THEOFFICIALMOVIENOVELIZATION

6253rdSt,SanFrancisco,CA94107,U.S.A.©2016UbisoftEntertainment.AllRightsReserved.Assassin’sCreed,Ubisoft,andtheUbisoftlogoaretrademarksofUbisoftEntertainmentintheU.S.and/orothercountries.PublishedbyUbisoft.Thepublisherdoesnothaveanycontroloveranddoesnotassumeanyresponsibilityforauthororthird-partywebsitesortheircontent.Nopartofthispublicationmaybereproduced,storedinaretrievalsystem,ortransmittedinanyformorbyanymeans,electronic,mechanical,photocopying,recording,orotherwise,withoutwrittenpermissionofthepublisher.Forinformationregardingpermission,writetoUbisoft,6253rdSt,SanFrancisco,CA94107Attention:LegalDepartment.Thisbookisaworkoffiction.Names,characters,places,andincidentsareeithertheproductoftheauthors’imaginationorareusedfictitiously,andanyresemblancetoactualpersons,livingordead,businessestablishments,events,orlocalesisentirelycoincidental.Specialthanks:YvesGuillemot,LaurentDetoc,AlainCore,GeoffroySardin,YannisMallat,GérardGuillemot,StephanieSimard,VirginieBourdin,MichaelFassbender,JustinKurzel,AndyNicholson,EtienneAllonier,AymarAzaïzia,AnoukBachman,AntoineCeszynski,MaximeDurand,RichardFarrese,JoshuaMeyer,VirginieGringarten,MarcMuraccini,CécileRusseil,FaceoutStudio,PaulNielsen,DerekThornton,TorreySharp,SébastienCourmont,SébastienDomergue,ElodieGonay,PhilippeLalande,Jean-FrancoisRenaud,MichaelBeadle,HeatherPond,JoanieSimms,DamianDale,MeganBeatie,AndrienGbinigie,StephaniePecaoco,SainSainThao,MichaelKwan,HectorRodriguez,ClémenceDeleuze,FrançoisTallec.ISBNePub978-1-945210-26-6BookdesignbyFaceoutStudio,DerekThorntonandPaulNielsen.CoverArt©2016TwentiethCenturyFoxFilmCorporationandUbisoftMotionPicturesAssassin’sCreed.AllRightsReserved.AdaptationtoelectronicformatbyStudioC1C4

ThisbookisdedicatedtoallthosewhohaveplayedandlovedtheAssassin’sCreedgames,butespeciallytoRyanPuckett,whohasalwaysdemonstratedkindnessand

generosityfarbeyondhisyears.

Forcenturies,theOrderoftheKnightsTemplarhavesearchedforthemythicalAppleofEden.

Theybelieveitcontainsnotonlytheseedsofman’sfirstdisobedience,butthekeytofreewillitself.

Iftheyfindtherelicanddecodeitssecrets,theywillhavethepowertocontrolallhumanthought.

OnlyabrotherhoodcalledtheAssassinsstandsintheirway....

PROLOGUE

T

ANDALUCIA,SPAIN1491

heskywasgoldenfire,gildingallit touched;therockyfacetsofthejuttingmountains, the city spread out below them, and the red tile roof of the

Moorishfortress,whichofferedupfireofitsownintheopencourtyard.The eagle soared through the whipping wind, winging its way toward its

eveningrestingplacebeforethegoldgavewaytothecoolerlavenderhuesofanencroaching night. Below, those who labored tending the forge and shapingbladespaidneithertheeagle,northewind,northeskyanyheed.

Their faceswereswathed inshadow,hiddenby thehoods theyallworeastheyworked;sharpeningfreshblades,pouringmoltenmetal toformnewones,and hammering red steel into gray obedience.No one spoke.The silencewasbrokenonlybythescrapingandclangingoftheirtask.

Outside the entrance of the great fortress stood a single figure. Tall,well-formed, and sleekwithmuscle, he was both somber and impatient.While heworeahoodliketheothers,hewasnottrulyoneofthem.

Notyet.Itwasinhisblood;thatmuchwasundeniable.Hisparentshadbeenpartof

theBrotherhoodhewasabouttopledgehislifetoprotect.Whenhehadbeenbutachild,hisparentshadtaughthimhowtofight,howtohide,howto leapandclimb,allintheguiseofplayoradventure.

Hehadbeentooyoung,tooinnocent,tounderstandthebrutalrealitybehindthelessonshewaslearning.Andthen,whenhewasolder,hisparentshadtoldhimwhotheywere,andwhattheyserved.Hehadnotlikedtheideathathewasnot the master of his own fate, and had been reluctant to follow in theirfootsteps.

Ithadcostthemall.Thegreatenemyhadsniffedthemout.Hadobservedtheirbehavior,theirhabits.Likepredators,theancientfoehad

culledhisparentsfromtheherd,fromtheirbrothersandsisters,anddescendedinnumberstoogreattoresist.

Andtheage-oldenemyhadslainthem.Notcleanly,withrespect,inafairfight,ohno.Notthisenemy.Thisenemy

hadboundthemwithchainstoastake.Hadplacedbundlesofwoodattheirfeet,doused the bundles—and them—with oil, and set them afire while crowdscheeredthehorrificspectacle.

Hehadnotbeen there,when theywere taken.Hehadwondered then, andstillwonderednow,asheshiftedhisweightfromonefoottotheother,ifhehadbeen,couldhehaveturnedthetide?ThemembersoftheBrotherhood,whohadcometoolate,assuredhimthatno,hecouldnothave.Notwithouttraining.

Themurderershadmadenoefforttohidetheirdeed,buthadratherboastedof capturing “infidels.”Tall,with a chest broader than a barrel, cold-eyed andcolder-hearted, thisman—Ojeda—had led theattack.AndhehadstoodbesideFather Tomás de Torquemada as the monster had condemned, then burned,Aguilar’sfamily.

Ithadbeentoolatetosavethem.Butitwasnottoolatetosavehimself.TheBrotherhoodhadturnedhimawayatfirst,questioninghismotives.But

Mariahadseeninhimmorethanadesireforrevenge.Shehadbrokenthroughhisrawgriefandinstinctive,impulsiveangertothemaninside,tosomeonewhocouldseebeyondtakingrevengeonthemanwhohadkilledhisfamily.

Tothemanwhoknewtherewasmoreinthisworldthatmatteredthanthosehehad loved—therewas theCreed.Something thatwouldoutliveallof them,andcouldbepassedontogenerationsyettocome.

TothechildrenofAssassins—likehehadbeen.Andso,hehadbeentrained.Someofitwaseasy,andheblessedhisparents

fortheirnurturanceofsuch“play.”Someofitwasharder,andheborescarsas

testamenttothetimeswhenhehadbeensloworinattentiveorsimplytooweary.Helearnedthehistoryofhislineage,andthecouragethatdrovewhatmust

seemlikemadrecklessnesstothosewhostoodontheoutside,whosepulsesdidnotquickenasthoseoftheBrotherhooddid.

Throughitall,wasMaria.Quicktolaugh,quickerwithherblades,sheseemedtothrumwithintensity

with every breath. She pushed himmercilessly when he flagged, praised himwhenhe succeeded, andnow, shewas inside,helpingwith the rite thatwouldmovehimtostandwherethespiritsofhismurderedfamilywouldhavehimbe.

Hesnappedoutofhisreveriewhenseveralofthehoodedformsappearedatthedoor, beckoninghim to follow. In silenceheobeyed,hisheart racingwithanticipation,butcultivatingcalmnessashewalkeddownthestairsintotheopenarea.Thesoundofchantingreachedhisears:“Laashay’awaqi’unmoutlaqbalekoulonmoumkine.”

Theotherhoodedfiguresstoodinaloosecirclearoundarectangulartableinthecenter.Atoneendstoodsomeoneclosetotheinitiate;Benedicto,theMentor,with whom he had trained and fought beside. He was a kind man, free withlaughter and praise, but the light of the candles on the table and the torchesflickeringintheirsconcesrevealedafacecurrentlydevoidoflighteremotions.

IthadbeenBenedicto,alongwithMaria,whohadreachedouttothebereftyoung man. He had not pretended he could replace the father that had beensnatched away fromabroken son, butBenedictohaddonewhat he could.Hehadearnedtherespectofeveryoneinattendance—includingtheinitiate.

Whenhespoke,hisvoicewasstrong,andheaddressedallpresent.“The Inquisition has finally delivered Spain to the Templars. Sultan

MuhammadandhispeoplestillholdoutinGranada.Butifhisson,theprince,iscaptured,hewillsurrenderthecityandtheAppleofEden.”

Thetattooedfaces,manyofthemsportingscars,remainedlargelyimpassive,butAguilarcouldfeelthetensionriseintheroomatthenews.Benedictolookedatthem,andseemedtobepleasedwithwhathesaw.

Hisdarkgazefinallyalightedontheinitiate.Itwastime.“Doyou,AguilardeNerha,sweartohonorourBrotherhoodinthefightfor

freedom?Todefendmankind against theTemplars’ tyranny, and preserve freewill?”

Aguilaransweredwithouthesitation.“Iswear.”Benedictocontinued,hisvoiceintense.“IftheApplefallsintotheirhands,theTemplarswilldestroyeverythingthat

standsintheirway.Protest,dissent…ourrighttothinkforourselves.Sweartomethatyouwillsacrificeyourlifeandthelivesofeveryoneheretokeepitfromthem.”

Aguilar sensed that thiswas not part of the standard ritual, thatBenedictowantedtomakecertainbeyondashadowofadoubtthatinthismostdangerousoftimes,theinitiatefullyunderstoodallthatmightbeaskedofhim.

ButAguilarhadnohesitation.“Yes,Mentor.”The Mentor’s brown eyes searched his, then he nodded, moving to step

beside Aguilar. He reached for the younger man’s right hand, wrapped withbandagesinanticipationoftherequiredsacrifice,bringingitdownnotungentlytorestuponablockofcarvedwoodbandedwithdecoratedmetal.

Therewereother,darkerdecorationsonthewoodaswell;stainsthehueofoldrust.

Benedicto took care to place Aguilar’s hand just so, and settled a two-pronged instrument over the younger man’s ring finger. Aguilar knew theMentorfelthimtense,despitehimself.

“Ourownlivesarenothing,”Benedictoremindedhim,hisgazeboringintoAguilar’s.“TheAppleiseverything.ThespiritoftheEaglewillwatchoverthefuture.”

Hismotherandfatherhadleftbehindalegacyoffiercelove,andahistoryAguilarnowachedtofollow.Theyhadalsolefthimbehind.Hehadthoughthewasalone,butinamoment,hewouldnotbe.Inamoment,hewouldhaveavastfamily—abrotherhood.

Benedictoshovedtheinstrumentdown,severingthefinger.Thepainwasexquisite.ButAguilarsteeledhimselfanddidnotcryout,nor

jerk back instinctively. Blood gushed, swiftly drenching the bandages thatsoakeditupgreedilyashebreatheddeeply,hissurvivalinstinctsvyingwiththedisciplineinstilledinhistraining.

Thebladehasbeenhoned toperfectsharpness,he toldhimself.The cut isclean.Itwillheal.

AndI,too,willheal.Mariawalked toward him, holding out an ornate gauntlet crafted ofmetal

and leather.Aguilarslippedhisarmincarefully,grittinghis teethsohewouldnotwinceashisfreshwoundscrapedagainstthegauntlet’sedge.Hewouldnotlookatit,wouldlookonlyatMaria,intothedepthsofherwarmblue-greeneyesrimmedwith dark kohl, her beauty enhancedby the tattoos that kissedher onforehead,chin,andbeneathbotheyes.

Maria,whohadcometohimfirst intheroleofakindsister,butwhoovertimehadbecomesomuchmore.Heknewallofher;herlaughter,herscent,thesoft puff of her breath against his skin as she slept in his arms.He knew thecurve of her thigh, and the strength of her arms as she playfully pinned himbeforerewardinghimwiththeheatofhermouth.

Buttherewasnoplayfulnessinthismoment.Mariawasmanythingstohim,butAguilarwellknewthatshouldhestumblehere,herbladewouldbethefirsttofindhisthroat.

Beforeallelse,shewasanAssassin,andbeforeallties,shewasboundtotheCreed.

Ashewouldbe.Her voice, sweet and strong, spoke the ritual words. “Where other men

blindlyfollowthetruth,remember…”“…nothingistrue,”saidtherestinunison.“Whereothermenarelimitedbymoralityorlaw,remember…”“…everythingispermitted.”

Aguilarheldhergazeamoment longer, thenmade theslightmovementofhiswrist,ashehadbeentaught.Withabrightmetallicsound,asifjoyfulithadbeenfreed,thebladeontheundersideofhisarmsprangforwardtofillthegapleftbytheseveredringfinger.

Aguilar’svoicetrembledwithintensitywhenhespoke.“WeworkinthedarktoservetheLight.”

Hetookabreath.“Weare…Assassins.”Andabovethem,aneagle’scrysounded,asifthespiritwaspleased.

CHAPTER1

C

BAJA,CALIFORNIA1988

al Lynch looked up at the sound of the eagle’s cry, squinting against thesunlight.Hecouldn’tseeitclearly,silhouettedagainsttheskyasitwas,but

hegrinnedatitasheflippedthehoodofhisgraysweatshirtoverhisdarkblondhairandpreparedhimself.

He,too,wasgoingtofly.He’d been wanting to do this… well, forever, since his parents had first

movedhereafewmonthsago.Theymovedalot;itwassomethingCalsimplytook for granted about his family.Dad andMom got odd jobswherever theycould,theystayedforawhile,andthenmovedon.

Becauseof this,Calhadneverreallyhadthechancetomakefriends.Soitwas that today, the day he was finally going to do it, he had no audience. Itdidn’tparticularlybotherhim,andinfact,itwasjustaswell—hewasdefinitelynotsupposedtobedoingthisinthefirstplace.

He’d dragged his bike all the way up to the roof of one of the vacant,dilapidatedoldbuildings.Oncehisfoothadgonerightthroughoneoftherusted-outsteps,slicingthroughhis jeanstobiteathis leg.Itwascool;he’dgottenatetanusshotfromthelow-costclinicayearago.

He was used to rooftops. At night, when his parents thought him safelyinside his room, hewould crawl out his bedroomwindowand onto the roofs,scampering off into the coolness and secrecy of the night—and into manymisadventuresofwhichhisparentswereblissfullyignorant.

Cal’sdestinationtodaywasalargeshippingcontainer,setslightlylowerthantheroofuponwhichCalandhisbikewereperched.Thegulfbetweenthemwastwentyfeetorso—nobigdeal.

Excepthisheartflutteredinhischestashesat,onefootonapedal,onefootonthebuilding’sroof.

Heclosedhiseyes,breathingslowlythroughhisnostrilstocalmhisracingheartandshallowbreath.

You’realreadythere,hetoldhimself.It’salreadydone.Seeeveryinchofthejourney. See thewheels landing perfectly, how you’re going to bring the bikearoundrightawaysoyoudon’tshootofftheotherside.

Oh,thatwasn’tagoodimage,andheimmediatelytriedtoscrubitfromhisbrain.Butitwasliketheoldjoke—“don’tthinkofapinkelephant,”andboom,suddenlythatwasallyoucouldsee.

Cal redirected his attention, seeing himself pedaling, soaring, landing—victorious.

Inhismind’seye,heflew.Liketheeagle.Hecoulddoit.Slowly, calmly, Cal opened his eyes and tightened his grasp on the

handlebars.Now.Hethrewhimselfintoit,pedalingfuriously,hiseyesfixednotontherapidly

decreasing length of roof or on the pile of junk that lay between it and theshipping container, but on his destination. Faster, faster, and then, there wasnothingbelowhistiresashepulledthefrontwheelofhisbikeuphard.

He sailed over the trash below, his face spreading in a grin of absoluteperfect,purejoy.Yes!Hewasgoingtomakeit—

Thefirstwheelclearedit.Theseconddidn’t.Soquicklyhedidn’tevenhavetimetobefrightened,Calandthebikelanded

hardon the pile of oldmattresses, trash, andother detritus he had laboriouslydragged to thespotoverseveralweeks.Hemovedexperimentally,butnothingappearedtobebroken.Calwasbleedingfromascrapeonhisfaceandhiswholebodyached,buthewasokay.

Thebicyclewasn’tinthebestshape,either,anditwasseeingthedamagetoitmorethananythingelsethatbroughthisfailurehomehard.

“Shit,”heswore,thendraggedhimselfandthebikeoutofthetrashheap.Hewasnotlookingforwardtoexplaininghisinjuriestohisparents.

He took a fewmoments to inspect himself.A few cuts and bruises on hisfaceandbody,nothing toobad; even thecutonhis leghad stoppedbleeding.Thebike,too,hadsomecosmeticdingshereandthere,butwasstillrideable.

Good.Callookedup,squinting,andsmiledashesawthesmalldotthatwastheeagle.Well…MomandDaddidn’thavetoknoweverythingrightaway.

Calsetofftofollowtheeagleforawhile.

***

Shadows were starting to lengthen by the time Cal returned to the rundowntenementcommunityhecalledhome.

His bike stirred up yellow dust from the dirt road. Everything here wascovered with the pale, drifting gold, and a few decorative strands of coloredpennantsstrungacrosstheroadprovidedtheonlysplashesofcolor.

Cal’susualgoodmoodhadreturned.Hewasalreadyanalyzingwhathehaddonewrong,andhowtomakethejumpsuccessfulthenexttime.Afterall,thiswas only the first attempt. Callum Lynch was not a quitter. He’d try againtomorrow—or,heamended,beingrealistic,assoonashisparentslethimhavethebikeback.

ItwasonlyafterCalwaswellwithin the town’s limits thathenoticed thatsomethingwasoff.Peoplewereoutoftheirhouses,afewsittinginchairswithdrinks,butmoststandingaround,just…staring.

Andtheywerestaringathim.Theirfaceswerecarefullyneutral,butCal’sstomachclenched.Somethingwaswrong.

Heincreasedhispace,droppingthebikeoutsidehisdoor,andcastonemoreglancebehindhimathissilent,solemnneighbors.

Cal’sheartspedupslightly,thoughhedidn’tunderstandwhy.Hereachedfortheporchdoorknob,andhishandfroze.

Thedoorwasstandingwideopen.Hisparentsalwaysclosedit.Calswallowed,thensteppedforwardintothesmallenclosedporch,pausing,

listening,moving slowly, likea stranger, in this so-familiarplace.Thedoor tothemainpartofthehousewasopen,too.Onesmallhandextended,partingthelongstrandsofamber-coloredbeadsthatprovidedatokenbarrierbetweenmostoftheroomsinthehouse.

Therewasnoconversationor laughter,nosmellofsupperonthestove,norattleorclinkofdishes.Theonly soundofnormalcywasPatsyCline’svoice,tinnyandfaint,comingfromtheoldbeigeradio,andthedroneofthetelevisioninthebackground—somekindofnewsshow.

“Today,wehaveDr.AlanRikkin,CEOofAbstergoIndustries,”thehostwassaying.“Alan,itseemstheworldisontheprecipice.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” The speaker had an upper-crust English accent. Calcaughtabriefglimpseofaman inhis late thirties,well-dressed,elegant,withdarkeyesandsharpfeatures.

“Itseemsmankindis intentupondestroyingitselfwiththiscontinuousandwidespread violence. I believe unless we address the root causes of ouraggressive nature, civilization aswe know itwill be lost.Butwe atAbstergoIndustriesareworkingtowardsisolatingthekeycomponent—”

Hedronedon.Calwasn’tpayingattentionashecontinuedtomoveforward.Itwasdarkinside,butthatwasn’tunusual;summerswerehothere,anddarknesskept things cool.But itwasn’t a friendlydarkness, andCal realizedhis handswereclammy.

Ashe stepped into the family room,he could seehismother seated in thekitchen,asilhouetteagainstthewindows.Relieved,andunsurewhy,Calstarted

tocallouttoher.Butthewordsdiedinhisthroat.Herealizednowthatshesatatastrangeangle,leaningagainstthebackofthechar,herarmshangingdowntoeitherside.

Andshewasstill.So,sostill.Cal froze, staring at her, his brain trying to work out what was wrong.

Motioncaughthiseye—aslowdripofsomethingonthefloor,fallingfromherhand.

Dropsfallingintoaspreadingredpuddle.This,thecruelsunlightcaught.Cal’s eyes were transfixed by the movement. Then they slowly traveled

upwardtofollowthepathofred.Thecrimsondroplets fell languidly froma silverpendantCal remembered

seeing every day around hismother’s long, slender throat.An eight-sided starwith a diamond shape in the center. Etched on it in blackwas a symbol thatlookedalmostliketheletterA,ifthatletter’slineshadbeenmadefromstylized,slightlycurvedblades.

Thechainwastangledaroundherhandnow,anditssilverlinkswerebathedinscarlet.

Every instinct in him screamed to him to tear his gaze away, to flee andneverlookback.Instead,Calstood,rootedtothespot.

Herhandwascoveredinblood.Theleftsleeveofherwhitepeasantblousewassaturatedwithit.

Andherthroat….“Mom?” hemurmured, even though the hole in her throatmeant shewas

dead.“Laashay’awaqi’unmoutlaqbalekoulounmoumkine.”ThewhisperseizedCal’sattention,andherealizedwithashockthatheand

hismotherwerenotaloneintheroom.Herkillerwashere,too.Hestoodbesidethetelevision,alargemantoppingsixfeet,hisbacktoCal,

staringoutthewindow.Ahoodwasoverhishead.

Butonceagain,Cal’seyewasdrawntomovement,tothesameghastlyredfluid,dripping,drippingtothecheaplinoleumfloor,hismother’sbloodflowingfromthetipofabladethatextendedbeneathhermurderer’swrist.

“Dad,”hewhispered,hisworldshatteringashisbodythreatenedtovomit,tocollapse,tocurlintoafetalpositionandnevermoveagain.Itcouldn’tbetrue.

Slowly the hooded figure turned, and Cal’s heart spasmed with grief andterrorasherealizedhehadbeenright.Thefigurewashisfather.

JosephLynch’seyeswerehaunted,asifhe,too,wasgrieving,buthowcouldthatbe?Why?Hewastheonewhohad—

“Yourbloodisnotyourown,Cal,”hisfathersaid,hisvoice,withitstraceofIrishbrogue thatyears in theUnitedStateshadneverbeenable tocompletelyerode,heavyandaching.“Theyfoundus.”

Cal stared,uncomprehendinganyof it, allof it.And then,his father facedhim fully, and began towalk toward him. The footfalls echoed loudly in thishouseofhorror,a sound thatought tobenormalandwasn’tdrowningout thechatteronthetelevisionandPatsyClinesingingthatshewascrazy.

Crazy.I’mcrazy.That’swhat’shappening.And yet, somewhat to his surprise, of their own volition, Cal’s feet were

doing somethingnot crazy at all.They seemed tomoveof their ownvolition,backingawayfromhisfather,hisdad,whohadjuststuckaknifeinhiswife’sneck.

Onthehoodedmancame,slowly,inexorably,asinescapableasdeathitself.Cal’sretreatingfeetsuddenlystopped.

Hedidn’twanttoliveinaworldwherehisfatherhadkilledhismother.Hewantedtobewithher.

JosephLynchstopped,too,hisarmshanginglimply,almosthelplessly,athissides,bloodstilldrippingfromthebladehehadplungedintohiswife’sdelicatethroat.

“Theywantwhat’sinsideyou,Cal.Liveintheshadows,”hisfathersaid,asifhisheartwerebreakingatthewords.

Cal stared at him, his own heart slamming against his chest. He couldn’tmove,couldn’tthink—

The screeching sound of tires and the shadow of cars outside broke thedeadlyspell.Thekillerlookedup,overhisson’shead,atthecarsnowfishtailingtoastopoutsidehisdoor.

“Go!”hescreamedathisson.“Go!Now!”Galvanizedintoaction,Calboltedforthestairs.Hisonce-frozenlimbsnow

propelledhimupthemtwoata time,andheexplodedoutof thewindowontotherooftops,thesecretpathoffreedomhisparentshadneverknownaboutnowturningintoanacrobat’sescaperoute.

Heranashehadneverruninhislife,jumpingwithouthesitationtoonelevelaboveorbelowthe long, lowrooftops, rollingashestruck, leaping tohis feetand running again. Out of the corner of his eye, Cal saw what seemed likedozensofblackSUVspouringlikeaflooddownthedustystreets.

Atonepoint,Calduckedoutofsightforamomenttocatchhisbreathandriskedaglancedown.

In the passenger side of one car, he caught a glimpse of a pale, angular-featuredmanwithdarkhair,darkclothes,anddarksunglasses.ItalmostlookedlikethemanhehadjustseenontheTV,butofcourseitcouldn’tbe.

Couldit?Fornoreasonhecouldfathom,achillwentthroughtheboy.ThesecondtheSUVturned,Calranagain,jumpingofftheroofintoapileof

debris, and pelting down the road that led away from the cluster of tenementbuildings, away from his dead mother and murderous father, away fromeverythingitmeanttobeCallumLynch.

CHAPTER2

F

THIRTYYEARSLATERHUNTSVILLEDEPARTMENTOFCRIMINALJUSTICE

TEXAS,USA

rankKimmler,forty-seven,hadbeenaguardattheHuntsvilleDepartmentofCriminal Justice for seventeenyears. In that time,hehad seen someof the

worstthingsapersoncoulddotoanotherperson.Yetsomehow,hewasalwayssurprisedby thedarkness thatdoggedhisdays,andafterabadonehealwayscame home promising hiswife he’d quit, get something a little calmer, safer.Somethinghecouldtellhisgirlsaboutwhenhecamehomeatnight.Yetthenextday,Kimmlerwasalwaysbackatwork.

OnthiseveningofOctober21,assurveillancescreensplayedoutbesideandbehindhim,abolognaandcheesesandwichandaCokesatuntouchedashesatwatchingadifferentscreenentirelyandtalkingonthephonetohiswife,Janice.

“BreakingnewsofwhatappearstobethreeassassinationsinHouston,Texastoday,” the televisionreportersaidsomberly into thecamera.“Theheadof theIMFCassianeLacroix,Texan oil billionaireLutherWiley, andChinesemediamogulBolinChang,wereallkilledattheFourSeasonsHotelinbroaddaylight.”

“Yes,honey,I’mwatchingitonthenewsrightnow,”Kimmlerwassaying.“Threeinonego.Inbroaddaylight.Iknow,Iknow,it’sawful.Whereareyou?”

“Ijustpulledintothedriveway,”Janicesaid.Hervoicewasshaking.“Theyblockedoff someof the roads.Policecars everywhere. Itwas sobackedup ittookmethreehourstogethome!Frank…Iwishyouweren’tworkingthere.”

Hewishedit,too,buthecouldn’tsaythat.Instead,hesaid,“Oh,honey,I’msafer thananybody rightwhere I am. It’s allmygirls Iworryabout.Are theyhomewithyou?”

HiseyeswanderedbacktotheimagesofthethreevictimsplasteredontheTV screen as Janice told him that Suzanne was home upstairs doing herhomework,butPatriciahadcalledsayingshe’dbelate.Thatgothisattention.

“Whatdoyoumeanshe’snothomeyet?It’saschoolnight!”“Shecalled, saysshe’swithher friendsat themallandDebbie’smother is

pickingthemallupassoonasshecangetthere.She’sfine.”Therewasalongpause,thenJanicesaid,“Will…willyoubeabletocome

home?I’mgoingtomakepotpie.Ithinkwecouldallusesomecomfortfood.”Heglancedathisbolognasandwichandsighedlongingly.“I’llhavetoheat

someupwhenIgothome,babe.I’mstuckhere.Hegoesunderatsix,soI’llbehomeatnine.”

He waved at the familiar face approaching his desk. “I gotta go. FatherRaymondishere.”

Frankhungupandturned to thepriest,givinghimafriendlysmile.FatherRaymond had been coming here for the last four years, andFrank had gottenfondoftheskinny,soft-spokenyoungerman.Hewasfairlynewtothecloth;hetoldFrankoncethathe’dbeenanEnglishprofessoratsomeeastcoastuniversitybefore finding his true calling. Frank could easily imagine him in the halls ofacademia,talkingaboutShakespeareorDickensorsomebody.

“Always on time, Father.How is that? The city’s on lockdown afterwhathappenedtoday.Mywifetookthreehourstogethome.”

“I’mgladshe’ssafe,”FatherRaymondreplied, lookingrelieved.“Howarethegirls?”

“One’shome, theother’sstuckat themallwithsomefriends. I try tokeeptabsonthem,but….”

Franksighedandscratched thebackofhishead.Afewyearsago,hishairhadstartedfallingout.LasttimeFatherRaymondhadcome,he’dteasedFrankthathecouldhavebecomeatonsuredmonk.

“I’m kind of scared for them, y’know. The way things are in the worldtoday…it’snotahappyplace.”

FatherRaymondnoddedsympathetically.“And…howisourman?”“Quiet.Allhedoesisdraw.Allday.It’sagainstregulations,butwhatareyou

gonnado?It’stheguy’sbirthday.Turnsouthisfatherkilledhismother.It’sgottamessyouup.”

Franklookedupatthepriestwithdolefulbrowneyes.“Idon’tknow,Father.Hekillsapimp,wekillhim.Doesn’tmakesense….”

“ThewaysofGod—”FatherRaymondbegan.“—arenotourways.”Franksighed.The priest produced a handkerchief and wiped at his palm, smiling self-

deprecatinglyatFrank.“Younevergetusedtothispartofthejob,”hesaid.“Nope,”Frankreplied.“AndIdon’tthinkthat’sabadthing.”FatherRaymondtuckedthehandkerchiefawayandnoddedasanotherguard

steppedup,readytoescorthimback.“Givemy regards to Janice and the girls. Tell them I’ll keep them inmy

prayers.”

***

The inmate in cell 304 was not a particularly gifted artist, Father Raymondthought.Buthewasprolific,andhethrewhimselfintohistaskwithanalmostfurioussinglemindednessofpurpose.

Piecesofrectangular,cream-coloredmanilapaperwithdrawingsthatrangedfrom the haunting to the grotesque adorned the wall as high as a man couldreach.Ontheotherthreewalls,thickfelt-tipmarkersinshadesofblack,green,and blue had left their marks in the form of gibberish graffiti, or in strangesymbols that perhaps even the creator of the nightmarish gallery could notinterpret.

FatherRaymond observed the prisoner in his late thirties as he sat on thefloor,scribblingwithapieceofcharcoal.Theinmatepaused,rubbingaspotwith

his thumb to smooth the harsh black lines into a softer, misty form. He onlylookedupfromhisworkasthedoorwasopenedtoadmitthepriest.Hegottohisfeet, then sat quietly on his cot, looking up at Father Raymond with anexpressionofmildboredom.

Keys rattledas thedoorwas lockedbehind themanofGod,whoregardedtheunsettlingimagesintently,withnohintofdistaste,onlycompassion.Hehadcertainlyseencruderthingsbeforeinthecellsofmenabouttodie.

Father Raymond perused them with seriousness and thought: charcoalsketchesofmenwithbizarreheadpieces,lumpy,barely-formedshapesthatwereonly vaguely human embracing or killing one another, skulls embedded inflowers, a cavernous mouth open in a scream, a hand brandishing a cross, afigureengulfedinflame,anearly-skeletalhorseneighinginterror.

One inparticulargave thepriestpause: itwas thecrude,almostcartoonishshapeofanold-fashionedexecutioner,withablackhoodpulledoverhishead.

Thenheturnedtotheprisoner.Hehadaname,ofcourse;allmenhadnames.FatherRaymondmadesurehe

usedthem.Atthehoursoftheirdeaths,ofall times,itwasimportantthattheyknowthatothersunderstoodthat.

“You’reCallumLynch,”thepriestsaid,hisvoicecalmandkind.“I’mFatherRaymond.”

CallumLynch’shandswerecoveredincharcoaldust,hisreddish-blondhaircroppedshort,andtherewassomethingblazinginthedepthofhisblueeyesthattold thepriest thatLynch’sveneerofcalmcontrolwasexactly that—aveneer,oneperhapspaper-thin.

“Areyouhere to savemysoul?” theprisoner asked,hisvoicehusky fromdisuse.

“Somethinglikethat.”Father Raymond hesitated, wondering if should mention what Frank told

him,thendecidedtogoahead.“I,uh…understandit’syourbirthday.”Lynch laughed slightly at the words. “Yeah,” he said. “The party’s just

gettingstarted.”Father Raymond was at a loss. He was supposed to be the one offering

comfortatthistime,asamanlookeddeathintheface.Mostofthosehewenttowereemotional—frightened,angry;regretful,someofthem.Butnowtheprieststood, looking at a man who seemed completely calm, and Father Raymondwasn’tsurewhattodonext.

“Sit down,”Lynch said, adding, “you’remakingme nervous.”He did notlookintheleastbitnervous,butFatherRaymondtookaseatonasmallbenchfacing the prisoner andopenedhisBible.Hehad a few favorite passages thathad,overtheyears,seemedtooffercomforttothecondemnedmen.

He turned to one of themnowand began to read. “‘Andhe said,OLord,wash awaymy sin, and I will be clean. Let me hear the sounds of love andgladness,andthoughYouhavecrushedmeandbrokenme,Iwillbewholeonceagain.’”

FatherRaymondglancedup at theprisoner,whowas clearlydisinterested.Thepriesthaddiscoveredthathowamanreactedtodeathwasasuniqueastheindividual.Somewept,seeingapromisethatGodwouldforgivethem,andgrantthem admission into heaven if they were truly repentant. Some were angry,justifiablyso,andhadnothingbutcrude,vicious,violentwords.Somemenjustsatandsobbedquietly,andneversaidaword.Alldeservedtoberespected.

As did Callum Lynch and his polite boredom. “You’re not much for theBible,areyou?”FatherRaymondasked,knowingittobearhetoricalquestion.

Calshookhisheadabsently.“IsthereanythingIcouldsaythatmightbringyoucomfort?”FatherRaymondwasnotexpectingananswer,buttohissurprise,Calsaid,

“There’sapoemmymotherusedtoreadtome.‘AfterApple-Picking.’”The priest was pleased that his prior career now enabled him to

accommodateaman’slastrequest.Godwasgood.Nodding,hesaid,“Iknowit.RobertFrost,”andbegantospeak.

Not nearly as familiar to most as some of Frost’s other poems, such as

“StoppingbyWoodsonaSnowyEvening”or“FireandIce,”thispoemwasonethat Father Raymond himself was fond of. It was, curiously and sadly,appropriateforCaltoday.

The priest spoke the lines in a soft, gentle voice.The ladder of the poem,seemingly pointing to heaven, and an empty apple barrel the narrator did nothaveachancetofillmadeFatherRaymondthinkofalifecutshort.

Likethevictim’shadbeen;likeCallumLynch’swasabouttobe.Keysrattledasthepriestpausedtotakeabreath.Thedooropened.Itwastime.Ifthishadbeenanordinaryvisit,thepriestwouldhaveaskedforachanceto

finishrecitingthepoem.Butitwasn’t.Deathwasonatimetablehere,andmen,evenmenofGod,wereforcedtoyieldthestage.

Calgottohisfeet.FatherRaymondrose,too,andstoodbesidehim.AtleasthewouldwalkwithCaltothechamber,andwouldstandthereuntilhissoullefthisbody.

Whereitwentafterthat,FatherRaymondcouldnotpretendtoknow.

***

Chainswereplacedonhisanklesandfeet,clinkingasCalwalkedtheseeminglyinterminable,butsomehowtoo-briefhallway to theroomwherehis lifewouldend.

Thepriest hadn’t finished thepoem,but thatwas all right.Cal knew it byheart and finished ithimself, in silence, thinkingofhow thepoemevoked thesmelloftheharvestedfruit,andtheechoesofapproachingwinter.

Hismindwasnotonthegurneytowhichtheystrappedhim,butelsewhere;inasafeandpeacefulplace,withlightthecolorofhoneystreaminginfromthewindow.Inthattimelessplace,hewassevenyearsold,andshewasstillalive,hervoicesweetandsoft,herbodywarmashelaytrustinglyagainsther,thefaint

scentofherlavendersoapteasinghisnostrils.Drowsinesswasinthatmemory,asinthepoem.

Strapswerefastenedoverhislegs,acrosshischest.Theimageofdrowsinessandpeacewasanillusion.Anysafetyhadbeenan

illusion,foreverslicedtoribbonsbythesamebloodiedbladethathadendedaninnocentlife.

Thepoemspokeofwinter’ssleep,ofhibernation,ofretreatingtodreamuntilspring.Butitwasnosuchsleepthathefacednow.Calwasinthedeathchamber.

They tapped his arm, getting the vein to rise. He’d been in his share ofhospitals,andhadwatchedIVsdripbefore.Butthistimepoison,notmedicine,wouldsoonflowthroughhisbodywitheverylast,numberedbeatofhisrapidlyacceleratingheart.

The gallery windows opened. Cal squinted, trying to see them, but thewardensteppedinfrontofhim.

Thewarden’svoicewasto-the-point,devoidofemotion;almostbored.Andwhyshouldn’titbe,Calthoughtbitterly.Thewardenhadsaidthesewordsoftenenough.There’dbeenadozenormoreexecutedinthestatesofarthisyear.

“BeitknownthatCallumLynchhasbeenfoundguiltyofcapitalmurderandis sentenced to die on this day, October 21, 2016. Does the prisoner wish tomakeafinalstatement?”

Happygoddamnedbirthday.For abeautiful, perfectmoment, hatred andanger chased away the fearof

thecomingdarkness,leavingdefiant,ifillusionary,courageinitswake.“TellmyfatherI’llseehiminhell.”Perhapsthen,hecouldgetsomeanswers.The gurney tilted, slowly, and Cal stared up at the ceiling. The motion,

mechanical, impartial, slow and steady, suddenly did what the priest, and thewalk,andthewarden’sstatementhadn’tmanagedtodo.

Ithadmadethisreal.He broke out in sweat, rank and clammy. His breathwas coming quickly

now,andhecouldnotresist themacabredesire toturnhisheadandwatchtheclearliquiddeathcreepingupthroughthetubeintohisarm.

It was cold as it hit his system, and each beat of his heart as it slammedagainsthischestpusheddeaththroughhisbodythatmuchfaster.

Myownbodyiskillingme,hethought.Theangerthathadfueledhimbutamomentagoevaporatedbeforethestark

realization,cometoolateforhimtochangehisactionsonthatday, toolate topullapunchornotgrabtheknife,toolatetojustgetupandwalkout,toolateforanythingbutscaldingregretandthefivewordsthatpoundedthroughhim:

Idon’twanttodie.He raised his head, to see the shapes of those in the gallery, watching a

human being dying right in front of them. Stern, cold faces; older, wrinkleschiseledintofacesasstonyasiftheyhadbeencarvedfromrock.

Mostofthemwere,atleast…butonewasnot.Cal’sbodyceasedtoobeyhimasparalysistookhold.Hecouldnotmovehis

head,norclosehiseyesastheyleakedtears.Soitwasthat thelast thingCallumLynchsawbeforeblacknessdescended

wastheovalshapeofawoman’sfaceswathedinshadow,andhecouldnothelpbutwonderifhebeheldtheangelofdeathherself.

CHAPTER3

’mdead,Calthought.I’mdead,andhellisawastelandofwhite.Throughaveiloflashesagainstthebrightness,helookedaroundcarefully,

hisvisionblurry andhis eyesburning and aching, like twin coals stuck inhishead.Hisbodyfeltcold,allexceptforhishand,whichwaswarm,asifsomeonehadbeenholdingit.Flashes:honey-huedlight,giggles, thearmsofhismotheraroundhim,whisperedwordsaboutapple-picking.

Ashapehoveredinfrontofhim,fadinginandout.Maybeitwastheangelhe’dseenwhenhedied.

Hefadedbackintodarknessagain,thenagainintoconsciousness.Therewasasortofclinicalsmell,clean,butcold,ascoldasthewhitenessofthewalls,ofthelights.

HedoubtedHeavensmelledlikeantiseptics.Hospital,hismindsaid.Maybesomethinghadgonewrong—orright.Maybethegovernorhadcalled

in with a pardon, and they’d stopped the IV drip before all the poison hadreached his heart.His eyes tracked around towhite pieces of equipmentwithcolorful, small lights,and thenmet the impossiblybluegazeof theangelwhohadwatchedhimdie.

Theoval of her large-eyed facewas framedwith short blackhair, andherskin was like porcelain. Its smooth perfection was not marred, but ratherenhanced,byasmallmoleonherforehead.Shewascladinwhite,andherredlipscurvedinagentlesmile.Disbelieving,hereachedouttotouchhercheek,toseeifshewasreal.

Gently,shecaughthishandbeforehecoulddoso,andhefeltwarm,strongfingersagainsthisown.

“MynameisDr.SofiaRikkin,”shesaidinamusicalvoicethatwassoftlyaccented.

Hetried toplace it.French?English?Itaddedtoherotherworldliness.Butshewasstillspeaking,andhernextwordsseizedandheldhisfullattention.

“At six P.M. yesterday evening, you were executed and pronounced dead.And,sofarasanyoneintheworldknowsorcares,younolongerexist.”

Hisheartsurgedinhischest.I’malive.ButI’mstilltrapped.Ihavetogetoutofhere.Cal’s body was disobedient, sluggish, but he forced it to obey his will,

clumsilyrippingouttheIVinhisrightarm,kickingandflailingandgruntingashetriedtogetoutoftherecliningchair-bed.

The angel—Dr. Sofia Rikkin—made no move to stop him, though shewatchedhimwithconcerninthoselarge,softeyes.

“It’sbetterthatyousit,”sheadvised.“You’restillprocessingthetoxin.”Cal blinked, trying to focus, but vision hurt. “My eyes…” he groaned,

rubbinghisheelsintothem.“Whatyou’refeelingrightnowisnormal,ifuncomfortable,”shesaid.“The

tetrodotoxin is very potent, but it’s the only thingwe can get past the prisondoctors.”

Shesaidthewordsslowly,emphasizingthelogical,asifsheunderstoodthatrightnowhestillfeltlikeAlicefallingdowntherabbithole.Calblinked,angryathisuncooperativeeyes,tryingtoforcethemtoseeclearly.

SofiaRikkinleaneddown,herfaceclosetohis,hervoicesoothing.“Cal.”Heturnedtowardheratthesoundofhisname.Shewassobeautifulthathe

stillcouldn’thelpbutwonderifthiswasadream—oranightmare—beforethefinalsleep;alastattemptbyhisbrainscreamingthatheexisted,hemattered.

“I’m here to help you, Cal.” How many had said that before to him, hewondered.Butshelookedasthoughshebelievedeveryword.“Andyou’reheretohelpme.”

Foramoment,hewantedto.Butthenmorememoriesreturned.No.No,shewasn’tanangel;hewaslucidenoughtoknowthatnow.Shewasadoctor,andshehadkidnappedhim,andhehadtoescape.

Hecoulddimlymakeouttwometalbarsthatlookedlikedoorhandles,andhelungedtowardthem.Tohisastonishmenttheyopenedimmediatelyandhehitthecleanwhitefloorhard,thewindknockedoutofhim.

Two figures clad in white approached from his left, striding briskly. Calturnedtohisright,stillunable torise,crawling,pullinghimselfalongwithhislower arms like an animal, gradually feeling movement in his lower limbs.Behindhim,heheardSofia’svoicesaying,“Lethimgo.”

***

Inaroomsolelydevotedtointeriorsurveillance,multiplescreenswereregardedbymultipleobservers.McGowen,HeadofSecurity, stooda solid six feet tall,withclose-croppedhairandbeard,andheavily-liddedeyesthatmissednothingashewatchedCallumLynch,deadman,crawlandhobbleinafruitlessattemptatescape.

***

Inanotherroom,anofficewhereantiqueweaponryviedwithabeautifulgrandpiano and the finest liquor and bar set, an elegant man dressed in a casualcashmere sweater andblack trousers, his grayhair and lined facemakinghimlook dashing rather than aged, also watched Cal struggle toward an illusoryfreedom.

***

Cal clenched his teeth, growling in his frustrationwith his recently-paralyzedbody as he clambered to his feet and lurched through doors, stumbled pastorderlies and technicians andcold,metallicwalls and stone.Veinsof artificiallight flowed along the walls, and what little natural illumination there wasfilteredinfromhighup.

Cal pressed on, tripping and falling and stubbornly clambering to his feet,movinglikeadrunkenmanpasttreetrunks—treetrunks—thatstretchedupward,a bizarre sight so deep indoors, but no stranger than anything else he’dencounteredhere.

Stepbystep,though,hiseyesadjusted,hisbodycameunderhiscontrol,andhepickedup speed.He shambledpast a guard inblackwith agun at his hip,whodidnot stophimashe flunghimselfup thestairs.“Don’t touchhim,”heheard Sofia say. Shewas behind him, following him, and her voice gave himrenewedenergy.Angelicshemightappear,butshewashisjailer.

He raced across a metallic ramp, his feet making an echoing clang, andemerged into bright sunlight. Flinging up an arm to stave off the still-painfulillumination,Calrealizedthat,somehow,hewasinagarden.

Maybehewasdeadafterall.Hedidn’thavetheimaginationtomakethisallup.

There were pathways and grass, benches and small trees, and birdsong.Slittinghiseyes,Calslowed, lookingaround.Hewasnotalone in thisstrangegarden.Therewereorderlies,and…patients?Prisoners?Hedidnotknowwhattocallthem.Theyworematchinggraypullovertunics,whiteshirts,andpants.

Auniform.Caldidnotlikeuniforms.Someregardedhimstrangely,butotherssimplymovedabout,muttering to

themselves,disinterestedinhissudden,chaoticappearance.Hemovedforward,hiseyesatlastadjusting,tothelowwall,steppingontopofit.

Tooneside,Calsawhelicopters:shiny,sleek,anddoubtlessexpensive.Buttheydidnotcommandhisattention.Far,farbelow,acitysprawled.Butthiswasnot an American city. This one had skyscrapers, yes, but Cal could also see

ancientcathedrals,mosques,towers.You’renotinKansasanymore,Calthought,andsomethinginsidehimshattered.

Whatafoolhewas.Idiocytohopethat,somehow,hecouldescape.Hewasalive,heacceptedthatnow,but,onceagain,hewasacaptive.

Thistime,though,hewasnotinaprison.Hewasinagoddamnedfortress.As he stood on the wall, despairing and swaying slightly, a middle-aged

blackman,hisneatlytrimmedbeardwhiteandhispatebald,steppedupbesidehimonhisright.

“Goahead,”heurged.“Doit.”Cal stared down at his feet, encased in soft-soled white shoes that closed

withVelcrostraps.Theshoes—andhe—werehalfwayofftheledge.“Jump.”Andthemangrinned.Calfeltthegazesofothersnowturningtowardhim,buthedidnotdarespare

themaglance.Hewas trembling,knowinghis limbsstillwerenotentirelyhisown,wondering ifhewouldstepdown, jumpofhisownfreewill—orsimplyfall.

Theideaofjumpingwastempting.Toendhislifeonhisownterms,toneveragainbeanyone’sprisoner.But thenCalrememberedthesuddenrevelationhehad experienced as the clear, liquid death had flowed into his veins at hisexecution:thatdespiteeverything,hedidnotwanttodie.

Anothervoicecamefromhisoppositeside;Sofia’s.Devilononeshoulder,angelonanother,hethought.

“You’renotaprisonerhere,Cal.”Atthat,heturnedtolookather,hiseyesnarrowedwithsuspicion.“Doesn’t

lookthatwaytome,”hesaid.“I’mhere toprotectyou,”Sofia continued,herbearingerect andhermien

calm. “If you listen to me, everything is going to make sense. You’ll learnnothingifyoustepoffthatledgerightnow.Butyouneedtotrustme.”

Trust?Absurd.Shehadkidnappedhim,forGod’ssake.Nomatterwhatshe

said,hewasaprisoner,andhereshestood,askinghimtotrusther.But…hewasalive.“WhereamI?”Hemadenomovetostepdown.“You’reintherehabilitationwingoftheAbstergoFoundationinMadrid.”Cal’seyeswidenedforamoment.Abstergo?Heknewthename,ofcourse.

Everyone knew about Abstergo Industries—everything from cough syrup tocereal was produced by them. Hell, they probably manufactured thepentobarbitalused toexecuteprisonersand the tissues their lovedonessobbedintoafterward.

Thenhegrinnedandstartedtolaughsoftly.Undaunted,Sofiacontinued.“Thisisaprivateorganizationdedicatedtotheperfectionofhumankind.”He laughed harder at the crazy, delicious irony.He and anything remotely

resembling the perfection of humankind had never gotten within spittingdistanceofoneanother.

Haveyougotthewrongguy,hethought.Buttheangelwasn’tdone.“Withyourhelp,Cal,wecanpioneernewways

toeradicateviolence.”Eradicateviolence.Hismirthfaded.Violencehadbeenasmuchapartofhislifeasbreathing.It

wasefficient,casual,off-handed,andcamesoeasily.Italwayshad.Except thatwasn’t true. Ithadn’tbeen like thatwhenhewasachild.He’d

beenahandful,heknewthat;adaredevil,brimmingwithtoomuchenergy,butnevercruel,neverabusive,never…violent.Likeanunwelcomehouseguestthatrefused to leave, violencehad come intohis life thedayhismother’s lifehadbeenendedbyit,andnotbefore.

Whatifshecouldreallydoit?Andwhatifhecouldhelpher?Whatifsomekidsomewhereneverhadtoworryaboutwakinguponedayto

discover his mother had bled out in the kitchen on a perfectly ordinaryafternoon?Todiscoverhis father standing there,with a strangeknifedrippingblood?

SofiaRikkinheldhisgazefora longmoment.Herethereal,calmcertaintywascompelling.Hiseyesstilllockedwithhers,Calsetonefootdownandthentheother,andsteppedawayfromtheedge.

Her serene expressiondidn’t change, but her eyes looked…happy. Joyful,almost.Damnedifshestilldidn’tlooklikeanangeltohim,evenifthedrughadwornoff.

Therewasasharp,stingingsound.Asmalldartabruptlyappeared inCal’sneck,andhecollapsedsoundlesslytotheground.

CHAPTER4

A

ngerwelledup inSofia.Mindfulofheraudience,shesquelched itquickly.She turned to see the large shape of McGowen regarding her

unapologetically.Of course itwouldbeMcGowen.Noneof the other guardswoulddare to

interveneaftershehadexpresslytoldthemtoleaveCalalone.“Ihadthis,”shesaidicily.“Yourfatherwantshimin,”McGowensaidbywayofexplanation.Ofcourse.Fatherspeaks,everyonelistens.Shehadbeguntogrowtiredofit

yearsago.Now itwasbecomingmore thananuisanceandan implied lackoffaithinherability;itwasactivelyinterferingwithherabilitytoobtaintheresultstheybothwantedsobadly.

“He’smypatient.Thisismyprogram.”Sofiaheldthesecuritychief’sgazeamomentlonger.Shedidnotfoolherself

intobelieving that thiswasanything less thanaclassicpackdynamic,andsherefusedtosurrenderherpositionasalphaoverMcGowen.

Andhewasn’taloneinobserving.Itwasunwiseofhimtohavechallengedherinfrontofthepatients.Mostofthemdidn’tcare,butthefewwhodidwereallpresent…andpayingverycloseattention.

Moussa,aswashiswont,wastryingtomakethesituationworse,eggingCalonlikethat.SofiahadseenLinhere,too.TheChinesewomanknewEnglish,butshetendedtobeassilentandtaciturnasMoussawasgarrulousandextroverted.ThetemperateEmirwasbearingsilentwitnesstotheconfrontation,andsowasNathan,remainingunexpectedlycalmaswell.

Sofiawaswell aware that her fatherwaswatching from the screens inhisoffice.Hewas alwayswatchingwhen hewas on the premises. She loved her

father,andrespectedhisopinion.Butshewishedthathewoulddemonstratethathefeltsimilarly.

Calhadundergoneanextremeordealandhadrevivedjustashortwhileago.Hewasnotonlymentallyunpreparedforwhatlayaheadofhim,hewasn’tevenphysicallyreadyforit.Hewasstillrecoveringfromtheeffectsofthetoxinthathadbroughthimsufficientlyclosetodeathtoallowhimtobesmuggledoutofprison.

Sofia’splanhadbeen toallow thenewcomer time toadjust, to learnaboutthe value of the work she was doing here, of its importance not merely tohumanity,buttohimpersonally.

Herfather,ontheotherhand,hadarrivedfromLondondeterminedtopushthingsintohighgear,buthehadnotyettoldherexactlywhy.

SofiahadwantedCaltocomearoundwillinglytoeverything,toworkwiththem,notsimplyforthem,butAlanRikkin,CEO,hadforcedherhand.

Asalways.McGowen simply stared expressionlessly at her. He knew he would win.

AndSofiaknewit,too.Finally,bitterly,shesaid,“PreparetheAnimus.”

***

Cal drifted in andout of consciousness as hewasdraggeddown thehall, oneburlyorderlyoneachside.Hisheadlolledbackashetriedtomakesenseofthisnew room through a druggedhaze.Everything about this place—no, hehad aname for it now, the Madrid Abstergo Foundation—was bizarre,incomprehensible,andCalknewenoughtoknowwhatwasandwhatwasn’tpartofthedrug’seffects.

Firstthehospital,impossiblysanitary.Thenthestrangecollisionofmedievalandmoderncorridors and rooms throughwhichhehad stumbled.The rooftop

garden and the not-quite-zombieswho inhabited it, perched so high above thegroundastobeeyetoeyewitheagles—orangels.

Butthis…Church,was the first thing thatcame tohismind,althoughhehadseldom

darkenedthedoorofany.Thestonefloorwasinlaidwithbeautifulmosaics,andthe center was a wide area encircled by arches on the ground level and on asecondhigherlevel.Theoveralleffectwasthatofahoneycombedbeehive.

Dimly,Cal glimpsedpaintings on thewalls, fadedbymore than his fuzzyvision. Sunlight filtering down from highwindowsmergedwith dim artificialbluelight,glintingoffglasscabinetshousingweaponsfrompasteras—swords,bows,knives—glimpsedblearilyinpassing.

Off to the sides that surrounded the open space in the center, though,everything was cutting edge technology. Cal saw screens alive with strangeillustrations,blinkinglights,andasenseoffocusthatdredgedupanotherwordtodescribethestrangescenario:Laboratory.

What,then,didthatmakehim?AthirdorderlyjoggedovertojointhetwowhostillheldCaltightlybyeach

arm.ThisoneslidaheavycanvasbeltaroundCal’swaist,andheglanceddownto see it lock into placewith a clink.Was it themeds, or did it look like thebuckleformedtheletterA?

Hisself-preservation instinctkicked intopanicmode.Achainwasachain,be it of links of metal or a belt with a shiny letter on it, and he looked upfranticallytoseeSofiaregardinghimevenly.Therewasnoexplanationinthosecoolblueeyes.

“Arethebladesprepared?”sheasked.IttookCalasecondtorealizethatshewasn’tspeakingtohim,buttooneofherattendantsstandingoveracollectionofmonitorsandkeyboardsinthealcovearea.

“Right here,” a young beardedman said. Hemoved from the twenty-firstcentury back to the fourteenth by stepping from his monitors to one of the

displaycabinetsandhandingsomethingofftotwoorderlies,orlabassistants,orwhateverthehelltheywere.

“Andwe’veconfirmedtheirprovenance?”Sofiacontinued.“TheydefinitelybelongedtoAguilar,recoveredfromhisburialsite.”Burialsite?Whothehellwerethesepeople,graverobbers?Sofiahad toldhim to trusther, that everythingwouldmake sense.And so

he’dsteppeddownfromtheledge,literallyandfiguratively,andforthatgestureoftrusthe’dbeenshotwithadartlikehewassomekindofanimalandliterallydraggedintothischurch-likeplacewherenothingatallmadeanykindofsense.

Eachofthelabassistantsnowcarriedsomekindofgloveorgauntlet,andthetwomen gripping Cal’s arms tightened their grasp as the leather things wereshovedontoCal’shands.

HelookedupatSofia,groggy,alarmedandseriouslyoutofhisdepth.“Whatarethese?”hegrunted,trying—futilely—toresist.Theywereleather,

andsmelledold,andsomehowfamiliar.“TheserelicsandyourDNAwillallowusembodiedaccesstoyourancestral

lineage,”Sofiareplied.“What?”Cal knew all thewords, but in combination theymadeno sense.

Sofiaresumedspeakingtoherassistants,butshenevertookhereyesfromCal’s.“Assume final preparations. Our regression: Andalusia, 1491. Record

everything.”Screens sprang to life, and Cal’s darting eyes caught images, blueprints,

spidery scrawls of data over in the alcoves.Everythingwas as far beyondhiscomprehensionasanairplanewasbeyondacat’s.

