AN: I've gotten some complaints regarding Kadar's characterization and I have to say, he's probably the part of this story I'm least proud of because he has the least depth, I think. On the other hand, this story is really Malik's story - how Malik sees the world. And Malik sees his brother in a very shallow way. As this chapter attempts to prove.

Might be a delay for next chapter as I work on other things.

Old Wars

Early the next morning Malik wakes and dresses. He doesn't bother to look in the mirror, knows already what he'd find there. Nothing new in his brown skin or wide nose, his carefully trimmed bit of beard. Nothing new in his ten fingers. But something missing in the very fact that nothing's missing to the eye.

It's too early for the morning meal, too early for the sun, but he leaves his room wide awake and wary. Meeting with Master Al Mualim so soon after the failed initiation is an unwanted challenge. He faces it directly, as befits an assassin, but he doesn't look forward to its stresses.

The guards at the main hall don't ask his purpose when he steps through the gateway, an honor supposedly reserved for Rafiks and the highest ranked. An honor befitting Altair, not himself. But it would serve nothing to question it. Malik has flitted into a weird land, almost by accident: not a Master Assassin, but not a journeyman either. Not a Rafik or Dai or informer or supplier or guard.

He climbs the wide stairs, fixing his eyes on the vaulted ceiling so he can ignore the gated garden. The mission scroll is tucked into his belt, and it presses into his leg with every step. An assignment right now would be a welcome distraction, if not for the people with whom he must fight.

Altair is already standing in front of the Grandmaster's table, booted feet planted in the middle of the Order's carved symbol. He's left no room for Malik there. Al Mualim stands by his personal pigeon cages. He strokes a bird with one wrinkled hand and smiles.

"You've arrived," he says at the sound of footsteps, and latches the cage shut. Malik takes his place at Altair's side. There are mere inches between them but those inches are a gulf miles wide.

And Malik has no interest in fording that gulf yet. Altair's sulking fits his own love of grudges just fine.

"Safety and peace, Master," he says. Al Mualim nods. Altair doesn't so much as glance his way.

"I've asked you both here for an important task, as you know," says Al Mualim. "An unexpected one. I would trust it to none but my top assassins."

"So send me on my own," says Altair, speaking with easy contempt. Malik grinds his teeth against the audacity but knows he can say nothing now. Altair outranks him. "I don't need others' help to complete my missions. Send me alone and I'll do whatever has to be done."

"For such a mission," replies the Master, "even your skills might not be enough. We must be cautious with this one. It must all go as planned."

"I don't need anyone's help," repeats Altair, and crosses his arms against his chest. "Having lower ranked assassins about will be a distraction."

"My decision is made already. Arguing it will serve you no purpose."

"Fine, then." The Son of None takes a step forward, half-blocking Malik's view. A sharp elbow digs into Malik's side as he brushes past, but with effort the younger man keeps from yelping. "What is this mission that requires me to coddle lesser men?"

"The Templars have found something." Al Mualim frowns, begins to pace. His long robes sweep the ground with every stride. "You remember the Temple ruins in Jerusalem?"

"Solomon's Temple," says Malik, and pulls out his scroll. "I've seen maps of it. A vast place, but most of it is buried under landslides. People pass it every day without knowing what it was."

"A Jewish holy spot, nothing more." Altair asks with impatience, "What concern of it is ours?"

Malik allows himself some sarcasm. "The scrolls we were given explain the concern. The Dai in Jerusalem sent his men there on a mission and they found something of importance. The scrolls use small words, Brother, but maybe they're still too hard for you to read?"

"It explains why you've been selected, then," says Altair, nastily. "I'll need someone to hold the map while I attend to the actual work."

The Master holds up a hand. "Enough," he says. "You must work together on this mission. Listen, now. The Dai withdrew his men until he received further instruction, but time is against us. The Templar Order has gone through upheaval recently. The Crusades have kept King Richard's eyes fixed upon this land, and the Templars are struggling under the scrutiny of those they pretend to love."

"This sounds like a boon for us," says Malik.

"As I thought until this past year. A new man took control of the Templars, and he is determined to win before the Christian kings can interfere."

"Win what? The Holy Land?"

"No, more. We know that the Templars want control over the world, so that they may enforce their foul version of peace. A great dictatorship with no thought of human nature or personal desire. And this thing found in Solomon's Temple might give them the power to do it."

Altair sounds disinterested. "What thing?"

"An old treasure, from before the time of Christ. Something so dangerous it was buried in the Temple, kept locked away for centuries. Our discovering it put the Templars on its scent. A spy or traitor, we aren't sure, but the new Templar leader is as crafty as he is cruel. He will take it if we do not take it first."

"What exactly are we looking for?" asks Malik. "What exactly does it do?"

Al Mualim frowns. "To explain it would be dangerous. Temptation is ever a challenge. I am certain that this thing is a danger and that the Knights Templar will spill much blood to get it."

