Sorry it has been a long while, well, shorter than before and longer than recent times, but I have been annoyingly busy. Anyway. I thought I would post this chapter as a sort of hats off to the release of Assassins Creed 2 tomorrow (for me at least). I was a bit miffed to find that there were similarities between the beginning of this story and the beginning of theirs, but I don't want to elaborate. Safe to say though, I'm excited, despite that bloody gametrailer review.
This chapter is more of a filler for now, but the plot will pick up again next chapter. Enjoy.
Chapter 9
Diurnalis
Altair gazed at the book in silence, as if afraid of what it contained, he could sense Malik's expectant presence over his shoulder, silently urging him to open the book and satisfy their shared curiosity. Altair dragged his fingers softly across the surface of the book, feeling the old and cracked texture of its dark brown leather. He wanted to open it; it came from Al Mualim's very desk, and he was a man of many secrets and a mysterious past and to explore that past had been a prospect of hunger for him. He turned the book over in his hands, searching for some clue as to what its purpose, he saw a date scrawled in black ink: 1152; the year Al Mualim had become Master of the order Altair remembered with excitement.
A loud clatter sounded below, and Malik's attention was drawn and he leaned over the railing to reprimand whoever was responsible. Altair took the opportunity, and fumbled open the book, the first page was almost filled, but he didn't have time to read it all, he skimmed it quickly and absorbed two things that were within the first line stood out to him: one was Al Mualim, and the other, was journal.
Altair's fingers ached, he had a sudden yearning to flip open the book and start reading, and soak up his former master's wisdom. But he held back, he wanted to do so in private. He could feel the knowledge within almost burning his fingertips: the journal of his master would surely contain his Templar origins, show him all Al Mualim knew of his enemies, and give him a lead on how to govern the Hashshashin.
He chucked the leather-bound tool onto the desk, catching Malik's attention.
"Malik-" Altair paused. He had to choose his words carefully. He didn't want to tip his new-found ally off to the fact that he was being manipulated. "I was wrong before- what you said was… right. I should make some decisions, but it has been a long day and much has happened. However, if I were to ask you of your help, would you give it?"
Malik's features went through several expressions: the first was bemusement, then satisfaction, and finally, worry; he chewed his lip and turned round to lean over the railing once again. Altair clenched his fist, he could feel the urge to be impatient, but he held it at bay. He couldn't rush this.
"We have been enemies longer than we have been friends, Altair," said Malik, slowly. "I gave you my support earlier because… well, to be honest with you – I don't know why." He sighed and bowed his head, and Altair, intrigued, walked over and joined him beside the balcony. "I think it is because right now we need leadership, we need strength and …discipline and… focus, and that is what you have, that is what you can give us."
"I am not sure that sounds like a yes," said Altair, slowly and unsurely.
"It is a yes. I just wanted to tell you why." Malik turned away, head bowed in thought. "I shall leave you in peace now."
Altair frowned as he watched the conflicted man walk away. His intention had been to ask Malik to do something that would lure him away from the office, he hadn't expected to see inside the man's head and heart. However, the conversation had served its purpose, and now he was alone.
He turned towards the window and stopped suddenly. Maybe being alone wasn't what he needed right now. For what might come he would need all the allies he could get. The master of the Hashshashin had complete servitude from his members, they were at his every beck and call, but each master that had taken the reins of leadership had never abused their power. Those that had hadn't lasted long; that is why Altair had let those men fight. It had been their right to challenge him.
He had a feeling it wouldn't be the last time though.
The thoughts melted away as he swept round the table and seated himself in the recently vacant chair, holding the book in his hands. Altair looked around and listened; there was no movement to be seen or heard. He opened the page again and read.
This is the property of Al Mualim, and this journal is a witness, to my work and all the wonders that shall befall its success. I write this because I have recently been elected Master, of what order I shall not say, but if you are reading this then you will know.
