*One eternity later*

Gosh, 40 days has never gone so quickly...I'm so sorry for how long this took. I don't blame you if you've completely forgotten the story line now ;)

I don't know about you but...my life has moved so quickly in the past month I can't keep up! Results, end of summer, new school, new friends...you know, it's been pretty crazy. If you got results over summer, how did you do? :O I wanna know so I can be proud of you however you did!

So, I was meant to finish Everbound by the end of the summer but that was probably a bit ambitious. A-Levels are so weird! I need to learn to manage my time better hehe...

Enjoy the next instalment! Reviews are ALWAYS appreciated. :)

HAYTHAM

Fort George.

Last I set foot in these grounds, I would have walked with dignity. I would've sat tall and proud on my horse like the Grandmaster I was. Now, in the mild autumn breeze, I could feel myself retracting internally. Shrinking to the size of my hope for this plan.

It wouldn't work.

I stared at the gate to the fort from several hundred yards away. Had Ziio received my message? I wondered. She was intelligent beyond recognition; she would be able to decode the subtle clues I left. I couldn't make them too obvious.

How had the Templars found us in the night? And why slip me a note rather than kidnap both of us, taking the artefacts as they did? It only made me more convinced it was a trap. But I would have to pretend to go along with it until reinforcements arrived...if reinforcements arrived. My son was in there, after all.

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and reached for my gun. The moment I stroked the wood, I was reassured enough. I could protect myself for the time being. It all depended on how quickly Ziio could find help. Then, it was life and death.

"Hiah!" I kicked my horse into a tense trot, inhaling air and exhaling tension. As I approached, I could hear scarcely a sound from inside the walls. They were weathered as an old gravestone; seemingly its only cement was the moss growing between the cracks. Long time, no see. I supposed Charles had better things to do than housekeep this rubble heap, however.

Two guards – one on either side of the gate – tapped the edges of their muskets like beating sticks. Their uniform was almost identical to the Templar clothing I wore, only less embroidered. One of them took a step forward. "Halt! Who goes there?"

Should I lie?
No, they expect you.

"Haytham Kenway," I announced, in what I hoped was a quiver-free tone. "I have come to speak with Charles Lee."

The two white men looked at each other, nodded, and stood apart from the gate. The great grinding of chains was what I heard next. As the drawbridge-like doors opened slowly, I craned my neck to look up. There were guards in every tower. They must have known I was coming.

Well, at least they didn't shoot me on the spot.

I nodded a false thanks to the two guards, and kicked my horse lightly. As she walked forward, the view of the crumbling walls peeled away. Instead my vision was filled with the fort's interior. How much it had changed. The brick buildings were rickety; unrecognisably so. Outside them, the grass was unkempt and shaded by the buildings' shadows. Guards looked up from whatever they were doing as I rode through. To seem intimidating, I looked a few of them in the eye. I read signs from their simple young faces: this was part of their plan.

Still, I sat tall and preened (for someone who made love in a forest last night). I scanned the area again for Charles. If he expected me, where was the bastard? Last I saw the man in person, I was unaware that he raped Ziio. Fortunate for him. I would have cut off his bollocks myself; watched him bleed out the manhood he thought he had. But today was not that day. This was about Connor.

Another thing I noticed, in every corner and crevice, were the stacks of barrels. Barrels everywhere...but what for? What was in them?

A man stopped dead in front of me, rolling one such barrel. He stood up taller, straightened his uniform and asked: "You 'ere to see Lee?"

"That I am. Where is he?"

In response, the man took his charcoaled hands off the barrel and wolf-whistled. "Harvey! It's him."

Seemingly nothing happened, until I saw movement from one of the towers a few hundred yards off. One of the guards rushed into the tower's entrance (he had to be Harvey). Suddenly my nostrils ceased breathing. Instead, the air around me tasted of something stronger than tension. Rage. I felt it building in my lungs, much suppressed over the time I'd wanted to kill Charles for.

