To his credit, Alençon only smiled, not at all nonplussed at the fact that his liege lord was obviously striving to outdo him in winning Joan’s approval.
“My Voices, the ones who have sent me to you to take you to Reims, have promised that there is already a sword waiting for me. You do not need to trouble your blacksmiths to make one.”
Charles blinked, and the twisting of the rings increased. “Oh?”
“Yes!” she said eagerly. “You must ask the prelates of Sainte-Catherine-de-Fierbois to give it to me. I know exactly where it is. I can dictate a letter telling them where to find it.” Her smile grew impish. “You will see.”
“I’ll go,” Gabriel heard himself saying, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks as all eyes turned to him. “I’ll go fetch it.”
He recalled the sensation he had experienced in the church as he had prayed beside Joan; the pull toward the altar. He yearned to feel it again, and he could not bear the thought of someone unscrupulous finding and absconding with Joan’s sword.
“I’ll accompany him,” said Jean de Metz. “With your permission, of course.”
She turned to him, doubt flickering in her blue eyes. “You and de Poulengy will not take this chance to sneak back to Vaucouleurs, will you?”
“Of course not, my lady. I have kept the promises I made you, but I would not willingly leave your service, unless I am ordered to do so.”
She nodded. “Good. I have one more charge for you then. Keep my Shadow Gabriel safe when you travel to Sainte-Catherine-de-Fierbois.”
“It is done, I swear,” de Metz replied. “And it is clear that I leave you in good hands while I am gone.” There was a look of longing in his eyes—not of lust, or desire, but wistful. Gabriel understood. When one could see Joan’s light, pulling away from it took a great act of will. Moths to a flame, but with no such cruel ending.
Gabriel turned to regard the newcomer. He saw on the duke’s face an expression similar to that on de Metz’s; doubtless, similar to Gabriel’s own.
He sees her, Gabriel realized. And then, with a clap of understanding: Like I do. Like de Metz does.
Like an Assassin.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
The mists started to close in around Simon. “Victoria, no!” he shouted, but her voice in his ear cut him off.
Yes, Simon, she said. You’ve been in here for several hours today, and through a few intense simulations. We can reconvene tomorrow first thing. Get an early night and rest up.
“Wait—don’t you understand? Gabriel is about to get the sword! This is what we’ve been working toward!”
A pause. You’re right. But I’ve been monitoring your stats, Simon, and I don’t like what I’m seeing. Your cortisol levels are up, your blood pressure’s high, and you’re more than a little dehydrated.
“Oh, come now, that sounds like I’ve been watching football and drinking a couple of pints at the pub. I’m fine.” He lifted his hand to run it through his hair. It bumped against the helmet instead. He hadn’t realized what a subconscious gesture it was until just now. Simon had gotten vexed with Victoria before, but for the first time, he felt a real surge of anger.
“Look,” he said, keeping the desperation out of his voice with an effort. “Tomorrow will be day four. We can go into Rikkin’s office first thing and tell him we’ve found the sword. I’ll wager he’ll give us an extension.”
You said Joan had three swords. What if this isn’t—
“It is. I—I just know it is.” Easy, Simon, he told himself. You can’t start sounding frantic or she will march you straight out of here. “One more simulation. Where they find the sword. I want to make sure we’ve got the right one.”
It seemed like an eternity before she said, All right. But if I feel you are in any danger—any at all—I will pull you out.
Simon exhaled in relief as the mists began, once again, to shape themselves into the recognizable form of Saint Catherine’s.
They had left at noon on 7 March, and had arrived perhaps an hour before sunset. Saint Catherine’s looked smaller in daylight, Gabriel observed as he dismounted. The round, elderly widow who cooked and cleaned for the priest met them at the refectory door and bustled them inside to warm themselves. When they gave her Charles’s private letter, and explained that they were on the Dauphin’s business, her ruddy, cheerful face grew solemn and wide-eyed.
“Please,” she said, “there is some bread and small beer, and a bit of cheese. I’ll take this to Father Michel.”