"Surely the bureau's assassins can handle this. They found it once already."

"Temptation," repeats Al Mualim, something foggy in his gaze. "The apple's lure to Eve. No, it is too dangerous for any but the strongest fighters. I trust few men to succeed."

The vagueness is strange, but Altair still just sounds bored. "So we're to fetch this artifact for you."

"Yes. It must be done in absolute secrecy. Look for the Arc."

The meaning passes Altair by, but Malik still pulls books from the lower library's shelves and remembers the holy texts' stories. "The Arc of the Covenant?" he says, not quite believing. "But that is a myth."

"Yet if you saw it you would surely understand… Listen, both of you. Carry the entire thing back to me: arc and chalice both. Don't touch it directly. Its origin is a mystery despite my best attempts, but its power is real."

"A ghost story from a book of lies," scoffs Altair. "This is what concerns both Orders? Sell the thing to the Jews and use the money to buy real weapons."

"I've given you your mission," says Al Mualim, but he doesn't sound irritated. If anything he seems amused. Relieved. Malik mulls on it. "You'll take Kadar with you. This mission will be good training for him, and an extra set of hands might prove useful. You may leave him at the bureau if you judge it best. Tell him only what you think he needs to know."

The basic rules for a younger assassin accompanying his elders. Malik knows Kadar will be furious if he's told to stay behind.

"Talk with the Dai before you enter the Temple," the Master continues, "but come straight back once the Arc is in your hands. Be on your guard for those who would follow you. Avoid the Templars if you can."

Malik says, "We'll stay unseen."

"It may be harder than you think. Robert de Sablé has eyes in every alley."

Robert de Sablé? Malik knows the name, knows it and can't place it, feels ill without warning. De Sablé. He's seen the name before. Has he seen the man?

Altair flicks his wrist and the hidden blade pops out, so sharp the air might split around it, glinting where his finger isn't. He gives it a loving look before letting it slide back in its brace. "It won't be hard. If I should see a Templar I'll kill him."

"Solomon's Temple is revered ground," Malik argues, his own finger twitching with a physical jealousy, "even if it's half-forgotten. We should avoid spilling blood there unless we want to spark yet another holy war."

"Some people aren't brave enough for this life," Altair says. He could possibly be speaking to the pigeons. "Some people are worried by the daily jihads of ignorant commoners."

"Some people haven't bothered to learn the damn Creed," snarls Malik. "They ought to ask their fellow novices for advice!"

Altair peers at him through squinted eyes. "And what advice would they give me? If it's the same advice that has you bowing to your equals…"

"I'm not bowing to you, Altair."

"And I am not your equal."

Malik is so angry he can see it, a red flash between the eyes. But Al Mualim clears his throat and puts them both to silence.

"Such high-ranking assassins should not bicker like children," he chides. "Go now. Leave as quick as you can." He starts to add something else, stops, and finishes with only: "Do not fail me in this task."

There must be more to the discussion, for Al Mualim loves ceremony. There must be more instructions, more details, more warnings. There must, at least, be the dutiful rounds of safety and peace.

If there are, Malik isn't aware. He puts his body through motions it knows as natural instinct, but his mind is choked with frustration. Assassins should have more control, he realizes that, but still he's irascent at the thought of Altair's strutting.

(The thing is that he isn't strutting, as they leave the main hall, Altair ahead and Malik trudging after. He looks so grim. He should be bragging about honor and skill, to himself if not to Malik, but he isn't.

There's no one else who would freely listen to him brag, except maybe Kadar. So Malik can be confident of a bitter victory: their friendship's dissolution will hurt the Son of None far more than it will hurt the King of Swords.)

Once outside Malik begins to walk across the courtyard in search of his brother. But Altair stops him before he can get very far.

"This is my mission," the older man says. "You'll obey my orders while we're gone."

Malik looks past his shoulder so he doesn't have to look at his face. "I don't remember Al Mualim putting you in charge."

"I'm a Master Assassin. You aren't. Why don't we ask him if you're unsure?" Malik is silent. "As I thought. Be at the stables in an hour. Make sure Kadar is there too."

"You can't have all the glory," Malik says in a low voice. "You don't deserve it."

Altair bares his teeth. It might be a smile. "Are you Malik?" he asks. "Or are you Abbas?"

Malik stalks past him rather than answer. Nothing is simple now.

-i-

The sun is ruthless. More ruthless still is the hush that lingers as the three assassins saddle their horses just outside Masyaf's gates. Malik glares down at his mount as he loads the extra bundles of food and supplies. Altair is similarly closed off.

Kadar says cheerfully, "We'll move fast in this heat. The roads will be empty." No one says anything, but Kadar is used to filling every pause with words. "Though I guess we'd better not push ourselves too hard, either. We should buy some camels next time the merchant caravans come through." Still no answer. "So, tell me, what's our plan for this mission? Let's have the details. It must be serious for all the secrecy."