I had to remain calm. Even if he was stood there in front of me, in all his rapist repulsion, I could not kill him. I would keep my fury caged like I knew I could. Connor's life could have depended on it.

The guard in the tower re-emerged, this time with two other people. One – in a sand-coloured waistcoat – was Thomas Flood. He strode slightly ahead of the other man; all six foot of him. Charles.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

As he descended the wooden steps to the left, the new Grandmaster did not look me in the eye. All I saw was his thick moustache twitch, like he'd sniffed something foul. He swished his cloak in what he must've thought was a grand manner. Inwardly I prayed that I'd never been this arrogant when I was Grandmaster of the Colonial Templars.

It was only when he reached the bottom with the other two men when, ritualistically, the man with the barrel marched over in a line to join them. I stared down my nose at the four Templars, all of different ranks. The two guards on the edge clutched their muskets uncertainly, as if waiting for a signal. Flood 's eyes flashed at the artefacts in the saddle pouch. Charles seemed to be the only expressionless man. That only filled me with more disgust.

Say something, why don't you.

"Greetings, Haytham," he said with false amity. "I trust you came unarmed."

"I wouldn't be so witless," I scoffed.

A menacing flash of those frozen eyes. "Very well. Surrender your weapons...and then we may talk as equals."

"I haven't the patience for this, Charles. Where is he?"

"Drop...your...weapons."

His hiss did not intimidate me in the slightest. It did, however, make me remember that my son would not be free if I was armed. Besides, I could not attack anyone out in the open. Not alone. Sighing pointedly, I stripped my hidden blades from my wrists and watched them clatter to the ground. When I looked up at the four men again, both Flood and Charles raised an eyebrow.

They knew me too well. They knew those weren't the only weapons I'd brought. Begrudgingly I reached for my sword and my pistol. One of the guards stepped forth to collect all of the items. Just to make a point, I hissed: "And don't you dare scratch it." as I handed over my perfectly polished pistol.

When they were all assembled in single file again, Flood grinned toothlessly. It was then when it hit me. I may have been several levels above them, but I did not have the upper hand. Not yet; not at all. This was not a peaceful meeting. I was turning myself in. I was admitting defeat.

I was powerless.

"Dismount," Flood ordered.

He took great pleasure in watching me writhe in the saddle. My gut swelled – and not with elation. I was their slave now. It had been decades since I'd had to take orders from anyone. Arrogant, perhaps, but it was a miserable experience. Nonetheless I swung my leg over my mare's side, stepping down onto the pathway where the other men stood. As soon as my feet crunched against the ground, Harvey approached to take the reins from me.

I couldn't help but scowl.

The young guard encouraged my mare to turn around. Even she seemed to snarl at him. The pouch containing the artefacts sagged clumsily on her flank. Charles walked up to it dutifully, ritualistically. There was an odd sparkle in his piercing eyes; he had waited for this moment for most of his career. Finally, he had his answers. Finally, he could reach out and pluck the Precursor box from the pouch. Finally, he could feel the amulet in his fingers once more.

Temporarily, I thought as he held the artefacts. Do not grow used to it, you supercilious wretch.

I let him have his several moments of staring. I let him have the satisfaction of savouring his victory. I even ignored Flood and the other two guards, as they undressed the artefacts with their eyes. They – like the rest of us – wondered what secrets they held within.

Then I grew bored. I cleared my throat sardonically. "Once you're quite done. You have what you asked for. I ask again: where is Connor?"

"You will follow me," said Flood gruffly. "But..." And he reached across to the guard taking my pistol and pointing it at me. "You will walk in front of me. You will not resist, you will not struggle, you will not talk. Are we clear?"

I could have snorted in disgust. What was this? Anyone would think I was the hostage. Still, I had to play along. For now. I put my hands behind my back and marched satirically in front of Flood. He clicked a bullet into the chamber, jabbing the barrel into my back. "Walk forward."