I feel that by writing my experiences and mistakes as I lead—and I will make mistakes, of that I am sure—I can somehow learn from them how to lead!
I am an impassioned man, however my mentor saw it before me. He said that my belief was dangerous. And when I asked what belief, he answered: peace. Peace, he says, is not what our order is about, our order is to provide chaos for the rich and fear for the poor.
Chaos? Fear? I had read in the manuscripts in the library that peace, order and stability was our purpose, why then would we inspire the very things that destabilise a world. I asked him this, and he told me that it was foolish to 'fight the current', as it were.
I knew then, right from the age of nine, that he had to die.
Below it, in fresher script—but the same flowing handwriting—was written:
Ha! What a fool I was back then, to believe that peace could be achieved so easily if we all just believed in it! I have lived through enough decades of death and destruction and chaos, and the world and everyone in it is no closer to peace, and we never will be!
Unless we destroy the Templars.
Surprised, Altair? They do not call me wise because I am learned and read ancient texts, but because I plan. And I knew, from the moment I involved you in my plot that you had the ability to—if not finish—then continue the job I have started. This book is your guide Altair, and if fate is on its right course then you are the one that has found it. Far-fetched? Indeed. But I planted the seeds in your mind from the very beginning, I didn't centre your mission briefing around my desk for my health, but because I knew you would be drawn here after my death.
I will die, in fact it is essential to the plan that my legacy passes to you, and not just the legacy of this order, but of my life's work. You are worthy, and you have seen what the Templars wrought and you know what you must do. My journal is a guide, remember this always.
You were my best and last student.
Al Mualim
Altair sat, frozen, the book clutched in his hands as tight as though he were hanging off the edge of a cliff. He looked down, and read, and re-read, and read again. Short messages and words, things that made no sense, events and scribbles and meanings that didn't match and incomprehensible thoughts and the reasoning of a man that has drunk too much and was then clouted about the head with steel until his ears bled and his head rang to match his ears.
It wasn't possible.
He flicked through the pages, he wasn't thorough, but he skimmed to look for any sign of his name. But it was never mentioned. He searched desperately for any sort of sign of contact from his Master. He didn't find it until he came to the end of the book.
If I know you like I do, then you will do the obvious and go to the end of the tale, but I warn you, you have to truly understand my journey to understand its end. I had grown... disillusioned with the Templars. My old counterparts were bent on domination and forced peace through a device of mere silver.
But then I saw it, I saw it Altair, and I understood. Greed, that is what it prays on, it takes whatever greed you have and multiplies it by a thousand, the temptation is so great that you feel you must kill to have it. I have... lucid moments, moments where I am able to write these words down. You might think that the Piece of Eden controls people, but that is not true, in the times that I have secretly experimented with it control has been mine, but the temptation to unleash its full power is slowly growing, and I feel it will not be long before I can hold back. I did not wish to lay the task of my death upon your shoulders, but you were the only one who would not succumb to the Piece of Eden's power.
My last hope is not for me, but for our order, and the destruction of our enemies. For though they have lost this piece, there are many more that they would wish to get their hands on.
Heed my words, and let no one else but yourself and those you know to be unsusceptible to the Piece of Eden see it. Otherwise, it will bring nothing but peril. Remember!
Altair's hands shook, and the book rattled on the table slightly as he laid it down. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead and came out of his stupor. He turned his head from side to side wildly, scanning his surroundings. Nothing had changed, the room remained empty, and the only sound to be heard were quiet murmurs from the courtyard outside.
His head was spinning, trying to come to term with what he had just read. He had always believed Al Mualim to be a stern and unforgiving Master, wise and powerful, the perfect leader for their order. It was his passionate lectures of the evil in the holy land and the machinations of the Templars that had inspired the fire inside Altair to see them defeated. However, the fact that his mentor, a man he had trusted with every facet of his life and the lives of the order, was a Templar himself had deeply wounded Altair.
