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.
"We've been receiving reports of allied natives working with the British. I've asked my men to put a stop to it."
His voice is levelled, rehearsed. The hundreds of lives he's about to destroy mean little more than dirt to him.
"By burning their villages and salting the land. By calling for their extermination, according to this letter," Haytham continues, pressing his advantage. I barely hear him over the ringing in my ears. "Not for the first time, either. Tell him what you did eighteen years ago."
Eighteen years ago? But that was—
"Mother!"
The fumes are everywhere, stinging his eyes, burning his lungs. But even through his clouded vision, he still sees charred bodies on the ground. Sprawled limbs twisted at odd angles.
"You must be strong, Ratonhnhaké:ton," his mother says, her voice reassuring despite the fear in her eyes. "You must be brave."
"Stop it. Stop it! We're leaving together!"
But there was nothing the boy could do.
"You may think yourself alone, but know that I will be by your side. Always and forever."
He wanted to hold her hand one last time—but he never reached her. Hands circled around him, lifting him off the ground, and all he could do was watch.
Watch as his mother's silhouette grew smaller and smaller against the blazing furnace. Watch as the flames consumed her.
"MOTHER!"
"That was another time. The Seven Years War."
Washington speaks matter-of-factly, not meeting my eyes. As if he should be justified for destroying innocent lives. As if I should understand why he burned my home and murdered my mother.
"And now you see what happens to this great man when under duress." Haytham barely conceals his feelings of triumph. It makes me sick. Both men make me sick, and I want nothing more than to leave. "He makes excuses, displaces blame, does a great many things except take responsibility—"
"ENOUGH!" I shout, the sound ripping from my throat. "Who did what and why must wait. My people come first."
Haytham retreats from Washington reluctantly. "Then let's be off."
"No," I grind out, and watch my father flinch. "You and I are finished."
His eyes widen at my words, false hurt written all over his face. "Son..."
"Do you think me so soft, that by calling me 'son' I might change my mind? How long did you sit on this information? Or am I to believe you discovered it now?" I spit. A part of me delights in watching him wince—the same part that celebrates a clean kill, and longs to sink a blade into Washington's skull.
"My mother's blood may stain another's hands. But Charles Lee is no less a monster, and all he does, he does by your command!
"A warning to you both: Choose to follow me or oppose me, and I will kill you."
It is not until I am completely alone, riding through the forest to my village, that I allow myself to yell.
*
The gates of Kanatahséton loom before me, a dark silhouette outlined by pale moonlight. The sight of my village usually fills me with a bone-deep joy. But not tonight.
"Ratonhnhaké:ton!"
Clan Mother greets me warmly. But there is tension in her shoulders. Worry etched into the lines of her face.
"You have returned!" she says in Kanien'kéha. "But why? I thought you would be with that other man."
"What other man?"
"The one they call Boiling Water—Charles Lee." I feel my fists clench at the mention of his name. "He took Kanen'to:kon and a few others with him."
"What? Where have they gone?"
"To push back those who would take our land," Clan Mother replies with fervour—fervour born of the lies Charles Lee spun. I pace up and down, my feet unable to keep still. "Why are you troubled?" she continues. "Is this not what you wanted? For us to take a stand?"
Wrong. This is all wrong.
I have not the heart to explain. "I have to go. I need to stop them."
I run past the gates towards the forest, where half a dozen of my brothers are hidden, waiting for Lee's command to attack Washington's men. Finding them is the easy part. Fighting them, excruciating.
The first warrior I encounter is one I do not recognize—a small relief. He fights well, dodging my blows and countering with his blade. His knife opens a gash in my chest—an injury I could have avoided if I were not intent on sparing his life. Finally, whether from exhaustion or frustration, he loses his focus, and I put him down with a strike on his head.
It does not become easier with the other warriors, but I force my thoughts to the back of my mind. A part of me screams at the wrongness of all this—a part that I shut away for now, as one by one the fighters fell. Whether they are dead, or simply unconscious, I do not know. I cannot know.
And then I see him.
In the shadow of a tree, hidden in tall bushes just like I taught him, Kanen'to:kon crouches, tensed and ready for battle. He doesn't hear me when I approach, but reacts immediately when I grip his arm.
His blade misses my neck by mere inches.
Kanen'to:kon's eyes flash when they see me, but not with gladness or relief. Instead, there is something feral about his stance. The curl of his lip. Furrowed eyebrows. Something I've seen in wolves defending their territory. The sight is so horribly twisted, like a nightmare that sends you screaming awake.
"Peace, Kanen'to:kon."
"Ratonhnhaké:ton," he growls. "Come to kill me yourself?"
"What?"
We prowl in a circle. Him with a dagger and I with my hidden blades, hoping against hope I would not have to use them.
"Charles Lee told me everything," he snarls. "The Patriots seek to destroy us. And you would aid them."
"That man is a liar!"
"He said that you had been corrupted. That you would try to deceive. But here they are on our doorstep. What say you to that?"
"It is a mistake!" I plead.
"Our only mistake was trusting you would help to keep us safe. They have seduced you, and you are turned against your own kind!" He lunges for an attack, and I dodge, still unwilling to draw my sword.
"Stop!" I cry. But Kanen'to:kon is no longer listening. He charges at me with all his force and rage, and I narrowly manage to block his blade. He pins me to the ground, and as I watch his dagger inch closer to my neck, time seems to slow, every second dragged out infinitely. It would be simple. A flick of the wrist, a movement I've done countless times. But the choice is far from easy.
No, there is no choice at all.
Blood sprays from his neck, staining my robes, warm and sticky on my face. I want to forget the sickening squelch of my hidden blade as I pulled it free, but I doubt I will. Gasping, I drag myself to kneel beside my friend from childhood as he heaves his last breaths.
"My passing wins you nothing, Ratonhnhaké:ton." Even now, his voice is full of resentment. It seems that the past few weeks were enough to erase years of memory. "Charles Lee rides for Monmouth to reveal the Patriots' plans. The Loyalists will destroy them. The revolution ended. The Crown victorious. Our people...safe."
"It seems our people will never be safe," I breathe, but he has gone into the place where my voice cannot reach him. "You are resting now, my friend."
Some people die after a life full of years. Some claimed by illness, war or execution. Most grievous are those who die believing in lies. But as I clasp Kanen'to:kon's hand and bring it to his chest, I realize that perhaps it is better to leave this world believing in lies, rather than believing in nothing at all.