HAYTHAM

In the days that followed, I was a walking tide: active one moment, and swept by emotions the next. I tried to keep busy – mostly by writing documents. The slower it took me to scratch each letter, the longer my mind was away. Away from her.

Perhaps Robert (my thirty-year-old butler) knew more than I presumed, because whenever my moods changed, so did his. He'd stay away when I thought of Ziio most; he made the odd reminisce about her when I feigned contentment. Nobody ever did that beforehand. Besides, Robert was the one who spoke to Ziio least. Had he guessed, or had I told him? I couldn't recall. Anyhow, Robert was doing his best to keep the memory of Ziio alive. For that I was thankful.

I'd also come to be thankful that Charles had made no contact. At first I was unsure of whether he'd discovered my cooperation with Connor. If he had, I'd be in for a world of grief. Yes, I may have been his master, but over the years, Charles had become bolder. Competing for Commander had probably taken its toll; he expected treachery and overlooked innocence. Not that I was any less cynical; it just pained me to see this bright-eyed man become a trigger-happy tyrant. As a result, our relationship started to wear over the years. But he was all the Order had left. Charles would be mortified if I – one of two loyal Templars – was conversing with the enemy.

Either way, there was no word from Charles. Why would I be thankful? Well, it was a few days after my rendezvous in Martha's Vineyard. Something changed in me, that day.

There came a knock at my study door. I was occupied with a document of sorts. Nowadays, I hated being disturbed. My patience was particularly thin, what, with Ziio's death. Could the staff not leave me alone?

"Enter." I didn't look up from my work, but finished my sentence. There was a dull boom as the door was flung against the study wall. Whoever it was, they were far from cautious. "Careful! You'll scratch the paint –"

I was silenced at once. My eyes must've tripled in diameter, and I think I dropped the quill in surprise. My visitor stood with their arms folded, waiting. Under their leather belt were the likes of hand-crafted grenades. Their pistol protruded menacingly from the leather. There was a small oblong bulge in the belt, though: one that wasn't there last time. But everything else was the same. His expression had not faltered; he still stared tepidly with hunter's eyes.

Connor.

It didn't take me long to become vexed. "Who let you in?"

My son ignored me; to my amazement, he began pacing around the room, admiring anything he could look at.

"Connor?" I demanded. "What on earth are you doing in my house?"

Nothing. He came closer to the desk. My brows furrowed in anger. Why wouldn't he look this way? What was he doing here? I thought he cursed my name, after last we met.

"What do you want?"

"I came to show you something." Connor pulled back his hood, revealing a ponytailed mane of pepper-black. His eyes – although intense – were not ablaze with irritation.

Mine, on the other hand, might've been. I indicated the stack of parchment on the desk. "Can't you see I'm busy?"

"Doing what?"

"That's none of your business," I hissed, returning his scowl.

"Writing another document that will never come to pass?" he shot back disgustedly.

I flared up from the chair. It scraped against the wooden floor; my shoulders rose like a cat challenged to a fight. "I said I'm busy."

Connor despaired. He gazeed at the ceiling, looking for a way round my hostility. "Do you think I'd come within a mile of this land if it was important?"

"Robert!" I called. "Come here a moment!"

"Just listen to me," Connor pleaded, "hear me out –"

"You have no right to trespass on my land, let alone in my private study!"

"Did you call, Mister Kenway?"

Both of us turned. My butler stood at the door, a sense of foreboding on his face.

"Yes," I thundered, "yes, I did. Was this boy let in by you?"

Robert nodded sheepishly.

"Well, I feel he is unjustified to march into this room demanding –"

"It is about my mother!" Connor shouted.

My mouth hung open. A finger – jabbing angrily at my son – retracted. I couldn't meet his eye, afraid it might scorch me. The impact of Connor's words burned with the heat of dramatic silence. Robert didn't know where to look. Connor's chest heaved like a heartbeat. He was unmoving; time had almost stopped. Just at the mention of Ziio.

Slowly – very slowly – I took a step back. And another. I felt myself land on the chair behind, closing my eyes.

Ziio. He has come to talk about Ziio.
Do not give in, Haytham.
No. I want answers.

I dipped my head towards Robert. "Leave us."

The man's eyes seemed to bulge from his skull, but he half-nodded and left, closing the door carefully. I listened as his footsteps got further away...then Connor sprung to life.

"Apology accepted, Father," he sneered.

"Sit." My voice was toneless as he found a chair opposite me. He made himself comfortable, placing his elbows on the desk.

"When you spoke of my mother last we met, I returned home with your story on my mind."

"And I suppose you believe me now, do you?" My voice was dry, sceptic.