“Thank you,” de Metz said, sitting down and tearing of a hunk of the bread. He offered it to Gabriel, and chewed on the thick, tough brown bread until the woman had gone. “Now that we’re here,” he said pleasantly, “I’m going to tell you my theory on why you were so agitated during the ride.”
Gabriel winced inwardly as he dunked the hard bread in the beer and took a bite. Of course de Metz had picked up on that. He’d tried to pry it out of him, but Gabriel had managed to put him off.
“We’ve both been in the chapel before. I’m going to guess that you went there on your own, or perhaps with Jeanne, to pray. And I think you sensed something that leads you to believe you know where this sword is.”
Gabriel nodded. “Ridiculous, I know. God doesn’t speak to me, he speaks to Jeanne.”
“Remember what we told you in the dungeon?” de Metz continued. “About how it’s in your blood to see Jeanne’s light? And in mine? And in hers, to have such light at all?” Gabriel nodded. “That’s because we’re descended from beings that came before man ever walked this world. Powerful beings, with great abilities and skills.”
Gabriel stared. He glanced around to make sure the housekeeper was not returning before he said in a sharp whisper, “You say this in a priest’s house? This is heresy!”
De Metz nodded. “To ordinary people, yes. To us… we know it is the truth. Would it comfort you if you thought of these beings as angels? They are not gods, certainly. You’ve seen too much to be afraid of this, Gabriel. You see it in Jeanne, you even see it in yourself. I’ll wager you felt something here—a pull, something that tugged at you to go in a certain direction. These… beings, the Ones Who Came Before—they left behind artifacts of great power. We call them Pieces of Eden, and both Assassins and Templars have been trying to find them since the dawn of time. You’ve heard stories of so-called magical swords, or potions, or wands, or staffs, haven’t you? These things are what inspired those stories. They’re not magical, not really, but the effect is the same.”
Gabriel looked into his cup, at the floating bits of soaked bread, and nodded. “About what you said earlier. I did feel a pull. Behind the altar. Where the statue of Saint Catherine is.”
“Good boy,” de Metz said. “Will you believe me if Jeanne’s letter confirms this?”
“I don’t see that I have a choice,” Gabriel replied. They heard footfalls and rose as Father Michel entered. He was small, his wrinkled skin as thin and pale as parchment, but his eyes were warm and full of welcome.
“I have read the letter from the Dauphin,” he said, “and I am not quite as surprised as you might expect at the instructions therein.”
“What does he ask of you, Father?” de Metz inquired.
Father Michel turned his bright eyes on the Assassin, having to tilt his head to look up at him. “We are to dig behind the altar,” he said. “And there, we shall find a sword.”
“And this doesn’t surprise you?” blurted Gabriel.
Father Michel chuckled gently. “For as long as there have been churches, there have been soldiers in them praying for victory. Sometimes, in thanks for God’s goodness, they leave an offering of a shield, or a harness of armor, or,” and he smiled, “a sword. We have no records of any such weapon being left here, but it is not so irregular as to surprise me. We shall have to wait until the morrow, though. The church has no tools for such a task. We’ll ask the masons for assistance. In the meantime, allow me to offer such hospitality as I may.
”
On Tuesday, 8 March, they were up at first light for mass. After that was completed, those who were already in the church pitched in to clear the area, and the masons got to work. Because Sainte-Catherine-de-Fierbois was a small village, the church had an earthen floor instead of tile, limestone, or crushed stone, so the work of digging behind the altar was not as destructive as it might have been. After a while, quite a crowd had gathered to watch as the masons used their picks and chisels to tear up the area behind the altar.
Gabriel, standing to one side, longed to pitch in and help but knew it would not be welcomed. He could… there was no other word… sense it. The Sword of Eden, as de Metz called it. With each layer of dirt that was removed, it came closer to surfacing. Gabriel chewed at his fingernail at one point, and de Metz whispered, “What’s wrong?”
