It spoke again, sparking and throwing out a bolt of energy that seemed to leap for me as though it had a mind of its own.
‘So, the prodigal Assassin returns,’ called Germain. ‘I suspected as much when La Touche stopped sending his tax revenues. You’ve become quite the thorn in my side.’
I dashed from out of my hiding place from behind a column, my hidden blade extended and glowing dully in the half-light.
‘I assume Robespierre was your doing as well?’ he said as we squared up.
I grinned agreement.
‘No matter,’ he smiled, ‘his Reign of Terror served its purpose. The metal has been fired and shaped. Quenching it will only set its form.’
I darted forward and struck out at his sword, aiming not to deflect it but to damage it, knowing that if I could somehow disarm him I might swing the battle in my favour.
‘Why so persistent?’ he taunted. ‘Is it revenge? Did Bellec indoctrinate you so thoroughly that you do his bidding even now? Or is it love? Has La Serre’s daughter turned your head?’
My hidden blade came down hard on the shaft of his sword and the weapon seemed to give out a hurt, angry glow, as though it was wounded.
Even so, Germain, on the back foot now, was somehow able to harness its power again, this time in a way even I had difficulty believing. With a burst of energy that threw me backwards and left a scorch mark on the floor, the Grand Master simply disappeared.
From deep within the recesses of the temple came an answering bang that seemed to ripple around the stone walls, and I pulled myself to my feet to head in that direction, scrambling down a set of damp steps until I reached the crypt.
From my left Élise emerged from the dark of the catacombs. Clever. Just a few moments earlier and we would have had Germain cut off in both directions.
(These moments, I realize now – a few seconds here, a few seconds there. They were tiny, heartbreaking quirks in time that decided Élise’s fate.)
‘What happened here?’ she said, studying what had once been the gate to the crypt but which was now blackened and twisted.
I shook my head. ‘Germain’s got some kind of weapon … I’ve never seen its like before. He got away from me.’
She barely glanced my way. ‘He didn’t come past me. He must be down there.’
I shot her a doubtful look. Even so, with our swords ready we took the few remaining steps down to the crypt.
Empty. But there had to be a secret door. I began to feel for one and my fingertips found a lever between the stone, pulled it and stood back as a door slid open with a deep grinding sound and a large vault stretched ahead, lined with pillars and Templar sarcophagi.
Inside stood Germain. He had his back to us, and I had just realized that his sword had somehow recovered its power and that he was waiting for us when from by my side Élise leapt forward with a shout of rage.
‘Élise!’
Sure enough, as Élise bore down upon him, Germain swung round, wielding the bright, glowing sword, a snake-like bolt of energy surging from it and forcing us to dive for cover.
He laughed. ‘Ah, and Mademoiselle de la Serre as well. This is quite the reunion.’
‘Stay hidden,’ I whispered to Élise. ‘Keep him talking.’
She nodded and crouched behind a sarcophagus, waving me away and calling to Germain at the same time.
‘Did you think this day would never come?’ she asked. ‘That because François de la Serre had no sons to avenge him your crime would go unanswered?’
‘Revenge, is it?’ he laughed. ‘Your vision is as narrow as your father’s.’
She shouted back. ‘You’re one to talk. How wide of vision was your grab for power?’
‘Power? No, no, no, you’re smarter than that. This was never about power. It’s always been about control. Did your father teach you nothing? The Order has grown complacent. For centuries we’ve focused our attentions on the trappings of power: the titles of nobility, the offices of Church and State. Caught in the very lie we crafted to shepherd the masses.’
‘I’ll kill you,’ she called.
‘You’re not listening. Killing me won’t stop anything. When our brother Templars see the old institutions crumble, they will adapt. They will retreat to the shadows and we will, at last, be the Secret Masters we were meant to be. So come – kill me if you can. Unless you can miracle up a new king and halt the revolution in its tracks, it does not matter.’
I sprung my trap, coming up on Germain’s blind side and unlucky not to finish him with my blade; instead his sword crackled angrily and an orb of blue-white energy came shooting out of it with the velocity of a cannonball, inflicting the damage of a cannonball on the vault around us. In a moment I was engulfed by dust as masonry fell down – and in the next moment caught beneath a fallen pillar.
‘Arno,’ she called.
‘I’m stuck.’
Whatever the great ball of energy had been, Germain hadn’t been in full command of it. He was picking himself up now, coughing as he squinted through the swirling dust at us, stumbling on the masonry littering the stone floor as he dragged himself to his feet.
Hunched over, he stood and wondered whether to finish us off but evidently decided against it, instead spinning and fleeing further into the depths of the vault, his sword spitting angry sparks.
I watched as Élise’s desperate eyes went from me, momentarily out of action and in need of help, to the retreating figure of Germain and then back to me.
‘He’s getting away,’ she said, her eyes blazing with frustration, and when she looked back at me I could see the indecision written all over her face. Two choices. Stay and let Germain escape, or go after him.
There was never any doubt, really, which option she’d choose.
‘I can take him,’ she said, deciding.
‘You can’t,’ I said. ‘Not alone. Wait for me. Élise.’