“Arm’sready,”oneofSofia’sassistantstoldher.Arm?Cal heard an ominous hydraulic whirring sound from overhead. The drug

had left his system now, and so it was with perfect clarity that he beheld amassivemechanical device, the light from the domed ceiling glittering on itsshiny surface. It spiraled downward, humming with deceptive gentleness,

undulating and unfolding itself like a robotic snake awakening from slumber,untilaU-shapedendwasrevealed.

It dipped down behind Cal and clicked gracefully into position.The arm.Suchitwas,anditstwo-prongedhandnowgrippedCalfirmlyabouthiswaist.

Totalabject terrorsurgedthroughhim.Hisbowelsclenched, threateningtolet loose, but somehow he overruled the crippling fear long enough to gasp,scaredbutalsofurious,“Whatisthis?”

Shelookedathimwiththatangel’sface,andthenloweredhergaze,unabletomeet his eyes. She saidwithwhat sounded like genuine regret, “I’m sorry,Cal.ThisisnothowIliketodothings.”

“Thendon’tdoit!”Somethinginsidehim,somethingdeepandprimal,toldhimifshewasable

todowhatsheintendedto,hewouldneverbethesame.Sofia lifted her blue eyes, regarding him with a mixture of sorrow and

implacability.“Insertepidural.”Ten tinypointsofmetal settleddownonCal’sneck, like the legsof some

mechanical insect.But before he could jerk away, something sharp, long, andblindinglypainfuljabbedintothebaseofhisskull.

Hescreamed.Calhadfought.Hehadkilled.Hehadalmostbeenkilledseveral times.He

hadrunfrompolice,beenshot,stabbed,beatenwithinaninchofhislife.Butneverhadhefeltanythingaspainfulasthis.Notahospital.Notalab.Atorturechamber.Andthen,asswiftlyasithaddescended,thepainreceded,notentirely,but

enoughforCaltogulpinairandgasp,uncomprehendingandfurious,“Whatdoyouwantfromme?”

Sofiagazedathim,calm,incontrol.“Yourpast.”“Mypast…?”Bizarrely,he thoughtof the song thathadbeenplayingon thebeat-upold

radioonthatafternoonthirtyyearsago:PatsyCline’s“Crazy.”I’mgoinginsane,hethought.Crazy.Cal lookeddownatSofia,nowinpure,primalpanicmode.Sheseemedto

senseit,forhervoiceandmannerchanged.“Listentomecarefully,Cal.YouareabouttoentertheAnimus.”

Thewordjoltedhiminawayshecouldnothaveanticipated.Asateenager,he’dknownaboutexpensivesoftwareputoutbythecompanythatwouldlaterbe known as Abstergo Entertainment. He’d heard the rumors about how theywere developing games based on memories of someone’s ancestors, gleanedfromluckyAbstergoemployees,presumablysittingcomfortablyinritzyoffices,whospenttimeinasemi-legendaryapparatuscalledtheAnimusthatlookedlikeawhiz-bangrecliner.

WhenCalhadbeeninandoutofjuviehallsandfosterhomes,he’dmasteredtheartofstealingthesoftwarerightoutfromunderthenosesofstoreemployeesandsellingthemtokidswithtoomuchmoneyandtoofewrealthreatsintheirlives, who got to experience knife fights and violence vicariously rather thatgettingtheirownhandsandnosesbloody.

Thiswas theAnimus?Thismonstrous thing, thisgrasping, implacablearmoutofsomeone’sdepravedanddeeplyburiednightmare—thiswasthesourceofakid’svideogame?

Sofia continued, pulling his attention back to her. “What you are about tosee,hear,andfeelarethememoriesofsomeonewhohasbeendeadforoverfivehundredyears.”

Calabruptly realized thatasshespoke,Sofiahadbeenslowly,deliberatelybacking away from him. Fresh fear shot though him and he reached outimploringlytoher,theonlyoneherewhohadseemedtotrulywanttoseehimasahumanbeing;theonewhohadputhimintothisarm.

“Wait aminute!”hepleaded,but itwas too late.Hewas suddenlyhoistedintotheairasifbyagiant,asifthiswholeordealwasnothingmorethansomesort of twisted carnival ride. The arm had him, and moved him about with

casual,absolutepower,andCallumLynchdangledashelplessasaragdollinitsimplacablemetalgrip.

“Youmustunderstandthatyoucan’tchangewhathappens,Cal,”Sofiasaid,raisinghervoicetobeheardabovethewhirringofthearm.“Trytostaywiththeimages. Ifyouattempt tochangeanything,or try tobreakaway, thiscouldbedangerousforyou.Staywiththememories.”

Since that awful day when he had walked in on his mother’s still-warmcorpse,hadwatchedhis father,blooddripping from thebladewhichhad slainher,approachhimwiththeintentofkillinghimaswell,Calhadbeendeterminedtonever,ever,letanyonehavecontroloverhim.Hehadevenmanagedtoretainsomesenseofautonomy,asenseofself,inprison.

Buthere,thearm,andtheangelicbutunreachablewomanwhomanipulatedit, had ripped that away from him in seconds. And Cal had a dreadfulpremonition that somehow, theywouldbe strippinghimofmore thanheevenknewhehad.

Moremechanicalwhirring.ThearmmaneuveredhimaboutasSofiacalledoutinstructionsthatmeantnothingtohim,butwouldinfluenceeverything.

“Engagescanner!”orderedSofia.Myriad lenses shoved themselves into his face, one after the other, their

“eyes” irising open and closed as they observed—what? Other devices thatlookedlikethingsoutofamadscientist’swetdreamdescended,movingslowlywithominousclickingsounds.

Cal tore his gaze away from the machines, looking down at the humansbelowandthescreenstheygazedupon.

“Scannerreadingmemories,”oneofthemcalledtoSofia.ShestoodagoodtwentyfeetbelowCalnow,herovalfaceupturnedtohim.

“Status?”sheaskedofherteam,thoughhereyeswerestilllockedwithCal’s.“Monitoringbloodflowandneuralactivity…DNAmatchidentified.”Sofia,bathed inblue light,smiledupatCal.“Staywith it,Cal,”sheurged

again,anddespiteeverythingshehadallowedtobedonetohim,Calfeltthatshe

wasonhisside.“ScanningDNAchains,searchingfortimeframe.”The armmoved Cal with surprising gentleness now, languidly lifting and

loweringhim,turninghimtofaceintoonestrangepieceofequipment,thentheother. He was calming down now, growing used to the sensation, though hisheartwasstillracingandhisbreathcamequickly.

“Firstmemorymatchlocked,”theassistantannounced.“Egointegrity?”Sofiainquired.“Optimal.”Thistime,afemalevoiceresponded.“Attempt synchronization,” Sofia ordered. Shewas still gazing up at him,

andhesawconcernfurrowherbrow.Forhim?No,morelikelyfortheproject.“Firstancestrallinkiscomplete.We’vefoundAguilar.”Withoutanyintentionofdoingso,Calabruptlyflickedfirstonewrist, then

the other. Blades hidden inside the gauntlets shot forward.He stared at them,stupidly.

“Egointegrated.”Thefemaleassistant’svoice;floatingtohisears,seemingdistant,somehow.

Hewanted to close his eyes for some reason, though that seemed like thewrongthingtodo.Afewheartbeats later,hegavein, lettinghiseyelidsflutterclosed.

Astrangecalmdescended.“Synchronizationachieved,”saidthemalevoice.Thenher voice, musical, like a breath of summer air in its peaceful joy.

“There!”There, yes. A still point, where there was nothing that had come before,

nothingthatwouldcomeafterward.Itwas…blissful.SlowlyCalopenedhiseyes,aspeacefulnowashehadbeenterrifiedwhen

heclosedthem.“Commenceregression,”saidtheangel.“Regressioninprogress.”

AndthenCalwasdropped.Thestonefloorrusheduptomeethim,andhisstomachchurnedviolently.The floor suddenly seemed to open up, engulfing him in a fiery, churning

tunnelofblinding light.Then, soquicklyCal couldn’t evenbegin toclosehiseyes against it, the light dimmed, grew dusty, and hewas looking down on agreatcitypaintedinhuesofgoldandtanandbronze.

Heobservedeverything—morethanheknewhiseyescouldreasonablytakein, and as hemoved smoothly over the landscape, hewas reminded suddenly,peculiarly,oftheeaglethathadflownoverhimonthatdaysolongago,whenhehadtriedandfailedtojumphisbikeacrossthegulf,whenhisbiggestworrywashowtoexplaintohisparentsthedamagehe’ddonetothebikeandhimself.

Whenhislifehadbeenshattered.Thenthatmemory,andallthatwasCallumLynch,retreated,surrenderingto

thevastnessthatwasspreadoutbeforehim,inthevisionoftheeagle.

CHAPTER5

F

SIEGEOFGRANADA,SPAIN1491

rom above, the events ofman seemed like nothing at all, certainly nothingcompared to the whipping wind and the powerful upthrusts of the Sierra

Nevadamountains.Butifonedroppedcloser,divingdownastheeagledid,onecouldseethesmall,repeatedshapesofdwellings,andtheuprisingofstructuresthat hadmore of themountain in them than the hearthfires: amighty fortresswall,followingthesilverycurveoftheriver,anduponitsbridgesandrampartsandstreetswasbattleandbloodanddeath.

Little things, the breaths of a human life, but precious to those who tookthem. They fought by the thousands, with sword and bow and arrows, withdaggers and spears,with fire and faith.Smoke rose ingrimplumes, andwhatsunlightpenetratedtothestreetsbelowcausedsteelhelmstogleam.

Horsesandmenthunderedthroughthestreetswhilearchersdesperatelytriedtopick themoff fromabove.Bannersofnow-filthywhiteclothwere tornandtattered,buttheredcrossembroidereduponitcouldstillbeseen.

Belowtheeagle’swings,too,wasthegreatpalaceknownastheAlhambra.Moorishsoldiersfoughtdesperatelytoprotectthepalace,whileitssultanstaredsomberly down at the furor below him, then raised his eyes to themountainsbeyond, where a great treasure was hidden in a small village, many of itsbuildings still burning, and where the strangest of protectors stood ready torecoverit.

***

“Our mission is the boy,” Benedicto, theMentor, had told them a few hoursearlier.“Wehavebeenbetrayed.TheTemplarsmaynotfindhishidingplace,butif theydo, they’ll tradehis life for theApple.SultanMuhammadwillhavenochoice.”

Fewwords,butenough.Nooneonthismissionwasinexperienced,andtheyall knew the incalculable preciousness of the thing they sought. Aguilar deNerha,however,suspectedthatthewordsweredirectedathiminparticular.

Heknewthat in the fewmonthssincehehad formally joined theAssassinBrotherhood,hehadperformedwell.HehadfollowedtheordersoftheMentor,andnot takenmatters intohisownhands.Hehadprovenhimself trustworthy,developingacalmheadtooverrulehisimpulsiveheartandbrain.Theveryfactthat hewas being allowed on thismissionwas testament to howwell hewasregarded.

TheAssassinswerewellawarethatMasterTemplarTomásdeTorquemadawasbehindtheTemplars’drivetoobtaintheApple.Andwhentheshort,intenseGrandInquisitorwasinvolved,twothingswereinevitable.One,innocentpeoplewoulddiehorribly toadvance theTemplarcauseunder theguiseof“religiouspurity.”

Andtwo,atsomepoint,somewhere,theTemplarblackknightOjedawouldsurface.

The scoutwhohad reported theTemplars’ approachhad informed that thecompanyconsistedofover twodozenmounted soldiers andapairofwagons.One carried several barrels; containing what, the scouts could not venture aguess.Theotherwasalarge,emptycage.

Themeaningwasclear.TheTemplarswereintendingtopresenttheprincetohisfatherasifhewerenomorethanatrappedanimal.

The company was commanded by a familiar face—General Ramirez.Ramirezcutanelegantfigure,withhisscarredvisage,longgrayhair,andspear-straightposture.HeservedtheTemplarswithhisconsiderablemilitaryskillsandgiftforstrategy,andTorquemadavaluedhim.

AndwithRamirez,thescoutreported,hiseyesflickeringtoBenedicto,wasOjeda.

Benedictohadnotbattedaneye,norhadhesaidanythingtoAguilar.ButtheyoungerAssassinknewthattheproximitytothemonsterwhohadcapturedhisfamilyandgiventhemtoTorquemadatoburnwasboundtotroubletheMentor.ItwasnotunreasonableforBenedictotofearthatAguilarmightbetemptedtoforgetthattheirmissionwasoneofrescue,notrevenge.

Aguilarunderstoodthat.Hewouldnotforget.But he also knew that if fate presented him with the opportunity to slay

OjedawithhisownhandswhiletheAssassinsrescuedPrinceAhmed,hewouldtakeitinaheartbeat.

Theybeganthelongclimbdown,leapingfromcragtocrag,findingfootandhandholds where no others possibly could, moving swiftly toward the villagewhere theenemywasalreadypresent andhad set fire to someof theoutlyingbuildingsasameansofintimidation.Now,theAssassinsblendedineffortlesslywiththethrongthatstood,frightenedanduneasy,awaitingtheapproachoftheTemplars.ItwasoneofthetenetsoftheCreed:Hideinplainsight.

TheAssassins separated, threading their way in different directions as thecompanyofTemplars gallopedup. In the vanguardwere a cluster of soldiers,hard-eyed men in armor and red cloaks who carried weapons ranging fromspearstoswordstocrossbows.

Someremainedatoptheirhorses,watchingthecrowdwiththeadvantageofheight. Others dismounted and took positions among the gathering crowd ofvillagers,readytoquellanysemblanceofdiscontent.

After the soldiers came their commander. The legendaryGeneral Ramirezwasdressedinanelegant,elaborateredvelvettunicwornoverhisarmor.Hecutadramaticfigure,butAguilarhadnoeyesforhim.Allhisattentionwasonthemountain of amanwhowaited, his face as expressionless as if its owner hadindeedbeenkintostone,whilethegeneralslidoffhismount.

Aguilar understood now why he had gotten the nickname of the “black

knight.”Fromhis topknotandbraidedhair to the toesofhisboots,everythingOjeda wore was as black as night; as black, Aguilar thought with a surge ofanger,ashisheart.

Thewell-tooledleatheraroundOjeda’sthickneckandbroadshoulderswasbattle-marred,theembroideredcloakpalewithyellowdust.Hisbroadchestwascovered with leather armor, the silver studs and glints of chainmail the onlythings that caught the light.Ojedaworenotgauntletsbutbracers thatdwarfedthose that encircled Aguilar’s lower arms, also of exquisitely tooled blackleather.

Even thehorseuponwhichhe rodematchedhis rider.The stallion’sblackcoatwasdulledwithdust,butthethickmaneandtail,powerfulbuildandproudcarriagespokeofexcellentbreeding.LikeOjeda,thebeautifulAndalusianhorseworeblackarmor.Hisheadwasprotectedbyasecondskullof ink-huedplate,and the leather that draped his body was adorned with sharp protruding irontriangles.

Together with a handful of his men, Ramirez strode into a simple stonehouse.Ojedaremainedoutsidewiththebulkofthered-cloaks,notsayingawordormakingamove,butcausingterrorwithhissimple,silentpresence.ItwasnowonderhewassovaluedbyTorquemada.Graysmokemixedwithyellowdust,causingAguilar’seyestosting.Heblinked,clearingthem,ignoringthepainashistraininghadtaught.

But despite that training,Aguilar’s heart sped up as he gazed for the firsttimeuponthemanwhowashisparents’killer.Heforcedhimselftocalluponhislearneddisciplineand,ashisMentorhadordered,torememberthemission.

The boy—and, through him, recovery of the Apple of Eden—was whatmattered.Wasallthatmattered.Indeed,ifbysomestrokeofluckRamirezfailedtodiscoverthatthisforgotten,simplevillagewasthehidingplaceofthesultan’spreciousheir,theAssassinswouldnotengagehimorhismen.Aguilarwouldbeforcedtowatch,unabletoliftafinger,letaloneablade,asthehatedTemplarsrodeoffinsafety.

Such,ofcourse,wouldbe theperfectoutcome.Ahmedwouldbesafe,andtheApplewouldbesafe,andnoAssassinwouldlosetheirlifetoday.

But despite this knowledge, Aguilar found himself wishing it wereotherwise.

That less-than-noblewishwas granted amoment laterwhen there came ashoutfrominsidethehouse,andoneofthesoldiersemerged.

“We found him,” the soldier announced to the still,massive knight.Ojedanoddedanddismountedwithagracesurprisinginamansolarge.

Aguilarwonderedwhohadbetrayed them.Hewould likelyneverknow. Itdidnotmatter.Someonehad,outoffearorgreed,andnowitwastheAssassins’tasktorecovertheyoungPrinceAhmed.

Somehow.Ojeda strode among the frightened villagers like a lion among goats, his

narrow-eyed gaze flickering over them.He settled on one of them, seized thewomanbyherheadscarfandwrenchedithard,bringinghertoherknees.

“Whichfamilyharboredtheboy?”hedemanded.Aguilar could see the fear andpain in her eyes, but thewoman refused to

answer.Ojedafrowned,twistinghisbighandmoretightly.Thewomanhissed.“Ialone,”cameavoiceasonemansteppedforward.ItwasDiego,whohadlongbeenafriendtotheBrotherhood.Benedictohad

come tohimasking forhelp tohide theyoungprince, andDiegohadbravelyagreed. Like the women Ojeda was tormenting, Diego was afraid—any sanepersonwouldbe—butheheldhisheadhigh.

AguilarwaswellawarethatallDiegoneededtodoinordertohavehislifespared—andindeed,perhapsevengainrichesasareward—wouldbetopointatanyof the hooded figures in the crowd and shout a singleword: “Assassins!”Buthedidnot.

Threadinghiswaythroughthecrowd,AguilarnoticedthefleetinglookthatpassedbetweenDiegoand thewoman.Brief though itwas,Ojeda saw it, too.Withagrunttheblackknighttwistedthewoman’shaironcemorebeforehurling

her down to the dust.He turned to regard themanwho had stepped forward,overwhomhetoweredbyatleastafoot.

“Nobodyelseknewhewasthere,”Diegocontinued.Ojedalookedhimupanddown,thennoddedtohisgenerals.“Iadmireyour

bravery.Forthis,Iwillspareyourlife.”Themanreleasedabreathhelikelyhadn’tbeenawarehehadbeenholding.

Ojeda’s lips twitched slightly in what might have been a smile as he added,“Hanghisfamilyandmakehimwatch.Burnthewholevillage.Thewomenfirst.Theyreekofpigshitandsin.”

And the Templars dare say they are on the side of the angels, Aguilarthought,white-hotragespurtingthroughhim.Heforceditaway;forcedhimselfto keep moving casually instead of launching himself upon the hated, brutalenemy.

Even now, Diego remained silent, not betraying the Brotherhood. Heunderstoodwhatwasatstake,andheknewthatwhiletheAssassinsyetlived,heand his family still had a chance at survival. Templar soldiers dragged bothDiegoandthewoman—hiswife—away.

Aguilarkepthisheadlow,theheavyrust-coloredhoodshadowinghisface.Everything in him cried out to change his position, to thread his way towardOjeda,sothathecouldclaimthekill.ButFatewouldhaveitthathewasclosertoanothertarget,andBenedictoevennowwassubtlymovingbehindtheblackknight.

Resigned,Aguilarmaneuvered hisway toward the edge of the crowd andslipped around to the back of the single-story building that had housed theprince,climbingswiftlytotheroofandflatteninghimselfagainstit.

No one noticed. The townspeople were being manhandled to the groundwhiletheirprincewashauledforthbyapairofsoldiers.Ramirezfollowedthemoutside, looking triumphant.Hewatched, gloating, as the soldiers dragged thechildacrossthedustyearthtoacartinwhichsatthecage.Roughly,theyopenedthebarredmetaldoorandshovedAhmedinside.

“BeholdtheprinceofGranada!”shoutedRamirez,hisvoicedrippingscorn.“Hisfatherthesultanwillsurrenderhisrebelliouscity—thelastsafehavenforthe infidels!Godwill punishHispeople’sheresy.Finally,SpainwillbeunderoneTemplarrule.”

TheAssassinspermittedhimhalf amoment togloat.Then, as coordinatedandpreciseasiftheyhadchoreographedeverymove,theyattacked.

Aguilarsprangfromtheroof,hishiddenbladesattheready.RamirezsawtheAssassin’sshadowandturned,toolatetodrawaweapon,butnottoolatetostareintoAguilar’seyesastheslendermetalpiercedhisthroat.

***

Calstaredathishand,seeing thebladeactivated, leanand lethalbeneath thefivedigits—no,therewerefour,hehadonlyfouronhisrighthand,theritual—

“Staywiththememory,Cal.”

***

Aguilarclosedthedeadman’seyes,androse.“Assassins!”Thecrywentup,andallhellbrokeloose.

CHAPTER6

A

guilar’sbrothersandsistershadsprungintoactionthemomenttheysawhimleap.AsAguilarhadobservedsecondsearlier,Benedictohadpositionedhimself

to stand directly behind Ojeda. Somehow, impossibly, the knight seemed tosensetheAssassin’spresence.JustasBenedicto’saxedescendedinablowthatsurely would have decapitated Ojeda, the Templar ducked and whirled withstartlingspeed.

A grapefruit-sized fist came up, landing squarely in Benedicto’s face. ThesecondblowinrapidsuccessionknockedtheAssassinmentortothedustyearth.

Aguilar suddenlyunderstood that the reassurances from theBrotherhood—theirwords that,even ifhehadbeenpresent,hestillcouldnothavesavedhisparents—werenotidle.Aguilarwasnounbloodiednovice.Hehadfoughtwithhisbrothersbeforenowagainstskilled,trainedmensuchastheTemplargeneralhehadjustkilled.ButOjedaseemedmorelikeaforceofnature thanamortalman.

Allthiswasprocessedinlesstimethanittookhishearttobeat.Outofthecornerofhiseye,Aguilarsawoneofhisbrotherspulltwinswords

from his back, smoothly lopping off a Templar soldier’s head between theirrazor-sharpedges.Itbouncedtothedustyearth,theeyesopenandstaringinafinalexpressionofsurprise.

Anotherslitathroatfrombehind.Athirdsnappedaneck.Still another kicked a soldier to his knees and finished him off with a

powerfulsteptothethroat.But itwasMariawhorememberedBenedicto’s instructions—“Ourmission

is theboy.”While the restof theAssassins—includingAguilar,whowasnow

being attacked on two sides—were busy taking down the soldiers, she hadheadedstraightforthecartthatboreayoungprinceinacage.

EachAssassin’sbladeswereunique.Mariahadadjustedthemechanismononeofhergauntletstoenablehertofireherbladeasaprojectileweapon,turningitintoathrowingknife.Herotherblade,Aguilarknew,wastwin-pronged.

Now,sheflickedherleftwristandplungedthetwosharpmetalpointsintothebellyofthelonered-cloakedTemplarsoldierstandingbesidethecart.Ashedoubled over, Maria snatched the man’s own spear, sprang back, whirled itaround,anddrewthespear’spointalongthesoldier’sneck.

Hecrumpledtothedustyearth.Shejumpedeasilyintotheseat,slappedthereins sharply across the horses’ broad backs, and they obligingly sprang intomotion.

Aguilar caught this only fleetingly. He was busy taking down those whomightfollowher.Hepunchedonered-cloak,whostumbledbackward,whirledtoslicethethroatofanotherchargingsoldierbehindhim,thencompletedafullcircletoseizethered-cloak’sheadandslamitintothedusty,hard-packedearth.

He looked up for a moment, catching his breath, his eyes on the biggestthreatpresent—Ojeda.Themanwasnotonlymassiveandacunningwarrior,hewasintelligent.ThatwaswhytheMentor,Benedicto,hadselectedOjedaashisowntarget.

But all of the Mentor’s skill, experience, and usually unerring sense oftiming had, in the end, proved futile. Three soldiers were now struggling tosubdueafiercelyresistingBenedicto.

Aguilar’sheartsank,buthisgriefwasreplacedbyimplacablefury.Itshouldhavebeenme.Benedictowasnotfueledbyhate,asIam.Iwould

havetakenhim.“Aguilar!”Benedictowasscreaming,silencedmomentarilybyafiercekick

tohisabdomen.As Aguilar began to move toward Ojeda, the big man’s head whipped

around.

HehadseenMariaabscondingwiththeprince.Morequicklythanamanofhissizeshouldbeabletomove,Ojedatookoff

for the secondwagon the soldiers had broughtwith them, leaped onto it, andmadehiswaytothefront,wherehethrewoneofhisownmentotheearthandtookhisplace.

“Aguilar!”Benedicto’svoicesomehowcarriedoverthescreamsandclashofweapons.“Theboy!Theboy!”

Aguilargrittedhisteeth.EveryfiberofhisbeingscreamedathimtogoafterOjeda.TheoddsagainsttheAssassinswerenotgood.Hewaswellawarethathemightdietoday.Andifhedid,hewantedtodosoincombatagainstthismonsterwho had murdered his family, would have murdered everyone in this entirevillagefortheirhubrisindaringtostandupagainsttheTemplars.

Instead, he obeyed his Mentor, changing course in mid-stride toward amounted red-cloak. He grabbed the skittish horse’s reins with one hand andhauledtherideroffwiththeother,flinginghimselfintothesaddleandkickingthebeasthard.

Strong,swift,andobedient,thebeasthurleditselfforwardlikeanarrowshotfromabow.OthersofthebrethrenhadalsoheardtheirMentor’sorder.Onebyone,theyfinishedofftheircurrentadversaries—orfelltrying—andtookoffafterthefleeingwagon.

ButtheTemplars,too,hadnoticedMaria’sflight,andwereridingasifallthedemonsofhellwereafterthem.

Ojeda was already closing in, pulling his wagon alongside Maria’s. TheAssassinfavoredhimwithaquick,scornfulglance,slappingthereinsandcryingouttoherteamtomovefaster.ButitwasanotherTemplarsoldierwhopulledhishorseupclosetothebackofthewagonandleapedfromhismount,clingingtothebarsoftheprince’scage.

Aguilarurgedhismountonfaster,crouchinglowoveritsneck.MariaherselfreachedtheTemplarintime.Hewatched,pleasedbutnotsurprisedatherskill,aswithinthespaceofaheartbeatshehadjumpedfromherseatat thefrontof

thewagon,propelledherselfofftherockwallofthegorge,andlandedsmoothlyinthewagon’sbed,directlybehindherenemy.

Startled,theTemplarwasslowtodrawhissword.Itcosthim.Mariakickedhim in the midsection once, forcing him to drop the weapon, and then oncemore.Hetoppledoffthewagontotherockyearthbelow,butnotbeforeMariahadseizedhissword.

Asecondsoldierclimbedup,readytoresumewherehisfellowhadleftoff.Mariahadbrought thesharpenedsteelof the firstTemplar’sswordacross inawidesweep.

But this onewas not as easily taken unawares as the first.He ducked theblow, coming up at her with a foot-long dagger. She danced away, almosteffortlessly, whirling like a dervish, and slammed her elbow into his face.Anotherturn,andherbootedfootcrushedhisthroat.Hestumbled,gasping,andfelloffthewagon.

Athirdmanwasgallopinguponahorse,butMariasnatchedupacrossbowandfiredaboltintothesoldier’schest.He,astheothertwohaddone,fellandstruckthegroundhard.Quickly,Mariasprangatopthecageandscrambledbackintothedriver’sseat,snappingthereinsagain.

Theentireincidenthadtakenalittleoverasingleminute.Manyhadjoinedinthechaseonbothsides,andtheflatroadwasbecoming

crowded.Aguilarkneedhishorse,urgingittoveertotheright,upontoarockierpathway where he could give the beast its head and pass the Assassins andTemplars clogging the path. Ojeda was closing in on Maria and the youngprisoner,butAguilarwasclosinginonOjeda.

Hekickedthehorse,askingjustabitmorefromit,then,movingswiftlybutwithexactingprecision,stoodonhismount’ssaddle.Theextraheightofridingalongthebankhadgivenhimadistinctadvantageinachievinghisgoal.

Hebalancedforthebriefestofinstants,timingitjustright,andthenleapedfromthegalloping,frothinganimaltothebedofOjeda’swagon.Itwasnotthe

most graceful of landings, but Aguilar made it, striking the wooden plankinghard.

Heknewhis landingwouldalert thedriver,andevenashegot tohis feet,Ojedawasclimbingovertofacehim.

Forthefirsttime,AguilardeNerhawasabletolookhisparents’killerintheface.HewassurprisedtoseethatOjedahadodd-coloredeyes—onedarkbrown,the other a pale, unnatural blue—with a scar that ran from above the brow todownacrossthecheekbone.Butbotheyesrevealedacoldandcruelnature.

AfaintglimmerofrecognitionflickeredinOjeda’seyes,quicklydismissed.Aguilarunderstood.Heknewhisstrongjawwasexactlylikehisfather’s,andhismotherhadoftencommentedthathersonhadhereyes.

Doyouseetheminme,Ojeda?Doyoufeelaprickle,asifperhapsyouaregazingatghost?

The two men stood for a heartbeat, eyeing one another, and then, with agutturalcry,Ojedalunged.

He carried a small but sharp axe, and swung it down, throwing all thestrength of his powerful body into the blow.Aguilar’s arm came up barely intime,slammingintoOjeda’sandknockingtheaxefromthebiggerman’sgrasp.Itwentflying.Ojedadidn’twasteasecond,pummelingAguilarwithsuchvigorandviolencethattheAssassinwashard-pressedtoevencounter,letalonespareapreciousinstanttoactivatehishiddenblades.

MoreTemplarsoldierswerecatchinguptoMaria.Atonepoint,Aguilarlostsight of her. Fear that she had been cast down to be trampled beneath thethunderinghoovesofthehorsesstabbedhim,buthecouldnotletitaffecthim,notnow,notwhenOjeda—

Suddenly thecart lurchedviolentlyas it struckagreatstone in theroad. Itwasnevermeanttobedrivenatsuchspeedsacrosssuchroughterrain,andnowit had lost the battle. There came an enormous splintering sound and theterrifying,unforgettablescreamofhorsesinagonyasthewheelcameoffandthewagon collapsed, threatening to topple forward. The motion hurled both

combatants forward. Aguilar used the momentum to launch himself towardMaria’swagon—

***

—themassivemechanicalarmabruptlyliftedCal,lettinghimdangleintheair,onlytoshovehimdownhardontheunforgivingstonefloor—

***

—and he barely missed colliding with the sharp metal corners of PrinceAhmed’scage,landingflatonthewoodenbedofthewagonwithagrunt.

Aguilar heard the continued sounds of wood groaning and snapping,followedbyasmashingsoundthattoldhimthatthewagonfromwhichhe’djustleaped would now be nothing but splinters. He hoped Ojeda was, too; lyingbleedingintheroad,lifeebbingwitheverybreath.

It was a good image. The only grief he felt was for the beautiful, proudhorses.

Aguilar’s attention was now on what was happening in the front of thewagon,whereMariadefinitelywasnot.Itappearedasthoughshehadsomehowfallenbetweentherearpairofhorsespullingthewagon.

Heknewsheyetlived,fortheTemplarsoldierwasmakingoutragednoisesas, oblivious to the Assassin in the wagon behind him, he stabbed downfuriouslywithhissword.

TherewasnotimeforAguilartoclimboverthecage.Inoneswiftmotion,Aguilarseizedthedaggerathiship,aimed,andsentithurtlingthroughtheair,directlyovertheheadofthestartledyoungprisoner.Itstrucknoneofthebars,insteadembeddingitselfpreciselyasAguilarhadintended—inthethroatofthe

Templar,whotumbledhelplesslyofftheseat,nownothingmoredangerousthananotherobstacleintheroad.

Aguilar got to his feet and gazed ahead, over the top of the cage. Freshurgency spurted through his veins as he realized thatMaria and herwould-bekillerhadbeensointentupononeanother,noonehadbeensteeringthecart.Thehorses had simply kept galloping, panicked by the violence and the smell ofblood, and they were going to keep galloping—right off a cliff and into themassivegorgethatloomedahead.

Itwastoolatetoseizethereinsandpulltheterrifiedcreaturessharplytotheleft,backontotheroad.Aguilarlookeddownintothewide,frightenedeyesoftheboyprince,whohadnotyieldedtohisterrordespitehisordeal.

EvenasAguilar’sbladeextendedandhebegantopickthelockwithitstip,his heart swelled as he heard a beloved voice from the front of the wagonshouting“Aguilar!Theboy!”

HervoiceheartenedAguilar.Heyankedthedooropenandhauledforththeprince,whowasalready reachingout tohim.TheAssassinknewheshouldn’thavebeenableto.Thehorsesshouldhavealreadybeenoverthecliffbynow.Herealizedthat,somehow,theyhadmadethatleftturn,veeringandthunderingtosafety—butthewagonwasstillspeedingtowardabsolutecertaindestruction.

AndheandAhmedwerestillinit.Thewagon’swheelsdevouredearthnolonger,andithurtledforward—and

down.Atlast,attheend,theprincecriedout.Butevenso,heclungtoAguilarwith

fingersofsteelastheAssassinraisedanarm.Insteadofahiddenbladeshootingforth,agrapplingboltsoaredout,embeddingitselfsecurelyastheropeattachedtoitsnappedtaut.

Ahmedslipped.Faster than a snake striking, Aguilar’s hand shot out and closed around

Ahmed’s wrist. The pair swung wildly in mid-air as the motion of their arcbroughtthemaroundtostrikethesideofthegorgewithteeth-rattlingforce.

Thewagoncrashedtothegroundfar,farbelowthem.Andabovethem,hiswidefacestretchingwiderinagrinofmalevolentglee,

stoodOjeda.

CHAPTER7

“P

ullhim!”Sofiashouted.Shehadhand-pickedeverymemberofthisteampartially for their lightning-fast responses, and shehadneverbeenmore

gladofherconstantefforttoachieveperfectionthannow.TheAnimusarmstruckthefloor.Calsaggedinitsgrasp,unconscious—but

alive.“Commencerehabilitation,”she instructedher team.“Runasystemscheck

andloghiscondition.”Sofiawent to the unconsciousman, kneelingdownbeside him.Shegazed

intohisopenbutunseeingeyes,surprisedtofindherselfhavingtoresisttheurgeto touchhiminacomfortingmanner.SofiaRikkinwasascientist,andagoodone;scientistscouldnotaffordtoletthemselvesgrowfondoftheirlabrats.

Butsomuchhingesonhim….Thewordsleftherlipsbeforesherealizedit.“Youdidwell,Cal.”Andher

voicewaswarm.Orderliescametogatherupthelimpform.“Becarefulwithhim,”shesaid.

“No one enters the room without my permission, no matter what happens.Includingmyfather,”sheadded.

They nodded agreement, and she watched as they bore him off, if nottenderly,atleast,asshehadrequested,withcare.

“Youdidwelltoo,”shesaidtoAlexandSamia,twomembersofherteam.“How’shedoing?”

“Surprisinglywell,”Alexreplied.“Strongfellow.Hisstatsaregood,butasyouknow,thisisgoingtotakeitoutofhim.”

“It was an intense simulation, especially for his first,” Sofia agreed. Calwouldbeexhausted,andwouldsleepforseveralhours.Theywouldhaveplenty

oftimetogothroughwhattheyhadrecovered,butSofiawaseagertostart.“Whydon’tyoutwograbsomelunch?”shesuggested.“Wecanexamineit

alltogetheronceyougetback.”SamiaandAlexlookedateachotherknowingly.Theyunderstoodtheirboss

better thanalmostanyone,andrealized thatwhatSofiawantedwassome timealonetositandpuzzleafewthingsoutherself.

Afterall,thetechnologyasitmanifestednow,thegreatarminthecenteroftheroomandintheearlierversionsnowinplaceinvariousAbstergofacilitiesaroundtheworld,hadbeendevelopedbySofiaRikkin.

Theynoddedandsaidthey’dbebackinanhour.Theothermembersoftheteamleftaswell,andwithinafewminutes,Sofiawasalonewithhercreation.

She had been born in 1980, the year thatWarrenVidic, the creator of theoriginalAnimus,hadbegunworkingonitinearnest.SofialikedtothinkthatsheandtheAnimushadgrownuptogether.Inmostofitsincarnationsanduntilveryrecently, theAnimushadbeenasortofchairor table,where thesubjectcouldrecline, head engulfed in a special helmet that analyzed brain activity andallowed access to ancestralmemories through the subject’s DNA. Subsequentrecordingsofthesimulationplayedoutonacomputerscreen.

But Sofia, who grew upwith computers as babysitters, hadwanted bettersimulations. Ones that were three-dimensional, life-sized, which allowedobserverstoexperiencetheeventinamannersimilartothewaythesubjectsdid.Virtual reality, except on amuchmore advanced level than anything currentlyavailable.

She’d also been the one to want to involve the subject’s body, to makerelivingthememoriesanactive,ratherthanapassive,event.Sofiabelievedthebenefitsofkinestheticmemorywereunderratedbymostscientists.Itwould,shefirmly believed, create a positive feedback loop. If the subject moved as hisancestors did—his arm drawing back and activating the hidden blades beforestrikingablow,forexample—thememorywouldseatitselfevenmoredeeplyinhisbrain.

“It’ssoobvious,really,”shehadsaidtoherfatherastheydinedinParisonenight. She could tell despite his carefully neutral expression that it wasn’tobviousatalltohim.

Earliermodelshadfeaturedpartsofhersweepingchanges.Thisonewasthefirsttoincorporatethemall.

Now, Sofia activated a section of the recording, strode to the floor, andwatched it again.While she could seewhatCal could see, she could not feelwhathefelt,andshewasgratefulforthat.Sofiahadneverharboredadesiretoenter the Animus herself, though she had heard that the new Director ofHistorical Research in the London offices was pushing for all high-rankingTemplarstodoso.

Shewalkedpast the recordingofCalkneelingoverRamirez,whenhehadpaused,horrifiedanduncomprehending.Shecouldhaveeasilylosthimthen—thefirstrealassassination.ButCalhadlistenedwhenshecalledouttohim,hadstayedwiththememory,andoh,whattheyhadgotten.Everythingwassoclear,especiallyconsideringthatitwasCal’sfirstexperience.

Sofiafrozetherecordingatadifferentspotandwalkedaroundthemassivebulk of Ojeda, taking in the exquisite detail of his armor—so much work tomakeitbeautiful,whentheleatherwouldinevitablybescarredwithmarksfromblows,andallofitcoveredwithdustanddirtandblood.Remarkable.Shecouldalmostreachoutandtouchtheblackknight.

For Cal, such a thing was possible. He could experience the memoriesthroughallhissenses.WhenhehadkilledRamirez,itwasasrealforhimasifhehadplungedoneofhisblades througha livingpersonwhile standing righthereonthefloor.

The secret thatSofiaRikkinkept fromeveryone, includingher father,wasthatmostofhergreatscientificbreakthroughshadcomenotjustfromfocus,adisciplined mind, and a thirst for learning. They had also stemmed from herimagination—thatofalonelygirl,tooimportanttothegreatAlanRikkin,GrandMasterTemplar,tobepermittedtoplaywithordinarychildren,butnotimportant

enoughforhimtonoticethatplayhadbeenpreciselywhatshehaddesperatelycraved.

So Sofia Rikkin had created her own stories… and provided her ownplaymates in the form of “imaginary friends.”Because she liked history, theywereboysandgirlsfromvarioushistoricaleras;andbecauseshelikedscience,theyallcametovisitherthroughatimemachine.

Shehadnot created away to literally travel back in time, but theAnimusoffered the closest experience that science could provide. The huge Templarstanding frozen in the center of the room was the culmination of an ideaconceivedwhenshewasfiveorsix.Shehadgivenformandvoicetothatwhichresidedonlyinthememoriesofamanlongdead.

She lookedover again at the frozenhologramofCallumLynch.Theyhadmoreincommonthanheprobablywouldeverhavethought.

And,inaway,Sofiaenviedhim.

***

AlanRikkin,CEOofAbstergoIndustries,GrandMasterandmemberoftheeliteInner Sanctum of that Order, was a citizen of the world. But he was also anEnglishman,andhisofficeinLondonwashisfavorite.He’dbeentherejustlastevening. He’d arrived in Madrid rather later than he had hoped to, due towrappingupsomeunpleasantbusinessthere.Infact,hehadjustreceivedwordanhouragothathewaswantedbackthereagaintonight.AlanRikkincertainlygatherednomoss.

Hewas glad that things seemed to bemovingwell with Sofia’s research.Recently, ithadbeenmadeclear tohim thatnoteveryhigh-rankingTemplar’sviewsalignedwithhisandthoseoftheElders,andthatneededtobenippedinthebudasswiftlyaspossible.

Rikkinhadtoadmit,theMadridofficeoftheAbstergoFoundationoneranaclosesecondtotheAbstergoIndustries’Londonone.

MostofthiswasSofia’sworld,andheindulgedherinit.Butthisofficewashis, and it reflected what he thought beautiful and worthy—and befitting hismyriadstationsinlife.

Fine art covered thewalls, depicting greatmoments inTemplar history.Amap of the world adorned the wall behind him. Small green dots indicatedAbstergo offices, and smallwhite ones, sites of particularTemplar interest. Insome cities, such as London, they overlapped. Above the map was a row ofclocksthatshowedthetimeineverysinglemajorcity.

Atrulyspecialandrareitem,awhiteflagwiththeredTemplarcrosswhichhadbeenflownbythegreatTemplarGrandMasterRobertdeSabléduringtheCrusades,stoodinsolitarysplendorinitsowncase.

Fragile,leather-boundbooksrestedindisplayssafelybehindarchivalglass.Antiqueweaponsrestedinothers,some—likeshieldsandrowofswordsbearingTemplarcrosses—fromRikkin’sownhistory.

Others, like the morningstar, the crossbows, early wheel-lock pistols,arquebuses,andtheintricatelywroughtsmokescreenbombscraftedtolooklikefiligreedcontainersofscentedoils,hadbeenwieldedbyAssassins.

OneofRikkin’sfavoritebowshadornatecarvingsalongitslength,depictingstylized figures of hooded “heroes” using their infamous hidden blades tohandilydispatchenemieswearingtabardswithsquarecrosses.Hereveledinthefact that a weapon so openly anti-Templar was now in the possession of amemberoftheInnerSanctum.

The weapons were his, now. Soon, the Assassins themselves, or whatremainedofthem,wouldbehis,too.

AndthatoughttoputthelittlehandfulofmisguidedTemplarsintheirplaces.Hewonderedifthatwasthereasonhe’dbeencalledback;hehadnotbeentoldmuch.

Tonight, with so much running through his mind, he calmed and focused

himselfbydoing two things: runninghis longfingersover the ivorykeysofagrand piano, coaxing forth the soothing sound of Chopin, and watching hisrecentpresentationtoaG7assembly.

“Lookingback,”said theearnest,miniatureversionofhimselfon the largeplasmascreen,“it’sclear that thehistoryof theworld isahistoryofviolence.Lastyear,theeconomicimpactofanti-socialbehaviorwasninetrilliondollars.We believe thatman today experiences ameasure of aggression forwhich hefindsnoacceptableoutlet.”

Rikkin heard a slight whispering sound over his own voice and the softstrainsofmusic,butcontinuedwatchingtherecording.

“Now,”hisimagecontinued,“imagineifallthesecostscouldbechanneledelsewhere—towardeducation,healthcare,newtechnology—”

“Do I lookold toyou?” the currentRikkin interruptedhimself, addressinghis daughter,whohadmoved to step beside him.She had changedout of herwhitedoctor’scoatandintoasimpleblackdress.

“Yes,Father,”Sofiareplied,impolitelybutaccurately.“Becauseyouare.”Rikkinsmiledself-deprecatingly.“Wellplayed,”hesaid.“Isupposedthatat

my age, vanity must seem a bit pathetic. Sixty-five years is a long time tocontemplateanything,Isuppose,evenoneself.”

Herslightsmilewidened,warmwithaffection.“Youlookgreat.”“So,”hesaid,risingandlookingoutthewindowatthecityofMadridspread

outbelow,“theregressionwentwell?”“Lynchistheone,”shestated.Rikkinraisedaneyebrow.Sofiawasnothing

if not cautious, as befitted a scientist, but she was obviously completelyconfident in her assessment. “A direct descendant of Aguilar. Everythingwasclear in there.For thefirst time.We’vedonesomanyregressions,andthey’veallhadvaryingdegreesofsuccess,butthisone…quiteremarkable.”

She kept her eyes on the father on the screen rather than the father in theroomwithher,listeningtohisspeechraptly.

“Withyourhelp,”thatAlanRikkinwassaying,hislinedbutstillhandsome

faceradiatingearnestness,“Abstergocangofrommarketleaderstopioneersofwhatwealldreamof—amorepeacefulworld.”

TheG7audienceeruptedintothunderousapplause.Sofiasmiled.“Iseeyoustolemylinesagain,”shequipped.“Ionlystealfromthebest,”Rikkinreplied.Fromanotherman,itwouldhave

beenajoke.Sofiaknewherfatherwasutterlyserious.“AndtheApple?”“It’swithinourgrasp.”Shewascool,butstillconfidentassheturnedtohim,

ahintofavictorioussmileplayingonherlips.“What happened in there?” Rikkin asked, dropping any pretense of small

talk.“Yousaiditwentwell.Whydidyoupullhim?”“I had to,” Sofia replied. “We have to keep him healthy. He was still

recoveringfromthetetrodotoxinwhenMcGowentranquilizedhim,andweputhimstraightintotheAnimus.Hardlythebestofwaystoearnhisconfidence.ButIthinkIcandoit.Andoncewe’vegotthat,Iknowhe’llleadustoit.”

Rikkin, fastening his cufflinks for the evening ahead of him, would havenoneofit.

“Pushhim,”heordered.Shesmiledathim,almostindulgently.“That’snothowtheAnimusworks.”Rikkin knew he intimidated people, and he used that knowledge to his

advantage.Most Templars would have leaped to obey his demand. Sofia hadsimplysmiled.Shehadneverbeenintimidatedbyhim,notonce,inallheryearsontheplanet.Thisbothpleasedhimandexasperatedhim,andrightnow,hewasexperiencingthelatteremotion.

Rikkin thought back to his earlier comment about looking old. As hefumbledwiththecufflinks,thearthritisinhisfingersfurtherremindedhimthat,asSofiahadsohonestlysaid,hewasold.Hisbreathescapedinanirritatedsigh.

Sofiasteppedbesidehim,asdarkandsilentasashadowinherblackdress.Hernimblefingersfastenedthecufflink,andsmoothedthecuffaffectionately.

“Hereyougo.”Despite her scientific detachment, Sofia had a kindness to her that Rikkin

had lost long ago, if indeed he had ever possessed it.With quiet sincerity, hesaid,“Thankyou.”

Theireyesmet.Shehadhermother’seyes,nothis;blueandwideasthesky.Butshehadinheritedhisstubbornness,hissingle-mindednessofpurpose.

And it was that, alongwith her ferocious intelligence, which had broughtthembothtothismoment,poisedonthebrinkofgreatness.

“1917:Rutherfordsplit theatom,”Rikkinsaidquietly.Heheldhergazeashereyessearchedhis,wonderingwherehewasgoingwiththis.“1953:WatsonandCrickfindthedoublehelix.2016,”andhepaused,savoringthis,permittinghimself to relish the sense of pride sweeping through him, “my daughterdiscoversthecureforviolence.”

Sofia lookeddown,uncomfortablewith thecomparisons.Sheshouldn’tbe.No Templar should ever be anything but proud of their talents, skills,intelligence—andaccomplishments.

Gently,hetookherchinbetweenthumbandforefinger,raisingherheadsothatshelookedupathim.

“Wechoseyournamewell,yourmotherandI.”SofiawasGreekforwisdom.“You’vealwaysbeenbrighterthanme.”Asoft,perhapsregretfulchucklelefthislipsashegracedherwithoneofhisfewgenuinesmiles.

He dropped his hand and took a breath, steeling himself for the eveningahead. “Now I’m late. I have to head back to London tonight. I shouldn’t belong.”

“London?”sheasked,curious.“Whatfor?”Rikkinsighed.“IhavetoreporttotheElders.”

CHAPTER8

R

ikkinwasnotusedtobeingsummoned.Butevenheansweredtosomeone,and that someone was the group of Elders. And when they called—

specifically,whentheirchairwomancalled—hecamelikeanobedientdog.Now, he stood alone in the boardroom, waiting with his hands clasped

behindhisback,gazingintentlyatthepaintingonthefarwall.Theroomwasbeautifuland,likemanyTemplarspaces,superblyblendedthe

modernwiththehistoric.Comfortablecontemporarychairs,sufficient toseatafew dozen, were set off by large, elaborate candleholders and othermedievalrelics.Onthewalltohisleftwasastunningcollectionoffourdozenmatchingmedievalswordsarrangedinadynamic,sweepingsilvercircle.

At thecenterof thecirclewasa shieldwith theunmistakable redTemplarsquaredcrossagainstawhitebackground.Spearsandsmall,gleaminghandaxescompletedthedisplay.

But itwas the painting that heldRikkin’s attention. Its hues, even after somanycenturies,werestillwarmandrich,andtheattentiontodetailwasstriking,givensomanysmallfigures.

He recalled the term for the action depicted in the painting: auto-da-fé.TranslatedliterallyfromthePortuguese,itmeant“actoffaith.”Itreferredtoaveryspecificactoffaith—thatofburninghereticsalive.

The master artist had presented a variety of onlookers, from royal tocommoner, watching, presumably with great delight and perhaps religiousecstasy,asfiguresmettheirMakerontheordersoftheGrandInquisitor,whosediminutiveformwasseatedbetweenanequallytinykingandqueen.

Heheardtheclickofhighheelsonthemarblefloor,butcontinuedtoregardthe painting. The voice behind himwas elegant and precise, and he turned to

faceitsowner.“FranciscoRizi’swork,” saidEllenKaye, thechairwomanof theBoardof

Directors—and the leader of theCouncil ofElders. Shewas a slender, poisedolder woman, almost as tall as he, chic and conservative in a tailored navybusinesssuitwithacream-coloredsilkblouse.

“Thepainting’stitleis‘Auto-da-féinthePlazaMayordeMadrid,’depictingtheeventheldtherein1680.”

“IthoughtthequeenwastoooldforIsabella,”quippedRikkin.“1491 was a much more significant year for us,” she said, ignoring his

attempt at humor. “War, religious persecution—and the closest FatherTorquemada or any of ourOrder came to finding theApple.” Rikkin steppedtowardher,andshesmiledfaintly.

“Howareyou,myfriend?”sheasked,notwithoutahintofkindness.He bent and kissed her outstretched hand. “Well, Your Excellency,” he

replied,gracingherwithoneofhisownsmiles.“ButIrathersuspectyoudidn’tcallmebackfromMadridtonightsimplytolookatpaintings,fineandinspiringthoughtheymightbe.”

Hewas right, of course.Kayewas known for notmincingwords and cutstraighttothepoint,speakingbriskly,butwithahintofregret.

Thewordswere devastating. “Nextweek,when theEldersmeet,we shallvotetodiscontinueyourAbstergoproject.”

Rikkin’s smile vanished as coldness settled on his heart. This wasn’tpossible.Abstergohadbeenworkingonthisforyears,decades.AslongasSofiahadbeenalive.Justinthelastfewyearsalone,they’dprogressedbyleapsandbounds, developing technology light-years beyond what anyone thought waspossible,andsystematicallyknockingdownbarrierstotheirultimategoal.

“Thirty years is a long time to pursue a fruitless dream,”Kaye continuedimplacably.“Wefeelthatthreebillionannuallycouldbebetterspentelsewhere.”

Sheknewnothing.Hisvoicewasiceashereplied,“Threebillionisnothingcomparedto—”

“We’vewon.”Rikkinblinked,unsureastowhatshewassaying.“Ibegyourpardon?”“Peoplenolongercareabouttheircivilliberties,”shecontinued.“Theycare

about their standard of life. The modern world has outgrown notions like‘freedom.’Theyarecontenttofollow.”

Rikkin’svoicewasapurr,butrichwithwarning.“Iwonderhowmanyofourforefathersmadethesamemistake?Sittingcomplacentlyontheirthrones,whileasinglevoiceofprotestbroughtthemdown.”

The chairwoman blinked. She was unaccustomed to being contradicted.Rikkinwenton.

“The threat remainswhile freewill exists. For centurieswe’ve tried,withreligion,withpolitics,andnowconsumerism,toeliminatedissent.”

Histhinlipscurvedinacoldsmileashesaid,almost lightly,“Isn’t it timewegavescienceatry?Mydaughteriscloserthanwe’veeverbeen.”

“Howisyourbeautifuldaughter?”Kayeasked.As if she cared, he thought. My daughter is more than beautiful. She’s

brilliant.Andwearenotmakingpleasantconversationoveracupoftea.“ShehastracedtheprotectorsoftheApple,”hereplied,andtooksatisfaction

inwatchingKaye’seyeswiden.Therewasnopretenseoffalsecourtesyinherreplythistime.Hehadmadeherhungry.

“Where?”“Andalusia,”Rikkinreplied,addingpointedly,“1491.”Hepermittedhimself

tosavorthemoment.“Thedescendants?”He had her now. “All the bloodlines have died out,” Rikkin replied, then

addedwithasatisfactionhecouldnotquitehide,“…barone.We’vetracedhisbackfivehundredyears,totheAssassinBrotherhood.”

Rikkin’smouthtwitchedinasuppressedsmileoftriumph.

***

Sofiagazedatthepagesshehadregardedathousandtimesbefore:imagesfroman ancient tome, which depicted the usage of the Apple. It shone brightly,seemingtohoverinacircleofenraptured,primitivepeople,wearinglittleotherthan feathers,woven grass clothing, and expressions of utter joy as they heldhands.

Thefacingpagewasslightlymoreanalytic.Thelong-agoartisthadtriedtobreak down the construction of the Apple, but despite his diligence that hadsurvivedcenturies,theblueprintraisedmorequestionsthanitanswered.

Butnow,ithadafreshrelevance.Itwas,asSofiahadtoldherfather,withintheirgrasp.

Asuddenmovementcaughthereyeandsheturnedtolookataclearscreen.Calhadboltedupright,shakingandstartled,fromhisbed.

He’dbeenunconsciousforalmosttwenty-fourhours,andSofiawasrelievedtoseehimwakeuponhisown.Afterherfather’sadmonitionlastnightto“pushhim,”shewasafraidshemighthave toputmoremedications inhis system inordertoawakenhim.

Helookedaround,asifexpectingsomeonetobeintheroomwithhim,andsheplaceddownherpen.Hehadherfullattentionnow.

Calswunghislegsoverthesideofthecotandrubbedthebackofhisneck.Hisfingersfoundthemarksleftbytheepiduralthathadbeenplungedintohisspinal cord yesterday. He probed them gently, pulling his hand back andregardingitasifsurprisedtonotfinditbloody.

Thenhespottedthethreeguards,separatedfromhimbythick,unbreakableglass,observinghim.Calgave thema longstare, thenpromptly ignored them,gottohisfeettentatively,andwalkedtothedoor.

It was locked, of course, and after a few tries he turned his attention toexploring the small room, devoid of everything except the spartan cot, an

armless,narrowpaddedbench,and thesmall tablebeside it,whichdiddoubledutyasalight.

Sofiawasnotatallsurprisedwhen,almostimmediately,Calhomedinonthesmallcamera.Fromherperspective,hewaslookingrightather.

This is a man intimately familiar with prisons, Sofia thought, but hisfamiliaritywithhissituationdidnotappeartobreedresignationtoit.

Asuddenwaveofangeratherfatherwashedoverher.Iwonderhowbadthiswillbe….

Calstaredsearchinglyintothelens,wonderingwhowasontheothersideofit.Anotherguard?Theangelofpromisesandpainherself?Itdidn’tmatter.Hereturnedhisattention to theguards,notatall intimidated.Hehadstareddowntheirlikebefore,moretimesthanhecouldcount.

Therewasaflickerintheglass;areflection.Hadanotherguardenteredtheroom?No,notaguard,theydidnotmovewithsuchfelinegrace.Heturnedandhiseyeswidened.

Thefigure’sfacewashiddenbyahood.Theheadlifted—andCalgazedintoafacethatwasbothintimatelyfamiliarandunspeakablyalien:hisown.

Akiller’sblueeyesgazedatCal,thennarrowed.Hesteppedforward,slowly,thenquickeninghispaceashesnappedhisarmsdown,releasingthetwinblades,andsprang.

Thebladewaspressedtohis throat.Aguilardrewitbackandthecold-hot,thrillingly painful slice opened Cal’s throat. He doubled over, coughing upblood,hishandtohisgashed—

—whole…?——throat.Nothing.Noblood.Itwasn’treal.Justhismind,playingtricks.SweatdewedCal’sbodyasheloweredhisarms,trembling.Therewasasoftbeep,and thedooropened.ForamomentCal thoughthe

wasstillhallucinating.Hismotherhadbeenfondofoldmoviesfromthe1930s

and‘40s,andthefigurewhonowenteredlookedlikeshemighthavesteppedoutofoneofthosefilms.

