That’s not accurate, Simon thought, but he and Gabriel both stayed quiet.
“All are affected by this war, but few know it even exists,” the unknown Mentor whispered. The soft, sibilant sound carried in the stone room. “We do. We are players in it, and we are the ones who champion humanity’s freedom. We work in the dark, to serve the light. You asked if we were known as assassins. We are—but not quite in the way you think. We watch, we learn, we target… and we eliminate threats.”
“What? You—that’s cold-blooded murder!”
“Our enemies would call it such. But even they understand that through the carefully planned death of a single individual, thousands—perhaps tens of thousands—of true innocents can be saved.”
“Who are your enemies? The ones you say want to—what was it—control humanity for their own purposes?” Gabriel didn’t understand it. It sounded like raving lunacy at best, calculated murder at worst—and yet something inside him seemed to understand. Enough to ask questions, at least.
“They are called the Templars,” de Metz answered. “And we stand against them on behalf of those who cannot fight for themselves. Those who are not born to luxury or power. Who are helpless. The slaves, the poor, the crippled, the very young, the very old.”
“The bastards,” Gabriel murmured.
“Yes,” and Jean de Metz’s voice was kind. “In our ranks, men and women, highborn and low, dark-skinned and fair—we are all members of the Brotherhood. All are equal, who wear the Hidden Blades.”
“And… the Templars? Do you mean the Knights Templar? Like Jacques de Molay? But—the Order was dissolved. They were heretics. Surely they’re all dead now.”
“The Order was dissolved… as far as the world knows,” said the Mentor. “Some of its members survived. They dropped out of sight, but kept the Order alive, quietly. And now, they are striving to rebuild it. It is no longer public—but it is growing. The Templars always hunger for power.”
“Which is why the war still continues,” said de Metz, “and why, when we come across those who might be able to help us—with full knowledge, or unwittingly; we take aid where we can—we go to them. You can see Jeanne’s radiance. So do we. Not everyone can see it in her, Gabriel. Those who do—are special. We support her mission fully, because a united France led by a French king will prevent the English Templars from regaining a foothold here, where they were once so strong.”
“Jeanne won’t follow you,” Gabriel said promptly. “She owes obedience only to God.”
“We accept that,” the voice said. “We are here to serve her in her mission, and perhaps teach her things that can aid her in accomplishing it. It is not her of whom we speak. It’s you.”
Gabriel’s gut went suddenly cold. “Me? I’m just—”
“A bastard? Jean Dunois is known openly as the Bastard of Orléans, and right this moment he is fighting to raise the siege of his home. And did you have wax in your ears when I was speaking earlier? You can see Jeanne’s light! You have picked up weapons faster than anyone I have ever seen. These abilities—they are passed down in our blood. Like your father’s eye color, or your mother’s hair. Gabriel, you were born for this.”
I was born for this. Joan’s words about herself, and her task. Born to leave her home, and make the dangerous trek to Chinon. Born to raise a siege, and crown a king, and perhaps more. Gabriel had thought he had been born to be… nothing. He felt himself trembling; not from the bone-aching cold that permeated his skin from the stone floor, but with something else. Something that he had only ever felt when looking at Joan, her blue eyes wide with wonder and that light, that exquisite incandescence, illuminating her from within.
“You—you want me to join this… the Brotherhood?”
“No,” whispered the Mentor. “We only accept those who have proven their worth and loyalty, and you are as of yet an unknown. Just train, for now. Hone your reactions. Strengthen your body. Teach your eyes how to see differently, and to make sense of what you learn. Do this to honor your heritage, and to protect the Maid. We will try to teach her, too. You may not always be there for her.”
They knew him well enough to understand how to offer exactly what he wanted. Brotherhood. A place. A feeling that he was special; that he had value. But most of all, they knew Gabriel Laxart would do anything, in this world or the next, to protect Joan the Maid.
“And if I refuse?”