But she had disappeared. With a howl of effort I freed myself from the stone, scrambled to my feet and set off after her.
And if I had only been seconds earlier (as I say – each step of the way towards her death was decided by just a few seconds) I could have tipped the battle, because Germain was defending furiously, the effort written all over those cruel features, and perhaps his sword – this thing I’ve decided was almost alive – somehow sensed that its owner faced defeat … because with a great explosion of sound, light and a huge, indiscriminate burst of energy it shattered.
The force rocked me on my feet but my first thought was for Élise. Both she and Germain had been at the very centre of the blast.
Through the dust I saw her red hair where she lay crumpled beneath a column. I ran to her, went to my knees and took her head in my hands.
In her eyes was a bright light. Élise saw me, I think, in the second before she died. She saw me and the light came into her eyes one final time – and then winked out.
iii.
I ignored Germain’s coughing for a while, and then gently laid Élise’s head down on the stone, closed her eyes and stood, walking across the debris-strewn chamber to where he lay, blood bubbling at his mouth, watching me, almost dead.
I knelt. Without taking my eyes off his, I brought my blade to bear and finished the job.
I saw the vision when Germain died.
(And let me pause to imagine the sideways look on Élise’s face when I told her about the visions. Not quite belief, not quite doubt.)
This vision was different to the others. I was somehow present within it, in a way that I never had been before.
I found myself in Germain’s workshop, watching as Germain, looking like he once had, in the clothes of a silversmith, sat crafting a pin.
As I gazed at him, he clutched at his temples and began to mutter to himself, as though assailed by something in his head.
What was it? I wondered, just as a voice came from behind me, startling me.
‘Bravo. You’ve slain the villain. That is how you’ve cast this little morali
ty play in your mind, isn’t it?
Still in the vision I turned to see the source of the voice, only to find another Germain – this one much older, the Germain I knew – standing behind me.
‘Oh, I’m not really here,’ he explained, ‘and I’m not really there either. At the moment I’m bleeding out on the floor of the Temple. But it seems the father of understanding has seen fit to give us this time to talk.’
All of a sudden the scene shifted and we were in the secret vault beneath the temple where we’d been fighting, only the vault was unscathed and there was no sign of Élise. What I saw were scenes from another, earlier time as the younger Germain approached an altar where De Molay’s texts were laid out.
‘Ah,’ came the voice of the guide-Germain from behind me. ‘A particular favourite of mine. I did not understand the visions that haunted my mind, you see. Images of great golden towers, of cities shining white as silver. I thought I was going mad. Then I found this place – Jacques de Molay’s vault. Through his writings, I understood.’
‘Understood what?’
‘That somehow, through the centuries, I was connected to Grand Master de Molay. That I had been chosen to purge the Order of the decadence and corruption that had set in like rot. To wash clean the world, and restore it to the truth the father of understanding intended.’
And once again the scene shifted. This time I found myself in a room, where high-ranking Templars passed judgement on Germain and banished him from the Order.
‘Prophets are seldom appreciated in their own time,’ he explained from behind me. ‘Exile and abasement forced me to re-examine my strategies, to find new avenues for the realization of my purpose.’
Once more the scene shifted and I found myself being assaulted with images of the Terror, the guillotine rising and falling like the inexorable ticking of a clock.
‘No matter the cost?’ I asked.
‘New order never comes without the destruction of the old. And if men are made to fear untrammelled liberty, so much the better. A brief taste of chaos will remind them why they crave obedience.’
And then the scene warped again and once more we were in the vault. This time it was moments before the explosion that had claimed Élise’s life, and I saw in her face the effort of making what had been the battle’s decisive blow, and I hoped that she knew her father had been avenged, and that it had brought her some peace.
‘It appears we part ways here,’ said Germain. ‘Think on this: the march of progress is slow, but it is as inevitable as a glacier. All you have accomplished here is to delay the inevitable. One death cannot stop the tide. Perhaps it will not be my hand that shepherds mankind back into its proper place – but it will be someone’s. Think on this when you remember her.’
I would.
Something puzzled me in the weeks after her death. How was it possible that I had known Élise better than any other person, had spent more time with her than anybody else, and that it had counted for nothing in the end, because I didn’t really know her?
The girl, yes, but not the woman she became. Having watched her grow I never really got the chance to admire the beauty of Élise in bloom.
And now I never will. Gone is the future we had together. My heart aches for her. My chest feels heavy. I weep for love lost, for yesterdays gone, for tomorrows that will never be.
I weep for Élise, who for all her flaws is the best person I will ever know.
Not long after her death, a man called Ruddock came to see me at Versailles. Smelling of perfume that barely masked an almost overpowering body odour, he came bearing a letter marked, TO BE OPENED IN THE EVENT OF MY DEATH.
The seal was broken.
‘You’ve read it?’ I asked.
‘Indeed, sir. With a heavy heart I did as instructed.’
‘It was to be opened in the event of her death,’ I said, feeling a little betrayed by the shake of emotion in my voice.