SofiaRikkinworeacrispwhitecottonblouse,pantswithknife-sharppleats,andblackshoes.Thestylewasalmostmasculine,butnoonewouldmistakeherforanyoneotherthananeffortlesslyattractivewoman.

Oranangel.“ThehallucinationsarepartofwhatwecalltheBleedingEffect,”shesaidas

she entered, closing the door behind her. “Images of aggression, the violentmemories that you relived yesterday, layer themselves over your present-dayfieldofvision.”

“JustfromwhatIexperiencedyesterday?”heasked.She regarded him levelly. “They’re memories of aggression. Some were

fromyesterday.Notall.”Calturnedawayfromherasshespoke,leaningagainsttheglass.Theguards

stared expressionlessly back at him, but he didn’t really see them. Myriademotions were roiling inside him at Sofia’s words. He wasn’t sure he couldproperly name any of them, but theywere strong, and unpleasant, and one ofthemmighthavebeenshame.

She steppedbesidehim,her eyes searchinghis face. “If you’ll allowme,”shesaid,softly,“Icanteachyouhowtocontrolthem.”

Anemotionsurgedtotheforefrontatthewords:Rage.Cal’s lip curled in a snarl andhishand shotout. It closedaround the soft,

vulnerable fleshof her throat.He couldhave crushedher trachea.Part of himwantedto.Buthedidn’t.

Hesimplyheldherprisoner,assheheldhimprisoner.“Stand down,” Sofia called immediately, and Cal wondered if Abstergo

securitywassmartenoughtorealizeshewasn’tbeingharmedifshecouldinhaleenoughtoshout.“Ihavethis.”

Hervoicewasascalmasever,thoughthepulseflutteringagainsthishand,likeasmall,trappedbird,beliedthatcalmness.Calknewhewasincontrolnow,

andhetookadvantageofit.HepressedSofiaagainsttheglasswall,watchingtheguardsinhisperipheral

vision,butmuchmoreinterestedinherreaction.Shewasacoolcustomer,thatwas—

—Aguilargrabbedhim,draggedthebladeacrosshisthroat—Cal froze, squeezing his eyes shut in agony, but the painwas a headache,

nothingmore.Nothingnearaspainfulandashorrifyinganddisorientingastheobscenelyvividhallucinationshehadbeenundergoing.

Hehadnot releasedSofia.Thepainbatteredhim, likea tsunamipoundingrelentlesslyagainstadefenselessshoreline.Throughsheerwill,Calopenedhiseyesandtookasteadyingbreath.

“Whatwasit?Inthemachine?”“It’s genetic memory,” she replied, carefully and calmly. “By using the

Animus,wecanrelivethelivesofthosewhomadeuswhoweare.”“WhatIsawinthere…itfeltreal.”Sheheldhisgazeandanswered,carefully,“Itwas…inaway.”White-hot fury surged throughhim.Cal slammedhis freehandagainst the

glass.Itmadeashivering,unhappysoundthatechoedintheemptyroom.“Don’t lie tome,” he snarled. “I feel… different now.” Surely, now, Sofia

wouldcrack.Wouldshowfear.Instead, her eyes remained calm.Unbelievably, evenher pulse had slowed

slightly.Shealmostsmiled,asifsheknewsomethinghedidn’t.“Whytheaggression?”sheasked.“I’managgressiveperson.”“Perhapsthebetterquestionwouldbe,whoseaggression.”Hedidnotwanttoplayhergames.Notnow.Notwhenthefeelingofaknife

slicinghisthroatwasstillsovivid.“Whatkindofprisonisthis?”hedemanded.“It’snotaprison,Cal.Whathappens in theAnimus iscomplicated.You’ll

learnmoreifyoucooperate.”Hervoicewasreasonable,almostconversational.

Then:“Letmego.”Itwasn’taplea,norwasitanorder.Itwaspresentedasareasonableoption,

implyingthathe,CallumLynch,wasareasonablebeing.Maybehewas.Maybehewasn’t.Theystoodforalongmoment,thetensionbetweenthemrising,theirfaces

almostascloseasthoseoflovers.Calwantedtoshowherhewasincharge.Hecould snap her neck, right here, right now, and that would shut up her smugrationality,wouldn’tit,shutitupforever.

Butpartofhimdidn’twanttodothat.Shewassmugbecauseshewasfullyaware that she had just tempted himwith the one thing he cravedmore thanviolence:somekindofunderstandingofwhathadhappened tohim.Whathadbeendonetohim.

Hismouthwasathin,angryline,hisbreathcomingquickandshortfromhisnostrils.Thenhisgazefelltohishand,and,gently,almostlikehewasreleasingthatsmall,trappedbird,heopenedhisfingers.

He expected her hand to go to her throat. He expected her to moveimmediatelyoutofarm’sreach.Shedidneitherofthosethings.

Instead,SofiaRikkinsmiled.“Comewithme,”sheinvited.

CHAPTER9

C

alhadn’tdarkenedthedoorofamuseuminthreedecades,andhehadneverevengraduatedfrommiddleschool.ButtheroomsthroughwhichSofianow

ledhimevokedboth…timesaboutathousand.Menandwomendressedinwhite—Sofia’sresearchers,heassumed—moved

aboutwiththekindofhushed,focusedairherememberedfromrarevisitstoalibraryasachild.Therewasplentyof light,butCalcould tell itwasaspecialkind of light, and even as it illuminated it gave the room a secluded, almostcloistered feel, accentuated by the carved stone archways throughwhich theypassed.

Weapons were in evidence here, but only as antiquities to be carefullycatalogued and analyzed. There were shards of pottery, inkwells and quills,piecesofstatuary.Inonearea,whatwasclearlyapainstakingrestorationofanoldpaintingwasgoingon.Ancient tomesweresheltered indisplaycases,andpagesuponpagesofmanuscriptsweremountedonclearwallsofplasticorglass.

AsCaldrewcloser,however,hesawthatmostofthepiecesofpaperweren’tmanuscripts, as he had first thought, but transcripts of a much morecontemporarynature.

Andsomeofthemwerechillinglyfamiliar.Cal’spulsequickenedashestaredintoaphotographofhimself.Theboyinthepicturewastheagehehadbeenwhenhehadfledabloodied

tenement. His blue eyes traveled along what seemed to be a bizarre anddisturbing scrapbook of his lifewrit large: old Polaroids fromwhen hewas alittleboy,theironce-naturalhuesnowfadedorangesandyellows.Otherpicturesofamoreguardedyoungadultfromhisill-fatedfosterhomeyears.Astaggeringarrayofhisvariousmugshots.

Newspaperclippings trumpetedhis life inblaring,catchyheadlines:“FearsGrowing for CallumLynch:HelpUs FindMissing Boy.” “GangRaids LocalOffices.” “OneDeadAfter Night Club Fight.” “‘LynchWill Die’: Jury FindsPimpKillerGuilty.”

Thereweresmallglassvialswithcolor-codedtopsinacryliccontainers.Thecharcoalsketcheshehadobsessivelydrawnduringhismostrecentincarcerationwere here, too. There was a fake passport, his fingerprints—and his name,etchedintotheglass—andfinallywhatappearedtobeafamilygenealogythatseemedtogobackcenturies.

Agenealogythatheknewnothingabout.Cal felthisgutgrowcold.Hefelt…violated.Exposed.“What is this?”he

snapped.“Whatareyou,mystalker?”“I know everything about you, Cal,” Sofia replied.Her voice andmanner

wasunsettlinglyunruffled.“Yourmedicaldata,yourpsychologicalprofile, themutations inyourMAOAgene,your serotonin levels. I knowabout the fosterhomes,thejuvenilehalls.Theharmyoudidtoothers—and,”sheadded,gently,“toyourself.You’relivingproofofthelinkbetweenheredityandcrime.”

Calwas stunned and sickened, yet captivated.Hemoved down his familyline, and the “scrapbook” was now no longer filled with news clippings andphotographs,butyellowedolddaguerreotypesandspider-scrawlletters.

Teeth.Wrinkleddrawingsofhoodedfiguresandgauntletswithbladesstrapped to

them.“Howdidyoufindme?”“WefoundAguilar,”shesaid.Theword——thename——wasatoncemeaninglessand fullofportent. “Whenyouwerearrested,”

Sofiacontinued,“yourDNAmatchedhis.”“WhoisAguilar?”Calasked,althoughherealizedheknew.“Yourancestor.”

Sofiaturnedandwalkedcasuallytoanothercollectionofimages,herhandsin her trouser pockets, her body language displaying nomore distress than iftheywerewalkingtogetherinaparkonasummer’sday.Shenoddedatanoldsketchonyellowedparchment.

Cal’s hands clenched as he resisted being catapulted back into thehallucinations.Hebreathedsteadilythroughhisnoseashetookitallin.Whitequills of bird feathers—raptors, Cal knew,without knowing how—were sewnintothefrontofthecoat.Clothwaswrappedseveraltimesaroundthewaist,andbound on top of it was what looked like a leather belt, which upon closerexaminationwas awhip.Daggers hung at both sides, and hiddenbladeswerehousedbeneaththetooledgauntletsonthearms.

Thefacewasmostlyhiddeninshadows,butitwasafacethatCalknewalltoowell.

Forawildsecond,Calthoughtthiswassomesortofgaslightingattempt;thatthepeopleherewereplayingsomesortofelaboratetrick.Buttowhatend?

Calhadn’tplayedavideogamesincehewasakid.Buthewasdamnsurethatifanyonereallyhadtheabilitytomakehimfeelashehadfeltinthegripofthe giant arm, they’d either keep it a closely guarded secret or be making amassiveprofitonit.

“Aguilar’s familywereAssassins,”Sofia continued. “Theywere burned atthe stake by theTemplarsTorquemada and the black knight you saw—Ojeda.AguilardeNerhatookuptheAssassins’cause.”

Torquemada. Itwas funny,what stuck in one’s head; in elementary schoolCalhadstudiedtheSpanishInquisition,andsomehowherememberedthename.

Hecontinuedlookingat thebizarredisplayofhisbloodline’shistory.Now,thepapersweresketchesandartexclusively,orpagesinLatinfromsomelong-losttome.

His gaze traveled downward, to amonitor on the desk below the colorfulprints.Here,theonlycolorswereablackbackgroundandwhitelines—butthe

images so createdwerebeyondhis comprehension; hundredsof intricate linesformingtheshapesofpartofamachine.

Onethinghedidrecognize,vividly;thearm,withitsgraspingtwo-fingeredclaw.

“Whatisit?Thismachine.”“WecallittheAnimus.”“IknowabouttheAnimus.Ithoughtitwasachair.”“Notanymore.Howdoyouknowaboutit?”“Neverplayedthegames,butIshopliftedenoughofthemforquickcash.”Shelookedfaintlyamused.“Really?Thenyouknowitallowsustoobserve,

and you to relive, the life of your ancestors through the projection of yourgeneticmemories.”

Rolling his eyes slightly, Cal went to another display. “Do you get outmuch?”hequipped.

“Morethanyou.”Hertonewaslight,almostfriendly.Banter.Howstrange,tobeengagedinit

withSofiaRikkin—hisangel,hisjailor.Shecontinuedinthatvein.“Doyoueverwonderhowabirdknowswhento

migratesouthinwinter?”“It’sallIthinkabout.”Ahintofarealsmilegracedher lips,vanishingalmostatonce.Hervoice,

though,heldatraceofamusement.“It’sgeneticmemory.Asyourecoverthosememories, you inherit something of their lives. If you allowme to guide youthroughthis,thereisnotellingwhatyoumightlearnorsee.”

CalfelthimselfcloseoffasherecalledAguilar’spresenceinhisroom.“I’veseenenough.AndIdon’tliketheideaofyoustealingmymemoriestomakeagame.”

All trace of lightness fled from Sofia now too, and she looked at himintensely.

“I’mnotstealing.I’mutilizing.Thememoriesarenotyours.Theybelongto

yourancestors.Andbelieveme,thisisnotagame.”Calturnedacornerandsoberedfurtherashelookedatanotherwall,onethat

hadnothingtodowithhim.Itwasplasteredwithcoloredsheetsofpaper,eachwithcarefully typednoteson them.Attached to thepapersweresmall,wallet-sized photos of a few of the other… people he hadmet here.Mug shots, hethought.

He began to put names to faces. The black man urging him to jump, itseemed, wasMoussa. He only vaguely remembered seeing an Asian woman,Lin,andayoung,pale,earnestkidwhowasnamedNathan.Anotherone,Emir,wasamanaboutCal’sage.

Cal’s voicewas hard and flat. “And the others in here?Are they lab rats,too?”

“They’re Assassins. Murderers, like their ancestors.” Sofia paused, thenadded. “Likeyou,Cal.Allbornwith apredisposition toviolence.YourDNA,liketheirs,allowsustojourneythroughyoursubconscious.Totherootofyourverybeing.Allthosehiddenimpulsesthathavedrivenyouyourwholelife.”

Therealizationandallitsimplicationswasanuglyone.Calwalkedawayafewsteps,keepingatightreinonhisemotions,thenturnedtofaceher.

“Murderer,”hesaid.“Sothat’swhatyouthinkofme.”“Youkilledaman.”Shesaiditwithoutjudgmentofanysort.Itwas,toher,a

simplefact.“Apimp,”Calclarified.Theimageofthesceneroseupagaininhismind:thesneering,uglyfaceof

the man who sold women’s bodies. The bruises on the prostitutes’ faces,imperfectly concealed by heavymakeup. Their forced laughter. The stench oftoomuchperfumeandsweatandaboveall,fear.

And thatmomentwhen thepimpgrabbed the throatofagirlwhocouldn’thavebeenmorethansixteenandslammedherfaceintothebar.ThemomentthatcouldnotbereclaimedwhenCalLynchhaddecidedthatthehumanstainwouldnever,everhurtaterrifiedgirlagain.

AndifSofiaknewhishistoryaswellasshehadto,givenwhathe’djustseenhere,thensheshoulddamnwellknowthat,too.

“Ididn’tlikethewayhetreatedwomen,”wasallhesaid,though.Sofia stepped closer to him, her words expressing both curiosity and a

challenge.“Wouldyoukillagain?”Cal did not answer. As he looked down, his gaze fell on a photograph.

Unlikehis,itwasframed,withcareandrespect.Hepickeditupandexaminedit.

Itwasanolderone,thoughithadbeentakenwithintherealmofmemory.Itlookedabitlikethepicturesofhimselfhehadjustseen,withthecolorsfadingbuttheimagesstillclear.

There were two people in the picture. One was an attractive, laughingwomanwith shoulder-length dark hair, wearing a crispwhite blouse and jeanoveralls.Her armwas protectively around the second subject of the photo—atoddlerwithwideblueeyesseatedatopanold-fashionedropeswing.Therewassomethingabout the littlegirl’s expressionof focusas shegazedat somethingotherthanthephotographerthatherecognized.

“Nice,”hesaid.Then,archly,“Happyfamilies.Appleofyourmother’seye.Shemustbeveryproud.”

Sofia’sexpressionhadgonefromlivelyandcurioustosoftandalittlesad,evenasawistfulsmilecurvedthecornersofherlips.

“I wouldn’t know,” she said. “She was killed by an Assassin. Like yourmother.” She let the words linger there, letting him absorb what she had justsaid.

“Sorry,”hesaid.Andtohissurprise,herealizedhemeantit.Calletthesilencestretchonforalongmomentbeforehesaid,“Myoldman

killedmymother.”Which,doubtless,Sofiaknewtoo.“And how does that make you feel?” The girl mourning her mother had

retreatedintotheshadowofthescientist.

“Likekillinghim,”Calsaidbluntly.Heturnedandcontinuedhisperusaloftheroom.

Sofiafollowed.“Eitherweletthisaffectusfortherestofourlives,orwedosomethingaboutit.Youturnedtoviolence;Iturnedtoscience.”

Cal’s attention was drawn to a row of metallic spheres arranged on clearplastic stands.Theywere all of the same size, smaller than a baseball, a littlelargerthanatennisball.Eachwassubtlydifferentinitsdesign,however,andheidlyreachedtopickoneup.Itwasheavy.

“TheTemplarscallittheArtifact;theAssassins,theApple,”Sofiasaid.Calexaminedtheorb,glancingatthevariouspiecesofparchmentthathadsketchesorcommentaryabout the itemasshespoke.“TheBible tellsus itcontains theseedofman’sfirstdisobedience.”

Calwasfascinatedbythedecoratedsphereinawayhecouldn’tunderstand,absentlypullingupachairandsittingasifhebelongedintheroom,rollingthething around in his fingers. Sofia perched on the desk area in front of him,reachingaroundforamouseandcallingupsomethingonthemonitor.

As she spoke, she clicked themouse, andmyriad blueprints of the Appleappearedonthemonitor.Theyappearedtobesimilar to thoseCalhadseenoftheAnimus,andhewonderedifitwasbasedonthesametechnology.

“Buttherearethoseofuswhobelieveithasitsbasisinscience.Thatwithinits genetic code,God—or some ancient civilization—has left us a roadmap tounderstandwhypeopleareviolent.”

They locked gazes for a moment, then Sofia’s blue eyes traveled back toCal’sboard.

“Aguilarwas the lastpersonknown tohavehad it inhispossession.”AndthenCalunderstood,evenbeforehereyestraveledbacktohis.

“Weneedyoutofindoutwherehehidit.”Hewasoddlydisappointed,thoughheknewheshouldn’tbe.Everyonehad

anangle,itseemed.Evenangels.Hekepthisvoicelightashesaid,“IthoughtIwasheretobecured.”

“Violenceisadisease,likecancer.Andlikecancer,wehopetocontrolitoneday. We’re searching for the root cause of what makes you sick. And we’reseekingtocontrolit.We’reaftertheevolutionofhumankind.”Sheswallowed.“Sothatwhathappenedtoyourmother…andmine…willneverhappenagain.”

Quietly,Calsaid,“Violenceiswhatkeptmealive.”She cocked her head and regarded him. Her black hair fell across her

forehead.Hewantedtoreachandbrushitback.“Well,”shesaid,“technically…you’redead.”

She had a point. Cal’s brain hurt, and his body, which was definitely notdead,reasserteditself.

HetossedthegrayorbbacktoSofia,whocaughtitdeftly.“I’mhungry,”hesaid.

CHAPTER10

“W

hat’s in it forme?”Cal asked as they strodedown the corridor.Theypassedorderliesinwhite,graystonearches,andtreetrunksthatmayor

may not have been actual wood. He was growing used to the strangejuxtapositionsofthecorporatewiththecreative,thehistoricalwiththeantisepticcleanlinessofthepresent.

Still,hewasgrowingwearyof thecoolblue,grayandwhitepaletteof theplace. Something in him yearned for the blazing sun, explosive and urgentyellows,thetasteofdustinhismouth.Andhewasn’tsureifthiswasalongingfortheBajaCalifornialifeheknewasachild,orifitwasAguilar’ssun-bakedSpainthatwasbleedingintohisconsciousness.

Astheyroundedacorridor,hecaughtaglimpseofa largescreen.Itwasatalking head on some kind of news show, and there was something oddlyfamiliarabouttheneatlystyledgrayhair,thesincereexpression,andthepiercingbrowneyes.Hiseyesdroppedtothenamescrollingundertheface:AlanRikkin,CEO,AbstergoIndustries.

Ah,hethought.Nowonderyouhaveaseeminglyunlimitedbudget,Dr.SofiaRikkin.

“Thereare legal ramifications,obviously,”Sofiawassaying,“butoncemyresearchiscomplete,there’snoreasontokeepyouhere.”

Calslowed,stopped.Sofiaturnedtofacehim.“I get my life back?” he asked, uncertain that he had understood her

correctly.Sofiasmiledathim,handsprimlyclaspedbehindherback,hereyesbright,

asifsheweregivinghimapresentonChristmasmorning.“Better,”shesaid.“Anewone.”

Givenwhathehadseenhere,CalhadnoquestionthatAbstergowascapableof it. A new life. A fresh start. With, perhaps, none of the hot, irresistibleyearningforviolencetoplagueit.

Shegesturedtowardthedoorwheretheyhadstopped.“You’rehungry,”shesaid.Shemadenomovetofollowhim.Keepinghiseyesonher,hemovedtothedoor,andthensteppedinside.

WhatCalassumedwasthecommonroomwassimilartoeverythingelsehehadseenthusfarintheAbstergofacility.Orderliesworewhite;thepatientsworethe samewhiteT-shirts, gray pants, and grayV-necked top asCal did. Itwashard tobelieve that theywereallmurderers—Assassins,as theirancestorshadbeen.

Thewallswereslategray,andCal immediatelyspotted themirroredglass,behindwhichheknewsecuritywasobservingeverything.Therewereacoupleofguards in theroomaswell,keeping to thesides, trying—andfailing—tobeunobtrusive.TheroomdefinitelyhadsimilaritiestotheprisonsinwhichCalhadspentfartoomuchtime.

Still, it was a somewhat more pleasant sort of environment. There wasexerciseequipment,and twomenwere taking turns shootinghoops.Calheardthe distinctive ka-pok, ka-pok of ping-pong. Over it, he could hear birdschirping.Avarietyof foliage, fromtrees toshrubbery to fruitsandvegetables,appearedtobethriving.

ThethoughtoffoodmadeCal’sstomachrumble.Buthecouldn’tsettledownintothisenvironmentdespitehisveryrealhunger,andfoundhimselffacingthemirroredwalls,tryingtopeerwithin.

Ashewasstaringattheguardshecouldn’tsee,someoneapproachedhim.ItwastheblackmanwiththeneatwhitebeardCalhad“met”onhisfirstday.Theonewhohadencouragedhimtojump.

Now,hewassmiling.Hestoodexaggeratedlystraight,onearmheldstifflybehindhim.Hesteppedbackapaceortwo,sweepinghisotherarmoutgrandlytowardoneofthegrouptables.

“Howabouthere,sir?”hesaid,asifhewerethemaîtred’oftheplace.Callookedatthetwotablesasthemanpattedanemptyspotonthebench.“It’sanopenmenu,butwedorecommendthechicken.”

Keepinghiseyesontheman,Calslidontotheseat.AcrossfromhimwasanolderAsianman, his long gray hair falling in a tight braid halfway down hisback.HepaidCalnoattention.

Ayoung orderly approached, her voice andmanner pleasant, her hair in atidy,professionalbun.

“WhatcanIgetyou,Mr.Lynch?”shesaid,smiling.“It’sanopenmenu,butwedorecommendthechicken.”

Theman’seyesdanced,buthisfaceremainedsolemn.“I’llhavesteak,”Calsaid,nevertakinghiseyesfromhisoddcompanion.“Steakfor thePioneer!” themanexclaimed,as if instructing theorderly in

herduty.“Andhowwouldsirlikethatcooked?”Calturnedtotheorderly.“Walkitthroughawarmkitchen.”Theorderlyleft.Theman,uninvited, immediatelysatdownbesideCal.He

brought up three small cups from seemingly nowhere and placed themon thetable,lipsidedown,inatidyrow.

“Whoareyou?”Calasked.Herememberednoticinghiscompanion’spictureinSofia’sresearchlab,butthenameescapedhim.

Themanpickedupthemiddlecupwithdeftfingers.“TheycallmeMoussa,”he said, using the cup to point toward the mirrored glass. He leaned inconspiratoriallytoCal.“ButmynameisBaptiste.”

Hisdarkfacetookonastrange,seriousexpression.“I’mdeadtwohundredyears,now,”hesaid.Thenheadded,hisvoicelowering,“Voodoopoisoner.”

HeheldCal’sgazeforalongmoment.Caltensed,readytodefendhimself.ThenMoussa’sfacedissolvedintoanimpishgrin.“I’mharmless,”helaughed,givingCalawink.

No,you’renot,Calthought.You’reakiller,justlikeme.Andyoutoldmetojump.

Cal felt eyesonhim, andhis gazewandered tomeet that of a tall, ganglyyoungmanwithtousledbrownhair.Thekiddidn’tflinchorlookaway,insteadstaringintentlyatCalwithahardlookonhisface.Nathan,Calremembered;hehadalsobeeninthegardenwhenCalhadstumbledin,stillfightingthedruginhissystem.

“Ah,”Moussasaidslyly,“they’rewatchingyou.”HelookedpastCalintheother direction. Cal turned to see that someone else was staring at them: theAsianwoman,Lin,her long,sleekblackhair tiedback inaponytail.She, too,staredatCalwithopensuspicionforalongmoment.

“Haveyoumethimyet?”Moussa’s question brought Cal’s attention back to him. Cal did not reply.

Moussarepeatedthequestion,hisexpressionhardening,hiswordsdeliberate.“Haveyoumethimyet?”Therewasnothingofaplayful,“harmless” tricksterabouthimnow.When

Calstilldidnotanswer,Moussawordlesslyrose,plunkingdownhisthreesmallcupsthat,Calnowrealized,weredesignedtoperformtheold“findthemissingball”trick.

“We are the last to protect the Apple, my friend,” Moussa warned as hewalkedaway.“Alltherest…mostofthemareontheirwayto…infinity.”Andhemadeawavingmotionwithhishands,grinningonelasttime.

Anotherman,beardedandheavyset,walkeduptohim.CalrecognizedhimasEmir.Hehadhishandsclaspedbehindhisback,andhisexpressionappearedtobegenuinelypleasant.Smiling, he said, “‘So the last shall be first, and thefirstlast:formanybecalled,butfewchosen.’Thisbelongstoyou.”

Andheheldoutanapple.Itwassmallish,alittlegreen,alittlered;clearlyaproductof theon-sitegarden rather than abig-boxgrocery store.Cal’smouthwatered at the scent of the apple, and his mind flashed back to that goldenmoment,lyinginhismother’sarmsasshequotedRobertFrost.

Andanothervoice,alsofemale,alsokind:TheTemplarscallittheArtifact;theAssassins,theApple.

AndthentherewasthatbizarrecommentofMoussa’sabout“protectingtheApple.”

He took the apple. Emir’s dark eyes searched his, looking for something,thenhenoddedandwanderedoff.

Calwatchedhimgo,baffled,andshookhishead.Firstthisplacewasalab,thenatorturechamber;nowaninsaneasylum.Hesensedsomeonecominguponhisotherside.Fingersclosedonthepiece

offruit.WithoutremovinghiseyesfromEmir,Cal’shandshotoutandclosedonthewould-be thief’swrist.Casually,Cal turned to seeNathan, quiveringwithintensity.

“You’regoingtoleadthemrighttoit,”Nathansaid.Hisvoicesuggestednotjustoutrage,butpersonalaffront.

“No,”Calrepliedinanexaggeratedlycalmvoice,“I’mgoingtoeatit.”An appetizing smell announced the orderly approaching with Cal’s steak.

She set it down in front of him, a look of concern on her face, but did notinterveneinthestandoff.Nathanreleasedhisgripontheappleandwalkedaway,butnotwithoutanangrybackwardglance.

Theorderlymeltedintothebackground.Calstaredforamoment,thenshookhishead.

“Whatthefuckisgoingon?”hemuttered,laughingalittleatthecraziness.Heshruggedandcutintothemeat.Inthemidstofallthemadness,itwasa

comforttoseethatatleastthekitcheninthisplaceunderstoodhowtoprepareasteak.Itwasrare,coolinthecenter,andsmelledlikeheaven.Redjuicepouredontotheplace.Cal’smouthfloodedwithsalivaashepoppedthefirstbite intohismouthandchewed.Thewonderful,slightlyironflavorofthejuicy—

—bloody——aface,hiddeninahood,turningslowlytowardhim,griefandregretinhis

faceevenasthebladedripped—AgonyknifedthroughCal’stempleandhedroppedthefork,pressinghisleft

palmintohiseyeasiftophysicallyforcethepainback.Hewastrembling,his

breathcominginquickgasps,buthedidn’twantanyonetonotice.MoussaandNathanhadmadeitplainthattheyconsideredhimhostile.He’d

spentenoughtimeinprisontounderstandthosedynamics.Hecouldn’taffordtoappearweak,notnow,notinthispitofvipers,ortheywoulddestroyhim.

Cal forced his breathing to slow, and brought the pain down fromunendurabletomerelyexcruciating.Better.

Slowly,heloweredhishandandlookedaround.Afiguregladinleatherandthickclothstoodnearthemirroredobservation

wall.Hisclothingappearedgrayinthelight,butCalknewitwasdarkred.Theman’s hooded head was bowed and arms were out to his sides, a bladeprotrudingfromeachwrist.

Slowly,heturned,fixinghispiercinggazeonCal.No.It’sthehallucinations—the,whatdidSofiacallthem,theBleedingEffect.Calgrittedhisteeth,willingthefiguretodisappear——andsuddenlyhewasinhisroom,histinygraycell,andtheywere there.

Allofthem.Calknewtheirnames:Aguilar.Benedicto.Maria,withherkohl-rimmedeyes.“Ourown livesarenothing,”Mariawhisperedas shebrushedaroundhim,

herfacewithitsblue,beautifultattoosonlyafewinchesfromCal’s.“WedefendmankindagainstthetyrannyoftheTemplars,”Aguilarsaid,his

voice so familiar and yet so alien. Cal’s own blue eyes blazed in Aguilar’sbearded,sun-darkface.

“Doyouswear?”demandedBenedicto,theMentor.Theirbladeswerenolongerhidden,andtheycircledhim,whisperingwords

hedidnotunderstand,watchinghisfear—Calblinked.Hewasindeedinhisroom,withnomemoryofhowhehadgottenthere.But

theAssassinsweren’there.Hewasalone,exceptforthesilent,watchfuleyesthatwerealwayspresent

behindtheglass.

CHAPTER11

T

he new kid—Mr. Lynch, the orderly had called him—was having a roughtimeofit,Moussathoughtashewatchedtheconvulsingformbeingdragged

away.Hehadsomeempathyfortheman,havinghadhisownexperienceswiththehorrorfestthatwastheBleedingEffect.

Hehadn’tcaughtLynch’sfirstname,butsomeoneelsewouldknowit.Eachof them was like a part of a whole; one would hear something, anothersomethingelse.That’swhataBrotherhoodwas.

Moussa grinned as one of the guards approached, trying to act all casual.He’dbeenwatchingtheinterplaybetweenthetwoinmates—theyweresupposedto thinkof themselvesas“patients,”but thatwasbullshit—andwassuspiciousofit.

“Want to sit down and play a game with me, big man?” Moussa askedgenially,placinghiscupsonthetable.

“YougotnothingIwantifIwin,”theguardpointedout,quitereasonably.Moussacackled.“Yougotthatright!”hesaid,thenaddedthoughtfully,“Or

doI?Igotmeapairofsharpeyesandsharpears.”Henoddedhisheadat thedoor throughwhich thehallucinatingLynchhad just beendragged. “Couldbeusefulthings.”

Theguardeyedhim,andthencautiouslysatdownatthetable.Moussaliftedthecupontheright,showinghimthesmallroundballhidingunderneathit.

Theguardgrimacedandpointedattheothers.“Letmeseethem.”Moussa,grinning,obliged.“Andthebottomsofallofthem,”theguardadded.

“Your mother didn’t raise a fool,” Moussa said, though as far as he wasconcerned that remained tobe seen.Otherswere taking an interest now.TheyalwayslikedtowatchMoussaperform.

Thathadn’talwaysbeenthecase.Whenhehadfirstbeenbroughtin,drunkas a lord, he’d been mostly a simple street thief in Atlanta: lifting wallets,snatchingpurses,engagingintheoccasionalbarfight,nothingmorecomplicatedthanthat.

Exceptforthattime—ortwo—whenhe’dhadtofightforhisprizes.Copshadfoundthebodies,butthey’dneverfoundhim.Hewastooclever.But in the five years since he had been here—was it five? Itwas hard to

reckontimeinthechangelessblueglowofthisplace,andthatdamnedmachineplayed trickson themind—thingshadchanged.Moussa’snaturaldeftnesshadincreased a thousandfold, andwhereas he had once been content to let othersplay thegamesandmanipulate andcontrol, hewasnow the ringleaderof thislittlecircus.

“Wedon’tknowwhoheis,whatheis,anything,”EmirhadsaidwhenLynchhadfirstcomeintotheroom,walkingwiththatcautiousstancethatMoussafullyunderstood.

“Weallstartedoutasstrangers,”Moussapointedout,adding,“Someofusstartedoutasenemies.”

Emirfrowned.HecouldnotdenythetruthofMoussa’sstatement,buthehadthe best instincts of all of them. And it was clear that something about thenewcomertroubledhimdeeply.

“Look howhemoves,Moussa.Howhe holds himself.He is closer to hisancestry already than we were for a long time. But we don’t know whichancestoritmightbe.Thatmakesforadangerousman.”

ButMoussawascurious.Plentyofothershadcomethiswaywithjust thatexpressionandattitude.IncludingMoussahimself.

“Givehimalittlemoretime,Emir,”hehadsaidtohisfriend.“Themanmayprovetohavesomenoblebloodinhimyet.”

He had introduced himself to the Pioneer with a second name—Baptiste.Everyoneherehadsecondnames.Orwasitafirstname?Becauseashehadtold

Lynch,Baptiste,whohadindeedbeenavoodoopoisoner,hadalsobeendeadfortwohundredyears.

ButtheAbstergoFoundationhadfoundMoussa,andthroughhim,theyhaddugupBaptiste.AndafterallthistimespentintheAnimus,livingthroughhisancestor’s memories, the sly, intelligent killer of centuries past had come toresidecomfortablyalongsideMoussainthatman’sskin.

Baptistehadnotbeenaniceperson.Not at all.Hehadbeen trained as anAssassin,andhadbeenamemberofthatBrotherhoodforthirtyyears.ButwhenhisMentorwaskilled,Baptistehadabandoned theBrotherhood.Pretending tobe his Mentor, Baptiste formed his own cult, and reveled in directing hisfollowerstokillassuitedhim.Later,hewouldplantojointheTemplars.

And so, quite reasonably, as he had reminded Emir, the inmates hadn’ttrustedMoussa.Andatfirsthe’dprovedthemright.He’dgonealongwithwhattheTemplarshadaskedofhim,justashisancestorhad,forsometime.UntilthedaycamethatMoussarealizedthattoday’sTemplarsweren’tabouttokeeptheirwordanybetterthanyesterday’sTemplarshaddone,andthattheyhadbeentheonlyonestobenefitfromtheknowledgetheyhadrippedfromhim.

Hell,theTemplarshadn’tevengivenhimcakewhenhehadaskedforitonhisbirthday,whichwas…hedidn’trememberanymore.Whatkindofungratefulshitwasthat?Toobadhecouldn’tgethishandsonanypoison; theplants thattheTemplarsallowedtheinmatestogrowwereallcompletelyharmless.

Moussamanipulatedthecupsswiftly,hisfingersfeather-lightashetouchedthem.Theguardkepthiseyesgluedontheswiftly-movingobjects,hismouthathin, determined line of concentration. After a few more feints and shifting,Moussastoppedandlookedattheguardexpectantly.

The other man reached out and tapped the cup in the middle. Feigningsadness,Moussaliftedittorevealthatthecupconcealednothing,andthenliftedtheoneontheright.Thesmallballsatbeneathit.

“Aww,toobad.Besttwooutofthree,”heoffered.Theguardglowered,thennodded.

Again,thecupsmovedquickly.MoussahadturnedtotheAssassins.Ithadtakentime,buthehadprovedhis

trustworthinesstothem.Now,hewastheonetheyturnedto.Eachhadhisorherown skillset, their own knowledge and strengths. But it was Moussa, thetrickster, the one who played the fool and the madman in order to gleaninformation,whohad the final sayon things.They listened tohim, trustedhisjudgment.Hewasalwaystheonesentouttovetthenewcomers.AndtherewassomethingaboutthisPioneerthathadseizedhisinterest.

Lynchcouldbe theone theyhadbeenhopingfor…or theone they fearedaboveothers.

TheirProtector…ortheirdoom.Moussawasfeelingcharitable,soheslowedhismotionsdownjustenough

sothattheguard,thistime,wasabletoselectthecorrectcup.“Well, look at that,” he exclaimed, “I got a shiny little thing hiding out

underneaththis.Yougotsomesharpeyes,man.Betnothinggetspastyou.”“Iwon.Sowhatdoyouhaveforme?”“Notone for chitchat, areyou?”Moussa lookedaround, as ifmaking sure

theywouldn’tbeheard, then leaned incloser to theguard.“Iknowsomethingaboutthenewpatient,”hesaid,hislipsalmostbrushingtheguard’sears.

“Yeah?”“Helikeshissteakrare,”Moussasaid,thenpulledback,lookingcompletely

serious.The guard flushed beet red, but Dr. Rikkin had forbidden any violence

againsther“patients”unlessabsolutelynecessary.Still,Moussawaswellawarethattheguardwouldprobablyfindsomewaytogetbackathim,buthedidn’tcare.

Inside,Baptistewaslaughinghisheadoff.

***

Sofia’sstomachknottedasshewatchedCalgaspandcower,strikeatemptyair,andshoutdefiance.Shehadseenthisbefore,manytimes.Thefirsttimeshehadwitnessed it she had been distressed by it. Eventually, though, she had growninuredtoit, thoughshetooknodelight inwatching.Itwasanecessarypartofherresearch,andshealwayshadtokeeptheendgoalinmind.

SofiaunderstoodthatthismanifestationoftheBleedingEffectwasterrifyingandalsophysicallypainfulforthepatient.Shealsoknewthatitwouldpasswithtime,and thateverythingsheknewaboutCal’spsychological state toldherhewasastrongcandidateandwouldalmostcertainlysuffernolastingharm.

ButsomethingaboutCal’ssufferingfeltdifferenttoher.SofiatoldherselfitwasonlybecausehewassoimportanttotheTemplarcauserightatthismoment.

“TheBleedingEffectisgettingworse,”shesaidtoAlex,whowasstandingbesideherwatchingthescreen.“He’smoreaffectedbyitthantheothers.GivehimfourhundredmilligramsofSeroquelforthehallucinations.”

Alex looked at her, a little surprised by her concern, but nodded and left,silentinhisrubber-soledshoes.

Shestoodamomentlonger,watchingCalandgnawingonathumbnail.TheSeroquelshoulddohimsomegood.Ifnot…she’dhave to thinkofsomethingelse.

Sofia returned to her work, which had always been a source of comfort,pride,anddistraction.And,shehadtoadmit,awaytogetherfather’sattentionandapprobation.

It was no real surprise to her that she had gravitated to science andtechnology rather thanother interests.With thehorrible shockofhermother’smurder,herfatherhadincreasedtheamountofsecurityintheirtwomainhousesinEnglandandFrance,andbroughtingovernessesandlaterformalteacherstoinstruct her. She didn’t know how to interact with her fellow humans, andcomputertechnologyhadbeenakeypartofherlessonsandherentertainment.

Despitethetraumaofthenatureofhismother’sdeath,Calatleasthadhadherpresenceinhislifetilltheageofseven.

Sofiahadlosthermotherwhenshewasfour.She didn’t remembermuch. A faint image here and there; the sound of a

laugh,oralinefromoneofthebookshermotheroftenreadaloud.Thepetnameof“Sofie.”Thescentoflilacsandthesoftnessofacheek.Butterflykisses.

Sofia evenhadmemories—happymemories—ofher father from that time.Hewaskinderthen,andlaughedmore.Sherememberedbeingswunguponhisshoulders,goingfromthesmallest tothetallestintheroom,andlookingupatthecomfortingshapesofbothparentstuckingherinbed.

Butonce thebright light thatwasMamahadwinkedoutofherdaughter’slife,everythinghadchanged.Sofiawouldwakeatnightscreaming,terrifiedthatthe “Sassins” had come for her father, too, and shewould be all alone in theworld.She’dwantedher father tocome toher roomon thoseawfulnights, toscoopherupandtellhisSofiethattheAssassinswouldnevercomeforeitherofthem,thathewouldkeephersafe.

Butthathadneverhappened.Sofia—nolongerSofie—hadbeenlargelylefttoherowndevices.Herfather

hadaglobalcorporationtorun,afterall,andhaddutiesshehadonlybeguntolearn about as a teenager inhis role as aGrandMasterTemplar.As theyearspassed and Sofia began to contributemore andmore to advancingAbstergo’sAnimustechnology,hehadgivenhermoreimportanttasksandtitles.

TheMadridcenterwashers.Except,likeallthings,itwasn’t,really.“Nottoourselves,but to the future,giveglory,”wasacommonlyheardphraseamongthe Templars. It was a lovely thought, butmore often than not, it was to theEldersandtoAlanRikkinthatglorywasgiven.

Sofiaheardsoftfootfallsbehindherandsmelledherfather’saftershave.Shesmiledtoherself.Speakofthedevil,shethought.

“He has to go back in the Animus,” Rikkin said without preamble. Sofialookedupfromherwork.“Now.”

Shelookedathimincredulously.“Can’tyouseewhat’shappeningtohim?”Sofiaasked.“TheBleedingEffectishittinghimveryhard.Heneedsmoretime

beforehegoesin,forustoprepare—”“Wedon’thavetime,”Rikkininterrupted,coldanddeliberate.A chill went through Sofia. “Why?” she demanded. What was her father

keepingfromher?He did not answer. It would not be the first time. Sofia understood the

demands placed on him, though she did not know the particulars. Therewerecertain things he was not permitted to say, questions he wasn’t allowed toanswer.Although,theoldershegrew,themoreshewonderedifitwaslessthathishandsweretiedthanthathesimplylikedtokeepsecrets.

Thistime,though,sheknewitwasn’ttheplayingofagamethatmadehimhold his tongue. Something had happened. Considering he had flown back toLondonlastnighttoreporttotheElders,shemadetheassumptionthattheyhadtoldhimsomethingthathadforcedthisnewurgencyuponhim.

The silence stretched uncomfortably between them. His brown eyes werefixedonthescreen.

Itwas not a pleasant sight.Despite themedication, she had prescribed forhim,CallumLynchwasnowcurledintoa tightballonthefloor, rockingbackand forth. Alan Rikkin was used to being in charge, to having all his ordersobeyedimmediatelyandwithoutquestion.Fatheranddaughterhadbuttedheadsbefore. He was not a scientist, he was a businessman. And he was moreinterestedinresultsthanin…well,inanything.

“Sendhimbackin,Sofia.Notinacoupleofdays,notinafewhours.Now.”Sofiaknewshecouldnotriskgrowingtooattachedtohertestsubjects.But

shewasalsotheirprotector,andshemadeadecision.“YouknowaswellasIdothathe’lldieinthereifheisn’tready.”“Thenseetoitthatheis.”Sheclosedthedistancebetweenherselfandherfather,turningherfaceupto

himdefiantly.“Iwon’triskhislife.”Thatgothisattention.Helookedatherforamomenthisexpression…sad.

Then,reluctantlybutfirmly,hesaidwordsthatchilledhisdaughtertothebone.“ThenI’llhavetofindsomeoneelsetodoit.”Sofia stared at him as hewalked outwithout anotherword or a backward

glance,andgropedforherchair,almostcollapsingintoit.Shegrippedthebackofthechairtillherknucklesturnedwhite,forcingherselftobreathedeeply.

When shewas eight years old, she had found a stray dog.He had been amutt,absolutelycrawlingwithfleas,bigandganglyanduncontrollable,butshehad fallen in lovewithhimon the spot.Her fatherhad toldher thatundernocircumstances would Oscar, as she had named him for no reason she couldfathomthenornow,beallowedtostay.

Sofia wasn’t a girl of many tears, but she’d flung herself on the animal,sobbingherheartout.She’dfeltthemattedfuragainsthischeek,hisbodyheatagainsther,hisheartbeatingquickly.Forthefirsttimesincehermother’sdeath,Sofia experienced a connection to someother living creature, one that neededher,thatshecouldtakecareof,ashermotherhadtakencareofher.

Ofcourse,shecouldn’tarticulatesuchacomplicatedthoughtatthatage.Allshecoulddowascry,andclingtoOscar,andbeg.

Sofia promised her father she’d take care of everything. She would feed,bathe, and trainhim.Hewouldbe agooddog, shehadvowed.Thebestdog.Oscarwouldbegratefultohavebeenrescued,andhewouldloveher.

AndifhewouldletherhaveOscar,she,SofiaRikkin,wouldbeagoodgirl,thebestgirl.Shewouldn’t lethergradesslip,she’ddoeverythingherteachersaskedofher.Eventually,her fatherhad relented,but saidhe’dholdher toherpromises.

Sofiakeptherword.ShebathedOscar,andfedhim,andworkeddiligentlyonhousetraininghim.Sheeventaughthimtositandstay.Thenoneday,whileshewastakinghimforawalk,he’dslippedhisleashtogoafterasquirrel.Herefusedtocomewhenshecalledandfinally,shecorneredhimandmadeagrabforhiscollar.

He’d been overexcited and frightened, and, not unexpectedly for a stray

animal, had bitten her. It hadn’t been a bad bite, but it had broken the skin.Bleeding,Sofiahadgottentheleashreattachedandtheyhadgonehome,bloodstreamingdownherarm.

Herfatherhadgonethroughtheroof.Sofia had been bundled into the car and taken to the Rikkins’ private

physician,whereshehadreceivedtenstitches.Shestillhadthescar,andnow,asshe stared at themonitor, at CallumLynch curled upweeping, shivering, andstrikingoutsavagelyatenemiesthatexistedonlyinhismind,shefoundherselftracingthealmost-invisiblewhitelineonherwristwithathumb.

She’dgottenstitches.Oscarhadgottenshot.Whenshehad foundoutandconfrontedher father, allhehadsaidwas,“I

don’tlikeseeingyougethurt.”Growing up, looking back on the incident, Sofia had rationalized that her

fatherhadindeedbeenupsetatthethoughtofhisonlychildbeingattackedbyananimal—even onewhose reaction to the situation had not been unexpected orevensevere.Shehadtoldherselfthat,sosoonafterlosinghermother,herfathercouldn’tbeartothinkofanythingbadhappeningtohisdaughter.

Butnow,sheunderstood.AlanRikkinhadn’tbeenanoverprotectivefathertryingtoprotectabelovedchild.Hehadbeenexercisinghisrighttocontrolthesituation.

Hehadbeentellingherthathehadtheability,atanytime,foranyreason,toeliminateanything—andanyone—thatwasprecioustoher,ifhesochose.

Cal Lynch wasn’t the first casualty of Alan Rikkin’s need to control hisdaughter’slife.

Hewasjustthemostrecent.

CHAPTER12

C

alhad revived, andeaten; theybrought another steak tohis room,cut intopiecessothathewouldn’trequireaknife.Hefeltbetterafterhe’dhadsome

food,andforawhilehewonderedifhe’dbeatenthehallucinations.But he hadn’t.NowCal stared into the room at the end of his,where the

guardskeptconstantvigil.Thistime,theyweren’ttheonesregardinghim.Thistime,itwasAguilar.Calwas tenseandalert,sweatcomingoffhiminrivulets,but theAssassin

didnotattack.HesimplystaredatCalforalongmoment,thensteppedintohisroom.

Throughtheglass.Calstaredforamomentintohisownface,butonethatwasharder,adorned

withbothscarsandtattoos.Thisisahallucination.It’snotreal.WhathappensintheAnimusisnotreal,notforme.ThisisjusttheBleedingEffect.

Hewas surprised the image was so calm. Perhaps his mind was workingthroughthisandwasgoingtohavetheAssassinspeaktohim.Instead,ashehaddonebefore,theAssassinlunged.

Butthistime,Calwasready.HegothisleftarmupintimetoknockasideAguilar’sattemptedstiff-handedjabathisthroat,andhisrighttostrikehardattheAssassin’ssecondattempt.Aguilarfeinted,thenwhirledandkickedout,hisfootbarelymissingCal’sstomach.

Calwasnostrangertobrawling.Hehadgottenintomorefistfightsthantherewerestarsintheskysince…sincethatday.Butnow,forthefirsttimesincetheBleedingEffecthaddescendeduponhim,twistingrealityandgrabbinghimbythethroat,Calwasincontrolofhisactions.Before,theimagesofAssassinshadsimplyterrorizedhim:whisperingaccusations,stabbinghim,slittinghisthroat.

His brain had been floodedwith unreasoning fear. But this time, things wereverydifferent.

HeknewhowAguilar had behavedpreviously,whenhewas trying to killCal.Hehadsucceededthen.Thiswasn’tanattack—atleast,notliketheothershadbeen.Dimly,Calrealizedthatthiswas…sparring.Training.

Dodgingakick.Blockingastrike.Executinghisownpunches.Hefellintothemotionseasily,comfortably.Thiskindoffight,heknew.Inthiskindoffight,hecouldholdhisown.

Abruptlyhewhirled,kickedout—andnothingwasthere.Calpaused,barelywinded,andlookedaroundtheroom.WasAguilargone?Thenhefeltaprickleatthebackofhisneckandturnedaround.

Hewasnolongeralone.Otherswerecomingintotheroomnow.Theywerehisenemies, too,butunlike theangryAssassinswhohaddescendeduponhimearlier, they wore crisp white uniforms instead of hoods. This was not ahallucination.TheywerecomingtoputhimbackintotheAnimus,buthewouldnotgoquietly.

Twoorderliesapproachedhim.AdrenalineshotthroughCal.Hecouldn’tgobackthere.Notagain.Eventhehallucinationswerebetterthanbeinggraspedbythe arm and being plunged back into a dead man’s memories. Cal dartedforward,seizingthefirstorderly,andslammedhisfaceintothewall.Hewhirled,head-buttingthesecond,thenblockedablowfromthefirstone,seizinghisarmandflippinghimovertolandonhisback.

Threeguardsnowraced forward,carryingbatons insteadofhiddenblades.Caltookdowntheoneonhisleftfirst.Heshovedhisarmintotheguard’selbowandtheblack-cladmanstumbled.Calimmediatelywentfortheoneonhisright,landingasolidpunchtoherjawandsendingherreelingbackward.

Afourthguardhadenteredtheroom,andheandthemiddleonemanagedtoseizeCal’sarms,attemptingtoimmobilizehim.Hewouldhavenoneofit,usingtheir grip on him as leverage to lift his legs and land a brutal kick into themidsectionofthenewcomer.

But the guard he’d punched had recovered, and she smiled with grimpleasureasshestruckhimacrossthefacewithherstick.Italmost,butnotquite,knockedhimout.Hisbodysuccumbedevenashisspiritraged,andhesaggedintheirgrasp,hisworldblurryastheydraggedhimoutoftheroom.

Theypausedat thedoor.Hishead throbbing,Calblinked, steelinghimselfagainst the pain as he raised his head to look up into a largeman in a guarduniformwithheavy-lidded,expressionlesseyes.

“You’reup,slugger,”themansaid.No. He couldn’t do it. Abruptly Cal seized on his greatest fear, and

weaponizedit.“I’mcrazy,”hesaidthroughthebloodthatwaspouringoutofhismouth.They ignored him, and began dragging him down the corridor. As fear

spurted through him at the thought of again entering the body and mind ofAguilardeNerha, an image from that long-agoday flashed intohismind: theold,batteredradio,playingthePatsyClinesong“Crazy”.

Calstartedtosing—or,moreaccurately,scream,thesong.Hesang,wildlyoff-key,desperatetoprolongtheinevitable.

***

Itwasasimplegameofpoker,anditwasanythingbut.Nathan’s turn todealwasup, andhepassedout cardswith seeming calm.

Ordinarilytheguardswerekeptoutofsight,behindthetwo-waymirroredwall.A few had come out when Lynch had appeared earlier. Now, the place wascrawlingwiththem.

Emirglancedup,thenbackdownathiscards.“They’reputtinghimbackinagain,”hesaid.Noonesaidanything.Theyallknew.

Moussa picked up his cards without looking at them, his eyes on theorderlies.“They’rerushinghim.Heain’treadytogobackinagain,notwitha

breakdownliketheonewesaw.Pioneercouldn’tevenstaysteadylongenoughtoeat thatnice juicysteakheordered.Thatmandoesn’tevenknowwhoheisyet,muchlesswhichsidehe’son.”

“Then,”Nathansaid, fanninghiscardsout,“weshouldstophimbeforehebetraysus.”

Theotherswerecalmerthanhewas.Nathanhadbeenbroughtinspoilingfora fight, ready to take a swing at anyone for looking at him wrong. He hadgradually learned to exert better self-control, but not completely.Moussa hadchided Nathan for his words to Lynch earlier, but the boy wasn’t sorry.Everything in Nathan screamed that themanMoussawas fond of calling thePioneerwas a threat.And sometimes itwas better to bewrong and safe thanrightanddead.

Every night, Nathan awoke covered in sweat and absolutely terrified.Intellectually, he understood what was going on. Dr. Rikkin called it theBleedingEffect,andsuggestedthat,sinceNathanwasyoungerthanmostofthepatientsatthecenter,theeffectsmightmanifestmoreintenselywithhim.

“Amanwho is fiftyhas livedwithhimself formore than twiceas longasyouhave,”shehadtoldhiminhercalm,gentlevoice.“Hehasmorememoriesthatarehisown.Therefore,hehasmoretodrawupontoremindhimselfofhisownidentitywhenthelinesbegintoblur.”

And she’d smiled, that sweet smile that always made Nathan wonder ifmaybehewaswrong,maybeshewasn’tentirelyontheTemplarsideofthings.Andevenifshewas,maybetheTemplarsweren’tsobad.

Ofcourse,thatwasn’treallyhim.ThatwasbloodyDuncanWalpole,traitor,stickinghisnoseinwhereitdidn’tbelong.

Second cousin to Robert Walpole, Britain’s first prime minister; DuncanWalpole,born1679,died1715.ItsickenedNathantothinkthatanypartofthatman lived on in him. DuncanWalpole was a turncoat, just like Baptiste hadbeen.Butatleastthevoodoopoisonerhadarighttohisanger.Hehadbeenbornaslave,andlaterhadfeltbetrayedbytheBrotherhood.

Bycontrast,Duncanhad livedaneasy life.Hehad followed thepathof anaval officer, but was an arrogant, self-centered prick who balked at takingorders. Unhappy with the navy, he had been seduced by the ideals of theAssassins.Ithadappealedtohisbetterangels.ButeveninaBrotherhoodwhere“everything is permitted,” the spoiledWalpole eventually grewdiscontent.HeagainchallengedtheoldermembersoftheBrotherhood,andnursedgrievances,mostofwhichwereimaginary.

GivenanassignmentintheWestIndies,Duncanlearnedeverythinghecouldabout the localAssassinguildwhilehewas there.Then,oncehehadobtainedenough information to be valuable to them,Walpole contacted the Templars,whoknewexactlyhowtoflatterhim…andpayhim.

Nathanhadbeeninandoutofschoolbecausehewasalwayspickingfights.AnalmoststereotypicalEastEnder,he’dfallen inwithaganganddealtdrugsfor awhile.The gang leaders sent him to peddle drugs near the local schoolsbecausehelookedsosweetandharmless.Harmlessuntilhelosthistemper;he’dbeatenonemembernearlytoapulpwithhisbarehands.

“You’d know about such things, wouldn’t you, Nathan?” Emir said now.Once, it would have been an insult. Once, Nathan would have taken it as achallenge.Now,heknewitwasanacknowledgementofwhat—orwho—Nathanhadtolivewitheverysingleday.

Andnight.Nathanforcedhimselfnottoshiver.Hedidn’twanttobelikeDuncan.Hewantedtobebetter.Hewantedtobe

morelikeMoussa,or,whenhewasfeelingparticularlyhopeful,likeLinorEmir.Thetwoofthem—asfarasheknew—hadnoskeletonsintheirclosets.

KnowinghowdespicablehisancestorhadbeenwaswhyNathanwasalwayssosuspiciousofanynewcomer.Guiltyuntilproveninnocent,he’dbeenknowntosay,andlet’sfaceit,we’reallguilty.

NathantrustedMoussa’s judgment.Morethananyof them,eventhelevel-headedEmir, he seemed in harmonywith his two sets ofmemories.He acted

likeabuffoonforthebenefitoftheguards,butinreality,hewasthesaneone.“Idoknowaboutsuchthings,”Nathanrepliedcalmly.Hisgazeflickeredto

one of the guards. They’re watching us like hawks. “Moussa’s right. Theyshouldn’t be putting him back in theAnimus yet. If they’re pushing him thathard,that’sbecauseheknowssomethingveryimportant.Andhemightdecidetopickthewrongside.”

Theycouldn’taffordtogivethisnewcomerthebenefitofadoubt—notif,asMoussasuspected,hewasgoingtobeeithertheonetogetthemoutofhere,ortheonetogetthemallkilled.

Moussa met his gaze; two Assassins who had turned Templar, and whounderstood one another well. Moussa looked back down at his cards andgrunted.

“Well, will you look at that,” he said, and placed down four cards. Thereweretwoblackacesandtwoblackeights.“Deadman’shand.”

Fourcards.FourguardiansoftheApple.“Whataboutthefifthcard?”askedNathan.“Fifthcardwasabullettothebrain,”Moussasaid.Theywereallinagreement.

