Played Revelations, beat Revelations. Cried during every Altair memory scene, especially the last few ones (will not spoil anything). Made me realize how short and painful life is, but how it makes a person stronger for accepting its cruelty.
Anyways. Here is Chapter 25, hope you all enjoy it, cheers to me for editing (probably missed a few things), disclaimer, yatta yatta yatta, leave a review, blah blah blah. More A/N at the end.
A lone horse and his rider thudded through the pass of the Cilician Gates. They marched on, their duty to their takavor more than enough reason for them to continue. The rider tangled his fingers in the horse's hair, giving only a ghost's smile as the horse playfully whickered from the gesture.
The pass was rocky with shrubs and smaller plants scattered here and there. The sky was bright blue with only a tint of green. The horse ambled on, occasionally leaping over a jutting boulder or skittering past loose rock. But still, it continued.
Tagvoryan tightened his hold on the reins, whispering encouragement to the beast beneath him as they climbed the pass. It'd taken them a month to arrive in Armenia, and then a full week to reach Cilicia. Damascus was a beautiful city with fine buildings and food, but the air there was tainted with foreign indifference and greed. It wasn't like Cilicia, a small pocket of a country inside of Armenia.
Syria was a torn country, slowly picking itself from the ground due to the Crusades. Armenia hadn't been touched by the war as much as its neighbor—thank God. Tagvoryan assumed that staying most of his life within Armenia sheltered him from the horrors of the countries south of him.
Whatever reason he felt alarm build up in his body while away from Cilicia, it didn't compare to the dread now weaving in his heart. He closed his eyes and rubbed his horse's neck, soothing the animal from spooking as loose rock slipped down the mountain.
A breeze swept through the pass. He inhaled, shuddering at the familiar scent. The wind carried pollen and petals with it, and the floral scent tickled the hairs in his nose. He twisted his body in the saddle, shouting as he felt the air try to wrap him in its embrace. A hand to his cheek; he shied away from the touch. Arms about his waist; he urged the horse faster up the slopes.
His eyes shot open as murmurs whipped past his ear at the new speed. If he listened carefully enough, he could hear the laughter, the sweet voice, and the whispers of love.
Her voice… her beautiful tune…
The hand cupped his cheek again. The silken fingers glided down toward his neck, caressing it and then patting it. He clawed at his throat, willing the feel of the hand to vanish and leave his person alone.
Sweat trickled down the back of his neck, and he kicked the horse into a gallop. Finally, with the Cilician Gates left behind him, he tugged his mount to a stop and turned back toward the pass. Panting, he touched his face and neck. His pulse pushed erratically against his flesh, as if he'd just run from Damascus to Cilicia.
The murmurs in the pass were no longer feather-soft whispers; they were tortured moans and echoes of screams reaching out to him with clawed hands. Tagvoryan ferociously shook his head back and forth before snapping the reins again.
He bent over his horse, finally entering Lesser Armenia. There was no sign announcing 'Cilicia' to any who traveled inside her borders. The country was still a rocky mountain with cruel slopes and trees with twisted limbs reaching toward the sky in helpless pleas.
Tagvoryan buried his face in his horse's neck. If he hurried, he'd make it to Sis before nightfall and find shelter against the cries and taunts biting at his ears.
'Yeva, when will you ever forgive me?' He whimpered into the horse's mane.
"Up, up, up, yalla! Let's go, remove yourself from that bed. Don't make me hit these bowls together. I said up, you lazy lump!" Rauf pecked at Damiel and smacked the blankets. Damiel groaned and pulled the covers over his head. "You're wasting daylight! Now yalla, yalla!"
Damiel whimpered and shook his head, smushing his face into the mattress. He mumbled something unintelligible. Rauf huffed and placed his hands on his hips. "I can see someone isn't a morning person."
Damiel raised his head and glared at Rauf. "Morning? Dios, the sun isn't even out yet! You call this morning?"
Rauf nodded and grabbed the blankets. Damiel quickly latched onto them as well, challenging the man to an old-fashioned tug-of-war game.
"Of course it is morning! The birds are out, so it's morning! Now, up you get!"
Damiel snarled and pulled with all of his strength. "I wake when the sun is its highest—"
"Not anymore you don't! Your training begins today!"
"Hoho, no it certainly doesn't! I'm happy being part of the Rose!"
"To deny your heritage is a sin! Unhand the blanket!"
"Unhand my blanket!"
Rauf pursed his lips as he leaned back, using all his weight to gain leverage. His muscles bunched together as he tugged the blanket. "My Brothers and I provided it for you, so therefore it is our blanket!"
"Well, find your own blanket, and while you're at it, find someone else to pester—" Damiel yelped as Rauf gave a strong jerk on the blanket, sending the boy tumbling to the floor. He hissed and winced as his sore arms and legs protested from the sudden collision.
"Vaya, vaya, vaya! Eres un perro!"
Rauf rolled his eyes. "I will pretend that I do not know what you just said to me. I can see that today's the day we also scrub that tongue of yours." He picked the boy up from under his arms and hauled him to his feet. Damiel wobbled, and if it wasn't for Rauf supporting most of his weight, he would have smacked against the floor again.
"Easy, easy—oyé, I can't move that fast yet!"
Rauf harrumphed. "And yet you have the energy to speak sass to me. Now no more excuses and delays. The others aren't awake yet—"
"Eres un perro con no genitales!" Damiel screeched.
Rauf clicked his tongue. "Quiet, or you'll wake the others and we won't have this opportunity again for a while. Now bite the pain back, be a man, and start walking. We need to build your muscles back up, and we'll start with walks around the town. Maybe you'll learn a thing or two in that thick head of yours, as well."
Damiel tried to pull his arm out of Rauf's grasp. "But I can't walk around like this! I'm bandaged head to toe! I need clothes!"
"Here," Rauf said as he tossed the boy a robe. "Wear that for now. Until you're ready to stand on your own without my support, you won't wear the proper garments that the novices wear."
"I'm no novice," Damiel scoffed as he pulled the robe over his head. "I'm far more experienced than those boys."
"And yet you yourself remain an insolent pup. We shall see how talented you are when you are capable of proving yourself. Now stop defying me and move." Rauf pushed the boy in front of him and out of the infirmary. Damiel stumbled and cursed as he stubbed his toe. Rauf smiled and grabbed the boy's arm before he hit the floor.