"I've explained everything already," Malik tells him.

"All you've said is that there're Templars in Jerusalem, like there always are, and that we have to keep them from getting some artifact or something."

"That's all there is to say. We can't make detailed plans until we talk with the Dai."

"But what is the artifact? And why will it take three assassins to fetch it?"

"No assassin can accomplish everything on his own…"

"Hnn," says Altair, to his horse.

Malik clenches both hands into fists, has to fight to relax his fingers. "It's safer this way," he continues. "The artifact is dangerous, and Jerusalem is a confusing place. By working together we can…"

"Does he really think I'd ever need his help?" wonders Altair.

"By working together we're doing as the Creed requires. Some of us care for the tenets of the Order."

"I think he really expects to be useful. Doesn't he realize journeymen are as common as flies? I could pick up an escort in the city if I wanted."

Malik smacks his open palm against the saddle. "You manage to make yourself sound more wretched every time you open your mouth."

"Um," says Kadar.

"Journeymen should not call Master Assassins ignorant."

"Your fancy title isn't a shield, Altair. It won't keep my fists away!"

"I'm not afraid of your fists or your temper. You're a dog who barks because he's afraid to bite."

"It's intolerable. I won't go on this mission with the likes of you."

"Then stay here. I can do this on my own. I never asked for your help."

"Really? Isn't that why you came slouching into my room every night?"

"Malik!" Kadar flushes. "You shouldn't say that stuff so loud."

"I never slouched and it was hardly every night."

"It was every night, and you lingered like malaria."

"You should have been honored."

"Honored? By you? You're too skinny, you're oversexed, and you're the color of a dead body left to freeze in a storm. And also—"

Kadar grabs the reins and tugs Malik's horse away. Malik, who'd been gripping at the saddle with both hands, stumbles and nearly loses his balance. Altair smirks but only for as long as it takes Kadar to do the same to him. Now the youngest member of the group is leading all three horses away from the village.

"What is wrong with you two today?" he grouses, still rather pink around the ears. "No one needs to hear any of that. I thought we were keeping certain secret things secret?"

"Ahh." Malik lets out a heavy breath, exasperated. "Yes. You're right. Sorry."

"Hmph," says Altair. "You almost knocked me over."

Kadar says primly, "You should've been paying attention. You're an assassin, you know. And you, darling Akhi," he adds quickly, before Malik can snicker, "are too loud. At least wait 'till we reach the fields before you have your, your, lover's quarrel or whatever this is."

"There's no quarrel," says Malik, loudly.

"I agree," says Altair, sounding as if he doesn't. "The mission is my only concern, not the likes of him."

"Exactly. I agree with the bumbling idiot."

"You should watch your tongue before I pull it out."

"Try it. We'll see how many throwing knives a Master Assassin can take to the face."

"You wouldn't be able to touch me."

"I've given you every bruise you have."

"Eurgh," says Kadar, and just starts walking. Too late Malik realizes this means he has to walk too.

"Hey, Kadar, come back with my horse. You can't lead three at once, they'll pull you right off the edge of the cliff."

"Actually," Kadar says, "at the moment I wouldn't mind. You two are disgusting."

-i-

The road to Jerusalem is an endless, pebbled gash cut through mountains and farms and outposts. Everything looks half-stunned by the heat: the weeds by the road, the animals in the fields, the people plodding down the paths. Altair rides ahead, with the A-Sayf brothers following side-by-side. Malik tries to stay alert for passing Saracen patrols—a serious threat along this stretch, with plenty of guard towers from which arrows might scatter—but his eyes keep drifting to the Son of None's rigid back, shoulder muscles pulled taut underneath his white robes.

They haven't spoken in hours.

"Should we stop soon?" asks Kadar after a while. "I think we should stop, for the horses. At the next well." He glances sidelong at Malik. "And then maybe you can actually tell me what we're doing in Jerusalem."

"I've already told you what you need to know."

"I'm going on this mission as a full-fledged assassin, not as some novice assistant! You could at least tell me…" He drops his voice, leans crooked on his saddle. Malik manages not to scold him on poor riding habits, but only just. "Are you and Altair fighting?" he asks. "Really fighting, I mean."

"It doesn't matter," Malik frowns. "It's nothing new. He's always been self-absorbed."

"But it's never bothered you so much."

"Who says it's bothering me?"

"You realize I have ears and eyes? I really thought you were gonna fling throwing knives at him back at the village."

Malik tenses. "It's not worth the effort of discussion."

Kadar looks at him for a bit without saying anything, then presses his heels into his horse's flanks to trot ahead. Malik growls under his breath and spurs his own horse forward.

"What do you want me to say?" he asks once he's caught up. "Yes, we're fighting. Altair is annoyed that I didn't become a Master Assassin. He has this whole legend in his head about who I'm supposed to be. He's a fundamentalist in his own myths, no matter how much he mocks the Quran."