***

Cal’sbrokenhowlingofsonglyricsreachedSofia’searsbeforethemanhimselfdid,andshehadtoforceherselfnottowinceinempathy.Itwastoosoon—fartoosoon—toputhimbackin.

She had heard that tone of despair and terror in the voices of previoussubjects.Sometimes,theessenceofwhothatpersontrulywasvanishedshortlyafterSofiaheardthattone…andthatpersonneverreturned.

Dammit.“Setthedateforthesixth,”SofiatoldAlex.

Cal’s voice, high-pitched and desperate, continued to shriek ghoulishlyappropriatelyrics.

Sofia’s hands clenched. “If his condition deteriorates…” She took a deepbreath.“…pullhimout.”

Alexturnedtoher,hishighbrowfurrowing.“Butyourfather—”hebegan.Sofiacuthimoff.

“I don’tcare whatmy father said,” shemurmured, acutely aware that theman under discussion was watching everything from his office window. Shestrodeoutonto thefloor,and lookedas thearm,grippingCal firmlyabouthiswaist,raisedhimoverherhead.

Calallbut sobbednow,his facea rictusofa smile, ashewonderedalongwithPatsyClinewhathehaddone.

He looked terrible.Hewasbloody frombeing“subdued” inhis room.Hiseyeswerewild, hewas sweating, and his chest heaved as he hyperventilated.Sofia’sownchestachedinsympathy.Damnherfather,anyway;thisshouldnotbehappening.

Once, as a little girl, she had sat for hours outside her childhood home,patientasthehills,sunflowerseedscuppedinhertinyhand,waitingforsquirrelsorchipmunkstoacceptheroffering.Herbodygrewstifffromsitting,andoneofherfeetfellasleep.Itdidn’tmatter.

Itwasallworth itwhenonesmall,bright-eyedcreaturepoked itsnoseoutfromaroundatree.Withjerkymovements,readytoflee,thechipmunkmadeanindirect approach. It had just placed its tiny, clawed forepaws on her thumb,staring up at her with big eyes, its heart pounding so fast she could see themotionthroughthefuronitswhitechest,whenherfatherhademerged,shoutingatthechipmunktogoaway.Ithadvanishedinabrownblur.Thenextday,andthenext,despiteherfather’sorders,shehadsatoutside.Waiting.

Ithadneverreturned.Calboremoreresemblancetoawolfthanachipmunk,buthe,too,waswary.

Andhe,too,hadstartedtotrusther,shebelieved.Butinsteadofsimplychasing

himaway,herfatherhadissuedinstructionsthatCalbebeatenintosubmission,hauledforth,andshovedintoamachinehebarelyunderstoodandwasobviouslyterrifiedof.

Itwascruel,itwaswrong,andinabitterironysheknewitwasgoingto,intheend,set themback,perhaps irrecoverably,whileher fatherwassokeenongettingresultsinstantly.

SofiahadoneshotatprotectingCalfromdamage,righthere,rightnow,andshehadtomakeitcount.

“Cal,”shesaid,hervoicestrongandcommanding.“Listentome.”Heonlysang…shouted…louder,tryingtodrownherout.Tryingtoputup

some kind—any kind—of barrier to protect who he was before experiencingwhathewasgoing tobe forced toendure.The irony, thedanger,was that theonlywayforhismindtobesafewasifhecompletelyembracedwhatwasgoingto happen. If he did not try to hold it at arm’s length, or drown it out byscreaminglouderthanthememory.

“Listentome!”sheshouted.“Youhavetoconcentrate!Youhavetofocusonthememories.”Was she getting through? Sofia couldn’t tell. She pressed on.“YouhavetostaywithAguilar.”

The name caught his attention, and Cal looked down, blinking, trying tofocus,stillmadlysinging.Exceptitwasn’tmadness—itwasafiercebidtokeepagriponsanity.

Sofia had studied this man intently. She did, as she had told him openly,know everything about him. And the man suspended above her, panting andstrugglingnot to shatter, remindedherof the littleboy in theoldPolaroids sostronglyithurt.

What was the line from Shakespeare? she thought distractedly. “Imust becruel,onlytobekind.”

Shehadtodrumit intohim.Hewouldlisten,doasshesaid—orhewouldbecome like somanyothersbeforehim,abodywitha shatteredbrain, caughteternallybetweenthepastandthepresent.

Sofiawouldnotletthathappen.NottoCal.Sherepeatedthecommand.“Cal…youhavetostaywithAguilar.”Therewasnothinginthisworldthathewantedless,shecouldtell.Butshe

couldalsotellthatheheardher.Andthen—hewasin.

CHAPTER13

T

he belowground holding area was hot and stifling. Dust wafted in air thatreekedofsweat,blood,urine,andfeces.Aguilar,Maria,andBenedictowere

notaloneintheircaptivity;overadozenotherprisonersjoinedthem.Therehadbeen more, a few hours ago. Guards had come for them, a few at a time,marching them out and then locking the metal gate behind them. No one, ofcourse,everreturned.

AguilarknewwhattheAssassins’crimehadbeen.Heneitherknewnorcaredwhattheotherpoorwretcheshaddonetoearnafatesuchasthatwhichawaitedthem. Some wept quietly, others sobbed, rackingly and loudly, begging formercy.Stillotherssatwithblankexpressions,asifcompletelyunawareoftheirpresentcircumstances.

All were in various states of agony and exhaustion, and were securelychainedwith theirbacks to thecoldstonewalls, theirarmscuffedat thewaistand linked to rings a few feet over their heads. Movement was limited, butpossible,andwhiletheposewasextremelyuncomfortable,itwasnotinitselfanextratorment.

ThethreeAssassinshadbeenthelastonesbroughtinafewdaysago.TheyweretheonlyonesleftoftheirBrotherhood;alltheothershadbeenkilledintheattemptedrescueofPrinceAhmed.

Maria andAguilar had been shackled beside one another. Their proximityoffered themnocomfort.Aguilarwas furiouswithhimself.HeandMariahadcomesoclosetoescapingwiththeboy.ButOjedahadhauledhimupbyhisowngrappling rope,andAguilarhadbeen forced towatch theboybehanded rightbacktohiscaptors.

WhatwasathousandtimesworsewasdiscoveringthatMariahadnotbeenabletoeludetheTemplars.Hewasresignedtohisownfate,ashehadbeeneversincehisfamilyhadperishedatthehandsofthemassive,implacableOjeda,andhehadjoinedtheBrotherhoodtoavengethem.

IfonlyMariahadescaped.They had fallen silent hours ago, and now she stared ahead, her eyes

focusingonnothing.Then,shespoke.“SoontheywillmarchonGranada.”“SultanMuhammadisweak,”Aguilarreplied.Hismouthwasasdryasthe

sun-baked earth and his voice was a raspy croak. The ever-compassionateTemplarshadreasonedthattheirprisonerswouldbedeadsoon,andwhatdidacorpseneedwithwater?

“He’ll surrender the Apple and betray the Creed for the prince’s life. Heloveshisson.”

Shehadturnedtolookathimwhilehespoke,herchainsclankingsoft.Now,shegazedhimwiththatblazingintensitythatwasasmuchapartofherasherhandsorhervoice.

“Lovemakesusweak,”shesaid,hervoiceshakingeversoslightly.Aguilarcouldn’ttearhisgazefromher.Hehadnotbeenableto,really,since

thefirsttimetheyhadmet.Heshiftedpositionsothathiswholebodyturnedtohers, and ignored the pain his battered frame expressed at themoment. Therewas somuch hewanted to say that had remained unsaid. But in the end, thewordswerenotneeded.Sheknew—andsodidhe.

Instead, he found different words coming to his lips. There was only onething to say, at this moment. Maria knew it, too. The Templars had takeneverythingfromthem.Therewasonlyonethingleftthattheycouldn’ttake,nomatterwhattheydidtotheirbodies.

Shespokeatthesametime,togetherwithhiminthisastheyhadbeeninsomany things before the sun had dawned on their final day. In unison, theyrepeatedthevowseachhadmade,separately,upontheirinitiation.

“Iwouldgladlysacrificemyselfandeveryone Icare for, so that theCreedlivedon.”

Hereyeswerewide,unblinking,andhecouldseethepulseinherthroatevenin the dim light that filtered through holes above.Aguilar’s own heart leapedevennowtoseethepassioninhereyes;shelivedeverymoment,everybreath,withthatpassion,andnowsavoreditmorethanever.

Aguilar leaned forward, straining against the chains to reach her one lasttime. She did the same, but the Templars, it seemed, had been unkindunintentionally, for once. The chains were but an inch too short. Maria andAguilarwould not even be allowed a final kiss, before they tasted that of theheretic’sfire.

They heard themetal door open, the tramp of boots. The red-cloakswereunlockingtheprisoners’chains.Itwouldnotbelong,now.

Bound at throat, wrists, and feet, they were hauled up. Aguilar bit backagainst the hiss of pain as his body was forced into movement after beingobligedtobestillforsolong.Sidebyside,astheyeverhadbeen,AguilarandMariafacedthedoor.

“WhenIdietoday,”shesaid,hervoicetautbutstrong,“donotwasteyourtears.”

Hewouldn’t. Simple tearswould never do this remarkablewoman even ashadowofjustice.Theonlydropsthathecouldshedthatwouldproperlymournherwouldbethoseofhisownblood.

Theyweremarchedupwardalongaslantingcorridor,uptothesunlightandtheheatandthedust,straightintoacarnivalofinsanity.

Aguilar’sheadwas laidbare for the sun’sharsh rays tobeat upon, aswasMaria’s, revealing rows of braids.All three of theAssassins’ hoods had beenpulleddown,robbingthemofanymysteryorhintofanonymity.Theonlyhoodswornwere thoseof theexecutioners,whostepped toeithersideof them—twomuscularmen,whosefaceswerehiddenbyblackcloth.

***

Cal blinked. He could see both the crowd clustered around him, and the labassistantsat theirstations.And,ofcourse, theangel’sface,apaleovalofbothaloofnessandconcern.Superimposedonboththeseimageswasamemory,shortand sharp, of sitting on the floor in his cell, sketching, sketching like a manpossessed; the crude charcoal drawing of a large, broad-chested man with ablackhood—

“Staywithit,Cal,”cametheangel’svoice,andCalfellbackintotheplaceofpainandheat.

***

Ahead of the group of prisoners strode a cluster of churchmen, clad inwhitevestments, theirmiters perched atop their heads as they bore their croziers infrontofthem.Theywavedblessingsatthethrongs,whosecheersweremuffledat first, growing increasingly louder until the Assassins were buffeted by thenoise.Drumsthunderedintheirears,addingtothecacophonyandthesenseofdisorientation.

Blinking in the bright light, Aguilar beheld bizarre costumes, people whohadpaintedtheirfacesstrangecolors,androwafterrowofspectatorsshoutinghate-filled epithets at them.Hewasn’t sure of the purpose of it.Maybe thosewhocaperedabout,dressedasdemons,wereperformingasortofpassionplay,or were trying to ward off evil spirits summoned by the death of so manysinners. Or perhaps it was to frighten the sinners themselves, to give them aforetasteofwhatsurelymustawaittheminhell.

Indeed,thered-cloakswereplacedintheunusualroleofbeingtheAssassins’protectors,asawildcrowdstruggledtoreachtheprisoners,wantingtotearthemtopieceswiththeirownhands.

Aguilaronlypitiedthem.Ifyouonlyknew,hethought,thatyouarecheeringforthedeathsofthosewhowoulddefendyou.They, too,wereprisonersof theTemplars,buttheyworetheirinvisiblechainsunknowingly.

WalkinginfrontofMariaandAguilar,Benedictotwistedaroundtolookatthem.Hisfacewascalm;peaceful.

“Wedietoday,”heassuredthem,“buttheCreedlives.”Aguilarenviedhimhistranquility—andhiscertainty.Thethreeofthemcontinuedtobeshovedforward,stumblingupstepstoan

enormous, open platform to be confronted with the true reality of theirapproaching,agonizingdeaths.Stakeswereaffixedtotheplatform,andattheirbases were piled huge bundles of twigs. Elsewhere were large barrels of oil,besidewhichoneofthecostumedtormentersstoodatattention.

The arena had been constructed for a solitary purpose—the torture andexecutionofheretics—andwasmuchlargerthanAguilarhadexpectedittobe.Hundreds,perhapsthousands,ofspectatorscrowdedandoverflowedthreelevelsofseatsonallfoursides.

Yet despite the other “heretics” that had kept them company in the prisonbelowground,onlythethreeAssassinshadbeenbroughtup.Clearlytheirdeathsweremeanttobethehighlightoftheevent.

GazingdownfromahighscaffoldabovethemweretheInquisitors,crossesaround theirnecks.Withapangofguilt,Aguilarnoticed that, standing tooneside,wastheyoungPrinceAhmedtheAssassinshadtriedsohardtorescue.

In the center, on what could only be called thrones, sat three imposingfigures, all with stern, judgmental expressions. Aguilar recognized them all—KingFerdinandandhiswifeIsabella,theformerQueenofCastile,andTomásdeTorquemada… theGrand Inquisitor. For all the power hewielded, and all theterror he inspired, hewas a smallman, almost dwarfed by the regal king andqueenashesatinachairbetweenthem.

IfOjedahadbeenthemanwhohadcapturedAguilar’sparentsandbroughtthemtoaplacesuchasthis,thenitwasTorquemadawhohadissuedtheorders

for—andpresidedover—theirdeaths.Pure,undilutedhatredrose inAguilaratthesightoftheman.

Aguilar had made it his business to learn everything he could about theDominicanfriar.Torquemadahadadvancedswiftlythroughtheranksatayoungage,becomingaprioratthemonasteryofSantaCruzinSegovia.Itwastherehemet thewomanwho now sat on her throne, staringwith loathing she did notattempttodisguiseattheAssassinsnowascendingtotheplatform.Torquemadahad been advising Queen Isabella most of her young life, becoming herconfessor. He had even convinced her to marry King Ferdinand in order toconsolidate a power base that Torquemada—and the Templars—could drawuponandmanipulatefortheirownpurposes.

Hisadoringchronicler,SebastiándeOlmedo,enthusedthatTorquemadawas“thehammerofheretics,thelightofSpain,thesaviorofhiscountry,”and“thehonor of his order.” Aguilar wondered which “order” de Olmedomeant—theDominican,ortheTemplar.

Now theGrand Inquisitor rose, his tonsured pate gleaming in the sun, histiny eyes and harsh mouth radiating his disdain. He looked over the threeAssassins as his queen did: with contempt, not seeing human beings, onlyenemies. Not enemies of God, as the Templars so wanted the populace tobelieve,butenemiesoftheTemplarsandtheirquestforabsolutedominationofthehumanrace.

Hesteppedforward,standingremarkablystraightforamanofseventyyears,and lifted his hands for quiet. His voice had grown no weaker with age, itseemed;itwasstrongandthrummedwithcertainty.

“‘Donot think that I have come tobringpeaceupon the earth: I havenotcometobringpeace,butasword,’”TorquemadaquotedfromtheBible.“‘Iwillmakeminearrowsdrunkwithblood,andmyswordshalldevour flesh.’ ‘Theyshalldiegrievousdeaths:theyshallnotbelamented.’”

As he spoke, the three Assassins were taken to the stakes and roughlyshackled to them.Benedicto,as theMentor,stoodunaccompaniedathisstake.

Aguilar andMariawere led to a singleone, the chains that bound their handsloopedupandheldinplacebyaspikeatthetop,theirthroatsstillencircledbylinksofiron.

One of the costumed demons scooped up a bucketful of oil, grinning inanticipation,andemptieditatAguilarandMaria’sfeet.

“‘Theyshallbeconsumedbythesword,andbyfamine;andtheircarcassesshallbemeatforthefowlsofheaven,andforthebeastsoftheearth,’”continuedTorquemada. He was relishing every moment of this. Another grotesquelycostumedman,lookinglikeanenormousredbirdwithhandsforclaws,emptiedabucketofoilonBenedicto’spile.

Torquemadaloweredhishands.“Fordecades,”hecontinued“youhavelivedinalandtornapartbyreligiousdiscord.Byhereticverminwhothinkfreedomofbeliefismoreimportantthanthepeaceofanation.Butsoon,thankstoGodandtheInquisition,wewillpurgethisdisease.AndGodwillsmileonyouagain,foronlyinobediencecantherebepeace!”

The crowd went wild, cheering and flailing in their excitement. Howcomfortingitmustbe,tothinkitisthissimpletoenddiscord,Aguilarthought.

His gaze traveled from the deluded crowd and Torquemada’s posturing tolandonOjeda.Theothermanstaredathim,expressionlessandcold.

Doyourecognizeme,yousonofadog?Aguilarthought.Doyourememberwhatyoudid?Areyoupleasedtobeheresothatyoucancompleteyourtwistedtask?

Ojeda’s ugly face contorted even further into a deep scowl. He swunghimself off his horse and accompanied one of the bare-chested, black-hoodedexecutionersashewentuptotheplatformtowardAguilarandMaria.

Torquemada smiled benevolently, sharing the crowd’s joy. “The sinnersbefore you sought to defend the heretic prince of Granada—the last heathenstrongholdinourholywar.Andsotoday,beforeourkingandqueen,Ferdinandand Isabella,” and he turned and bowed, just deep enough to be respectful

withoutbeingobsequious,“I,Torquemada,swear thatweshallwashourselvescleanintheholyfireofGod!”

TheexecutionerhadreachedAguilarandMaria’spyre.Hebent toshoveaspike througha link their lowerchains,securing themto theplatform.Aguilarwashavingnoneofit.HisMentorandevenhisMariamightberesignedtodeathtoday,buthewould resist it to the lastmoment,andhekickedsavagelyat theexecutioner.

Themanreeledback,butrecoveredquickly.Hewasangrynow,anddrewadagger, intending to impale the Assassin’s foot to the platform instead. ButAguilarwastoonimble,jerkinghisfeetoutofthewayatthelastminute,andthedagger embedded itself solidly in the footrest, resisting the executioner’sfrustratedattemptstopullitloose.

Ojeda tried nothing so elaborate, instead stepping in and almost casuallylandingasolidblowtoAguilar’sstomach.Aguilardoubledover,preventedfromcurlingintoafetalpositiononlybyhisrestrained,still-raisedarms.HewasgladnowthattheTemplarshadgiventhemnothing,notevenwater.Hedidnotwanttogivehisenemiesandtheecstaticcrowdthepleasureofseeinghimvomit.

“YouwillwatchyourMentorburn,”Ojedapromised,lookingfromAguilartoMariaandthenback.“Andthenyouwilldietheslowest.”Hesmiledcruelly,andadded,“Justasyourparentsdid.”

Aguilartensed.So.Theblackknighthadrecognizedhimafterall.“Theysuffered,andtheyscreamed,”Ojedacontinued.“Iwatchedthemturn

toashthen,andIwillwatchyoudothesamenow.Yourfilthylineagedieswithyou.”

AsOjedapickedupatorchandstrodetoBenedicto’sstake,waitingwhileabucketfullofoildrenchedtheMentor’spyre,Torquemadacried,“BeholdGod’swill! I amAlphaandOmega, thebeginningand theend! Iwillgiveuntohimthatisthirstyafountainofthewateroflife!”

Unabletohideasmirkofsatisfaction,Torquemada,hiseyesontheMentoroftheAssassins,madethesignofthecross.

***

Standing,barelybreathing,Sofia’sentirebeingwasfocusedontheholographicimages of Ojeda, Maria, and Torquemada reenacting a scene from over fivecenturies ago. Incredible, what the Assassins were capable of enduring.Admirable, the lightning speed with which they could assess a situation andfigureawayoutofit….

***

WiththeattentionnowonBenedictoandOjeda,Aguilaracted,kickingwithallhis strength at the hilt of the dagger impaled through the chains at his feet.TrappedbetweenhisanklemanacleandthesoleofAguilar’sboot,thehiltcameoff. The blade, and the metal core around which the hilt had been crafted,remainedembeddedinthewoodenfootrest.

Mariawaschainedwithherback tohim,butshegaspedandheknewthatshe had seen—and she knewwhat itmeant. Somany times they hadworkedtogether so smoothly, as a single entity, knowingwhat theotherwas thinking.Nowhe could feel her tension, her readiness.Hewas so grateful to have her.Theyweretheperfectteam,inallthings.

Againandagain,Aguilarbroughthisankleshackledown,usingtheslendercoreof thedagger topushat theshackle’spin.Witheachblow,heshoved thepinupjustalittlefurther.

Comeon.Comeon….Thecrowdwasalmostfrenziednow,whippedtoafervorbytheInquisitor’s

words and Ojeda’s actions. Some of the strangely costumed onlookers weredancingamongthecrowd,andtheroarwasalmostdeafening.

Ojeda peered up at Benedicto,who lifted his head defiantly.Assassin andTemplarregardedoneanotherwithutterloathing.

“Nottoourselves,buttothefuture,giveglory,”hetoldtheAssassinMentor.Benedictoclosedhiseyestightly,steelinghimselfforwhatwastocome.Ojedatouchedtheflamingtorchtotheoil-saturatedwood.Andorangeflame

sheeteduparoundtheAssassinMentor.

CHAPTER14

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guilar had wrested free and spun himself around, but he froze, transfixedwithhorrorandunabletotearhissickenedgazeawayfromthespectacle.He

sawnotonlyhisMentor,buthisparents,standingat theirownstakes just likethis,“blessed”byamanwhoservednoGod,butonlyhimself.

Padre…Madre….Benedicto screamed in agony, his body engulfed by hungry orange-yellow

flames,andthestenchofburningflesh—

***

Calgagged,sickenedbyasmell thatwasnotpresent,hismindgallopingbackagain to thearthehadplasteredon thewallsofhiscell:The imageofadarkshape, unrecognizable, surrounded by a nimbus of fire that consumed andenfoldedhim.Hismother,staring,herlifeblooddrip-drippingonthelinoleum.

Heshuthiseyes,turningawayfromallofit,seekingreprieve—“Cal!Don’t!YoumuststaywithAguilar!”Thevoiceoftheangel,sweet,andcruel,andcommanding.HewasCal,and

hewasAguilar,andsomeonehelovedwasdyingtheworstdeathconceivable.Butsomeoneelsewasstillalive—“Maria,”Calshouted,andhurtledbackintothememory.

***

Aguilar shook off the paralyzing moment of fear, where past and presentconvergedinagrotesqueconflagration.HisparentsandBenedictowouldwanthim and Maria to live, to complete their mission, and his Mentor would behonoredtoknowthathisdeathhadgiventhemthechancetodoso.

Aguilarhopedthat,somehow,Benedictoknew.TherewasnothinghecoulddoforhisMentornow.Likeafishleapingfrom

thewater,Aguilarhurledhimselfforwardandaroundsohefacedthestake,thenplaced his feet against it, climbing it and somersaulting so that the chainsfastened to hiswrists unlooped and he had room tomaneuver. He andMariawere still linked together by the chains around their neck, and hismovementawayfromthestakeyankedherclosertoit,chokingher.

Aguilar seizeda sword fromoneof theguards,pulling it from itshilt andbringing it sweeping across its owner’s throat.He continued the sweep all thewayaround,slammingtheswordintothechainsthatboundMaria’sfeet.

Thoughstilllinkedattheirthroats,theyfoughttogether,inharmony;hewiththe sword, she,hands still chained to the stake,withbooted feet andpowerfullegs.

***

Sofia stared,watchingCalwithwideeyes.Hewasno longer simplybeingmovedbytheAnimus;hehimselfwasmoving,theblowsthatturnedholographicTemplarsintoghostlyblacknothingnesscomingsmoothly,easily.Naturally.Hewas an active participant in the regression now, not a helpless puppetmanipulatedbyamachine.

Shehadbeenconcernedearlier,asshewatchedCal twiceappearabout toslipoutofthesimulation—somethingthatcouldeasilymeanthedeathofSofia’sattempttolocatetheApple—andthedeathofCalLynch.Shewasn’tsurewhat

hadupsethim sogreatly. Shecouldonly seehisactionsand their effects; shecouldnotreadhismind.Onlyhehadknownwhathesaw.

Butitseemedthathehadcrossedsomesortofthresholdthatwouldforeverbehiddenfromher,andshewassoverygrateful.

“He’s synchronizing,” she whispered, and her lips curved in a tremuloussmile.

Thiswasgoingtowork….

***

One of the guards recovered enough to seize a torch and hurl it ontoMaria’spyre.Hepaidforthemovewithhislife,asAguilarhurledhisswordacrossthedistancestraightintotheguard’schest.

Thewoodhadnotyetbeensaturatedwithoil,soflamesdidnotleapwildly,butthedrytindercaughtnonetheless.Mariaspunonthestake,keepingherbodyasfarawayfromthefirebelowheraspossible.

The bloodthirsty cries from the crowd had turned into shrieks of panic.Torquemada,hisbeautifulceremonythrownintochaos,wasshoutingorders tohis followers.The flameswere starting to climbnow, andwith a fierce growlAguilarrantowardMaria’sstakeattopspeed,slamminghisshoulderintoitwithall his strength. The wood groaned in protest as the stake cracked free andtoppled.Mariatwisted,hittingtheplatformhard.

Aguilar reached down to her.Maria’s eyes flewwide at something behindhim,andshepulledhimdowninstead.Herolledtoseeoneoftheexecutionersraisinghisaxe,andrealizedMariahadsavedhislife.Grabbingherleg,Aguilarpulledherbackward.Theexecutionercouldnothalttheblowalreadyinmotion,andsotheaxe,meanttoseverMaria’sneck,severedherchainsinstead.

Liberated, she flipped forwardand landedonher feet.Aguilar charged theexecutioner, who was strong but slow. As always, Maria knew what he was

thinking.Together,theywrappedthechainthatconnectedtheirnecks,pullingittightaroundtheman’sthickonetothrottlehim.Aquicktuganditwasover,andtheexecutionersaggedandslumpedtowardtheplanks.

Aguilar seized thedeadman’s axeandhurled it towardoneof thebarrels,then he andMaria raced toward a set of stairs leading up into the stands.Oilbegan to spill across the stage, flowing seemingly like a living thing intoBenedicto’spyre.

Thestageexplodedwithadeafeningboom,birthinganinferno.AsthepairofAssassinsleapedupthestairs,Templarswereburningtodeath

in their stead, screaming in torment. It would seem that Grand InquisitorTorquemada had been overeager for his fiery entertainment, as there wasscaffoldingthathadnotyetbeenclearedaway.Aguilarmadestraightforit,withMariarightathisheels.Theylaunchedthemselvesatit,climbingfuriously.

When they reached the top, Aguilar and Maria paused for a moment,catchingtheirbreathsandassessingthesituation.Belowthem,thewhitesmudgeofTorquemada’s face, contorted in anger, stared up at them.Hewas shoutingand gesticulating, and Aguilar saw that his enemy had somehow eluded theflames:Ojeda,capeflappingbehindhim,hadmountedhisblackwarhorseandwasgivingchase.

Wordlessly, the pair flipped up their hoods, reclaiming their identities asAssassinswiththegesture,thenheadedfortheroofsofSeville.

Black,oily smokemixedwith thenear-omnipresentdustas they ran.Theywerenotunchallenged;Torquemada,orperhapsKingFerdinand,hadanticipatedthat theremightbe an escapeattempt, andarchershadbeenpositionedon therooftops.Nowtheyflungasidetheircrossbowsanddrewtheirswords,chargingthe two. But skilled though the soldiersmight have beenwith their weapons,they lacked the agility and grace of the Assassins, who found fighting andrunningonrooftopsaseasyasbreathing.

Mindful of what had worked so well before, Aguilar wrapped his wristchains around an enemy’s sword, twisting and snapping one of the links. The

guardswereeasilyknockedoffbalance,topplingdownintothemaddenedcrowdbelowwhowereseekinganescapefromtheflames.

Othersarrivedtotaketheirplaces,though,anditwasimmediatelyapparentthatthesewerenotordinaryguards.TorquemadahadsentTemplarsafterthem;toomanyfor twoAssassins todefeat.Stillattachedbytheirneckchain,MariaandAguilar raced to theedgeof the roofand leapedoff, sailingoveragap tolandonasloping,brick-tiledroof.

They slid down on their backs, looking ahead to a narrow buttress, andlaunchedthemselvestowardit.AguilarandMariathenbegantoleapfromledgetooverhangtoroof,alwaysmakingsuretheywerenevertoofarawayfromoneanother,tryingdesperatelytoshakeoffthedoggedTemplarsattheirheels.

Aguilar heard one of them cry out as, in a futile attempt to follow theAssassins as they jumped nimbly from one small foothold to the other, theTemplar lost his footing and tumbled to the streets far below.A quick glancedown revealed toAguilar that the broken body of the Templar had fallen notamongst terrified crowd members, but amongst his own brethren. They wererunningthroughthestreets,theirfacespeeringupward,someonfootandsomeonhorseback.Aguilarheardahummingsoundasacrossbowboltwhizzedpast,toocloseforcomfort.

MariaandAguilarhadreachedtheendofthisstretchofrooftop,andleapedin tandem to a narrow balustrade. Aguilar, slightly ahead, landed solidly, butMaria’s foot slipped. She fell, grasping onto the chain that still bound themtogether.Aguilar’shandshotout,seizingthechainaswell,andhauledherback.Oldstonecrumbledbeneaththem,andtheyimmediatelyleapedagain.

Thistime,theysurprisedagroupofbare-chested,dust-coveredstonemasons,whostaredatthemblanklyinshock.TheyofferednoresistanceorcomplaintasMaria’shanddartedoutandclosedonachisel.Shesquatted, letting thechainstretchoutflatontheroof’ssurface,andlookedupatAguilarexpectantly.

Hewas already grabbing a hammer out of one of themason’s unresistinghands.Witha singlepowerfulblow, thechain snapped,and theywereoffand

runningagain,themasonsstaringafterthem.Aguilarallowedhimselfahintofamusementat the thoughtofwhat thesemenwouldbe telling their familiesatthenextmealtime.

Aguilarhad lost trackof the layoutof thecityat thispoint.Butas longastheywereonaroof,theyhadtheadvantage.AssassinsweretrainedtomaneuverinsuchplacesinawaytheTemplarswerenot.

ButtheTemplarsdidhavenumbers,anditnowseemedtheywereswarmingin everydirection, like insects emerging from their nest to descendupon theirenemies.

AguilarandMaria jumpedthroughcrenellationsontoaflatroof.Achurch,Aguilar realized absently. They had barely landed when a Templar appeared,racingafterthem.HelaunchedhimselfatMaria,slammingintoher,andthetwotumbleddownintoacourtyardbelow.

She recovered quickly, but so did her foe.Maria easily dodged his swordstrike,dartingforwardtoseizehisoverextendedarmandturnit—andtheswordit grasped—to strike the staff of a second Templar coming up behind her. Aquick jab to theabdomenlaid thesecondTemplarouton thestone,andMariamadeshortworkofthefirst.

A level above her, Aguilar lithely sprang from bridge to parapet to roof,suppleasacat.HalfadozenTemplarsdescendeduponhim,buthewasready.

Afewshortminutesago,hehadbeenstaringatcertaindeath.Thememoriesofhis familyhad threatened tooverwhelmhim,buthehadpushed thembackand not surrendered to grief or fear. Benedicto’s execution by fire had beenhorrifyingtowitness,butithadboughtAguilartheprecioustimeheneededtofreehimselfandMaria.

Hehadbeenthirsty,hungry,exhausted.Hadeventastedthefirstpricklingofdespair.Butnow,hewasnotabouttoletamerehandfulofTemplarsbecomeanobstacle.

Aguilar’s blood sang and he felt alive, soalive, andwhen they descendeduponhim,itwaschild’splaytostrikeonedownwithawhirling, leapingkick,

seizehisstaff,andturnwithafierce,demonicgrinofpurerelishtofightofftheother five. Thiswas his heritage.His parents lived through him, now, and hewouldnotdishonorthatgift.

MariaappearedbesidehimastheloneremainingTemplargaspedouthislastbreath.Theireyesmet,andshejerkedherheadtowardthenextroof.NosoonerhadtheymadethejumpthanAguilarcaughtaflurryofmovementoverhishead.

RunningalongtheledgeabovethemwasalineofTemplars,firingdownatthem.

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twastimetogodowninsteadofup.Thistime,whentheyreachedtheedgeoftheroof,Mariadroppedtotheslopingstonearchofabalcony’sroofandswungherselfinside.

Aguilar followed. They crashed through the wooden slatted door and torethroughasmall,longroom.Thechurchattendeesscreamedanddoveforcover.Withoutevenslowing,MariaandAguilarleapedoutthenextwindowtheysawandclunglikeburrstoledgesaboutsixincheswide.TheovereagerTemplarwhofollowedthemmissedthehandholdandplungeddownward,screaming.

Uptheywent,leapingfromaledgeononebuilding’ssidetoahigherledgeon theoneabout six feetaway,zig-zaggingsteadilyupward, toemergeon thefrontofthegreatcathedral.Theywereaffordedasplendidviewofthecity,andamoresoberingoneofthenow-dozensofTemplars,onotherroofsandatstreetlevel,whohadcometojoininthehunt.

One of them, Aguilar saw, was Ojeda. Their eyes met and the Templarshoutedincoherently,kickinghisgreatwarhorseviolentlyandplungingtowardthechurch.

Aguilar heard footstepsbehindhim.Plantinghis feet on thenarrow ledge,high above the city streets, he turned andbodily seized the chargingTemplar,usingtheman’sownonrushingmotiontohurlhimdowntothestonestreet.HehauledMariaupbesidehimand they turned, racingacross the flat,wide-opentopofthechurch.

Templarswerecrawlingupthesidesnow.Maria,runningfulltilt,slammedthetopofherbootunderneathone’sjaw,liftinghimupandbreakinghisholdonthesideoftheroof.

Theyhad to throw theTemplarsoff somehow.Pausing tocatchhisbreath,Aguilarlookeddownatthelinesofropethatstretchedbetweenthisbuildingandtheonenearestit.Theyhadbeenerectedsothatcolorfulbannerscouldbehungfromthem,buttheyappearedtohavebeentiedoffsolidly.

Therewasonlyonewaytofindout.Hesteadiedhimselfandjumped,rightfootlandingononeropeandthenhis

left on the next.Maria followed him, and the two raced across the taut ropeseffortlessly,asiftheywereleapingfromstonetostoneacrossariver.

Afuriousbellowcamefrombehindandabove them.Somehow,Ojedahadmanagedtobringhishorsethroughthechurchandoutontoitsflatroof.

Aninstantlater,Aguilar’snextsteplandedonair.TheTemplarhadslicedtherope free. Aguilar reached out, grasping it as it passed. Maria fell with him,clinging tohis legas they swungcrazily,withoutdirection, slamming into theshuttersofaclosedwindowandsmashing thedelicatewood topiecesas theytumbledinside.

Scrambling to their feet, Maria and Aguilar pelted down a corridor. Upahead,runningfigurescametomeetthem.Theyveeredabruptly,dashingdownanotherhallwaytotheleft,intoastoreroomofprivately-ownedweapons—andapairofguardscomingfromadooronthefarendoftheroom.Mariaballedupherfistandpunchedonesquareonthejaw.Hestumbledbackwards,shakinghisheadandblinking.

Aguilar quickly dispatched the other in a similar fashion. Each Assassinseized a bow and an arrow. Back to back, as they had fought somany timesbefore,theyfacedinoppositedirections—andeachfiredanarrowdirectlyintothe chest of a Templar.Maria sprinted for the door Aguilar had been facing,whileheturnedaroundoncemoreandsentanotherarrowsingingintoafoe.

The door opened onto a walkway that ran along the entire side of thebuilding.Ared-cloakwithaswordswungatMaria,butwithherusualgracesheducked,grabbedhisswordarm,presseditagainsttherailing,andpinneditthere

savagelyandefficientlywithanarrowthatsheshovedtheentirewaythroughtheman’sarm.

Emergingfromthedoor,AguilarfiredanarrowattheTemplarracingfutilelytohelphiscompanion.Moreandmoreofthemwerecomingontothewalkway,seeminglycrawlingoutofthewoodwork.

Aguilar released shotafter shot, turningonewayand then theother,whileMariadispatchedtheoneswhocametoocloseforhimtoshoot.

At one point, she turned to him, her eyes bloodshot from the smoke andstrain and exertion, but still smoldering with the raw excitement she alwaysexperiencedwhenthe twoof themfoughtsidebyside.Heknewhisowneyeswerebrightwithintensityastheirgazesmetforthebriefestofinstantsbeforeheturned,slammingared-cloakwithhiselbowintheverysamemovementthatheusedtodrawbackthebowandletanotherarrowflystraightandtrue.

They raced down thewalkway, leaping over bodies, and took a hard rightinto another room. It was not empty, but this time it was not crowded withTemplars—onlyanoblemanandhisfamily,whohadclearlybeensittingdowntothemiddaymealwhenthesoundsoffightingontheirbalconyhaddisturbedthem.

Stayyourbladefromthefleshoftheinnocent.ThefirsttenetoftheCreed.ThesepeoplewouldcometonoharmthroughhimorMaria.Aguilarcould

onlyhope,ashelookedatamotherholdingherchildtightly,hereyesenormouswithfear,thattheTemplarswhowouldpursuethemwouldleavethefamilybeaswell.

Evenashehadthethoughtandwasalmostthroughtheroom,theshutteredwindowscrashedopen.Anenormous,solidfigureburstthrough.Impossibly,itwasOjeda.ThebiggermanhurledhimselfuponAguilar,shovingtheAssassinintothetable.

MariasnatchedupaknifeusedtocarvetheroastedfowlandhurleditatasecondTemplarmovinginonAguilar,swordattheready.Theknifecaughthim

inthethroat.Ojedawhirledtostareather,butshehadalreadyfled,andAguilardartedthroughthedoor.

They joinedupamoment later,both racingas fastas theycoulddown thelong balcony beneath hanging laundry, drying herbs, and other symbols ofordinarylife.

TheAssassinsknewtheycouldn’tsimplyoutrunOjeda.Theywerepushingtheir limits, first fighting to rescueAhmed, then languishing inprisonwithoutfood or water, and then fighting their way to freedom. Ojeda had hadopportunitiestorestandeat.Hewasalargeman,buthewasstartlinglyfast.Hewould simply run them down. Even as Aguilar had the thought, he risked aglancebacktoseethatOjedawaswithinafewstridesofseizingMaria.

They were coming up on a tower that appeared to be part of Seville’smassivecathedral.Ithadscaffoldingaroundit,andbothknewthatthiswastheironlychance.Withoutslowing,theyleaped,slammingintotheplatformthatwaslittle more than crude slats of wood. Ojeda was right behind them, his bulkcrashing through the outlying slats of wood to land heavily on the platformbelowthem.

Mariagazedathimforaninstant, thenbegantoclimbafterAguilar.Therewas nowhere for them to go but up. Ojeda recovered after a moment andcontinuedtopursuethemastheysurgedeverupward,craningtheirneckstofindthenexthand-orfoothold.

Aguilar’sheartslammedagainsthisribcage.Hismusclesburnedwitheachmovement.He refused toacknowledge their threatsof cramping.HehadbeenbornintoanAssassinfamily;boundbybloodandchoicetotheBrotherhood.Hisbodywasfit,strong,andlithe—andundercontrolofhiswillandhisdiscipline.Itwouldobey.

But the Templars had spotted them. They, too, had been climbing, pacingthem on nearby buildings and jumping onto the scaffolding. To anyonewatching, itwouldappearas though theTemplarshadsurroundedand trappedtheirprey.

Even as the twoAssassins reached the topof themassive tower, the townspreadoutbelowthemlookinglikeajumbleofchildren’stoys,acrossbowboltsangacrossAguilar’spath,barelytwoinchesinfrontofhisface.

Mariaspedtotheedgeofthescaffoldinganddidnotslow,launchingherselfoff,spreadingherarmswideandembracingtheemptyair.AguilarglancedbackoverhisshoulderatOjeda.

***

Cal’s face furrowed, the tension in his body changing subtly. Sofia’s breathcaughtashiseyesrefocused,andrealizedthat,inthismoment,Calhadsurgedforward,displacingAguilar.

No…please,notnow,Cal…“Jump!”sheshouted.“Jump!”

***

Aguilarhaddonethismanytimesbefore.Ithadbeenakeypartofhistraining.Confidentlyheranoffthescaffolding’splatform,gracefullyraisinghisarmsasif in a dance, asmuch at peace in this freefall as he ever was. Belowwas amarket; he would land safely, as he always did. The white squares of thevendor’scanopiesracedtowardhimas—

***

Cal’s arms pinwheeled, his body wrenching itself back from the rapidlyapproaching stone floor, from the perception of impending death. The armholdinghimhalted,andhehunglimplyinitsgrasp.

“Completedesynch,”barkedoneofSofia’stechnicians,andherheartleapedinhorror.

“Gethimdown!”shecried,racingtowardhim,beggingtheuniverse,No,no,don’tletthishappen—

Cal’sunconsciousbodysuddenlytwitched,theneruptedintofull-onspasms,flailingfranticallyastheAnimusarmloweredhimtotheground.Sofiacrouchedbeside him, trying stupidly to still his franticmovements with her own smallhands.

“Wherearethemedics?Ineedhelp!”shecried.Three of themwere on the floor now, two holding down a leg each, one

keepingCal’sheadimmobilized.Cal’sbodyfoughtthemfiercely,tryingtobuckandthrash.Hiseyeshadrolledbackintohisheadsothatonlythewhiteswerevisible.

Ordinarily,Sofia,theresearcherandscientist,wouldstepbackandletthemattend to the patient.But this time she stayedwhere shewas, reaching out tograspCal’shand,holdingittightlyinoneofherswhiletheotherransoothinglyalonghischestandshoulder.

Simplehumancontact.Potent.Powerful.“It’sokay,” shewhispered,blinkingback tears that suddenly,unexpectedly

stunghereyes.Hisfacewasflushedadangerouspurplehue,andtherewasfoamdrippingoutofhismouth.

“It’sokay,Cal,staywithme—”She looked up, and she, Sofia Rikkin, who never lost her self-control,

screamedatthefourthmedicrunningtowardher,“Hurryup!”Shecouldn’tlosehim.Shecouldn’t.ShepressedCal’shandtoherheartas

themedicloweredaclearmaskoverhismouthandnose.Hiseyesopened,andtheywerewidewithterrorashebaredhisteethinagrimacebeneaththeplasticofthemask.

Sofiasqueezedhishand,tryingtoexudecalmwheninsideshefeltanythingbut.

“Look at me,” she urged him, and the rolling blue eyes fastened on her.Something wet plopped down on his white shirt, making a darker spot. Shehadn’trealizedshewascrying.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, and as his spasming slowed, she smiled,shiveringherselfasreliefcrashedthroughher.

CHAPTER16

R

ikkinwas in his office, lost in thought and savoring a snifter ofHennessyParadis Imperial,whenhisdaughterstalked in.Hehadexpected toseeher

sooner,butMcGowenreportedthatSofiahadinstructedAlextoinformboththeheadofsecurityandherfatherthatshewas“unavailableuntilfurthernotice.”

Rikkinhadacceptedthat,butwithpoorgrace.ItwasreasonableforSofiatowant to take the time to findoutwhat thehell hadgonewrong, and to see toLynch’ssafety.Nowshewashere,andhewantedanswers.

Hisdaughter’sangerwascontained,buthehadlearnedhowtorecognizeit.Itflashednowinhereyes,revealeditselfinherbodylanguageinthetightpressofherlipsandthewayshefoldedherarmswhenshestoppedinfrontofhim.

But he was angry, too. He’d watched her with Lynch, holding his hand,talkingtohimlikehewasachild.Orperhaps,somethingelse.He’dneverseenbehaviorlikethatbeforefromhisdaughter,andheshouldnotbeseeingitnow,whensomuch—wheneverything—wasatstake.

Hisfacewasashardashersashedemanded,“Whathappened?”“Hedesynched,”sheansweredinaclippedvoice.Irritationflared.“Iknowthat,why?”“Hewasn’tready.”ShedidnotsayItoldyouso.Sheknewshedidn’thave

to. Hewaited. “We lost him.We lost control of theAnimus.We don’t knowwherehewent,whathedid…nothing.”

Sofia placed her hands on his desk and leaned forward. Her eyes weresapphirefire.“Whatifwelosehimagain?”

Rikkindidnotreply.Iftheylosthimagain…theywouldloseeverything.

***

Calwasbeingcrucifiedanddrownedat thesame time.Hewas inacage, feettogether,armsspread,engulfedbywater.Terrorspurtedthroughhim.Hislungscriedout forair.Abovehim,onlydimlyglimpsed,wasa rippleofgray in theaqua-blue,litonlybyflashingribbonsoflight.Gray,andwhite,andaface.

Aguilar.Calscreamed,expellingair,inhalingwater—Heblinked,hischestheaving.Hewasnotimmersedinthewater,notnow;

hefloatedatopitasanorderlypatientlywaitedforhisbreathingtoslow,forhimtotakeanotherdeepbreath,beforesteadilysubmerginghimagain.

He recalled now, bits and pieces at least, about what had happened. Thehorror of seeing—smelling—someone being burned alive. The sharpness andclarity of everything, and the speed with which Aguilar’s mind raced. Therightness of the violence against the Templars, who had performed suchatrocities.Thebone-deepconnectionofpassionand trustbetweenAguilarandMaria.

Andthecitylaidout,farbelow,withTemplarsoneverysideand—Calhadawokentoamaskoverhismouthandnose,providingoxygenashe

lay in the salty, body-temperature water. They had said something aboutelectricity and galvanic stimulation and something else, enough for him tounderstand that this was a treatment, not a torture. Cal wanted to have somemeasureofcontrolandinsistedtheyremovethemask,whichmeant thateveryhalf-minuteorminuteorso,they’dpullhimup.

Dim blue light emanated from below him. The roomwaswalled in blackmetal,with a band of low-level light running horizontally along it. Thewatersteamedgently.Ifhehadbeenthereofhisownfreewillandnotstrappeddowninadamnedcruciformcage,itmighthavebeenpleasant.

Hehadnoideahowlongthishadbeengoingon,butrealizedthathisabilitytothinkwasreturning—andthehallucinationshadceased.Soatleastinthis,theorderliesweretellingthetruth.

Theydidnotaskhowhewasfeeling;hedidnotvolunteertheinformation.

Onthefiftiethormaybeaboutthethousandthtimethattheypulledhimup,afigure stood over him.But this time, itwas notAguilar. Itwas Sofia, and heunderstoodthatshewasreal.Andhewasn’tsureifthatwasgoodorbad.

***

Sofia was still fuming as she entered the recovery room. While she wasappreciativeof the funds theTemplars sentherway forher research—andshecouldnothavecomethisfarwithoutthem—shehadalwaysdoneherutmosttostay out of the politics surrounding both the Templar Order and AbstergoIndustries.Upuntilnow,she’dlargelymanagedit;afeatalmostasremarkableastheoneshehopedtoachievethroughCal’shelp.

Shecheckedhisstatsbeforecomingfullyintotheroom,andwasrelievedtoseehewasrecoveringwell.Sofiastillwasn’tsureabouthowshefeltregardingher actionswhenhehaddesynched.The avalancheof emotionwas foreign toher.

“Ican’tfeelmylegs,”CalsaidasSofiasteppedtotheedgeofthepoolandregardedhim.Hewasadmirablycalm,makingsuchastatement.

Now,sherepliedinkind.“Theparalysisistemporary.”Calseemedtoacceptthat.“What’sthebadnews?”heasked.“Youdesynchronized.Itcausedaneurologicalsplit,butwegotyouthrough

it.”Shepaused.“Thistime.”Cal looked at her, the reflections of the water causing light to dance and

breakoverhisbody.Hiseyeswerethecolorofthepool,andtheyshowedfearandpain.

“I’mgoingtodieinthere,aren’tI?”Sofiadidn’tansweratonce.Shesatdownbesidehim,crossingherlegsand

leaningforward.

“No,”sheanswered.“Notifyougointhereofyourownfreewill.”Shegavehim a gentle smile.He turned his head away fromher, staring up as the lightmovedbackandforthacrosshisface.

“Wecanput an end topain,Cal,” she continued, speaking fromherheart.“Foreveryone.”

“I can’t do this,” he said. It was not a cry of protest or despair. It was asimple,bluntstatement,andSofiafoundithurther.

“Yes,youcan,”shereplied.Helookedathernow,wantingtotrusther,buttoowarytodoso.That,too,broughtunexpectedhurt.Shethoughtagainofherchildhoodvigil;ofwildcreatures,andtaming,andlostchances.

Sofiatookabreathandconsideredhernextstep.Herfatherwouldn’tlikeit.Itcouldbackfirespectacularly.Butsomethingtoldherthatitwastherightthingtodo.

Ifhewastotrusther,shehadtotrusthim.Trusthimtounderstandwhathewasbeingaskedtodo.

“Iwanttoshowyousomething.”

***

Within twentyminutes, theorderlieshadremovedCal fromtherecoverypool,bathedhim,dressedhim,andplacedhiminawheelchair.Hemetheratthedoorofhisroom,hisfrustrationandresentmentathiscurrenthelplessnesscomingoffhiminwaves.Sofiaattemptedtopushthechair,butCalwouldhavenoneofit,insteadgrippingthewheelshimselfandstaringupatherdefiantly.

“Whereto?”heasked.“TheAnimusRoom.”Hisfacehardened,andsheadded,“You’renotgoing

backin.”“You’reright.I’mnot,”Calreplied.Heletherlead;hisprevioustripsdown

thecorridorstotheroomhadnotbeenconducivetomakingnoteoftheturns.

She had dismissed her team, so they had the room to themselves.Naturalsunlightfilteredinfromabove,butmostoftherestoftheareawasbathedinthecoolblueoftheafter-hourslighting.

Once they reached the Animus Room, Cal permitted Sofia to roll thewheelchair next to a cabinet before she unlocked it with a set of keys andremovedasingleitem.Shelookedatitforamoment.HerbackwastoCal;hedidnotseeit.Thiswasherlastchancetochangehermind.Onceshegaveittohim,whatshewouldsetinmotioncouldnotbehalted.

ShetookadeepbreathandsteppedinfrontofCal,offeringthenecklace,itspendantgentlyswingingfromitssilverchain,tohim.

Helookedatherfirstwithmildinterest,butashiseyesfellonthenecklace,shesawrecognitionflowoverhisfacelikewater.

***

Aneight-sidedstarwithadiamondshapeinthecenter.EtchedonitinblackwasasymbolthatlookedalmostliketheletterA,ifthatletter’slineshadbeenmadefromstylized,slightlycurvedblades.

Calhadseenthispendanteverydayforthefirstsevenyearsofhislife.Thelasttimehehadlaideyesuponit,thesilverlinesonthependanthadbeenetchedwithdrippingblood,andthechainhadbeentangledaroundadeadhand.

Thememory thrust itself intohisvision: thehyper-clarityof each fat dropglisteningonthetipofhismother’sfingersbeforefallingslowlywithasoftploptothelinoleum.ThetinnysoundofPatsyCline,abizarresoundtrackforahorrorshow.

Thewarmhuesoftheroom,ofhismother’sstrawberry-goldhair.Theemptinessinherdeadeyes.Angerandsorrow,moredangerousandpowerfulthantherage,washedover

him.Butitwashisrage,hissorrow,andhewouldnotshareitwiththewoman

whostoodbeforehimnow.Slowly,heliftedahandandtookthenecklace.“Wheredidyougetthis?”hesaid,hisvoicearoughwhisper.“Myfatherrecovereditfromthesceneofyourmother’smurder.Hebrought

ithereforsafekeeping.”Amuscle twitched near his eye.Hismindwent back to the fleet of black

SUVs that had roared up in front of his childhood home. The pale, angular-featuredmanwiththeblacksunglassesanddarkclothesinthepassengersideofonecar.So…ithadbeenAlanRikkin,themanthechildCalhadseenspeakingonthetelevision,afterall.

Themanwhohadfatheredtheangelic-lookingwomanwho,impossibly,wascurrentlyregardinghimwithcompassioninherlargeeyes.

“Safekeeping,”Calrepeated,disbelieving.“Youstoleit.”“It’syourmother’snecklace,”Sofiareplied.“Iwantedyoutohaveit.”Shetrulyhadmeantthisasakindgesture.Shecouldn’tunderstandwhatit

was doing to him. Briefly, Cal’s thoughts flitted to the old photo, of anothersmiling,murderedmother, this onewith the little girlwhowould grow up tostandinfrontofhim,handinghimhisownmurderedmother’snecklace.

Calfocusedonherwords.Herfatherhadbeenpresent;hehadrecoveredit.“Whywashethere?”

“Tosaveher.”Sofiawasstillcompassionate,butsheansweredinastraightforwardmanner.

It helped him stay calm.Cal knew she knew that. Even so, he could feel thefaçadecracking;couldseehisvisionblurringwithtears.

“Fromwho?”“Herownpeople.”“What’sitgottodowithyou?”Somethingflashedin thebluedepthsofhereyes.“AssassinsandTemplars

havebeenatwarforcenturies.Iaimtochangethat.”It was almost funny. “That’s right,” Cal replied, exaggeratedly. “I forgot.

We’reallheretocombataggression.”Their gazes were still locked, and the urge to spout gallows humor faded

beneath true anger.He kept it in check, under control, as he replied, “I don’tthinkIlikeyourmethods.Idon’tthinkIlikeTemplarsthatmuch,either.”

Thatseemedtosting,somehow.Sofiareplied,“I’mascientist.”“I’mheretobecuredofviolence.”Calshookhishead,adding,almostsadly,

“Who’sgoingtocureyou?”“I’mtryingtocreateasocietywithoutcrime.Wecanremoveviolencefrom

thehumangenome,butweneedtheAppletodoit.Ourchoicesseemourown,buttheyaregovernedbywhathascomebeforeus.”

“Youseewhatyouwant tosee.Prisonsare fullofpeople likeme,and it’speoplelikeyouwhorunthem.”

Shelookedathim,uncomprehending.Calwasdone.Shecouldn’tseeit.Dr.SofiaRikkin,scientist,hadtriedtobe

openandaboveboardwithhim—asmuchassomeoneinherpositioncouldbe.Butlikemanycleverpeople,shehadgrownquiteadeptatlyingtoherself—or,at the very least, she had cultivated willful blindness. Sofia truly believed inwhatshewastryingtodo,andhereyespleadedwithhimtobelieveit,too.

Hewasnolongerangry.Hejustfeltsorryforher.Cal reached down to the wheels of his chair and began to propel himself

backthewaytheyhadcome,leavingherwithafinal,scathingcomment.“Ithinkyou’remissingsomething.”

CHAPTER17

S

ofiahadnot lied toCalabouthis legs.Twohours later,hewasonhis feetagain, thewheelchairdiscardedbeside thebed.Therewasavague tingling

sensation still, but the orderlies had assured him that it would soon passcompletely. Cal actually welcomed it after feeling absolutely nothing in hislowerextremitiesforsolong.

Heranhis thumbover theridgesandpointsofhismother’snecklace, thenliftedhisheadandstared,ashehaddonesooften,atthethickglasscoveringonewallofhisspartanroom.Buttherewasamajordifferencethistime.

Thistime,noguardsstaredback.Theobservationareawascompletelyempty.Theonlythinglookingbackat

him was his own reflection. But even as Cal stared into his own eyes, theyhardened,slightly.Ahoodtookshapearoundhisface.

AguilardeNerhastaredbackathim,andCallumLynchsmiled.TheAssassin stood beside himnow, not ambushing him frombehind, nor

stabbingdownwithrazor-sharpbladesemergingfromgauntletswithapracticedgesture. He stepped forwardwith a shout,moving his arms in amotion as ifbreaking an opponent’s strike. Cal moved alongside him, emulating him.Learning.

Training.

***

AlanRikkinwasnothappywithhowhisdaughterwaschoosing todo things.Shewasrevealingtoomuch.TryingtogetLynchtotrust theTemplars; tolike

them,towanttogobackintotheAnimustohelpthemintheirquest.This,ofcourse,was idiocy.Sofiawasbrilliant,noquestion,andshemight

understandmuchmorethanhedidabouttheAnimusanditseffectonthehumanmind. But Rikkin knew people, and he knew Assassins in particular. SomeAssassins,ofcourse,hadturnedtheircoatstoallywiththeTemplars.Butmostof thewretchedbreedwere toostubbornor“honorable” tobeswayed.HehadseenwhatSofiahadseenintheregressions,andheknewthatAguilardeNerha,unlikeBaptiste orDuncanWalpole,would never desert theBrotherhood.AndRikkinwascertainthatinthiscase,thebreedingrantrue.

CallumLynchmightbetakenwithhisdaughter’sbeautyandcalmmanner.Hemighteventhinkhewantedtobecuredofviolence.

ButRikkinknewbetter.He stoodnow inhis office alongsideMcGowen,whohad just toldhim to

activatethecamerainLynch’sroom.Together,thetwomenwatched,silently,asCallumLynch,descendantofanAssassin,practicedmartialartsintendedsolelytokillTemplars.