“I’m terrified they’re going to damage it with their tools,” Gabriel murmured back.
“Don’t worry, boy, these things have been in existence for millennia. A mason’s pick is nothing to them.”
“I hope you’re right. Because if it is damaged, you’re the one who gets to tell Jeanne.” De Metz’s snort of laughter drew a reproving look from Father Michel.
At that moment, one of the masons paused. He asked for another chisel, smaller and sharper, and began to dig carefully. The crowded church nave fell silent at the slight yet noticeable change in activity. Gabriel’s breath came quickly, and for a moment he felt dizzy. De Metz’s hand settled on his shoulder, the grip reassuring, but also a warning to not surrender to the sensation. The boy nodded his acknowledgement.
The outline of a sword appeared. The soil around it was hard packed, so whatever it was had been buried there for some time; at least a century, perhaps more. The masons handled it carefully, calling for one of the town’s smiths, who stepped forward with a piece of fabric to receive it. As he lifted it, the dirt simply slid off as if it had not encased the sword for decades. He turned and lifted it up for everyone to see. A murmur rippled through the room as the gathered crowd stared at the sword, unearthed precisely where the girl from Domrémy had told them it would be; a sword so holy, even honest dirt seemed ashamed to sully it.
How can they not feel it? Gabriel thought, his eyes wide.
Simon was staring too, hungrily. He couldn’t tell if this was the same sword he recalled seeing safely mounted behind glass in Rikkin’s sleek but austere metal-and-wood office. It seemed to be the same approximate length—seventy-five, eighty centimeters—and shape. He couldn’t get a good look at the pommel from here, but the crossguard was straight.
It was, without a doubt, Piece of Eden 25.
They had found the sword that had belonged to Jacques de Molay, to Thomas François Germain—to Arno Dorian—
—and to Joan of Arc.
“We’ve got it,” Simon murmured, before the world went black.
“Simon? Simon, can you hear me?”
Slowly, he opened his eyes to see the blurry faces of Victoria, Amanda, and two other technicians whose names he didn’t know peering down at him. He blinked and started to rise. “What….”
Victoria put a hand on his chest and pushed him down gently. “You passed out.”
He went cold inside. This was bad, very bad. Rikkin could pull him from the project. “Ah. Thank you,” he said to Amanda and the technicians. “I believe Victoria and I can handle it from here.”
Victoria didn’t protest, and with a couple of worried looks the others left the room. “I had no idea there was a cot here,” he murmured.
“This is Abstergo,” Victoria said. “Somebody is always staying too late, so there is always a cot in each department. Usually a shower, too.” Simon supposed she was correct.
“What happened, exactly?”
“Your blood sugar dropped too low and you were hyperventilating,” she said. “Nothing serious, thank goodness.”
“Do—do you think it was an effect from the Animus?”
She shook her head and handed him his glasses. He slipped them on, feeling slightly more in control as the world went from fuzzy to clear. “No. Simple stress and exhaustion.” She nodded at a paper cup on a table beside the cot. “Drink that—it’s an electrolyte solution.”
He waved off her aid as he sat up, then immediately wished he hadn’t. Obediently, he drank the beverage she offered him. “So—no specific effects from the Animus?”
She shook her head and sank back in the chair, folding her arms and regarding him. “No,” she said. “But I did warn you about this. You should have let me wrap up when I suggested it.”
It all flooded back to him and he turned to her. “Victoria—we found it. We did it!”
“Yes, we did,” she said. “You did.”
“… there’s a ‘but’ in there, isn’t there?”
She sighed. “I’m worried, Simon. You’re a healthy individual, but you’re not trained for this. It’s wearing you down. I think we should have a rest day.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Simon—”
“He’s got to give us more time,” Simon barreled on. His breath was quick and shallow, and the hand that held the paper cup was trembling. “We’ve found the bloody sword, we can—”
Her hand reached out and closed on his, stilling his shaking. “Simon.” Victoria’s voice was calm, professional, and Simon despaired to hear it. “Stop. Listen to me. Tomorrow, when you’re clearer, we can send him an e-mail and explain the situation. But you can’t count on anything, and I don’t feel comfortable proceeding at this pace.”
