared for any form of winter. Connor skulked about the camp, passing himself off as an Indian guide and getting a feel for the camp before he made contact with the commander. It had taken, they said, three days to build the first log hut, and a week for the second because the timber had to be hauled in from so far away and because they only had one axe. Easily a third of the men had no shoes, many leaving bloody footprints all over the camp, and disease was everywhere.

"You got your pick," one of the pickets said, shivering in only a light shirt and a scarf, "Typhoid, typhus, the pox, dysentery, pneumonia, stuff I don't even have a name for."

Hydration was the most immediate source of the sickness, the half foot of accumulated snow further north was barely an inch this far south, making it impossible to harvest the snow for water. Moreover, sanitation was a joke, Ratonhnhaké:ton and the Kanien'kehá:ka knew to relieve themselves and throw refuse away from the village, but the settlers had no concept of keeping such things away from themselves, the entire camp stank of feces and rot.

Exposure was the greatest killer, so far. Connor had his thick wool coat and blanket, moccasins for his feet and deer-hide leggings to keep him warm, he knew how to sleep under trees and in lees of stones to avoid the wind. On a ridge there was no such natural protection, and blankets were a luxury that many did not have, to say nothing of the lack of shoes, coats, stockings, anything to cover the body against the cold. The days were warm enough to melt whatever snow they received, the dampness seeping into everything, only to refreeze overnight. Bodies were sometimes left in the log cabins because there were not enough shovels to dig the graves necessary – most had been commandeered by Knox in his fevered rush to place his artillery in case of an attack by the regulars. Horses fared little better than men.

Food was very nearly nonexistent: consisting of "firecakes" which were little more than flour and water, or pepper-pot soup, simply pepper and tripe broth. The pepper did nothing to hide the taste of the rotten vegetables that were used simply because it was all that was available. Some had recently discovered that leather was edible, and were cooking what few shoes were left in water and calling it soup, anything to trick their minds into thinking they were actually eating. The only saving grace was a man affectionately called the Baker-General, who somehow managed to make a pound of fresh bread every day to be passed out to the thousands of troops.

Desertion came by the dozens, no sane man having the wherewithal to fight for liberty on an empty stomach, and many more were dying left and right. It was a mess. Only one month into winter quarters and many soldiers – if they could be called soldiers – were bone thin, ribs visible in their tatters of clothes, hallow and empty-eyed, shivering and miserable and sick.

Connor could not even fathom how the army had fallen to this state. He remembered the swell of soldiers in New York, when the Declaration of Independence had been read, the fiery spark of people coming from all over the colonies to fight at Bunker Hill two years and a half years ago. Two years of battle, two years of losses, of retreats and defeats, had boiled down to their absolute worst, and for the first time the young native wondered if they would win the war.

No, no, they had to. He was here, now, to alleviate Washington of one of his burdens, one he didn't even know abou-

How would the commander react to this news? To the knowledge that his life was forfeit by the Templars, a faceless enemy he knew nothing about in the face of the very real disaster he was currently living with every day?

The thought gave him honest pause as he moved to the only house of the camp. For a brief moment, at long last, he saw part of the argument that Achilles was making: this man had enough on his shoulders with things as they were, what would adding more do to him? For him? He stilled, indecision striking him hard, as he realized the problem that lay before him: how much could a person take? Ratonhnhaké:ton himself had been tested many times: the death of his mother, the fallout of Johnson, his time in prison, the betrayal of Achilles he still felt so keenly. The commander was now suffering far more than that: the slow inevitable decay of his army, the loss of the cause that the Colonies so passionately championed, defeat at the hands of the redcoats. How much more could he stand? How much...?

He shook his head, shocked at his indecision. He had already made his choice, when he had left the homestead three weeks ago. He would not bend now.

The home in the camp belonged to a man named Isaac Potts, who in turn rented the house out to an aunt, Mrs. Hewes. Cramped with twenty-five commanders and Washington himself, every available space was used for bedding save the kitchen and the dining room, which had become the default meeting room for all the commanders, the table covered in maps, memos, letters, books, pencils and quills.

Washington was there, talking fiercely to a messenger.

"... and I can assure those gentlemen that it is a much easier and less distressing thing to draw remonstrances in a comfortable room by a good fire side than to occupy a cold bleak hill and sleep under frost and snow without cloths or blankets; however, although they seem to have little feeling for the naked and distressed soldier, I feel superabundantly for them, and from my Soul pity those miseries which it is neither in my power to relieve or prevent. Tell them that, word for word, and give them the petition again. I cannot be expected to command a naked and dying army and find the resources to supply them and respond to their criticism and fend of the enemy all in one breath, and by the love of Providence I have to see to the welfare of my men first. Tell them that!"

The messenger scurried away, frightened by the passion of the commander, and Connor was left standing in the doorway, finally noticed.

The commander blinked, an embarrassed flush overtaking his pale features and he coughed, turning away to collect himself. "Forgive me," he said, his voice softer, more pliable. "I was not aware that another messenger was coming. What news have you?"

Connor pulled down his hood.

"Ah, Connor," Washington said, recognizing the native. "It's been a while, over a year, I believe. How are you?"

"It would appear that I fair far better than you," he said softly, wondering how to broach the topic of the Templars and how to present it. The silence drew out, Washington's face far away, before he caught himself and shook his head.

"My apologies," he said. "I've been distracted. Supply caravans meant for the camp have gone missing. I suspect treachery. A traitor named Benjamin Church, recently released from prison, has vanished as well. The two events are surely related."