This was by far the most unusual mission I'd been on. I rolled my eyes at Charles' satisfaction, ambling past the men where Flood led me. His stride was brisk; I could feel his breath down my collar. Had I not been thoroughly frayed and impatient to see my son, I would have found their efforts comical. All of the Templars had gone to an incredulous extent to make me uncomfortable. How low could they sink?

Lower, it would seem. Flood resorted to taunts, pressing the gun into my spine. "Far as the law goes, you are officially a prisoner of war. Traitor of the Continental Army. How does it feel to be the underdog, Haytham?"

I said nothing; I had no other choice. Flood gave me a rough push down a set of stone steps, smothered by darkness. It was an underground tunnel. None of it was torch-lit, but from the daylight which escaped its path into this lowly room, I could see it was extensive. But we were not headed in that direction. Flood pushed me down more spiralling stone stairs. I presumed this was some sort of dungeon. Surely there would have been windows at ground level, in which case?

"Let us make this clear again," he snarled, his voice rising in a reverb around the spiral, "you are to make no attempt to escape. Nor are you to attack or aggress any Templar or guard, or any other who enters this fort. Remember, whatever blow you deliver to us, we will return it...to you, to your son...to as many as we see fit."

"You take me for a fool, Thomas."

He did not reply, to which I was conspicuously grateful. I had prepared myself for many more taunts; for much more backlash than this. But what was that on the opportunity to finally kill Charles Lee? I felt the dark glint of satisfaction within me. How long I had waited for this day. But how I wished I did not have to play prisoner.

It mattered little. She would come. Ziio would come for me.

Pondering on which Kenway had the most right to kill Charles, I noticed that the corridor stopped. Before me were rows two of cell doors, miserably lit by half a dozen torches. One guard stood by the end cell, for that appeared to be the only one vacant. I could see neither his nor the prisoner's face, but I knew who it was.

I resisted the urge to call Connor's name: how could sentiment involuntarily surface at a time like this? No, I maintained my act as I marched – dignified as possible – down the row. I strained to look more closely at Connor. There was not much to see (only his back to me and the guard), but oh, what a relief it was to see him unharmed. He was clothed in only a muddied shirt; the sort a peasant would wear toiling the fields. It reminded me of when I first met him as an adult...but now was not the time to reminisce.

"Put him in that cell there," Flood indicated to the faceless guard. "All we have to do now is wait."

Wait for what?

At this, even Connor's head raised to look at me. We only locked eyes for a moment, but it filled me with the tenderness of a new mother. Connor's eyes seemed to blend with the cold and the dark, with rings contouring his face, but it was him. His square shoulders could cut stone with how tense they looked. I wondered how long it had been since he'd eaten, drank; how long it had been since he even moved. He looked dreadful. It comforted me to see him, yet worried me to see him in this state.

It was only natural. I was his father.

Roughly shoving me into the cell at a right-angle to Connor's, Flood turned smugly on his heel and left. I watched him spinning my pistol on his finger, the bastard. But it was soon overshadowed by the keys jangling in the door of my cramped, stone cell. I was locked in...for now. I sat down to be on the same level as Connor; to look at him properly.

And my fatherly affection spilled like a sudden gasp for air. "Connor...it's so relieving to see you..."

His cracked lips broke into a smile – momentarily. The urge to hold him was unbearable, with him at that distance. "Father," he rasped. "Why are you here? What happened? Where is Mother?"

I glanced at the guard, then back into Connor's tired eyes. "I cannot say. But I have absolute faith that she is safe."

At this, the guard stood outside my cell gave a snort, with no attempt to conceal it. I wondered for a moment if this was part of the Templars' scheme to make me uncomfortable.

"Why were you not surprised to see me?" I asked Connor. "Did you expect me?"

Whatever colour was spread lightly across his face, was absorbed just then. He eyed the guard and then me; his voice was sombre as his face. "You have not seen."

"Seen what?"

