Retribution (An Assassin's Creed III story)

Twenty Eight: Treacherous Trust

Pennsylvania, June 1778

Connor

Things have improved greatly in Valley Forge. The previously underfed and diseased men have been revived by the warm weather, as well as the supplies my father and I procured. They show vigour in their steps—an encouraging sight for the hope of victory.

But the Loyalist threat is not over yet.

Yesterday, Haytham and I managed to track down several Loyalist commanders in New York. They gave us valuable information, for which Haytham repaid them by taking their lives. His methods disgust me. I did not bother hiding my resentment, but he simply waved it away, as if what he did was anything less than cold-blooded murder. I refuse to carry Haytham's corpses with me, but they seem to cling on, impossible to shake.

He walks beside me now, a scowl carved on his face. The night is cool, but his seething does nothing to warm me. "We should be sharing what we know with Lee, not Washington."

I cannot believe that my father is still oblivious to the fact that I will never side with Lee. And not just because of our past encounters. All the man does, he does for selfish gain. Though Haytham may argue that the Templars' seek to serve the greater good, they will only build a world no different from the one before.

"You seem to think I favor him," I growl. "But my enemy is a notion, not a nation. It is wrong to compel obedience—whether to the British Crown, or the Templar Cross. And I hope in time the Loyalists will see this too, for they are also victims."

Haytham's voice is weary. Impatient. A father rebuking his son for a mistake. But I am no longer a child. "You oppose tyranny. Injustice. These are just symptoms. Their true cause is human weakness. Why do you think I keep on trying to show you the error of your ways?"

The error of my ways? Who made him judge to declare right or wrong?

"You have said much, yes," I hurl, "But you have shown me nothing."

I head for the Commander's tent without cutting another glance at the Templar. But he trails behind, his voice reaching my ears anyway. "Then we'll have to remedy that, then, won't we..."

Commander Washington is bending over some paperwork when we approach him. "Sir," I say.

"Hello, Connor. What brings you here?"

Washington's face lifts when he sees me, and he all but ignores Haytham. My father does not bother with salutations, either. He saunters into the tent, beady eyes peering around for who-knows-what.

"The British have recalled their men in Philadelphia," I tell him. "They march for New York."

"Very well," he nods. "I'll move our forces to Monmouth. If we can rout them, we'll have finally turned the tide."

"And what's this?" Haytham calls from inside the tent. He lifts the paperwork I saw Washington signing earlier when we arrived.

The Commander's eyes widen in a flash. "Private correspondence!" he snarls.

"Oh, I'm sure it is. Would you like to know what it says, Connor?"

My father looks victorious. No doubt he thinks he's uncovered a flaw of Washington's to make me turn against him. "It seems your good friend here has ordered an attack on your village. Although an attack might be putting it mildly. Tell him, Commander."

Attack. Village. Raw, white heat explodes within me, and I'm surprised my clothes do not burn. The world narrows itself down to only this: my people and the man standing before me. Washington quails under my stare. It is answer enough.