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The gentle hills shimmered gold in the autumn light. Haytham had been gazing at that almost unbearably beautiful and tranquil landscape from the carriage when a well-bred hound came bounding out of Shay’s estate — his first visit — and softened the corners of his eyes into a smile. The large hunting dog, vigorous and well-muscled, had clearly been trained with care by its master; it turned back again and again as if to guide him, leading Haytham to the front entrance of the estate.
“It has been some time, Grand Master. Were the seas calm?”
“Shay. I would not have taken you for a man who keeps dogs. I trust Charles has not been a bad influence.”
“You must have thought it strange — a hound keeping a hound. There are wolves in these parts. The horses need a capable guard.”
The moment the doors of the estate opened, a familiar voice reached him, and Haytham allowed himself a smile. Shay, receiving his guest as master of this grand house, met Haytham’s remark — a jab worthy of a mischievous boy — and deflected it with an easy, unhurried wit.
The hill where Shay made his home was encircled by deep forest. The mild climate of this land, so unlike the colonies, seemed to Haytham to have settled well upon him — a welcome change, visible in his bearing after all this time. Before the fireplace stood two rocking chairs, a fine woven rug laid beneath them, composing a warmth that invited rest. Haytham settled into the farther chair at Shay’s offer, and raised the mulled wine held out to him. From the thin curl of steam rose the faint scent of clove and cinnamon, and something in him that had long been cold came quietly back to life.
“I am told this chair was designed by Benjamin Franklin. Do you not find it rather agreeable?”
“I do, Shay. I find it quite to my liking.”
Haytham and Shay exchanged accounts of their respective circumstances with the candour that had once been habitual between them. Even matters too personal to speak of among the men in Boston, Haytham found he could lay before Shay without reservation — his failure to persuade Connor, whose convictions had proven immovable; his disappointment in Charles; the quiet guilt he carried regarding his own conduct. Shay regarded this rather more forthcoming Haytham with something close to surprise.
“Grand Master — have you come to bring me back?”
“No. You have work here that wants doing. And besides, a dog has need of its master. I’ve no wish to take that from it.”
“Strange words from the man who drove me off.”
“A loose leash sits easier, does it not?”
“Even turned loose, a dog does not forget its master.”
“I should not care to have your apprentice hear that.”
Haytham offered Shay a small, sardonic smile. In his younger days, Shay had been called a hound — to run his quarry to ground wherever it fled, to remove every obstacle and return with the prize. That had been the first and foremost demand placed upon him. Yet the affairs of the Templars in the colonies had descended into a disorder and hardship far beyond anything Haytham had foreseen when he first sent Shay out. Successive failures and betrayals had left the colonial Templards in ruins, and the scale of their operations there had been drastically curtailed.
When Shay returned with the Precursor box, Haytham had urged the value of his Assassin’s training upon him and proposed that he devote himself to the instruction of those who came after — and in doing so, released him from the war itself.
Had Shay continued to prosecute the campaign in the colonies, it would have meant the death of one of them — Shay or Connor. Such had always been the nature of the conflict between the two orders.
Looking upon the silver beginning to thread through Shay’s hair, Haytham felt the full weight of what he had demanded of him, and the years it had consumed. The cost had been worth bearing — of that there was no question. And yet he had heard that during resupply stops on the voyage, Shay would quietly slip away from the ship and spend time alone, somewhere on whatever island lay at hand. He could not presume to know what moved the man to it — but if those hours had been given over to private reflection, then perhaps he ought to have been there beside him, without a word needing to pass between them. A faint guilt settled over Haytham at the thought.
Noticing Haytham’s sudden silence, Shay refilled his own glass without a word. After turning something over in his mind, he lifted his head — as if clearing the air — his voice carrying a shade more lightness than before.
“Come to think of it — I caught sight of your son at sea, some time ago. The Aquila is an old ship, but she was beautiful. A fine vessel. We were off the coast of Long Island, some distance between us — he may have noticed. But he did not attack. Charles, it seems, has been thoroughly bested by him. Charles bears Connor as much ill will as he does Washington, and there is no measure he would scruple to take if it meant getting the better of your boy.”
“Indeed.”
“That is why you kept the box from him, is it not?”
“……Was she well?”
“Exactly as I had been led to expect.”
Shay received Haytham’s pointed question with a deft evasion and a quiet laugh. Whatever means Charles might employ, he would not best Connor in a direct confrontation — of that there was little doubt. Setting aside the matter of age, the difference in physical acuity between them was considerable. The same held true for Haytham himself. With a body whose decline could no longer be concealed, he would not prevail against Connor either. But this troubled him little. Shay’s recovery of the box had been fortunate — yet it was Charles, not Shay, who would inherit command of the Templars after Haytham’s death; and should Charles come into possession of such power, he would find a use for it, in one form or another. That much was not difficult to imagine. For this reason, Haytham had concluded that entrusting the box to Charles was no more acceptable than surrendering it to the Assassins. The available choices were few. When Haytham gave the order regarding the box’s disposition, Shay had offered no surprise — only a quiet nod, and accepted the charge of its transfer. The box was safely concealed: in a place difficult for Assassins to penetrate, and in a room difficult for Templars to find.