"I can see you'd make papa very proud. He's most likely beaming with adoration toward your experiences."
Damiel rolled his eyes and pouted. "I should have jumped off a cliff while I had the chance in the Kingdom."
Rauf erupted into laughter and led the boy into the foyer. "Oh no, I don't think so. No more hiding for you, young man. There will be no more hiding from your uncle, understand?"
"You're not my uncle—I don't have an uncle," Damiel whined.
"Well, now you do. Just call me Uncle Rauf. I will be your mentor in the arts of the Hashshashin from now on."
The boy groaned and swiveled his head back and forth. "I will never stop hating you for this, you know."
"I have every doubt in the world about that," Rauf smirked with a wink. "You'll understand soon enough, little niño."
"Oh, marveloso. He understands my own language. Perfecto. There will be no talking about him behind his back, now."
Saraj smiled and lifted her head toward the sun. She walked beside Ahmed, listening to him explain the different wares on sale in the marketplace. He'd offered escorting her into Souk Saruja, but she was forced to decline him, explaining that Ghalib had promised her beforehand.
"And when does he plan on fulfilling this promise? It seems unfair to keep a woman waiting to me," Ahmed sighed. Saraj shrugged, and he resumed explaining the products.
"And these," Ahmed said while leading her over to a stall, "I think you'll find a bit more interesting than common vases and pots." He watched as she examined the necklaces and bangles on sale. Judging by the childlike joy in her eyes, he'd picked the right stall to bring her to.
"Oh, these are just lovely," she breathed as she picked up a necklace and a matching bangle.
Ahmed nodded. "It matches your eyes very well."
"I'll have to tell Ghalib about this place so he may take me here to buy them."
Ahmed shook his head and pulled out his coin purse. "That will not be necessary. I am prepared to purchase anything for you."
"Oh, Ahmed," she pouted and swatted his hand away from the purse. "That would be far too much of you. You've already given my husband and me rooms at the Umayyad; I couldn't possibly accept anything further from you."
"But chances like these are a once in a lifetime moment, Saraj."
She laughed and threw her hair over her shoulder. "I'm sure there are other stalls with equally fine jewelry." She swore she heard the merchant behind the stall growl from her statement. She gave him a sweet smile when he turned red in the face.
Ahmed chuckled and placed the coins in the merchant's hands. "Jewelry, there is plenty of. Pleasing and buying a young woman something that'd delight her? That is rare." Saraj turned her eyes away from him as he glanced at her.
"My husband would not approve, Ahmed," she whispered loud enough for only him to hear.
He offered the jewelry out to her, and when she reached for it, he held her hand. "I know he wouldn't, but shame upon him for neglecting a flower only wishing to thrive in the world."
She slid her hand out of his grasp and pocketed the jewelry. "It is a choice that I have no say in, Ahmed. Our parents decided our union many years ago."
"Then shame upon them, as well."
"Ahmed!" She clicked her tongue. "Insulting my husband is one thing, but disgracing my parents is another. Please, do not do say such things in my presence again."
"Apologies, Saraj. You have my word that those sins will not pass my lips again." He smiled and escorted her back to the Palace. "Ghalib is probably in another meeting."
"Shouldn't you attend them as well, Ahmed?"
He laughed. "Trying to shoo me away?"
"No," she smiled. "It just seems strange that since you and your brother are merchants—"
"Bashshar is the merchant, I am merely his supervisor. He has tendencies to venture ahead of himself and make rash decisions, so that is where I come into play."
"Like a peacemaker?"
"Only when arms are taken up," Ahmed chuckled. "But with my presence, my brother is less inclined to rush into matters. I'm actually very proud of him; he seems more patient and mature lately."
Saraj secretly rolled her eyes. He certainly didn't show this so-called patience and maturity. She couldn't even manage to escape his questing eye while by her husband's side.
They were greeted by a gaggle of merchants once they arrived at the Palace. Saraj noticed the way each man swept their eyes over her, and she internally cringed. Just why did Ghalib have to be the only merchant who decided to bring his wife along?
Or maybe Ghalib was the only one who was married. Either way, Saraj wished that there was some other form of female distraction. There were probably whores stashed away in the Palace somewhere, anyways.
Through the swarm of bodies, Saraj managed to catch a glimpse of Ghalib's turban. She smiled and waited as he pushed his way through the merchants. Once he stood before her, she inclined her head. "Salam, Ghalib."
He made a sound from the back of his throat in acknowledgment before bowing to Ahmed. "Master Ahmed, it is good to see you well today."
"As it is for you, Ghalib," he grinned. "I trust the meeting wasn't too dull?"
Ghalib shrugged and explained some of the details to Ahmed. Maria, though, could see in his eyes that nothing of importance was gained from the meeting. She felt a sigh wrack itself through her body, but she repressed the urge to show her disappointment. She padded away from the men and toward several vines to admire the flowers.
"It has been a long day, Ahmed. I believe it best to rest for a few hours before the meeting tonight."
Ahmed frowned and looked over at Saraj. "May I have a word, Ghalib?" He motioned toward the far end of the courtyard. Once he was sure Saraj wouldn't overhear, Ahmed started. "I could not help but notice that throughout the week, you've tended to ignore and not care for Saraj's entertainment while in Damascus."
"Saraj finds entertainment in small things, like plants," Ghalib answered with a confident voice. He waved toward her. "And to emphasize my point, she seems to enjoy those flowers over there."
Ahmed sighed and shifted on his heels. "Maybe at first glance she seems to be satisfied by paltry means, but there is much more to that woman."
"Are you saying that I do not understand my own wife?"
Ahmed wanted to say yes a thousand times and knock sense into the man's head, but he only replied with, "I mean to suggest no such thing. I am only suggesting that you should take her some place exciting while she is here. You promised to take her to the great Souk, didn't you? You should stay true to your word and escort her there."
"Why take my wife to a market when I can see others have indulged her with gifts already?" He narrowed his eyes at Ahmed. Ahmed looked away from the steely gaze and swallowed. "I would appreciate it if you did not spoil her further."
"Apologies, Ghalib. I did not mean any offense to you or your status with her."
