“You keep the Night Office.”
Gabriel froze. His breathing rasped harshly in his own ears and though he squeezed his eyes tightly shut, tears still escaped. Was he going mad? Was he hearing Jeanne’s Voices? He had watched her die, die as horribly as anyone ever had. So it couldn’t be her, but it didn’t matter. No madman would be happier than he.
“J-Jeanne?” He turned toward the voice, and opened his eyes.
Through the blur of tears, the moon was kind, shining fully upon the face he loved and had never dreamed to see again in life. He gasped, lurching forward and dropping to his knees in front of her, clinging to her dress, disbelieving the solidity of wool against his fingers.
Then her arms were around him, holding him tight as he sobbed into the crook of her neck. “It’s me,” she said. “It’s really me.”
For a long time, they clung to one another in silence, kneeling on the hard stone street. Finally, Gabriel lifted his head and stared into her moon-silvered face, clutching her hands, still terrified she might turn out to be a dream, as Jeanne-Jeanne, Jeanne!—told him what had happened.
The day of her execution, Jeanne had been alone with her priest, Martin Ladvenu. He had sent someone to fetch his stole, so he could give her communion properly, and had urged her to drink something thick and sweet. She had awoken the following night to find Jean de Metz smiling down at her, along with other people she did not know, all of whom wore hoods and did not wish their faces seen.
“He said he remembered his vow of fealty. He had not forgotten me. He and his friends had rescued me, but… oh, Gabriel… Fleur….”
For a moment, Gabriel didn’t understand. Then guilt, horror, and hot shame twisted his stomach and clutched at his throat. How angry he had been with Fleur, cursing her name. Calling her a traitor, a coward, when in the end, she had been even more loyal than he—and certainly braver.
“I thought it was you,” he whispered, and part of him still could not believe it. The joy would forever be tempered with the pain of knowing that her life had been bought by Fleur’s sacrifice. He thought of the blonde girl’s words. Joan had changed her life, and had brought her to God. She had given the rest of her life to thank Joan for a few months of true peace.
“I—I saw….” Gabriel paused. What had he seen? What he, what everyone, had expected to see: A slender, blue-eyed girl, a miter jammed onto her head concealing half of a bloody and swollen face, her skull shaved bald to humiliate her, who cried out the name of Jesus as she died—in a voice that he now realized had not been Joan’s at all. But there had been one thing that Fleur, it seemed, would not sacrifice to complete the illusion. He remembered seeing Joan’s pouch hanging on her slim neck, almost, but not quite, hidden by her filthy shift.
He wondered if some of the “soldiers” in the crowd in full armor had been Assassins, making sure no one got too good a view of the false Joan. Hiding in plain sight.
“They told me that I must never reveal that I had lived, or else Fleur’s death would be in vain. And so I did not. I’ve been wandering, going from town to town, working in inns and taverns. I’ve not gone back to my family. Jeanne the Maid is no more. But… when I learned you had returned… I had to come see you. To tell you I would never have asked this of our Fleur—or of you.”
“No,” he said. “You would never do so. But Fleur chose.” This, he knew; this, he could truly comfort her with. The Assassins were many things, and it was cruel of them to have asked this of the girl, but he knew they would never force or threaten her. It would not surprise Gabriel if Fleur herself had proposed the plan. He held Jeanne’s shoulders and looked into her eyes. “She loved you.”
Her damp eyes widened as he spoke, hearing the words he was too fearful even now to speak. Then, softly, she said, “I don’t hear my Voices any more. Have I lost my angels, Gabriel? Have they forsaken me?”
Slowly, gently, Gabriel reached to thumb away a fresh tear that rolled down her cheek. She was no longer a girl, but a woman. Her face was older, less innocent and rounded, but her skin was so soft. He realized all at once that the radiance he had taken to be light from a glorious, swollen full moon was not simply from the sky.
Joan looked up at him, her beautiful, kind heart in her eyes, and she was once again shining from within.
“No,” Gabriel whispered. “I don’t think they have forsaken you. They’ve released you. God, through Fleur’s sacrifice, has given you back your life. You now get to choose what to do with it. What will you do, Jeanne?”
Words she had spoken so long ago came back to him. How can I be Jeanne, a wife, when I have pledged to remain Jeanne, the Maid of Lorraine, as long as it should please God? I made that promise three years ago. My body, my heart… my Voices need of all of me right now. And his plea: Only let me share your journey for as long as you can.
He knew, as he felt her cheek blush against his hand, that Joan was remembering that night, too. Her radiance blossomed as she lifted her own exploring fingers to caress his face. Gabriel trembled and leaned into her hand.
“Gabriel Laxart,” whispered Joan of Arc, her face so bright he could hardly bear it, “I will let you share my journey forever.”
Much, much later, Simon Hathaway unsteadily lifted the Animus helm from his head. With fumbling, shaking fingers, he undid the various clasps and stumbled over to the desk, leaning against it for a moment, catching his breath. In his distraught state, it took him a moment to recall the code necessary to erase from the records what he had just beheld.
