Beside him, Malik had gone quiet and still, but Altair stepped forward, meeting the stranger with a sharp gaze that made the instructor pause.
“We have permission to be out,” Altair said, only stopping when Malik murmured something under his breath that made him tense.
“Master Rauf, if you would be so kind as to humor me,” said the older man, overhearing. He stared at them with a puzzled look, but Malik had grabbed on to Altair’s arm and begun pulling him away as realization slowly dawned on them both.
“Apologies, master, we were just heading to the library,” Malik said, and they both hurried away, even as they looked over their shoulders to gawk at Rauf—who should have been shorter than either of them, with a higher-pitched voice, and certainly not wearing the robes of higher-ranking white.
But his eyes, Altair thought as he followed Malik up the curved stairs to the library, his eyes had not changed. They were still friendly and bright, and he absently wondered why Rauf had not gotten himself killed yet because of it.
The library’s tables were occupied with novices and teachers, most of them strangers to Altair, though there were a couple of faces that stirred the back of his mind. Malik did not say a word, though his steps faltered once when his gaze turned upwards for one quick moment, somewhere at the second floor where Al Mualim’s desk should be, before he pulled up his hood and continued walking. No one paid them any attention, but Altair did the same, smoothing the cowl over his head, grateful for the excuse to look around without seeming to. It was clear that Malik intended to go to the garden sanctuary, one of the few areas within the busy fortress that hardly anyone frequented. Why he wanted to go there was beyond Altair—they would certainly find no help within the bushes and weeds—but Malik’s hand was tight around his arm, threatening to drag him like an unruly child if he did not keep up.
He was panicking, Altair realized, in his own silent way, and it was only because Altair himself was so unsettled that he allowed Malik to pull him to the gardens.
They stumbled across the grassy field and Malik veered off the main path, into a junction where a corner of the fortress met with the cliff’s edge, hidden from view and hard to find even without the wild tangle of leaves and vines that crept up the stone wall. This, Malik regarded with irritation, wrinkling his nose at the thick smell of jasmine. He let go of Altair’s arm and sat down, lips moving without a sound, but Altair heard the Creed nevertheless: nothing is true, everything is permitted. Everything is permitted.
“Why are we here?” Altair asked, recognizing the spot as one of Malik’s haunts, though without the overgrowth of jasmine the last time he came. He had discovered it some time ago, just as Malik had discovered his secluded awning on top of one of Masyaf’s towers, both secret and treasured places to be alone in peace. He wondered then if his awning had fallen into ruin like Malik’s hideaway, filled with dust or broken wooden planks and nothing to be remembered by in the years to come.
“Because I need to think,” Malik hissed, livid for no reason Altair could see, except that, somehow, they had ended up in the near future, which Altair thought would be less angering and more mystifying—and that was especially telling, given his equally volatile temper.
He knelt down, not caring if he was disturbing Malik—and what was there to think, anyway, in this situation?—and prodded his shoulder. “I saw you looking at something in the library. What was it?”
It was like he had a talent for exposing the sources of Malik’s fury—even those that were not of his own doing. Malik stiffened, even going so far as to grab onto his left shoulder where Altair had touched him, mouth curled into a bitter smile.
“Back there, I thought saw myself,” Malik said, “but I do not think it was me.”
“Really?” Altair prompted when Malik fell silent. “And what are you so furious about? Robes still grey?”
Tomorrow Was Not Dull [2/?]
“We have permission to be out,” Altair said, only stopping when Malik murmured something under his breath that made him tense.
“Master Rauf, if you would be so kind as to humor me,” said the older man, overhearing. He stared at them with a puzzled look, but Malik had grabbed on to Altair’s arm and begun pulling him away as realization slowly dawned on them both.
“Apologies, master, we were just heading to the library,” Malik said, and they both hurried away, even as they looked over their shoulders to gawk at Rauf—who should have been shorter than either of them, with a higher-pitched voice, and certainly not wearing the robes of higher-ranking white.
But his eyes, Altair thought as he followed Malik up the curved stairs to the library, his eyes had not changed. They were still friendly and bright, and he absently wondered why Rauf had not gotten himself killed yet because of it.
The library’s tables were occupied with novices and teachers, most of them strangers to Altair, though there were a couple of faces that stirred the back of his mind. Malik did not say a word, though his steps faltered once when his gaze turned upwards for one quick moment, somewhere at the second floor where Al Mualim’s desk should be, before he pulled up his hood and continued walking. No one paid them any attention, but Altair did the same, smoothing the cowl over his head, grateful for the excuse to look around without seeming to. It was clear that Malik intended to go to the garden sanctuary, one of the few areas within the busy fortress that hardly anyone frequented. Why he wanted to go there was beyond Altair—they would certainly find no help within the bushes and weeds—but Malik’s hand was tight around his arm, threatening to drag him like an unruly child if he did not keep up.
He was panicking, Altair realized, in his own silent way, and it was only because Altair himself was so unsettled that he allowed Malik to pull him to the gardens.
They stumbled across the grassy field and Malik veered off the main path, into a junction where a corner of the fortress met with the cliff’s edge, hidden from view and hard to find even without the wild tangle of leaves and vines that crept up the stone wall. This, Malik regarded with irritation, wrinkling his nose at the thick smell of jasmine. He let go of Altair’s arm and sat down, lips moving without a sound, but Altair heard the Creed nevertheless: nothing is true, everything is permitted. Everything is permitted.
“Why are we here?” Altair asked, recognizing the spot as one of Malik’s haunts, though without the overgrowth of jasmine the last time he came. He had discovered it some time ago, just as Malik had discovered his secluded awning on top of one of Masyaf’s towers, both secret and treasured places to be alone in peace. He wondered then if his awning had fallen into ruin like Malik’s hideaway, filled with dust or broken wooden planks and nothing to be remembered by in the years to come.
“Because I need to think,” Malik hissed, livid for no reason Altair could see, except that, somehow, they had ended up in the near future, which Altair thought would be less angering and more mystifying—and that was especially telling, given his equally volatile temper.
He knelt down, not caring if he was disturbing Malik—and what was there to think, anyway, in this situation?—and prodded his shoulder. “I saw you looking at something in the library. What was it?”
It was like he had a talent for exposing the sources of Malik’s fury—even those that were not of his own doing. Malik stiffened, even going so far as to grab onto his left shoulder where Altair had touched him, mouth curled into a bitter smile.
“Back there, I thought saw myself,” Malik said, “but I do not think it was me.”
“Really?” Altair prompted when Malik fell silent. “And what are you so furious about? Robes still grey?”