"There was never any threat." He walked past Ahmed, inclined to end the conversation.
"And so what will you do? Continue to turn a blind eye on her boredom?" Ahmed demanded as he walked alongside him.
Ghalib pursed his lips and balled his hand into a fist. "No. I'm taking her to the Saruja where she'll be entertained." He scowled and muttered beneath his breath the absurdity of such a thing.
Ahmed smiled and nodded for no particular reason. "I'm glad. She deserves it, you know."
"Oh, absolutely," he said with mock agreement. Ghalib brushed aside Ahmed and approached his wife. He cleared his throat when he stood next to her, waiting for her to notice him.
When she whirled around to face him, he noticed that she'd plucked some of the flowers off of their vines and tucked them into her hair. He couldn't help but to smile at how the petals brought out the color in her cheeks, but when his eyes ventured to her neck, he soured at the sight of the newly purchased necklace.
"Yes, Ghalib? Is there something you require of me?" she asked with all the patience of a mother addressing her children.
"You will accompany me to the Souk Saruja, Saraj. Do not make me wait."
She smiled, her eyes shining at his announcement, and nodded. "I understand. I am ready to drop what I am doing and leave with you."
"And what is it that you are doing that is so intriguing?"
She looked him dead in the eye. "Being a wife, husband. It isn't something you can comprehend." She grinned again and followed him out of the courtyard. She jumped in surprise when he locked his arm around hers.
Ghalib glanced behind him, making certain that Ahmed or his space-consuming brother were not lurking behind them. He leaned in toward her ear when the Palace was no longer in sight. "I'm surprised you aren't sneezing from them."
She gasped from the soft tone and stared into his eyes. There was no trace of that impostor, Ghalib, in his face, and she allowed herself to pat his hand and nudge him with her hip. "And I'm surprised Bashshar hasn't squashed you with his fat arse."
Altair groaned from the thought. "As am I. Hildegard must be proud of you, though. You're holding up nicely. She must have given you a few words of advice."
Maria opened her mouth to respond with a witty remark, but she clamped it shut as she recalled hers and Hildegard's last conversation and what the topic had been. She blushed and pulled her headdress around her face, hoping to hide the tint of red in her cheeks from him.
But Altair noticed, of course. But he didn't know why he'd embarrassed her, or maybe she was catching a cold?
He cleared his throat as his lips twitched. "You act more and more like her every day. How was it that you were able to coax Ahmed into buying those bangles for you?"
Maria touched her necklace and smirked. "Why, is the great and mighty Eagle jealous? I daresay that's a hint of envy in your voice. I hope you don't take it as a blow to your pride. My tongue is just crafty when it comes to persuasion."
The corner of his mouth turned downward as a shiver crawled down his spine. Maria noticed the slight fidget in his stride and pulled him aside into an alley. She pushed him up against the wall, certain that they were well-hidden in shadow from Damascus' eyes.
Standing on the tips of her toes, she breathed into his ear, "If you'd let me use it, you'd know just how persuading it can be. It certainly earns a rise from people." She saw him tense out of the corner of her eye. Her hand wrapped around his wrist when he made to touch her. "But as I said the other day, you frown down," her free hand trailed down his torso, curving to stop at his hip, "upon me for my use of language."
She leveled her face with his. He remained stoic against her; the only thing different about him was the intensity in his hazel eyes. She squeezed his hip and shot him an impish smile before tearing herself from him. He reached out for her, but his fingertips barely brushed against her hair.
She looked over her shoulder and laughed at the disappointment evident in his face. "Come, my little eaglet," she whispered, knowing that he could still hear her. She motioned to her side, and like a puppet on strings, Altair followed her. She wrapped an arm around his. "And so what will we buy at the Saruja? I'm absolutely famished; I could content myself with kibbeh—wait, you don't like that. What about lahmajoun? They must sell it here!"
Altair listened as Maria listed what her stomach growled for, a small smile on his lips. Souk Saruja was right in front of them when his eye caught a small patch of white and grey. He glanced at the small group of boys sitting on a bench. Their familiar robes made him sigh.
"Ghalib?"
Altair looked down at Maria. "Pardon?"
"I asked you what you wanted to eat." She added in a much lower voice, "Is everything alright, Altair?"
He closed his eyes and ran his tongue over his teeth. "Come with me." He led her away from the Souk and toward the group of boys. They stood from the bench when he approached and walked away from him. They kept a fast pace, but not fast enough to stay out of his line of sight.
"Ghalib—"
"Please be quiet, Saraj," he murmured. She listened, keeping her mouth shut as they strolled down the streets of Damascus, drawing as little attention as possible to themselves.
They walked past beggars reaching out to the crowds, pleading for money, and Saraj forced her eyes away from them. She whispered a prayer for them.
"Those merchants could make themselves useful," Altair muttered beneath his breath, "instead of eating every morsel of food in sight."
"Greed is more powerful than a human conscience, it seems," Maria whispered back with heavy pity in her words.
"Greed is only as powerful as its possessor wants it to be." Altair ushered Maria around a corner that led to a dead end. She looked over at him, about to state the obvious, when he nodded at a ladder. She turned back, not having noticed it before in the shadows, and didn't have a second thought as Altair pushed her up the ladder. She hissed and had a few retorts ready at the back of her throat, but he shook his head.
"Not here," he said. She rolled her eyes and climbed the ladder, waiting for him at the top of the building. He pulled himself up and led her to an open grating.
"Is this some form of secret communication center?"
"One of our Bureaus, yes," he said. She just managed to mouth the word 'oh' before he scooped her up in his arms and leapt through the open grating. She shrieked and clung to him, kicking her legs and cursing him to Hell and back in her mind.
He landed on the floor with the grace of a feline. Maria breathed in relief when her feet touched solid ground.
"Buffoon," she spat.
He chuckled and walked further into the Bureau. Maria smoothed her jalabiya out and readjusted her headdress before tailing after him. She smacked against his back as he stopped in his tracks without warning. She hissed and fussed, ready to bend his ear. She saw his tunic loosen as his muscles coiled together. Standing on tip-toe, she saw what made him so on edge and braced for action.
A man, probably the same age as Altair, leaned on the doorway that led into the Rafik's office. He stood with his arms crossed, his face a portrait of self-satisfaction and conceit. Maria's eyes narrowed at him; she didn't like the look of this Assassin one bit.