Church was released? When? A Stone Coat loose in the Colonies, it only meant bad things, no doubt he was again under the hand of Connor's raké:ni, furthering the goal of destroying Washington. He cursed the Old Man all over again, for keeping him so busy as to miss this most important piece of news. He had been there for the trial, had spent the last two and a half years secure that at least one atenenyarhu was safely locked away. Now he was free? Was Lee free?

His response was immediate: "I will find Church for you."

Tired as the big man was, his eyes sharpened and he looked at Connor as he had at Trenton, with suspicion. "Why?" he asked slowly. "What reason have you to help?"

A hundred conversations flitted into Connor's head.

"Assassins are meant to be quiet. Precise. We do not go announcing conspiracies from the rooftops to all who pass by."

"You'll cause the very thing you aim to prevent."

"In telling Washington, you will expose yourself in ways that you cannot yet fathom, and avail yourself of dangers you do not yet understand: political manipulation, deceit and maneuvering."

"Nothing good can come of you exposing yourself, nor in exposing Washington."

"He is safer not knowing."

Pressure built inside him, indecision, and finally he lowered his eyes, unable to face the resolve that had crumpled inside of him so quickly, hateful of the Old Man and the words that still held such sway over him, spiteful of the fact that he understood now the weight that they carried, the experience, and unwavering knowledge that the Old Man was right, and that he had been wrong. Shame burned his face and his jaw nearly broke for the pressure he placed on it, but at last he bowed to Achilles' wisdom, and he looked up, squirming at what he was about to do.

"... Does it matter?" he asked softly, reticence threatening to overtake him.

Washington had seen the fierce internal conflict, just as Connor had seen his righteous passion, and the commander nodded slowly, forgiving the indiscretion.

"As you wish," he said softly. He turned from the table and looked out the window, towards the camps and their misery. "I... don't like staying here, in the house," he offered. "I should be out there, with the men; I should not have privileged accommodations when they are suffering so blatantly. I cannot afford to rely solely on Providence to save us from certain death. I have petitioned the Congress repeatedly to supply the army themselves, but until they listen I must do it myself, and the very last thing we need are the supplies General Greene has been foraging to disappear. We've received reports of trouble along the southern road. Might be Church is responsible, though that is more guess than any form of certainty. I suggest you begin your search there. If Church is not responsible, then you may follow your own leads."

"... You are generous, Commander," Connor said softly. "I will do as you ask. If there is nothing I can find, I will bring game for you; meat and skins will serve your army well."

Washington turned, surprised by the gesture. "You are far more generous than I," he said softly.

"The people have chosen you to lead the fight against the redcoats. Your men must be fed and clothed for them to succeed. You may be safe from Charles Lee, but Church is still out there, and I will relieve you of that burden."

He missed the slight frown on Washington's face, turning to begin his search.

Connor scouted the southern roads meticulously, looking for signs of travel and tracing them back and forth across the forests, determining which were Patriot and which were harmless travelers. He also ventured into the woods and felled several deer, the largest animals he could expect his mare and himself to carry, skinning and harvesting everything he could to bring back to camp. The men cheered at the bounty, and Washington smiled softly at the good deed, walking amongst the men often and offering what words he could. Connor joined him on one such walk, watching as the Commander offered apology after apology that the supplies were taking so long, ensuring as best he could that they were on their way before trudging back to the house and looking out the window at the starving camp, sighing. Clouds were massing to the west, the sure sign of another snowstorm that would drop enough snow to make life even more miserable, but not enough to be useful.

"I have failed them, Connor," he said softly, eyes forlorn. "Only look around to know my words are true. This revolution once seemed a righteous thing, our cause pure and just. We asked only for what all people deserved: liberty, equality, respect. The Empire should have embraced us... instead they pushed for war – a war, it seems, they are destined to win. I dared to dream of better things. Behold what is has wrought."

Connor was aghast to hear such words from the commander of the army. He tried to offer solace.

"Such dark thoughts will cripple a man, if he lets it," he said softly. "Look again. Out there stand men and women determined to be free. Such a struggle is rarely easy, and never without sacrifice. I have asked myself a thousand times if I would not be happier amongst my people, living a quieter, simpler life. But if I abandoned my cause – if you abandon yours, Commander – who would take our places? And what would become of the people who rely upon us?"

… They were alike, Connor and Washington. They both sought, desperately, to protect their people; they were both of strong ideals and moral fiber; they were both outnumbered and outgunned. Connor could not help but feel kindred with this large white man, so determined to share in his men's plight, fighting not only the British regulars but also Congress and nature itself. Perhaps Ratonhnhaké:ton should make offerings to the Jogah, the little earth spirits who protected the land, let the gahonga and the gandayah know that this army meant no disrespect to the land. He would need to find tobacco for that. At least then nature would not be so harsh on him.

"It isn't right that they should suffer when I do not," Washington said suddenly. "If the ground is to be their mattress, so too will it be mine."

"And what of the coming storm?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked.

Washington offered a pained smile. "If I can't stand against some snow, then there really is no hope for us."

Connor nodded. "You are a good man. The people were right to choose you instead of Charles Lee."

"Again you say his name," Washington said. "Why?"

"Because he is Atenenyarhu," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "In your language he is a Stone Coat. He is evil."

Washington frowned. "Charles has brought energy and positivity to the army before his capture; he did not like being passed over for me, true, but his loyalty to the cause is unshakable. The man is many things, evil is not one of them."

"So you say," Connor said, "But I know differently."

"And what could you possibly know?" Washington asked, concerned.

"... Enough," he replied, not wanting to expose his friend to the truth of the Templars.