"You have not seen him yet. Were you expecting him? You did not seem surprised when you came here."

"Wha...? Connor, what in the world do you mean?"

The guard must have caught Connor and myself glancing at him. He paced over to one of the torches on the far wall; I heard him pick it up and carry it. His shadow flickered on the wall before I could see his face. But when he came into view...

Everything changed.

All of a sudden, the fragments and mysteries from two decades fell into place. They were like sharp shards flying into my eyes, blinding me with reason. I was shocked, yet I understood. It made all the sense in the world, and yet none at all. It was the powerful shock I'd had for a very long time. But why was I not in complete denial? Why wasn't my head spinning into a stupor? Why was the blood not racing through my veins? If I was stupefied – utterly stupefied – then why was my mind still calm?

Because it all made sense.

"At last," sneered the voice of my butler. "I thought you'd never notice."

And I looked my traitor in the eye. "Robert..."

INTERMEZZO SIX

Eva had barely stopped pacing all evening.

She had been in New York but four hours, yet her nerves were not settled. Where were Haytham and Ziio? Where was Connor? Was he not meant to be leading the assault?

The pitiful flickering of a candle made this underground base seem like a lair. Eva was trapped alone; just her and her thoughts.

All she had to do was retreat into the library of the Assassins' den. There were all the men and women she'd summoned: Toby, Hamish, François, countless freedmen and women...even Aveline happened to be on a mission close by and had dropped it in pursuit of aiding the Kenways.

She was far from alone. But in that dark front room, Eva was rickety as the furniture. The good side was, she did not have to suppress her fear when she was alone. She could stand with her fingers clutching her lips; she could stare at her sorry, robed reflection in the mirror by the window.

The door opened behind her. She turned as two figures entered: one was Adam, owner of the Fox Den. The figure he brought in behind him was exactly whom Eva wanted to see. In fact, she immediately dropped most of her worry on seeing this face enter.

Most of it.

"Eva?"

"Ziio!" she burst out, rushing to embrace the woman. "Oh, thank God...thank God you are alive..."

Ziio squeezed the Assassin's shoulders, reaching to hold her face. "Eva? What are you doing here?"

"We heard of Connor's abduction," she breathed. "Never mind that right now. Goodness, I thought you had pursued him alone...thank God you're here." She pulled away from the embrace, stepping back to regard Ziio properly. Both she and Adam were dappled in rainwater. That rose a question: "How did you find us?"

"She rode for the Fox Den to warn me," Adam announced, "as soon as she received the note."

Eva's head whipped sharply. "What note?"

There was a pregnant pause, in which Ziio and Adam looked at each other. Eva should have worked it out sooner, had she been in her fit frame of mind to do so. But she couldn't. As Adam pulled a dampened parchment from his pocket, Eva asked: "Where is Haytham? Was he with you?"

She looked into Ziio's eyes, desperate for some form of acknowledgement. Nothing. Adam handed her the parchment expressionlessly...but no. She would not allow such assumptions! It was impossible! Notwithstanding she gasped: "Is he –"

"I do not know," Ziio answered calmly. In the awkward pause she reached to adjust her hidden blade. "Read the letter."

Once she'd read it through, her face locked into a tension of understanding. She regarded Haytham's lover gravely, noting the weight beneath her eyes. The world seemed to be catching up on her.

"Haytham left a message with it." Ziio stepped forth to point to the holes in the paper. It spells: 'Plantation' and 'warn Eva'. So I came to relay a message to you...but you were already here."

Still processing, Eva kept a calmness in her feline face. "I'm glad you showed me this. We could have launched an assault on Fort George not knowing that Connor and Haytham were there."

"'We'?" Ziio repeated. "Who else is there? And how did you hear of Ratohnhaké:ton's abduction?"

Eva chose to answer only one of these questions. "A freedwoman witnessed it. Akua? She oversees the pastoral care of the children of the homestead." She stopped to let Ziio nod in acknowledgement. "She went straight to Jasmine; told her of the bloodshed –"

"Bloodshed?" Ziio cried. "What bloodshed?"