"You always complain about him," Kadar comments.

"And?"

"And, I dunno. You just always do."

"You aren't suggesting the fight is my fault."

"How can I suggest that? I don't know what the fight's about."

"I told you, he's annoyed because…"

"He'd probably tell it different, but ok." Kadar shrugs. "Then he's being unfair. You did your best, and there's no shame in that."

But Malik barely hears the second part for the first. "He'd 'probably tell it different'? How can you defend him?"

"I'm not! I'm just saying…you get so angry sometimes, Malik. And half the time I don't even know why."

"I do not. When was the last time you heard me yell?"

"At Abbas, after the battle in Masyaf."

"You heard what he said!"

"When I was younger people used to tease me about the nightmares all the time. I just ignored it. And eventually they stopped and now I'm friends with just about everyone."

"You never told me that. I thought the teasing stopped after Nasr."

"Oh, you mean when you punched him? Yeah, for a while it stopped, because people were afraid of my crazy brother. But Nasr was never such a problem. He bothered you with that teasing more than he bothered me."

"I can't believe this. Now you're defending everyone but me."

"I'm…Malik." Kadar throws up a hand in exasperation. "I'm just trying to say that sometimes you hold onto things too hard. You and Altair are both like that, you know? Everything is a dire contest."

"Most things are. You're an assassin, you should know that."

"I'm an assassin who can't fight his own battles," Kadar mutters, "because my older brother is too busy fighting them for me."

Malik insists, "I do not."

"Are you gonna let me even touch a sword on this mission?"

"Listen to you, pouting like a child. That's really…" Malik trails off, struck by a realization he should have had a long time ago. It's immature, is what it is. If the older brother is too serious, the younger never matured. Even killing didn't change him. A village of killers, deciding life and death, and yet some of them are such children.

You coddle him and it will bring you no good fortune…

Then Altair calls back to them, "The river branches up ahead. We'll rest there for a while and set out again when the sun is lower."

"Oh, will we," Malik mutters. "So nice of you to decide."

"See," says Kadar, "you're doing it again. Being angry for no reason."

"Of course there was a reason. He's lording over us like a king."

"He's a Master Assassin who knows the best places for making camp. What, do you want to stop somewhere else?"

Malik wrinkles his nose. The chosen spot is a fine one, hidden by trees and away from the curve in the road. But that isn't the point. Still, he forces himself to keep quiet when Altair then decides they should eat an early supper while they rest. That isn't a bad idea either, but it's coming from someone who's usurped the lead.

Only no one's usurped anything. It's the right and the expectation for Master Assassins to take command. Kadar seems content to follow. But Kadar, for all his complaints, has always let others lead.

As he slides off his horse Malik's shoulders sag. He shouldn't direct his frustration at Kadar. Nothing is worth their fighting, especially not Altair. The whole thing has grown so ridiculous. Is Altair even mad now, or just rising to the proffered taunts? If Malik simpers his apology the Son of None will likely ease his contempt.

Malik doesn't feel apologetic, only tired. But the argument is starting to fester, to sprout other ills. The sneaking tendrils of his anger are sending out spores. So if apologizing to Altair will calm them both down, he will. And later, when this overwrought mission is finished, he'll force Altair to listen to him, really listen once and for all, to words and not to fists. Neither of them are women and so neither of them are willing to defer to the other, but assassins do what needs be done, no matter the blood shed nor the hurts suffered.

He walks to the stream trickling by the horses to study his reflection in its rippled edge, and unexpectedly he thinks of Dai Faraj. The man is long dead but his memory lingers. You said you'd teach me great wisdom, Malik thinks. So teach me to know humility from weakness. Teach me how to talk to him. How to lose. Because to win against him costs more than I want to give.

"I want to make sure there aren't any soldiers around," Altair says. "Two of us should check the area. The other will stay here to guard the camp."

"I'll go," says Malik, who needs to clear his head. "I'll check on my own. You two can stay here."

He expects Altair to bicker because what else have they been doing? But Altair only looks at him with cold eyes. Too late Malik realizes the older man's taken it as an insult: Malik so eager to escape from the Son of None's view that he'll do all the work. They insult each other without intent now, and Malik doesn't bother to explain. Let the fight linger a bit longer before he bows at Altair's feet. Let him have that sliver of victory.

Altair is looking at Kadar now, not him. So he leaves with grim satisfaction, steadying himself for the humiliation to come.

-i-

Twenty minutes later, Malik comes back to find Altair nowhere in sight and Kadar sitting by the stream, his cowl lowered and his knees drawn up. There are some small rocks gathered by his feet and every few minutes he throws one at the water, hard. Malik walks over to him and says lightly, "There aren't any soldiers around, but you should probably keep your cowl raised—"

Kadar looks up at him with eyes rimmed red and says, "You bastard."