The next day Connor came across an abandoned church, half built and empty of pews and pulpit. Far more significant, though, there were signs of a camp. This far off the road only lead to one conclusion, and he entered the dilapidated building cautiously, his eagle awake for any signs of danger. Inside was empty, drifts of snow from the open windows dusting the floorboards, and inside was a man, tall and in cloak and tricorn hat. Iron grey hair was pulled into a tail, hands clasped firmly at his back, and even without seeing his face Connor knew who he was looking at.

Haytham Kenway.

He froze, anxiety bubbling up in his chest just as it had in Bridewell Prison. He had shied away from thoughts of his father for so long, had avoided it so much, that now that he was confronted with meeting him he did not know what to do. Should he make himself known? Sneak away and follow? Kill him? … Ask him why he left? Ask him how he became a Templar? Ask him why he favored Charles Lee? His duty as an Hirokoa and his curiosity as a son warred with each other, trying to resolve which course of action would be best. Should he feel anger? He did not, but he did feel anticipation, curiosity, anxiety of course, ambivalence. He wanted this meeting to go right, but he never considered just what "right" actually was, and now that it was here, unavoidable, he wished he had more time to actually think. He was just deciding to back out, skulk away and hide in the trees, follow his raké:ni and watch to make his decision, when Haytham Kenway turned around.

Eyes widened slightly, a sign of surprise, and a long, painful pause drew out as both men stared at each other, deciding what to do.

"Father," Ratonhnhaké:ton said started to say, his mind searching for something, anything to say. Did Haytham even know he had a son...?

His half-formed thought shook the older man out of his stare, and Haytham's face immediately closed down to a blank look. "Connor," he replied.

Nothing after that.

Haytham would not make the first move, but then he had been caught flatfooted, and perhaps he did not know what to say any more than Ratonhnhaké:ton. The young native was still struggling to decide how to start, and the silence drew on to almost painful lengths, but at last Ratonhnhaké:ton realized he could not just ask the questions he wanted most, he could not guarantee any of the answers. He needed a measure of the man before him, first and foremost. He wanted to know more about Haytham before he asked about the past. More, still, there was the fact that – like it or not – he was a Templar, an Atenenyarhu. Whatever Achilles thought of him, Ratonhnhaké:ton did not discount the Old Man's advice out of hand, and he understood that any contact he made would be hazardous at best and deadly at worst. He had to play his hand very, very carefully.

Caution, first and foremost. Why he was here was obvious, Benjamin Church, but perhaps that was the best way to start.

"Come to check up on Church?" he asked, sandy tenor soft, as neutral as he could make it. Haytham, grey haired, sunken eyes, began to circle the young native warily before he gave a dark scoff. "Benjamin Church is no brother of mine," he hissed, vicious snarl on his lips strong.

"Then you are the one stealing supplies?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked. "Seeking to aid your British brothers?" If his raké:ni was responsible for the condition of Washington's army... he didn't know what to do if that was the case. His responsibility was to... but could he do it?

Antagonism oozed off of Haytham's response, filled with contempt and derision. He threw a dark look at Ratonhnhaké:ton and sneered. "I expected naiveté," he said. "But this...! Even Shay knew better than you," he accused before pausing, taking a breath, pursing his lips before he looked at Connor again, eyes hard and unyielding. "That idiot who calls himself king is little more than a spoiled dog, whiny and in constant need of affection and attention."

The contempt for London and the king Ratonhnhaké:ton had not expected. If not for the crown but why...?

"The Templars do not fight for the crown," he said in the tone of explaining something to a simpleton. "We seek the same as you, boy! Freedom. Justice. Independence."

That was untrue. Achilles had told him of this many times, of the allure of the Templar philosophy, of the inherent flaw that existed in their shouts of freedom and justice.

"But...?" he prompted.

"Hmmm?" the white man countered, tone accusatory. "But what?"

"Johnson. Pitcairn. Hickey," Connor listed. He practiced stillness, afraid that any wrong move would set off a powder keg. How could his raké:ni justify their deeds? How could he justify Johnson eating the land, Pitcairn seeking to eat Sam Adams and John Hancock and stop the revolution before it had even started, how could he justify murdering Washington – a man chosen by the will of thirteen colonies – if he purported to support freedom? Independence? The Templars were not simple, their motives always subtle, but how could Haytham Kenway justify any of that? "They sought to steal land. To sack towns. To murder George Washington. For one who claims to fight for freedom you do nothing but oppress it."

"Of all the twisted...!" Haytham gave a long, put-upon sigh, so like the Old Man Connor straightened and paid attention more out of habit than anything else. "Johnson sought to own the land that we might keep it safe," he explained, still circling his son. His face was a mess of frustration and anger, impatience. "Pitcairn aimed to encourage diplomacy - which you cocked up thoroughly enough to start a god-damned war!" he shouted, leaning in and gesturing violently. He took another breath to control himself. "And Hickey? George Washington is a wretched leader. He's lost nearly every battle in which he's taken part. The man's wracked with uncertainty and insecurity. Only look at Valley Forge to know my words are true. We'd all be better off without him."

Those last words dug in the most. Connor admired the Commander of the Patriot Army, so like the native himself in his set of challenges. He was honorable, thoughtful, cut from the same cloth as Ratonhnhaké:ton, and to hear Haytham label Washington felt like he was labeling Ratonhnhaké:ton in such a way. His jaw tightened, toes curling in his moccasins as a chill breeze swept through the windowless church. The moment drew out, neither man backing down, circling.