“We’re feeding the beast,” McGowen said quietly. “We’re making himstronger.”

Thiswasintolerable.ItwaspasttimeRikkindidsomethingaboutit.

***

Behindhim,Calheardthedooropening.Hedidn’tbothertoturn,thinkingitwasjustanotherorderly.HewasinnohurrytobedraggedbacktotheAnimus.

“I’mDr.Rikkin,”cameacool,preciseBritishvoice,adding,“Alan.”Mildlysurprised,Calturned.Beforehimstoodatall,slenderolderman.He

woreablackturtleneck,agraywoolsweater,andslacks.Hisfacewasaquilineand elegant, the graying hair sporting what was clearly an expensive, but

conservative, cut. Every line of the man bespoke money and power. He haddressedcasually,butlookedlikehebelongedinaboardroominapowersuit.

Calcouldseenowthatthiswas,indeed,themanhehadseenonthatdaysolongago.Andtheknowledgestirredamyriadofemotions.

“IlookafterthingshereatAbstergo,”Dr.Rikkin—Alan—continued.“Liketokeepthingsinthefamily,huh?”Rikkin gave him a smile. It was practiced, and charming, and completely

false,thoughCalwaswillingtobetthatithadfooledmorethanafewpeople.“Yes,”Sofia’s father said,witha faintchuckle.“I’msorry ifwe’vecaused

youanydiscomfort.IsthereanythingIcando?”“Freshtowelswouldbenice.”Again, thewarm smile that lacked any genuine emotion. “I’m certain that

canbearranged.”“Whilewe’reatit,howaboutyouletmeoutofhere?”The smile was devoid of pleasantness now as Rikkin ambled, hands in

pockets, to the long, backless benchwhere he sat, spreading his hands out oneitherside.

“That’ssomethingIcan’tmanage,”hesaid,withfalseregret.Thenthefakesmile shifted, becoming wry and cunning—and much more real. He wasdroppingtheact.

Good.Nomorebullshit.“I’mheretomakeadeal,”Rikkincontinued.“WeneedtheAppleofEden,

andweneedyoutogetitforus.”Calhadspentenough timearoundpredators toknowwhenhewas in their

presence, andAlanRikkin struckhimasoneof themostdangeroushe’devermet.Calwouldnottrusttheman,but….

“I’mlistening,”heanswered,carefully.The dark eyes searched his, flickering over his frame. Analyzing and

evaluating.Rikkinseemedtoreachadecision,gettingtohisfeet.Hegesturedatthestill-opendoor.

“Whydon’twestretchourlegs?”hesaid.“Workthatlastbitoftinglingout.”

***

“Anymorehallucinations?”Dr.RikkinaskedMoussa,peeringintohiseyeswithascope.

“Onlyeverythingaroundme,”hequipped.Sheofferedasmileofherownatthat, then clicked off the scope and reached for a clipboard and began to jotdownnotes.

“Yourbloodworkisexcellent,alltestsarepositive,andyoureyeslookfine.”“You sendingmeback to themachine?”Moussa asked.Hekept his voice

easy,hisbodyposturerelaxed,buthefiguredDr.Rikkinhadhisnumber.Noonewasevereagertorevisit“themachine.”SofiahadhadMoussabroughtinforanotherseriesoftests.Hewasfitand

healthy.She’dinformedhimthatorderlyreportsstatedthathemixedwellwiththeothers,atewell,andworkedoutvigorously.Buteventhoughhe’dcalledonall ofBaptiste’s charisma,Moussawaswell aware thatDr.Rikkindidn’t trustanyofthepatients.

His eyes flickered to one of the walls. It was covered with images—oldPolaroids, newspaper clippings, a timeline.Well, Baptiste inside him amendedwithashrug,maybethedocdoestrustone.

“No, you don’t have to go back,” Dr. Rikkin said briskly in answer toMoussa’s question, her dark head bent over the report as she finished jottingdownhernotes.“You’vealreadyshownuswhatweneededtosee.”

Moussahadnodesire toreturn to theAnimus.Buthewassuddenlyawarethathehadnoideawhatwouldhappentohim—or,indeed,anyofthem—whentheywerenolonger“needed.”Andhehadaterriblesuspicion.

“Then can we be free now?” he asked, sincerely; none of Baptiste’splayfulnessnow.

Dr. Rikkin obviously wasn’t expecting the query, and looked up at him,strugglingtokeepheremotionsfromshowingonherface.ShemightnotbeascruelasMcGowen,andshecertainlywasaloteasierontheeyes,butshewasoneofthem.ShewasthemasteroftheAnimus,anddecidedtheirfates.Moussathought he saw his answer in the simple fact that she refused to answer thequestion.

Shit,hethought,hisstomachsinking.Hereyes flickeredaway fromhim,anda frowncreasedherpale forehead.

Shewalkedovertothemonitorandleanedherhandsonthedesk,peeringatitintently.

Moussa followed her gaze. He saw the other Dr. Rikkin walking down acorridor. Her father appeared to be engaged in in pleasant conversation withLynch.

Moussa’s gaze went back to Sofia’s face.Whatever was going on, it wasupsettingher.Hedidn’tknowifthatwasgoodorbad.

Heresumedlookingaroundatthedisplaycases.Baptistewasonhighalert,andwheelswere turning inMoussa’s head as he analyzed the cases’ contents.Oldswords,manuscripts,piecesofart.Daggers.Jewelry.

AndonethingBaptiste—andMoussa—recognized:blownglasscontainers,smallenoughtofitinaman’shand,coveredwithdecorativefiligree.

Hiseyesstillonthesmallitems,Moussaasked,“Whatdoyouhopetogainfromthenewcomer?”

Sofiahadclearlyalmostforgottenabouthispresence.Absently,herattentiononthesceneunfoldinginfrontofher,shereplied,“Somethingthatwillbenefitusall.Youtoo,Moussa.”

***

“You’vebeendesynchingintheAnimus,”RikkinsaidtoCalastheywentpastafewexpressionlessguards.TheygaveCalnotsomuchasaglance.Itwasanoddfeeling.“Weneedyoutonotdothat.”

HehadpausedatthedoortoaroomCalhadneverenteredandtappedinacode.

“We call this the Infinity Room,” Rikkin said. The door swung open andRikkinstoodtotheside,allowingCaladmittance.

TheInfinityRoomwasfull…butnoonewashome.Itwascrowdedwithpatients,allwearingthesamegrayuniformandwhite

shirt Cal had seen in the common room. But these people weren’t shootinghoopsoreatingchicken.Theywalkedaimlessly, stood inplace,or satquietly.Staring…atabsolutelynothing, their facesasblankasa sheetofpaper.Somewereold,somewereyoung;allwerebroken.

The room had many chairs and beds. Some of the patients here seemedunabletomovefromthebedswithoutassistance.Theoddestthingaboutitwasthe ceiling. The silhouettes of birds, black against a white background, wasprojectedagainstitsflatsurface.Cal’sfirstthoughtwasthattherhythmic,gentlemotion unfolding above their headswas soothing to the patients. But then hewonderedifanyoneherecouldevenactuallyseethedisplay.

Cal recalledMoussa’sbizarrecommentbeforehehad leftCalalone in thecommonroom:Alltherest…mostofthemareontheirwayto…infinity.

Cal looked atRikkin, but theotherman’s facewasunreadable.He lookedagain at the occupants, and then, carefully,moving slowly, he stepped inside.Thosewhoshuffledthroughtheroommovedtoavoidhim,butotherwiseitwasasifhewasn’teventhere.

Thiswas,withoutquestion,themosthorrifyingthinghehadyetseeninthisplace. Violence, as Sofia would be quick to point out, was something heunderstood.Itwasurgent,immediate.Itwasalive.

This…“Whathaveyoudonetothem?”

“They call it ‘splitting’,”Rikkin explained.Calwanted to look away fromtheemptyshells,butdidn’tseemtobeabletotearhisgazefromthem.“It’swhathappensifyoudon’tenteraregressionofyourownvolition.”

Youdesynchronized.Itcausedaneurologicalsplit,butwegotyouthroughit.Thistime.Thewords had been chilling enoughwhen Sofia had spoken them earlier.

Now,Cal’sbowelsclenchedasheunderstoodthefatethathehadeluded.Thistime.With seeming casualness, Rikkin removed something from his pocket and

regardeditthoughtfully.Calstrugglednottoreact,butsweatbrokeoutbeneathhisarmsandhispalmsasheregardedthemetalliccontraption.

“Do you recognize this?” Rikkin asked rhetorically. “It’s an Assassin’sblade.”

Oh,yes.Herecognizedit.Inthecool,soothingbluelightthatappearedtobeubiquitousthroughoutthe

rehabilitationcenter,thebladeappearedsterile.ThealmostmysticalauraithadradiatedinCal’smemories—boththosethatwerehisownfromthatawfuldayand those that belonged toAguilar deNerha,who had a completely differentrelationship with the weapon—was utterly dispelled here. There was nointricately crafted gauntlet concealing it, and the innerworkings of its spring-drivenmechanism,whichappearedalmostchildishlysimple,werelaidbareforanyonetosee.

Calrememberedhoweasily,quickly,cleanlyhehadbeenabletoactivateorretract thestoriedweaponof theAssassins.Howithadfelt, toplungeit intoabare throat and experience the patter of hot blood spouting from the carotidarteryonhishandashepulleditback.

How it had looked on an ordinary late afternoon three decades past, withbloodrunningoffitstiptodripontolinoleum.

Rikkin pressed something on the device. The sharp shing of the blade’sactivation, and the startling speedwithwhich the lethalmetal sprang forward,

snappedCalbacktothepresent.“This is theactualoneyourfatherused to takeyourmother’s life,”Rikkin

continued ina conversational tone.Hewasexamining theblade—admiring itsconstruction,weighingitinhishand,asiffascinatedbythething.

Absently,almostasanafterthought,headded,“He’shere,youknow.”Rikkin lifted his eyes from theweapon. Theywere cold as a snake’s. Cal

understood immediately that Rikkin did not simply mean that his father washere,atthefacility.

HemeantthatJosephLynchwasintheInfinityRoom.Sothisisthedeal,Calthought.Hesaidnothing,butlookedoutagainatthe

roomfullofthingsthatwereoncepeople.Butthistime,hewaslookingforoneoftheminparticular.

His searching eyes suddenly stopped their quest. A muscle in his jawtightenedandheswallowedhard.

“Amother’sdeath,Cal,”Rikkinsaidquietly.ForthefirsttimesinceCalhadmethim,themansoundedgenuinelyregretful.“It’snotsomethingaboyshouldeverbemadetosee.”

Cal turned back to Rikkin. The olderman stepped forward, extending thebladehilt-firsttohim.Calstaredatit.HecouldknockittothegroundandspringonRikkin.Hecouldstepback—walkaway.

Drip.Drip.Redonthelinoleum.Agiantman,ahoodedman,staringoutthewindow.Slowly, Cal extended his hand to take the blade. Deftly, Rikkin turned,

moving theweaponoutofCal’s reachandplacing itwithgreatprecisiononagleamingmetaltablewithcurvededges.Hesteppedback,andlookedatCal,ahintofasmilequirkinghisthinlips.

Thenheturnedandsaunteredoutoftheroom.Calcontinuedtostareattheblade,barelyregisteringRikkin’sdeparture.His

arm trembled, ever so slightly, as he reached out and gripped the base of theknife.Hehadexpectedittobecold,butitwaswarmfromRikkin’stouch.

AnditwaswarmandgrowingwarmerasCallumLynchturnedaroundandbegantoslowlymakehiswaythroughaseaofshufflingzombies.

CHAPTER18

“T

hisiswrong,”SofiasaidthemomentRikkinwalkedintohisoffice.He was mildly annoyed to find her here, waiting for him, but

unsurprisedthatshehadcaughthimout.Hisdaughterwasindeedaclevergirl,andsheknewhimwell.Thoughperhapsnotquiteaswellasshethought.

Shewasstandinginfrontofthemonitor,watchingthemindlessshellsambleabout the Infinity Room. Her arms were folded tightly over her chest in ahunched,anxiouspose,andherlarge,expressiveeyeswerefullofaccusation.

Rikkindidn’t evenbreakstrideashebrushedpasther,heading for thebarandpouringhimselfasnifterofHennessyParadisImperial.

“Youleftmenochoice,”he toldhisdaughter.“Hehas togoinofhisownfreewill.Yousaidthat.Ihadtonegotiate.”

“Youmeanmanipulate.”Rikkinpausedfor justaninstant.Thewordswereaccurate,but theystung,

andthatsurprisedhim.Liftingtheliquortohisnose,heinhaledthespicy,orangeblossomandjasminescent.

“I assured the Elderswewould have theApple for London,” he said, tooirritated toenjoy thecognacas itproperlydeservedand instead takingagulp,feelingthewarmthtrickledownhisthroat.

“That’s in twodays!”Shehad turned to stare at him, her eyes evenwiderthanhewouldhavethoughtpossible.Well,perhapsnowshewouldunderstandhisrecentdesiretopushthemurderousbastard.

“Sofia,”hesaid,“hedoesn’twanttoknowhispast,orhisfather.Hewantstodestroythem…both.”

Sofia looked like a startled doe, Rikkin thought. One hand was wrappedtightlyaroundhermidsection,theotherclenchedintoafist.Shewastrembling;

somethinghehadnotseenherdoinyears.He felt a long-dormant desire to comfort her stirring, but he couldn’t

surrender to it.Sofiahad to learn thatcrueltywasa tool,andadamnedusefuloneatthat,andthattheseAssassinsshetreatedwerenotpets.

Butherwordsmadehimrealizethatshewasn’tshakingwithfearorhurt.Hisdaughterwasfurious.“We’re not in the business of creating monsters,” Sofia said. She got the

wordsoutwithaneffort;aneffortnottorefrainfrombreakingdown,butfromphysicallylashingoutathim.

Helookedather,kindly,butexperiencingthebaresthintofcontemptforhercompassion.

“We’veneither created themnordestroyed them,”heexplained, rationally.“We’vemerelyabandonedthemtotheirowninexorablefate.”

***

TheorderliessawCalwiththeknife.Theymadenomovetointervene.Rikkinhaddoubtlesshadaquietwordortwowiththem.

Theman he approachedwas both larger and smaller than he remembered.CalwasalmostofaheightwithJosephLynch,now.Sucha thinghadseemedimpossiblewhenhewasalittleboyofseven.Then,hisfatherhadloomedasagianttohim,inallaspects.Intheinterveningyears,Josephhadputonbulk;notmuscle, but soft, sad flesh that gathered aroundhismidsection and tuggedhisnow-beardlessfacedownwardtowardhis thick throat.Thered-blondehairCalrememberedadorninghisfather’sheadwasnowmixedwithgray.

Cal moved silently to stand beside his father. Joseph turned toward him.Defeatwasetched inevery lineofhis faceandstoopedbodyashesaid, inanIrish brogue that had not lessened in the thirty years since Cal had heard itshoutingathimtoRun!Go,gonow!,“Youareyourmother’sson.”

ThewordswerenotatallwhatCalhadbeenexpecting,anditthrewhim.“Whatdoesthatmean?”heaskedinaroughwhisper.“Thebloodthatflowsthroughyouisnotyourown.”Almostthesamewords

hehadlastsaidtoCal.Yourbloodisnotyourown,Cal.Whilecrimsondropssplatteredonthefloor.“ItbelongstotheCreed,”Josephwassaying.“Yourmotherknewthat.She

died,sotheCreedmaylive.”Cal moved in an instant from standing perfectly still to placing the blade

againsthisfather’sthroat.“Remindmehow,exactly,”hegroundout.His right hand clutched the blade. His mother’s necklace was wrapped

aroundthefingersofhisleft.The room was empty, now. Sometime over the last few moments, the

orderlieshadusheredoutallthosewhohadsufferedintheAnimus.Calandhisfatherwerealone.Soon,itwouldjustbeCal.Josephdidnotlookafraid.Helooked…resignedtohisfate,almostasifhe

welcomedit.Asifhehadbeenwaitingforthismoment,andwasrelievedthatatlast,aftersomuchtormentatthehandsoftheTemplarsandtheircruelmachine,ithadcome.

“Whatyousaw,Idid,”Josephsaidquietly.“Youmurderedher,”Calrasped.Still calm, stillquiet, Josephanswered,“I tookher life, rather thanhave it

stolenby thatmachine.”His voice cracked slightly on the lastword; the onlysignhehadyetgiventhatanyofthishadaffectedhim.

“Amangrowswiththegreatnessofhistask.Ioughttohavekilledyou.”Hiseyes,milkybluebehindcataracts,staredintohisson’s.“Icouldn’t.”

“Well, here.” Cal flipped the blade in his hand, offering it hilt-first to hisfather.“Dowhatyoucouldn’tdothirtyyearsago.”

Josephshookhishead.“It’sinyourhandsnow,Cal.Thisiswhattheywant.”

“It’swhatIwant.”ButCalknewhelied.Henolongerknewwhathewanted.Themanbefore

himwasnotthelovingfather,northeheartlessmurderer.Hewasapawninthehands of theTemplars,who had broken him so badly that hewas now in theInfinityRoom.

Cal was frantic for Joseph to make a decision, any decision, so that hehimselfcouldreact.

“Spillmyblood,”Josephsaid,theweightoftheworldinhiswords,“butdonotgobackintotheAnimus.”

“Why?”Joseph’s eyes burned intoCal’s, as if they had, at last, slowly flickered to

life. Joseph did not care about his death—or life. But what he said next, heobviouslycaredaboutwithallthatwaslefttohim.

“TheTemplarswantusalldead.TheApple.Itcontainsthegeneticcodeforfreewill.Theywilluseittodestroyus.”

Calstared,unable toprocessall thathewas learning.Was thisnothingbutmadnessbornoftoomanyhoursofresistingtheAnimus?Orwasittrue?

Couldthisreallybewhatthegraceful,calm,beautifulangelSofiawasafter?A tear trickled down Cal’s cheek. “I’m going to find it,” he stated. “And

watchthemdestroyyou…andyourCreed.”Strangely,somethingseemedtosofteninJosephatCal’swords.“You cannot kill the Creed,” he said, as if he were speaking to a child

claiming to kill amountain. “It’s in your blood.” And then he spoke the lastwordsthatCalhadeverexpectedtohearfromhim:wordsfromapoemCalhadlastheardutteredbyayoung,sympatheticpriest.Wordsaboutpickingapples.

Cal’s eyes filledwith scalding tears and he blinked them back fiercely.Alump suddenly swelled in his throat, threatening to choke off his words. Heforcedthemthrough.Itseemedimportant,now,thathesaythemtothisman.

Afaint,butgenuine,smiletouchedJoseph’slipsashissonrecitedthenextlineofthepoem.“Youdoremember,”hesaid,obviouslymoved.

Alongpause.“It’sallIhaveofher.”“TheAppleiseverything.Yourmotherdiedtoprotectit.”Cal’sgaze fell tohis left hand, clutching thebackofhis father’s shirt; the

necklacewrappedaroundhisfingers.“Shehadnochoice,”Calsaid,understandingatlastandwantinghisfatherto

knowit.SofiaandAlanRikkinhadtoldCalwhatwouldhappenifherefusedtoenter

theAnimusofhisownfreewill.Hecouldseetheevidencethattheyspokethetruthall aroundhim, shufflingpurposelesslyor staringblankly into space.Hisfatherhadbeenhereforthirtyyears,anditwasclearJosephLynchhadrefusedtogointotheAnimuswithoutafight.

Yet somehow, though hewas broken beyond repair, he’d still clung to hismind.Hismemories—his,notthoseofsomelong-deadancestor.He’dclungtothemlikehewasclingingtothebladeofaknife,slicinghimselfmoretheharderhegripped.

Calknewwhat theAnimuscoulddo toone’smind.Hehadcomeclose tobreakinghimself, andhehadonlybeenhere a fewdays.His father’s strengthwashumbling.

Calrelaxedhisgriponhisfather’sshirt,andloweredhishand.Calunwound thesilver,small-linkedchain,observing that ithad leftsmall

redmarksonfingersfromwherehehadbounditsotightly.Heplaceditaroundhisfather’sbull-thickneck,fasteningitwithfingersthattrembledandstillheldthebladewithwhichonemanhadmurderedtheother’smother.

Calrestedhishandslightlyonhisfather’sshouldersforamoment,lookingintohismilkyeyes.

“Ido.”Fatherandson,boundbybloodandloveforawomanwhosesmilehadfilled

both their hearts, regarded each other for a moment. Then Cal turned away,placedtheknifedownononeofthebeds,andwalkedcalmlytowardthedoor.

Heknewwhathehadtodo.

***

Aguardmethimatthedoor.Calinformedhimwherehewantedtogo,andtheguardnodded.Calwas lost in thoughtsof thepast, present, and future—somenothisown—andtriedtofocusonwhatwasabouttohappen.

The guard stepped into a small, circular roomwith several doors.Cal hadbeenherebefore;itwasahubroom.Oneofthedoorsledtohisdestination.Butthe instant the guard stepped inside, there was a flurry of movement and hedroppedlikeastone.

Athinsliverofmetalorwoodprotrudedfromhisneck.SomeinnerinstinctalertedCal.Beforeheevenrealizedwhathewasdoing,

hishandshadshotuptohisthroat,hisfingersslippingbetweenhisfleshandthethinwirethatwasbeingtwistedtightaroundhisneck.

Hadhemovedafractionofasecondlater,hewouldhavebeendeadbynow.Asheandhisunknownassailantstruggled,Calsawthatthewould-bekiller

wasn’t alone. He recognized Lin and several of the others from the commonroom,wheretheyhadstaredappraisinglyathim.Nowtheystood,watchingtheirfellowAssassinstrugglingtokillCal.

Hecaughtaglimpseofwhite,andrealizedthatthewomanhehadmistakenfor an orderly was in fact one of the patients. They had planned this outcarefully.AndCalrealizeditmightyetwork—thewirewasn’tslicingthisneck,butitpulledhisownhandstightlytohisthroat,forcinghimtoparticipateinhisownstrangulation,andhewouldpassoutsoonifhedidn’tescape.

Calslippedhisrighthandoutfromunderthewireandelbowedhisassailanthard.He struck the soft flesh of the abdomen andwas rewardedwith a sharpgrunt.

Heswitchedhandsquickly,andcaughttheattackerinthefacewithhisleftelbow.Thegrip slackened enough forCal towheel around, seizeNathan, and

barreltowardthesealeddoorswithhim.Nathanstubbornlykepthisgriponthewire,tighteningitevenasCalpressed

hispalmagainstNathan’scheekandforcedhimback.Oncetheboy’sarmwasatfullextension,Calslammeddownontheinnerbendoftheelbow.

Theholdwasbroken,butNathanrefusedtogiveup.Hepummeledfiercely,squirminginanattempt togetoutofCal’s implacablegrip,butCalwouldnotreleasehim.HeslippedapowerfularmaroundNathan’sthroat,chokinghimastheboyhadtriedtochokehim.

The doors burst open, the guards having overridden the hijacked controls.The headof security,McGowen, rushed towardCalwith his baton raised andaimedatNathan.

CalkeptonearmaroundNathan’s throat,while theotheronecameupandgrabbedthebatonbeforeitcouldstriketheboy’sskull.HereleasedNathanoncehehaltedthebaton’sbrutalmotion,andlockedeyeswithMcGowen.

Moreguardspeltedinsidetheroom,headingfortheAssassins,eventheoneswho had simply stood there watching. Two of them wrestled Nathan intosubmission.Astheyhauledhimoff,stillstruggling,heshoutedtoCal,“You’regoingtokilltheCreed!”

Cal watched him go. He reached up to his neck, grabbed the makeshiftgarrote,anddroppedittotheground.McGowenwasstillstaringathim,withhisheavy-lidded,seeminglyunblinkingeyes.

Catchinghisbreath,Caljerkedhisheadinthedirectionofthedoorhehadbeenapproachingbeforetheattack.

“TakemetotheAnimus,”hesaid.

CHAPTER19

T

heguardshadbeenalertedtoCal’simminentarrival,andSofiahadherteamstanding by. Both she and her father had watched the tense confrontation

betweenCalandhisown.Sofia had been surprised at howpleased she had been towitnessCal turn

away fromwhat surely had to be the greatest temptation of his life: a single,swiftactofviolencethatwouldhavebeenexactlytherevengehehadprobablyalwayswanted.

Shedared tohopeshehadgotten through toCal; thatdespite thepainandcrueltythathadbeenshowntohim,bothoutsidethesewallsandwithinthem,hehadlistenedtoher.Calhadseemedtowanttobecured;thefacthehadwalkedawayfromhisfatherinsteadoftakingtheolderman’slifewasevidencethatonsomelevel,hetrulycouldlearntosetasidetheviolencethatwasnotjustpartofhislife’sexperience,buthisverygeneticcode.

Andifhecouldlearn,socouldotherAssassins.OncetheyhadtheApple,thecombinationofgeneticmanipulationandproperlydirectedtherapycouldrenderaworldthatwas,truly,withoutviolence.Herproject,herfaith,allshehaddoneformostofheradultlife—allwouldbevindicated.

Even so, the faint cobwebs of doubt still clung to her as shewatchedCalstrideintotheroom.Withaquicktug,hepulledoffhisshirtanddiscardedit,asifinanefforttoremoveasmuchofhisidentityasapatientaspossible.

Was it thathewas tiredofbeing regardedas less thanhuman?OrwashesickofanythinginvolvingtheTemplars’controloverhim?

Hiseyesmethersand,tohersurprise,herheartjumpedslightly.TheCallumLynchshesawbeforehernowcouldnotpossiblyhaveappearedmoredifferent

from the scattered, raging, frightened man who had first entered the Animussuchashorttimeago.

Hewasmoving likeanAssassinnow, she realized; smoothly,gracefully…proudly.Certainofwhathewasdoing,confident inhisability todo it. Itwasprofoundlyattractive…andalarming.

Doubt crept into her again, and found herself withdrawing even as shewantedtoconnectmorewithhim.Tothankhimforwhathewasdoing.

Calstrodetowardtheoverhangingarmlikeaboxermeetinganadversaryinthering,orasamuraibowingtohisfoe.

“Putmein,”hesaid,notanoffer,butalmostanorder.“Prepare theAnimus forvoluntary regression,”Sofia toldAlex,not taking

herwarybutstillhopefulgazefromCal.ShewatchedasMcGowenhimselfheldoutthegauntletsandCalslidhisarmsintothem;easily,familiarly,nevertakinghiseyesfromMcGowen.

“Do you know how the Assassins came to be named?” McGowen wassaying.

Sofiawassurprised;theheadofsecuritywasastaciturnastheycame.Calremainedsilent.McGowen continued. “From an Arabic word, ‘hashashin.’ They were

society’s outcasts—those who stole, who murdered in cold blood. Peopleridiculedthemasrebels,thieves,drugaddicts.Buttheywerewise.”

BehindCal,AlexwasfasteningthearmtothebeltaroundCal’swaist.“Theyusedthisreputationtohideadedicationtoprinciplesbeyondthoseof

even their strongest enemies.And for that, I admire them.But….”McGowenpaused.“You’renotoneofthosemen.”

Sofiatensed,waiting.McGowen’shalf-closedeyesweregluedtoCal’sface.Thenthequestioncame.

“Areyou?”Cal held the otherman’s stare as he reached behind him and grabbed the

epidural unit out of Alex’s hands. Startled, Alex glanced over at Sofia, who

shookherheadforhimnottointervene.“Let’sfindout,”Calreplied.Andthen,withonlythebarestflinch,Calplungedtheepiduralunitintothe

baseofhisownskull.Youscreamedthefirsttime,Cal.AndIknowhowbadlyithurts.Therewasawhining,mechanicalhumasthearmliftedCalintotheair.This

time,Cal’sbodywasrelaxed,ateasewithallthatwashappening.Whenthearmreachedtheproperheight,itdroppedslightly,settlingintoposition.

Cal snapped eachwristwith a familiar flick, activating his hidden blades.With the lightplayingoverhisbarechestandcatching thedetermined,almostgrim set of his face, at thismomenthe lookedmore likeAguilar thanCallumLynch.

Whatifheis?“Commencingregression,”Alexannounced,backathisstation.Sofiasteppedoutonto the floor inherusual supervisoryposition,hereyes

raisedtoCal’s.Ashelookedather,hisfacesoftenedslightly.Sofia’shistoryhadnotpredisposedhertotrusteasily,orevenshowwarmth.

But shewanted to say something toCal, to thank him for his cooperation, toreassure him that yes, thiswas the right choice, for him, for humanity… forTemplars…andAssassins.

Wordscrowdedhermouth,andSofiacouldn’tspeakforamoment.Finally,haltingly,hervoicethickandtrembling,shemanaged,“Thisismylife’swork.”

Calgazedather,kindly,butunsmiling.“Thisismylife,”hesaid.She continued to gaze at him raptly, fearful and joyous and tense with

anticipation,andthenhewasin.

***

Granadawasaflame.Dozensoffiressentthickblacksmokeupintotheairtominglewithyellow

dust. Set by the Templars, the myriad infernos had done their vicious work,flushingoutanyenemiesanddestroyingtheirhidingplacesalongwithanythingthatwasprecioustothem—includingfamilymembers,ifthatwaswhatittooktoobtainvictory.

The great walled city had finally been forced to open its gates, offeringsurrenderafterapricedearlypaid.TheTemplarswerenolongerslaughteringtheMoors,butariverofrednowflowedalongthestreetsnonetheless;ariverofredcloaksanduniforms,marchingtowardthegreatAlhambra,readytoclaimtheirfinalreward.

InthecenteroftheriverofsoldiersrodeFatherTomásdeTorquemada.Hesatstraight inthesaddle,unabletohideapleasedsmirk.Ridingbesidehimasalways,toweringoverhim,wastheTemplar’sloyalOjeda.

Maria and Aguilar, perched atop the highest tower of the great Moorishpalace, watched the enemy’s steady approach in silence. They knew thatsomewhereinthatseaofTemplars,likelychained,certainlywatched,wasPrinceAhmed.And theyknew that thedarkbargain, boughtwithpain and treacheryandwithlivesthatnumberedinthehundreds,perhapsthethousands,wouldsoonbecompleted.

ThenMariastirred,reachingherhandsupbehindherneck.“FortheCreed,”shesaid.

He turned toher and saw that sheheldout anecklace. It hadcome toherfromherparents,heknew.

Now,shewasgivingittohim.Slowly,reluctantly,Aguilarheldouthishandandletitsettleintohispalm,

staring at it as she continued to speak, observing the eight-sided star with adiamondshapeinthecenter.EtchedonitinblackwasthesymboloftheCreed—theletterA,curvedattheendstolooklikeblades.

“Ourownlivesmeannothing.Whatmattersiswhatweleavebehind.”

Hedidnotlikethatshewasgivingittohim.Hewantedtorefuseit,togiveitbacktoherandtellherthatneitherofthemwasgoingtoleaveanythingbehindtodaybutTemplarcorpses.Shehadpredictedherdeathattheauto-da-féearlier,hadshenot?Theyhadbothsurvived.

But sucha reassurancewouldbea lie.Heknewnosuch thing.TheywereAssassins. No day, no hour, no breathwas taken for granted. One or both ofthemcoulddieatanytime—includingtoday.

Andshewantedhimtohaveit.Aguilartightenedhisfingersoverit.Tohim,itwasaspreciousastheobject

theysoughttogether.Thelast tworemainingAssassinssettled intopositionandwaited.Patience

andstillness,theirMentorBenedictohadoncetoldthem,werebrotherstoactionandswiftness.AnAssassinneededtomasterthemall.

AguilardidnotknowhowlongittookforthesnakingstreamofTemplarstoreachthePatiodelosLeones,butat last, thehatedfiguresofTorquemadaandOjedastepped inside thecourtyard.Thecontrastbetween thepeaceful interior,with its graceful statuary, gently bubbling fountain, and beautiful floweringplants, and the bloodied, soot-dusted soldiers of the Templars could not havebeenmorestriking,ormoreoffensive.

The Grand Inquisitor had his hand on Ahmed’s narrow shoulder in anavuncular fashion, but the hollow expression of a child long past fear on theyoungprince’sfacetoldthetruestory.

Torquemada’sfingersdugintoAhmed’sfleshlikeclaws,andatoncetheboyhaltedbesidehim.

His father, Sultan Muhammad XII, stood beside the centerpiece of thecourtyard,abeautifulfountainofwhitemarbleencircledbytwelveroaringlions.Water flowed in two directions, enabling the lush gardens to flourish. Thefragrance of roses filled the air, almost, but not quite, driving out the burningsmell.

Muhammad was regarded as a strong and benevolent leader who cared

deeply for his people.His eyeswere deep and dark.His thick black hairwasconcealedbyhis turban, andhis chinwasadornedwithawell-groomedblackbeard.Thesultanworeadaggerathiswaist;moreceremonial thanfunctional,forAguilarknewthathere,atthismoment,Muhammadwouldmakenomovetounsheatheit.

Hiskindfacewasetchedwithpainandloveasheregardedhischild,andhemade no effort to conceal his emotion. Around the square stood the sultan’scourt,standingintheshadedcolonnadearea,watchingintently.

Theyandtheirpeoplehadfoughtbravely,andwithhonor,butallknewthebattlewasovernow.

Allsaveonefinalact.“Sultan,” said Torquemada, his voice smooth and pleasant. “I come in

peace.”“Theslaughterofinnocentsisnobasisforpeace,”thesultanreplied.ThehawkishanswerseemedtobotherTorquemadanotatall.Thebenevolent

expressionneverwavered.“Granadaisours,”hesaid,matter-of-factly.“ButgivemewhatIseek,”and

hestrokedAhmed’smatted,dirtyhairgently,“andIshallletyourboylive.”Muhammadcouldnottearhiseyesfromthoseofhisson.AguilarandMaria

watchedtensely,theirbodiesflattenedatoptheroof.“TheSpanisharmyclaimstheAlhambraforthekingandqueen.Theymay

haveit.Myambitionsaregreater.”Torquemada’s thick lips curved in a smile. “Surrender the Apple. Your

Assassinprotectorsaregone.Theycannotsaveyou.TheCreedisfinished.”Foralongmoment,AguilarthoughtMuhammadwouldrefusethecommand.

HehadbeenaloyalfriendtotheAssassins,andtheytohim.Buthehadnotsworn,asMariaandAguilarhad,toplacenothingandnoone

beforetheCreed.Aguilar’smind flashed back to the prison,where he andMaria had gazed

into one another’s eyes and said together, Iwould gladly sacrificemyself and

everyoneIcarefor,sothattheCreedlivedon.The boy’s eyes were large and wide and frightened, and the sultan had a

greatheart.Intheend,asbothAssassinshadexpected,hecouldnotsacrificehisbeloved

child for another’s ideal. Lowering his head, the sultan sighed deeply, thenturned andwalked into the palace,moving as if he had abruptly aged twentyyears.

AguilarandMariamoved,too,travelingswiftlyacrosstherooftooneoftheskylightsandpeeringdowntowatch.Maria,Aguilarknew,wasmorethanreadytofight.Butthemomentwasnotyet.

Thesultanledthemthroughseveralarches,toaninnerroomwithanornatepattern of carvings on the wall. Dozens of flickering candles in delicatelywroughtglasscontainersprovidedsomelight,whilethesunilluminatedpatchesofthefloor.

Muhammadhaltedinfrontofthecarvedwallandpressedhispalmagainstasection of it. A small drawer slid open, revealing a small chest of decoratedwhitestone,orperhapsivory.Aguilarwonderedhowmanyotherdrawerswereperfectlyconcealedinthelargecarving,andwhateachoftheotherscontained.Butfornow,onlyonemattered.

Muhammad’sbootedfeetmade theonlysound,other than theomnipresenttricklingofwater.Hehaltedwithin six feetof themuchshorterTemplar,whowasperspiringeitherfromtheheat,swathedashewasinheavylayersofritualgarments,oranticipation.

“Myson,”thesultandemanded.TorquemadagesturedtoOjeda,whostoodafewstepsbehindhim.Theblack

knight, who had had both hands clamped down on Ahmed’s shoulders, nowreleased him. The boy immediately darted past the priest to his father, whocaught him and pulled him safely behind him. The sultan never broke eyecontactwithTorquemada.

Muhammadheldthechestoutinfrontofhim,forcingTorquemadatocome

tohim.Afteramoment’shesitation,thepriestdidso.Hissmugself-confidenceebbedwitheverystep,andhishandstrembledastheyeasedopenthechest.

Fromtheirvantagepoints,thetwoAssassinscouldnotseewhatwasinside,buttheycouldseetheeffectitwashavingontheGrandInquisitor.

Seeming to barely breathe, his eyes wide, his mouth open slightly,Torquemadareachedinsidetheexquisitelycarvedbox,anddrewouttheAppleofEden.

Itwasbeautiful,andred,aperfectspherethatglintedlikeagiantgem,andTorquemadaheld itup to theshaftof lightstreamingfromtheopensectionoftheroof.

“Here lies the seed of man’s first disobedience,” the Grand Inquisitorproclaimed,joyandwonderfillinghisvoice.“Offreewillitself.”

***

TheAppleofEden,Sofiathought,almostdizzyfromtheimportanceofwhatshewasbearingwitnessto.Herlife,herwholelife,eversinceshehadbeenabletocomprehendtheconceptsofDNAandthepotentialtomanipulatethegenethatcontrolledviolence,hadbeenspentinsearchofthis.

Itwasfor thismoment thatshehadforcedherheart toharden towhatshehadtodo.Thispreciousrelicwasthekeytohealinghumanity.

ItwastheArtifacttotheTemplars,asshehadtoldCal,andtheAppletotheAssassins.

ButforSofiaRikkin,scientist,itwastheHolyGrail.

***

Itwastime.

LettheTemplarsbeoverwhelmedbytheApple,eyeswide,mouthsopeninaweastheybeheldit.ItwouldmaketheAssassins’jobeasier.

AguilarnoddedtoMaria,whoeagerlymovedintopositionatthesideoftheroof, her body perfectly still and taut as she waited with wild, excited eyes.Aguilarstayedwherehewas,lookingdownonthesceneunfoldinginside.TheTemplarswouldbeallowedtogloatabitlonger.

Torquemada was still staring at the sphere with a mixture of wonder andproprietaryenjoyment.

“ThankstotheAppleofEden,theknownworldshallbeusheredintoanewage,oneofpeace,inwhichallthewarringpopulationsofmankindshallbowinperfectobediencetoouroneTemplarrule.”

As their leader spoke,Ojeda and theotherTemplars knelt in reverence, tohimand to theobject thatheheld aloft before them. Itwas strange to see themassive knight’s broad, scarred face filled with a sense of awe and wonder.Ojeda was looking upon something greater than himself, greater than theTemplarOrder,andtheknowledgeseemedtohumble,evensoftenhim.

Itwasthen,smilingalittle,thatAguilardroppedtwosmallitemsdownontothetableau.Theywereround,liketheApple;decorative,asitwas.

Butthesetwoobjectshadafardifferentpurpose.As soon as the twin orbs struck the stone floor, they exploded into dense

cloudsofthick,graysmoke.AndtheAssassinsexplodedintoaction.In perfect synchronicity, though theywere facing away from one another,

they raised their arms, drew themselves up, and leaped—Maria down into thecourtyard crowded with Templar guards and soldiers, Aguilar into the palacevaultroomcurrentlywreathedinbillowinggrayclouds.

He landed directly in front of a blinded Templar, dispatching him quicklyand efficiently with a single blade thrust through leather armor and into theheart.Anotherstumbledinhisdirection.

Aguilarwhirledandslashedhis throat,movingeasilyandsurely.Assassins

spenttimetrainingwhilewreathedinthesmokefromtheirsmallbombs.UnliketheTemplars,neitherAguilarnorMariawouldbedistractedastheireyesstung,andheknewfromlongpracticehowtosetenemiesagainstoneanother in theprotectivesmoke.

One was frantically turning this way and that. Aguilar easily stepped upbehindhimand snappedhisneck.Heheard the soundofMaria slamming thedoor’sbolthome,andthethudandcriesoftheTemplarsshehadlockedoutastheythrewthemselvesimpotentlyagainsttheheavymetalgate.

TheonlyTemplarsnowleftforthepairofAssassinstoworryaboutweretheonestrappedinsidewiththem,andtheirnumbersweredwindlingbythesecond.

Theroomwasfilledwiththesoundsofblows,grunts,thethudsandsplashesas Templar bodies fell. Then there was an abrupt silence. Aguilar froze,listening.Heknewwhat the suddenquiet likelymeant—that,betweenhimselfandMaria,theTemplarthreathadbeeneliminated.

Oritcouldmeanthatsomeofthem,clevererthantheirfellows,werestayingquiet,rootedtothespot,tryingtocontroleventheirbreathinginhopesthattheAssassinswouldnotfindthem.Aguilarsawashape;thesultan,pressedagainstawall,holdinghissontightly.

TheAssassinmovedon to theothershapes,andcaughta flashofwhite inthesmokydimness.

Torquemada.The Grand Inquisitor was looking around wildly, thoroughly disoriented.

AndhestillclutchedtheApple.Slowly, Aguilar approached Torquemada, activating his blade. Then he

lungedforward.OnehandshotoutandsnatchedtheApplefromtheTemplar’sgrasp.Aguilar’sotherhanddescendedtogivethekillingblow.

At that instant, Aguilar saw movement in the shifting shadows. AnotherTemplaryet lived.Theshapewaslarge—toolargetobeanyoneother thanthedespisedOjeda.

Andinfrontofhim,theblackknightheldMaria,hisdaggeratherthroat.

CHAPTER20

W

ithnearlyinhumanreflexes,Aguilarmanagedtohalttheblade’strajectory,itssharptipmakingonlyaslightindentationinTorquemada’sneck.

ThesmokewasstartingtoclearsufficientlyforAguilartoseeMaria’swideeyesandflaringnostrils.Ojeda’sbeefy leftarmpinnedher firmly tohisbody.Shewasnotatinywoman,butsuddenly,Marialookedsosmall,standingagainstOjeda’smassiveframe.Sofragile.Butshewasalwayssofierce,solithe….

“TheApple,”Ojedademandedinacoldvoice.“Giveittohim.Now.”Aguilar foundhimselfparalyzed.Onequickmovewould secure theApple

for the Brotherhood. Would save humanity from the grasp of the Templars.Wouldpreservefreewill.TokillTorquemada,todenytheTemplarstheApple,wastheoutcometowhichBenedictoandhadpledgedtheirlives.

Theyhaddied for this.And ifAguilar honored thosedeaths,Mariawouldjointheslain.

She saw his hesitation. “For the Creed,” she said, in her low voice.Remindinghimoftheiroath.Oftheirduty.

But it would seem the Templars had an oath of their own as, daringly,Torquemadaspoke.

“Nottoourselves,buttothefuture,giveglory,”saidtheTemplar.Aguilarwasn’t listening.Hiswholeworldhadnarrowed toMaria’seyes—

wide,shimmeringwithtearsthatmightormightnothavebeenfromthesmoke.Maria.Notso longago, theyhadstoodabout toenter thearenaof theauto-da-fé.

Shehadturnedtohimandhadtoldhimtonotwastetearsforher.Inthatprison,shehadspokenthewordsoftheirvow,toservetheCreedbeforethemselvesorevenoneanother.

ThatMariawaspreparedtodie,Aguilarknew.Butnow,healsoknew,ashegazed intohereyes, that shedidnotwant to

die.HehadkilledfortheCreed.Hewaswillingtogivehisownlifeforit,ifneed

be.Buthe stared into theeyesof thiswoman, litheand lovingandpassionateandproud,shewhohadbeeneverythingtohim,AguilardeNerharealizedthathecouldnotsacrificeher.

NotforBenedicto’smemory.NotfortheBrotherhood.NotfortheApple.Heretractedtheblade.Asoftness, a sweetness floodedMaria’s face for just an instantas she saw

whathehaddone;asshetrulycomprehendedthevastdepthofhisloveforher.MariagaveAguilaratremuloussmile,andhesawinhergazethathislovewasreturned.

Then she shot up her hand, clamped it around Ojeda’s massive paw, andjammedhisbladeintoherownthroat.

DyingfortheCreed,withloveinherheart.

***

DyingfortheCreed,exactlyashismotherhaddone.Withnohateinherheartforthedeath.

TheApplewaseverything.CallumLynchscreamedthesingle,ineffectiveword:NO!

***

Timesloweddowntoasickly,sluggishcrawl.

Maria fell, languidly, like a leaf drifting down to the earth.Her eyeswereopen.

Aguilar’sthroatfeltraw.Hadhescreamed?Hedidnotremember.Itwastheragethatsavedhim.White-hot, scalding, pure, and irresistible, it descended upon him like a

benedictionofpoeticviolence.TorquemadahadlurchedawayfromAguilar,butnotswiftlyenough.Oneof

Aguilar’sbladescaughthim,rippingthroughthethicklayersofhisvestmentstofind the fleshbeneathand layingopena raw,widewound.The friar stumbledandfellwithacry.

Aguilarpaidhimnoheed,notnow.EverythinginhimwasafirewithrageasOjeda—Ojeda, Torquemada’s dog, who had methodically taken from Aguilareveryonehehadever loved—chargedhim.TheAssassinstruckout,butOjedadodgedwith thatswiftness thatalwaysseemed to takeAguilarbysurprise.HestruckAguilarfullinthefaceandforamoment,hestumbled.

TheAssassinduckedasOjedaswunghisswordinanarcthatwasintendedtoremoveAguilar’sheadfromhisshoulders,andtheswordshatteredplasterandpaintasitstruckoneofthepillars.

Aguilardovebehindanotherpillar,surgingupatOjedafrombelowwithhisblades.

***

Sofiawatched, her eyes roundwith astonishment, as the battle between thesetwomenunfolded.ItwasnothingnewtohertowatchasubjectgrowintotheirroleasAssassin;learnhowtomove,whenrelivinganancestor’spast.

Butthiswasdifferentsomehow.ThewayCalfoughtnowwasnotthesameas he had before. Then, it had lacked something she was seeing now: Ease.

Grace.Fullpresence. Itwasno longerAguilardeNerhafighting,withCallumLynchalongfortheride.

Thistime,Calwasinthere,too.ItwasAguilar’smemory;Aguilar,whohadfoughtwithpreternaturalspeed,

power, and agility.ButCalwas now inhabiting thesememories on a level nosubjecthadpreviouslyachieved.

Itwasbreathtakingtowatch,andterrifying,andevenasSofiawonderedifsheshouldhaltthesimulation,pullback,giveCalachancetogainperspectiveon the situation, shewas almost afraid to.As if, should she do so, shewouldsomehowchangetheoutcome.

She couldn’t, of course. Time flowed in only one direction. This was amemory,nothingmore.Orsoshetoldherself.

Shewaswatchingawarriorbeingborn.Itwas themost beautiful, horrifying,wondrous thing she had ever beheld.

And even as she watched, she felt something inside her stir, as well, as ifsomething that had lain dormant for most of her life was slowly, inexorably,beingcalledfromitsslumber.

Andthatwasthemostfrighteningthingofall.

***

As Ojeda bore down on him with the sword, Aguilar countered. His bodyseemed to bemoving of its own accord, anticipating each lunge or feint andgettinganarmuptoknockOjeda’sarmaside.

HeactivatedhisbladesandslashedattheTemplar’sarm.Theonlyreactionwasagrunt,butAguilarknewthebladehadmetflesh.

Ojeda dropped his sword arm slightly, wincing in pain, but whenAguilarsurgedforwardtopresstheattack,Ojedamethisrushwithafierceandpowerfulkick. Aguilar was caught off-balance and stumbled backward, slipping in the

blood that had flown from opened Templar jugulars, and striking themosaic-coveredwall.

Grinning, Ojeda pressed his advantage, bringing his sword down. Aguilarsurrenderedtothemomentumofhisfall,comingupatthelastmomenttoseizeOjeda’sover-extendedarmandstabtowardhisthroatwithhisleftblade.

Cryingout,Ojeda jerkedback,and theAssassin’sblade laidopenonlyhischeek.AguilarslammedhiselbowintotheTemplar’sface.Thebiggermanwentcrashingtooneknee,butinsteadoftryingtoriseheloweredhisheadand,bull-like,slammeditintoAguilar’smidsection.

The Assassin fell, hard, but got up almost immediately. He grabbed thenearestweapontohand—aslenderironcandlestickthatwastallerthanhewas.It was heavy, but his pain and fury gave him strength he had not known hepossessed.

HewhirledonOjeda,usingthecandlestickasbothastaffandaspearashefirststrucktheTemplar,knockingtheswordfromhisgrip,thenhurlingthehugeironthingathim.

But he hadmiscalculated. As he used his body to fling the sharp-pointedmakeshiftweaponatOjeda,helefthimselfopen.OjedacurledhisfingersintoafistandlandedapowerfulblowsquarelyonAguilar’sjaw.

Stars spun in frontofhiseyes.He toppledbackward, landing ina shallowpool.Andinthatmomentwherehewasnotmoving,thepainfromeveryoneofhis injuriesseemed tostrikehimatone time.Hegrittedhis teeth,and throughsheerwill,rolledoverandgottooneknee.

He flicked his right wrist. The blade sprang to obedient attention, juttingforwardtofillthespacewherehisringfingerhadoncebeen.

OjedastrodeuptohimandbeforeAguilarcouldrise,theTemplar’sbootedfootslammedintohisface.

Aguilar fell back again, and this time, he could not seem to summon thestrengthtorise.Helaythere,suckinginair,hearingOjedamovingabout.

He’sfoundtheApple,Aguilarrealizedsickly.They’vewon.

Hisheadlolledtooneside,andhefoundhimselfstaringintoMaria’seyes.Tearswelledupinhisown.

Maria….Itwasover.Hehadtried,buthehadfailed.Failedhisfamily,hisbrethren,

hisbeloved.Allofthem.Deathwouldbewelcomenow.Perhaps,assomeofthefaithspreached,hewouldbetogetherwithherinsomehappyafterlife.

Hereachedoutahand,bruisedandbloody,totouchhercheek.Itwaswarm.Andashewatched,herlipsparted.Shewasalive!Butevenasstunnedjoysurgedthroughhim,herealizedthat

althoughsheyetdrewbreath,herlifewasalmostgone.Maria…!Somewhere,asiffromfaraway,heheardthesoundoffootfallsapproaching,

ofleathercreaking.Her eyes boring into his, Maria’s lips moved. He could barely catch the

whisper,butherrighthandjerked,eversoslightly.“Go.”Ittookeverythinginhimtotearhiseyesfromhers,buthecouldnotrefuse

herurging.HelookeduptoseeOjedastandingoverhim:bruisedandbloody,ashewas.Injured.Weary.

But a snarl of victory contorted his ugly, bearded face, revealing clenchedyellowedteeth,andhisbloodshot,unmatchedeyesgleamed.

Aguilar’s hand left Maria’s face, dropped onto her arm. Her wrist. Herememberedheruniqueblades.One,withitstwinprongs.

Andtheother—JustasOjedawasabouttobringthesworddown,impalingAguilarstraight

throughtheheart,Aguilar’shandclutchedMaria’sgauntlet,liftedherarm,andpressedtherelease.

Maria’sbladeshotfree,speedingupwardlikeaboltfromacrossbowtoallbutburyitselfinOjeda’schest.

Hedroppedtheswordwithadullclangandstaggeredback,peeringdownin

disbeliefatthetwoinchesofbladeprotrudingfromhisbody.SavagegleefilledAguilar.

Later,hewouldhavenorecollectionofgettingtohisfeet.Thenextthinghewouldrememberwouldbehisownblade,eightincheslong,embeddingitselfinOjeda’schestalongsideMaria’s.

Ojedaswayed,butthenseemedtorally.HebellowedandchargedatAguilar,swinging wildly. The Assassin sliced once left, once right—and then broughtbothbladessweepingacrossOjeda’smidsection.

Theknight’sblackleatherarmorwasnowribbons…aswasthefleshbeneathit,pouringforthscarletliquidlikeafountain.

Hisfacewascontorted,teethbaredwithhate,butinsteadoftriumph,Ojeda’seyeswerewidewithfear.HestruckatAguilar,andtherewasstillforcebehindtheblowsastheylandedontheAssassin’sshoulders.

But no amount of stubbornness could prolong the inevitable, and bothAssassinandTemplarknewit.

Aguilar brought his blades up and then swept them down with all hisstrength, all but severing both ofOjeda’s arms. The hugeman dropped to hisknees,gaspingforbreath,liftinghiseyestoAguilar’s.

He had thought that at this, hismoment of revenge, hewould feel joyful.Triumphant.Vindicated.Atpeace.ButAguilarfeltnoneofthosethings.

Ojedadeservedtodie,manytimesover.Hehadissuedordersthatanentiretownbeput to the torch.HehadsubduedandbroughtAguilar’sparents to thestake, andhadgloried inwatching their agony as they—andBenedicto, too—hadbeenburnedwhilestillalivetofeelthepain.

Ojedahadnot killedMaria. She had robbed him of that triumph, at least.Andnow,Aguilarwasabouttotakethelifeofonewhommanywhisperedcouldnotdie.

ButAguilardidnotfeeljoy.Hewassurprisedtofindthathefeltpity.Forashe stared upward, looking death in the face, the black knight Ojeda was notangry,orraging,orcontemptuous.

Inthoseodd-coloredeyes,now,atthelastmoment,Aguilarsawnothingbutsimplehumanfear.

He lifted his blades, and brought them down, burying them deep into theTemplar’sneck.

Still, themountainwould not crumble.Ojeda swayed again, but stayedonhis knees.With an odd gentleness, Aguilar brought his bloody fingers to hisenemy’sfaceandgentlyclosedhiseyes.

Therewasalong,lowsigh,andthen,slowly,Ojedafelltothefloor.Silenceinthevastroom,exceptforthetrickleofwater,andAguilar’sown

laboredbreathingheavyinhisears.ThenaquietsobdrewAguilar’sattention,andheslowlyturnedhisburninggazeto thefrightenedfaceofyoungAhmed,andthenupward,tohisfather—Muhammad.

Muhammad,whoseweakness,whoseloveforhischild,hadbroughtallthisuponthem.

HadcostMariaherlife.“Forgiveme,”saidthegreatsultan,hisarmsabouthisson.Icouldkillhimrightnow,Aguilarthought.HeknewthatMuhammadwould

not resist. The sultan had betrayed the Brotherhood, and so many of thoseAguilarhadlovedhaddiedforthatactofpaternaldevotion.

ButAguilarknewhewouldnotkill thesultan.Thefirst tenetof theCreedwas “Stay your blade from the flesh of the innocent.” Muhammad had beenguiltyonlyof lovinghischild,and theboycertainlywasan innocent inallofthis.

Andhad not he,Aguilar deNerha, beenwilling to surrender theApple toTorquemadaforMaria’slife?Hecouldnotcondemnanotherforthesamecrimehehimselfhadcommitted.

Hewouldstayhisblade.Slowly,feelingeveryblow,everycut,everybrokenbone,Aguilarturnedto

Maria, hoping against hope that he could hold her onemore time. But as he

lookedintohereyes,hesawthathisbelovedhadgoneaheadwithouthimonthelast,greatestjourneyofall.

Heknelt besideOjeda, and felt for theApple. Itwas there…solid, round,fillinghis palm.Evennow,hewouldgladlyhand it over toTorquemada, if itwouldonlybringhisMariaback,even if shedespisedhimforeternity for thebetrayal.

Torquemada….Aguilar looked up to see the Grand Inquisitor standing about twenty feet

away,hishandpressedtohisbleedingside.Theireyesmetforafractionofaninstant, then thewoundedpriest stumbledas fastashecould toward thehuge,bolteddoor.Aguilarwouldnotbeabletostophimintime.

Torquemadafellagainst thedoor, fumblingfor thebolt,and thenshoveditback,gaspingwithpainat theexertion.Thegreat irondoors swungopen,andTorquemadascuttledoutofthewayasmenpouredintotheroom.

ButAguilarhadalreadyliftedaheavymetalgrateandslippeddown,intothedrainsbelowthepalace.

CHAPTER21

A

guilarlandedgracelesslyandhard,hissinginpainandpressingahandtohissideashegottohisfeetandrandownthetunnel.Torquemada,though,had

alertedhis soldiers, and thewayupahead suddenlygrewbrightwithpoolsoflightsfromaboveasTemplarsdroppeddownaheadof—andbehind—Aguilarinanattempttoblockhispath.

TheAssassinhadmovedbeyondalarmorevenstrategy.Withoutslowing,hesnapped his wrists and activated his blades, running headlong into the firstsurprisedsoldieranddispatchinghimwithanalmostmechanicalrhythm.

Whenthesecondonedroppeddown,Aguilarsimplyraced,nottowardhim,buttowardthewall,runningupitandlaunchinghimselfintoarollonthepackedearth,completelybypassingtheTemplar,whoswunghisswordineffectually.

AguilarwasonhisfeetandracingdownthetunnelagainbeforetheTemplarhadevenfullyturned.

