Revelations

FORTY-THREE

Altair, now in his sixties, but still a lean and vigorous man, sat on a stone bench outside a dwelling in the village of Masyaf, thinking. He was no stranger to adversity, and disaster seemed, once again, poised to strike. But he had kept the great, terrible artifact safe through it all. How much longer would his strength hold, to do so? How much longer would his back refuse to buckle under the blows Destiny rained on it?

His ponderings were interrupted-and the interruption was not unwelcome-by the appearance of his wife, Maria Thorpe, the Englishwoman who had once-long ago-been his enemy, a woman who had longed to be counted among the Company of the Templars.

Time and chance had changed all that. By then, after a long exile, they had returned to Masyaf. And they faced Fate together.

She joined him on the bench, sensing his lowered spirits. He told her his news.

“The Templars have retaken their Archive on Cyprus. Abbas Sofian sent no reinforcements to aid the defenders. It was a massacre.”

Maria’s lips parted in an expression of surprise and dismay. “How could God have permitted this?”

“Maria, listen to me. When we left Masyaf ten long years ago, our Order was strong. But since then, all our progress-all that we built-has been undone, dismantled.”

Her face was a mask of quiet fury. “Abbas must answer for this.”

“Answer to whom?” replied Altair, angrily. “The Assassins obey only his command now.”

She placed a hand on his arm. “Resist your desire for revenge, Altair. If you speak the truth, they will see the error of their ways.”

“Abbas executed our youngest son, Maria! He deserves to die!”

“Yes. But if you cannot win back the Brotherhood by honorable means, its foundation will crumble.”

Altair didn’t reply for a moment but sat silently, brooding, the subject of some deep inner struggle. But at last he looked up, and his face had cleared.

“You are right, Maria,” he said, calmly. “Thirty years ago, I let passion overtake my reason. I was headstrong and ambitious, and I caused a rift within the Brotherhood that has never fully healed.”

He rose, and Maria rose with him. Slowly, immersed in conversation, they walked through the dusty village.

“Speak reasonably, Altair, and reasonable men will listen,” she encouraged him.

“Some will, perhaps. But not Abbas.” Altair shook his head. “I should have expelled him thirty years ago when he tried to steal the Apple.”

“But my dear, you earned the respect of the other Assassins because you were merciful-you let him stay.”

He smiled at her slyly. “How do you know all this? You weren’t even there.”

She returned his smile. “I married a master storyteller,” she replied, lightly.

As they walked, they came into view of the massive hulk of the castle. But there was an air of neglect hanging over it, of desolation, even.

“Look at this place,” growled Altair. “Masyaf is a shadow of its former self.”

“We have been away a long time,” Maria reminded him, gently.

“But not in hiding,” he said, testily. “The threat from the Mongols-the Storm from the East, the hordes led by Khan Genghis-demanded our attention, and we rode to meet it. What man here can say the same?”

They walked on. A little later, Maria broke their silence by saying, “Where is our eldest son? Does Darim know that his brother is dead?”

“I sent Darim a message four days ago. With luck, it will have reached him by now.”

“Then we may see him soon.”

“If God wills it.” Altair paused. “You know, when I think of Abbas, I almost pity him. He wears his great grudge against us like a cloak.”

“His wound is deep, my darling. Perhaps… perhaps it will help him to hear the truth.”

But Altair shook his head. “It will not matter, not with him. A wounded heart sees all wisdom as the point of a knife.” He paused again, looking around him, at the handful of villagers who passed them with their eyes either lowered or averted. “As I walk through this village, I sense great fear in the people, not love.”

“Abbas has taken this place apart and robbed it of all joy.”

Altair stopped in his tracks and looked gravely at his wife. He searched her face, lined now, but still beautiful, and the eyes still clear, though he fancied he saw reflected in them all they had been through together. “We may be walking to our doom, Maria.”

She took his hand. “We may. But we walk together.”