Ratonhnhaké:ton had no idea what to do. Haytham's words had echoed the words of his targets, protecting the Kanien'kehà:ka, parlay; and it was his father, he could not bring himself to believe the man was an irredeemable Atenenyarhu, a Stone Coat that ate people. He had learned since Hickey's assassination, learned that everyone had the potential to be atenenyarhu, and that not all atenenyarhu were irredeemable, sans Charles Lee. He was never comfortable with thinking of his raké:ni in such black and white terms, and he realized belatedly that he had never decided how to think of his raké:ni. It left him with no foot to stand on, no basis to judge the actions of this man, and without a starting point he had no preparation on how to deal with him.

He had not expected Haytham Kenway to be so... irritable – that much he felt comfortable thinking. The man he had seen in prison was perfectly controlled, letting nothing show, staring at nothing and no one, above even his compatriots. This man before him was not nearly so perfect, frustrated and impatient, traits that echoed in Ratonhnhaké:ton much more than he wanted to admit. There was common ground there and... and...

And he did not want to hurt him.

Not until he knew him. Or at least more about him.

"Look," Haytham said after yet another sigh, "much as I'd love to spar with you, Benjamin Church's mouth is as big as his ego. You clearly want the supplies he's stolen, I want him punished. Our interests are aligned."

… He was done in after that.

He shifted his stance, changing his posture, still stiff but more open. He kept his back straight however, and his heart perfectly closed off. He was not the naive child of his youth, and he did not disregard Achilles' words out of hand as the Old Man thought. No, Ratonhnhaké:ton would not give this man anything. He would have to earn his trust.

"What do you propose?" he asked softly.

"A truce," Haytham replied. Another pause drew out, something crossing his face. "Perhaps..." he started, an awkward sound exiting his throat, "perhaps some time together might do us good." He crossed his arms behind his back, form straightening, looking more as he had in Bridewell. "You are my son, after all," he said smoothly, "and might still be saved from your ignorance."

Of all the...!

Haytham saw the indignation of Ratonhnhaké:ton's face, offering an oily smirk and extending a hidden blade brazenly. How did he have...? "I can kill you now, if you'd prefer...?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton pursed his lips, saying nothing. Doing nothing.

The blade was sheathed, face smug. "Excellent! Shall we be off?"

"Do you even know where Benjamin Church has gone?" the young native asked.

Another pause, this one decidedly more awkward. "I'm afraid not. I'd hoped to ambush him when he or one of his men returned here. It seems I'm too late. They've come and cleared the place out."

Poorly prepared if that was what he came here for. Even Ratonhnhaké:ton knew some tracking would be necessary, had planned on it, even. "I may be able to track him," he said softly, looking out to the dusting of snow.

Outside, the previous night's snow squall had left snow on little more than grassy surfaces – winter was the best time to hunt for the clarity of the tracks but there was not enough snow in all of Pennsylvania right now to meet Connor's needs. That did not mean the tracking was impossible, only less easy. The wheel ruts of a wagon, very heavy, were still visible in the half-frozen earth, and pointed further south, away from the encampment. The trails here were mostly game trails, a few hunting paths, narrow and nearly impassable for a wagon. Twice he came across lost cargo: rations, clothing, the things so desperately needed by the Patriots. Anger bubbled up inside Ratonhnhaké:ton. To deliberately inflict such cruelty...! Benjamin Church should have died long, long ago, back in Boston, when he was easy to find and easier to kill, before the Revolution had started, before things had become... so complicated. His anger at the Old Man burned in him again, hating that he had been held back for so long that now, when Washington needed supplies the most, Benjamin Church was inflicting suffering worse than Bridewell Prison. That man was Atenenyarhu, he was eating the army in his mad quest for...

What did Church want from this? If he was no longer a Templar, what did he hope to gain from this?

He turned to Haytham.

"Why has he done this?" he asked softly, careful to keep his voice from carrying.

"Because he has only ever had one priority," Haytham said, heedless of the volume of his voice. "That man had no sense of principal, no dedication to the goals of our Order."

"Your goal to eat the world?"

"Eat the...? Just what has Davenport been telling you all these years?" Haytham said, irritation coloring every feature. "No! As I told you before: freedom, stability, liberty. Everything and everyone in their proper place, happy. Benjamin never subscribed to any of that, his only goal was the furtherance of his own wealth. Money was the god he worshiped and he was an ardent believer in it. He stayed with the Order not because of moral duty but because we could pay him. The man will pay dearly for the betrayal he had wrought, mark my words."

They traveled for two hours, following the tracks, covering four or five miles. Haytham was silent in the sense that he did not speak, but he was the noisiest companion Connor had ever travelled with – and that included city dwellers like Duncan and Dobby and Jamie. Even they knew where to watch their feet, and in the span of an hour knew what to look for on a forest floor that would announce their movements. At first he thought that his father did not know, but when asked to be silent the man simply glared, and then deliberately stepped on a twig, snapping it and startling a deer and her fawn. It was not until later, when the first obvious sign of the wagon was made clear that he slowed, eyes at last on the ground and mindful of his steps.

The heavy wagon was to the side of the trail, wagon wheel broken, and one miserable teamster trying to do repairs in the chilled wind.

"Just my luck," the man was muttering. "Going to freeze to death if I don't get this fixed..."

Satisfied he had found what he wanted, he left the tree he was hiding behind and walked up to the teamster. He worried his hands slightly, well aware that his father was watching; that made him nervous for some reason, though he tried to control it. Diplomacy first. He leaned forward. "Are you Ben Church's man?" he asked politely.

The driver whipped around, eyes twice the normal size, before stumbling away and running off.