Neither did Altair.
"Abbas," he said with an unwavering tone.
Abbas threw a smirk as he eyed his master up and down. "So, the rumors are true. The Master really is parading around Damas, pretending to be an arrogant merchant. You pull off the guise with hardly any effort." Maria frowned from the subtle insult. She glanced at Altair.
"You're in the way, as usual," Altair quickly said, giving the man an expectant look.
"Of course," Abbas declared with sarcasm thick in his voice. He moved away from the doorway, circling around Altair as if he was prey. Altair glared at him from the corner of his eye.
"And what have we here?" He slipped around Maria, running a sickening hand through her hair. She shook her head and stepped away from his questing hands. "The pretty little ornament to support the leading actor. How quaint." Still holding a few tendrils of her hair, Abbas brought his hand to his nose and inhaled the scent. He shuddered as the aroma of roses and cinnamon wafted through his nostrils. He sneered at Altair. "Lucky man."
"Not as lucky as you'll be when you find my foot in your crotch," Maria snapped back as she snatched her hair from him.
Abbas laughed as if she'd told the greatest jest in history. "Spirited as well. It must have been refreshing to tame her."
"You're the ass, not I," Maria growled. Altair placed a hand on her shoulder, keeping her from tackling him.
"Maria," he warned when he saw the gears turning in her head. He could practically hear the schemes she was boiling up in that mind of hers. She huffed and let him push her behind him. "If you have any respectable bone in your body," Altair addressed to Abbas, "you'd stay your mockeries and challenges in your Master's presence."
Abbas bowed. "I could never imagine such a thing as to combat your authority, Master."
"Then be on your way with your duties, Abbas." Altair watched him climb up the vines on the Bureau wall and pull himself over the lattice entrance.
Maria groomed herself with her fingers, grimacing from how she still felt his hands in her hair. "And that is what I call an inconsiderate ragamuffin."
Altair didn't take his eyes off of the roof opening. "He has his reasons for what he is."
"And what reasons are those?"
He turned toward her, looking as if he wanted to say something. He decided against it and motioned her into the office. She pouted but conceded.
"I thought today would be a quiet one."
Altair smiled at the man behind the counter. "I thought you could use some excitement in your shabby cave, Butrus."
"Shabby? It may be a bit disorganized, but everything is placed according to where I will find it."
Maria smiled from the man's cheerful tone. She stepped over fallen books and vases as she took in the mess she'd found herself in. And quite a mess it was; swords and daggers strewn about, pages ripped from books tucked into corners, vases emptied of their contents and lying on their sides, and—oh dear—half-eaten food in small bits on plates.
Altair gestured between herself and the other man. "Maria, this is Butrus, Rafik of Damascus. Butrus, this is Maria Thorpe, impersonator of Saraj, wife of Ghalib."
Butrus surprised her by shaking her hand. "Ah, it's a pleasure to finally meet the woman responsible for softening Altair's shell. I always knew he'd turn out right—I knew it! The others always had their doubts, but I refused to submit!"
Altair chuckled as Butrus continued to shake Maria's hand with the enthusiasm of a child.
"Sure, he might have been a little rough around the edges, but I applaud you for polishing him up! Congratulations!" Maria's hand still swung to and fro in the man's grasp, and when he finally let it go, it still wavered from the motion. "And so when was the wedding? My novices have been disorganizing everything—again—and must have misplaced the announcement."
Maria's face flushed red. She hid her hands behind her back and stole a peek at Altair. She quickly looked away from him when their eyes met.
He shifted his shoulders and whispered a few Arabic words to Butrus. The rafik's face turned red as he fumbled out a small apology. Maria stole the chance to wander away from the men, intent on distracting herself with Butrus' mess of a Bureau.
She ran her fingers over the spines of the books still on the shelves, twisting her lips as she tried to focus on their titles. Marriage? Is that what that man told his Brothers? That they were married? Husband and wife?
Well, if it was with him, perhaps it would not be so miserable—
She grunted and rearranged the books. Holding her breath when she realized that Altair and Butrus probably heard her, she looked over at them, swallowing back a sigh of relief when she saw the two of them engrossed with several documents.
"Whether or not your time as this 'Ghalib' has produced results, several of my novices heard word of Templar forces in Damascus' other districts. It'd be wise if someone with more experience than them investigated," Butrus explained.
"Nothing of worth has been learned from the merchants," Altair lamented with a sigh. "Where do these rumors begin?"
"East of here, near the old mosques in the Poor District. Our Brothers report suspicious figures seen there. I would suggest asking the citizens there. The poor are known to accept bribes."
Altair nodded. "I will see what I can learn, if anything."
Butrus bowed his head. "Do not spend more than a few hours searching, Altair. No doubt your hosts at the Palace will wonder where you and…" He swallowed and motioned toward Maria, not sure what to address her as. "Just be back before dark."
"Will you permit Maria to stay here?" A foolish question for the Master to ask, but Butrus was one of the few that respected Altair during his fall of arrogance, and for that, he'd ask for the man's permission.
"Of course, of course! She may stay as long as she pleases to, so long as whatever she touches she puts back."
Maria sidled over to him just as Altair left the cluttered office. "Where has he gone?"
"Investigating, my lady. He will be dispatched for a few hours. Please, I know that this Bureau has probably seen better days, but make yourself at home."
She frowned and looked over at the far wall, disappointment evident in her face. Altair stepped back into the room, his fancy garbs replaced by his Assassin attire. He placed his hand over hers. She turned her head over to him and raised an expectant eyebrow.
"I suppose the Saruja will have to wait," she said. She tried to muster up a smile. "Another time, then."
"I will return in time to still see it, Maria."
She chuckled and shifted on her heels. "Well, aren't you a master at raising people's hopes? If you plan on letting them fall, you'd best be prepared to catch them."
"Among other things," he said while he gave her hand a squeeze. He slid her headdress down and rested his forehead against hers. "You'll be free to have me purchase gifts for you soon, Maria, do not fear."
"Well, then you'd better hope that I'm not similar to Hildegard when it comes to shopping, yes?" She smiled and let herself be captured by his gaze. It was as if the room melted away from them, that they weren't even in their bodies anymore—just two souls staring into each other.
