Assassin's Creed: Heresy

by Christie Golden

  Gabriel took a deep breath and let go of the branches, balancing cat-like on a single straight one. De Metz had been right, as he had been about everything so far. His body somehow understood what to do. He steadied himself for a moment, then straightened, lifting his arms like wings, and fell.

  It was glorious.

  Instead of speeding up, his heart rate slowed, and a strange calmness descended upon him. He completely and utterly trusted that he would land safely. And as if he had done this a thousand times, his body effortlessly curled into the correct position, and almost too soon he found himself staring up at the sky.

  “Well done!” de Metz exclaimed, extending a hand to pull him to his feet. “I knew you could do it. Want to go again?”

  “Yes!” Gabriel exclaimed, then added as the thought occurred to him, “But… you can’t always count on there being a conveniently placed pile of branches or a hay wagon to break your fall.”

  De Metz laughed and clapped him on the back. “And that is why we call it the Leap of Faith.”

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  ’m going to bring you out and head into the next simulation. Simon found himself disappointed as the scene’s colors bled away to gray clouds.

  “That was quite a lot of fun,” he said.

  Don’t enjoy it too much. I’d hate to see you wander over to the other side.

  “Ugh. Don’t even joke.”

  She laughed. There’s one more day of training… hang on, let me find it… ah, there we are.

  As the mists took on shape and substance, Simon realized that the Hidden Blade was strapped to his wrist.

  The training for this weapon was as subtle and elegant as the sword fighting had been bold and powerful. At one point, Gabriel paused, staring at the blade.

  “What is it?” de Metz asked.

  “I’m thinking of how this is used,” Gabriel said. “In battle—it’s all out there. Nothing secret, nothing hidden. I—I think I could kill someone in battle, if I had to.”

  “Good, because he will certainly be happy enough about killing you.”

  “But this….” He lifted troubled eyes to de Metz. “Have you used this before?”

  De Metz regarded him steadily. “Yes.”

  “How… how does it feel?”

  “I can’t tell you how you will feel,” the Assassin replied. “But I slept well that night. The man whose throat I pierced deserved death—and more. Yes, a life was lost. But I know for a fact many, many other lives were saved.” He gave Gabriel a forced smile. “But don’t worry. You won’t get yours until we think you can handle it.”

  “I don’t know if I have it in me,” Gabriel said.

  “I think you will. You’ll understand when the time comes.”

  Gabriel hoped he was right. He was not sure he liked how easily he moved with the deadly weapon; how already familiar it felt, like an extension of his body. Neither was Simon.

  Gabriel was pleased when they returned to find the king’s courier, Colet de Vienne, waiting for them in the rectory with letters for each of them. “Your Maid has dictated a letter for you, Gabriel,” de Vienne said, grinning.

  Delight surged through Gabriel, chasing away the ruminations of the past few hours. He excused himself and stepped outside, slipping his thumb beneath the wax seal and unfolding the parchment with hands that trembled.

  My Witness,

  I have heard the great good news that God has guided you to find my sword for me, as I knew He would, and that it was where I said it would be. I am ready to receive it from your hands upon your arrival here in Poitiers.

  I grow weary of the constant questioning. I was first questioned at Vaucouleurs and as you recall was even subjected to an exorcism performed by Father Jean Fournier. Then in the town of Chinon, while I awaited the Dauphin’s pleasure, then again after I was received by him, and now yet again here!

  Gabriel found himself smiling as he read. He well recalled Joan’s exasperation and impatience at all of these “precautions.”

  There is an entire group of prelates who are heaping questions upon my head, their number close to a dozen. Each day is one more that the good people of Orléans must suffer, they who cry out to God who has sent me to aid them. My ladies tell me I must be kind and patient but I am no saint to suffer mildly.

  I am told that also, it is important to know if I am truly a Maid, and that the Queen of Anjou, the mother of the Dauphin’s wife, is coming here to meet me and make sure of this. For they say, if I lie about being a true Maid, then all I say is false. Queen Yolande will know soon enough that I am sent from God.