Eva held out an authoritative hand. "Wait," she said. "Akua and Jasmine rode to my homestead in the dead of night. They repeated what they knew to me and George."

Ziio was about to ask of George; of her children under his care, but did not. "And the bloodshed?"

The younger Assassin looked at Adam glumly. "Do you know?"

"I was told," he sighed, "that some brave women jumped on the cart. Connor was sedated, so he could not defend himself. They tried to stop the wagon from moving. But there were half a dozen horses. There were dozens of soldiers. Those girls tried...but they were shot where they stood."

Ziio hung her head. Yet another tragedy to the Brotherhood. It may have been Eva's imagination, but the rings around her eyes seemed to grow deeper. "How many died that day?"

"You can ask Akua yourself."

The hooded figure perked somewhat. "She is here?"

"All of us are here. Myself, Jasmine, Toby, Hamish...even Aveline. And they will be thrilled to see you in one piece."

"Where are they?" Ziio demanded with enthusiasm.

Eva turned slightly, indicating the door. "Follow me. We must discuss a plan of action."

HAYTHAM

"You see? You barely noticed I was here. Look how much your intuition has faded, Haytham."

It was not Robert's voice, but somehow, it was. It was no longer the monosyllabic, attempted sophistication he used when serving me: it was a leer, a curl of his scarred lip, and a look down his broken nose. A side of him which was foreign...but unsurprising.

But how had I missed this? Robert had been a traitor to me, that was certain. The question was: for how long? When did Charles ask him to be my inside spy? Perhaps it was not Charles; perhaps it was out of his own accord...

I could not form a coherent emotion in response. I felt far too stretched in every sentimental direction. Instead I put my hand against the wall, and spoke frostily to my cracked knuckles: "I knew. I knew it was you."

"Then why did you take no action, Master Kenway?"

Silence. I looked from Connor to Robert; Robert to Connor. My son's every muscle was grasped with contempt. Nothing but nervous exhaustion. He seemed to shoulder away from me, as if blaming me for talking to my butler. Nonetheless I did.

"I was never your master."

"Fortunately so." He lent closer to the bars, spitting every syllable like venom: " I would not be half the man I am if it weren't for Master Lee. He is a strong leader. He has conviction and gut, unlike you."

"But," rasped Connor suddenly, "you served his children. You knew what Charles Lee did to our mother." And his anguish overtook him as he barked: "Is that a good man, Robert? Is that a good man?"

"The whore did not resist," Robert lashed out at Connor and struck the bars of the cell. "She asked for it. She asked for what was given!"

The words made my stomach twist and churn, until it was as disfigured as the heart of the speaker. It made me see what Charles had moulded the story into. As soon as he remembered he'd violated Ziio, he must have changed the story in his favour. I was so tense with negativity anyhow, that I was able to contain my fury.

Connor was not. In a spontaneous impulse he hit the cage bars with his palm. As they rattled he bared his teeth; a series of Mohawk expletives tumbled out. Had he been free, he'd have snapped the butler's neck between his thumb and forefinger. I flinched at this: he should have saved his energy for when Ziio freed us.

"I never knew you were such a twisted bastard," I muttered monotonously on silence. "That was what kept me from assuming you were the traitor."

"That I am, to you at least. But I am not the twisted one."

We both turned to my son, the anger still resting on his brow. "How did you know? Father, how did you know? Why did you not act if you knew?" His voice cracked desperately. "All of this could have been prevented. All of it!"

"No, don't be such a child. It couldn't have," I snapped, hearing my voice reverb around the miserable walls. "Charles would have used another inside man, regardless." The resonance of my own voice gave me sour confidence; I sneered at Robert: "So? When did you become a Templar? Who brainwashed you?"