Then she said the words he had dreaded. “We might simply have to accept that we won’t be able to follow Joan through to the end. And considering how invested you are at this point… maybe that’s not such a bad idea.”
He was silent.
“I’m going to give you something to help you sleep,” Victoria continued. He could hear the regret in her voice. It didn’t help one bit. “Order some takeaway and call one of the company cars. I don’t want you driving. Eat the minute you get home and then get into bed. We’ll meet tomorrow morning at nine and work up a presentation to send to Rikkin together. Promise me you won’t send anything—not a text, or a call, or an e-mail, anything—to Rikkin before I get here tomorrow.”
“Very well.” That didn’t mean he couldn’t draft something tonight. They looked at each other for a moment.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Don’t be. None of this is your fault. It’s Rikkin and his bloody deadline that’s rushing everything.” His words didn’t seem to cheer her up, in fact she looked even more solemn.
Simon reached over and patted her arm. “Chin up. I’ll be right as rain tomorrow. Rikkin won’t know what hit him.”
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
“Well, that was fast,” said Rodrigo. He leaned up against the door frame, arms folded, pretending to look displeased and failing. He did, however, look slightly sad.
Andrew Davies and Max Dittmar had taken off their headphones at their boss’s entrance, and now they looked over at Anaya. She shrugged sadly. “What can I say,” she said, “I miss speaking French.”
“Wait, what?” asked Andrew. “Are you going back to the Paris branch, Ny?”
“No, she’s going to the wilds of North America, to Montreal,” Rodrigo said. “You’re looking at the next Director of Information Security for Abstergo Entertainment. Best be nice to her. And to her new replacement.”
“I didn’t think it would all happen quite so fast.” She’d barely had time to poke her head into his office and tell Rodrigo about the interview, let alone prepare him for losing her. “I hope I’m not putting you in a bind.”
“We won’t have time to miss you. I spoke with HR, and they’re sending your replacement tomorrow.”
Now it was Anaya’s turn to be shocked. She’d anticipated at least a few days before they would find someone. But then again, positions at HQ were highly coveted and quickly snapped up.
&
nbsp; She thought back on the series of interviews. They had gone extraordinarily well, and she reflected yet again on the fact that so many high-ranking Templars at Abstergo were women, especially in fields that were the domain of men at most other corporations. In fact, both of the people she’d interviewed with had been women: CCO Melanie Lemay, who was, frankly, adorable, and Melanie’s almost complete opposite, the intimidating of all, Laetitia England. She had never met Laetitia, but she knew Simon had worked closely with her as they were both involved in Historical Research. Simon tended to be close-mouthed about most things. In a relationship, that made for bad communication, but in business, it was an excellent quality. He’d only let a single cutting comment about Laetitia escape his lips in the year he and Anaya had been together.
Still, it had been somewhat nerve-racking speaking to so many powerful executives, so when Melanie had called offering her the position a mere hour afterward, Anaya had been hard-pressed to, as the WWII poster advised, “Keep calm and carry on.” She’d sent Simon a text.
“So much for me slacking off in anticipation of leaving,” she said. “Who’s the lucky person?”
“Name’s Benjamin Clarke. He’ll be arriving from New York first thing. I’m told he’s a bit of a wunderkind, he’d been angling for a position there but apparently he jumped at the chance to come here.”
“Americans,” sighed Max. “I still think they secretly wish they’d never had their little revolution.”
“Secretly?” laughed Anaya. “Talk to the BBC, it’s not so secret.” It was starting to hit her; the talk of training her replacement made everything real in a way the phone call of acceptance hadn’t. She stole a quick glance at her mobile; Simon hadn’t replied. Well, he was busy settling into a new position himself. Odd, that they’d both be moving up—and in her case, moving on—at the same time, when things so seldom seemed to coincide when they were together.
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