Shay settled into the rocking chair beside him, glass in hand. His expression was one of great calm.
“And your son — what is he doing now?”
“I cannot say. He still wants Charles dead, by all accounts.”
“And Charles?”
“Shut away in his fort. Afraid of Connor, I would imagine.”
“It is a pity we could not bring Connor to our side.”
“……Indeed. But that a man worthy of one’s wish to have him as an ally is not — that does not necessarily mean despair.”
Haytham turned a smile toward Shay’s look of quiet concern, then reached into his belongings and drew out a small parcel, setting it before him.
“Would you keep this for me? It is a personal matter, I’m afraid — my journal.”
“I don’t mind. But why?”
“I have been thinking I should like Connor to have it one day. Only, circumstances being what they are, that does not seem likely any time soon.”
“You would trust it to me?”
“I would. I am grateful.”
Shay examined the journal, then wrapped it again with care and set it on the shelf. At Haytham’s feet, the dog had begun to sleep, warming his toes. Shay watched this with a quiet narrowing of the eyes, then shook out a blanket and settled it gently over Haytham’s lap.
“You will stay the night, I take it? I cannot offer anything remarkable, but I’ll have a warm soup made.”
“Please do. I am in your hands.”
To Haytham’s eye, the years of Templar training had left Shay somewhat quieter than before. His natural ease had not left him — but he had learned, in time, to take on a certain sharpness when the occasion demanded, and to set it aside just as readily. The house was full of warmth, yet the vigilance running through every corner of it was not to be missed. He had always been a careful man by disposition; but what filled this house was a stillness held in place by a precise and considered watchfulness — and that Shay had made for himself a space of quiet so entirely foreign to Haytham’s own life was, to him, a source of something close to joy.
“It is quiet here.”
“Compared to New York, most places are.”
“No — that is not what I mean. Your quarters at Fort Arsenal were more still than any building in New York.”
“Does it unsettle you?”
“Quite the opposite.”
“I’m glad it suits you.”
“A place is its people. It is your presence that makes this stillness what it is.”
“That sounds very much like you saying you find my company agreeable.”
“It is. That is precisely what I am saying.”
Ever since Reginald had shown him the records written by his father Edward, Haytham had carried within him a quiet longing to see the Precursor sites for himself. The amulet Reginald had placed in his hands had stirred in the presence of the sealed vault — yet it had produced no clear effect, and its purpose remained unknown to him still, hanging at his chest as it always had. He had not been without hope that combining it with the box might unlock the amulet’s secret — but the time to pursue such a thing was no longer his. And he found it strange that he could make his peace with this.
From somewhere outside came the cry of a crow. Haytham turned his gaze to the window. A dark shape, wings spread, moved across the darkening sky toward its roost. The light was still warm despite the failing hour, and the dog at his feet went on lending its gentle heat. Shay spoke of a horse he had recently acquired — a chestnut, full of spirit, with a tendency to run as though it had no intention of stopping; rather like himself in younger days, he said. Haytham listened to these small things of Shay’s life with something that felt, quietly, like nostalgia. In the house he had kept in London, his own rooms had always been still — a stillness set against the bustle of the square visible from his window. He had been drawn to the world outside, and yet in truth it was the interior of the house he had loved. The sunlight and moonlight that came in through the windows; the sound of hooves and wheels passing hurriedly along the street below — the beauty of the world, such as it was, had never been separate from the warmth of a house to come home to, nor from the presence of someone strong and sure standing close by. What his father had given him. The steadfast figure he had looked up to as a child. The resolve to become such a thing himself had come a little later.
“It occurs to me — you may have changed somewhat from what you were, and yet perhaps you were always the same. People do things they never thought themselves capable of, Grand Master. There is one thing I have long wished to ask you, if you will allow it.”
“Go on.”
“When Charles moved to have Connor executed — were you there?”
Haytham had not even thought to anticipate a conversation such as this. After learning of Connor’s existence, there had been one occasion — only one — on which he had betrayed the Templars in terms that admitted no ambiguity. He had ordered the execution himself, and then acted to obstruct it, ensuring its failure. Because of this, his comrades had fallen to Connor’s hand, and their plans had been forced into considerable revision and reduction. He had carried the guilt of it ever since, and the fact that he kept it concealed had come to seem, even to himself, proof of his own corruption.
Haytham had not been able to kill Connor. Nor had he been able to persuade him. Haytham knew, too, that even had his own father once urged him to abandon the Cause, he would never have changed course without arriving at the conclusion himself — and to bend his will to another, even his father, was not something he could have done. Yet running contrary to this certainty was something else he recognised in himself: a feeling not entirely unlike envy, watching a son take to the open sky. Charles had once told him that doubt was weakness; if that were so, then the present condition of the Templars was surely his own reflection.
Haytham answered Shay’s waiting silence with a smile, and let that be his answer. Shay gave a small nod and did not press further.
“——I am glad you came, Grand Master. Better to see a man’s face than to learn of him through letters. You look a little thinner, I think — but still hale enough.”
“Hale enough to undertake a long sea voyage, at any rate.”