Heknewthatthesecretwastonotstop.Atall.Histaskwastosimplyoutrunthepain.

TwomoreTemplarsappearedinhispath.Oneofthemcarriedatorchtolighttheway.NowheshovedittowardAguilar’sface,thinkingtoburnhimorblindhim.TheAssassinducked,andcameupswingingtoknockthetorchoutofhisenemy’shands,catchingitdeftly.

He thrust the fiery thing into the face of the Templar’s companion, whoscreamed,andslicedthethroatoftheonewho’doriginallybeenthetorchbearer.He heard noise behind him, and tossed the still-burning torch at them beforeagainhurtlingdownthetunnel.

Lightwasupahead—notasinglepoolthatindicatedacoverhadbeenliftedoffthefloorabove,butafloodofit.Aguilarrealizedthathewasalmostout.

Up ahead was a drawbridge. As Aguilar surged past the pulleys thatcontrolled it, he slashed the ropeswith his blade.The bridge started to lower.Aguilarranupthewoodendrawbridgeasifitwerearampandleapedoffitontothenarrowstonebridgethat ledtothemountainsandhisfreedom,strikingthestonewithhisshoulderandrolling,absorbingtheimpact.

Heshottohisfeet—andfroze,blinkinginthebrightsunlight.Theywerewaitingforhim.He heard thosewho had been in pursuit slow behind him, their breathing

heavy,theirfeetscufflingonthestone.Upaheadonthebridgestoodatleasttwodozenmore,allarmedwithshieldsandspears.On theramparts,crossbowmenhadtakenposition.

And standing in the center, smirking down at his enemy, was Tomás deTorquemada.

TheGrand Inquisitor’s robeswere saturatedwith blood, but the joy of hisvictoryatlastwasclearlychasingawaythepainforthemoment.

Aguilarlookedabout,catchinghisbreath,tryingtofindsomeescaperoute.Therewasnone.Templarsstoodreadytoobeytheir leaderbehind,before,andabove him. Three hundred feet below, the uncaring Genil river raged,disinterested in the fate of any humans above it. Aguilar was well and trulycaught,andTorquemadaknewit.

“It’s over,Assassin,” he cried, shouting to be heard above the rush of theriver.Heextendedhishand—invitingAguilarnottosimplyhandhimtheApple,whichhewastoofarawaytodo,buttojoinhim.Allcouldbeforgiven,oncetheTemplarshadwonthisultimateprize.Aguilarcouldliveouthisdaysinaprisoncellwithfood,freshwaterandwine,andanycomfortshedesired.

Torquemada smiled, gently. Reassuringly, as a trusted father of the clothshoulddo.

Aguilarsmiledback.Andthenheleaped.“Assassin!”

Torquemada’s furious, despairing cry followed Aguilar as he plungeddownwardtothetumblinggreen-bluewater,hisanklestogether,hisarmsspread.Templar crossbowbolts followedhimdownaswell, singingpast his ears likeangrywasps.

Onestruckhome.Aguilargrunted,his form thrownoffashe lurched fromthepain.Thesurfaceofthewaterwasracingtomeethim.Hethrewadaggertobreakthesurfacetension,thenturnedhisbodyinmidairsohewouldstrikefeetfirst,and—Callandedperfectly,likeanacrobat.

LikeanAssassin.The Animus arm itself, however, seemed unprepared for the dramatic

contortions performed by the subject in its two-fingered grasp. It twisted onitself and with a disturbing whirring, grinding noise, something snapped. Itdisconnected its grip from Cal’s waist, undulated for a moment, then hunglimplylikeadeadthing.

“Armdisabled,”exclaimedAlex,alarmed.“Actuatorrupturing!”Calwasdownonhisrightknee,hisrighthandonthefloorbesidehisfoot,

hislefthandraised.Hewasasstillasifhehadbeencarvedinstone,orhadbeencaughtandheld,frozen,inthismoment.

Sofia seemed oblivious to the dire news about the Animus arm, insteadsteppingforwardslowly,almostenraptured.

“ALeapofFaith,”shewhispered,gazingdownatthestillform.

***

Moussawas inhis room,waiting for theguard to comeandescorthim to thecommonroom.Theguardwaslatedoingso,whichtoldhimthattheattackonLynch had not been successful. While they had all been in agreement at thepoker table,Moussahad chosen to not be involved…yet. If all of themwere

involvedinthesingleattackanditwentsouth,theywouldloseanyopportunityforasecondchance.

Obviously, he’d been right. And now that the initial attack had failed…something—maybe Baptiste—was telling him that eliminating this intense,blondmanwhopreferredsteaktochickenmightnotactuallybetherightthing,andhealwayspaidattentiontohisinstincts.Hewouldbewithhiscompanionsagainshortly,andhewoulddiscusswhattheyhadseen.

Fornoreasonwhatsoever,achillranalonghisspine.Gooseflesherupted.InMoussa’s mind, Baptiste opened one eye. When Moussa was a boy, hisgrandfather,darkeyesbothtwinklingandserious,hadtoldhimthatwheneverhegotgoosebumps,itmeantsomeonewaswalkingonhisgrave.

“Somebody’s walking on somebody’s grave,” Moussa murmured, andinstantlywentonhighalert.

***

LinhadspentsometimeinsolitaryforherparticipationintheattackonLynch,buttheguardstoldhertheywerereleasingherforanhour,underobservation,inthecommonroom,ifshecontinuedtobehaveherself.

“Myribbons,”shehadsaidforlornly.“MayIdancewithmyribbonsstill?”TheAbstergoFoundation,sheandtheothershadlearnedearlyon,wasbig

on“constructiveactivities”and“artisticexpression.”ThatmeantwhenLinhaddisplayedafondnessfordancingwithribbons,theyhadbeeninclinedtopermithertocontinue.JustastheyencouragedEmirtotendhisgarden.

Yes, shewas told, shewas free todancewithher ribbons,andLinsmiled,andlookedcontentandvacuous.

Shewas the first they had released, thoughEmir andMoussa soon joinedher. They did not ask about Nathan; DuncanWalpole’s descendant had comeclosetokillingLynch.Commonroomtimewouldofcoursebewithheld.

Buttheyhadaplanforthat.ShaoJunwasalwaysjustawhisperawayinLin’smind,butLinalwaysfelt

the strongest connection toherancestorwhenshedanced.Dr.Rikkinhad toldher that unfortunately she had to insert the agonizing epidural so that the armcouldmovehertomatchherancestor’smovement.

“It’scalledneuro-muscularfacilitation—musclememory,”shehadexplainedtoLin.AndLinhadfoundittobeausefulthing.

ShaoJunhadbeenbornintoslavery,andwasraisedtobecomeaconcubineoftheZhengdeEmperor.Shehadbecomehisfavoritewhenshewasinherearlyteens, but only for her dancing, her acrobatics…and her ability to spy on hisenemies. Upon the emperor’s death, Shao Jun’s spying talents enabled her todiscovertheexistenceoftheAssassins…andtheTemplarleadershipinChina,agroupofambitiouseunuchscalledtheEightTigers.

Now Lin’s fingers grasped the thick red ribbons she had been forced tofastentocardboardpapertoweltubes;theyweretheonlyobjectsdeemed“safe.”Itdidn’tmatter.Shehadnojian,andnomeanstorecreateJun’suniqueweapon,thehidden footblade.Andof course, after the earlier incident, theywouldnotpermithertoaccessanythingthatcouldbecraftedintothrowingdarts.

Butshehadherbody.Andthatwouldbeenough.Shewalkedout toanopenarea in thecommonroom,andbegan todance.

Strong,fit,andlithetobeginwith,shehadlearnedthemovementsoftheRibbonDance,birthedintheTangdynasty,fromJun,whowasamasteratit.

Assheposedandswirled,bendingandkicking,theredribbonsflowinglikeanimated streams of blood in breathtaking circles and undulations about herframe, Linwas accomplishing two things.One: connectingwith her ancestor.Andtwo…providingadistraction.

UnlikeBaptisteandWalpole,Junhadnostainuponhername.Shehadliveda long, full life, achieving the role of Mentor among the Assassins. She hadneverturnedtotheTemplars,formoney,orgreed,orfear.

Jun—andLin—hatedTemplars.Butallwaswell.

Soon,theAssassinswouldgotigerhunting.

***

“What’shappening?”Sofiademanded.Shecouldn’t takehereyes fromCal.Aparadeofhorriblescenarioswascrowdingintoherimagination,andsheforcedthemaway.Fearwouldn’tserveher.Factswould.

“He’s gone dark.” Samia’s voice was higher than normal. She, too, wasstrugglingagainstunhelpfulfear.

“Whyhavewelosthim?”Shepaused,thenasked,“IsAguilardead?”TheAnimushadshownherthefamousAssassinLeapofFaithbefore.Their

genetics were extraordinary, and Sofia knew that. But she also knew that thebridge off which Aguilar had leaped was taller by about fifty feet than SanFrancisco’sGoldenGateBridge.AndAguilarhadbeensobadlyinjured,forsolong….

WhatwouldbeinginAguilar’smemoriesatthetimeofhisdeathhavedonetoCal?Hadtheycomeallthiswayfornothing?HadAguilar,intheend,failed?

Hadshe,Sofia,failed—boththeTemplarOrderandCallumLynch?Shecouldnotdecidewhichfatewouldbeworse.“No,” Alex said after checking Cal’s brain wave pattern. “He’s alive.

Synchronizationresuming.”SofiahadnottakenhereyesoffCal,whowasstillkneelingonthefloor,and

atthenewsshefeltbothrelievedandconfused.Thisshouldn’tbehappening.Her father’s voice floated down from his office, saying the words that

couldn’tbetrue…butwere.“He’scontrollingit.”Sofia’s eyeswidened. Thiswasn’t possible.No one had ever been able to

wrest control of a simulation from her. But now, at last, Cal moved, slowlyliftinghisheadtostaredirectlyahead.

AndSofiaknewherfatherwasright.“Status?”sheinquired,keepinghervoicecalmandsteady.“Back in,”Alexassuredher, pleasedand relieved.Cal rose and stood in a

relaxedbutreadyposture.Thesimulationbegantotakeshapearoundhim;shecouldnowmakeoutthesilhouettesofshipsandsails.

“Wherearewe?”“It looks like a military port,” Alex answered. Ghost vessels took shape

aroundCal’sunnaturallyrigid,stillbody;visible,buttranslucentandonlyfaintlycolored.“Thearchitecture’sAndalusian.”

A suspicion began to form in Sofia’smind; taking shape, imperfectly andunclearly, like the port city the Animus was constructing around them. Shetampeditdown.Shewasascientist,andshewouldwaitformorefacts.Butthetheoryhovered,tantalizing…perfect.

“Elevation?” Sofia asked, her eyes flickering from the phantom vessels toCal.

“Elevenmeters,”Alexanswered.“GulfofCádiz.PalosdelaFrontera.”Hersuspiciondeepened.“Theboats?”

“Theydon’tlooklikewarships,”Alexmused.Hescannedthehologramsandadded, “They’re seventy feet by twenty. Lateen sails… ah, they’re caravels.Usedforexploration.”

Calwasno longerpresent.Hewas seeing throughAguilar’s eyes, lookingup,andSofiacaughtthespectralimageofaholographicbirdsoaringoverhead.

CHAPTER22

A

guilarsatintheholdoftheship,gazingupthroughaslattedwoodenframeattheeagleoverhead,andenvieditfiercely.He was exhausted, filthy, and wounded in body and spirit. He had been

traveling for five days, fighting off infection, taking odd routes, walking andstealing horses to throw anyTemplars off the scent.But hewas alive, for themomentatleast,andhewashere.

Foodhadbeenspreadoutbeforehim,buthetouchednothing,andwhenthecaptainoftheshipentered,Aguilardidnotrise.

“Assassinsdiedforthis,”hesaidbluntly.Thecaptaindidnotmove,simplystoodquietlyattheendofthetable,asifAguilarwerethemasterofthevessel,nothe.“Protectitwithyourlife.”

“IamafriendoftheCreed,”thebearded,slendercaptainassuredhim.

***

Sofia’seyesnarrowed.ShehadgrownupalloverEurope,andsheknewherownaccentreflectedherupbringing.Abletospeakthreelanguagesfluently,shehadan ear for accents, and sheknewat once that this unknowncaptainwasnot anativeSpanish-speaker.

***

Slowly,Aguilarextendedhishand.Init,heboretheAppleofEden.Thecaptainreachedtoacceptitfromhim,butbeforehecoulddoso,Aguilaradded,“Takeit

toyourgrave.”Thecaptainpaledbeneathhistan,butmettheAssassin’seyes.“Iswear,”hesaid.Hisfingerscurledarounditsecurely.“Followingthelightofthesun,Ishallleavethisoldworldbehind.”

***

Sofiastood,rootedtothespot,asAlexprovidedthetranslation.“‘Ishall leavethisoldworldbehind,’”sherepeated.Thewordsconfirmedwhatshehadalmostdarednotbelieve.

“It’sChristopherColumbus,”shebreathed,andthenAguilar’swordstothecaptaintookonasudden,powerfulnewmeaning.“Whereisheburied?”

Alex understood the import of her question. He was the most unruffledpersonshehadeverknown,seeminglybornwiththequintessentialBritishstiffupperlip.ButshenoticedsweatgatheringonhishairlineashequicklysearchedtheAnimusdatabase.

“His remains were returned to Spain,” Alex said. “His tomb is in SevilleCathedral.”

Sofiastaredattheimagesonthescreen.“Wefoundit,”shebreathed.

***

Itwastime.Moussaabsentlybounced theorangeballon the floor, thenmadeaperfect

shot.Scoopingupthebasketball,hebounceditafewmoretimes,thenrolleditfromonehandtotheotherandbehindhisbackasheassessedthesituation.

Over in the greenhouse area, Emirwas busy repotting rosemary, and gaveMoussa a casual glance over his shoulder.Rosemary; that’s for remembrance.Somesnatchofapoemorsomething,longgone,butitmadeMoussasmile.

Severalothersweresittingatthetables,eatingplacidly.BehindMoussa,LinwasdoingJun’sribbondance.Sincetheconfrontation,thereweremoreguardson the floor than usual. The dance was beautiful, and provided an excellentdistraction.

WhiletwoguardswatchedLin,Moussacalledoutcheerfullytotwoothers.“Hey!All-stars!Careforalittletwoonone?”In days past, before the arrival of the Pioneer, the guards had been more

complacent.One or two of them had usually obliged him.But today,Moussacould smell the tension on the air. He could feel it, singing along his veins.Somethingverybigwasgoingdown.Sotoday,theguardssimplystaredathim.Oneofthemnarrowedhiseyesinsuspicion.

Moussahadmasteredsleightofhand longago.Orhad thatbeenBaptiste?Hehadforgotten,andintheend,itdidn’tmatter.Certainlynotnow.

He tossed theballdownbehindhimandhishandscameup, fistsclenchedbutpalmsdown.

“Pick one,”Moussa invited. The guards were used to his games, but thistime,theydidn’tplay.“Anyone,”heencouraged.

Whentheydidnot,Moussashrugged,liftedhishands,andhurledthepairofsmoke bombs he had stolen from Sofia Rikkin’s office to the floor. Theirexquisitelywroughtfiligreeglassexteriorsshattered,andawallofsmokesurgedupward.

Lin instantlyexecutedagraceful, flying leap into thechurninggraycloud.Her foot connected with a guard’s abdomen and he doubled over, vomiting.Moussa snatched the baton that fell from the guard’s fingers and cracked himovertheheadwithit.Astheguardfelltothefloor,Moussawhirled,takingoutthesecondguardthesameway.

***

ItwasEmir’sturn,now.Hisplantsabandoned,hehadpositionedhimselfbythemainentranceintothecommonroom.

Alarmsblaredstridently,anduglyredflashesdisruptedthecoolblueofthelightingandthesoftdove-grayofMoussa’ssmokebombs.

Thedoorburstopen.Fourmoreguards,batonsattheready,racedintoassisttheir fellows inquelling this latestuprising.Emirwaiteduntil the lastpossiblesecond,thendartedforward,seizedthelastguardbythebackofhisneckasifhewere nothingmore than an errant puppy, and slammed him face-first into thewall. The guard slid down to the floor, leaving a trail of red smeared on theconcrete.

Hisescapeunnoticedthankstotheconcealing,eye-stingingbillowofsmoke,Emirturnedtothecorridortowardthesurveillanceroom,breakingintoarun.

UnlikeMoussaandNathan,Emir’sAssassinancestorhadbeensomeonehehad been proud to be descended from. Far from being a traitor to theBrotherhood,YusufTazim,bornin1467,hadbeenafriendtooneofthegreatestAssassinsofall time—EzioAuditoredaFirenze,evengiving that famousmanone of his trademark weapons—an exceedingly useful device called ahookblade.

Emirhadgrownupwithoutfamilyaroundhim.Hisearliestmemorieswereoffosterhomes,shuntedfromonetotheotherwhileuncaringso-calledparentspocketed money intended for his upkeep. Yusuf, too, had grown up withoutknowinghis father andhad a similar unsavory early life.But at seventeen, hehadattractedtheattentionofIshakPasha,theleaderoftheOttomanBrotherhoodofAssassins.

It was a family. And as Yusuf grew, he became almost a parent to theyoungermembershetaught.Warm,withanexcellentsenseofhumor,Yusufwaseverything Emir wanted to have in his life; wanted to do with his life. The

TemplarshadputhimintheAnimusfortheirownends,butEmirwonderedifthey understood that, strangely, they had also given him a gift by introducinghimtothisnobleman.

Yusufhaddiedatthethen-respectableageofforty-five,exactlyashewouldhavewished:defendinganinnocentagainstthehatedTemplars.

Emirwasonly inhismid-thirties.Hehadno idea ifhewould live tobeahundred,orifhewoulddiesometimewithinthenextfewminutes.Hedidknowthatthatif,ashenowsuspected,thisPioneerwastheonetheyhadbeenwaitingfor, should he die defending Cal Lynch, Emir would deem that death assatisfyingastheoneYusufhadbeengranted.

As they had anticipated, Moussa and Lin’s distraction had worked. Thesurveillanceroom’sdoorwasunlocked.Mostoftheguardshadbeendispatched,andonlythreeremainedinthesurveillanceroom.McGowenwasnowheretobeseen,whichwasanunlooked-forgift.Thatonewouldhavebeenachallengetotakedown.

Fools,Emirthought.The three guardswhowere left behindwere all focused on theirmonitors

watchingthecommonroom,theAnimusRoom,andthecorridorsdownwhichtheirfellowswereracing.TheydidnotevennoticeEmirwalkingrightin.

Oneofthemfinallyspottedhimandcharged,liftingherbaton.Emirseizedherarmand twisted,hard.Hefelt somethingsnap.Shegruntedandpaled,butherotherhandroseandcameclosetocollidingwithhisjawbeforeheknockeditoutofthewayandpunchedherinstead.Hernosecrunchedbeneathhisfist,andastiff-handedblow to the throat removedherasa threat.Shecollapsed to thefloor.

Thesecondcameathim.Emirsenthimreelingbackwithapowerfulkicktohis chest, snatchinguphis baton andusing it to first knock its owner out andthentocrushthetracheaofthefinalremainingguard.

IthadtakenhimlessthanthirtysecondstoincapacitatetheguardsandgaincontroloftheheartofsecurityattheAbstergoFoundation.

Emir shook his head in contempt and set to his task. The ones who hadclaimedYusuf’slifehadatleastbeencompetent.

Hebentoveroneof the screens, tapping it togetamapof thecompound,clickedonthecommonroom,andthenbeganopeningthecelldoorsonebyone.

StartingwithNathan’s.

***

MoussaandLinwereholdingtheirown,eventhoughatleastadozen,perhapstwo dozen—it was a bit hard to tell with the smoke,Moussa mused—armedguardshadchargedinoncethesmokebombshaddonetheirjob.

LininparticularfoughtthehatedTemplarslikeacagedtigersetloose.Sheleaped, spun, and kicked like the entire thing was a choreographed danceperformance;aballetofblood.Hersmallframemadethebulkier,armedguardsunderestimateher,whichsheusedtoheradvantage.

Moussa, meanwhile, snatched up weapons that the unconscious or deadguardsnolongerneeded,andsharedthecrossbowsandbatons.Hekeptoneeyeon themain door, andwhen he saw it start to descend he shouted out to hiscompanions.Theyimmediatelyturnedandracedthroughitasitlowered.

Moussawaited till the lastminute, tomake sure asmany as possible hadgonefirst,andthenhedovefor thenarrowingspacebetweenthefloorandthebottomoftheheavymetaldoor,slidingunderitjustintime.

Linhelpedhimtohis feet,bothof themrelishing thesoundof the trappedguardsfutilelypoundingonthewrongsideofthedoor.

“Looksliketheinmatesarerunningtheasylum,”hesaid,andgrinned.

CHAPTER23

S

ofiawasvaguelyawarethatsomethingwasgoingonoutsidetheconfinesoftheAnimusRoom.Perhapsasecondattackfromthepatients;she’dbeentold

thattherehadbeenanearlierattemptonCaltoday.Ithadbeenreadilyhandled.If this was another one, it was none of her concern; she would leave that toMcGowen.

Herfocus,herattention,herentirebeing,rightatthismoment,wasfocusedonCallumLynch.

Thepreviousscenehaddissolved,theholographicimagesofshipsandsailsand Christopher Columbus simply fading into nothingness. That much wasnormal. But Cal stood, still synchronized in the Animus itself although themaneuveringarmwasdisabled,theinsectoidepiduralunitstilljammedintohisbrainstem.

Andhewasnotalone.Aguilar deNerha stoodwith him, beside himand slightly in front of him.

Theystared intooneanother’seyes,andSofia realized that theywereactuallyseeingeachother.

Howisthispossible?Slowly, Aguilar nodded and stepped back. Cal looked around the room.

Companions,Assassinsall,weretakingshape.One was a soldier in a U.S. uniform, circa 1943. Another wore the olive

uniform of a WWI doughboy, although a hood covered his head, not thedistinctiveroundhelmet.AthirdwascladinthenavycoatofaUnionofficer.

Back they went, spanning first decades, then centuries. A Frenchrevolutionist, thenonefromAmerica’srevolution.Sofia’sstunnedeyestookinclothing from theEnglishCivilWar, everything from formalElizabethan ruffs

and thesweepofaCavaliercape topeasant’s tunicsandroughlymade leatherarmor.

“Is it amemory?” Sofia’s voicewas an awedwhisper, barely audible, butAlexheardher.

HestaredatCal’sbrainpatterns,thensaid,“No.”Heofferednothingfurther.AssassinswerespringingfromCal’sDNA,hismind,orhisconscience—she

wasutterlyunabletotellwhich.“He’sprojectingimagesoftheBrotherhood,”shesaid,stunned.Howisthispossible?What’sCaldoing?HewascrashingthroughallthelimitstheyhadthoughtboundtheAnimus,

asifwhatshouldhavebeeninviolablelawsofsciencewerenothingmorethanguidelines.

SofiahadbeenstandingbesideAlex,lookingoverhisshoulder,butasmoreandmoreoftheholographicAssassinsjoinedtheirbrother,she,too,feltdrawntostepoutontothefloorandstandbesidethem.

Theyweresoclear,soreal.Asrealasherimaginaryfriendshadbeentoherwhen shewas a child, lost and alone, unspeakably lonely. Shemoved amongthem, looking into their faces. With what Cal was showing her now, whatcouldn’ttheyaccomplishgoingforward!Thethoughtwasintoxicating.

AnotherfiguresteppedintothecircleofAssassins,onewhowouldbedeadifthefigureswerenotholographic:Herfather.

Hewasgazingat theholographicfiguresaswell,analyzing,assessing.Hisbrowneyesmethers,andallherjoyandwonderturnedtoashathisexpression.

He would not be congratulating her on her achievement of a goal theTemplarshadspentoverthirtyyearspursuing.Hewouldnottellherhowproudhewas,wouldnotraiseaglassofhisexpensivecognacinatoasttoher.Perhapssuchacknowledgmentswouldcomelater,thoughshedoubtedit.Fornow,inherfather’s mind, what was unfolding in front of them was not so much abreakthroughasaproblem.

“Transport?”hesaid,nottoher,buttoMcGowen,whostoodbehindhim.

“Standingby,”McGowenreplied,hisvoice,asever,flatandcold.Sofia’s eyes widened at the words. She became more aware of her

surroundings, of the blaring klaxons announcing a security breach, but shecouldn’t believe that itwas this serious.Therewasoneguardper patient, andthat included the guards in the so-called Infinity Room, whose charges wereutterlyandcompletelyharmless.Surelyherfatherwasn’tsuggestingleaving,notnow,notwhenCalwas—

“He’sgivenuswhatwewant,”Rikkinsaid.“ProtecttheAnimus,andpurgethefacility.”

“No!”ThewordexplodedfromSofiabeforesheevenrealizedshehadspoken.She

stoodstaringathim,shakingwithfury,herhandsclenchedtightlyintofists.Sheknewwhatthatmeant.Itmeantthatherfatherandeveryonehedeemed

important would, in a doubtlessly calm and orderly fashion, get into waitinghelicoptersanddepart,leavingtheguardsbehindtokilleverysingleoneoftheinmates.

IncludingCallumLynch.Itwasmeant to be a last resort—something to enact if therewere to be a

disaster,andimmediatedeparturewastheonlychanceofsurvival.Thatwasn’tthecasehere,andRikkinknewit.

Herfatherdidn’tlikewhathesawwhenhelookedatCal,andatthemyriadAssassinsLynchhadconjuredup.Hedidn’tlikeitatall.AsfarasAlanRikkinwas concerned, Cal had given them what they wanted—the location of theApple.Andnow,hewasdisposable…evenapossibledanger.

The decades-long experiment—which she, Sofia Rikkin, had taken to itsultimatesuccessfulconclusion—wasbeingcloseddown.

Cal had served his purpose. The inmates had served their purpose. Thefacilityitself,otherthantheAnimus,hadserveditspurpose.

And Sofia couldn’t help but wonder if she, too, had served hers in herfather’seye.

Hisgazeslidtohers,hard,annoyed.McGowensaid,asifSofiahadsaidnothingatall,“Ineedtogetyououtof

herefirst.”“No!”Sofiashoutedagain.Shetookasteptowardhim,herfaceflushedwith

anger. Rikkin strode toward her—no, not toward her. He strode past her, notevenbotheringtoturnhisheadashecalledback,“Wehavetoleave,Sofia!”

Itwasn’taprotest.Oranargument.AlanRikkinwaschastisingher.Mortificationwashedoverherhotly,followedbyfury.Evennow,whenshe

challenged him over the deliberate murder of fifty people, some of whomweren’t even sufficiently in touch with reality to comprehend that they werebeingthreatened,hedismissedSofiaasifshewerefouryearsoldandclingingtothelegofhistrousers,cryingoveradroppedice-creamcone.

Heclearlyexpectedhertofollow,likeadogtoheel.Shedidn’t.

***

JosephLynchstoodintheInfinityRoom.Lightswereflashing,andthescreamofthealarmspiercedhisears.Buthewastheonlyoneofthetwentyorsopeopleintheroomwhonoticed.

For thebetterpartof the last threedecades,hehadbeen theonlyonewhonoticed anything.Therewasnothing theTemplars could tempt—or threaten—himwithtogethimtocooperate.Hehadkilledhisbelovedtokeepheroutoftheirgraspinghands,andhis sonhadseeminglyvanished from the faceof theearth.

Josephhadtakencaretobefriendnoone,sotheTemplarscouldnotuseoneofhisfellowinmatesasleverage.HehadnevergoneintotheAnimusofhisownfreewill,andsoonenough,hehadpaidtheprice.

Buthewasastubbornman,ashiswifehadlovedtoremindhimwithasmilein her voice.He clung to hermemory, including that of how shehad left thisworld, as if heweregrippingaknifeby theblade. It hurt, terribly, and itwasbecauseithurtthatheheldontoitsotightly.

Nowhedidnotneedtoholdontoanythinganylonger.Hissonhadcome.Beyond any prayer or wish or hope or dream, Cal had found his father, andunderstoodhim.Hisboywasstrong—thatwasherinhim,Josephthought,andsmiledalittleastheworldaroundhim,thisimpossiblyorderedworld,begantocrumbleintochaos.HedidnotneedtoworryforCalanylonger.Theboy—no,hewasmangrown,andthismanhadchosenhisownpath.

Joseph still held tightly to his blade; the one he had buried in his love’sthroat,theonethatCalhadpressedtohis,theonethatCalhadreturnedtohim.Eventshadcomefullcirclenow.

Josephheardthemcomingforhim.Hedidn’tneedtoseethefoot-longsteelknife in theguard’shands toknowwhatwouldhappenwhen theyarrived.Hecouldhearitinthequicksoundoftheman’sdeterminedstride.

When his would-be killer was a step behind him, Joseph turned, calmly,casually,anddrovehisAssassin’sbladeintotheman’sgut.

Afinalgiftfromhisboy.JosephLynchcouldat last,ashiswifehaddone,diefortheCreed.

Threeofthemchargedhim,now.Itwasalmostlaughable,howeasyitwastokillthefirstone—andthesecond.But,aswasperhapsinevitable,thethirdguardslippedbehindhimandthrustdeepwiththerazor-sharpblade.

Thepainwasagift. ItmadeJosephfeelalive,for thefirst timeinsovery,very long. The guard pulled out the blade, and hot red blood flowed downJoseph’sside.

Mybloodisnotmyown,hethought.AndasJosephLynch,Assassin,feltthelastgreatcoldnessdescend,andashiseyesightbledtoblack,hesmiled.

Hewasfree.

***

Sofia Rikkin, scientist, Templar, stood rooted to the spot as the tableau ofAssassinsseemtowaken.Onebyone, theyliftedtheirheads,gazingoutfromundertheirhoodsatCal.Seeinghim,asAguilarhad.

Cal looked at them in turn, connecting with each one. Were these hisancestors?Weretheystandinghereinsilentcondemnation—orinblessing?

OnlyCalknew,andonewayoranother,hertimewithhimwasrunningout.Andthatknowledgepainedher.

Oneoftherecentlymanifestedimageswassmaller,slighterthansomeoftheothers.AsSofiawatched,thefigurelifteditsheadandregardedCalastheothershaddone.

Cal’s mother, slender, elfin of feature, her hair a warm honey-red gold,regardedhersonwithatremuloussmile.

TheyearsseemedtofalloffofCal’sfaceas,forthefirsttimesinceSofiahadknownhim—and,inaway,shehadknownhimformostofhislife—helookedunguarded.Hemoved,slowly,likeamaninadream,tillheandtheholographicimageofhismotherstoodsoclosehecouldalmostreachoutandtouchher.

SofiahadneverenviedanyoneasmuchassheenviedCallumLynchatthismoment—thismomentthatdidnotinanywaybelongtoher.Thismomentwastoointimate.Itwasforthesetwo;thesetwo,andtheotherAssassins,includingthe ones whose descendants even now were fighting in the rooms and thecorridors.

ATemplarwasnotwelcome.Atthatmoment,anotherAssassinlifteditshead.Butthisone,whilepartof

thecircle,wasnotfocusedonCal.Itwasturnedtowardher—aslenderfigure,inasimplebrown,linenhood.

Blue eyes, rimmed with kohl, met Sofia’s evenly. A face Sofia knew,decoratedwithsmall,ornatetattoos,gazedather.

Foramoment,Sofiacouldn’tbreathe.Thefacebeneaththeplainbrownhoodwasherown.Shestoodrootedtothefloor,buffetedbywavesofemotion:horror,joy,fear,

wonder.She started to step closer, buther armwas seizedbyMcGowen,whoyankedherroughlyawayfromthecircleofAssassins.

“No!” Sofia screamed, struggling with all her strength against him. ButMcGowenwasusedtomanhandlingmenasstrongasCal,andshewasdraggedaway from the greatestmystery of her life, from the answers to questions shedidn’t even know she had; hauled off, kicking and flailing, to the waitinghelicopter,despairclosinginonherlikeasmotheringhand.

Overthesoundsofherownstruggle,sheheardthenoiseoffightingcomingcloser.

TheAssassinswerecomingforCal—theirbrother.Andshewasglad.

CHAPTER24

L

inandMoussaraceddownthecorridors,armedguardsinhotpursuit.Withoutthesmokebombstodisorienttheenemy,theywerecompletelyexposedand

weaponless. At least there were plenty of distractions as they raced full-tilttowardtheAnimusRoom.

Asplanned,Emirhaddonewhathecouldtotrapasmanyguardsincertainplaces, while releasing the other inmates. All of themwere, to one degree oranother,allies—brethren—butonlytheirsmallgroupofMoussa,Emir,Lin,andNathanhadstayedbothsaneanddeeplyintouchwiththeirancestor’smemories.

Onlythey…andCallumLynch.Moussahad longer legs andpulledahead, racing toward theAnimusdoor.

Heheardmovementbehindhim, andaquickglance showedhim that aguardwithacrossbowhaddartedoutfromoneofthedoorsandwastakingaim.

She was quickly and efficiently brought down by Lin, who seized bothcrossbow and the guard’s baton. Lin whirled, bringing the baton around in abrutalarcthatsmashedtheguard’sribs.

Moussa jabbed at the intercom next to the door and yelled, “We’re here,Emir!”

“Opening now,” came Emir’s voice through the intercom, and the silverdoorsparted.Moussadidn’tdashthroughimmediately,waitingforLin,whowasbusyshootingcrossbowboltsatchargingguards.

TherewasacommotionononeofthewalkwaysoverLin’sheadandaflurryofmovement.Moussagrinned fiercelyasNathan leapeddown lightly,and thethreeof themrushed into theAnimusRoomasEmirslammedthedoorclosedbehindthem.

***

CalwasfullyawarethathewasstillintheAnimus.Heunderstoodthatnoneofthiswasreal,perhapsevenlessrealthanAguilar’smemorieshadbeen.Hecouldseethem,couldhearthem,buthecouldn’tsmellhismother’slavenderperfume,and, although he had been able to touch—even kill—the holographic imagespreviously,hewasafraidtoreachforhismother,lestshedissolvelikeafragileandperfectdream.

Herwords,likeherface,werebeautiful.“You’renotalone,Cal,”sheassuredhim.“Youneverwere.”

Andoh,itwashervoice.Hecouldhearitnowinhishead,ashehadhearditsomanytimes,recitingtheRobertFrostpoem,deliberately,sweetlyandsubtlyplanting the importance of tending apples into the receptive brain of a well-loved,contentedchild.

Her image continued speaking, and he drank in every word. “The past isbehindus…butthechoiceswemakelivewithusforever.”

Shepaused,hereyessearchinghisface.Thenshedidbegintoquote.Butitwasnotthechildhoodpoem.

“Whereothermenblindlyfollowthetruth,remember…”“…nothingistrue.”Hisvoicewasroughandthickwithemotion.Hehadn’t

thoughthewouldrememberthewordsAguilardeNerhahadspoken.Perhapshesimplyhadneverforgottenthem.“Whereothermenarelimitedbymoralityorlaw,remember…”“…everythingispermitted.”Herfacewasbrightwithpride,evenasitwassoftenedbysorrow.“Wework

inthedarktoservetheLight.”Caltookabreath.“Weare…Assassins.”Sheturnedslightlyasanadditionalfiguresteppedforwardintothecircle.

Calfeltanotherstabofpainandjoycommingledasthenewfigurelifteditshead.Heknewthefacebeneaththatcowl.

Itwashisfather.NotasCalhadlastseenhim,agedandstoopedandsoftandso,socloseto

broken,withmilkyeyesandafacetwistedbyyearsofinternaltorment.ThemanwhostoodbeforeCalwastheJosephCalhadremembered,would

always want to remember, before the Templars had come, and his world hadbecomealivinghell.

More thananything,Calwanted toholdonto thismoment. Ithadbeen thebasis of both his sweetest dreams and most horrifying nightmares. He didn’tunderstandexactlywhathewasdoing,andthereforecouldnotprolongit.

Soitwasthat,onebyone,inthesamehauntingsilencewithwhichtheyhadarrived, theAssassins turned andwalked away, disappearingwhence they hadcome.

Hisparentswerethelasttoleave.Hismothergavehimafinal,lovinglook,thensheandhisfatherturnedaway

fromhim.Calwatchedtheirretreating,hoodedshapesforas longashecould,but thenhis eyesblurred toomuch for him to see themclearly, and then theyweregone.

But,ashismotherhadassuredhim,hewasnotalone.Newbrothersandsistershadcome tohimwhile shehadbeenspeaking to

him;fightingfortheirlivestoreachthisroom,thismoment.Helookedatthemashereachedbackahandandpluckedofftheepiduralunit,whichhadproventobebothtormentandunexpected,joyfulgift.Unfasteningthebelt,withitshatedAbstergologo,byhimselfforthefirsttimegavehimasenseofseverance.

“Whatnow,Pioneer?”challengedMoussa;Moussa,whohadoncedaredhimto jump;who, Cal now realized, had been analyzing him themoment he hadstumbled,half-blindandterrified,intotherooftopgardens.

Moussa,whowasBaptiste.Ashewas,inaway,Aguilar.Lin stood beside him, silent, expectant. EvenNathan stoodwithCal now,

afterwhathehadwitnessed.“Wefight,”Calsaid.

***

Theywerepoundingatthewallsnow;notwiththeirbatons,notanymore.Theguardswerewieldingheavy,sharpblades,weapons that lookedas thoughtheycoulddoubleasbatonsandswords.

Emir had suspected it would come to this. The Templars might be thugs,without the grace and finesse of Assassin training, but both Rikkins werefiercely intelligent.Theywouldknow therewas somethingdifferent about thePioneer.Theywouldnolongersendtheirpeopletotormentorbullyorbeat;theyhadnowsentthemtokill.

Therewere somany, all hammeringon the glass, trying to reachone loneinmate.Ten—adozen—fifteen—Emir swelledwith pride, and the part of himthatstillfeltasYusufdidwascontent.

Emirhaddonewhatheneeded to.Hehadkepthisword.Hehadheld theTemplars off long enough for his fellow Assassins to break into the AnimusRoom and find the Pioneer. He had unleashed every other prisoner, so theywould have a chance to fight for their lives, asAssassins should, and not dieslaughteredinacagelikebeasts.

Theglassfinallyshatteredandtheypouredin,awaveofblackandtheglitteroftheirbrightmetalweapons,andstillEmirfoughtthem.Intheend,ittookfourofthemtoholdhimstillenoughforoneofthemtostabhim.

Thisisbetter,hethoughtfleetingly.AndYusufTazimagreed.

***

Therewereweaponsallaroundthem.WeaponsthathadbelongedtoAssassinsdown through the centuries—antiques, relics, carefully removed from theimmediacyandurgencyofthepresentandkeptinlockedglasscabinets.

“Where’sEmir?”Calaskedastheywenttothecabinetsandbegantoselecttheirchoiceofweapons.

“Tookcontrolofthesurveillanceroom,”Nathansaid.“Letmeout.Letusallout.”

And,Cal realized, had locked the door to theAnimusRoom to buy themsometime.

Hedidn’taskwhenorhowEmirintendedonjoiningthem.Calknew,ashesuspectedtheothersknewaswell,thatEmir’schoicetobarricadehimselfinthesurveillanceroomwouldalmostcertainlybeaone-waytrip.

Some of the weapons were deeply familiar to the four Assassins, thoughtheir physical hands had perhaps never held them.Cal strode up to a bow.Ashiver ran down his spine as he recalled grasping it, nocking an arrow, andlettingfly.Hesmashedtheglasswithhisbladeandreachedtopickitup,shakingoffthebrokenshards.Asheturnedtofindaquiverofarrows,hesawtheothersdoingthesame.

Moussahadfoundamostunusualgauntlet,onethathadsharpenedclawsonthetipsthatmovedlikeanextensionofhisfingers.Calcouldn’tbesureinthedim,pulsinglight,buthethoughthesawthatthemetaloftheclawswasdulledbysomesortofblacksubstance.

…MynameisBaptiste…Voodoopoisoner.Nathan went straight for a sword, a beautiful thing, with a basket hilt of

ornatelyswirlingmetalwork.Heliftedit,smilingslightly,andcuttheairwithita time or two. His whole body changed, going from gangly and frenetic topoisedandaristocratic.Onhisotherarm,heworeahiddenblade.

AndLin…Caldidn’tevenknowwhatitwasshegrasped.Somethingmadeof leather,withahiddenblade that sprang forthas smoothlyas theday itwascrafted,despitethepassageofhundredsofyears.Itwasonlywhensheslippedit

onherleftfootanddidapracticeflyingkickthatherealizedherhiddenbladewasonhershoe—andhowlethalitcouldbe.

Cal remembered Maria and her two unique blades, and felt the stab ofanotherman’sgreatlossaskeenlyasifitwerehisown.

He and the others readied themselves for battle. Cal nocked his bow andpulledthelong,slenderarrowbacksmoothly,thesharpnessofitstipundulledbytime.Moussahadhisclawhandflexedandlanguidfornow,andathisside,hisotherhandgrippingastaff.

Nathanseemedalmost tohavedisappearedsincehegripped thesword.Heclearlywas in thefullgripof theBleedingEffect,andCalwasgladof it.Thememories of his ancestor fueled him, and therewas steel in the boy’s eyes aswellashishand.

AndLin—shegraspedthecrossbowshehadtakenfromaguardduringtheflight to theAnimusRoom.Atherhip,sheworeashort,double-edgedsword.Andonherfeet…heruniqueblade.

Theenemyhadbeensteadilybangingonthedoorwithnosuccess.Then,allatonce,thedoorsslidopen.Emirhadfallen.Thefirsttwoguardswhorushedin,yelling,joinedhimindeath,eachfelled

byadifferentstyleofbow.OnceCalhadreleased thearrow,heused thebowitself as a weapon, knocking one charging guard off balance with a smoothsweepandbringingthebowuptoblockthedownwardstabofasecond.

Heturned,drawinganotherarrowinthesamemotion,fittedittothestring,andletitfly.Itpiercedathirdguardthroughtheeye.Hedroppedlikeastone.

Cal turned on the next assailant, kicking, punching, ducking, his bodymovingwithanalmostjoyfulease.

Hehadspenthiswholelifepreparingforthismoment,fightingalongsidehisbrothers.Andhewasonlynowrealizingit.

***

Lin utilized both her traditional weapons with deadly grace and speed. Sheleapedandexecutedakick,themotionactivatingthebladeinherboot.Herfootstruckaguardunderthechin,knockinghimbackandimpalinghiminthesameefficient,singlestrike.

Shelanded,drawingherjian,andbeganbeatingbackattacksfromallsides,darting,springingup,anddodginglikeademon.Itfeltsogoodtobewieldingit.Itwasanextensionofherarm,aswasthebladeonherboot,andshefinallyfeltshewashome.

Oneguardgothisskullsplit.Anotherstaggeredback,hishandtohisthroatasheimpotentlytriedtostopthespurtingcrimson.Athirdcameatherwithoneof the baton blades, and she lopped off his handwith a single, almost bored,motion.

LinknewaboutthescientificreasonsfortheBleedingEffect.Butforher,inthis moment, it felt more like an ancestor’s spirit was dwelling in her body,sharingitfortheircommonpurpose.

Atthismoment,ShaoJunwashappy.Shewasdoingthethingshelovedtodobest:killingTemplars,andfighting

alongsideherbrothers.

***

There was a lot of rage inside Moussa. Pure, cold, precise rage. Rage atinjusticespersonalandnot,atthingsthathadpainedhisancestor,atthingsthathadbrokenhisownheart.LikeLin,he,too,dartedanddived,usinghisstaffasfamiliarlyasifhe’dbeenpracticingwiththeweaponhiswholelife.

It felt soeasy,sonatural.Hewouldbring it sweepingdownlow,knockinghis foe off his feet, then dart forward for a quick swipe of the claw-gauntlet.

Moussadidn’tneedtosliceopenanartery.Baptistehadsaidonce,“alittlenickwilldothetrick.”

Andif that littlenickputaTemplaroutofcommission,andthat little trickwas that the man suffered agonizing torment as he spat froth and died inconvulsions…well, thatwas just a little extra something thatmade thewholethingbetter.

Hewhirledinanticipationofablow,crackingaskull,andlaughed.

***

Nathan easily blocked a baton strike with his own edged steel, then deftlytwistedhiswristtosendtheguard’sweaponsoaringuselesslyacrosstheroom.The guard’s sidewas left open for just an instant.Nathanwas there, stabbingforwardwithhislefthand.Eightinchesofsteelpiercedtheguard’sheartandhefell asNathandodged theblowofanotherguard,comingupwardwithacruelgrinonhisboyishface.

Damn, but he was good. His sword was an extension of his arm, slicingclearly across another guard’s throat. Nathan turned with military precision,seizedanotherguardbytheshoulder,andheldhimthereasheranhimthrough.

Asuddenwhite-hotpainshotthroughhisrightshoulderandthegriponhissword loosened. A crossbow bolt protruded from his arm. Furious, Nathangrabbedtheboltandyankeditout.Aguardchargedhimandmanagedtoknocktheswordoutofhishands,sendingitspinningthroughtheairoutofreach.

He paid for it, though.Nathan used the bloody bolt as aweapon himself,stabbingitdownintotheman’sshoulderandkickinghimbackwards.Whentheguardturned,Nathanfiredhishiddenbladeandtookgreatsatisfactioninseeingitsslimshapepiercetheguard’sthroat.

Thatwasmore like it. Despite the searing pain in his arm,Nathan seizedanotherguardand,usingtheman’sownbatonasleverage,snappedhisneck.

Hepausedtocatchhisbreath,staringdownattheman,takingjustamomentto congratulate himself. Even without weapons, a gentleman was alwayssuperiorto—

Thebladepiercinghimfrombehindtookhimbysurprise.Itstruckdeepandtrue,andalmostatonceNathanfelthisbodygrowweak.

Hestaggered,turninginalldirections,tookacoupleofsteps,andthenfell.Damnyou,Duncan,youarrogantprick,Nathanthought,thenknewnothing

more.

***

Calpunchedaguard,sendinghimstaggeringback,thensnappedhiswrists.Thetwinbladessprangfree.Hebroughtthemslashingacrosstheman’schestinanXmotion.Asthemanfelltohisknees,Calplungedbothbladesintoeithersideofhisneck.Bloodspurted,andtheguardtoppledtothefloor.

Callookedupforhisnexttarget,andsawagray-cladformsprawledlimplyonthestone.Nathan’seyeswerestillwide.Indeath,helookedsoyoung.

But there would be time to mourn him later. At least Nathan had diedfightingtherealenemies.

HetookapreciousmomenttoassesswhattheothertworemainingAssassinsweredoing.Cal’storsowasglisteningwithsweat,andhecouldseethatMoussa—implacably slicing with his clawed gauntlet or seizing his enemies andapparentlyeffortlesslysnappingtheirnecks—wassweatingaswell.

Lin, however, seemed to have not been physically affected by any of thebattle.Shehadgottenholdofathin,weightedrope,andwasnowalmostliterallydancing through the fight, looking calm and in control,minimizing effort andmaximizing kills as her rope tripped opponents, whipped around throats, orsimplycrushedskullswiththeheavyballatitsend.

Thefloorwaslitteredwithbodies.Caldidnotwastetimecounting,buttherewere easily a dozen, perhaps twice as many fallen Templars. No doubt morelivingoneswouldbecoming to replace themsoon—unless theotherprisonershadassistedCalandtheothersbydispatchingthem.

Ashecaughthisbreath,heheardadistinctivesoundfromhighabovehim.Thebattle-focuslefthim.Hehadbeentransfixedearlier,whensomehowhehadfoundhimselfsurroundedbysomanyAssassinsfrombygonecenturies.Butpartofhimhadalsobeenawareofwhatelsewasgoingonaroundhim.

HehadheardAlanRikkinsaythathehadgottenwhatheneeded,andorderthat the facility be purged. He had seen Sofia offer up resistance—and beendraggedaway.

TheyknewwheretheApplewashidden.Andthesoundcomingfromabovehimwasthesoundofhelicoptersaboutto

departforSevilleCathedraltoclaimtheAppleofEden.Calsprangbeforeheevenconsciouslychosetodoso,leapingontothegreat

mechanical arm that had been the source of so much torment and so manyblessingsatonce,climbingupitwithmonkey-likeagility.Belowhim,Lintookoutafinalguardandthenjumpedupontothearmaswell,followinghim.

Rikkinhadtobestopped.Thefateoftheworldquiteliterallydependedonit.He reached the top, his progress stymied by the enormous circle of the

skylight.Furious,fearful,Calactivatedthebladeonhisrighthandandpunchedtheglassofthecentralcircle.Itshattered,fallinginglintingpiecesaroundhim,decoratinghisbodywithtinyscarletslices.

Cal ignored the pain, leaping upward and balancing on the large, gentlycurvingdome.Thehelicoptershadalreadyleft.

Calgavechase,leapingfromthedomeontoanotherpartoftheroof,runningas fastashecould,buthewas too late.Aminutemore—perhapseven twentyseconds—andhecouldhavecaughtthem.

Instead, alone on the rooftop of the Abstergo Foundation RehabilitationCenter,CallumLynchwatchedthehelicoptersfullofTemplarsangleoffintothe

cloud-filledsky.

CHAPTER25

S

ofiahadneverbeentotheCathedralofSaintMaryoftheSee,betterknownasSevilleCathedral,before.ShehadseldomventuredforthfromtheMadrid

facility, and then only when it was pertinent to her research. Hitherto, theCathedralhadnotbeen.

She knew about it, of course. One could not be a Templar without beingawareoftheroleplayedbythemajormedievalcathedrals.

Once,religionhadbeenanimportantpartintheTemplars’questforcontroland direction of humanity’s destiny. Rumor had it that in 1401, when it wasdecided tobuildachurch to replace themosque thathad stoodon the site thecathedral nowoccupied, themembersof the cathedral chapter vowed, “Let usbuildachurchsobeautifulandsograndthatthosewhoseeitfinishedwillthinkwearemad.”

Sofia suspected if theyhad lived tosee thatdaywhen itwascompleted in1506, they would have deemed their request met. Seville Cathedral remainedoneofthelargestintheworld,anditwasbreathtakinglybeautiful.

Thecentralnave rose toa staggeringheightof forty-twometers. Its lavishgildingandthelargestainedglasswindowsbathedtheinteriorinawarm,color-spottedglow.Sofiasupposedthatmanywouldfindasenseofpeacehere,inthequietbeautywiththescentofoldincensepermeatingthewood.Butshefoundnone.Herheartwasheavyandaching,withguiltandfearandanger.

ShehadnotsaidawordtoherfathersincetheyhaddepartedtherooftopoftheAbstergoFoundationRehabilitationCenter.Shehadwatchedas the restofherteamalsopiledintohelicopters,chopperedtosafety.Sofiaknewbetterthanto think it was an act of kindness on her father’s part to include them in theevacuation.ShehadheardhimorderMcGowentosecuretheAnimus;forhim,

the people that operated itwere part and parcel of amachine that had provensingularlyvaluableandwouldcontinue tobeso.Retrainingnewpeoplewouldtaketime,andmoney.

ThingswereassimpleasthatinAlanRikkin’sworld.They flew straight from the facility to the cathedral, radioing ahead and

explaining that yes, it was indeed absolutely imperative that the location becloseddownupon their arrival and that the tombofChristopherColumbusbeopened.And no, it could notwait for the archbishop to return to oversee theprocess,oneofthebishopsalreadyonsitewouldhavetosuffice,andbythewayHerExcellencywould also be arriving, could she please be accommodated aswasappropriatetoherposition.

InsilencetheDoctorsRikkinhadtraveled,andnowinsilencetheywalkedalong themarble flooring. Sofia followed several paces behind her father.Noonenoticed,orcared.ItwasAlanRikkinwhomtheyknewandrespected.Sofiawaslittlemorethananafterthoughttothebishopsasherfatherwasgreetedandshowninside.

Columbus’sbodyhadtraveledalmostasmuchindeathasithadinlife.Hisremains had been moved from Valladolid, Spain, where he died in 1506, toSeville. In 1542, they were relocated to colonial Santo Domingo—the futureDominicanRepublic—andrestedthereuntil1795,whentheyweretransferredtoHavana,Cuba.

Itwasn’tuntil1899thatColumbuswasinterredhere,inatombassplendidandornateastherestofthecathedral.Itwasheldaloftnotbyangelsorpillars,butbyallegorical figures representing thekingdomsofSpainduringhis life—Castile, Aragon, Navarre, and Leon. Sofia halted, letting her father go up tospeakwiththebishop.

It did not escape Sofia that although he lay in the most extravagantsurroundingsimaginable,ChristopherColumbushaddiedinpoverty—afatehecouldsoeasilyhaveescapedbysellingtheAppletotheTemplars.

Theywerepreciselyon time.Oneof thebishopswasclimbingdownfrom

thetomb,carefullycradlingasmall,ornatemetalboxnexttohisbody.Sofiainhaledswiftly.Thiswasnotthesameboxshehadseeninthesimulation.WasitpossiblethattheAppleshehadspentherlifepursuinghadvanished—

orbeenstolen—duringColumbus’spost-lifeadventuring?Partofher—absurdly,madly,traitorously—hopedithad.Thebishophandedtheboxtoherfather,whostaredatitforalongmoment

withouttouchingit.Ishouldbetheoneopeningit,Sofiathought.Itwas likeashes inhermouth.Shehad spenther lifeworking toward this

moment, had permitted her father to perform an atrocity in the name of thisApple.ShehadtoldCalshewashisprotector,butintheend,shehadabandonedhim.

Her father’s callous words floated back to her:We’ve merely abandonedthemtotheirowninexorablefate.

Andherfather,whohadforcedhertoabandonCal,wouldbetheonegrantedallthehonor.

Sofiaheardtheclick-clickofhighheelsbehindher,thesoundechoinginthevastspace.SheturnedtoseeChairwomanEllenKayestandingbesideher.

“YourExcellency,”Sofiasaid,incliningherheadslightlyinrespect.Kaye did not initially acknowledge the greeting. The two women stood

watchingasAlanRikkinslowlyopenedthesmallmetalcasket.“The glorywill go to your father,”Kaye said unexpectedly. “Butwe both

knowwhofoundit.”Sofia turned to look at her, surprised and gratified. She had met the

chairwomanbefore,butKayehadneverseemedtotakeanyinterestinher.Now,theolderwomangracedherwithasmile—reserved,asEllenKayeeverwas,butsincere.

“Yourtimewillcome,mychild.”ThenthechairwomanoftheCouncilofEldersoftheTemplarOrderwalked

up to standbeside theCEOofAbstergo Industries.And together, they lookedupontheAppleofEdenwhileSofiaRikkin,scientistanddiscoverer,lookedonfromadistance:unwelcome,unacknowledged,andunwanted.

And as she stood there, solitary and ignored, her thoughts crept back,unbidden,tothewomaninthehoodwhoworeherface.

***

SofiawasnominallyEnglish,havingbeenborninEnglandandlivingthereforthefirst fewyearsofher life,but inheradulthoodshehadseldomreturned.Itwastoodampandcloudyforherliking.

Whenshewasalittlegirl,sheoftenaskedwhytheskycriedsomuch,andifitwasbecauseithadlostitsmama,too.Shenevershookthatassociation.Asfaras she was concerned, it was either raining there, about to rain, or had justfinishedraining.

Tonight,itwasthelatter.Theroad,blackandwet,glistenedinthelightsofthebusynightstreetashercarpulledupdirectlyacrossfromthefuturesceneofherfather’sperformance—TemplarHall.

Many similar cars were doing likewise. Templars from all over the worldwould be gathering here, for the momentous occasion. Politicians, religiousfigures,captainsofindustry;nearlytwothousandwouldbepresent.

Fatherwillhaveafullhousetonight,Sofiathoughtsourly.Shesteppedoutofthecar,closedthedoor,andcrossedthestreettothehuge

stonebuilding,whichexudedpowerinitsstronglines,butwasstillbeautiful.Inonehand,sheclutchedasheafofpaper,crumpledfromhertightgrip.

Sheworeaconservativedress,highheels,andacape—allblack.Itseemedappropriate.Security,of course,wasout in full force.Therewerecameraseverywhere,

metaldetectors,snifferdogs,pat-downstations.Sofiawasgreetedimmediately.

Afteracursoryandapologeticinspection,shewasusheredinside.Shelocatedherfatherinoneofthesidecloakrooms.Hewasbusydonning

traditionalTemplarrobesoverhissmartSavileRowsuit,examininghimselfinthemirror.

He caught her reflection, and smiled fleetingly at her as he adjusted hisimpressivecravat.

“HowdoIlook?”Asalways,hewasfiddlingwithhiscufflinks.Shedidnotoffertohelp.Sofiatookintheperfectgrayinghair,thedistinguishedlinesinhisface,the

crisp foldof themaroonandblackofhishooded robe, the classic, square redcrossonthemedalliononhischest.