The ground is too stable for Malik's shock; he sways back a bit and longs for a good, raging earthquake. Even that wouldn't equal the surrealism of this moment. Kadar, cursing? At him? Kadar doesn't curse. Kadar has never cursed. Kadar barely gets angry. Kadar only pouts or asks endless whys or ignores all advice given.

"You really are, you know that? You're such a, such a lying jerk. I can't believe…no, I can believe it, I should've known you were hiding stuff. You always hide stuff! I'm not an assassin to you, I'm not your brother, I'm just a stupid sheep!"

"What-?" Malik kneels in the sand; Kadar stands up. Malik stands up; Kadar huffs and sits back down. "What's wrong? What happened?"

"Nothing happened. Nothing new."

"You have to tell me what's upsetting you." Kadar throws another rock at the stream. "This is getting silly."

"Baaa."

"You are silly! If you aren't going to talk—"

"If I'm not going to talk?" The younger brother is on his feet again. Malik recognizes the lonely fright in his eyes. He remembers the timid catch in Kadar's voice. It came the one time Malik ever struck him.

But he had to then. There was no choice.

Kadar does not seem inclined to subside as meekly as he did before. He is no child now, and his steps as he stalks up and down are long and heavy. His heels dig deep into the riverbank's soft mud, his arms held at his sides instead of in their usual childish swing. Malik watches him pace, disorientated.

"Hypocrite," Kadar says in a strangled voice. "Stupid. How could you not even tell me?"

"Tell you what? I can't tell you what I don't know."

"Maybe you did try to tell me. When you were talking to Altair in your room and you called me a burden."

"I never called you a burden, Kadar. I've already explained what I meant."

"Yeah. I guess you did." He brushes his long hair out of his eyes with a shaking hand. "And I really believed you. I dunno. Maybe you even believe yourself."

"Do I have to beg you to explain what you mean? Do you want me to get down and beg again, like last time?"

"No."

"Because I will, if that's what you want. I know you're…"

"You are a liar and you don't know anything. How could you let them?" Kadar cries. "How could you let them do that to you because of me?"

Malik's mouth opens but he is struck wordless. His sides are weighted with weapons but he has no strength.

"You almost died, don't try to say you didn't! I was there when you came back. I thought you were gonna die, again, after you almost died the first time. The Templars tortured you, didn't they? And I was so mad then because I knew there was nothing I could do to help you. I didn't even know where you were until Altair brought you back. I was so mad then and I didn't even know…!"

"Know," says Malik, because he recognizes the word, because he can grasp it as the earth caves beneath his feet. "What do you know?"

"You always told me they just happened to grab you and not Altair. Like it was a novice's mistake. It was your first mission and Altair didn't argue it and I…I believed you, because you're my brother and I always believe you."

"This was so long ago. It doesn't matter now."

"They didn't capture you, Malik," Kadar spits, with disgust. "You let them grab you, and beat you, and—and do all these things—because you thought that's what I'd want. I was young then but I wasn't stupid. I'm not stupid! If I'd seen a Templar army coming towards me I would have gone for help. You thought I couldn't manage that?"

"No. That wasn't it. I was afraid that…"

"Bullshit, you were afraid. You must always be so afraid, I walk outside and you must be worried I'll trip over my own sword." Kadar shakes his head, slowly, mouthing the expletives in his own surprise before he repeats them. "You were afraid," he echoes. "You starved yourself in the desert rather than share food—"

"So you wouldn't die! There wasn't enough, I told you that!"

"No, you didn't tell me that. I didn't know you were sick until you passed out."

"You were six and if I explained it you'd be scared."

"Oh, because I wasn't scared when you fainted? And then again, with the Templars. When you let them torture you because you thought I was too dumb to protect myself. I wasn't scared when you came back with your back soaked in pus?"

"You weren't there. You didn't see how many of them there were. If they'd reached you they would've…"

"What? Hurt me?" Malik tries to look away, to step back, but Kadar is relentless. Everywhere he turns, his younger brother is there, jabbing a finger in his face. "I wasn't six then. I was an assassin just like you. But you never see that. I'm too helpless to defend myself even now. So you keep suffering for me when I never asked you to, you keep hurting yourself because you think I'm such an idiot…and then you tell me I'm not a burden!"

"You are my brother," Malik snarls. "I made a promise."

"You were a little kid who thought he'd be guarding sheep all his life. Father didn't think you'd be fighting Templars."

"That doesn't matter. You're still my little brother."

"I thought I was your sacrificial lamb. Someone you can punish yourself over. God, you and Altair are just the same. Well, I never asked to carry your guilt. You run off to save me, without asking me first, and how am I supposed to feel besides useless? One day maybe the Templars will kill you because you wouldn't let me defend myself. You think that's what I want?"

Malik works his emotions down. "Who told you what happened on the first mission?" he asks.

"If you would only tell me," wails Kadar. "If you gave me a chance to reason with you before you went and did this stuff in my name, on my back. But you never do! You don't even trust me enough for that. You lie to me."