"Well played," Haytham said lightly, voice filled once more with contempt. The derision pricked at his emotions, and Connor gave chase, wishing to correct the mistake that Haytham perceived. He drew his bow as he went, grabbing and arrow and taking quick aim before skidding to a halt, taking a breath, and firing. The arrow sailed through the man's leg, sending him careening down to the ground before struggling to get up. Ratonhnhaké:ton ambled over, grabbing the man and hoisting him up, slamming him against a tree.

"It was not wise to run," he said, his sandy tenor soft and dangerous.

"W-what do you want?" the teamster demanded, shaking visibly, pale even through the rosy pallor of the cold air. Connor could just feel the man's heartbeat under the layers of fabric, thudding frantically in fear. Haytham walked up to the pair calmly, just outside Connor's peripheral vision. He ignored the man in favor of the interrogation.

"Where is Benjamin Church?" he asked simply.

"I don't know!" he cried out, Scottish drawl thickening in emotion, voice high pitched and desperate. "We was riding for a camp 'round the bend just north of here. It's where we normally unload the cargo. Maybe you'll find him th-"

The teamster's face exploded in blood and brain matter, a cacophonous sound ringing in Connor's ears at point-blank range, making him duck instinctively as the smell of death suddenly filled the air. His body trembled with so close a call, and he looked to his right to see the smoking gun, Haytham calmly lowering it and putting it away as if he had not just committed heartless murder.

"Enough of that," he said coldly.

"You did not have to kill him!" Connor shouted, shocked that his father had behaved so, shocked that life was to be so meaningless to him. His ear was still ringing, he could smell the gunpowder and his fingers prickled with the sense of life leaving them. A man was dead!

Haytham did not even dignify his horror with an explanation. "Let's not waste time with all this pointless banter," he said instead, dismissively waving his hand. "Go catch up with the rest of Church's men. Infiltrate that camp of theirs and see what you can discover."

What?

… What?

Just like that this man was giving orders? To his son? How did that make sense? What of the caring, the nurturing? He had just murdered a man in cold blood, and now he just doled out orders without even pausing at the life he had taken? What... what...

"What about you?" Ratonhnhaké:ton demanded. What was so important that Haytham would just hand out an objective and leave the son he didn't trust to do it? What would make him so demanding after cold-blooded murder? What-

Haytham turned incredulous eyes to Ratonhnhaké:ton. "Never you mind," he scolded. "Just do as I ask." And with a dismissive glare he turned and crouched over the body, beginning to search the man's pockets.

Connor stayed in place. What should he do? He was already planning on going to the rendezvous, had never questioned that as his objective, but he did not want to leave his father alone with the man he had just murdered. He had never seen an atenenyarhu eat a person, and however much it was a metaphor as Achilles said, he did not trust his father to be alone with the body because... he just didn't want to leave.

Haytham turned after a moment, looking up. "Well?" he demanded.

Ruffled, Connor knelt down and put his hand on the corpse's forehead, offering a few last words in his native tongue before closing the one eye that was left. Palm covered in blood, he grabbed a fist of almost frozen dirt to clean it and leveled a baleful glare at his raké:ni. He at least gave rights to the dead.

Haytham just turned and went back to looting the corpse.

That man...!

Clenching his jaw and forcing himself to walk away, he took up the trail again, trying very hard not to think about what his father might be doing to the body he had so savagely murdered, trying to focus on Benjamin Church and the damage he had wrought, trying to keep his mind from exploding like black powder for all the directions his mind was spinning. He would need a month to sort through the myriad of emotions he was feeling after this!

It was twenty minutes later that he found the stolen caravan, taking a rest. He hid behind the shelf of a large boulder, seeing three wagons, each with a pair of teamsters, and four guards, making for ten men. Too many to assault, and he would have to be careful in how he approached the wagons. He took to the trees, nimbly darting up an overturned pine and finding a small but navigable path amongst the pines and oaks and hickory trees. He paused when he was at the second wagon and waited. All the guards were at the head of the column, no one guarded the back. If he timed it just right...

"Was a good haul today," the teamster under him said. The other man on the wagon held a musket in his lap, head down and shivering in the cool temperatures. "Saw a bit of gunpowder in those crates. We'll get extra for that."

"Aye. Church'll be pleased and we'll be rich."

"I almost feel sorry for the Yanks, shiverin' and starvin' out there. It's a hard way to go."

The man with the musket scoffed. "All they need to do is raise the white flag."

The teamster snorted. "They shoulda done that a long time ago. All this fighting serves no purpose. The Crown's sure to win in the end. To waste all these lives chasing a fool notion... Breaks my heart, it does."

"Alright," said a new voice, "looks to be in order. Let's go."

The reins were flicked and the three wagons started up again. The third held a collection of hay, easily four stacks high for horses, and as it passed under Connor he lightly fell into its depths, burrowing quickly between two bales and surrounded by the dry scent. It was perhaps a half hour later that they arrived at the camp, further down the Schuykill River, where a boat was beached, waiting for cargo. An eleventh man stopped all three wagons, musket in hand as well.

"Go and see the foreman," he said. "There's another run planned for tonight."

That made twelve. Numbers were adding up and Connor carefully slipped out of the wagon, landing in a thick overgrowth of piney bushes, crouching down and looking around. It was midafternoon now, the light would not last much longer, making the shadows deeper and easier to hide. Excellent. He picked his way through the camp, ducking from one wagon to the next, avoiding the guards and at one point crawling under the horses to reach the center of the camp. A man in a coat clearly thicker than the others was waiting.

"About time you showed up! Listen here. Boss wants us to try something new tonight. A raid. No more convoys. We're to steal from the Yank camp itself."