“Well, we obviously hope you won’t,” de Metz said. “You’d be free to go, as long as you hold your tongue. But we’ll be watching, and if you betray us… well. Castles have many secrets; many rooms that have been forgotten. Chances are your body would never be recovered.”
“You—you’re joking.” A beat. “Aren’t you? What about ‘stay your blade from the flesh of the innocent’?”
There was silence. Then, to his shock, he heard laughter. The two whispered for a moment. Then Gabriel heard the sounds of booted feet on stone steps. His gut clenched.
When de Metz spoke, relief washed through Gabriel. “You should forget about battle, and instead offer your services to the king as a member of his council,” he said, mirth still in his voice. “Come, Gabriel. You’re too small a fish for us to bother killing. We have made our case. Will you join us?”
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
Gabriel considered for a moment. He felt a flicker of concern about what these men stood for, what they offered. But somehow, he had known all his life that he was different. And he wondered if that flicker in his chest was excitement, not fear.
“Yes,” Gabriel said. “I will learn what you have to teach. But I will kill you myself if you betray Jeanne.”
Simon felt physically ill. Gabriel Laxart—his own ancestor—was an Assassin? Impossible! Simon was a Master Templar, a member of the Inner Sanctum. More than that, he was what was called a “legacy.” Both of his parents were Templars, and his grandmother had been one as well, working quietly in the background of Winston Churchill’s war office. There were several others sprinkled throughout his line. To be forced to witness Gabriel ally with the enemy felt like Simon was spitting on their graves.
“I would expect no less,” de Metz said, all traces of humor now gone from his voice. Gabriel heard an odd snick, and then he felt his bonds being cut. As soon as his hands were free, he tore off the blindfold, squinting at the daylight coming in through narrow, vertical slits set in the curving stone walls of the room. Above him the ceiling arched in a pleasant pattern of stone rows, and he noticed that someone had etched peculiar carvings into the rock walls. A single set of winding stairs was the only exit. He turned back to de Metz and his eye fell on a blade protruding from the underside of the young nobleman’s right wrist. De Metz’s lips curved in a smile. He had clearly been waiting for Gabriel to notice it, and with quick flick, the blade disappeared into his sleeve.
“This,” he said quietly, “is our traditional weapon. The Hidden Blade.” Another slight movement, and with a soft sound the blade slid out again. “With them quite literally immediately to hand, it makes carrying out our duties even less noticeable. Which leads to the second tenet of our Creed: Hide in plain sight.”
How easy it would have been for him to kill me, while putting a hand on me in the guise of a friendly gesture, Gabriel thought. His second thought was that he, too, wanted to wear this elegant, subtle, deadly weapon, and he knew he would not hesitate to use it against anyone who meant harm to Joan.
He tore his eyes away from the blade. “Where are we?” Gabriel asked.
“Coudray’s dungeon,” the Assassin replied.
“Someone would have found me here,” Gabriel scoffed. “I could yell out the windows.”
“Well… not if I’d put this in your throat,” de Metz said in a shockingly conversational tone. “Certainly no one would have found you in the secret passageway that leads from here to the Mill Tower.” Gabriel felt himself pale. So… they had not been making idle threats.
“Who was the other
one?” he asked, keeping his voice calm.
“You’ll find out—when, or if, it’s time. The fewer you know of our number, the less likely you’ll betray us.”
“I would never betray you, as long as you protect Jeanne.”
“You don’t know the gentle methods of persuasion employed by our enemies,” de Metz said grimly. “Who, as a matter of fact, were here themselves, once.”
“The Templars? At Chinon?”
“Not just at Chinon. When I say they were here, I mean right here. Their Grand Master, Jacques de Molay, and three other high-ranking Templars were imprisoned for a few months in this very dungeon.” He pointed at the carvings Gabriel had noticed earlier. “I wondered if you could see or sense anything about those. Some Assassins—people like you, perhaps—seem to be able to see or sense things others don’t. In our Brotherhood, we call it Eagle Vision. There’s got to be some kind of message here. Templars wouldn’t waste their energy just to make some entertaining drawings.”