"It was the night before Ziio's journey home," he said without hesitating. "That humble stable boy, I was. Do you remember what you had me do that night, Haytham? While you dined with your little congregation?"

To myself, not to him: "You were in the stables."

"Correct." With a sweeping hand gesture, Robert paced the prison. He did not recount – he performed. He was loving this attention; the attention I never gave him as a butler. "The horse was ill, and I came into see you. Ah, but that was genuine. The men searched, found your mistress, and I kept my mouth closed. I let them find her."

I remembered it: that awkward, dysfunctional meeting. I remembered Robert – barely older than fifteen – coming in and declaring that the horse was ill. But why bother telling me this? Ah. That was when it clicked. "They poisoned Bonnie. They must have poisoned the horse to look for Ziio. But how did they have the intuition? What made them believe she might be there?"

"The Templars have eyes and ears everywhere," said Connor aggressively. "But you were no Templar then, were you, Robert? Go on, tell my father. When were you inducted? When were you bribed?"

Bribed?

"Ah, such a false word." His laugh turned somewhat hysterical; his ugly scars and broken nose morphed into that of a madman. "After Ziio's return in 1776, the incident was long dislodged from my mind. Why would I have cared? Well, that was until I met Charles. And he offered, so selflessly, to provide for my ill wife Couldn't put a dammed penny towards it myself, with what you paid me. But he asked only one thing of me: that I keep him updated on your activity. And that I did."

Robert had an ill wife? Is she still alive?

Something within me allowed guilt to pinprick my heart. All he had to do was tell me. I would have been much more generous; I would have set aside some of the Assassins' own funds to help him. In a world where he was not a Templar, of course. See, the fact did not even shock me. I looked at my butler – my traitor – and saw how the blue coat suited him. I saw the youth beneath the scars: it was clear how malleable he must have been. An easy target for Charles.

"And over time he taught me the true nature of your work. He showed me that you were a corrupt and ruthless man." Robert stopped to face me, looking down for a child's attempt at intimidation. "I see it now. He was right. He told me of the artefacts (yes, I knew)...but I was not to steal them yet. I had to taunt you."

"Pathetic," I scoffed. "Pray, tell me: did you enjoy your little boy's play at power, or did Lee cast you aside like the rest?"

"Don't speak to me about power. Who is the prisoner now?"

I fell silent, not because he was right, but because I decided against snide remarks now. It was all in vain. I would have to play prisoner for now. The quiet seemed to drip down the walls, slide beneath my back and fill me with cold. I expected Robert to say something; to do something impulsive and deranged. But it was not he who spoke.

"So you sent the letters," Connor murmured. "The gashed rings. You burned the huts, and...you gave Charles the spare key to Father's home!"

Of course he did.

"You had to expect it, Connor. Some people will be bought for as little as pride."

"Huh. You act as if my words mean nothing." Robert swaggered around, in a way which looked out of place for his character. After doing a little circuit between mine and Connor's cells, he peered through the bars of mine and scowled at me. "Did you not value Jack Wilding, your leader? Prudence Barnes? And...Soyala?"

He watched to see if I would squirm at the names. I did not, but Connor glared on Soyala's name. On his mother's behalf, he'd have stabbed this bastard there and then. I was too busy thinking it through: Robert pre-warned Charles of the infiltration. That was why the Templars knew of the Assassins' coming. Toby said they were everywhere.

"I had them killed, you know. I did you all a favour." Hysterically, he sniggered and tilted his head to whisper at me: "It was about time you purified your Brotherhood of the old. The weak. The impure."

It was then when I saw the madness in his eyes: power had driven him to ruin. Part of his face was still unbroken, not yet moulded. It was his childlike innocence in its dusting of freckles. Poor boy. He'd had so much potential; always so obedient and moral...but Charles had moulded him into this. Now at thirty years or more, the man was a twisted, prejudiced mess.

"There is one thing I cannot understand." I looked him in the unloving eye. "Why wag your tail at the people who beat and abused you? Broke your nose? Made a permanent eyesore of you?"