"Valley Forge?"

"That's right," the foreman said.

"You sure about this?"

"It's not my business to be sure or not sure! I just do as Church asks. If you're so concerned, take it up with him."

"Is he here?"

An easy laugh. " 'Course not. Hiding in New York the last I heard, trying to keep a low profile - what on account of him not wanting to go back to jail and all."

"Alright. I'm in."

" 'Course you are."

Connor smiled from his hiding spot in the bushes. He knew where to start his hunt now, New York. No doubt hiding from his raké:ni as well as the authorities. Dobby was the best connected, he could go back to Rockport and grab her, find Church and end his cruelty to the Patriot camp. First, he needed to recapture this supply caravan. The teamsters could be used to take the three wagons of goods back to the ridge, the trick was tricking the other nine men into either leaving or convincing them to look the other way. Ratonhnhaké:ton would not fare well in that, half-Kanien'kehá:ka as he was, but now that he was working with his raké:ni the clearly English gentleman could talk to them and-

"Look what we found!" one of the guards said brightly.

"He was creepin' round the camp all suspicious-like."

"Must be a Yank spy!"

-Or he could be a noisy idiot and be caught by the enemy guard. How did that man survive this long making so much noise in the woods? How did his ista ever put up with him?

He flushed as he realized his thoughts and shrank deeper into the bush, rushing to compartmentalize his feelings and get control of himself before his irritation colored his thoughts negatively. He watched instead as the foremen stepped over, looking at Haytham in the firelight and giving a large, toothless grin.

"No," he said to the guard. "He's something else. Something special." He crouched down. "Isn't that right, Haytham? Church told me all about you."

Haytham held himself firm, unyielding, staring at the foreman with cold eyes. "Then you should know better than this," he supplied softly, voice dangerous.

The foreman's reply was a vicious punch to the face, Ratonhnhaké:ton's breath catching as he saw harm being done to his father. He practiced stillness, thinking of wood as he saw his raké:ni do the same, unbending to the violence that was done to him while the foreman gloried in his victory. "You're not really in a position to be makin' threats are ya?"

Haytham's eyes caught the firelight, the only viable source of illumination in the afternoon sky, and for a brief second their eyes locked, and Ratonhnhaké:ton knew that the older man had seen him. His gaze slid back to the abusive foreman, and he spat out a mouthful of blood and gave a cocky, "Not yet," in response.

Another fist bludgeoned his face, and Ratonhnhaké:ton realized belatedly what that gaze was supposed to signify. He crept around the bush, disappearing into the shadows and backing around the tent and boat, ducking over the rudder, careful not to touch the freezing water, and silently padded over to the two men. So long as there were two and more weren't called, the light was just right, quiet, quiet, a little closer and grasp!

Ratonhnhaké:ton wrapped his arm around the foreman, yanking back and away from his raké:ni; it was all the prompting Haytham needed as the older man easily broke the grip of his captor and shoved his hidden blade into the man's neck, killing him brutally. Eventually Ratonhnhaké:ton's target fell silent, and he slowly lowered him near the fire, posing him to look like he was asleep. Haytham left his corpse where it had fallen.

"Well," he said calmly, "Once you've dealt with these louts, meet me in New York."

Ratonhnhaké:ton blinked. What?

"What? You mean to just leave? Now?"

Haytham was perfectly poised, arms locked behind his back, blood dribbling down his chin. "If you can't handle a couple of mercenaries then we've really no business working together," he said simply.

And he turned and left.

What...!

Unbelievable!

Without Haytham he had no way of returning the caravan unless he skulked around the camp and neutralized every guard in the entire group: nine men, with muskets and varying levels of awareness, and then collecting the teamsters and getting them to... It would take all night!

It was while he was doing his grizzly work that he realized that his father had just tested him. Instead of simply talking to his son, Haytham Kenway had decided it would be better to set Ratonhnhaké:ton off alone to infiltrate the camp, allow himself to be captured, and then see what his son would do. Was he so mistrusting? Did he truly think so little of the young native? Even Ratonhnhaké:ton, distrustful as he was of Haytham, would not set such a task of his father; he did not want to know what his father could do, he wanted to know who he was: what he thought; why he had become a Templar; what had led him away from the life of his rakshótha Edward; he wanted to know more about his akshótha, what was her name; he wanted to know him, Haytham Kenway.

It was three in the morning the next day, the twenty-fourth, when he finally had subdued and tied up all of the guards, ten hours of tedious work. He was exhausted and frustrated and confused as he gathered up the teamsters and began the three hour ride back to Valley Forge. The sun was just cresting the treetops when they at last arrived, the numb tatters of pickets too frozen to do little more than smile as they saw the caravan arrive. Word passed back, and Washington came out personally to receive the supplies.

"I see you've been busy," he said slowly, walking up to the native as he dismounted.

"There was a camp, further south on the river, that the supplies were being taken to," Connor said by way of explanation. "Several men are tied up there, waiting for arrest."

"General Greene," Washington said, "Kindly see to it."

"Sir, yes, sir."

"You have done us a great service, sir," the commander said.

"No," Connor replied. "I have done what is necessary. If I did not do this, then who?" He looked at the commander, hoping his gaze held the meaning that he wanted, willing confidence into the worn general. Connor understood the man's uncertainty, he himself felt it most keenly after meeting his father, but he could not be swayed from his duty, and neither could the commander. It was the will of Iottsitíson the Sky Goddess that had given him his task, he could not fail her; similarly the representation of the collective will of thirteen colonies, now states of a new country, that had given Washington his task, and he could not fail them. Both of them protected nations, and their responsibility bade them to persevere through the doubt, through the uncertainty, through to the end of the journey, when they would be rewarded with the safety of their people.

