Assassin's Creed: Heresy

by Christie Golden

I have news. Kind of important.

  Simon frowned, a little worried now. Anaya had meant a great deal to him once. He’d gone so far as to consider getting a ring. She wasn’t the sort to text him out of the blue over nothing, either. It’d been months since they’d done anything together, and weeks since he’d run into her, until the day before yesterday.

  Of course, he said at once. Are you free now?

  Yes. Temp’s?

  Always.

  KK CU soon.

  Simon couldn’t help but cringe at the SMS, and reminded himself that Anaya and her crew had used SMS shortcuts and leetspeak long before the proverbial “kids these days.” He sighed, pocketed the phone, and headed for the lift.

  Anaya was waiting for him outside the tea shop, wearing a smart navy blazer with trousers, a cream silk blouse that set off her dark skin, and conservative earrings; a professional and understated ensemble that contrasted with her impudent cherry-streaked hair.

  She smiled when she saw him. He stepped forward, unsure if she were expecting a handshake, or a kiss on the cheek, or nothing at all, and the whole thing became an awkward bump-and-apologize event. Anaya’s face flushed, but then she laughed.

  “Come on,” she said, grinning, and he felt the knot in his belly untangle. She’d always had a light touch, and her laugh meant that her news wasn’t bad. Which was a huge relief. “Let’s get takeaway and head to the roof.”

  “The roof? Anaya, it’s October.”

  “All your beach trips have made you too sensitive to cold,” she teased.

  Abstergo had transformed the entire cement rooftop into a pleasant garden. Everyone was welcome to bring takeaway or a bagged lunch and sit and enjoy the magnificent view. It was lovely in the spring and summer, and, Simon had to admit, even in the autumn. The trees were turning, and with the blue sky today it was pleasant. But Anaya was right—he found it too cold. He’d left his overcoat in his office, but at least he still had on his suit jacket.

  Shivering, he cut to the chase. “So, what’s your news? Everything all right, I hope?” he asked, warming his hands around the paper cup.

  Anaya stared at her own cup for a moment before lifting her eyes to his. “I anticipate so, yes.” She took a deep breath. “There’s a director’s position open at Abstergo Entertainment. I sent in my application last night. I came in this morning to a request for a video interview this afternoon. If I get the job, it’ll be quite a step up for me, and I think I’ll enjoy it.”

  “Oh. I see.” Simon adjusted his spectacles with one hand. AE’s response time was shockingly fast, but then again, this was Anaya. He gave her a genuine smile. “Anaya, you’re amazing at what you do. It boggles my mind, frankly, and you’ll do a smashing job in Montreal. And,” he added, “I know you’ll enjoy speaking French again.”

  Her face softened. “I will, yes,” she said. “I’m surprised you remember.”

  “I’ve always wanted you to be well and happy,” he said, and he realized he meant it.

  “I know that,” she said. “But I’ve not got the job just yet.”

  “You will. They’d be nutters not to take you. Did they, ah, say when they’d expect you to start working there?”

  “Straight away, or as soon as I can manage it. Shouldn’t be too long. It’s just me to move, after all.”

  She didn’t say it with any particular emphasis, but the words stung. But then again, it was nothing more than simple truth. It was just her. Just as it would be “just him,” if he were to transfer.

  So he merely nodded. “Try some of those ghastly sounding chips while you’re there, eh?” She looked at him, puzzled. “You know the ones. With the gravy and the cheese.”

  “Oh… you mean poutine?”

  “That’s the stuff.” There was a lot Simon could say. I’ll miss you. And yet for months, he hadn’t bothered to even shoot her a text or grab a cup of tea with her. I’m sorry. He was… but it hadn’t been his fault, or hers.

  At a loss, he reached out and squeezed her hand. “Best of luck, Anaya.”

  “Thanks, Simon.”

  The wind picked up, slicing through his jacket with almost malevolent glee. Even Anaya shivered this time. “I should be getting back,” Simon said. He lifted his tea in salute, paused, nodded, more to himself then her, then left. She didn’t follow, standing alone in the cool but clear morning, and he felt strangely melancholy as he turned away.

  “So I have a theory about Joan’s Voices,” Simon said as he and Victoria rode the lift down to the Animus Room after their separate lunches.