"That was my mistake," he said, shaking his head as if to himself. "The plan was to hold Aaron and Alexa at gunpoint while you handed over the artefacts. But you were out, and I neglected to tell them that. A fatal mistake. But Charles covered my tracks very well."

"Your tracks will never be covered," Connor growled. "Now we know everything you have done."

At last, at that moment, I managed to take a step back from it all. I entered the depths of my own mind. I was blind to Robert's disfigured face; to Connor's unusual irrationality. The cold of the stone walls against my coat, the insects and filth caking the place, the echoes of nothing but truth around the spiral stairs above. At last I could think.

No. Something about this still is not right. Why would he reveal all this information? Why would he be comfortable with telling us all of this?

It was difficult to focus on the possibilities...but I could think of just one.

There has to be more to this plot. There has to be.

When I snapped back into focus, Robert was cackling – not laughing, cackling – at Connor. "So young; so naive," he almost sang. "How do you think we found your father? Did you really think we didn't know where you ran?"

I tucked my knees into my arms, like a child shrinking into the wall. How could I be so blind? It didn't matter where I ran to; it didn't matter where Shay led us. We would never be safe. The Templars found us. The Templars rode into the forest last night and delivered Connor's hostage note in Robert's handwriting.

Robert's handwriting.

How had I missed that? How? How could I ever extinguish my intuition; let tiredness cloud my vision when I needed it most? How could –

Wait. That letter was only addressed to me. Not to myself and Ziio – only me.

Why not Ziio? And why did the Templars not simply abduct me, if they wanted me so much? What would they want from me which Ziio could not give them?

"Ah, but he remains still. Inside he ponders. He worries. He is holding on to the little manhood he has left." When I looked in Robert's eyes next, I saw no more goodness in him. All I saw – in that darkened room with his shadow flickering, haunting on the wall – was evil. Unwavering, unadulterated evil. "We know they are coming, you know. The Assassins...the Fleet...Ziio...and my god, what a bloodbath this will be."

My God...

Robert saw something that none of my enemies ever saw in me, just then. Panic. Sheer and utter panic. I felt like my lungs were collapsing; spurting; falling all over the dungeon floor. He knew. He knew Ziio was coming. He knew about the Assassins. She was going...she was going...

"I cannot wait to watch you watch her die, Haytham. I simply cannot wait."

Ziio was going to die.

It was unfathomable. How? How did they know? How did they know that the Assassins were coming? Was I that predictable? And the Fleet: there was no Connor to command it...so it would fail. It would sink; all of those people would drown.

And Ziio. My God, Ziio.

No, no, no, no, no. She couldn't die. I felt my flesh ebbing with the thought. My heart jerked so violently, it wanted to rip me from this cell and hurl me from wall to wall. I looked down at my hands to see them shaking, my knuckles the shade of death.

She cannot die, I screamed to myself. She cannot die. She cannot die. She can't!

"No," Connor panted. "You are wrong. My mother will not die today. She will never be slain by you, or any other Templar!"

"That may be true," Robert sniggered. "You forget, Connor: we have a force of thousands. Charles would never miss this opportunity to slay so many Assassins at once. The Continental Army is assembling. And you thought you were the prisoners of war. Oh, no...you're just the bait. We had to leave one of the Kenway family roaming free, else there'd be no scent for the dogs to catch...or any dogs."

My lips were moving of their own accord; I mouthed a silent prayer for her. That was how helpless I had become; how desperate I was to see her alive. But oh, I knew where she would be now. I envisioned her riding along to Fort George, a pitiful band of Assassins traipsing behind her. And even if they did survive whatever battle was coming, I would be forced to watch Ziio executed as a prisoner of war.

No. The image made me permanently, horrifyingly sick. It was too painful to envisage her face, or any part of her body in detail. Because I knew what would become of it. Only exceptional luck – with a little skill – could save her now.

Please, my love. Please survive.