"No, I've never lied."

"You were captured by the Templars at whim? You weren't hungry? You know, I think I actually am as dumb as you treat me. Roaming in the desert looking for goat pens to raid but you weren't hungry. It must have been real hard keeping me alive."

"You were six."

Kadar shouts, "I know I was six. I'm sorry I was six! I'm sorry I was so young and useless when our parents died and I'm sorry I couldn't help you keep us safe then but I'm not six now and I can help myself, and…and you are not allowed to fight my battles. Do you hear me? I don't want it. I won't be the reason you're murdered by Templars."

"Stop it. Who told you how that happened?"

(He is dizzy, he is breathless, because he knows the answer. Knows the stench of this.)

"You lord it over my head every day," says Kadar, "without realizing. Every day, when you look at me like I'm a child, I remember how little I've done to help us. How much you've had to suffer because I keep screwing up. If I'd gotten you from the fields right away instead of dawdling like I always did. If I was a good assassin so you could trust me to do my job. If I didn't eat so much."

Malik parses through and can't stand it, can't face it. "Areed areef. I want to know who told you."

"And on top of everything, you gave up your final rank for me. I know about that too. Because…well, I don't even know why because. I guess you just like sacrificing things in my name."

With an anger he can't comprehend, Malik grabs Kadar by the arm and tightens his grip until it must hurt. "Who told you? The only ones who knew the truth were myself and Altair-…" He stops. "La," he says. "He promised me he'd never tell."

"I wonder what else you've hidden from me that he knows?" Kadar tugs his arm. "Let go of me, please."

Somehow Malik does so: unlocks his fingers, loosens the joints. He is so surprised. Why should he be? None of this is unexpected.

Because the Son of None is so quick to strike. He smelled treachery when there was none and lashed out with the best weapon he had. He is a very good assassin. Violence for him is natural. Instinctive. A cooling wind.

Malik sits down by the waiting water with his sharp mind dulled witless. He can't even rouse himself to fury. There aren't enough words.

A rustling of fabric. After a moment Kadar sits beside him and pokes nervously at the mud.

"I really trusted him," Malik murmurs. "I really did. As much as you trust me." He hesitates. "If you still do."

Kadar pokes harder at the mud. "I hate being angry at you. But Altair told me and I got so scared. What else happened to you because of me?"

"Nothing."

"That's what you say."

"Kadar." Malik touches his hand. "Nothing else."

Kadar looks up at him, finally. "Ok."

"I never meant for you to feel lied to, I was only…I made a promise with Father. It's all he left me with. That promise and you."

"Alright," says Kadar. It isn't enough. The doubt lingers. But there's nothing to say. Altair picked his target well.

The brothers are quiet a while, but unlike on the roof of the fortress, this quiet is a touch malignant. Kadar once said he didn't know who his brother was. Maybe he was right.

"It's so complicated," the younger man marvels after a while. "All I want is to know I did my best to help you. I don't care if you're a better fighter or if sometimes you do stuff I don't understand. I don't care if you're sleeping with Altair, although you might wanna rethink that now." Malik snorts. "I thought I cared about all of that but I don't."

"You were just yelling at me for it," Malik says with a small smile. "You even called me a bastard."

Kadar flushes. "Well. Well, I know you're not one. Mother and Father were married. Um."

The older brother leans against him. "Tell me what you care about, then." And Kadar doesn't hesitate.

"You have to be safe. If you think you have to keep protecting me, fine, you try and do that, but it's not gonna be easy. Because now I'm gonna be protecting you, too, no matter what you say. You're my brother and I've made a promise."

"That sounds familiar," Malik grumbles. "When did you make a promise?"

"Two seconds ago. To you and Allah and whoever else."

Malik digests it. "Do you believe in Allah?"

Kadar shrugs. "I dunno. It'd be nice. I have a lot of questions."

"I hope He can answer them better than I can."

"No, you do a pretty good job." But there is still something bitter in the flickered grin. "When you tell me things at all."

-i-

Altair is cleaning an already sparkling sword. He doesn't look up when Malik approaches but the way the ridge of his spine stiffens shows he knows he's not alone. Malik looks down at him, sweating under the low-hung sun.

He'd thought to yell at the Son of None: to curse him, maybe to hit him again. He'd thought to snarl, "You had no right," and watch the other man's reaction for cracks he could exploit. He'd thought to say that this was it, he was finished, he would tell the Dai when they arrived in Jerusalem that he refused to fight alongside this Brother and would take whatever punishment that meant.

He'd thought. He'd thought a lot of things.

But standing here now there is nothing he wants to say. Altair so afraid to lose that he thrashes with extended claws, hurting everyone close to him—it's disgusting and Malik has no desire to describe it.

That I ever let you touch me. That you ever came so close.

Altair is looking up at him now. It feels so satisfying simply to turn and walk away.