  The Duke of Alençon has come to keep me company. I grow greatly fond of him, and he of me, and he will be a stout ally to our cause. But it is my Shadow that I miss. May God speed you here, for I am like to go mad if I am to be forced to endure this much longer without you.

  Written this day, Wednesday, 9 March, 1429

  Gabriel folded the letter and kissed it gently. He had envied the handsome Duke of Alençon for a moment, but her last words had reassured him of his own place in her esteem. And he would be by her side until she sent him away.

  This boy’s got it bad, Simon thought as the mists rolled in again.

  Need a break? asked Victoria.

  “No,” Simon said. “I’m dying to see what happens when Joan finally gets this sword in her hands.”

  A pause. All right, but then we should get some lunch.

  “Done.”

  SATURDAY, 12 MARCH, 1429

  In Poitiers, Joan was staying with the family of the very respectable Jean Rabateau, an advocate for the Parliament of Paris, who had joined the king two years ago. No sooner had Gabriel and de Metz drawn up to the residence than Gabriel heard a familiar voice calling his name.

  He turned in the saddle, but abruptly felt lost as he looked at the girl who was running out of the house to greet him. She wore a long red sideless surcoat trimmed in fur over a blue kirtle, lifted perhaps a trifle too far so that she could run faster. A red silk hairnet modestly gathered black curls from a high forehead. Around her slender throat hung a small pouch, about the size of a walnut.

  Only Joan’s face was the same, her blue eyes wide with delight, her lips parted in a smile, and radiant, so gloriously, wondrously lit from within. She reached her hands up to him, and he clasped them tightly.

  “I almost didn’t recognize you,” he stammered. “You look—” There simply wasn’t a word. Beautiful was woefully inadequate. She made a face and laughed, even as a rogue curl escaped its hairnet prison.

  “I don’t look like me,” she said.

  “You will always be you,” Gabriel said, “however you dress.”

  “The Maid has missed you,” came another voice, and Gabriel turned to see the Duke of Alençon approaching. He, too, was dressed more formally than he had been when they had met, and Gabriel bowed low.

  “Your Grace,” he said, “I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware—”

  “You have given no offense. Our Maid shines so bright she eclipses everyone and everything else. But I think you have come bearing something else that is bright and shiny, have you not?”

  Impossibly, Gabriel had almost forgotten. “I have indeed! We were delayed because they wished to make you a sheath.” He slid off, patted the horse, and unfastened the straps that secured the precious item to beast’s back. Eagerly Joan reached for the long cloth bag that clearly housed the sword. He held it for her while she carefully unwrapped the fabric. The little pouch around her neck swung gently as she bent over her task.

  His heart suddenly sped up to a gallop in his chest. In Jeanne’s hands… who knows? de Metz had said.

  She turned the last fold back.

  The blade was coyly hidden from them by a sheath of red velvet upon which had been embroidered golden fleur-de-lis. The pommel’s burnished steel glinted. It was a beautiful sword, but with most of it hidden, it looked like nothing more than that.

  Joan regarded it with wide eyes
. Then, without touching the hilt, she removed the velvet sheath. And gasped. Beside her, the duke’s eyes widened as well at the sudden bright, golden glow. Slowly, hesitantly, Joan reached out a hand and curled her fingers around the hilt. With the speed and breathtaking power of a lightning strike, the entire sword glowed to life. Lines chased themselves around the weapon, from blade to hilt to pommel; strange images that looked like some sort of writing, or symbols. Symbols that part of Gabriel somehow realized were familiar.

  “Jhesu Maria,” Joan whispered, and lifted the sword high.