  She eyed him. “Before we get into it—is everything all right?”

  He thought she looked worse than he did, and he debated telling her about Anaya, but honestly, what was there to say? My ex-girlfriend, whom I haven’t talked to in months till I ran into her at the lift, is taking a job elsewhere? Rubbish.

  “I’m fine,” he said, and steered them back on topic. “Most people today, when they talk about her Voices, assume Joan had true visions from God, outright lied, or had some sort of mental illness or physical condition that caused her to hear them. Schizophrenia, for instance, or perhaps a form of epilepsy.”

  “For people who don’t know what we do, the latter seems a reasonable theory, though as a psychiatrist I can assure you there are some definite holes in it,” Victoria agreed.

  “It’s pretty obvious that she saw something that the fifteenth-century mind would perceive as angels. We’ve seen examples before of both Templar and Assassin interaction with Precursor artifacts. And individuals with high concentrations of Precursor DNA, like Charlotte de la Cruz, have been known to somehow receive messages from the Precursor past specifically targeted to them.”

  Victoria didn’t seem too surprised by his theory. But then again, she was an intelligent woman and had likely come to the same conclusion. “I’ve been briefed about de la Cruz. So you think Consus somehow found a way to speak to Joan? Because of her strong percentage of Precursor DNA?”

  “If there is really a ‘voice’ speaking to Joan, as one of the more benevolent Isu, Consus is by far the most likely candidate,” Simon said. “Let’s think about this. It looks as though Joan of Arc has been in contact with a remnant from the Precursors. We’ll just call him or her the Voices. This started at age thirteen and continued all the way through her final day, so it’s got nothing to do with the sword. I can—I mean Gabriel can-literally see her radiance, and I suspect that Durand can, too. So does Jean de Metz. This can help direct some of our focus as we start seeing some of the really significant events in Joan’s life. Hopefully, after today, we’ll have some really specific things to take to Rikkin, and he’ll grant us an extension.”

  Simon suddenly realized how comfortable he was using the words we and us. It was odd. He’d been so opposed to having a keeper, but now he couldn’t fathom progressing without Victoria. He cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably. “And, ah… you’ve been tremendously useful. Thank you.”

  Victoria glanced up at him, surprised. “You’re welcome,” she said. Fortunately the door opened at that moment, sparing Simon further discomfort.

  Victoria helped him into the Animus. He was growing used to it now; it felt less like he was being imprisoned in an Iron Maiden and more like he was being safely strapped into a hang glider. He frowned a little at the overly romantic metaphor. A little bit of bleeding from Gabriel, no doubt, but nothing he couldn’t handle.

  “Right,” he said briskly. “Joan’s made it to Chinon, and she’s finally gotten the royal summons.”

  “Do you want to start with her private meeting with the Dauphin?”

  “No. I’d like to see their first encounter.”

  “That’s not exactly pertinent to the project,” Victoria cautioned.

  “Not directly, but I’d like Gabriel to take a gander at those the Dauphin surrounds himself with. See if we can spot any more Assassins.”

  She nodded and slipped the helmet on. A few moments later, the blackness in Sim
on’s vision began to pale, turning to the by-now-familiar gray mist, and then to a night lit by torches.

  SUNDAY, 6 MARCH, 1429

  Chinon.

  Simon knew that many nigh-legendary figures other than Joan of Arc had figured into its history. Among them were the fiery Plantagenets—Henry II, his wife and queen Eleanor of Aquitaine, their sons, Richard the Lionheart and Bad King John, and Cardinal Richelieu, of The Three Musketeers fame.

  Jacques de Molay and several of his Templars had been imprisoned in the Coudray Tower, where, Simon knew, Joan herself would be staying—although she would not be a guest in its dungeon. The Grand Master had left graffiti on his prison walls, and Simon wondered if Gabriel would be able to get a glimpse of it.

  Gabriel and Joan had had ample time to gaze up at the fortress from the town nestled at its base. Despite the letter that Joan had sent ahead, Charles had kept them waiting while two clergymen had come down from the castle to speak with her. When asked why she wanted to see the king, Joan had replied, “God has seen me safely for over a hundred leagues on my journey, and He has given me two tasks. I am to raise the siege of Orléans, which is causing so much suffering, and I am to bring the Dauphin to Rheims, where he is to be anointed and crowned King of France.”