He leaned in to her, his breath on her lips. Her mouth parted on its own accord as she glanced back and forth between his scar and his eyes. He brushed her bottom lip with a feather-light touch from his knuckles and whispered, "I'll keep my fingers crossed for that," before turning away and climbing out of the Bureau's lattice entrance.
Maria stood in a stupor, her fingers idly tracing her lips, still feeling his touch. Her body buzzed pleasantly—more so than it usually did than from just being in his presence—and she couldn't help the smile on her face grow further.
"Right. Not married, you say? Sure, I believe that."
She jumped and let a flabbergasted sound squeak from her throat. Her face flushed again and she scrounged up whatever dignity she had left to face Butrus, who she had forgotten was still in the room and had seen everything.
Knowing Altair, he was still probably aware of Butrus—damn that man, and damn herself for not realizing it sooner!
"You were told the truth," she murmured.
He leaned against the counter; his head supported by a palm, and wore a quirky smile as he tried to hide his amusement. His cheeks were tinted pink. "Some say that certain… activities while not in the bonds of wedlock are a sin. I suppose the Master and his woman do not count for that belief."
She gaped and pulled her headdress back on to hide her blush. "Whatever you assume our relationship is—"
"It is indeed a courtship," he mused, pretending not to hear her. "And an interesting one at that. I always knew that he'd find a unique woman—the others didn't think so, but I knew better—and sure enough, here she is. Allah, today must be the most eventful day I've had all year so far."
Maria groaned and scurried away from the man as he still pondered his thoughts aloud, content on hiding herself in the pages of the many scattered books. Even then, a smile still graced her features.
At least until Altair returned, of course; then he'd be in for it.
Damiel trudged alongside Rauf, occasionally taking a tumble and having to pull himself back up. He could feel the stares from Masyaf's villagers on him as he explored the city; he wished he could be invisible to all of their gapes and murmurs. He'd been walking for hours with Rauf, the man explaining to him that he needed to rebuild his muscles and endure more than just a simple walk around the city.
Damiel's legs were ready to fall off by the time they stopped for breakfast, which felt more like lunch to the boy. Thankfully, Rauf had enough of a heart to stop by a bench protected from the Syrian sun's cruel rays by a tree's foliage. He accepted the bowl of hummus and pita bread Rauf gave him and gobbled it up like a man starved for decades. Rauf watched the boy eat.
"You eat just like your father, too," he chuckled. Damiel glared at him before continuing with his meal. "At least, you eat like him when he was famished after a long day of training."
"I wonder why that is," Damiel mumbled with a mouth full of food. Rauf clicked his tongue and shook his head from the lack of manners. Swallowing the pita back, Damiel took the jug of water from the Assassin.
"He was a good man, your father," Rauf said. Damiel ignored him as he quenched his thirst. "He knew and understood the principles of our Creed without the use of excuses as most of our Brothers do. He knew the truth."
Damiel grunted and corked the lid on the jug, satisfied with his share of water. "I don't believe that."
"Your father was very honorable," Rauf reprimanded.
Damiel waved his hand and rested his elbows on his knees. "What kind of father leaves their son at the mercy of slavers? Oh, but wait; he was honorable, so he is excused from that fault. Pardon me, I forgot."
Rauf sighed. "You will learn the truth in time, boy."
"There is no truth to learn with him," Damiel corrected. He slowly stood to his feet, his knees wobbling like a newborn foal trying to stand. "I experienced his lack of affection firsthand, and it is not something I want to remember or delve into again. Nor do I wish to be part of his legacy."
"You don't have a choice in that matter—"
"Yes, I do," Damiel growled, storming over to Rauf and jabbing an accusatory finger in his chest. "You may help me regain my strength, have me relearn the art of combat—even make me learn the ways of your people—but you will never make me one of you. I, Damiel Karkafian, am not an Assassin, and I will never be. That is my choice in the matter." He turned on his heel and marched back up the slopes, surprising not only himself with how swiftly he made it back to the fortress.
Rauf brushed his robes and looked up to the sky. "He even has your stride, Jenaro." He picked up his feet and followed Damiel.
Anger boiled through Damiel's blood as he stepped through the courtyard. He saw the training novices stop in their exercises to stare at him. Murmurs filled the fighting ring as Jenaro Karkafian's son passed them. Damiel bit back any foul language he would have enjoyed spewing at them.
He ignored the wondrous comments thrown at him, not believing that the son of a legend stood before them. He so wanted to slam his fist into the jaws of those who laughed at the pathetic condition he was in. Their jabs echoed in his mind and made the hair on the back of his neck rise in feral agitation. But he satisfied their taunts by showing them his back and continuing on through the fortress.
Aden lifted his head from a book and sneered at the boy. "My eyes must deceive me, for here stands a boy swooned over like a prince from a fairy tale! Up early, aren't you, Damiel? Is there something wrong with your health?"
Damiel paused and tilted his head, his fingers itching to tighten themselves around Aden's neck and see the life drain from his eyes. He resisted.
"Shouldn't the wounded be in bed, Damiel?" he teased again. Damiel slowly faced him.
"And shouldn't Arabs be wrapping turbans around their heads and covering their wives?" Damiel spat. Aden's eyes showed no offense from the insult. If anything, the man seemed to anticipate the retort.
"Men may do as they please in their home country, boy. You'd do the same if you were in your home—but wait, you don't have one. I forgot, how foolish of me."
Damiel felt his limbs moving before he registered what he was even doing. His arm lunged back and then forward toward Aden's face, intent on crushing his skull with blow after blow. His fist stopped midswing as Aden's hand curled around his wrist. The air in the boy's body left him as Aden delivered a swift punch to his chest, then brought a knee into his gut. Damiel fell to the floor, heaving and clutching at his ribs.
"You should have known better, boy. Cripples do not have the upper hand when dealing with the perfectly mobile."
"And the perfectly powerful have the advantage when against the perfectly mobile."
Aden turned his head toward the stairs in the foyer, blanching as Hildegard approached him with Malik in tow. The one-armed man raised an eyebrow at the display before him, keeping his opinion to himself.
Hildegard lightly stepped toward Aden, her hands folded delicately in front of herself. "Wouldn't you agree, Master Aden? Or is the concept too hard for you to understand?"