  And suddenly, everything in the world felt possible. Everything. Victory, peace, prosperity to a beleaguered nation. Food for the hungry. Clothes for those whose own were threadbare. Gabriel felt as though he stood in front of a

  hearth fire that blazed so brightly that all shadows, everywhere, were driven away like mist before a sunlit morning. Fear disappeared, for there was no longer anything to fear. There was nothing cold, or cruel, or sharp, or angry, or wrong. Gabriel, Joan—bright, bright as the sun beside him—the astonished and joyful duke, the Dauphin, the Laxarts, the French and the Burgundians and the English, all, all were warm, and safe, and loved, and all would be well, all would be well, and all manner of things would be well—

  Then, slowly, the glow receded, but did not fully retreat, as Joan slipped the red sheath back into place. She uttered no word, but her face spoke all that words could not possibly say.

  This, then, was what the Sword would do in Joan’s hands. More than God was on their side, Gabriel understood. All that was good, and pure, and sweet, and calm, and healing was present when Joan held aloft the sword with the reverence it was due.

  They would not fail. They could not.

  Ever.

  TO: arikkin@abstergo.com

  SUBJECT: Update on current Animus simulation

  CC: vbibeau@abstergo.com

  Dr. Bibeau and I should like to schedule an appointment with you at your earliest convenience to discuss the tremendous strides we’ve already made over the last four short days.

  Below I have listed several incidents that argue for an extension of the original deadline, as I believe they are firm evidence of the usefulness of my approach.

  1. You are aware that Jacques de Molay was imprisoned in the Tower of Coudray in 1308. Yesterday, historical subject Gabriel Laxart spent several long moments regarding the graffiti left by de Molay and his fellow Templars. This is the only known visual we have on record until the latter part of the twentieth century, and it appears as though there are items Laxart saw that have not survived down the centuries. I know our cryptologists are eager to increase their knowledge about our finest Grand Master and, who knows, perhaps something that might lead us to find more Pieces of Eden. Dr. Bibeau has sent a recording of this to Cryptology.

  We would have remained ignorant of the fact that Gabriel

  Laxart had been given this opportunity if we had been focused solely on the Sword of Eden.

  2. We have encountered a Mentor. I expect that I will discover his identity in very short order. As with the de Molay graffiti, this is something that was entirely unexpected before I entered the Animus.

  3. We have strong evidence that Joan of Arc possessed one of the highest percentages of Precursor DNA on record, and there is a strong likelihood that she was being directly influenced by the presence we know today as Consus.

  4. Regarding Joan’s sword: You’ll be quite pleased to hear that we have initial visual confirmation that the sword Joan of Arc wore into battle with her is indeed the Sword of Eden you have in your office. I’d like very much to make a formal request to have it on hand in the office, so that I can examine it more thoroughly immediately upon coming off of a simulation.

  Would appreciate hearing back from you soonest regarding this matter.

  SH

  Alan Rikkin, who was not at back-to-back meetings but rather enjoying an Aberfeldy Private Single Cask scotch at his favorite club, Blake’s, read Simon’s e-mail on his phone. It had been sent several hours earlier. He took a sip of the grassy, slightly citrusy liquid and rolled it around his mouth, staring out the wavy glass of the original 1788 glass window, before composing a text.

  Yes to the sword. No to an extension. Force him to focus.

  Truth be told, Rikkin was beginning to regret indulging Simon in his great idealistic crusade for “knowledge.” Although, if he could get that sword activated, the idea might not have been without merit.

  Thin ice, Rikkin thought. One way or another, we’re all skating on it.

  But the difference was, if Simon Hathaway fell through it, he wouldn’t just drown.

  He’d be eaten alive by what lurked below.

  CHAPTER

  SIXTEEN

  our stats just spiked, came Victoria’s voice. I’m bringing you out.

  Simon resisted. He didn’t want to leave, not now. All he wanted to do was look at Joan of Arc, wondrous and joy-filled, gazing at the sword that was almost—almost—as bright to him—

  —to Gabriel—

  —as she was.

  But he could offer no resistance, after all. The scene dissolved around him. The last thing to be swallowed by the hungry mists was her face.

  “That was amazing,” he said when Victoria lifted the helmet off his head. “The sword. In Joan’s hands.”