‘That’s right, sir. Upon receipt of the letter I placed it in a dresser, hoping never to see it again, if I’m honest with you.’
I fixed him with a stare. ‘Tell me the truth, did you read it before she died? Because if you did, then you could have done something about her death.’
Ruddock gave a slightly sad, airy smile. ‘Could I? I rather think not, Mr Dorian. Soldiers write such letters before battle, sir. The mere fact of them contemplating their own morality does not a postponement make.’
He’d read it, I could tell. He’d read it before she died.
I frowned, unfolded the paper and began to read Élise’s words for myself.
Ruddock,
Forgive the lack of pleasantries but I’m afraid I have reconciled my feelings towards you, and they are this: I don’t much like you. I’m sorry about this, and I appreciate you may consider it a rather rude thing to announce, but if you’re reading this then either you have ignored my instruction or I am dead and in either case neither of us should be concerned with matters of etiquette.
Now, notwithstanding the fact of my feelings towards you, I appreciate your attempts to make recompense for your actions, and I have been touched by your loyalty. It is for this reason that I would ask you to show this letter to my beloved Arno Dorian, himself an Assassin, and trust that he will take it as my testimonial to your changed ways. However, since I very much doubt the word of a deceased Templar will be enough to ingratiate yourself with the Brotherhood, I have something else for you, too.
Arno, I would ask that you pass the letters I am about to discuss to Monsieur Ruddock, in order that he may use them to curry favour with the Assassins in the hope of being accepted back into the creed. Monsieur Ruddock will be aware that this deed illustrates my trust in him and my faith that the task will be completed sooner rather than later, and for this reason will require no monitoring whatsoever.
Arno, the remainder of my letter is for you. I pray I will return from my confrontation with Germain and can retrieve this letter from Ruddock, tear it up and not think of its contents again. But if you’re reading it, it means, firstly, that my trust in Ruddock has been repaid, and, secondly, that I am dead.
There is much I have to tell you from beyond the grave, and to this end, I bequeath to you my journals, the most recent of which you will find in my satchel, the preceding ones being kept in a cache with the letters of which I speak. If, when inspecting the trunk, you reach the sad conclusion that I have not been treasuring letters you sent to me, please know that that reason why may be found within the pages of my journals. You will also find a necklace, given to me by Jennifer Scott.
The next page was missing.
‘Where’s the rest?’ I demanded to know.
Ruddock held out calm-down hands. ‘Ah, well now. The second page includes a special message regarding the location of the letters the mademoiselle says may prove my redemption. And, well, um, forgive the seeming rudeness, but it strikes me that if I give you this letter I have no “bargaining chip” as it were, and no guarantee that you won’t simply take the letters and use them to further your own standing within the Brotherhood.’
I looked at him, gesturing with the letter. ‘Élise asks me to trust you, and I ask you do the same in return for me. You have my word of honour that the letters will be yours.’
‘Then that is enough for me.’ He bowed and handed me the second page of the letter. I read it through until I reached the end …
… now, of course, I lie at the Cimetière des Innocents, and I am with my parents, close to those I love.
Who I love most of all, though, Arno, is you. I hope you understand how much I love you. And I hope you love me, too. And for allowing me the honour of knowing such a fulfilling emotion, I thank you.
Your beloved,
Élise
‘Does she say where the letters are?’ asked Ruddock hopefully.
‘She does,’ I told him.
‘And where is that, sir?’
I looked at him, saw him through Élise’s eyes and could see that
there were some things too important to be left to newly won trust.
‘You’ve read it; you already know.’
‘She called it Le Palais de la Misère. And that means something to you, does it?’
‘Yes, thank you, Ruddock, it means something. I know where to go. Please leave your current address with me. I shall be in touch as soon as I have recovered the letters. Know that to thank you for what you have done I shall be endorsing any effort you make to win favour with the Assassins.’
He drew himself up a little and squared his shoulders. ‘For that I thank you … brother.’
iv.
There was a young man on a cart in the road. He sat with one leg up and his arms folded, squinting at me beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat, mottled by sunlight that found its way through a canopy of leafy branches overhead. He was waiting – waiting, it turned out, for me.
‘Are you Arno Dorian, monsieur?’ he asked, sitting up.
‘I am.’
His eyes darted. ‘Do you wear a hidden blade?’
‘You think me an Assassin?’
‘Are you?’
With a snick it was out, glinting in the sunlight. Just as quickly I retracted it.
The young man nodded. ‘My name is Jacques. Élise was a friend to me, a good mistress to my wife, Hélène, and the close confidante of … a man who also lives with us.’
‘An Italian man?’ I asked, testing him.
‘No, sir,’ he grinned. ‘An Englishman who goes by the name of Mr Weatherall.’
I smiled at him. ‘I think you’d better take me to him, don’t you?’
On his cart Jacques led the way, and we took a path that led us along one side of a river. On the other bank was a stretch of manicured lawn that led up to a wing of the Maison Royale, and I looked at it with a mixture of sadness and bemusement – sadness because the mere sight of it reminded me of her. Bemusement because it was nothing like I had imagined from the satanic picture she had painted in her letters all those years ago.
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