Aden took a step away from her, his muscles tensing as lines formed around his mouth. Hildegard patiently waited for an answer, her face one of peaceful contentment. He opened his mouth to speak, but made no sound.
She smiled and placed a hand on his cheek. "Poor dear, I understand. Go and see to your sister now; I'm sure your darling sibling is in need of your company. I heard a novice has been pestering her all day. Your large frame is needed there, not here."
Aden bowed his head and walked away with a heavy gait, as if his legs were made of lead. Hildegard watched him with a smile. When he finally left the room, she scowled and trotted over to Damiel.
Malik stopped her just as she was about to kneel by the boy's side. The Assassin shook his head and ushered her away from him when he saw Rauf jog into the foyer. Hildegard looked at Malik, then at Rauf, understanding slowly dawning upon her fair face. Malik walked her out of the foyer and into the garden.
Rauf knelt beside Damiel. He placed his hand on the boy's shoulder, concern etched into his face from hearing the boy writhing. "My boy, what has happened—"
"I'll show you," he snarled as he turned to face Rauf. He had hit his face against the stone floor, his lip busted and blood coated over his mouth. "I'll prove it to you!"
"What—"
"I'm not like him—will never be like him! I'll show you. I'll wake every morning before the others, I'll make it happen! I'll be stronger than him, I'll be faster than him, I'll have more knowledge than him! I, too, will know the truth!"
Rauf blinked, not knowing what to say to the boy's declarations. Damiel stood to his full height and looked down at Rauf.
"I'll prove it to everyone in this fortress—give them something other than myself to laugh at. I will work until sweat cakes my body, until I feel each pore crawl with weariness and exhaustion. Until life leaves this body, I will make myself.
"You'll see, old man, you'll see, and when you compare me to my father afterward, you will never be able to tell that I am his son because I will be better than him. I swear it on my mother's grave that you will be proved wrong."
Rauf stood, his face neutral of expression. "And how do you plan on accomplishing this all on your own? Surely, you will need a teacher."
"Then teach me," Damiel lowly said as he took a step closer to him so that their eyes were level. "Teach me as how my father learned. Be my guide and show me an Assassin's way of life."
Maria reclined on the pile of cushions just outside of Butrus' office, forcing to keep her tired eyes open as she read book after book. It amazed her just how much she learned of pottery, Butrus' favorite hobby and career he tended to while not busying himself with keeping his novices in line, and it amazed her even more of how boring the craft was.
Butrus had even showed her how to make a bowl (she kept toppling whatever pot or vase she attempted to make), and when she continued to make irregular, oblong shapes, he resorted to just having her play with wet clay.
That kept her occupied for half an hour, at most.
Now, the sun was setting, and she could hear crickets from outside the Bureau. Butrus had lit lamps and set more cushions and blankets in and out of his office. She cuddled into her pillows, blowing her lips in boredom. Bashshar and Ahmed were probably curious as to why Ghalib and Saraj had not returned from the Saruja yet. Hopefully they had not sent men to look for them—that would be difficult to explain.
But Souk Saruja was a grand bazaar, filled with merchants from foreign lands and crawling with customers, guards, and pickpockets. The brothers wouldn't have a chance of finding them.
She couldn't return to the Palace or to the Umayyad Mosque without Altair, though. For Saraj to arrive without Ghalib would arouse suspicion, and the last thing Maria wanted was for Ahmed and his lard-like brother to start snooping around them.
And so, Maria waited. Her eyelids drooped closed, and she could no longer fight the battle of sleep. She curled into a ball on her side, her book long forgotten and discarded in the mountain of pillows, and tucked the blankets around her into a cocoon. When Altair returned from his mission, then she'd unravel from her prison of blankets. Until then, she was happy just to have a moment of shut-eye.
And when he did return, it was pitch black outside, the lamps Butrus lit flickering. Maria shifted in her cocoon, making small sounds as she heard voices from Butrus' office. Her eyes opened one by one, adjusting to the dim lighting in the Bureau. She flexed her shoulders and stretched her legs out, somehow still keeping the blankets around her, as she listened to the two men in the Rafik's office.
"It is strange that they are being so careful with themselves, is it not?"
"To some extent, Butrus. It is difficult to track them down, but once found, they are as boisterous as ever."
"Are they trying to mislead you?"
Altair, his Assassin uniform replaced by Ghalib's attire, sighed and ran a hand over his head, feeling the beginnings of hair regrowth. "They very well may be; I wouldn't be surprised if that was the case. Robert used Maria as a decoy after all—perhaps these new Templars learned from him."
Butrus nodded and tidied up his counter to the best of his ability. "And so what will you do? You've learned very little, Altair, and it is very late. Will you pursue this vague lead tonight?"
The Master of Assassins thought it over in his mind for a few minutes before replying, "No, I do not think it wise for me to go off on a tangent with this. I will leave it to your men to learn anything new. All I know is that Clarence is not the only Templar in Damascus. Apparently, he has a bodyguard with him. An Armenian, I believe."
"Strange for Armenia to bring themselves into others' problems, is it not?" Butrus rubbed his chin. "They usually prefer to sneak a hand in here and there while watching from the sidelines."
Altair shrugged. "The Templars most likely struck a deal with Levon."
"If so, then we have even more on our plate than we started with." Butrus offered a small smile. "It seems these conspiracies continue to deepen their webs."
"I would rather not think of it at the moment, Butrus. It seems impossible to find a solution."
"Then what will you do now? The last time I checked, she was sleeping. I'm not sure it'd be best to take her to the souk toady. Perhaps tomorrow would be better?"
Altair and Butrus looked through the office's door and at the woman huddled in the blankets and pillows, seemingly still fast asleep. Butrus smiled from the fond look on the other man's face, murmuring another comment about marriage as Altair excused himself.
Altair sat beside Maria, making himself comfortable in the cushions, and sighed as he gave his legs a rest. He pulled her so that her head rested on his chest, and toyed with a lock of hair near her ear. "I know you're awake," he murmured.
She did not move or make a sound.
He chuckled with good humor. "You grunt when you sleep, Maria; you're awake."
Caught, she opened her eyes to give him a look that clearly stated he had ruined her fun. "At least I do not snore."