-i-

The rest of the ride is a gloomy one. Malik doesn't talk to Altair. Kadar is distant and distracted. Altair rides far ahead of them, as if to pretend he rides alone. It's a relief to finally enter Jerusalem, where they can bury themselves in the calming frenzy of the crowded streets. Beggars, soldiers blocking alleyways, the incessant drone of church bells and muezzins.

Jerusalem, the holy city. Christian pilgrims, somehow snuck through the Saracen blockades on the roads, look suspiciously about as they try to avoid the Muslim quarters. Town criers with voices ragged as their beards stand at the tops of stairs and bellow the latest war news.

Buildings older than Babylon, stacked high on the skirting hills. Graves of those dead before Christ's crucifixion, ringed with fresh dirt from newer burials. Malik has always thought that Jerusalem, more so than Acre or Damascus, holds the weight of centuries. It has been the cause of so many wars.

But he himself has no connection to it, being neither Christian nor Muslim nor Jew. That every other square seems to contain a church or mosque or bit of holy wall means nothing to him. He wonders if the city Rafiks love their cities. The position is essentially exile from Al Masyaf, but Dai Faraj had spoken so fondly of his post…

The assassins leave their horses with an informer outside the city walls, and then mingle with a group of scholars who know which roads to turn down when strangers appear in their midst. The Jerusalem bureau is a squat, brown building just off a busy market road. There is an obvious door, that leads to an obvious mapmaker's shop and nothing more; there is a less obvious ladder, and that is what the assassins climb. The roof grate is open, so it is safe to check the surrounding roofs for archers before dropping inside.

Malik has been to this place that was once his teacher's many times. Each time he thinks he should feel a connection, a new loss. Each time he is struck by its dullness. Assassins come and go, rumors are traded, the Order's work goes on, but all Malik ever notes is the quality of the maps in the main room. Smudged lines and thin paper: this Dai isn't nearly as skilled as the old one. Malik still occasionally practices the art and his hands twitch to do a better job.

But they aren't here for maps. There are no accurate maps of Solomon's Temple, a cavernous ruin carved into crumbling hills, left ignored for centuries. Any knowledge of its maze-like passages is rare and therefore valuable—or else, to the religious, profane. The Dai describes to them the routes his men have explored, sketches out a few possible entry points, warns of collapsed ceilings and blocked halls.

"It's nothing but dirt and old scaffolding," he tells them. "Before the wars some pious nobles started an excavation, but that ended when the Christian pilgrimages stopped. The Pope has other concerns right now."

"Three assassins for a mission without a living target," Altair says. "It's overkill."

"My men have reported seeing people in the area, for the first time anyone can remember. They didn't look like Templars, but…"

"Could be refugees. Or some religious cult," Malik suggests.

"Be careful either way. Leave here at first light."

"Before dawn," Altair corrects, and because he is a Master Assassin the Dai says nothing. Running the Jerusalem bureau is a high position, because the city is crucial to so many warring factions and thus crucial to the Brotherhood. The Dai has his own network of suppliers and informers, and controls the Rafiks of several smaller cities as well, but it is not a position that often requires first-hand killing. And so Altair is unimpressed.

The Dai offers, "You might keep one of you behind to guard the entrance."

Malik risks a hopeful glance at Kadar that falters before it reaches halfway. He could order Kadar to stay behind, and Kadar would have to listen. But with the younger brother still tense and quiet Malik decides not to take the risk. Maybe if they hadn't fought by the stream…

He has trouble falling asleep that night.

Malik tosses and turns on the pillows of the bureau's outer room, growing grumpier as the shadows darken through the latticed ceiling. Jerusalem is so hot. The air is thick with the heat, and bereft of breezes. Twice he gets up to splash water on his face from the corner fountain, but the comfort evaporates in moments, and it's difficult to creep about the room without disturbing anyone else.

A few other assassins besides the Masyaf trio have sought shelter here tonight; earlier he chatted briefly with one about goods filched from Acre's port. All the bodies heaped in the small room add to the discomfort, even if the stone floor is cool and the carpets thick. Kadar is fast asleep, though somehow he's managed to get his feet on a pillow and his head on the floor. Malik thinks to shove him the right way round, but again hesitates. He's used to making the decisions, to pushing them both about as needed. He's not used to Kadar pushing back.

Tossing and turning. He slips into an unsettled rest, dreaming of gold-skinned creatures that grovel in his wake. His father comes on bare feet, dressed in white as a pilgrim or assassin, and tells him that it is an honor to die for a cause. Malik says that he has no interest in martyrdom.

His father says, "We cannot escape our destiny."

Malik says, "But I have changed mine many times."

"Yes," says his father, "when the earth comes to claim you, you shall fight. This is a command from Allah Most Merciful." But the verse he recites then has nothing to do with fighting or earth. '"Which of your Lord's blessings would you deny?"' he drones. '"And Allah said: I am with the ones whose hearts are torn.'"