Washington saw something of what Connor put into his gaze, and he nodded softly, a strand of his powdered hair blowing in the chill breeze.

That afternoon, pickets sent word of an arrival, and Washington, Connor at his side, saw five horses bringing up men in enviously thick coats, the degenerate soldiers coming up to meet them in their threadbare rags and bare feet.

Sam Adams looked about, eyes wide in horror, as he dismounted and lead the five representatives of the Continental Congress up to the Potts homestead, where Commander Washington stood in the frigid air, breath visible.

"Gentlemen," he said, voice carefully neutral, "I welcome you to the Continental Army."

"Commander," Sam Adams said quickly, face turning warm and friendly in an instant, the horror hiding away. "It would seem that we have much to discuss."

"So it would seem."

And then, off in the distance,

"And there was Cap'n Washington,

"And gentle folks about him;

"They say he's grown so 'tarnal proud,

"He will not ride without'em!

"Oh, Yankee Doodle keep it up,

"Yankee Doodle dandy,

"Mind the music and the step

"And with the girls be handy!"

Washington held himself perfectly still, saying nothing as Sam Adams and the other delegates listened to the lyrics as the story continued, always with the reprieve of Yankee Doodle, before the Massachusetts representative gave a soft, knowing smile. "I suppose it's true," the politician said lightly, "You will not ride without them. You certainly argue for their welfare with fervor."

"Would you do any less?" the commander asked softly, still clearly embarrassed to realize the troops had taken the derisive Yankee Doodle song the regulars had created and turned it around to sing praises about him.

"No," Sam said gently. "As I said, we have much to discuss."

"Not the least of which," said one representative, "is how you've allowed the army to get to this state. It's no wonder you've suffered loss after loss."

Washington colored, not because of the cold, and leveled a cold look to the delegate. "I am more than aware of the criticisms publicized by the so-called Conway Cabal. I have always had my share of critics," he said, voice rising in passion, "and to them I have only one thing to say: Whenever the public gets dissatisfied with my service, I shall quit the helm and retire to a private life."

The delegate, whoever it was, was gobsmacked, and said nothing. Sam Adams, however, gave a sly grin and turned to the man. "Let any man try to replace him now, sir," he said lightly. He turned back to Washington. "Come, let us take a walk, I am certain there are many specific details you would like to show us personally. And before you make your proposals, Commander, I wish you to know I have every intention of carrying out every single one of them, if it's in my power to do so."

The five delegates moved about the camp, with Washington and his trail of staff, the large man outlining all of his struggles in gut-wrenching detail, sparing nothing, outlining the deaths and the conditions, expressing how much of his time was spent funding the army instead of leading it, calling out certain soldiers to tell their stories, ask their names and why they joined, why they still fought. Sam drank it all in, always one for theatre, and Washington proved to be an excellent stage manager, articulating his needs in undeniable detail. The other delegates, even the one nay-sayer, were all agape at what they saw, and nodded at the suggestions the commander offered them. Connor watched from a distance for a time, content to see Sam Adams in his element. One of Washington's staff broke off, dressed in evocatively fine clothes, powdered wig, and bright pink cheeks.

"Monsieur," he said smoothly, bowing with grace and elegance. "I must offer my t'anks for your bringing ze lost supplies when you did. If not, I am uncertain ze commander would have been able to face ze Congress."

"I see," Connor said softly. "You are...?"

"Ah, désolé, Monsieur, I t'ought you knew. I am Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier de Lafayette, Marquis de Lafayette. You Colonists, zough, you cannot remember such a long name. Everyone 'ere calls me Lafayette."

Connor admitted to himself he was grateful for such a short name. He would never understand Eurpoean naming conventions, the names of his own people were much easier to understand. "I come from France to 'elp you fight your revolution. I 'ave been 'ere six months, now, and have learned much from your commander, I am his aide-de-camp. I fought in Brandywine and in Gloucester, and now 'ave a division to command. You are Indian, non? Are you Oneida?"

"No," Connor said with some surprise. "I am Kanien'kehá:ka, your people call us Mohawks. The Oneida are our younger brothers, as are the Cayuga; we and the Onodaga and the Senaca and the Tuscarora make up the Haudenosaunee, the Iroquois." This Frenchman knew of the People of Standing Stone?

"Yes!" Lafayette said, "Zey said that. You must forgive me, your names are foreign to me. What are you called?"

"I am Ratonhnhaké:ton," the young native replied, "But your people call me Connor. How do you know of the Oneida?"

"I recruited them," Lafayette said brightly, heedless of the prickle of anxiety that swelled in Connor's chest. His worst fear-! "I was sent by the Congress to invade Canada. I did not trust ze orders, zere were not enough men in Albany, and I returned, but we spoke with many Oneida, and zey agreed to 'elp us fight for freedom. Zey even gave me a name, zis I can pronounce: Kayewla. I am told it means Fearsome Horseman, is that true?"

"You... you did not recruit other tribes?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked, struggling to keep his voice neutral. "No Kaneien'kehá:ka? No Mohawk?"

"Non," Lafayette said easily. "We did not speak to many – what was your word? Tribes, non. Ze one was enough. We 'ave only just arrived back, and now zat the Congress is 'ere, I 'ave much to say on zeir plans to invade le Canada. Idiotie, maudits idiotie."