He waited until she thought she had won their little bout before saying, "Sometimes you do, too."
She rolled her eyes. "Lying will not make you victorious, Altair."
"That is very true, but it was not a lie." He moved his arms to bring her closer to him, but let them fall to his sides as she edged away from the motion. He stared at his boots.
"Will we make our way to Bashshar and Ahmed now? We've been away for a while, Altair," she said in hopes of salvaging their conversation.
"I thought you wanted to see Souk Saruja?"
"It's dark, now, and—"
He stood and helped her to her feet, grinning from her confused expression. "Everyone in Damascus knows that Saruja is the most exciting at night, Maria."
"Everyone but me, apparently," she deadpanned.
"Then let us change that, shall we?"
He was correct, as he was most times. The Saruja Souk was alive with every shade of color breathing and moving as one. The roar of buyers and sellers echoed off of the dome ceiling. Maria locked her arm around Altair's, keeping pace with him as he escorted her through the bazaar.
Dyes, necklaces, earrings, carpets, clothes, wraps, nuts, ingredients, herbs, spices, flowers, fish, ayran, ores, tools—everything could be found in the Great Souk. Maria, somehow being able to pull the scent of lahmajoun from the different smells around her, quickly led Altair to the stall selling it.
"Will you be able to hold it down this time?"
She inclined her head as a wave of embarrassment washed over her. She munched on the lahmajoun, hoping he wouldn't expect an answer from her. She forced herself to finish her food, though she hardly found it appetizing anymore.
He cleared his throat and led her through the souk, cursing himself for bringing up such a sensitive topic. Though she still felt shame for barfing on him—as anyone would—he knew it was their small conversation prior to her illness that affected her the most.
He let himself be lured to stalls as the merchants called out to him, waving their hands and gesturing toward their products. He'd do anything to distract her from his stupid question and to have that smile back on her face.
"Finest silks in all the lands!"
"Clothes that rival those of kings!"
"Rugs of the finest quality and soft to the touch!"
"Finely crafted jewelry for your wives, sisters, daughters!"
He browsed the stalls, hoping that she'd find interest in one of the products. Her eyes swept over the items on display, not finding anything that piqued her interest. He shot the merchants glowers when they scowled at the woman not pleased with their wares before leading her to another stall.
"Would you like to look at ores for Rauf? He said that he was short on a few, did he not?"
Maria shook her head. "I do not know which ones he requires."
Altair bobbed his head, not knowing what else that would please her. She wasn't enjoying herself anymore. The awe and wonder that filled her eyes when they first set foot in the bazaar had vanished, replaced by a focused, contemplating look. He wanted to kick himself.
He was just about to purchase a random item to satisfy Ahmed's and Bashshar's curiosity and bring her back to the Palace, but she stopped him as her fingers latched onto his sleeve. He turned to look at her and followed her gaze to a small stand.
A few men sat behind their stall, tuning and polishing their wares. Maria strode toward them, almost as if she floated there in a daze, and examined the instruments. Altair followed her, holding his breath.
She ran her fingers over the instruments, smiling from the feel of the fine wood.
One of the merchants looked up from their work. "That is a duduk, my lady, imported from Armenia herself."
"Armenia?" Altair raised his eyebrows at this. "Why travel north for something we are able to craft in Syria?"
Another merchant laughed and drummed his fingers against a darbuka. "We are from Armenia, good man, and our business travels wherever we travel. A duduk's home is in Armenia, as we were the first to craft them."
Maria smiled at the men, curious about the different instruments they held. "Would you mind playing something? Or are you not musicians, just merchants?"
The men looked at each other, juggling the idea around in their heads. "It is very late, and we usually receive a crowd from our music in the afternoon, my lady."
Her eyes fell and she forced a small smile. "I understand, good men." She looked them all in the eye. "It is a good thing you do by playing these instruments. Music has a way of communicating with people that words cannot. Even the smallest note brings joy to someone."
The musicians shifted in their seats, sharing glances between themselves before looking at the man behind their kind customer. The blaze in his eyes quickly had them make up their minds. "Well," one of them—the bravest one—began, "it'd be a sin to not play music for the pretty lady, would it not?" He motioned for the others to gather their instruments and stand.
Her eyes shimmered with delight. She met Altair's eyes for a brief moment, knowing all too well of the silent threat he'd given them, and mouthed the words thank you.
He held her hand in response as they listened to the musicians.
The darbuka started first, drumming a simple tune and setting the pace for the piece. Several heads turned toward the couple watching the musicians, and more of Damas' citizens stopped their actions as the duduk's haunting voice accompanied the drum.
And finally, the oud voiced its own tune with the others.
The cacophony of voices in the Saruja died down until only hushed whispers could barely be heard underneath the entwined blanket of instruments.
She gazed at him, their eyes burning with something unspoken but translated with each breath, each note, and each sound made from the crafts and their handlers.
Tears brimmed in her eyes as she answered him. She brought their weaved hands to her mouth and kissed the space where a finger should have been.
He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear with the tenderness of someone tending to the most delicate of flowers—someone carefully brushing their fingers over petals of silk. They closed their eyes and leaned their foreheads against each other's, savoring the moment for everything it was worth.
The duduk continued to whisper her forlorn melody.
"Ah, there you two are!" Ahmed rushed over to the couple entering the Palace's courtyard. "The other merchants and I were worried, Ghalib; we thought that something had happened to you! You missed the meeting as well, I'm afraid, but I will brief you in on it in the morning."
Ghalib inclined his head. "Apologies, Ahmed, for my tardiness and for troubling you and your guests. It will not happen again."
Ahmed smiled and waved his hand in refusal. "There is no need for any of that, friend. As long as you two are both safe—" His breath caught in his throat as his eyes passed over Saraj. Her eyes were red, but she seemed at peace with herself. His eyes drifted lower to the finely chiseled box in her hands that absorbed her attentions.
The merchant cleared his throat. "I trust Souk Saruja was worth the trip? You did not purchase much, Ghalib."
Ghalib grunted a 'yes'. "As alive and well as ever, the souk. There was much to see there, Ahmed."
"And to learn there," Saraj whispered, her eyes never leaving the box. Ahmed tried meeting Ghalib's eye, still curious of his wife's behavior.