“If you ever find yourself weary of the sea, I’ll come to you next time.”
There was in Shay’s words a deep and unhurried affection. Through the long autumn evening, their quiet exchange continued, neither man willing to let the hours go. Haytham had been turning over a thought: that should Charles one day rise to Grand Master, what he made of the Templars would be something quite different from what Haytham himself had built. He no longer had any inclination to deny that this was how he felt. And yet there was comfort in knowing that something, at least, could be left behind. If Achilles had given Connor an accurate account of what had passed, then in all likelihood Connor would not pursue Shay with intent to kill. Haytham was not unaware that this expectation contained within it no small measure of his own desire. Connor and Shay would, he hoped, go on being of use to those around them — people close to them, ordinary in their needs. He wished it for both of them.
Shay’s voice remained steady and unhurried throughout, and Haytham found himself glad to listen. The days of sailing and travel that had followed one upon another had worn his ageing body to the bone. Hale, Shay had called him — but the truth was that he tired far more easily now than he once had. Wrapped in the peaceful stillness of the room, talking on without hurry, he felt his eyelids grow heavy by degrees — and before he was aware of it, he had slipped quietly into sleep.
◇
As Haytham’s words began to trail away, Shay kept still and watched over him, careful not to disturb the approach of sleep. A cat slipped in from somewhere, leapt onto Haytham’s lap — warm from the fire — and having apparently decided this was where it wished to be, turned itself about and settled into a curl, eyes closing. Shay’s expression shifted to one of surprise, and then he let out a breath that held the faint shape of a laugh. As far as Shay knew, Haytham was not a man so dull as to sleep through being touched. He could sleep in any conditions, as men who had known the field of battle often could — but he was quick to sense the world around him, alert to the smallest disturbance. And yet here he lay, undisturbed by a cat making a bed of him.
Shay had seen many things in the course of his life. Cities destroyed. Ordinary people caught in falling rubble. The reality of the chaos the Assassins brought down upon those who had no power to resist it. When he had begun to doubt the ideal, his faith had wavered — and when that faith had been broken, he had been left to rebuild it from what remained, to find his own way of living by feel, with no certain guide. When he had first come to know Haytham, Shay had feared the Grand Master far more than he did now. He had felt as though his doubts might be condemned by the man, and had steeled himself for reproach. The Templar, like the Assassins, had at times brought relief to people, and at times brought suffering. But Haytham was, in his own way, a man who pursued what he believed in while beset by doubt and uncertainty — much as Shay himself had been. Haytham held himself to account not for the sake of appearances, but because he had resolved, each day, that he would be a man worthy of the ideals he carried — that his integrity would be genuine, reaching inward. When the Cause was dishonoured, his anger was real and unsparing. It was this — the unyielding quality of Haytham’s devotion to the Templer’s ideals, a strength that carried its own severe beauty — that had, without Shay quite knowing when, come to inspire in him a deep and abiding respect.
From the reports Charles sent, and from Haytham’s own letters, and from what news reached him from time to time, it seemed clear that the tide of Haytham’s struggle was not running in his favour. The young and untested George Washington had become a hero to his people; Connor, it was said, kept watch at his side against those who would move against him. That could bring no gentle ending for either Haytham or Connor. Shay kept his vigil over the sleeping face of his old friend, and wished quietly, within himself, that whatever time remained might hold for Haytham as many moments of peace as could be given.
“——Beg your pardon, sir.”
A knock came at the door, and Shay moved to answer it with some haste. He glanced back from the threshold — Haytham’s face was still, and there was no sign of waking. Reassured, Shay took the parcel the servant held out and looked to the sender. To his surprise, it was Haytham himself who had sent it. He opened it with a sense of puzzlement, and found inside a journal bound in leather — identical to the one Haytham had placed in his hands not an hour before. With a look of unease, Shay turned back toward the fire. Where Haytham had been, there was only the blanket, now occupied by the cat; the dog lay at the foot of the chair. Of Haytham himself, there was no trace. The glass that had been set out for him still held its wine, untouched — not so much as a mark on the rim.
“……Grand Master?”
Shay heard the tremor in his own voice. He sank back into the chair without strength, and the rocking chair gave a small creak. The fire snapped; shadows shifted. The dog and cat breathed on in their contented sleep. The stillness of the room was so complete that he half wondered whether he had dreamed it — yet the certainty that Haytham had been there, real and present, would not leave him. A sudden thought brought his eyes to the shelf. The journal Haytham had given him was gone. Shay looked down at the one just delivered, and turned over in his mind the wish his old friend had entrusted to him. He could not begin to measure the resolve it had taken — to place what remained unfinished into another’s keeping. And yet he felt, somehow, that he understood the nature of that resolve. He laid his palm on the leather cover and ran it slowly across, with something like tenderness. The surface yielded softly beneath his fingers.
“……Thank you for trusting me with this, Haytham.”
The whisper had barely left him when the cat asleep in the opposite chair turned its gaze briefly toward him. Shay lifted his glass alone, and drank the rest of the wine slowly, taking his time — and from somewhere deep within him, a quiet relief settled, that the face of Haytham he had so recently watched in sleep had been one of peace.