  Finally, convinced by the clergy and a personal letter from Robert de Baudricourt, the king decided to grant her an audience.

  Dusk had fallen as Joan, Jean de Metz, de Poulengy, and Gabriel ascended the narrow, winding path that led to the great castle. Their escorts carried torches to light their way as the shadows crept forward, emboldened by the sun’s withdrawal.

  A drawbridge was lowered to admit them. De Metz and de Poulengy dismounted, but two guards rode up to take the other two horses. Gabriel nodded to the man who held the reins of his mount, but the one tending to Joan’s horse leered at her, licking lips that glinted wetly in the torchlight. He was large, and bulky, and his jaw disappeared in a row of doughy flesh.

  “So, this is the famous Maid from Vaucouleurs?” he said, his lascivious smile widening as he looked her up and down. “Stay with me for a night, and you wouldn’t be a maid on the morrow!” He turned, laughing, to his companion, but his friend did not seem to think the comment amusing.

  Anger surged through Gabriel, but before he or the other men could speak, Joan held up a hand. Her face was sad and kind. “What is your name?” she asked him, softly.

  He seemed a bit taken aback, but bluffly replied, “Antoine Moreau,” adding with a wink, “the Giant.”

  “Antoine Moreau,” Joan said as she dismounted, “your words offend God. Make peace with him… quickly.”

  Even in the flickering light, Gabriel could see the man pale and his eyes widen. He started to mutter something under his breath, then he stepped back, leading Joan’s horse through the gate to a stable for the night. Other men came forward now to take the rest of the horses in the ensuing uncomfortable silence.

  “My apologies for my companion’s rudeness, Maid,” said the remaining mounted guard.

  She smiled sadly. “God forgives all. Me? I just feel sorry for him.”

  De Metz glanced at Gabriel, raising a brow in question. Gabriel shrugged slightly. He had no idea what had passed between Joan and the guard, and wasn’t sure he wanted to.

  On foot, Joan’s group made their way through the Fort du Coudray, a courtyard with small buildings and four towers stretching up into the inky sky, slightly silvered by the waning gibbous moon. Another bridge lay to the right of Coudray Tower, and again, they crossed it with great care. The dry moat below them was so deep, the moonlight didn’t even reach the bottom.

  The next courtyard area of the second, main fortress, Château du Milieu, was so vast, Simon thought it more like a small town. Part of it was a garden, with trees and statuary. Smaller buildings—perhaps smithies or barracks, it was hard to tell in the darkness—lined the left-hand wall. They were closed and dark now, with only the occasional torch throwing flickering light.

  Immediately to the right was a row of structures that could only be the royal lodgings, and they were most certainly not closed and dark. Light blazed in the windows, and Gabriel could hear music and the laughter and chatter of a sizeable gathering. He stopped in his tracks as the full import of what was about to happen descended upon him.

  He had been so captivated by Joan, so caught up in the divine beauty of her and what she wanted, that more earthly events had diminished in significance. But now… now, he was about to step into a king’s hall. He, Gabriel Laxart, bastard son of a simple farmer.

  A hand reached for his and he looked down to see Joan smiling serenely at him. “All will be well,” she said. “God is with us.”

  Deep in his heart, he knew she was right. He could see it in her, her incandescence brighter to him than the torchlight. But would others see it? He had heard some of the others talking about Charles; about how indecisive he was, and how some in his court held greater sway over him than they should.

  Joan was from God, of that he was certain. But it was not angels she had to impress. It was a king.

  Gabriel took a deep breath and stepped forward into the court of Charles, Dauphin of France and, hopefully, its future liege.

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  Gabriel had thought Vaucouleurs magnificent, and Nancy a bustling town. Now he realized just how provincial they were compared to a royal fortress and a king’s hall.

  “How many people are here?” Gabriel asked de Metz.

  “Oh, I’d say about… three hundred or so.”

  “Three hun… all to see Jeanne?”