Gabriel turned his eyes to the scratching on the stones. It looked like gibberish to him. It was a messy collection of Latin phrases—he knew enough to recognize the language, but not enough to read them—and seemingly random images: crosses, reaching hands, a sun—rather lopsided; it looked like an inverted teardrop, or drop of blood rather than an orb—whose rays bathed a face in profile. There were other figures, too, some who appeared to be wearing hoods, others that might have been intended as angels.
“Well,” he said lightly, “can’t say these Templars are going to put any artists out of work.”
“Some Templars have been great masters of the arts,” de Metz said, “though admittedly it looks like Grand Master de Molay was not among their number. Anything strike you? Call your attention to it?”
Gabriel desperately wanted to give de Metz some priceless piece of information. Some clue that would make the older man glad he was training him. So he kept looking. At last, he sighed. A string of letters and symbols combined. Clearly a code, but not one he had any hope of breaking. Two six-pointed stars, three circles crisscrossed by lines. A fleur-de-lis. What looked like a heart stuck by an arrow, and another one near the reaching hand.
“Anything?”
Gabriel sighed. “Well, that one there looks like a duck.”
De Metz started to frown, then looked at the carving and burst out laughing. Gabriel joined in, feeling the tension roll off him.
Gabriel was regretful and slightly embarrassed; Simon felt slightly mollified after the unpleasant revelation that he had Assassin blood in him. This was a good, long look at the graffiti, which Zachary Morgenstern over in Cryptology would be thrilled to see. Another solid reason why his approach to research worked. This was not part of the major goal—locating and observing the Sword of Eden with an eye to repairing it—but it was knowledge that was priceless to the Templars, and it would otherwise have been lost.
“I’m sorry,” Gabriel said to de Metz. “Nothing made any sense to me.”
“It was a stouthearted try,” de Metz said. “Remind me never to leave you a message in symbols, though. Let’s put this time to more productive training.” Gabriel nodded and moved toward the staircase. “Not back to the courtyard. This particular skill needs to be taught in private. Usually we don’t let anyone who’s not a full member of the Brotherhood handle these, but… you’ve demonstrated some interesting abilities.” He grinned. “Be appreciative, eh?”
He was pushing his sleeve back as he spoke, fully revealing the Hidden Blade strapped to his lower arm. Nimbly he unfastened it and held it out to Gabriel, who took it with something almost approaching reverence.
He’d never seen anything like this before. In addition to its unique design—and function—it was simply beautiful. The steel blade had been carved with ornate symbols and sharpened to a deadly point. It was cleverly integrated into a leather harness that fit closely enough so that the weapon was unnoticeable beneath tunic sleeves. Even the harness itself was breathtaking, a masterpiece of tooled leatherwork and brutally efficient function.
De Metz fastened it with practiced speed around Gabriel’s right arm. “First thing to remember—keep your hand out of the way. In earlier centuries, Assassins removed their fourth finger as a sign of complete devotion to the Brotherhood.”
“That would make you easy to spot,” Gabriel observed, “especially if you believe in hiding in plain sight.”
De Metz looked at him sharply. “You are not Jeanne’s little lamb as much as you would like us to think, are you?”
Jeanne’s little lamb. It was meant as a friendly jab, but a jab nonetheless. But the strange thing was… Joan did not make Gabriel feel like a lamb. A lamb was helpless, in need of defending. Joan made him feel like a lion, that he mattered in this world, that he could help her change it. That there was a purpose to what he did.
“I am Jeanne’s,” he said, simply, “but I am no lamb. Now,” he said, grinning at de Metz, “show me how to use this!”
Two mounted opponents faced one another, clad in heavy protective leather armor. The shields were real enough, but the lances were blunted. Returning with de Metz, it took Gabriel a moment to realize that the smaller soldier in the mismatched armor was Joan. She clapped her heels to her horse, as did her opponent, and the two steeds cantered toward one another. Joan’s shield was struck square and true. Her torso jerked backward from the force of the blow, sword and lance both tumbling from her fingers.