“LikeaTemplar,”shereplied.Heeitherdidnotcatchtheiceinhervoiceor,morelikely,didnotcare.“Aworldwithoutcrime,”hesaid.“They’llgiveyouaNobelPeacePrizefor

this.You’dbetterstartwritingyourspeech.”“I’vereadyours.”Thistime,hedidcatchit.Hismotionsslowedandhiseyesmethersinthe

mirror.“And?”Sofia lowered her eyes to the sheaf of pages she had clutched so tightly,

repulsedalloveragainatthewordsinfrontofher,andreadaloud.“‘If we eradicate free will, we eradicate the Assassins. A cancer that has

menacedsocietyforcenturies.’”Hervoicecaughtontheword“cancer.”Violenceisadisease,likecancer,she

hadtoldCal.Andlikecancer,wehopetocontrolitoneday.For her, the cancer was violence. For her father, it was the Assassins

themselves.Sheflippedthroughtherestofthespeechangrily.“‘Mongrels…vermin…’”“It’snotmybestwork,butitgetsthepointacross,”heanswered.“Yourpointisgenocide!”Sofiasnapped.

“It’sanewbeginning.”His voice was calm, rational, and his mien was pleasant as he turned to

regardher.“You’vedonearemarkablething,Sofia.Youdon’tseeitnow,butyouwill,

oneday.Allthesecenturies,we’vebeenlookingforsolutions.You,mychild…you’veeliminatedtheproblem.”

ShehadknownhedespisedtheAssassins.Theyhadtakenhermother;she,too, had grown up abhorring their Brotherhood. She never wanted anotherfamilytosufferasherfamilyhad—orasCal’sfamilyhad.

Itwasstrange,howthechildofTemplarsandthechildofAssassinshadsomuchsufferingincommon.

PerhapsmorethanSofiahadeverrealized.Sofiahadlongedtoendthatsuffering.Beendesperatetoendit.Sodesperate

thatshehadn’tseen—orhadrefusedtosee—whathadbeenrightinfrontofherforherentirelife.

“We…I…didthistosavelives,”shewhispered,sochokedbythehorroroftherevelationshecouldbarelyspeak.

“Noteverythingdeservestolive,”herfathersaid.Sheflinched,thinkingofthelastAssassinfaceshehadseen.

Heglancedathiswatchandheadedforthedoor.Hepausedandquirkedaneyebrowwhenshedidn’tfollow.

Inadaze,sheforcedherself tomove, forcedherself towalkbesidehimastheywentdownthehall.RobedTemplars,somewiththeirhoodsup,mostwiththemdown,brushedpasther.

She tried to work through it, unable to quite understand how twisted herdreamhadbecome.

“Somyprogram….”“Hasbroughtordertosocietyforthefirsttime,”herfathersaid,completing

hersentenceforherinawaysheneverwouldhavedone.“Wearewitnessingthebirthofagoldenera.”

Bought with blood of untold millions. Nothing good can come of such abirth.

TheguiltwassoprofoundSofiaalmoststumbled.“I’maccountableforthis.”“You’vealreadybeenaccountedfor.OurworkbelongstotheElders.Thisis

theirfinesthour.”Sofiacouldn’tbelieveit.Hadheactuallymisunderstoodher?Orwasthisyet

anotherdismissal?I’vebeensostupid,shethought.Soveryblind.“You lied tome.” Itwasn’t an angry retort, flung by a rebellious teenager

againstacontrollingparent.Itwasthesimpletruth.Hehadlied—notjustabouthowherdecadesofpassionateresearchwouldbe

utilized,butabouteverything.AboutwhatitmeanttobeanAssassin.AndwhatitmeanttobeaTemplar.

There was the faintest hint of softening in his patrician face as he gazeddownather.Hisvoicewaskinderthanshehadhearditinyears,butthewordsweresharperthananAssassin’shiddenblades.

“I’vealwaysknownthatinyourheart,youwereascientistfirst,aTemplarsecond.”

And for him, that justified every single thinghehaddone to her sincehiswifeandhermotherhadbeentakenfromthemboth.

Sofiastaredupathim,sick.“Yourrecentworkhasimpressedusmuch,”hesaid,“butithasconfirmedourbeliefthatmankindcannotberedeemed.”

Andthereitwas.“So.”Hervoicewasicecoldandsteelhard.“You’vethoughtofeverything.”“Notquite.Myspeech…itcoulddowithoneofyourelegantopenings.”For a moment, she simply stared, aghast that he was occupied with

somethingso trivialwhen theywerediscussing theabsoluteeliminationofnotjusttheAssassins,butoffreewillitself.

Thensheunderstood.Hewantedherwithhim.Notjustasanasset;healreadyhadthat,hecould—andhad—usedherand

herbrillianceasitsuitedhim.Hedidn’tneedthat.Hedidn’tneedhereditorialskills,her“elegantwords.”

Thecommentwasanolivebranch.AlanRikkinwantedhislittlegirltrulyonhisside.Asanally,abeliever.

Sherecalledhiscommenttoherafewdaysago.DoI lookoldtoyou?Noonelivedforever,notevenGrandMasters,andhewantedhisonlychildbesidehimtocarryonhislegacywithawillingheart.

Hehadneverbeenademonstrativefather,andwhateverwarmthandpaternalaffectionhadonceexistedhadallbutvanishedwhenhermothergaspedoutherlastbreath.

Thiswashowheshowedregard.Thiswashowheshowedlove.Buthehadshownhersomethingelsetonightaswell;hadbeenshowingher

something else time after time after time. It had taken his endorsement ofgenocideforhertofullygraspthedepthsofAlanRikkin’sinhumanity.Hewasnowofferingwhathecould,andshecouldseeitintheslightlookofwaryhopeonhisface.

Butitwasmuchtoolittle,andfar,fartoolate.She had the perfect eloquent opening, spoken by the perfect person. Sofia

looked her father full in the face and quoted, “‘Now I am becomeDeath, thedestroyerofworlds.’”

Amuscletwitchedinhischeek.Thatwasall.“NotsureIcouldmakethatwork.”Avoicefloatedtothemthroughthecloseddoors,interruptingthespellthat

held themcaptive in their dysfunctional, intimate connection. “It iswith greatpleasure tonight that I introduce the architect of our ancient Order’s future:Please welcome GrandMaster Templar, and CEO of Abstergo Industries andFoundation—DoctorAlanRikkin!”

Thedoorsswungopenand lightstreamed into thedimcorridor.Her fatherdidnotgiveheranotherglance,butturnedandstrodein,walkingtothepodium

asifnothing,absolutelynothing,hadoccurredwhilehewaswaitingoutsidetobeintroduced.

CHAPTER26

T

hunderous applause and cheers filled the room, issuing from nearly twothousand Templar throats. The spotlights followed him as he strode to the

podiumasifhewerearockstar.Sofiasupposedhewas.Her father’s pleasant voice flowed out as the crowd’s cheering died down

andtheyleanedin,eagerforhiswords.“For centuries,” Rikkin said, “we have been at war with an enemy who

believes that individual needs aremore important than the peace ofmankind.WiththerecoveryoftheApple,thetimeisuponuswhenwemayeliminatetheAssassinthreatforever.”

Moreapplause.Moreexcitement.Sofiahadthoughtshecouldnotfeelmorewretched, but now, she realized thatwhat she despised in her father’s attitudewasnottheexceptionamongtheTemplars.Itwastherule.

“Wearenowinpossessionofageneticroadmaptohumanity’sinstincts….”Sofiasquintedagainstthelight,suddenlyfeelingnauseous.Itwastooharsh,

too white; she felt exposed and vulnerable. Like a wounded animal, all shewanted was to seek darkness, stillness, and solitude. To lick her wounds andperhaps,someday,recover,ifsuchathingwereevenpossible.

“Any impulse towards independence, resistance, or rebellion, will becrushed.Anypredisposition thatmightopposeourmarchofprogresscannowbeeradicated,”Rikkinwenton.

Sofiawentout into themainentrancearea, thedroningvoiceofher fatherand the clickof her heels on the floor the only sounds.Up ahead, against thestainedglass,movementcaughthereye.SofiathoughtitwasanotherTemplarinhistraditionalrobes;perhapsalatecomer.

ThensherealizedthattheshapedidnotmovelikeaTemplar.

Herfather’sspeechofhatredandgenocidecouchedincomfortableplatitudesflutteredtothefloor.

Sofia froze in her tracks as he approached her. She couldn’t see his facebeneath the cowl of the hood, but she didn’t need to. She had watched himmove,hadlearnedtorecognizethelithe,rhythmicflowofhislimbs,likeabigcat.ShehadseenitintheAnimusRoom.Andshewasseeingithere,now,inaplacewhereitwastheleastlikely—andthosemostdangerous—tobe.

She knew she ought to be terrified to see him. This was a man she hadcapturedandimprisoned,towhomshehadexposedallmanneroftorment.Butallthatwasgoingthroughhermindwashowunspeakablyrelievedshewasthathehadsurvived.

He stopped three feet away. Now, she could see him; see the blonde-redgrowthofbeardonhisstrongjaw,hisunblinkingeyes that,evenasaprisonerhelplessbeforeher,alwaysseemedtostarestraightintoher.

Sofiawashavingtroublebreathing.Fromfear,grief,ordesire,oralloftheemotions striking at once in a heart that had been guarded against them sinceearliestchildhood;shewasn’tsure.

Therewereathousandthingsshewantedtosaytohim.Whatcameoutwas:“AllIhavetodoisshout.”

Shecouldnottellifitwasathreatorawarning.Once,everythinghadbeensoclear,sostraightforwardinherlife.Soorderly.

Andthismanandallhehadtaughther—abouthimself,abouttheAssassins,aboutSofiaRikkin—plunged everything into unknowable, beautiful, terrifyingchaos.

Still, shedidnotshout.Andheknewshewouldn’t.He trustedher,despiteeverything.

Cal’seyeswerefullofwhatlookedlikesympathy.Heshouldhateher,buthedidn’t.Hespoke,softly,ashealwaysdid.

“I’mheretohelpyou.Andyou’reheretohelpme.”Sofiaflinched.Tearsstunghereyes,butsherefusedtoletthemspill.Once,

shehadsaidthosewordstohim.Once,shehadmeantthem.“Ican’thelpyouanymore.”Nothim,nothumanity…shecouldn’tevenhelp

herself.“Whataboutthosegreatplans?Cureviolence.Combataggression.”Washe

makingfunofher?Tormentingher,tryingtoshameher?No.ThatwasnotCal’sway.Thatwasherfather’sway.

“That’snotgoingtohappen.”Sofia’svoiceandheartbothbrokeatthetruthanddespairinthewords.

He continued to regardher steadily, almost sadly.Then, he stepped closer,closing the distance between them. Her heart leaped in her chest. Again, shecouldnotnametheemotion.Shehadbeendisconnectedfromthemfortoolong.Washegoingtokissher—orkillher?

Andwhichdidshewanthimtodo?Buthedidnothing.Hedidnoteventouchher.“Youstartedthis,Sofie.You

don’tgettowalkaway.”Howdidheknow?Howdidheknowthatwasthenicknamehermotherhad

givenher?Wildly,sheagainthoughtofthewomanwholookedexactlylikeher,wearinganAssassin’shood.

Whatarewetoeachother,Cal?“We both know what happens next,” he whispered, adding, echoing her

father’swords,“Noteverythingdeservestolive.”And shedid.Sheknewexactlywhat hewoulddo, andwhy.Hewouldbe

justified in it. The Assassins did not deserve the fate about which her fatherpontificatedinthenextroomtoagleeful,unnaturallydetachedaudience.Caldidnotdeservetohavebeenabandonedlikeanoldshirtthatnolongerfit.Shecouldnot blamehim forwanting revenge—butyet, his expressionwasnot that of amanobsessedandhungeringforvengeance.

Callum Lynch wanted something quite different. He wanted justice—something that, somehow, theAssassins, thralls to theiremotions inaway theTemplarsfoundsorepugnant,understoodbetterthantheirage-oldenemy.

Her father. His contempt, his casual dismissal of millions of lives. AlanRikkincoulddieathousandtimes,anditwouldstillnotbejusticeforthat.

She andCal had been far too similar despite their differences not to havesensed a connectionwhen had first arrived. Like her father,Calwanted Sofiawithhim.ButhewantedherforallthethingsherfatherandtheTemplarOrderhe represented would desire to see crushed in Sofia’s spirit. Her fire, hercuriosity,hercompassion.

“Ican’tdothis,”shewhispered.Somethinginsidehershatteredatthewords.Ihavebeenbrokenallmylife.Icanlivewithbeingalittlemorebroken.

Cal’s gaze remained kind, as his eyes flickered down to her lips and thenbackuptohereyes.

“Yes…youcan.”Slowly,slowly,heleanedforward.Sofiaclosedhereyes.Caldidnotsmellofcologneandstarchandfinewoolsuits,asherfatherdid.

Hesmelledofsweat,andleather,andthecleanlinessoftheevening’srain.Andforamoment,SofiawantednothingmorethantorunawayfromtheTemplars,andtheirOrder,andtheirlies;fromherfather,whoembodiedtheveryworstofthem. To find outwho thewomanwaswho had gazed at her, surrounded byimagesofAssassins,atthebaseofabrokenAnimus.

But that gulf was toowide too cross. Not even an Assassin’s Leap couldclearit.Herfatherwasamonster;buthewasherfather,theonlyoneSofiahad.HerOrderwashorrifyinglywrong;butitwasallshehadknown.

Calsensedit,movingpasther,silentbutforafaintrustleoffabric,andshewasleftalone,shaking,andmorelostthanever.

Sofiatriedtocalmherself,tobreathedeeply.Herfather’svoicefloatedouttoher.

“It is not to ourselves but to the future that wemust give glory. A futurepurgedoftheAssassin’sCreed.”

Purged.Thesamewordhehadusedwhenhehadforsaken theFoundationfacility, and instructed the guards there to kill the prisoners—the patients—in

cold blood. Sofia blinked, feeling dazed, drugged, as if she were swimmingtowardwakefulness out of the drugged sleep of grief and disillusionment andshattereddreamsalmost toogreat tobeborne.Still shecouldnotmoveas thecheeringcontinued.

Herfatherhadtaughtherchesswhenshewasyoung.Thegamedidnotcalltoherwiththesametugasdidprobingthemysteriesofscience,soshehadnotplayed in years.But aGerman term floated back to her now:Zugzwang. Thedirect translationwas “compulsion tomove.” It described a situationwhere aplayer was compelled to move, even though a move would put them at adisadvantage.Sofianowwascompelledtomove—toeitherwarnherfather,orchoosetoremainsilentandletwhatwould,unfold.

Assassin…orTemplar.The tears that had threatened all evening finally spilled down her flushed

cheeks.Astheyslippeddown,shemadenoefforttostopthem,andwasnotevensurewhy—orforwhom—shewept.

“Ladiesandgentleman,”herfathersaid,andshehadheard that tone inhisvoice before—the grandeur of it, the booming resonance tinged just so withexcitement—“Igiveyou…theApple!”

The crowd exploded. Sofia had never heard so reserved an audience giveventtosofurious,sothrilled,anexpressionofapproval.

Still she stoodas if shewascarvedof the samestoneas thebuilding.Shecouldn’tmovetojoinCal.Shecouldn’tmovetostophim.

Andthenthescreamingstarted.Timeslowedtoabizarrecrawl, thesoundsofpanicabouthermuffledand

distant. She did not scream; there was nothing to be gained by it. Templarsshovedpasther in theirmaddenedcrush toescape, theirgleeat the thoughtofkillingAssassinsinacravenfashioncompletelyerasedbytheterrorcausedbyasingleAssassinboldlystrikingintheirverymidst.

She moved, still dazed, into the auditorium, against the flood of fleeing,hoodedTemplars,theirrobesflappingastheystampededtowardsafety,shoving

pastSofia.Shefeltoneof thembrushherarm,smelledsweatand leather,andthenhewasgone.

He could have killed indiscriminately, taken down several others of theancientenemy,buthehadcomeonlyforoneman.

Andonething.Sofia ascended the stage, now empty of everything save the corpse of her

father.Hiskillerwas skilled, andhadknownexactlyhow to cut so that deathwouldbe as swift as possible. Itwasmoremercy,more restraint, thanRikkinhimselfhadeverdisplayed.

Bloodwasstillflowing,formingapuddlebeneathherfather’scoolingbody.Sofia’s visionwas blurred by tears, but her gaze traveled fromhis face to hisrighthand.

The Apple was gone. In its place, her father’s dead hand cupped a smallgreenapple.

Zugzwang.SomethingsnappedinsideSofia.“Idid this,”shesaid. Itwasnotbrow-beating. Itwas thesimple truth.She

had been complicit, evenwilling, in every inexorable step that had led to thismoment,withherfatherbleedingoutonthebluecarpetoftheauditorium.Shehad burned to impress thisman, towin his lovewith her intelligence and herdiscoveries.ShehadpushedtolocatetheAppleforhim,andhadsucceeded.Shehadbeentooweaktodefyherfatherwhenhehadrevealedhistruenaturetoher.

AndshehadfailedtowarnhimwhensheknewanAssassinwascomingforhim.

“I will retrieve the Apple for the Elders,” she heard herself saying asMcGowensteppedbesideher.Shecouldn’t tearhereyesfromthesightbeforeher;notherfather’sdeadface,orsurprisedeyes,buttheappleheheld.

Ithadnotbeennecessary.IthadbeenamessagetotheTemplars…oneCalhadknownSofiawouldlikelybethefirsttodiscover.

WhateverRikkinhaddone in thepast, hewasher father—theonlyparent

shehad.Shewasanorphan,now.Calhadtakennotjust themanashewasinthatmomentwhenhedied,butallthatAlanRikkinmightpossiblyeverbecome.He had taken away any chance Sofia might have for closeness, forunderstanding, for respect for themanwhoseDNA flowed throughher.Therewouldbenochance,either,forhertoquestionherfatherabouttheAssassinwholookedsoverylikehisdaughter.

CallumLynch had endedRikkin’s present, and his future had disappearedalong with it, vanishing like one of the holographic images in an Animussimulation.

Andthat,hisdaughtercouldnotforgive.“Lynch,”shesaid,“Iwantforme.”Sofia felt a prickle along her spine. Others were watching her. The tears

presentlyfloodinghereyesspilledoverontoherashenface,butnomorewerecoming.Hergriefwasslowing,congealing,turningcold,likeherfather’sspilledblood.Sheturnedslowly,knowingwhat—who—shewouldsee.

EllenKayestood,gazingdownatSofia.WithherstoodseveraloftheElders.Kaye’shandswereclaspedcalmly in frontofher.Sofia thoughtabout thedaywhen the older woman had stood beside her as they regarded Rikkin gazingdownattheApple.

Yourtimewillcome,child.“Itisnottoourselves,buttothefuture,thatwemustgiveglory,”Kayesaid.

***

No one stopped Sofia as she moved through the crowd, with McGowengloweringatanyonewhomighttry.

Outside, the world still went on as usual. It did not know, yet, howenormouslyithadchanged.Butitwould.Soon.

Sofiaheardthewailofapproachingsirensandsteeledherself.Therewouldbe much to do, going forward. Everyone would be questioned, the incidentexamined.AplausiblestorywouldbefabricatedandreleasedtothepressaboutthetragicdemiseofCEOAlanRikkin.

She raisedhereyes to thenight sky,not seeing thecloudsor the shy starstryingtopeepthroughthesoftgray.Shesawthetopsofbuildings,andknewthatthemanwhomighthavebeenher lovebutwhowasnowherenemy,wasoutthereamongthem.

Butthatwasallright.TheTemplarswouldfindhim.Theywouldfindthemall.

EPILOGUE

T

heAssassinstoodupon the roofofabuilding.Belowhimspread theRiverThames. Night embraced him. He had discarded the Templar formal robe

once ithadno longer servedascamouflage,andnowworea longovercoatofdarkbluewoolthatprotectedagainstthechillofaLondonlateautumn.

He was not alone. His brothers and sisters stood beside him on the roof.Thereweremoreoutthere.Asifinsolidaritywithhim,theAssassincaughtthedark silhouetteof a raptor against thegray-clouded sky.Aneagle?Hedidnotknow.Perhaps;perhaps.

Buthecouldseewithitseyes.Andinhisownway,ashehadbelievedhecouldasaboy,hecouldfly.CallumLynchtookadeepbreath,spreadouthisarms,andleaped.

SUBJECT:NATHAN

Nathanhadvomited,twice,inhisroomearlier.Witheveryfiberofhisbeing,hedidnotwanttoreturntothemachine,tothearm,toseethehauntinglybeautiful,slightlysad,yet implacablevisageofSofiaRikkinstaringupathimbeforehewasplungedintothemaelstromofviolence,passion,andcontemptiblenessthatwastheAssassinDuncanWalpole.

ButhewantedevenlesstobecomelikethosepoorlostthingsintheInfinityRoom,sohehadagreedtogothistime.Sofiasmiledandsaidshewasgladhewasthere,thathehaddecidedtocomeofhisownfreewill,thatshewassurethattherewouldonlybeafewmoreregressionsbeforehe’dbedone.

Tearshadpoureddownhisfaceashenoddedsicklyather.Ihatehim.IhateDuncanWalpole.Ihatehowhetreatspeople,andhisawful

arroganceandgreed.Ihatehimbecausehe’stoomuchlikeme.AndIwanttobebetterthanthat.

REGRESSION:LONDON,1714

DuncanWalpole’sheadfelt likesomeonewasusing it forananvil,but that inand of itself was nothing new. He tended to experience the sensation mostmornings.Hehadlearnedthatavisit toBlake’sCoffeeHouseassoonashe—

sometimes literally—rolled out of bed was usually a wise idea. All the rage,coffeewasathickandsludgybeverage,andWalpolehadsaidmorethanoncetoanyonewhowouldlistenthatheneverknewwhethertodrinkit,dipapeninitandwritealetter,orpourthestuffinachamberpot.Butitwashot,andreviving,and addictive, and it cleared his head sufficiently that he could then attend towhatever business was required by either of his masters—the East IndiaCompanyortheAssassins.

Londonboastedoverthreethousandoftheshops,andeveryoneofthemhadtheir ownpersonalities and clientele, andmore than onceDuncan had learnedsomethingthatwouldbetothebenefittoeitherorbothoftheorganizationsheworkedfor.Andwiththatdone,hecouldthenturnhisattentionbacktodrinkingandpatronizingthelocalbrothel.

Sometimes,conveniently, the twobusinessesoperatedoutof thesamesite.HefanciedboththealeandthewhoresofferedbytheRoseofEnglandtaverninCoventGarden.Ithadalegup,asitwere,asfarasDuncanwasconcerned,inthatithadaseparateroombelowgroundwherecockfightingwasconducted.Notnearlyassatisfactoryapastimeasbull-baiting,ofcourse,butatleastsomebloodsportwastobehadwhileoneheldanaleinonehandandawenchintheother.

Theknockonhisdoor sent spikes throughhis templesandhehissed.“Goaway!”heshouted,thenwincedafreshathowloudhisownvoicesounded.

“Yourpardon,sir,butI’veamessage,”cameayouthfulvoicefromtheotherside of the door. Duncan groaned in recognition. He propped himself up,blinking,findingthelighttobetoointenseevenwiththeshuttersclosed.Hesatforamomentontheedgeofthebed,observingthathe’dforgottentoremovehisbreechesbeforeunconsciousnesslastnight.Hereachedforoneofthecoinshe’ddumpedonthesmall,eleganttable,thengottohisfeet,paddedtothedoorwithonehandpressedtohispoundinghead,andpulleditopen.

Geoffreywasmorethanlikelyignorantofthetruenatureofhisemployers.Itwassaferfortheboythatway.Allheneededtoknowwasthathewaswellpaid,

andtheonlyservicesaskedofhimwerethoseofacourierdeliveringmessagesandpackages.

Hewaseight,withbrightblueeyesand locksofcurlyblondhair.Theoft-overusedword“cherubic”was,inthiscase,mostdefinitelyapplicable.DuncanwonderedidlyifGeoffreyrealizedthatthegenerouspaytheAssassinsgavehimkept him from falling in with other more unscrupulous men who might takeadvantageoftheangelicchild.

StayyourbladefromthefleshoftheinnocentwasoneoftheCreed’stenets,andonce, it hadbeenoneWalpole cherished.Now, less idealistic thanhehadbeenoveradecadeagowhenhe’d joined them,hewasstillgladof thatashelookedat theboy.Childrendidn’t deservewhatLondon—indeed, theworld—sometimesofferedthem.

“Sorrytowakeyou,sir,butI’veamessageandwastolditwasimportant.”Randallthinksit’simportanttoknowwhenoneofhisAssassinstakesapiss,

Walpole thought,butdidnotsay.Speakingtookenergyhedidn’tpossessrightnow,sohesimplynodded,leanedagainstthedoorframeandwavedfortheboytocontinue.

“Hesays,youaretomeethimtodineonfishatoneo’clock,” the boy said, addingwith obvious reluctance, “…and, ah…

you’retobesober.”AttheexpressiononWalpole’sface,headdedhastily,“Ifitpleaseyou,sir.”

Duncanletoutanexasperatedsound.LikeRandallhimself,themessagewasclearandtothepoint.

“Idon’tthinkheactuallysaidthatlastpart,didhe?”“Erm…well,no,sir.Notthe‘ifitpleaseyou’part,atanyrate.”“Goodlad.Don’tlie.Atleastnottome,eh?”Duncantossedtheboyacoin

andstartedtoclosethedoor.“Pardon,sir,butIwasparticularlyinstructedtowaitforareply.”Duncansworecolorfully.“ShouldItellhimthat,then,sir?”

Ah,wouldn’tthatbenice,Duncanthought.“No,youprobablyshouldn’t.TellhimI’llbethere.”

“Yes,sir,thankyou,sir!”Andtheboyscurriedoffdownthestairs.Duncan leaned against the door. His London lodgings were small but

elegant,locatedonTottenhamCourtRoad,althoughheseldomspentmuchtimehere. Conscious time, at least. Nonetheless, whether it was consciouslyappreciatedornot, the lavishnesswasnot inexpensive.Hetrudgedto the tableandpickeduphispocketwatch,agiftfromhissecondcousin,RobertWalpole,upon his twenty-first birthday. The two had never been particularly close, butDuncanwasfondofthewatch.

HehadnoothermeetingsatEastIndiaHouseuntiltheafternoon,anditwasonlyseventeenpasttennow.

Plenty of time to call for a hot bath and visit the coffeehouse before hismeetingwiththeAssassinMentor.

“Dineonfish”meanttomeetoutsideMrs.Salmon’sWaxworksinFleetStreet.Itwas an extraordinarily popular attraction. For a ha’penny or thereabouts, onecouldstandinthepresenceofwaxversionsofroyalty,fromKingCharlesIuponthescaffoldtothewarriorqueenBoadicea,andexperiencesuchluridscenesasCanaanite women sacrificing children to the god Moloch or the inside of aTurkish harem. A fairly realistic figure of a crippled child greeted visitorsoutside the door. Duncan was peering at it, grinning, when he sensed theMentor’spresencebehindhim,followedbythefamiliarcool,clippedvoice.

“You’relate.”“Damnyou, I’mherenow,”Walpole said, standingand turning to face the

Mentor.“AndI’msober.Thatshouldcountforsomethingatleast.”

Randall’shairwasirongray,hiseyespaleblue.Neverknownforhissenseof humor, his lips were usually little more than a thin line. Now, they werepressedtogethersotightlyhismouthalmostdisappeareduntilhespoke.

“Itcountsforlesseverytime,Duncan.Andifyouaddressmelikethatagain,itwillbethelasttime.”

Duncansteppedawayfromthe lines thronging toget inashespoke.“Youwouldn’tkillaMasterAssassinforhavingcolorfullanguage,”hesaid.

“No,”Randallreplied,“butonewhoisalsounreliable,erratic,disrespectful,anddrunkhalfthetime?”

“Evenso.”Randall sighed,claspinghishandsbehindhimand lookingoutat thebusy

street.“Whathappenedtoyou,man?Thirteenyearsagowhenwemet,youwereall on fire to make a difference. To make things better. You despised theexclusivity the Templars stood for and their desire to control everyone andeverything.Youbelievedinfreedom.”Hisblueeyesweremelancholy.

“I still do,” Duncan snapped. “But thirteen years can change a man. TheBrotherhoodisnodifferentfromthearmy.Yousayprettythings,Randall,butintheend,there’sarank,andeverybodyhastoanswertoit.”

“Of course we do.” Only someone who had known Randall as long asWalpolehadwouldhavenoticedthemanwasdistressed.Hisvoice,alwayscalmandprecise,wasevenmoresonow.“Duncan,you’reoneofthesmartestpeopleI know.You understandwhatwe’re up against.You know thatwe need goodcoordination.Imustbeabletorelyonmypeopletocarryouttheirmissionsasplanned, not turn them into spur of themoment tavern brawls.We, all of us,work in the dark to serve the Light. We don’t get our names engraved onplaques,or statueserected inourhonor.Those trappingsare for theTemplars,andwelldoweknowsuchfripperyistransientandhollow.”

He sighed slightly, and shook his head. “The work we do is our legacy,”Randall continued in a gentler tone. “Our names aren’t important. All thatmattersiswhatweleavebehind.”

Duncan felt ahotwaveof fury surge throughhimandhe tamped itdown.Calmly,carefully,hesaid,“DidyousendGeoffreytobringmeheretoscoldme?He’s the one who’s eight years old, not I. I,” and he took a step forward,towering over the smallerman, “will not be spoken so in such away. I am aMasterAssassin.”

“Yes,youare.AndIamyourMentor.”Oh,andthatwasawarningifthereeverwasone.Theireyesmetandfora

fractionofaheartbeat,Duncanactuallyconsideredtakinghimdownrightthere.It was the same everywhere Duncan went. The navy was like this. The

aristocracywaslikethis.Onewasstuckwhereonewas,nomatterwhatonedid.EventheAssassins,whoextolledindividuality,werehypocritesintheend.“Myapologies,Mentor,”hesaid,placingahandonhisheartandbowing.“I

amhere,andIamsober.Whydidyousummonme?”Summon.Itwasanaccurateword.Likeadogtoheel.Phillip’s cool gaze seemed to bore into him as he spoke. “I have a new

assignment foryou.We’ve receivedword fromAhTabai inTulum.There arerumorsthatanotherSagehasappeared,andAhTabaihasreachedouttousandothersforaidintrackinghimdown.”

No,Walpolethought.Hecan’tbesayingwhatIthinkhe’ssaying.Ah Tabai was a Mayan Assassin, Mentor of the Brotherhood in the

Caribbean.HewasthesonofanAssassinandhadgrownupintheBrotherhood,andallreportsofhimandhisinstructionhadbeenexcellent.RandallhadspokenerenowoftryingtostrengthentieswiththeCaribbeanBrotherhood,feelingthattheaptlynamedNewWorld,stillquitenew,wouldeventuallybecomeaseatofpowerfor theTemplars.And, therefore,wouldneedAssassins tokeepthemincheck.

ButTulumwasfivethousandmilesaway, in the jungleandsetamidruins,and therewere no coffeehouses, no taverns, nowhores, and, asWalpolewellknewfromhisdaysintheRoyalNavy,iftherewasanygrogtobehad,itwould

behorrible.Therewouldbenofame,andnofortune,andifRandallwantedhimtogothere—

“We don’t have a strong presence in the NewWorld yet—at least not asstrongaswe’dlike.AhTabaicanhelpuschangethat.I’dlikeyoutoassisthiminthehuntfortheSage,andcontinueyourtrainingunderhim.”

Duncan blinked. “I’m sorry… Imust bemisunderstanding you.Because Icouldhavesworn thatyou just toldaMasterAssassin togogetmore trainingfromaprimitive—”

Randall’shandshotoutsofastDuncandidn’tevenseeitcoming,andhewasremindedjustwhythismild-seeming,unprepossessingmanwastheMentor.HefelthischeeksflamewithembarrassmentandangerasRandallgrippedhisarmtightly, strong fingers pressing in at precisely the right spots to cause extremepainwithoutcausingdamage.

“You will take the missions you are given, and you will give them yourbest,”thatMentorsaid.Hisvoicewasascalmandconversationalasever.“IftheTemplars find thisSagebeforewedo, theywillhavea terribleweapon touseagainstusandhumanity.AhTabaiknowsthingstherestofuscouldallstandtolearn…andIbelievehecouldteachyouhowtocontrolthattemperofyoursaswell.”

The term“Sage” referred toan individualwhowasaparticularlypowerfuldescendant of the Precursors, the creators of the artifacts likeApples ofEdenthatcouldgiveanindividual—oranorganization—agreatdealofpower.

Randallwasright.Thiswasimportant.ButtheimplicationthatWalpoleneededtrainingafteralmostadecadeanda

halfasanAssassin….“The East India Company values me,”Walpole said, a touch too harshly.

“Theywon’tbehappyifIsuddenlydisappear.”“That’sanotherreasonI’msendingyou.Webelievethatyouhaveattracted

unwantednotice,andyou—andwe—maybeindanger.Tenderyourresignationandtellthemyouneedmoreadventureandindependence.They’llbelieveyou.”

That got Walpole’s attention. The East India Company, with its de factomonopolyonimportsofspices,silksandother textiles,andtea,unsurprisinglyattracted its share of Templars. For years, Duncan had been watching itsemployees, trying to determine who was and who wasn’t a Templar. He hadnarroweditdowntoafewsuspects,but itwasamanhehadneverconsideredwhom Randall had recently confirmed as member of the hated Order: HenrySpencer, Esquire, one of the newestmembers of the EIC’s powerful Court ofDirectors.

Duncanknewthemanonlyinpassing,ofcourse.Walpolehadstartedoutasa sailor, but even though he’d risen in the company, he seldom had cause tointeractwithoneof theDirectors.Spencerwasa soft,doughyman,withpinkcheeksandasmall redmouthseeminglypermanentlyset ina jovial smile.Heseemed utterly harmless. Duncan wondered how it was that Spencer haddeducedhisassociationwiththeAssassins,andhewasvexedthatnotoncehadtheman’s name floated in his consciousness as amember of the domineeringandselfishTemplarOrder.

AlthoughallthepointsRandallraisedhadvalidity,theyalsoemphasizedonecoldandunpleasant fact:As longasWalpoleoperatedwithin the tenetsof theBrotherhood,hewouldneverachievethehonorsandwealththathefeltwerehisdue.AndheknewthatdespiteRandall’swordsabout“all”ofthemstandingtobenefit from trainingwith theMayanmentor, hewas the only one of “all” ofthemRandallfeltcoulduseit.

Onsomelevel,itwasarebuke.Hewouldhavenoneofit.“I’mnotgoing.”“Ofcourseyou’renot,”Randallsaidaffably,surprisinghim.“You’reangry

withme.Youfeelslighted.YouandIhavedancedthisgavottebefore,Duncan.Butyou’reagoodman,andIthinkyoustillbelieveinthegoalsandphilosophyof theBrotherhood.”His thin lipscurled in the rarestof smiles.“Whyelsedoyouthinkwe’veputupwithyouaslongaswehave?You’llcomearound.Youalwaysdo.”

“Youareluckyweareinapublicplace,oldman,”Duncanhissed.“Oryou’dbedeadwhereyoustand.”

“Indeed, this spot was chosen deliberately. You don’t acquire the rank ofMentorwithoutwisdom,”Randallsaidwryly.“Takesometimetocoolthathotheadofyours,Duncan,andwe’lltalkagainwhenyou’reready.Thiscouldbeanenormous opportunity for you, if you’ll just step out of your own way longenoughtoseeit.”

“You’reabouttoseemyarse,andyoumaykissitifyoulike,”Duncanshotbackasheturnedandstalkedoff,seethingwithfuryandwoundedpride.

He spent the day sulking at India House, where, as luck would have it, theweeklymeetingof theCourtofDirectorswasoccurring,andtherotundHenrySpencer,Esquire,wasinattendance.Asthemandeparted,Duncandecidedtogoontheoffense.

He followed Spencer’s carriage through the streets of London, waitingpatiently as he stopped at his inn before leaving again to dine with othermembersof theCourtofDirectors, and then finallypresumably settling in fortheeveningatoneofthemorerespectabletaverns.

WalpolefeignedadoubletakeashespottedSpencersittingalone,puffingona long-stemmed clay pipe and reading one of the seemingly hundreds ofpamphletsthatlitteredthecity.

“HenrySpencer,Esquire, isn’t it?”Hegavea littlebowas theman lookedup.“DuncanWalpole,atyourservice.Ihavethehonorofworkingforyourfinecompany.”

“Ah,yes,”Spencerexclaimed,hispinkfacebeamingasifthiswasthenicestthingintheworld.“Yourname’sbeenbandiedabout,Mr.Walpole.Haveaseat,haveaseat.Careforsomesherry?”Withoutwaitingforananswer,hemadeeye

contactwith one of the servers and she brought over an extra glass, blushingprettilyasshesetitdownbeforeDuncan.

Hewasmorethanalittledisappointedthathewasn’tsimplytaverncrawlingtonight,butmadeanoteofherforthefuture.

“Theregoesaprettypiece,”hesaid.“Toobadshe’snotonthemenu.”“Oh, I’m sure for the right fellow, everything is permitted,” Spencer said,

and let his gaze linger on Walpole’s just a moment too long before takinganotherpullonhispipe.Andallofasudden,hedidn’tlookquitesoharmless.

Nothingistrue;everythingispermitted.PartoftheAssassin’sCreed.Walpoledidn’t react,buthispulsequickened.So—Randallhadbeen right.

Hehadbeensniffedout.Most of the time,Duncanwas a hothead, and he had never denied it.But

sometimes,hewentcold,asifthathotheadhadbeenplungedintoanicypool,andheknewthataspectofhispersonalitywasevenmorefrightening.

The cold settled into him now as he regarded Spencer and he gave theTemplarapleasantgrin.

“Goodthingtoo,eh?Iwon’ttellifyouwon’t.”“Ofcoursenot,”Spencersaid,“We’regentlemenandemployeesofBritain’s

finestcompany.I’mcertainwe’llbothtakeanyindiscretionsweobservetothegrave.”

Oh,howrightyouare.“Well, in that case, I highly recommend Rose of England. Ask for

Jessamine.”They talked idly of the price of silk and tea, and whether it would ever

becomequiteaspopularascoffee.“Perhaps,”Spencersaid.“AlthoughIratherhopeitmayremainthepreferredbeverageofgentlemen.Lettheriffraffcontinuetoswillthevileconcoction.”

Itwasludicrous,butthatwasthatoffhandcommentwhichcementedHenrySpencer’sfateinDuncan’seyes.

Spencerwoulddietonight.Walpolebidedhistime,playingcardsanddrinking,untilSpencergotupto

leave.Hiseyesonhiscards,DuncanheardtheTemplardecliningtheofferofacarriageridehome,sayinghislodgingswerenotfaranditwasapleasantnight.

Duncangavehimenoughofaheadstartsothatthebastardwouldn’tsuspect,thencashedinhiscardsandfollowed.

AlthoughithadbeentenyearssinceMichaelCole’spatentedglobularlightshad been first lit outside of St. James’s Coffeehouse, the lampswere still notwidelyimplemented,andtheLondonstreetsweredark.But thehalf-fullmoonprovided more than enough illumination for Duncan to observe Spencertrundling up ahead along the street, lantern in hand.Walpole followed on thestreet for a bit, thenducked into an alley, shinnied easily up the stone side ofanother tavern, and leapt lightlyon the slate roof to continue thepursuit fromabove.

His quarry was enveloped in a faint scarlet nimbus, and Duncan grinned.Whyhadhenotdonethisbefore?Itwasfar tooeasy.Heranlightlyalongtheroof, springing from one to the next as chimneys from the taverns, gaminghouses,andwhorehousessentblacksmokeupintotheair.

Thenhepaused.Fartooeasy.Damnit.Washewalkingintoatrap?Foramoment,hethoughtaboutabandoninghis

pursuit of the pudgy, solitary figure huffing purposefully along. Perhaps heshouldgobacktoRandallandacceptthemission.Itmightnotbethatbad.

Butofcourseitwouldbethatbad.Along,difficult,unpleasantseavoyage,withnothingbutjungle,ruinedtemples,andlotsandlotsof“training.”

No.HewouldnotgoslinkingbacktoRandalllikeadogwithitstailbetweenhislegs.Grimly,hecontinuedon.

Spencer turned a corner and vanished into an alleyway.Unless the fellowwasabouttounbuttonandtakeapiss, thisreallywasabadideaforawealthygentleman.

Which,ofcourse,meantthatthisreallywasatrap.Duncanwasn’tsurehow,asthemanwasalone.Butifheknewitwasatrap,thenitceasedtobeone.Inforapenny,inforapound,hethought,flickedhiswriststoactivatehishiddenblades,andsprang.

Ordinarily,Walpolewouldhaveimpaledtheman’sthroatuponcontact.Butnot this time, especially as he realized that Henry Spencer, Esquire, wasstanding, trousers quite properly buttoned, looking up expectantly andmakingnomovetoescapeastheAssassinspranguponhim.

Suchconfidencewasimpressive,andashelandedsquarelyuponthefleshyTemplar,Duncanmerelypressedthebladetotheman’sthroat.

“YouknewI’dfollowyou,”hesaid.“Icertainlyhopedyouwould,”Spenceranswered.Duncan blinked.Keeping his blades to theman’s throat, he looked about.

They were completely alone. Intrigued, he said, “You don’t strike me as oneeagertodie.”

“Oh,noindeed.”“Andyet,Iamgoingtokillyou,Templar,”Spencersmiled.“Notquiteyet,Ithink.You’reasmartfellow,Walpole.I’m

offeringyouapropositionthatmightinterestyou.”Abruptly,Walpole laughed.“I’mnotmovingmyblades,”hesaid,“but I’ll

letyouspeakbeforeIcutyourthroat.”“Thisistrifleuncomfortable,butasyouwish.Iwasn’ttheonlyTemplarin

thattavern.Weknowyou’reanAssassin.Andwehaveforsometime.Youmaykillmerighthereandnow,butyouwouldn’tgetfar.”

“Leapingfromrooftoptorooftop,aretheTemplars,now?”“No, but we do have eyes everywhere. And you’d never dare approach

anyoneintheCompanyagain.Quitetheloss.”Duncanscowled.“Goon.”“We’vebeenwatchingyouforsometime.Idon’tknowhowtheAssassins

treat you, but I know that you’ve been passed over for promotion within the

Company.AndifyouweretrulycontentwiththeBrotherhood,you’dneverhavehesitatedtokillmejustnow—suspectedtraporno.”

Damntheman’seyes,hewasright.Duncanmadeadecision.Heswunghimselfofftheman,gettingtohisfeet

and extending his hand to help Spencer to his. The man’s grip was strong,thoughhishandsweresoftanddamp.

IcaneasilytakehimifIdon’tlikewhathesays,Duncanreasoned.“Areyouofferingmea…position?”

“At theEast IndiaCompany?No.You’ll farebetter and risehigher if youjoin theTemplars.Pride inone’sworkandrecognitionandadvancement for itarenotflawsinone’scharacter,toourwayofthinking.”

ThewordingtookDuncanaback.HerealizedthattheAssassinsdid,indeed,lookuponhisambitionasaflaw,andtherevelationwassurprisinglypainful.Hesaidnothingforamoment.Spencerheldhistongue,notpressinghim.

At last, Duncan Walpole said quietly, “The Mentor of the CaribbeanBrotherhoodhasheardrumorsofaSage.”

Spencer inhaled quickly. “That information is indeed… extraordinarilyhelpful.”

Walpoletookthenextstep.“Thatcouldbejustthebeginning.”

Duncanlookedupatthecoffeehouse’ssign:agoldenpotofthebeverageagainsta red background,with two long-stemmed clay pipes crossing one another onbelowit.Hegazeddownthestreet;thedaywasclearenoughthathecouldseetheTowerofLondonwhichgavethecobbledstreetitsname.

He peered through the wavy glass of Lloyd’s Coffee House. Randall wasinside, as was his wont at this hour, listening to the news brought by the

executivesofshippingcompanies,theirsailors,andthemerchantswhosoldthegoodstheybrought.

For a moment, Walpole stood outside, hesitating. His head hurt, and thecoffeewouldhelpit,anditwastimetofinishwhathe’dbegunlastnight.

TimetostickadifferentkindofhiddenbladeintotheMentor’sheart—onethemanwould,ifDuncanWalpoleplayedhiscardsright,neverfeeluntilitwasfartoolate.

Randalllookedupasheentered,onegrayeyebrowquirkinginmildsurprise.“Goodmorrow,Duncan,”hesaid.“Youlooksober.”

“I am,”he said, “but I am inwant of coffee. I’ve thought aboutwhat yousaid, and you’re right. One should never settle for being ‘good enough.’ Oneshouldstrivetobecomethebest,andifIcanlearnfromAhTabaiandhelptheBrotherhood…thenIshoulddoso.”

Something that looked like real affection flickered acrossPhillipRandall’saquilinefeatures.

“Iknowhowdifficultitisforyoutoswallowyourpride,Duncan,”hesaid,almostkindly.Hewaveddownaserver,whobroughtanextracup,andfilledtheemptyreceptaclewiththesteamyhot,thickblackliquid.

As he accepted the beverage, the traitor to the Creed said to his Mentor,smiling,“Itgoesdowneasierwithcoffee.”

SUBJECT:EMIR

REGRESSION:CONSTANTINOPLE,1475

YusufTazim,eightyearsold,staredoutattheportofConstantinople,hiseyesasbigastwofullmoonsandhismouthaperfectcircleofastonishment.

Ithadalreadybeena journeyburstingwithwonders, travelingfromBursa,wherehehadbeenborn,tothisferry,andthenoveravastexpanseofwater.Hehadneverbeenmorethanamilefromhomebeforeinhislife.

Hismother,Nalan, stood beside him, smiling as she placed a hand on herson’snarrowshoulder.

“Do you see? I told you that Constantinople had something Bursa didn’thave.”

She had come into their rooms three nights ago, her slender, strong bodyawkwardwithtensionasshetoldhimtheyneededtraveltoConstantinople,rightaway.Itwasodd,andfrightening,andhehadnotwantedtoleave.

IthadbeenjustthetwoofthemallYusuf’syounglife.Hehadneverknownhisfather,andalltheaskingintheworldaboutwhathadhappenedtohimservedtheboylittle,saveforthereassurancethathisfatherhadnotwantedtoleavehiswifeorhissonandwas,morethanlikely,notgoingtobeabletoreturntothem.

Therewerestories,though,thathismotherwouldsharewithhim;talesofhislaughterandkindness,andthewarmthinhissmile.“Youaremuchlikehim,mychild,” Nalan would say, and her eyes would somehow be happy while stillhauntedbysorrow.

Now,however,therewerenoshadowsinhismother’seyes.WhateveritwasthathadcausedhertowanttodepartBursasoquicklyhad,itseemed,beenleftbehindinthatcity.

“Areyougladyoucame,mylittlelion?”Lookingoutattheapproachingharborandthebuildingsthatcrowdedbehind

it, tallandproudandcolorfulagainsttheblueofthesky,Yusufconsideredthequestion. Itwasnotsofarawaythathecouldnot returnonedayshouldhesodesire,hismotherhadpointedoutwhileshepackedtheirmeagerbelongings.

Hedidnotliketothinkofhowtheyhadleft,orwonderwhy.Hisusualgoodnatureasserteditselfandasthevesseldrewclosertoport,withthesoundsoftheropesslappingagainsttheship’shullandthesightofsmallfiguresscurryingtogreetitandbringitinsafely,Yusufnodded.

“Yes,”heannounced.“Iam.”

The voice penetrated Emir’s consciousness. It was female, cool, in completecontrol.Kind,butwithnotruecompassion.Butthemorehefocusedonit, themorehisheadhurt.

“Thistellsusnothingofimport.Weknowhewasatroublemakerasachild,butthisseemstobetooyoungtogetintomuchmischief.”

“Iwouldn’tcountonthat.”Amalevoicethistime.Clipped,dry,tothepoint.“Apparentlysomethingsignificanthappenedwithinhisfirstyearhere.”

Emirdidn’twanttohearthis.Somehowheknewitwasdangerous,knewitcouldleadto—

“Canyounarrowitdowntoaspecificdate?”“Yes,hangon.There,that’sgotit.”

BursawasthesecondlargestcityintheOttomanempire,soConstantinople,orKonstantinyye,orIstanbul—arecent,localnameforthegreatportcity—didnotdazzletheboyquitesomuchasitmighthaveifhebeenborninadistantvillage.He knew hisway around street corners, alleyways, tunnels, and areas that heknew his mother would not like to know he visited. But while Bursa hadcertainlybeen large andbustling, Istanbulwas the capital city of theOttomanEmpire,andofferedmuchmore.

It was a hub of commerce and activity, where merchants and sailors andtravelers, innkeepers andmercenaries, soldiers andbeggars all intersected in anoisy, colorful, fragrant, andvibrant collage.Peopleof allwalksof life,of allculturesandreligionswerewelcome—indeed,encouraged—tocometothecity.

Yusufhadalways felt thathismotherprepared thebest sweetsanyonehadevertasted.InBursa,wheresheworkedinthemarket,herkemalpasa—adessertmadewith unsalted sheep’s cheese, flour, eggs, and butter rolled intowalnut-sizedpiecesandthencookedinlemonsyrup—wasunrivaled.Sohewasnotatallsurprisedthatoncea localvendor,a jovial,corpulentmannamedBekirbinSalih,hadtastedit,hehiredherafterthefirstbite.

Yusuf’stasksinitiallywerewhattheyhadbeeninBursa—tohelphismotherobtaintheingredientsneededtopreparethekemalpasa,todrawcustomerstothestall,andtodelivercloth-wrappedpackagesofthedelicioustreatstocustomersalloverthecity.Hesometimestook…differentroutesthanmostpeoplewould,choosingtogoover-orunder—ratherthanthroughthecity.

Ononesuchadventure,asheclimbedlikeamonkeyontoarooftoptogetanabsolutely glorious view of the city, he observed something strange. Certainroofshadpoleserectedonthem.Attachedtothepoleswereropesthatstretchedfrom higher buildings to lower ones.What were these for? Sometimes cordswerestrungtodryclothing,ortohangbanners.Butthesewerethickandsolid.

They could easily support a man’s weight, and he discovered it certainlysupportedhisashewent,carefully,handoverhandfromonerooftoptoanother.Whohadputthemup?Whatweretheyfor?Hewonderedaboutthemeverytimehelookedup.

But there was amore pressing problem thanwho had erected the rooftopropes.Asthemonthsstretchedon,itbecameapparenttoYusufthatalthoughhismotherwasabletofeedthem,shedidnotcomehomewiththesameamountofcoinsshehadearnedinBursa,andwhatmoneyshewasabletomakedidnotgoquiteas far.The ingredients for thekemalpasaweremoreexpensivehere, andthecheesemuchhardertofind.Hehadalreadyoutgrowntheclothingtheyhadbroughtwiththem,andheknewthatreplacingthemwasanexpensetheycouldnotafford.

Despitethegrowthspurt,Yusufwasstillsmallforhisageandthinasarail,soheslippedeasilyamongthecrowdsintheGrandBazaarandelsewhere.Toomanycarelesspeopleworetheirfundseithertuckedintheirsleevesorinsmallpoucheswithleatherlacingsthatweretheworkofaheartbeattocutandabscondwith. Each night, he presented his mother with a handful of coins he had“earned”whilesupposedlyperformingacrobaticsinthestreettodrawattentiontoBekir’s stall, or had “been given” as tokens of appreciation for particularlyfastdeliveries.

At firsthismotherwaspleasantlysurprised,praisinghimforearningextraincome.Butasithappenedmoreandmoreregularly,shegrewconcerned.Onenight, she said to him, “Yusuf, tell me, and do not lie… you have not beenhurtinganyonetogetthese,haveyou?”

Relieved at the phrasing, which enabled Yusuf to deftly sidestep the realissueandanswerquitehonestly,“Iwouldneverhurtanyoneformoney,Mama!”Sheseemedtotakehimathisword,anddidn’tpressfurther.

Onenight,whentheBazaarwaslitwithtorchesandseveralmusicianswerepoundingnagaras andplucking sazes for coins,Yusufwoundhisway throughthe crowd. He stood next to a tall woman dressed in a colorful, well-crafted

kaftanandferace—clearlyawomanofmeans.Onehand,softandclearlyunusedtophysicallabor,heldtightlytothatofasmallchildofperhapsthreeorfour.Inherotherarm,shecradledababy.Theolderchildstaredraptly,thengiggledandstarted stamping her feet and jumping up and down.Hermother’s face shonebrightly,andsheswungherarmalongwithherdaughter’scapering.

Thusdistracted,shewastheeasiesttargetYusufhadencounteredallday,andhewasinandoutinthespanofabreath.Thepursewassurprisinglyheavyashestashed it inside his shirt andmaneuvered to the edge of the crowd. A quickscamperandhewasoutofthebustlingmajorthoroughfareintoasidestreet.Hetookalookaroundand,satisfiedthathewasalone,openedthepouch.

Itwastoodarktoseeclearly,butYusufhadtaughthimselfhowtorecognizethecoinsbysizeandfeel,andgrinned.Thiswouldlasthimforweeks!Hehadjuststartedtoplace thepursebackinhisshirtwhenafigure launcheditselfathim.

Instinctcausedhimtowhirl,andhealmoststruckablowofhisownbeforehismuch largeradversaryknockedhimto theground.He landedhardwithanooofasthewindrushedoutofhislungs.

Yusufwaspinnedandcouldn’tseehisattacker’sfaceinthedarknessofthealley,butthatdidn’tstophimfromstrugglingandflailingandtryingtobite.Oh,ifIwereolder…!

“Whatdidyouthinkyouweredoingoutthere?”Thevoicebelongedtoaboy,olderthanheanddefinitelybiggerandheavier,

butnotyetanadult.Yusuftooktheopportunitytoattempttokneetheolderboyinthegroin.Theotheryouthtwistedoutoftheway,swearing,andthefightwason.

Yusufpunchedhardontheinsideoftheotherboy’selbow,forcingittobendandtheboytolurchevenfurthertotheside.Hethenpouncedatophimlikeacatonarat.Yusufhadnotdonemuchfighting;hissizedidnotpredisposehimtoit.But hewas angry now, and he began to pummel the other boywith clenchedfists.He feltoneblowcrunch theother’snoseandwas rewardedwitha sharp

yelp…before themuch largeradversarydecided toquit toyingwithhim.Onebighandcameup,closedaroundYusuf’sthroat,andsqueezedastheboyforcedhimoveronhisback.

“You idiot, I’m trying tohelp you!” theboy said, his voice thick fromhisbloodiednose.“I’mgoingtoletgoofyounow,allright?”

He was as good as his word, releasing Yusuf and moving quickly out ofstriking distance. Surprised curiosity chased away anger as Yusuf sat up,touchinghisneckexperimentally.Itdidn’tevenhurtmuch.

Thetwostaredateachotherinthedimlight,panting.“You’reYusufTazim,”theothersaidatlast.“I’mDavudbinHassan.”

“How—”beganYusuf,buttheotherinterruptedhim.“I’vebeenwatchingyou,”Davudsaid.“Thatwasaluckyblow.Doyouhave

anycloth?”Yusuf did; it had been used throughout the day to carry deliveries of

kemalpasaandsmelledfaintlyofthesweetashepasseditovertoDavud,who,herealized,wouldn’tbesmellingmuchofanythinganytimesoon.

“Well, you attackedme first,”Yusuf said, though hewanted to apologize,andknewaswellasDavuddidthatitwas,indeed,aluckyblow.

“I was only trying to pin you.” Davud accepted the cloth and started togingerlyblothisbloodyface.

“Andwhydidyouwanttopinmeifnottoattackmeorstealmymoney?”“Becauseit’snotyourmoney,isit?”Yusufhadno response to that. Itwasn’t hismoney.But…“Igive it tomy

mother,”hesaidquietly.“Weneedit.”“And the woman watching the dancing didn’t?” Kemal retorted. “Her

childrendidn’t?”“She looked like she could spare some coins,”Yusuf answered, somewhat

defensively,asherecalledherwell-made,attractiveclothes.“Justlikeyou,Selime’schildrenhavenofather.Idon’tknowwhathappened

toyours,butIknowwhathappenedtotheirs.Hewasviolentandcrueltothem,

andSelimefledinthenighttoescape.Youtookeverythingshehad.Youcouldseeherfineclothes,butnotthebruisesonherface,eh?”

Shamewashed throughYusuf and he felt his face heat up. The pursewasunusuallyheavy;generallythosewhowentoutinthemarketdidn’tcarryquitesomuchmoneywiththem,astheftsweren’tuncommon.

“IsupposeyouwantmetogiveyouthemoneyItookfromher.ButhowdoIknowyou’renotlying?”

“Idon’twantyoutogivemethemoney.Iwantyoutogive itbacktoher.WhatIwantfromyouisjustyou.”