"If you do not mind, Ahmed," Ghalib said, "Saraj and I would like to retire to the Umayyad. We both need rest. The Great Souk knows how to wear a person down."
"Of course, of course!" Ahmed assured. "I wish you both a good night—" He clamped his mouth shut when the two of them were already walking away from him.
There was something different about Ghalib and his wife. Ahmed was determined to discover just what had transpired between them.
'Hopefully something pleasant,' he thought.
"You bought it, yet you do not know how to play it?"
Maria shrugged and unlatched the lid on the case with adept fingers. "It is a beautiful instrument," she breathed out as she outlined the duduk. "Damiel knows how to play it."
"Does he?" Altair sat on the cushions across from her, watching every movement she made.
She nodded, still tracing the little instrument. "He played it once before for me. It was… while we were still in the Crusades." She let the sentence hang in the air before adding, "He composed his own music whenever he could."
"He's probably out of practice, then."
Maria uttered a small laugh. "Most people misplace their talents when not nurturing them." She looked at him.
He shook his head in agreement. Silence floated between them as he met her eyes. He cleared his throat and stood. "You should sleep, Maria. Ahmed and Bashshar probably have tomorrow mapped out for us already."
"Hm," she murmured, returning to the task of analyzing her duduk. She looked up to bid him goodnight, but sucked in her breath as his face loomed but an inch from hers.
He leaned his body toward hers, and she instinctively crawled backward, supporting herself on her elbows. He wrapped an arm around her, keeping her from falling back, and brought her closer to him so their bodies touched. He snaked his hand up her back and to her neck.
Her eyes shot wide as she felt him fumble with the fabric, and she gasped as he cradled his head on her shoulder. He breathed against her neck, his lips touching the sensitive flesh but not caressing it.
Maria's arms wrapped around his torso—for support, she told herself. But no matter how tight she held him, it did not stop him from pulling away.
"Good night," he breathed into her ear. And then his weight was off of her, his person gone from her quarters.
Her chest heaved as she panted, trying to regain her breath and trying to make sense of what had just happened. She placed a hand over her heart to steady her breathing. Her fingers met the fabric of her jalabiya. She frowned and felt around the neckline of her dress.
The necklace that Ahmed had bought for her was gone.
"You've been missed, Sarko," King Levon said from his throne.
Tagvoryan bowed. "Templars are very demanding people, my king."
"So they are, so they are," Levon chuckled. "I trust you've already said your hellos to Rita?"
Tagvoryan straightened from his bow and shook his head. "I have not seen your daughter at all today, my king. I hope she is well."
Levon swatted his hand. "When is she never well? She has servants to order, jewelry to try on, clothes to wear, and cosmetics to experiment with. She is a very happy girl, Sarko."
Tagvoryan inclined his head. "Ayo, she must be very satisfied in the palace." Levon frowned from his tone. Tagvoryan sighed. "Forgive me for the request, but may I speak plainly?"
"We have been friends since birth, Sarkis. You should know better than to ask me that."
Sarkis swallowed. "Then you should know better than to tell me lies of your daughter's welfare. We both are aware that she is unhappy in the castle, takavor. She wishes the grant of more permission to wander the outdoors. She has potential to be a very skilled falconer, and only needs your say to further her hobby."
Levon scoffed and reclined in his throne. "Ah, yes. It is very difficult to forget how unladylike she is. But that will no longer be a problem, Sarko."
"And why is that? Have you punished her once more?"
The King of Armenia glared at his most trusted friend. "If marriage is a punishment, then yes."
The news startled Tagvoryan, but he hid it well with a blank face. "That is a shame. To whom?"
"That does not concern you or the reasons for your visit, now does it?" Levon smirked when Tagvoryan bowed. "My friend, please, straighten your back. There is no need for that formality in my presence. No, you know why you were summoned here."
"Is it that Templar again?"
"Ayo, Clarence Lyon. To complete our agreement of alliance, he requires something I value of worth in his possession to guarantee my cooperation."
"Have you requested the same from him?"
"Of course, Sarkis. That is why Rita is marrying into a country allied to Clarence's cause."
"With your daughter gone, what do you plan to give him?"
"Not what, Sarko, but who. I am assigning you the position of his henchman, Tagvoryan. You've seen battle and experienced combat before. I put more trust in you than I do in my generals."
Tagvoryan frowned. "But surely your generals are more experienced and know how to protect better than I!" Memories of Yeva flashed through his mind, and he banished them with a steel fist.
"My generals know how to boast their skills and experiences, Sarko. You prefer modesty and shadows. All I require of you is to prove to Clarence that you are capable and dependable while guarding his person. Those eyes of yours have always seen what others cannot."
Sarkis lowered his head and breathed through his nose. "When will you have me leave?"
"At once," Levon purred with a contented smile. "You will be traveling with several of our merchants selling instruments to douse the flames of suspicion."
"And where will I be stationed?"
"You will return to Damascus, Sarko. I hope your travels are devoid of misfortune, my good friend."
Tagvoryan dropped to one knee in another bow before exiting the throne room.
"And Sarko?"
He looked over his shoulder at his king.
Levon lifted his chin high in the air. "Do not flaw this mission."
Tagvoryan stooped, then rid himself of his king's presence, of the castle, and of Sis.
And down the Cilician Gates he went, Yeva's voice returning to claw at his mind.
As promised, here's the rest of the author's note. While writing the scene of Altair and Maria listening to music, I was watching this Yanni video (link will not work, so type this into the youtube search bar) 'Yanni Prelude & Nostalgia'. Those of you who listen to or have listened to Yanni know how this man is a genius and how beautiful the music is. And yes, if you can't tell, music is a huge part of my life, though I have never played the duduk (but I want to).
Translations:
Armenian:
Takavor: King
Ayo: Yes
Spanish:
Eres un perro con no genitales: You are a dog without genitals.
niño: boy
Arabic:
Salam: Hello (informal)
FF, Fun Fact: Tagvoryan is addressed as both 'Sarkis' and 'Sarko'. Sarkis is his first name, while Sarko is a nickname for Sarkis. Just to clear that up. And I'm sorry if you're sick of me putting all this Armenian jazz into my stories, but hey, I'm half Armenian, so it is not going to change.