Then he picked up his phone.
“Simon? What is it, what’s wrong?” Anaya’s voice was sleepy but full of concern.
“I—Anaya, I need to talk to you.” Simon wanted to be calm, to explain clearly how he felt, but the words rushed out of
their own accord. “Don’t go to Montreal yet. Not until after we’ve talked. Please. Tonight—”
“Simon.” Now she was the calm one. “What happened?”
“A miracle,” he said, half-laughing, half-sobbing. “And I’ll tell you all about it. I’ll tell you everything, Anaya. All the things I should have told you before, all the things I thought weren’t important, but were really the only things that mattered. I know that sometimes it’s too late for second chances, but I…. Just let me talk to you. And you can tell me if—if I’m too late for one.”
A long pause. As long as twelve years. Simon gripped the phone so hard his hand hurt.
“I’ll always listen to you, Simon.” Anaya’s voice was warm. “Come on round, then, and we’ll talk. I’ll put on the kettle for some tea.”
EPILOGUE
“As you expected, it didn’t take long.”
Alan Rikkin smiled to himself, leaning back in the comfortable leather chair of Abstergo’s corporate Airbus A319. “What have you got for me?”
“Hathaway used the Animus just a few hours ago.”
And to think I thought Hathaway the overly cautious type, Rikkin mused. “Do you have the simulation?”
“No, sir, he was able to erase it using the bypass code Chodary had given him previously. But there’s evidence that a simulation used to be there.”
Rikkin glanced at his watch. “I’ve no time to deal with this right now. Keep monitoring him and we’ll discuss proper measures upon my return. Do you think anyone suspects you?”
“Negative. Clarke was an excellent red herring. He drew all the attention. Once he was gone, Chodary was satisfied that the hacking was over.”
“Do be careful as you continue,” Rikkin warned. “I don’t know how much Hathaway told her, but she’s likely to be more sensitive to future attempts on your part.”
“Agreed. She’d have caught me at once if not for Clarke.”
“I’ll notify the rest of Omega Team to stand down for the moment. When I get back from Madrid, however, we might be implementing the Double Epsilon.”
Rikkin had tried valiantly to prevent Simon from learning the truth. He really had. He couldn’t be faulted for wha
t had to happen now. The image of Simon holding aloft the Sword of Eden, as if he were some sort of twenty-first century King Arthur who’d pulled forth Excalibur from the stone, had sent severe ripples through the Inner Sanctum. Some of them were ready to abandon centuries of how the Templar Order had actually worked for an idealized version of how, long ago, de Molay had wanted it to work.
King Arthur died in disillusionment, having been betrayed by his wife, his best friend, and his son. Jacques de Molay had been burned alive.
Their idealistic view was not the best path for the Templar Order.
“For Hathaway?” The voice in his ear drew Rikkin back to the present.
“For all of them, potentially. For… others, even. We’ll see how Madrid goes.”
“Omega stands by,” said Andrew Davies.
There were secrets within secrets in the Templar Order. Omega Team was one of the deepest of all. The last; the end. They answered when he called upon them for endings. But for now, they would wait upon his order.
He was heading to Madrid, to what he hoped would be the beginning of the greatest chapter yet of Templar History.
“Alphas and Omegas,” he said quietly, and called Sofia.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A book like this is never created in a vacuum. Thanks go out to my always-wonderful agent, Lucienne Diver, for her constant support and efforts on my behalf. I was also extremely fortunate to be working with a group of creative, intelligent, and enthusiastic people at Ubisoft. Their unflagging support for this book and willingness to help, from the outset throughout the entire process, is deeply appreciated.
Thanks to Caroline Lamache and Holly Rawlinson, who reached out to me in late 2015 with the initial concept. Caroline and Anthony Marcantonio helped what turned out to be a sprawling and exciting adventure stay on track.
Aymar Azaizia helped tremendously during the brainstorming sessions where Joan, Simon, and Gabriel first made appearances. Richard Farrese and Anouk Bachman stood ready at almost any hour of the day to offer suggestions, clarification, and feedback to ensure that the world of Assassin’s Creed integrated smoothly with the world of the early 15th century. Maxime Durand, historian extraordinaire, did the reverse, making certain any questions or requests for specific information were accommodated, so that the France of Joan of Arc felt real.
Kevin Stallard very kindly answered quite a lot of questions I had about how White Hats go about their days; any errors regarding Anaya’s skills are entirely my own.
Appreciation goes out to the late scholar and historian Regine Pernoud. The bulk of her books on Joan of Arc consist of Joan’s own words, and she is wise enough to know when to expound for the reader and when to let Joan come forward. Her books are engrossing, accessible, and informative, and I cannot recommend them highly enough to anyone interested in learning about the historical Joan of Arc.
Finally, thanks to a young woman who, in real life, didn’t need a Sword of Eden to astonish the world. In 1429 and nearly six hundred years later, Joan of Arc did not and does not require embellishment to captivate, inspire, and amaze. Merci, La Pucelle, for letting me weave a tale around your truth.
—CHRISTIE GOLDEN
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