But Connor's mind was on other things, anxiety bleeding into fear that his people were being drawn into the war. Other members of the Haudenosaunee, they could join if they so choose, but it was different to hear it in Kanatahséton and to realize that there were tribes here, suffering in Valley Forge. Members of his own nation, so interspersed on the peaks he did not even realize it. He would have to ask for them, talk to them, learn what the other Haudenosaunee felt, their decision regarding the war. If his village agreed to fight...!

But no, he fought so they did not have to. He had suffered his trials so that they would not have to. He bloodied his hands so that they would not have to. He confronted his father... he shied away from the thought, looking up to Lafayette, still speaking, heedless of the internal struggle Ratonhnhaké:ton was facing.

"... Lord knows my journey was far from certain. Ze trials we suffered getting here were strange and many. I dressed as a woman, Connor, to evade British spies. Did you know zat?"

… What?

All thoughts derailed.

… What?

The native shook his head. "I did not. As a... woman... you say?"

"It is ze truth. King George had already stopped our crossing once in Bordeaux, t'reatening to seize my newly purchased ship, La Victoire, and arrest me. But I was born stubborn and such a warning could not dissuade me. So we rode for Spain and bought passage aboard a ship there. George's spies had followed us every step of ze way. Disguise was ze only remaining option... mon dieu. Anyway, I did not want ze ship to dock, so I bought all of the cargo and told ze captain to stop for nothing and no one. I arrived in Georgetown – South Carolina, I t'ink – in June."

Wait. He bought a ship, and then when that didn't work he bought an entire cargo in order to get here? Numbers flew through Connor's head, the expenses the Aquila earned and spent on her various trade expeditions, and his mind staggered at the money required, and Lafayette casually talks about buying entire ships like it was a common everyday occurrence. How much money did he have? It was only after he wrapped his head around that that the detail of dressing as a woman filtered at last into his mind. The initial picture in his mind faded slightly, as the weight of circumstances became more obvious, and he realized how clever Lafayette truly was to disguise himself that way. Women were not valued here as they were in the Haudenosaunee, few men indeed would bare the perceived indignity of becoming female. But, then there were women like Dobby, and Connor smiled at the thought of her hearing such a story.

"No man can doubt your commitment," he said agreeably, "and you are invaluable to the cause. You did what you needed to do. I am certain I would have done the same."

"But of course you would!" Lafayette said brightly. "I expect nothing less! Of you or anyone else 'ere. Your people are a marvel, a true marvel..."

Author's Notes: Geez, where to start. Er, small stuff first: Aveline. She's not a particularly talkative person, and at this point in her development she's going through a lot of internal struggle that prevents her from really talking about what's bothering her. Connor is in a similar state, he started questioning Achilles as a leader last chapter, and it came to a head here at least as he realized what Achilles has been doing (and we have been doing) to kill time between New York and Valley Forge - keeping him away from Washington.

We envisioned Connor initially as a beserker, and you can see signs of it in the fic - most notably when he first meets Achilles and fights the burglers, but you also see it here. His anger is so strong and his pain so great he did what any other family does: hit where it hurts. And unlike someone like Ezio or Altair, Connor does not hold onto his anger, and felt regret almost immediately. There's a difference between feeling right and feeling regret, and media tends to put the two hand and hand when it's not always the case.

Also, Lafayette. If you haven't, read his bio on wikipedia. Seriously, just read it. The more research we did the more we just kept saying "This kid...!" He has moxy! Like all the other characters in the game, we wish we could have spent more time with them, but we tried to inject as much as we could. And of course Connor wouldn't even blink at dressing as a woman and instead balk at being rich enough to BUY SHIPS.

Also, Valley Forge - every word written is true and documented, it really was that deplorable. And Washington's passionate speech to the messanger is an actual word-for-word quote. Five delegates did come visit the encampment, but we didn't learn who it was so we defaulted to throwing Sam Adams in the mix - Connor needs a familiar face at this point, and we got to talk briefly about how people tried to oust Washington and replace him with somebody - anybody - else.

But really, REALLY, this chapter is about Haytham.

Our interpretation of Haytham is thus: he grew up a Templar with Assassin ideals placed in him by Eddie Kenway. He starts off the game as principled, dedicated, (an -ist, like we said previously), and genuinely with the best intentions. Assassins wiki and Mr. Bowden's books try to articulate that he has doubts about the Order - but he still pushes through. Then Mr. Bowden talks about finding his sister in Istanbul as part of the Sultan's harem, he learns that his mentor is the man that killed his father, and he nearly dies from wounds as the closest thing to a best friend, Holden, kills himself because of what happens to him.

In short, Haytham Kenway is emotionally damaged goods. He already had an unforgiving brutality about him - this can be seen in some of his memories in Rogue and it is compounded to what we see in AC3. He protects himself from being hurt again by holding everyone at a distance emotionally, and that means EVERYONE. His sister, his son, everyone. And it's about then that he gives up on the world. This is the Haytham that Connor meets. I feel we need to say this because there are so many Haytham fans out there, and we just want his character understood before anyone starts wielding pitchforks.

This is compounded by the fact that the fic is told from Connor's POV, and he doesn't know any of this. There's also the fact that Connor, up until this point, has physically shied away from any kind of thought about his father - sometimes literally squirming in his seat of leaving a room because he doesn't want to think about his father, and that has cost him because now all he can do is REACT to his father, and Haytham is very good at pushing buttons.

Er, in other words, the next few chapters are going to be an emotional roller coaster.

Next chapter: A shamelessly gratuitous conversation about Templar and Assassin philosophies.

AC Syndicate: WE BEAT THE GAME! HUZZAH! Most fun playing since Brotherhood...