His fist clenched in his lap as he remembered the fight, he had been like stone, emotionless and hurt, and numb to have been betrayed so. To learn that it had not been his master's fault and that he had had the best intentions was like twisting the weapon that had caused the wound. He didn't know what to do. He knew he would have to study the journal further; its size promised a long story in store, and while half of him wished to tear the book open and read with abandon, another part of him felt sick—revolted—at the idea of reading a dead man's thoughts.
Altair took a deep breath, and picked the book up, and with careful deliberation, tucked it into the robes behind his belt, where it could not be seen. For now, he would keep it a secret.
His head snapped up suddenly as a screeching cry of agony erupted from the garden. Altair was their in a flash, vaulting over the balcony and heading up the stairs three at a time before launching himself out the doors.
The sight that met him stopped his sharp movements and made him still instantly.
In the garden the two apprentices had been sat, lecterns on their laps, as they drew the globe. Now there was a state, one of the apprentices, Sirrah, had thrown his writing tools; Altair saw his quill snapped in two, and his ink horn cracked; its contents spattered across the flagstones, grossly similar to blood. The other apprentice, Acamar, was standing to the right; he had set his equipment down and was simply staring in abject horror at his friend.
Sirrah was hunched on the floor, hugging himself tightly and rocking back and forth. Altair could hear a strange keening noise, that was rising in pitch with every growing second, issue forth from the young apprentice, and felt a shiver run up his spine.
"Sirrah…" he said.
Sirrah's head snapped up, Acamar flinched but Altair stood his ground; but he felt it was with some difficulty. Sirrah's face was drained white and his eyes where white, devoid of their black pupils and honey brown irises. All that was left in those eyes was as white as some of the large blocks of ice he had seen in rich merchant's houses. Blood had begun to ooze and tickle from the corners of his eyes, from his nose, and mouth and ears, its rich red staining his robes as it travelled down his contorted and twisted face; a picture of torment.
Sirrah suddenly gave a strangled yelp and struggled to his feet unevenly, causing Altair's hand to drop reflectively to his sword hilt. But it wasn't necessary. Sirrah's high pitched whine reached a final wrenching of the soul, and the blood vessels in his neck that had been straining, popped, splattering Altair and Acamar in the blood; Altair felt afflicted. Acamar stood frozen, wanting to tend to his friend, but Altair could see a fear that mirrored his own.
"What happened?" he asked Acamar.
Acamar never tore his eyes from the body, but managed to stammer out an answer. "I… we… we were sitting and drawing as Malik had told us to do. And Acamar was curious about… the object… he had a love for silver you see…" a grimace occurred at the mention of his friend's penchant for silver, "I always said it would be his undoing."
Altair couldn't have agreed more. He thought back to the words he had recently read, Heed my words, and let no one else but yourself and those you know to be unsusceptible to the Piece of Eden see it, otherwise it will bring nothing but peril. Remember! Altair's eyes widened as he came to the answer, he ran from the garden, leaving a grieving apprentice in his wake, and headed back to the desk.
Altair came upon Al Mualim's coffer in a panicked rush, and after wrenching open the lid he rummaged through its contents. He had almost given into panic when his fingers brushed its surface, and he dragged out the winged container of silver; scattering contents within the coffer over the floor as he did so. In his hands he held tight the container from which the piece of Eden had originally been kept in. Altair hoped it was more than decoration.
He again raced back to the garden and without thought or hesitation, ran flat-out towards the innocent silver sphere and picked it up, the global image disappeared the instant it made contact with flesh. He tore off the container's lid and forced the deadly apple into its true resting place. Altair heaved a sigh of relief, watched by a curious Acamar.
Altair would go up against a dozen men and laugh at their misfortune, but a small piece of silver had caused him to shake and sweat the way he hadn't since his first mission. Who knew what havoc it would cause.
Diurnalis = Latin for journal.