"I am as perplexed as you. If my mother made it as far as the valley, but never home to the village, what happened to her?"

It was odd, hearing Ziio addressed as 'mother'. It suited her...had suited her. I sighed. "I'd like to believe she is alive. Doctrine, naturally."

"As would any man," Connor murmured thoughtfully. "Even me."

Sweet as these words were, I was in no mood to have a heart-to-heart with my son. "Where on earth is this going, Connor?"

"When I arrived home, I thought of everything you said. You mentioned a Templar meeting the night before she left?"

How did he remember that? "I believe so."

"Where was Mother during this meeting?"

"Upstairs..." I struggled (even thinking about her was hard). "In the spare...bed chamber."

Connor nodded. "Were the Templars aware of her presence?"

"No."

"Is it possible that they could've discovered her sleeping?"

I wasn't expecting that. "I...well, no. They were with me throughout the evening. Oh, wait! They weren't. I was called outside for something or other – and Benjamin soon led me back out there again. But...is that not a little far-fetched? I only left the room for a short while. It is unlikely."

Instead of speaking, Connor reached into his leather belt. He rummaged around, and produced it: the small oblong object. It was a tattered red book, with string bindings around the front. I opened my mouth inquiringly; he slapped it down on the desk.

"That's not what it says in here."

"What is that?"

"The journal of William Johnson," Connor said proudly. "I obtained it from his pocket when I killed him."

I scoffed. "What kind of fool carries a diary in their pocket?"

"Come closer," he ordered. "Look."

As I moved my chair to look, Connor began thumbing through the pages. I seated myself where I could read the writing; I was a little closer to my son than I would've liked. Oddly, he didn't seem uncomfortable. His bronze finger – all but identical to mine – pointed to a title inscribed in black.

"'August the twentieth, seventeen-sixty'," I recited...then gasped. "That was the night before Ziio left!"

"Precisely," Connor nodded. "Read the first paragraph."

My stomach dropped in trepidation. Did I want to hear this? "'My suspicions were correct. After some considerable digging, we found the answer to all our questions, asleep in Haytham's bed. That Kanien'kehá:ka woman.'" The words were a blow to the chest. "Oh my Lord."

"And the worst is still to come," Connor mumbled. "Continue."

Biting my lip, I mustered the strength to do so. "''But how?' we all wondered. How indeed. Last I saw her, she was in that village Washington came to. He disrupted our little rendezvous with the tribe. Charles in particular cursed his name, knowing there was now little chance of ever finding the precursor site. But...surely the woman would've died in that fire? How did she escape? It matters little, in the end. Perhaps her affair with Haytham never fully finished. But it explains everything. Why he refused to visit the tribe, why he was so secretive when I stayed the night...everything.'"

Even as I read, I felt my voice grow weak. Why hadn't I realised before? William requested that meeting to find Ziio, to answer his questions. The secretive bastard, I thought, still in shock.

"It gets worse." Connor moved the book over to his side, squinting at the manuscript. "'Twenty-fourth of August, seventeen-sixty: I write with a shaking hand, for my writing arm has been injured. We underestimated her.'"

"Wha –" I stammered. "Underestimated?"

He returned my worried glance, though he'd doubtless read these words before. "'As she said she would, the woman walked by the valley in the early hours of the morning. We were already waiting.'"

I couldn't believe it. Surely this was false? They were waiting...to do what? Who were 'we', in any case? Did I want to know? "Impossible..." I breathed.

"Johnson did not kill Mother, if that is what you are wondering," Connor reassured.

"How do you know this?"

"By what follows. Listen: 'It was I who gagged her as she walked past my hiding spot. As a reflex, the woman pulled out a knife. I wasn't expecting it. She stabbed blindly, I think, but I was unfortunate enough to be caught by the shoulder. My coat protected me from the blow at most...but it was enough. I was out of what had become a furious fight. Eventually, Charles, Benjamin and Thomas managed to gag her unconscious; we took her home.'"

Gagged. Stabbed blindly. Furious fight. Took her home. That was enough for me to explode. Questions raged like rogue winds; It wouldn't sink in. Suddenly, as I was staring at the writing (as if it'd disappear), I remembered something. "Yes...I recall William coming to his next meeting with a bandage. And that was...Ziio..." The sentiment was numb on my lips.

"It explains how I presumed her dead," Connor confirmed. "Your men knew something they ought to have forgotten. They knew Mother from before. They wanted something from her."

"The Braddock Expedition. We had a temporary alliance with your tribe, the year before you were born. That was –"

"How you met her."