The horse shied. Joan’s foot slipped out of the stirrup and she lurched violently, her arms flailing as she struggled for balance. For a terrible moment, it looked as though she might topple beneath the churning hooves. But then, somehow, she righted herself, regathering the reins and, to Gabriel’s astonishment, wheeling her horse in the direction of her new squires, who handed her the weapons she had dropped.
The other knight had maintained his grip on the lance and brought his own horse into position. Joan settled back into the saddle and brought the horse around for a second go.
Her lance wobbled as the great beast pounded down the track toward the mounted knight. Gabriel watched, barely breathing, as the tip of Joan’s lance wavered, then suddenly seemed to click into position, as the Hidden Blade had done when he flicked his wrist. It was steady and true, and Gabriel felt a cheer gathering at the back of his throat that erupted as Joan’s lance struck the knight’s shield almost dead center. There was a loud crack and her lance snapped in two pieces, knocking the shield out of the knight’s grasp as he struggled to keep his seat.
His lance, this time, had come nowhere near Joan.
“How long have they been doing this?” asked Gabriel, dumbfounded.
“We weren’t gone that long, and she went to mass with the Dauphin this morning. An hour, at the most,” de Metz replied. He eyed Gabriel and winked. “It’s as I said. You are both unusually fast learners.”
Amid the cheering, Joan removed her helm, shaking out her short, sweat-damp hair. Her face was red and she was panting, but even so… even so, Gabriel saw the by-now familiar glow coming from her.
“We already feel our crown atop our head,” came the Dauphin’s voice. Gabriel and de Metz bowed respectful as he approached. With Charles was a man who appeared to be twenty or so, dark-haired, slender, and graceful. His face was strong, but had its own delicacy. The fineness of his features and his ease while walking beside his king indicated that he, too, was of the nobility. He moved like one of the barn cats, Gabriel thought; smoothly, with minimal effort, but with a faint tautness to his movements as if ready to spring in an instant.
“Hello again, my lord Dauphin and my good duke!” came Joan’s voice. She kneed her horse over to them. The slight wariness of the duke’s bearing eased completely, his handsome face relaxing into a genuine smile as he greeted her. Joan looked for Gabriel and waved him over. He loped to where the two men stood beside the mounted Joan, bowing to both of them.
“This is my cousin Gabriel, who has been with me since the begin
ning. This is Jean, Duke of Alençon. We met at mass this morning. I told him that he has come at a good time. The more of the blood royal there are who stand for France, the better it will be!”
The duke laughed. “I came as soon as the English would let me,” he told Gabriel. “For the last five years, I have been their extremely unwilling guest. I am free but a few days, and already my king demands my presence! But I am glad I have come.”
His eyes wandered back to Joan, and she smiled at him freely, trustingly. “Never would I have expected to see a maiden tilt a lance so well. This old farm horse my friend Charles has given you will not serve you in battle, Jeanne.” The horse in question, which was in fact not a farm horse but a military training mount, flicked its ears, as if offended at the duke’s words. “Let me buy you one that has heard the clash of steel, and will not be spooked if a sword should fall to the ground near it. You will need one.”
Even as Joan’s expression turned from pleasure to sheer joy, Charles lifted his hand in a gesture of caution. “We have not yet decided whether to send the Maid into battle,” he said, eyeing the duke disapprovingly, “but it is kind of our friend to offer her such a gift. We still have many more who wish to question you, Maid.”
Joan’s face fell, but her light still shone as she regarded the duke. “I shall be most grateful for my new horse, when I ride him to Orléans,” she said, her voice light and happy, almost playful.
Charles looked discomfited. He glanced from Alençon to Joan, and his high brow furrowed, the fingers of one hand twisting the rings on the other. “Well, although we must still listen to what the esteemed and learned clergy tell us about you, Maid, perhaps we too can give you something to take into battle—just in case. A beautiful sword, perhaps, made just for you. That would please you better than a horse, would it not?”
Assassin's Creed: Heresy Page 10