"I don't believe in it," says Malik. "I don't believe in what you taught me."

"All things are known by God. Did you think you could surprise him?"

"You shouldn't have made me promise. I was a child."

"It was a blood promise. Formed in your mother's womb. Spoken or not you would have known it. You shall swear it in your heart and lungs. This has been decided, for Allah is most wise."

Malik blushes like a child to hear his father speak of women. He floats in a world that is yellow sand and blue sky. Then a thought comes to him and he wonders, "Before you said Allah was merciful."

But his father is walking away, leaving ruts in the sand. "Perhaps He is," the old man agrees, "but mercy doesn't mean He's kind."

It angers Malik to hear that, and his anger wakes him up. Disoriented he looks around, fogged by heat and sleep but still aware enough to notice the white flash by the roof. He blinks as the shrouded figure vanishes through the opening.

Then he looks at the sleeping men. Altair isn't one of them.

Quickly Malik gets to his feet. He'd slept in his robes; lacing his boots and tying his red sash around his waist only takes a minute. The cowl and belt he leaves aside, but his sword is within reach.

He pulls himself up, through, and out, where the night surrounds him. Malik takes a wide step over to the building next door and looks around. Maybe it was only the rutted moon drifting by, but—

There. Standing several roofs away is a white-cloaked figure, arms folded across its chest, cowl raised as it tilts its head back to catch the sight of stars.

"Altair," Malik shouts. The figure startles, swivels on its heel to take him in, and then leaps over a narrow ally and away. Without knowing why Malik chases after.

"Wait, idiot! Altair, slow down."

But Altair does not slow down, so they run. Over the endless river of Jerusalem's ledges and balconies. Altair is a hard man to track. He's quick on his feet, swerves without warning, and has a madman's unconcern with falling. He moves easily over the slanted hovels of the poor districts, where the wood is rotted through, liable to crumble, stinking of cat piss. The buildings of the middle districts are sturdier, with roofs of slippery stone, but there are unexpected gaps: twice Malik almost breaks his leg trying to keep from jumping into an unseen garden.

He shouts again for Altair. Neither man is winded; this race could take hours yet. The spectral figure runs on, paying no attention to his pursuer.

Malik's mind throws maps at him and he knows that Altair will have to change course soon or else run straight into the city's most famous mosque and its nest of private guards. The Dome of the Rock is a huge complex, and not to be blundered into on a whim. To the left the buildings end, giving way to cemeteries and shrines. There are hay carts there, strange enough since bringing animals onto holy ground is sacrilege, but Malik doesn't think Altair will willingly give up the higher ground.

So he turns and slows for a second, lets Altair dodge momentarily out of sight. The building to Malik's right is abandoned and fallen down to the beams, which he balances on with ease. Now he is running alongside a major roadway (amazing that there are still no guards) across from the Son of None.

But Malik's map-mind tells him the road narrows up ahead. The buildings on Altair's side are taller. The assassin is a blur of white, a ghost, as he pulls himself upwards, feet digging at shuttered windows for support.

Malik's pulse beats in his ears. The King of Swords is wrapped up in Allah's voice, rocking with it as it sings him along. The Jew rocks in prayer and the Sufi sways, but Malik's offering is the chase. The flight.

Ghost assassins, he thinks. I know how you fight, Altair, I know how you move. I can catch you.

Then he stumbles. His foot catches on an uneven stone, twisting his ankle, not badly but enough to make him fall. Cursing, Malik pushes himself back up. Ignoring the dirt clinging to his elbows and knees he looks across the road, disbelieving…

Altair is gone.

Impossible! Not even the Son of None is that fast. A split second isn't enough time for a man to disappear. He could have jumped down, into a hay cart or well, but for Altair to hide from a challenge is…unlikely.

There's a small mosque a few buildings down and over, with one spindly minaret. The minaret looks too tall for the green-domed building it rises from, as if someone tacked it on as a separate addition. War money, probably: sudden and fantastic wealth, doomed to the starving mobs whenever an army retreats or conquers.

Malik heads for it, and climbs about halfway. He stops just below the minaret's encircling balcony, braces his legs and lets one hand dangle free. Then he scans the roofs.

No Altair. No guards. Only the city below him, restless in war, and a faint dash of orange blossoming at horizon's end.

AN: Malik's father is actually quoting from two separate verses of the Quran. 'Areed areef...': I want to know...

Filler-chapter apologies. I want to get to the battle writing, and you guys probably want to get to the battle reading. Still, the major argument is one I felt needed to happen. I wanted the feelings of betrayal to come from both sides; otherwise game canon would be too cruel even for Altair. Even for Malik.

Anyway, 70% of this story is Malik arguing with people by rivers, on roofs, etc. What's a little more?

I decided to make the chapter longer so we could at least get to the battle setup. Felt like a fair trade off, even though really this was meant to be two separate chapters.