Assassin's Creed: Black Flag

“You honestly believe that?”

“You would see all of mankind herded into a neatly furnished prison, safe and sober, yet dull beyond reason and sapped of all spirit. So, aye, with everything I’ve seen and learnt in these last years, I do believe it.”

“You wear your convictions well,” he said. “They suit you . . .”

It was as though I’d been in a trance. The noise of The Observatory, the rattle of stone falling around me, the screams of the fleeing troops: all of it had faded into the background as I spoke to Torres, and I only became aware of it again when the last breath died on his lips and his head lolled on the stone. There was the noise of a distant battle, soldiers being ruthlessly despatched, before Anne, Adewalé and Ah Tabai burst into the chamber. Their swords were drawn and streaked with blood. Their pistols smoked.

“Torres awakened The Observatory something fierce,” I said to Ah Tabai. “Are we safe?”

“With the device returned, I believe so,” he replied, indicating the skull.

Anne was looking around herself, open-mouthed. Even partly destroyed in the wake of the rockfall, the chamber was still a sight to see. “What do you call this place?” she said, awe-struck.

“Captain Kenway’s folly,” said Adewalé, shooting me a smile.

“We will seal this place and discard the key,” announced Ah Tabai. “Until another Sage appears, this door will remain locked.”

“There were vials when I came here last,” I told him, “filled with the blood of ancient men, Roberts said. But they’re gone now.”

“Then it’s up to us to recover them,” said Ah Tabai with a sigh, “before the Templars catch wind of this. You could join us in that cause.”

I could. I could. But . . .

“Only after I fix what I mangled back home.”

The old Assassin nodded, then as though reminded of it, he removed a letter from his robes that he handed to me.

“It arrived last week.”

They left me as I read it.

I think you know the news it contained, don’t you, my sweet?

SIXTY-SIX

OCTOBER 1722

We had good reason to celebrate. So we did. However, with my new knowledge had come a decreased interest in inebriation, so I left the exuberance in the hands of the Jackdaw crew, who built fires and roasted a hog and danced and sang until they had no energy left, when they simply collapsed and slept where they fell, then pulled themselves to their feet, grabbed the nearest flask of liquor and began again.

Me, I sat on the terrace of my homestead with Anne, Adewalé and Ah Tabai.

“Gentlemen, how do you find it here?” I asked them.

I’d offered it—my home as their base.

“It will work well for us,” said Ah Tabai, “but our long-term goal must be to scatter our operations. To live and work among the people we protect, just as Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad once counselled.”

“Well, until that time, it’s yours as you see fit.”

“Edward . . .”

I had already stood to see Anne, but turned to Adewalé.

“Yes?”

“Captain Woodes Rogers survived his wounds,” he told me. I cursed, remembering the interruption. “He has since returned to England. Shamed and in great debt, but no less a threat.”

“I will finish that job when I return. You have my word.”

He nodded, and we embraced before we parted, leaving me to join Anne.

We sat in silence for a moment, smiling at the songs, until I said, “I’ll be sailing for London in the next few months. I’d be a hopeful man if you were beside me.”

She laughed. “England is the wrong way round the globe for an Irishwoman.”

I nodded. Perhaps it was for the best. “Will you stay with the Assassins?” I asked her.

She shook her head. “No. I haven’t that kind of conviction in my heart. You?”

“In time, aye, when my mind is settled and my blood is cooled.”

Just then we heard a cry from afar, a ship sailing into the cove. We looked at one another, both of us knowing what the arrival of the ship meant—a new life for me, a new life for her. I loved her in my own way, and I think she loved me, but the time had come to part, and we did it with a kiss.

“You’re a good man, Edward,” said Anne, her eyes shining as I stood. “If you learn to keep settled to one place for more than a week, you’ll make a fine father too.”

I left her and headed down to the beach, where a large ship was coming into dock. The gang-board was lowered and the captain appeared holding the hand of a little girl, a beautiful little girl, who shone brighter than hope, just nine years old.

And I thought you looked the spitting image of your mother.

SIXTY-SEVEN

A little vision, you were. Jennifer Kenway, a daughter I never even knew I had. Embarking on a voyage, which went against your grandfather’s wishes but had your grandmother’s blessing, you’d sailed to find me, in order to give me the news.

My beloved was dead.

(Did you wonder why I didn’t cry, I wonder, as we stood on the dock at Inagua? So did I, Jenny. So did I.)

On that voyage home I got to know you. And yet there were still things I had to keep from you because I still had much I needed to do. Before, when I talked about having loose ends to tie, business to take care of? Well, there were still more loose ends to tie. Still more business to settle.

• • •

I took a skeleton crew to Bristol, a few of my most trusted men. We sailed the Atlantic, a hard, rough crossing, made bearable by a stay in the Azores, then continued our journey to the British Isles and to Bristol. To home—to a place I hadn’t visited for nigh on a decade. A place I had been warned against ever returning to.

As we came into the Bristol Channel the black flag of the Jackdaw was brought down, folded up, and placed carefully in a chest in my cabin. In its place we raised the Red Ensign. It would be enough to allow us to land at least, and once the port marshals had worked out the Jackdaw was not a naval vessel, I’d be ashore and the ship anchored off shore.

And then I saw it for the first time in so long, the Bristol dock, and I caught my breath. I had loved Kingston, Havana and above all Nassau. But despite everything that had happened—or maybe because of it—here was still my home.

Heads turned in my direction as I strode along the harbour, a figure of mystery, dressed not like a pirate but something else. Perhaps some of the older ones remembered me: merchants I’d done business with as a sheep-farmer, men I’d drunk with in the taverns, when I’d boasted of going off to sea. Tongues would wag, and news would travel. How far? I wondered. To Matthew Hague and Wilson? To Emmett Scott? Would they know that Edward Kenway was back, stronger and more powerful than before, and that he had scores to settle?