  Her eyes were wide as she nodded. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

  Now that he was out of the simulation, Simon suddenly felt everything: the pain of his body from the training—and that of his spirit at no longer seeing the sword in Joan’s hands. He was sweating and thirsty, and suspected he really ought to take the rest of the day off and just sleep. But he couldn’t. He had to keep going, not just because of the ticking clock of Rikkin’s deadline, but because he was so close to understanding the sword.

  And because you are enthralled with this, part of him said. He squashed that part ruthlessly.

  “I absolutely have to take a shower,” he apologized, “then I’ll meet you at Temp’s in a half hour.”

  With five minutes to spare, Simon arrived at Temp’s feeling somewhat better, but, as usual these days, ravenous. The same woman who had served him and Victoria earlier greeted him, and he took a moment to look around for his old friend Poole. Simon hoped he hadn’t quit; Temp’s wouldn’t be the same without him.

  “I’m waiting for someone,” he said politely when the woman—her nametag said Lyndsey—ask if he’d like to be seated.

  As if to completely discredit him, he heard a voice calling his name. He looked over to see Anaya waving at him. With her sat a young man who looked like he was barely out of university.

  “Simon! Come join us!” she invited. The two were at a table for four, so he supposed he couldn’t even get out of it by explaining that Victoria would be arriving shortly. There went any opportunity for private discussion, he thought, but smiled and sat down.

  “Simon, this is Ben. He’ll be taking over for me when I’m gone in a few weeks,” she explained.

  “You’ve got some big shoes to fill,” Simon said. “Well, not literally. Anaya has very dainty feet.”

  “But I can kick hard with them if I have to,” Anaya said, and for a moment they smiled at one another, and it was as if distance hadn’t grown between them. But it had, and soon it would be physical distance as well.

  Anaya, too, seemed to sense the shift, and turned to Ben. “Nobody knows tea like Simon,” she said, “and you’d best learn to like it if you’re going to be here in London for a while.”

  “Hey, I saw a lot of Starbucks around here,” Ben said. “And you even have a coffee place on site. Nice try, Ny.”

  Good thing Anaya was leaving, Simon thought; she hated “Ny.”

  Nonetheless, he obligingly walked the American through the finer points of tea and steered him toward the better offerings on the chalkboard. Victoria arrived when Simon was explaining about Historical Research’s role in the latest AE videogame, and
she looked tired.

  This ridiculous deadline of Rikkin’s is hurting everything, Simon thought, frowning as he waved her over. She saw him, waved back and held up a finger, and typed something in her phone before dropping it in her handbag.

  Simon’s phone buzzed, and when he glanced at it he was surprised to see it was from her. He read: Heard from R. N on deadline Y on S.

  Damn. His lips thinned. He was a Master Templar and a member of the Inner Sanctum. Why on earth had Rikkin replied to Victoria instead of him? Simon texted Victoria back even as she slipped into the seat across from him: Need to tell him about J’s reaction.

  The whole affair felt rather like passing notes in class, he thought, but it was better than discussing it in front of Anaya and Captain America. More than ever now Simon regretted being corralled into idle chitchat. He ordered the Temp’s Big Breakfast and dove into it hungrily as they talked about the restaurants, the perks—“The gym’s blinding,” Anaya said, and the poor boy looked terribly confused—and all the sightseeing one ought to do while one lived here, but somehow never got around to doing. “Victoria, has Simon insisted on Temp’s for every meal since you’ve been here?” she asked brightly.

  “Not quite,” Victoria smiled.

  “You should see if you can wrangle dinner at Bella Cibo before you have to go, it’s quite an experience. Too bad it’s not summertime, it’s got such a pretty balcony.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, thank you!”

  Simon was about to say it was above his pay grade, but realized that now it wasn’t. Maybe he should take Victoria there. He winced as the new hire put both lemon and milk into his tea, unaware that he was going to make the milk curdle. He wondered if this Ben from America was a Templar. He had to be, given the nature of his job, but he just seemed so… so….