I glanced at my son, astonished that we could speak of Ziio like this. It was a familiar feeling, and one that I missed. It didn't last: soon, I spoke. "What did they want from Ziio?"

"It's obvious, is it not? They wanted my mother for precursor information, because with other tribe members who could fend for themselves, the Templars stood no chance."

My men were her abductors.
They had a secret, all these years...shouldn't I feel shocked? Twisted? Betrayed?

But for some reason, it came as no surprise. Instead, it came with a dark and sour sensation. Under all these suppressed emotions, I hardly recognised it: hatred. Hatred for the people I called my men; the people who my trust for had dwindled over time. Some were dead, some alive. All were purest, sinner's evil.

Deal with your hatred later. You want answers, remember?

"What happened to her?"

Connor began thumbing the pages again, skipping forward in time. "Johnson was not a regular diary-keeper. Rather than enter a short note each day, he'd scatter several entries in the space of a week. Then he'd forget for months. There are few clues, but he does explicitly mention one thing."

"What was that?"

"When Mother came round later..." His voice began to crack. Connor thumped his chest, clearing his throat. "When Mother came round later, they were unsure of what to do with her. William mentioned that she would be 'a useful attribute to future projects'. And by that, he meant the building of his new house. Johnson Hall?"

"What did he do, Connor?" I closed my eyes in worry.

"He...he kept her as a slave in his household."

"He did what?" I bellowed explosively.

"She was among the many who crafted that house. According to this journal, she made several attempts to escape–"

"But...I was there!" It wasn't true. Surely not. "I was a frequent visitor at Johnson Hall, and I never saw –"

"Then he must've locked her away whenever you came," Connor interrupted. "She is mentioned by name."

"I –" Shaking with fury for William, I stopped. "Sorry. I'm just...shocked that something so atrocious could've become of Ziio...so, what about when the house was finished?"

"She became a slave within the premises," Connor replied. He was finding this hard to talk about too; tears glistened in his eyes. "Mother served under Johnson's wife, Molly. But one day, she had her transferred."

"What? To where?"

"You are aware of the plantation Johnson owned during his lifetime?"

"Vaguely," I replied. "He mentioned it once or twice." And you threw the tea from it overboard, three years ago.

"The theory I have gathered is that Molly Johnson did not want slaves in their household. She found them intrusive, and wanted to be rid of them. So she transported them all."

My head was hurting. Through all the pain, all the disgust, confusion and hatred...my mind was beginning to settle. It was coming to a conclusion: a glorious feeling that made my stomach elate, and my eyes widen. "So, what you've come to tell me is...that Ziio could be...alive. Living on this plantation, you say?"

"There is no harm in searching. If there is even a chance that she is alive, then I will not waste it."

It didn't seem real. Only days ago, I thought she was living and well. The next, Ziio was reported dead, and now this. I was expecting to wake up, and realise Connor was an illusion. I blinked...and Johnson's diary was still there, staring back at me. Living proof. "What do you propose?"

"As soon as we have killed Benjamin Church, we set course for the plantation. We will need to plan this in more detail." Connor seemed to resent saying it; he wanted to leap aboard a ship and find Ziio now.

"Of course. And a promise is a promise. We need to find out where Church is, first –"

"I know where he is."

I drew away from my son in surprise. "You do?"

"There were some officials in Martha's Vineyard," he purred. "It took a little eavesdropping, but Church is headed for Martinique by ship. He leaves today."

My mind was full to the brim; I hardly bothered contemplating that. "I see. No doubt when I next see Charles, he'll tell me the same." Charles. He did...the unthinkable... "But Church'll be days ahead of us, by then."

"I have a ship we can use," Connor piped up. Well, if nothing else, this boy was organised.

"Excellent. We'll have to discuss further plans when I've met with...Lee." I couldn't bring myself to use Charles' name. It tasted like bile when I tried last time.

"So...you're in?" He sounded astonished. "You really want to pursue this mission?"

In that moment, Connor's face was soft. Perhaps he was taken aback by the thought. He'd assumed I'd forgotten about his mother; I'd moved on like a man should. But no. He and I were weak in the same places, and that – I came to realise – was a chance to bond. If I didn't pursue this, I'd be asking never to see Ziio again. If she was alive, that was. This was a chance for us to be family...away from the Templar Crest; the Assassin enigma.

I smiled: the first time I had done in a while. "Without a doubt."

Wow, long chapter and LOTS of revelations there! I absolutely loved writing this bit! Sorry to punch out chapters so quickly – I'll probably hit a plot-hole and slow down again, but hey! Making the most of it while it lasts...

Thanks as ever for reading. Hope you enjoyed!