“Idon’tunderstand.”“The Bazaar, Istanbul itself… it can be a difficult place if you are not

wealthyorpowerful.And it canbeparticularlydangerous forchildren.Wealllookoutforeachother.”

Hisnosehadstoppedbleeding,buteveninthefaintlightYusufcouldseeitwasamess.Davudstartedtohandtheclothbacktohimbuthewaveditaway.Hewasafraidhehadbrokentheotherboy’snose.Hethoughtaboutthehappylittlegirldancinggracelesslybutjoyouslytothemusic.HewonderedifthestoryDavudwastellingwastrue,andifso,howlonghaditbeensincethatgirlhadlaughed.

“Obviously, you’re already a fine cutpurse. I can teach you how to fight.Well,fightevenbetter.”Throughthemaskofbloodonhisface,Davudsmiled.“Therearethings,andpeople,thatareworthgettingabloodynose—andmore—for.Andthosewhoaren’t.Youneedtobeabletotellwhichiswhich,orelseonedaythoselightfingersofyourswillstealfromthewrongperson.”

The whole thing sounded very strange… and very suspicious. But it alsomadealotofsense.YusufwaswellawarethatDavudcouldhavekilledhimjustnow,andtheboyhadreleasedhim.

Davudgottohisfeet,toweringoverYusufbyaboutafoot.Yusufguessedhewasabout thirteen.“Comeon. I’ll introduceyoutoSelimeandherfamilyandyoucangivethemoneyback.Or,”hesaid,“youcanleaverightnow.”

Yusufmadeuphismind.“Showme.”Anhourlater,Yusufwalkedhomealone.Hisshirtwasemptyofcoin,buthis

heartwasfullofsatisfactionandhisheadwasfullof ideas.Hewasexcited tolearneverythingthatDavudcouldteachhim.

“Cross reference this Davud bin Hassam with our database,” came the soft,modulatedfemalevoice.

“Nothing.NotiestotheAssassins,atleastnonethatwecandetermine.”“Howodd.Ihadthought,giventhesignificanceofthismemory,itmightbe

whenYusufwasrecruited.”“TooyoungatageeightevenforAssassins,Isuppose.”“Formally,perhaps.Still…thiswasenlightening.What’sthenextdate?”“April23,1480.”

REGRESSION:CONSTANTINOPLE,1480

Itwas the bayram ofHidirellez, the festival thatmarked the beginning of thespringandsummer,andeveryoneinthecitywashappy.Thoughitspecificallyhonoredthemeetingoftwoprophets,HizirandIlyas,allmembersofthediversepopulationofIstanbulfoundsomethingtocelebrateinthisbayramthatwasallaboutmakingwishes,lettinggooftheoldandwelcomingthenew,goodhealthandfortune,andplentyofeating,dancing,andmusic.

Nalanhadbeenworkingharder thanever toprepareenoughkemalpasaforthecelebratingthrongsthatcrowdedtheBazaar,andthealwaysgenialBekirbin

Salih, the vendor who oversaw several stalls and spaces in the Bazaar, waspracticallyradiatinggoodwillattheturnout.Foronce,Yusufwaskepttoobusywithlegitimatedeliveriestocutpurses,buthewouldnothavedonesoanyway.

“Hidirellezisaboutcommunity,”thenoweighteen-year-oldDavudhadtoldhis group of young thieves, scouts, spies, and vigilantes. “Wewon’t start ournewbeginningsbymakingthembadforothers.”Yusufagreedwholeheartedly.TherewasenoughlegitimatebusinessgoingonintheBazaaranyway.

Thefestivitieswentonwellintothenight.Itwasthesmallhoursbeforethelastfewcelebrantsheadedtotheirhomes,sleepywithfullbelliesandperhapsalittletheworse—orbetter—foralcohol.AfterYusufandhismotherhadretiredto theirmodest lodgings, she surprised him by placing somethingwrapped inclothonthesmalltable.

“Todayisadayforwishesandnewbeginnings,”shesaid,“andyourfatherhadawishforyou…whenyouwereready.Ithinkitistime.”

Yusuf’sheartleaped.Hesatdownonthesinglebench,eyeingthemysteriousbundle.“Awish…whatwasit,Mother?”

“ThatI tellyouwhatIcouldofhim,withoutbetrayinganyoathshemade.AndthatIgiftyouwithsomethingthatoncebelongedtohim.”

Yusuf trembledwithexcitement, andashismother spoke,he listenedwithnotjusthisears,butwitheverypartofhimself.

“IhavealwaysdonewhatIdo,”shebegan.“Ipreparekemalpasaandsellit.Yourfatherhelpedme,asyoudonow,buthedidotherthingsaswell.”

Her dark eyes watched the small candle flame on the table, obviouslywrestlingwithwhatshefeltshecouldrevealtotheironlychild,andwhatneededtoremainsecret.

Exasperated,Yusufgrabbedhishairandpretendedtotearatit.“Mama,Iamgoingtodieofanticipation!Tellmebeforemyhairgoesgray,willyou?”

Shelaughedthenand,sittingdownnexttohim,tousledhishairfondly.“Youarebarely thirteen, stillmy littleboy in somanyways.But,” sheaddedasherolledhiseyes,“alsonot…insomanyways.”

“Youweresayinghedidotherthings,”Yusufpromptedhelpfully.“HewasnofriendtotheOttomans,or…tootherswhoseektodominateand

controlthepeople.”Shegavehimaslysmile.“Mysweetlittlelion,doyouthinkIdonotknowwhatyoudowhenyouarenotinmysight?”

Yusufblanched.Howdidshe….“You could not possibly earn what you do by simple deliveries or

entertainingcustomers.IhaveseenyouwithDavudandtheothers.Youexplore,youclimb,yourunalongtherooftops.Yougivewhatyoucantothoseyoucan.Sodidyourfather.”

“Whathappenedtohim,Mama?”Shelookedaway,backattheleapingflames.“Heisdead,Yusuf.Ihaveonly

afewthingsthatwerereturned—”shecaughtherselfandcluckedhertongue.“Isaytoomuch.Butthesethingsareyours,nowthatyouareofanagewheretheywillfityou.Youarenotalittleboyanymore.”

Far fromit,Yusuf thought,hispride slightlywounded.Butanyoffensehefelt was washed away by the look of pride commingled with sorrow on hismother’sstrong,beautifulface.Heacceptedtheoutstretchedbundle,notingthelengthofteal-coloredsilkclothinwhichitwaswrapped.

“Becarefulasyouunwrapit,”hismotherwarned.“Why,isthereascorpionorviperhidinginside?”“No…butitmightbiteyou,nonetheless.”Heturnedthelastfoldofclothandstaredatwhatwasrevealed.Itseemedto

be a bracer, or gauntlet of some sort. The leatherworking was beautiful, andYusufpickeditupcarefully,mindfulofhismother’swarning.Turningitover,hesawthattherewassomethingattachedtotheunderside.

“Whatisit?”“Your father called it a hookblade,” his mother answered. “There is a

mechanisminitthatwill—”Yusufstartedaswithasharpsound,apieceofmetalshotoutfromtheendof

thegauntlet.

“Ah,Iseeyoufoundit,”hismotherfinishedwryly.“Thereisahook,asyoucansee,andthereisasimplebladeaswell.”

“HowdoIuseit?”Nalan’s smile faded. “I never saw them in use,” she said. “You know as

muchasIdo,now.But…Ithinkyouweremeanttoknowmore.”He lookedupather, thequestion inhisdarkgrayeyes.Herownsuddenly

glintedinthecandlelight,brightwithunshedtears.“I was selfish, and somehow hoped that you would be content to live an

ordinary life,withme,andonedaywithawifeandchildren. Iknewwhoandwhatyourfatherwaswhenwewed;andIcannotloveyouanddenythepartsofhim I see inyou.Youwerenotmeant to staywithme, sellingkemalpasa andworking in theBazaar, anymore than hewas.Go, and discover your father’slegacy,mydarlingboywhoisnowaman.”

Hewantedtopromiseherhewouldbesafe,thathewouldn’taddthegriefofhisowndeath to thatwhich shehadalreadyborne.Buthecouldn’t lie toher.Thenight,thedarkalleys,thelooksonthefacesofthosewhohelped—andthoseheharmed—drewhimtoopowerfully.

Sohedidthebestthathecouldtobeadutifulsoninthismoment.Heroseandembracedher, realizingashedid so that somehow in the lastyearhehadshotuptobecomeahalfaheadtallerthanher.Holdinghersotightlyhefearedhemightcrushher,hewhisperedinherear,“Iwillbewise.”

Itwasallthereassurancehecouldoffer.Thenightcalled,andhewasanxioustolearn.And…toshowofftoDavud.Very, very carefully, he experimentedwith how the hookblade functioned.

Unlike the blade, it was a tool, not a weapon, and his quick mind startingwonderingjustexactlyhowitworked.Hewasabletosnagthingsoffthegroundashewanderedinthestreets,mostlydesertednow.Itaddedalmostafoottohisreach,sohandholdsthatwereimpossiblesuddenlybecameso,andhefoundhecouldascendmuchmorequickly.

Ascend…andperhapsdescendaswell….He made for one of the buildings where he remembered seeing the

mysteriousropes,usingthehookbladetoclimbswiftlyatoptheroof.Hisheartpoundedinhischestandheextendedthenewtooltowardtherope.

Itfitoveritexactly…asiftherope’sthicknesshadbeenselectedspecificallytoaccommodatethecurveofthehook.

Yusuf’smouthwasdrywithexcitement.Thiscouldn’tbecoincidence.Thiswasdeliberate—andhewonderedif,perhaps,hisfatherhadstoodonthisveryroofyearsago,usingthebladehissonnowwore.

Hehadtoknowwhatitwaslike.Butitwasalongfall.Averylongfall.Gingerly,he reachedoutwith thehookbladeand snagged the rope. It took

him a moment to work up his courage, but then he took a deep breath, andsteppedofftheroof.

Smoothly,swiftly,hespedalongtherope.Severalyardsbelow,stonestreetslay ready to break his bones should the hook slip or give way. The ride wasdizzying,exhilarating,andfartoobrief.Beforeheknewit,hisfeettouchedtheroofoftheshorterbuilding.

Yusufstrugglednottoletoutawhoopofsheerexultation.Whatasensation!Hehadtofeel itagain.Grinningfromear toear, this timehedidn’tfasten thehookontheropeslowlyandcarefully.Hesprang,caughttheline,andsoared.

Hehopedthatsomehow,hisfathercouldseehim,andwasproud.

“This isunusual,” thewomansaidasEmirdrifted,caughtbetweenhispresentandYusuf’spast.“UsinganAssassin’sweaponatthirteensoefficientlywithnotraining.Remarkable.”

“Thisweaponandthislittleganghe’srunningwith—alltheevidencewe’vegatheredsuggeststhey’reextremelyimportanttowhohewillbecome.”

“AndwhohebecomeshasaneffectononeofthemostimportantAssassinsweknowoftodate,”musedthewoman.“EzioAuditore.Isthereanythingelseweshouldseebeforewegototheirfirstencounter?”

“Theredoesseemtobesomethingimportantabouttwoyearson.Hangon…letmegettheexactdate.”

REGRESSION:CONSTANTINOPLE,1482

Yusufwas both tremendously excited and terribly nervous. In the seven yearssince he had first met Davud in the alley and learned of the older boy’s oddorganizationof theBazaar’schildren, theyhadhadmanyadventuresandclosecalls.

Davud—whosenosehadneverhealedquiterightafterthatmemorablefirstencounter—hadkepthisword.HehadtaughtYusufhowtofight,bothfairlyandsneakily.Hehadintroducedhimtotheothermembersofthegroup—childrenallatthetime,thoughsomeofthem,likeDavudandYusufhimself—whowasnowsecondonlytoDavud—hadgrownup.Someofthemhadleftthecity,ormovedtootherareasofit.ButheandDavudstayed,tolookoutfortheinterestsoftheBazaarcommunityinwaysthatthemerchantsthemselvescouldnot.

Tonight,theywouldperformthatdutyinawaytheyhadneverdonebefore.They would not be throwing small smoke bombs to cause distractions, orstealing coins in a crowd, or even defacing property. Tonight, they would bebreakingintoaprivateresidence,andstealingwhatevertheycouldsmuggleout.

Their hands had been forced. Vendors, like the kindly Bekir, rented theirstalls from others who owned the spaces. Rent was steep, but that wasunderstood—itwasaprimeplacetosellinthegreatestcityintheworld.Butin

thelastweek,astranger,ridinginapalanquinandwearingthefinestsilks,hadmadehiswaythroughtheBazaar,turningcold,appraisingeyesoncertainstalls.

And the next thing the stunnedmerchants learnedwas that their rent wasabouttoquadruple.

There was nothing they could do, a heartbroken Nalan had told herdistraughtandfuriousson.“PoorBekirissobbing.Hehasrunhisbusinessoutofthatstallforadozenyears.Andnow,hehastoleave.”

“Whatifwecouldmeettheprice?”Yusufhadasked.She’d laughed,bitterly.“Evenifyoucouldcut thatmanypurses,mylight-

fingeredboy,youwouldnothavetimetodoso.Wewillneedtobeoutinfivedays.”At the thunder inhisface,sheadded,“Weare luckier thanmost.Thereareothersouksinthecity,andeveryonelikeskemalpasa.We’llbeallright.”

They might land on their feet, but not everyone else would.What wouldbecomeoffriendlyBekir,andtheotherswhocouldnotreadilyplytheirtradeselsewhere?

Fortunately, Davud agreed with Yusuf, and they hatched the scheme theywerenowabouttoenact.

Theyhadsentsomeoftheyoungerchildrentoactasbeggarsintheareanearthenewowner’slodgings,andtofollowhimunobtrusivelyashewentabouthisbusiness.Thatnight, oneof them reported that theowner,whowasobviouslynot Turkish, would be dining out and not returning until well into the smallhours.

Hewasstaying,unsurprisingly,inthebestpartoftown,anareaneartotheTopkapi Palace, though not, thankfully, within its walls. It was a privateresidence,andtherewereapairofguardsoutfrontandafewservantswithin.Asplanned,agroupofchildrenbegantodistracttheguardslongenoughforthepairof young robbers tomaneuver toward the back and hide themselves amid thefloweringtreesofaprivategarden.

While the guards tried to chase away the children, it was the work of amomentforYusuf toactivatehishookblade,ascendtoanupperstorywindow,

openit,andloweraropedownforhisfriend.OnceDavudhadclimbedup,theypulled therope into theroomandclosed theshutters,so thatnopassingguardbelowwouldnoticeanythingamiss.

Voices floated up from the rooms below; idle conversations from servantswhoweretakingadvantageofthefactthattheirmasterwasnothometogossipandrelax.Anytheftwouldhavetobeconductedupstairs,andYusuf,whohadtheabilitytodomanythingsatthesame,listenedwithhalfaneartothechatterbelowwhileheandDavudsearchedtheupstairsrooms.

Yusuf tried to be nonchalant aboutwhat he beheld, although he had neverseen such luxuries in his short life. Silks and furs decorated the rooms.Therewere carved, heavy chairs, not benches, and drawers filled jewelry and withornateclotheswithgemssewnintothem.Hewentrighttowork,usinghisbladetoseparate thegemsfromthe fabricwhileDavudscoured the roomsforcoinsand other smaller, portable riches. They had several merchants who “knewpeople”andwouldbeabletoliquidatethegemsandsmallvaluablesquickly.

“This is unbelievable,”Yusufmurmured as he picked up a small alabastercarvingandthrustitintohissack.Hiseyefellonasmall,wickedlysharpdagger.Thehiltwascoveredwithgoldanddottedwithrubies,andthesheathwasmadeofbutterysoftleather.HetossedittoDavud,whocaughtitdeftly.“Here,foryoufornow,”hesaid.“Youaresojealousofmyhookblade.”

Davudgrinned.For thenext severalminutes, they scoured the large room,shakingtheirheadsatthevastamountofwealth.“Weshouldthinkaboutdoingthismorefrequently,”Yusufsaid.“Ihaveenoughinmybagalonetocovertheincreasedrentforayear.Maybetwoorthree.”

“No,”Davudsaid.“Itwouldattracttoomuchattention.Wehadtodoit,thistime.But it’sbest ifwekeeptotheshadows.Don’tgetgreedy,Yusuf.It’llgetyouevery—”

The word died on his lips as they heard the door open below andconversation floated up. Their gazes locked, and their eyes flew open wide.

Yusufturnedatoncetowardthewindow,crackingtheshuttersandpeeringdownintothegardenbelow.

Where a guard, dressed like none he had ever seen before, stood. Therewouldbenochanceofescapingviaropeuntilhemoved.

“We’restuckhere,”hewhispered,“atleastfornow.”Davudnodded.“Keepwatch.Maybetheywon’tcomeupstairsrightaway.”“Iamgladallisproceedingwell,”cameavoice.Itwasathickaccent,and

thoughYusufcouldn’tplaceit,hetookanimmediatedisliketoit.“TheTemplarshavealwayshadeyes in theBazaar,ofcourse.TheAssassinsarenot theonlyoneswhocanhideinplainsightifneedbe.Butnow,wehavepermanentstalls.”

Raucouslaughterfloatedup.DavudandYusufstaredateachother,horrified.Was the cold-eyed new owner of the stalls setting up some kind of spy ring?Assassins?Templars?Hehadneverheardthetermsbefore.

ButtheydidseemtomeansomethingtoDavud.Theolderyouthpaled,andhewastrembling.

“Davud?”Yusuf said,butDavud lifteda finger tohis lips.He touchedhisear,indicatingthatYusufshouldkeeplistening,thenwenttothewindowtopeerattheguardforhimself.Whathesawseemedtoshakehimevenmore.

Theconversationcontinued.“Youarepoisedtobecomeoneofthewealthiestmeninthecity,”thefirstspeakercontinued.

“Oneof?”saidthenewstallowner.“Ithinkthesultanmighthavejustafewmorecoins,”thefirstspeakersaid.

“Regardless,thiscallsforacelebration.”“Well, since I am about to become at least one of the richest men in

Constantinople,letmeshareavintageIhavekeptforthisoccasion.Itisupstairs,inmyroom.I lock it in therebecauseonecannever trustservants.AmomentwhileIfetchit.”

“Go,”saidDavud,suddenly.Heturnedtofacethedoor,slippingthesheathoffthenarrowdaggerYusuf

hadjokinglyhandedtohim.“Takethebags.You’remuchquickerthanIam,and

youhaveyourblade.Youcangetaway.Ican’t.I’llstallthemaslongasIcan.”“Davud—”Theybothheardbootedfeetcomingupthestairs.“Themerchantsarecountingonyou,”Davudhissed.“SomuchIwishIhad

timetotellyou,but—go.Stayalive,keeptotheshadows,protecttheBazaar!”Yusufstood,rootedtothespot.Thedooropened,andeverythingseemedtohappenatonce.With a cry,Davud launched himself on the newowner, raising the dagger

andplungingitdownward.Despitehissurprise,thehard-eyedmanpivotedjustintime,sothatthebladewentintohisshoulderinsteadofhischest.Grimly,hepulledoutthedaggerwithhisrighthand,impossiblyseizingDavud’shairwithhis leftdespitehiswound,andpullingdownhard, turning theboysohefacedYusuf.

Horrified,Yusufstaredintohisfriend’seyesasDavudshouted,“Run!”Thestallownerliftedthedaggerandbroughtitplungingdown.Crimson.AllYusufsawwascrimson.Thebloodspurtingfromhisfriend’spiercedthroat.Theredcrossontheringthatadornedamurderer’shand.Yusuf wanted more than anything to stay and fight, to die alongside his

friend.Butthatchoicehadbeentakenfromhim.Davudhadboughthimforthemerchantsandtheirfamilieswithhisownlife.

Sobbing,YusufdidasDavudwanted—hefled,takingbothbags,leapingoutintothenightandusingthebladebequeathedtohimbyhisfathertoescapetosafety,whilehisfriendbledoutonthebeautifulrug.

Thenextday, thehard-eyedmanwasfounddead,andthedeal topurchasethestallsmysteriouslyfellthrough.

Yusufdidn’tknowwhathappened.Allheknewwasthathewouldspendhislifedoingwhathisfriendhaddiedfor.

He would stay in the shadows, and protect those who could not protectthemselves.

Andhewouldwatch,andwait,forothermenwearingtheredcross.

SUBJECT:MOUSSA

“He’salwaysdifficult,”amalevoicesaid.“MoussaorBaptiste?”thecalm,almost-caringfemalevoiceinquired.“Both.”“Idon’tdisagreewithyou.Theyarebothcomplexindividuals.”“Baptistewillmake the regressionevenmore complicated if hismemories

areaffectedbycertaintoxins.”“Memoriesarealwaystricky,evenwithoutchemicalalterations,”thefemale

voicesaid.“Weknowthat.They’reneverentirelyaccurate.Wedon’tseewhat’sreallythere.Weonlyseewhathesees.”

“AsIsaid…he’salwaysdifficult.”“Beginregression,”thewomansaid.

REGRESSION:SAINT-DOMINGUE,1758

Drumming.Thesoundofdrumming,forbiddentothemwhentheywerepropertyowned

byothers,wasthesoundoflibertytotheMaroonsofSaint-Domingue.FrançoisMackandal had known thiswell, and he had taught this truth to those he hadtrainedandliberated.

HadtaughtthatandsomuchmoretothemanwhonowsurveyedthedozensofMackandal’sfollowers,whodancedanddrankbeforehimintheirbasedeepinthejungle.

Baptistetookanotherswigofrumashewatched.Therewerethreebonfires,oneinthecenteroftheclearingandtwosmalleronesovertothesides.Thedark,sweat-glistenedskinofthedancersgleamedasitcaughtthelight.Baptistehadknownmanyof thedancerssincehewas thirteen,whenheandAgatéhadrunawayfromtheirlivesasslavestojoinMackandalinhispassionate,angrysearchforlibertyandvengeance.

WhentheyhadbecomefullmembersoftheAssassinBrotherhood.Agaté.Agaté,withwhomhehadgrownupontheplantation,andhadfought

beside. Baptiste had always expected that theywould die beside one another.NeverhadhethoughthewouldwitnesswhatAgatéhaddoneearliertoday.

The recollection knotted his stomach and he made a sour face. He tookanother drink, deeper this time, trying and failing to dull the combination ofshock, white-hot fury, and, shamefully, pain that stirred in his heart at thethoughtoftheotherman.

Agaté.Thetwomenhadbeenascloseasbrothers,once.ButthethirdplantationslaveMackandalhadselectedfortraining…shehad

ruinedthatcloseness.Mackandal had come to the plantation in secret, by night, and no one had

betrayedhim.Thosewhocould—thosewhodared—managedtosneakawaytomeetingswhere he taught them about the life they could have away from theplantation,awayfromslavery.

At first, he only spoke. Told them about his own life, free, to do as hepleased.Thenhe taught the eager slaves how to read andwrite. “Much Iwillsharewiththosewhoareworthy,”hehadpromised,“butthismaybethemostpowerfulweaponIgiveyou.”

She had liked that, skittish little Jeanne. And she had liked Agaté, too.Baptiste had caught them holding hands once, and he had laughed at them,

warningthatMackandalwouldnotbepleased.“You’re not strong enough,” he had told Jeanne scornfully. “All you do is

keepAgatéfromhistraining.”“Training?”shehadasked,lookingatthemboth.“Forwhat?”Baptistehadscowledanddraggedhis“brother”offtotheirprivatemeeting

withMackandal.“ShewillneverbeanAssassin,”hetoldAgaté.“Sheisnotoneofus.Notreally.Notinherheart.”

Mackandalrealizedit, too,afteratime.Shelearnedhowtoreadandwrite,butnothingmore.Henever invitedJeannetoparticipate in therealtraining.ItfilledBaptistewith pride to realize thatMackandal—a former slave, onewhowasevenmissinganarmduetoachildhoodaccidentwithasugarcanepress—hadnotonlymanagedtoescape,butcouldleadothers.Andwin.

Inthisspecialtraining,BaptisteandAgatélearnedhowtouseweapons—andhowtoattackwithoutthem.Howtomixpoisons—andhowtodeliverthem,aspowderindrinks,asathickcoatingondarts.

Thepairofboyslearnedhowtokill,openlyandfromtheshadows;even,asMackandaldemonstrated,howtodosowithonlyonearm.Andwhenatlasttheyescapedtheplantation,leavingthecowardlyJeannebehind,theydidkill.

Thedrumsgrewlouder,drawingBaptiste’sthoughtsfromthehappypasttothe solemn present. Tonight, he, Baptiste, would lead the ritual. This, too,Mackandalhadtaughthim.

Vodou.Notthetrueritualofit,no,butthetrappings.Thepowerofsymbol,andthe

powerofwhatwasnotmagic,butappearedtobe.“Letthemfearyou,”Mackandalsaid,“thosewhohateyou.Eventhosewho

loveyou.Especiallythosewholoveyou.”Tonight’s ceremony would change everything. It had to, or all that

Mackandal had fought for—all Baptiste and, once upon a time, Agaté, hadfoughtfor—wouldfallapart.

Thecelebrantshaddrunkdeeplyoftherumhehadhandedout,unawarethat

therewasmore in their cups than alcohol. Soon, theywould be ready for theritual;readytoseethingstheywouldnototherwisesee.

Tobelievethingstheywouldotherwisequestion.Todothingstheywouldotherwisenotdo.Thedrummingincreased,climbingtoanalmostfranticcrescendo,andthere

wasabawling,bellowingsoundofftooneside.Thebullthatwasledouthadawreath of flowers around his massive neck. He was drugged and calm, andwouldnotstruggle.

Baptisterose,hispowerfulfingerscurlingaroundthehiltofhismachete.Hewas a large,well-muscledman, and he had done this before, forMackandal’srites.Heleapedlithelydownfromtheplatformandstrodetothebeast.Earlier,by his command, it had been bathed and anointedwith perfumes stolen fromformermasters.Nowitturneditshornedhead,peeringathimwithwide,dilatedeyes.Hepatteditsshoulderanditgrunted,asplacidasanoldcow.

Grippinghismachete,Baptisteturnedtohispeople.“Itistimetobegintherite!Wewillmakeanofferingtotheloa,andinvite

themtocometous,totelluswhattheBrotherhoodmustdotogoforward!”Thewordshurtastheylefthislips.Mackandal.Fortwentyyears,fromage

thirteen to thirty-three, Baptiste and Agaté had fought at his side. They hadlearned their Mentor’s version of the Assassin’s Creed—one, he had assuredthemastheylistenedtohimraptly, thatwasnotwatereddownwithmisplacedideals likemercy and compassion. These were weaknesses, not strengths. Noonewasreallyinnocent;everyonewaseitherwithyou,ortheywereagainstyou.

EveryonewasaTemplaroranAssassin,inonewayoranother.Amasterwhodidnotbeataslavewasstillamaster.Anowner.Andeven

thosewho did not own slaves could still do so, by law. Therefore, theywereguilty.TheyservedtheTemplars,eveniftheywereunawareofit.TheyhadnoplaceinMackandal’sworld,norinBaptiste’s.

And so it was that Baptiste—and the others who had now stopped theirdancingandhadturnedtofacehim—hadattemptedafewnightsagotopoison

thecolonistswithwhomtheywereforcedtosharethisisland.Buttheyhadfailed,andtheirleaderhadpaidthepriceforthem.“FrançoisMackandalwasourMentor.Ourbrother.Heinspiredusandledby

example.Andhediedwithoutbetrayingus—diedintorment,hisbodytakenbythefire!”

Roars went up. They were drunk, and drugged, and angry, but they werelisteningtohim.Thatwasgood.ItwasBaptiste’splanthatsoon,theywoulddoevenmore.

Hecontinued.“Andinthistimeofgriefandanger,onewhowasmybrother—yourbrother—hasleftusaswell.Hewasnotkilledinastruggle,nordidhesuffertheflames.Hesimplyleftus.Leftus!AgatéhasfledlikeacowardinsteadofcarryingonthelegacyFrançoisMackandalboughtwithhislife!”

More roaring. Oh, yes, they were angry. They were almost as angry asBaptiste.

“But I amhere, as yourhoungan, your priest, to plead to the loa for theirwisdom.Ihavenotabandonedyou!Iwillneverabandonyou!”

He drew his hand back. The long, steel blade of the machete caught thefirelight. And then Baptiste brought it down, quickly, cleanly, putting all thestrengthofhisbodyintotheblow.

Bloodfountainedfromthecreature’sslashedthroat.Ittriedtomakesounds,but could not. The earth beneath it turned red and spongywith the bull’s lifefluid, but it died quickly. Probably more swiftly than it would have in aplantation owner’s abattoir, Baptiste thought; certainly in less pain due to thedrug.

Hewipedthebladeonthebeast’shide,thendippedhisfingersintothehotblood,markinghisfacewithit.Heraisedhishandsininvitation,andtheysurgedforwardnow,Mackandal’s people, anointing themselveswith crimson, placingdeathontheirbodiesasithadtouchedtheirsouls.

Later, the corpse would be roasted at the central large bonfire. Macheteswould be used to carve off hunks of delicious, juicy meat. The living would

continuetolivethroughdeath.Butbeforethen,Baptistehadaplan.Once everyone assembled had bloodied themselves with the sacrifice,

Baptisteannounced,“Iwilldrinkofthepotion,andasktheloatocometome.Theywill,astheyhavedonebefore.”

They had not, of course, nor had they come toMackandal, although bothmenhadexperiencedsome interestinghallucinations.Themixturehepreparedwas lethalatacertaindose;unsettlingbutharmlesswhenloweramountswereingested.

AndBaptistewas amaster at knowing exactly howmuch to use forwhatpurpose.

Now,hecrushedsomefragrantherbsbetweenhishands,smellingtheclean,freshscentmingledwithblood,andthenproduced,seeminglyoutofnowhere,asmallbottleofthetoxin.Gaspsrippledthroughthecrowd.Baptistehidasmile.Hewasamasteratsleightofhand.

Hebrandished itandcried,“Tonight,withdeathsoclose toourmemory, IofferthedeathofthispowerfulbulltotheGhedeloa!Whowillcometospeakthroughmetoofferwisdomtonight?WhowilltelluswhatMackandal’speopleshoulddo?”Andhedownedthebitterdraftinagulp.

Itwasbutthreebreathslaterthattheworldbegantochange.Colorsshifted,seemedtoshimmer.Therewasdrumming,drumming,butno

onewas striking thedrums,and the soundwasdistortedandmixedwithwhatmight have been screams of ecstasy or torment. The noise increased, becameoverwhelming,andBaptistegruntedinpainandclappedhishandtohisears.

Thenherealizedwherethesoundwascomingfrom.Itwashisownheart,slammingagainsthisribs,cryingouttobreakloose.Andthenitdidbreakloose,tearingthroughhischest, lyingontheearthin

frontofhim,redandpulsingandreekingofhotblood.Baptistestareddownattheholeithadtorninhisbody,aghast.

It’sthepoison.Itooktoomuch.I’mgoingtodie.

Fear surged through him. Stupidly, knowing this all to be an illusion, hereached out and grabbed his still-beating heart. It slipped through his bloodyhandslikeafish,floppingabout,eludinghimasheracedforit.

It’sneverbeenlikethis.Thedreamstate—“That’s because this isn’t a dream,” came a voice, smooth and thickwith

humorthatmightormightnotbecruel.Baptisteliftedhiseyestoseetheskeletonlaughingathim.Andscreamed.Heclawedathiseyes,forcinghimselftoseeclearly,butevenashisvision

sharpened, the images didn’t depart. The skeleton’s body slowly transformed,putting on flesh and formal clothing, looking like one of the fine, wealthyplantationowners—ifaplantationownerhadblackskinandaskullforahead.

“BaronSamedi,”breathedBaptiste.“Youasked tobe riddenbya loa,my friend,” theBaron replied in a silky

voice.“Youneedtobecarefulwhoyouinvitetotheparty.”In vodou, the loa were the intermediary spirits between humans and the

distant godBondye.TheGhede loawere spirits of the dead.And their leaderwas the lord of the graveyard—Baron Samedi. Now that loa strode up to thekneeling, shiveringAssassin and reached out a hand. “I think you look betterwithmyfaceratherthanbullblood,”hesaid.“Youwearitfromnowon,yes?”

Baptistereacheduphisbloodiedhandstotouchhisface.Hefeltnowarm,livingflesh…onlydrybone.Theskullpeeringdownathimgrinned.Baptiste closedhis eyes and rubbed at them frantically,whimpering as his

fingersdugintoemptysockets.Hisface—BaronSamedihadtakenhisface—Don’tbeachild,Baptiste!Youknowbetter!Youmadethispotionyourself!

Thisisonlyahallucination!Openyoureyes!Hedid.TheBaronwasstillthere,grinning,grinning.AndbesidehimstoodMackandal.

Baptiste’sMentorlookedashedidinlife—tall,muscular,proudandstrong,adecadeorsoolderthanBaptiste.Asinlife,hewasmissinghisleftarm.

“Mackandal,” breathedBaptiste. Tears sprung to his eyes—joy, relief, andwonder. Still on his knees on the bloody earth, he reached out a hand to hisMentor, tograspat the robeshewore.Hishands touchedsomethingsoft—notfabric—andpassedthroughit.

Baptistefellbackward,staring,shocked,atahandcoveredwithsoot.“I died, burned by those who should have died bymy hand,”Mackandal

said.Itwashisvoice,andhismouthmoved,butthewordsseemedtofloatintheairaroundthementor,likesmoke,twistingaroundBaptiste’shead,intohisears,hismouth,hisnostrils—

Iambreathinghisashes,BaptistethoughtHisstomachchurned,asithaddoneearlier,andhebegantoretch.A snake emerged from his mouth—thick as his arm, black and glistening

withBaptiste’ssaliva,undulatingasitemergedfromhisbody.Whenatlasthehadvomited forth the serpent’s tail, the reptile slitheredover to the specter ofMackandal.Hereacheddownandpicked itup,placing itacrosshisshoulders.ItstongueflickeredanditssmalleyeswatchedBaptiste.

“Theserpentiswise,notevil,”BaronSamedisaid.“Itknowswhenitistimetochangeitsskin,sothatitmightgrowlargerandstrongerthanitwasbefore.Areyoureadytochangeyourskin,Baptiste?”

“No!” he cried, but he knew it was useless. Baron Samedi stepped back,doffinghisformalhattoMackandaltorevealthathisskullwasasdevoidofhairashisfacewasofflesh.

“You summoned us, Baptiste,”Mackandal said. “You told our people youwouldneverabandonthem.NowthatIamdead,theyneedaleader.”

“I—Iwill lead them,Mackandal, Iswear,”Baptistestammered.“Iwillnotfleefromwhateveryouwouldhavemedo.I’mnotAgaté.”

“No,youarenot,”Mackandalreplied.“Butneitherwillyouleadthem.Iwillleadthem.”

“Butyouare….”Mackandal began to dissolve into smoke, the snake around his shoulders

vanishing with him. The smoke hovered, like mist, then formed itself intotendrilsandbegantowafttowardBaptiste.

Suddenly,Baptisteunderstoodwhatwasabouttohappenandhetriedtogettohis feet.Abruptly theBaronappearedbehindhim.Stronghands—flesh,notbone,butevenso,ascoldasthegrave—clampeddownonBaptiste’sshouldersandhecouldn’tmove.Thethinwispsofsmokedriftedtohisearsandnostrils,seekingentrance.Baptisteclenchedhisjawshut,butBaronSamedicluckedhistongue.

“Ah,ah,”hechided,andtappedBaptiste’stightlypressedlipswithhisskull-headedcane.

Baptiste’smouthopened,andthesmokeentered.Andhewasbothhimself…andMackandal.Threemoretasks,thenweshallleadthem.Baptistestaredatthemachetehehaddropped.Itlaybesidehisstill-beating

heart.Withastrangedetachment,heunderstoodthathedidnotneedhisheart.Itwasbetter,tonotcare.Tonotfeelloveorhopeforothers.Onlyhisowndesires,hisownneeds,mattered.Andso,helefthisheartwhereitwas.

Buthepickedupthemachete.Helifteditslowlyinhisrighthand,andextendedhis leftarm.Partofhim

screamednot todothis, thathecouldleadjustaswellashimself.Butanotherpartofhim—ofhim,notMackandal,notBaronSamedi,wantedthis.

Besides,thedrugwouldhelpwiththepain.Baptiste lifted the machete, took a deep breath, and with a single blow

severedhisleftarmjustabovetheelbow.Bloodseemedtoexplodefromthewound,spurtingwildly,buthewasright.

Itdidn’thurt.Hisamputatedlimbfelltotheearthandturnedintoaserpent,thisonecrawlingtowardtheskull-facedloa.

Insidehishead,Mackandalwhispered, “Verygood.Now,youare likeme.

You are no longerBaptiste.Youwill be FrançoisMackandal.They have seenyourgesture.Theyknow I rideyou, like theymight rideahorse.Usually, theloasleavewhentheyaredone.

“I’mnotleaving.”Calmly,Baptistetuggedatthesashtiedaroundhiswaist.Byhimself,hetied

offthespurtingwoundbeforethelackofbloodcouldkillhim.Afterall,unliketheBaron,hewasstillalive.

BaronSamedinoddedinapproval.“Good.Heiswithyou,nowandalways.Iwillbe,too.”Hetappedhisjawbone.“Wearmyface,Mackandal.”

Baptistenodded.Heunderstood.Andheagreed.From thismomenton, the rumorswould spread.Mackandalwasnotdead,

peoplewouldwhisper.Hehadescapedburningatthestake.Hewashere,andhewasfullofhatredandvengeance.

Andfromthismomenton,Baptistewouldneverbeseenagain.Hewasstillhimself, yes; but his name would be Mackandal, and his face would wear,painted inwhite thatwould stand out starkly against his black skin, the bonyvisageofthegrinningBaronSamedi.

SUBJECT:LIN

LinlistenedtoDr.SofiaRikkinassheexplainedpatiently,forthethirdtime,thatLin needed to go into theAnimus of her own freewill. Lin folded her arms,staring,notanswering.

“Iknowwhathappened toyou last timewas…traumatic,”Sofiasaid.Herwideblueeyeswerekind,butdistant.Therewascompassionintheirdepths,butnottrueempathy.

“Youknownothing,”Linreplied.Traumaticwasa thoroughly inadequate term;abloodless,clinicalwordfor

what Lin’s ancestor, a concubine-turned-Assassin named Shao Jun, had beenforced to witness five hundred years ago, and what Lin had been forced towitnessinthepresentday.

Fiveyearsold.ShaoJunhadbeenfiveyearsoldwhenthethen-newemperor,bornZhuHouzhao and later knownas theZhengdeEmperor, hadordered theexecution of a eunuch who had conspired against him. Liu Jin had been theleaderofapowerfulgroupofeunuchs in thecourtknownas theEightTigers,buthehadbeenbetrayedbythem,ashehadbetrayedhisemperor.

For the dreadful act of treason, Zhengde had ordered that Liu bemade tosufferafateequallydreadful—theDeathbyaThousandCuts.

Therehadbeen,inactuality,welloverthreethousandcutsmadebythetimeitwas all over. The gruesome event had lasted for three days. Fortunately forLiu,hehaddiedonthesecondday,afteronlyaboutthreeorfourhundredcuts.

Onlookerscouldpurchaseapieceoftheman’sfleshforamereqian,tobeeatenwithricewine.

Lincouldnotgettheimageoutofhermindfordays.Sofia’sconcernedfacehovering over her as Lin spasmed and screamed on the floor of the AnimusRoombecameinextricablyentwinedwiththehorror.Evennow,asLinlookedatthewoman,shewantedtovomit.

“Ihopeyouunderstandthatmuchofthetime,we’reasignorantaboutwhatyou’llexperienceasyouare,”Sofiacontinued.

“Howreassuring.”“Thereportssaythatyou’redoingwell,”Sofiasaidwarmly.“I’dlikeyouto

go back in. After the last regression, we’ve scoured through as many othersources as are available to us, and I believe this timewe’ve found amemorythat’s important for us to know, but not quite so…”She groped for theword,then,inamomentofsincerity,blurted,“horrifying.”

Lindidn’trespond.Hercaptors—forthatwastheonlywayshecouldthinkof them—knew more about Shao Jun than she did at this point. More thananything,Lindidnotwanttobackintothatpoorgirl’sbody;achildwhowasaconcubinetooneoftheworstplayboysinChinesehistory.

No.Thatwasn’tentirelycorrectMorethananything,Linwantedtokeephersanity.Andsheknewthatthey

wouldsendherin,regardlessofwhethershewantedtogo,regardlessofwhetherthememorywashorrifying.

Sofia Rikkin might want to believe she was inviting Lin to reenter thehorriblemachine,butbothwomenknewshewasn’t.ShewastellingLin.

TheonlychoiceLinhadwashowshewouldcomply—willinglyornot.Afteralongmoment,shesaid,“Iwillgo.”

REGRESSION:BEIJING,1517

SummerwascomingtoBeijing,butitwasnotyettimeforthecourttorelocatetothesummerpalace.

Dimlanternscastflickeringlightovertheformsofdozensofwomen,noneof themolder than thirty,who slumbered fitfully in thenigh-stiflingheat.Theornatelycarvedwoodenceilingofthevastroom,thelargestofnineinthe1,400-square-yardPalaceofHeavenlyPurity,waslosttoviewinthedarkness,butthelight still caught glimmers of dragons painted in gold leaf, and the gleam oflockedornatedoorknobs.

Twelve-year-oldShao Juneasedopen themassivedoorandmovedquietlyovertheblackmarblefloor.ThepalacewasthelargestofthethreelocatedintheForbidden City’s inner court; the residence of the Zhengde Emperor, hisempress,andhisfavoredconcubines.

ShaoJunhadbeenbornhere,toanotherconcubinewhohadnotsurvivedtheordeal. Ifanyplacewasherhome, thiswas,with itsexquisitecarvedceilings,large,comfortablebeds,andthemurmurofwomenastheylearnedthefineartsoftheirstation:dancing,playinginstruments,embroidery,andevenhowtowalk,move,andlaughappealingly.

She had learned these, too.But early on, her talent for almost unnaturallybeautifuldanceandphenomenalacrobaticskillshadattractedtheattentionoftheyoungZhengdeEmperor,whohadhadatonceputhertogoodusespyingonhisenemiesandplayingamusingtricksonhisfriends.

ShaoJuntriedveryhardnottowakeZhangassheclimbedcarefullyintothelargebedtheysharedwithtwoothers,butshefailed.Zhangmurmuredsleepily,“One day youwill come to bedwith the rest of us andwewill all die fromastonishment.”

Junlaughedsoftly.“No,Idonotthinkthatwillhappen.”

Yawning,Zhangmade room forher and sleepilypillowedherheadonherfriend’sshoulder.Inthelantern-litdarkness,Junsmiled.

SingledoutforhertumblingandputtoworkbyZhengdeasearlyasshehadbeen—threeyearsold—ShaoJunhadalwaysbeentheobjectofhostility,veiledand otherwise, from her fellow concubines. She’d risen swiftly, despite acomparatively low-classbirth,whereasmanyof thehundredsZhengdekept inthethreeharembuildingshadonlyseentheSonofHeavenfromadistance.

SowhenZhang, thedaughterofapalaceguard,hadbeenbrought into theharemayearago—theepitomeofwomanlyChineseperfectionwithhersmall,boundbreastsandfeet,demuremanners,shell-paleskin,andlarge,softeyes—Junhadassumedshewouldbejustliketheothers.

Instead,oncesheheardaboutShaoJun,Zhanghadsoughtouttheothergirl.Due to her experience as the emperor’s favorite spy, Jun was particularlymindful of the false faces the court—andother concubines—coulddisplay.Atfirst,shehadbeencautiousandclose-mouthed.

Zhang seemed to understand and did not press. But gradually, somethingstrangehappened.Eventhoughtheywereincompetitionfortheattentionoftheemperor—whose approval could, quite literally, mean a life of luxury andcomfort or a horrifically brutal death—Zhang never seemed to see it as such.Once,shemadeanoffhandcommentthatstruckJunpoignantly.

“Thereisnoonewhomovesasyoudo,ShaoJun,”shehadsaidadmiringlyafterJunhadbestedherforthecourt’sapprovaloftheRibbonDance.“ThatiswhyIsimplywatchandenjoy,likeeveryoneelse.”

“Butyouaresobeautiful,Zhang!”Junhadexclaimed,gesturingatherownfeetandchest,whichhadneverbeenbound.Zhengdehadforbiddenit:Youaretoogoodathidingandclimbing, he had said.Without thebinding, Junknew,menwouldneverthinkofherasattractive.“Icouldneverbelikeyou,either!”

Zhang had laughed. “Your tumbling andmy smile are like a rabbit and abutterfly,”shesaid,referringtotwocreaturesparticularlylovedbytheChinese.

Both were valued, and neither was better than the other. They were simplydifferent.

Sheunderstands,ShaoJunthought,andhadtoturnawaylestanyoneseethequicktearsofjoythatsprangtohereyes.

Theyhadbecomelikesisterssincethen,andnow,asZhanglaynexttoher,shesaid,asshealwaysdid,“Tellme.”

ItwasbothpleasureandpainforJuntotellthestories,becausesheknew,asZhangdid,thattheywouldneverhappenfortheoldergirl.Thisbutterflywasinacage,likeacricket;buttherabbitwasfree.

Once,JunhadtriedtoshowZhangherworld.Ithadbeenafewmonthsago,before the third watch, when soldiers in the Drum Tower would strike thethirteen kettle drums to rouse the household in preparation for the dailyaudience.Theconcubines,ofcourse,didnotneed torise,but theeunuchs, thecourtofficials,and their staffsallhad tobe ready tomeetwith theemperoratfourA.M.,andthisaudiencewouldberepeatedtwicemoreduringtheday.

Zhengdehatedit,ofcourse.Hehadproposedasingleaudienceatnight,witha banquet afterward. But even an emperor, it seemed, could not have all hisdesiresmet;theideawasmetwithvehementopposition.

Itwastheoptimaltime,Junknew,tosneakoutofthequartersandexplore.AndsosheandZhanghad.Manyoftheeunuchswereasleepattheirposts,andJunwaseasilyabletotrickordistracttheothers.Theyhadslippedoutsideintothestreets,whereZhangstaredupatthestar-crowdednightsky—somethingshehadneverseen.Alwaysbefore,iftheconcubineswerepermittedattobeoutatnightforafestivalorotherevent,thelanternsaroundthemhidtheshyestofthestars.

Theypressedon.Junhaddiscoveredmanyhiddenpassagesovertheyears,butZhangwastoonervoustocrawlthroughthem,ladenwithcobwebsanddustastheywere.Junpressed,promisingtohelpher,butZhangblushedandsimplysaid,“Myfeet.”

Jun felt as though she had been struck a blow in the stomach. She hadforgotten the other reasonwhy concubines and high-bornwomen of the courthadtheirfeetbound:sotheywouldneverrunawaywithanotherman.

Sick, she lookedat her friend, seeingherown sorrow reflected inZhang’ssofteyes.

They had returned, and Jun had never suggested it again. But Zhangwasdetermined to escape her gilded cage, if only vicariously through Shao Jun’sadventures,and,asnow,oftenaskedherfriendtotellherstories.

Junlistenedcarefully,buttheothergirlsinthebedappearedtobesleepingdeeply.Oneofthemwasevensnoringlightly.Junbegantowhisper,forZhang’searsalone.

“Tonight,”shesaid,“IperformedintheBaoFang.”“Werethereleopards?”Zhangasked.The name meant Leopard’s Chamber, and Zhengde had ordered it built

outsidetheForbiddenCitytohouseexoticanimalsandforacrobaticanddanceperformances.Itwasalsoagoodplacetoeavesdrop,butJunwithheldthatbitofinformation.ItmightputZhangindanger,andJunwouldneverdothat.

“Nottonight,”Junreplied,“butthereweretwolionsandseventigers.”Zhanggiggled,coveringhermouthwithherhandtostiflethesound.“TherearesevenTigershere,too,”shesaid.Jun did not smile. Themost important and powerful eunuchs in court had

beenknownastheEightTigers.AsZhangnoted,theywereseven,now.Junhadbeenforcedtowatchtheirleader,LiuJin,dieanexcruciatinglypainfuldeath.

Zhangdidn’tknowthat,either.“There are,” Jun simply agreed, and continued describing in detail the

powerfulmusclesofthebigcatsandthegoldandorange-blackbeautyoftheircoats,howfrighteningtheyweretothecourt,andhowexcitingithadbeenforJun to perform a routine right above their cages, where she could fall at anyminute.

“And lastnight?”Zhanghadbeenasleep lastnight.SoJunobligingly told

herthatlastnight,Zhengdehadindulgedinoneofhisfavoritepastimes.“Iknowyouheardaboutit,”sheteased.Zhangpunchedherplayfully.“ButIwasn’tthere.”“All right. He had the market set up again last night, and this time he

pretendedtobeacommonerfromoutsideNanjing.HehadMaYongchengbeamushroomfarmer,whileWeiBinsoldsilk.”

The idea of these powerful men pretending to be ordinary farmers andmerchantswhilehe,himself,wasahumblecustomeramusedZhengdegreatly.Itdidnot,however,amusethosemembersofthecourtforcedtoperformsuchroles—especiallynotanyoftheEightTigers.

“WhataboutGaoFeng?”“Hesoldsnails.”Zhangburiedher face in thepillow tostifleher laughter. Jungrinned, too.

She had to admit, watching these proudmen gritting their teeth through theirperformancewasasighttobehold.

“Andyou?”“Me?Ihelpedcooknoodles.”“Tellmemore,”sighedZhanghappily.Herlidswereclosingagain.Jundid,

describing more of the silliness, speaking softly and steadily until Zhang’sbreathingbecameslowandregular.

SleepdidnotcomesoeasilyforJun.ZhengdehadtoldherhewascuriousaboutthefightinggoingoninthenorthtorepelsomeoftheraidingexpeditionsledbytheMongolwarlordDayanKhan.

“MaybeIwillvisitinsecret,”hehadsaid,warmingtotheideathemorehespokeaboutit.“Ineedanothername—justlikeIdoforthemarket!Whatdoyouthinkof‘ZhuShou’?”

“Asmy emperor wishes, I am sure it is a fine name!” she had answeredpromptly.

Buthewasn’tdone.“IwillneedmycleverlittlekittenShaoJuntowanderaroundthecampsitesandlistenforme,”hehadtoldher.

Although it could be argued that by following her emperor to battle JunwouldbeinamoredangerouspositionthanZhang,Juncouldn’thelpbutthinktheopposite.Zhangwasn’t stupid, but therewas an innocence, a vulnerabilityinherent inhernature that Jun thought sheherselfhadneverhad.Like thecatZhengdesometimescalledher,shealwaysseemedtolandonherfeet.

Therewasplottingafootwith theEightTigers, andcunninganddeceptionamongtheconcubines.ShedidnotlikethethoughtofabandoningZhangtothat.Butshedidnothaveachoice—notthistime.

If theSonofHeavenwantedher to accompanyhimwhile he attacked theMongols,shewouldhavetogo.

A fierce protectiveness rose in Shao Jun as she watched her friend sleeppeacefully.

This I vow, Zhang, my best friend, my only friend. If you need me, I willcome.Nomatterwhat,nomatterwhere—Iwillcomeforyou,andkeepyousafe.Nothreat,noImperialorder,nothingwillkeepmefromyouifeveryouneedme.

Ever.AndasifshesomehowcouldhearthewordsthatShaoJunspokeonlyinher

heart,Zhangsmiledinhersleep.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Manythanksmustgoout,asalways,tomyhardworkingagent,LucienneDiver.I’m also grateful to the terrific team at Ubisoft: Caroline Lamache, AnthonyMarcantonio,AnoukBachman,RichardFarrese,andespeciallyAymarAzaïzia,whomIpesteredmercilesslyandwhoalwaysrepliedpromptlyandcheerfully.

I must also acknowledge the talents of director Justin Kurzel and actorsMichaelFassbender,MarionCotillard,andJeremyIrons,whoprovidedsomuchinspirationduringthewritingofthisbook.

Theautumnalnight’schill sliced through theman’s thinshirtashe fled, feetflying over first the concrete pathway, then the manicured grass of the

rooftop’spark.WhydidIcomeuphere?hethought,wildlyandfartoolate.I’mabloodyratinatrap.

TheTemplarswerebehindhim.Theyknewwherehehadfled.Andtheyknew,ashedid,thatotherthanthe

lift and the two stairways fromwhich theynowemergedwithgrimand silentpurpose,therewasnowayoffthisroof.

Think.Think!Thinkinghadsavedhimbefore,manyatime.He’dalwaysreliedonlogic,on

rationality, on analysis, to solve every predicament that life in all its sadisticwhimsyhadthrownhim,butnowitwasofnousetohimatall.

The deadly percussion of gunfire exploded behind him.Trees, his rationalmindshouted,andthelogicsavedhim.Healteredhispath,zigzaggingtomakehimselfanunpredictabletarget,careeningerraticallylikeadrunkenmantowardthetreesandshrubberies,statuaryandnow-vacanticecreamandbeveragestallsthatwouldshieldhimfromthehailofbullets.

Butitwouldonlydelaytheinevitable.Heknewverywellwhat theTemplarswerecapableof.Andheknewwhat

theywanted.Theywerenotcomingtoquestionhim,orcapturehim.Theywereintentonkillinghim,andtherefore,very,verysoon,hewouldbedead.

Hewasnotwithoutaweaponhimself,onethatwasancientandpowerful.ASword of Eden, which had known the grip of both Templars and Assassinsthrough the centuries. He had used it earlier. It was strapped to his back, its

weightcalmingandreassuring,andhewouldleaveit there.Itwouldnotservehimnow.

TheTemplarsweresingle-mindedofpurpose,dedicatedonlytodominanceanddeath—his.Therewasonlyonewayout,anditwouldbeabloodymiracleifitworked.

Hisheartwasslammingagainsthischest,hislungsheaving,hisbodytaxedto its limitbecause in theend,hewasonlyhuman,wasn’the,nomatterwhatkindof traininghehad,nomatterwhat sortofDNAwas floatingabout inhisblood.Andhedidn’tslow,couldn’tslow,couldn’tallowthatlogical,analytical,rational brain of his to interrupt the signals from the deep primal instinct ofsurvival.Couldn’tlethisbrainoverrulehisbody.

Becausehisbodyknewwhatwascalledfor.Anditknewhowtodoit.Atreebranchexplodedrightbesidehim.Splintersgrazedhisface,drawing

blood.ThefateofferedbytheTemplarsbehindhimwasoneofheartlesscertainty.

ThestoneroofthatencircledtheedgeoftherooftopgardenoftheLondonofficeofAbstergoIndustriesofferedawild,desperatechance.

Ifhehadthefaithtotakeit.Hedidn’tslow.Asheapproachedthewall,hesurgedforward,clearingitlike

runnerwouldahurdle,his long legspedaling in theairashearchedhisback,spreadhisarms—

—andleaped.

ABOUTCHRISTIEGOLDEN

Award-winning and eight-time New York Times bestselling author ChristieGolden has written fifty-one novels and several short stories in the fields ofscience fiction, fantasy,andhorror.Shehasearnedwidecriticalacclaimandadevotedfanbaseforbothheroriginalworkandherauthenticandskillfulliterarytreatmentofmanybelovedfilm,television,andgamingfranchises.

GoldenhaswrittenmorethanadozenStarTreknovels,andaboutthesamenumberofWorldofWarcraftandStarCraftnovels.ShehaswrittenthreebooksintheStarWarsseriesFateoftheJedi,whichsheco-wrotewithTroyDenningand the late and greatly missed Aaron Allston, as well as StarWars: DarkDisciple,thenovelizationoftheunairedepisodesofStarWars:TheCloneWars,citedasoneofthebestofthenewcanonnovels.

GoldenhasbeenanaficionadooftheAssassin’sCreeduniversesince2014,and has already written two books for the franchise: Blackbeard: The LostJournal,acompanionbooktothevideogameAssassin’sCreedIV:BlackFlag;Assassin’s Creed Unity: The Abstergo Employee Handbook and Assassin’sCreed:Heresy,whichpublishedinNovember2016.

ChristieGoldenhasbeenpublishingbooksfor twenty-fiveyears.TheTSRRavenloftlinein1991waslaunchedwithherfirstnovel,thebestsellingVampireoftheMists,whichintroducedelvenvampireJanderSunstar.Tothebestofherknowledge,sheisthecreatoroftheelvenvampirearchetypeinfantasyfiction.Amongher original fantasynovels areOnFire’sWings, InStone’sClasp, andUnderSea’sShadow, the first three inhermulti-bookfantasyseriesTheFinal

Dance.Herveryfirstoriginalnovels, InstrumentofFateand InStone’sClasp,are currently available in digital form nearly fifteen years after their originalpublication.

Born inAtlanta, Georgia, Christie Golden currently lives inVirginia. Youcanfindheronlineatchristiegolden.com,onFacebookasChristieGolden,andonTwitter@ChristieGolden