  “Some, certainly, but others of the king’s court simply like a good party. They have expensive tastes, and the king wants them happy.” The words were spoken in a neutral tone, and Gabriel couldn’t tell if de Metz disapproved or simply didn’t care.

  Everything competed for Gabriel’s attention: the sounds of loud laughter and talking over music, the smell of food and the beeswax candles, the riot of colors on the tapestry-covered walls and the celebrating courtiers’ clothes. It was almost overwhelming, and he threw a glance to the older, more experienced de Metz and de Poulengy. They seemed, if not at home, at least unperturbed by the cacophony and the throng of well-dressed nobility.

  So, too, did Joan. This was her first glimpse of such a world, too, but she did not even appear to be breathing quickly. They were starting to draw attention, now, the three travel-worn men and the girl in men’s clothing, and conversation halted as small clusters caught sight of her and turned to gawk.

  Gabriel shook his head to clear it and began looking around with purpose. The ceiling was high, and the timbers supporting it vanished up into the darkness. From the lower beams hung banners, presumably the coats of arms of the various nobles. Tables were piled with food, and wine and ale appeared to be flowing freely to entertain a crowd of powerful men and their wives… or mistresses. Gabriel observed several occupied benches, but only one one chair, large, ornate, and set on a dais at the far end of the room.

  The king’s. And it was empty.

  Gabriel paled, then flushed with anger. He turned to de Metz. “Where is the king?” he demanded. “What is going on?”

  De Metz didn’t answer. He had an unreadable expression on his face. Joan looked at the squire for a moment, then nodded. To Gabriel, she said, “I think His Majesty has another test for me.”

  Oh, Joan, Simon thought, you’ve just begun to be tested.

  She straightened her tunic, lifted her dark head, and began moving through the room. After a confused glance at de Metz, Gabriel darted after her, trying not to lose sight of her. Now and then she would gaze searchingly at one of the noblemen.

  Then she paused for a moment, and closed her eyes. The crowd was openly staring at her now, and Gabriel realized the music had stopped. Joan turned slowly, her eyes still closed. She smiled slightly, opened them, and marched directly to a rather ordinary-looking man in garb no finer than what most others were wea
ring.

  The courtier appeared bald beneath a large, floppy fabric hat, but Gabriel suspected that his hair was merely cut short well above the ears and nape of the neck in the current bowl-like fashion. He seemed to be about the age of de Metz—older than Gabriel but not in his middle years, and he did not display the raucous good cheer that most of the others did. His nose was his most distinctive feature—large, hooked, and slightly crooked, and he regarded Joan with a peculiar sort of wariness.

  Joan pushed through the crowd toward him. Once she reached him, she gazed up at him for a moment, then fell to her knees.

  The murmuring of the crowd fell almost completely silent. Gabriel stared. The man whose lower legs Joan now clasped looked down, stunned, a hint of a smile on his face.

  “My Dauphin,” Joan said, and her voice rang in the suddenly still hall, “you cannot hide your glory from me! I was sent by God, and I have come to bring help to you and your kingdom!”

  This was the future king? Gabriel blinked. Charles looked more ordinary than many another man at the gathering. And yet he raised Joan gently and smiled at her, and everyone else seemed delighted that the girl had found him. No, Gabriel amended as he looked more closely, not everyone. Several frowned and turned away. It would seem only some welcomed the Maid.

  Tears were on her face, but she was so radiant to Gabriel that she seemed to burn brighter than the torches. She clung to the Dauphin’s arm, her lips parted with joy, and he had to gently extricate himself.

  “Well, well,” he said, and his voice was pleasant and cultured, “it seems the Maid can find the true king, even if we do not yet sit upon our throne. Not everyone thought you would.”

  “I told you in my letter, I am sent by God,” Joan said; then, sobering, added, “and yet… I see you do not entirely believe me.”

  “You are not the first Maid of Lorraine to come claiming prophecy,” came a gruff voice. The speaker’s splendid garb of yellow and red seemed to be straining at the seams as it struggled to contain his soft, round girth. Graying hair and a short beard framed a ruddy face that bore a scowl of suspicion. His eyes were hard, almost swallowed up by the rolls of flesh around them. A beringed hand closed around the stem of an ornate goblet. “His Majesty has met many such as you.”