the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

which his father had died and left him alone.
But the man in his room was not his father. It was Ahmad.
Ahmad was standing at the door, emaciated within his white robe, his
face a pale mask. He wore a faraway, almost peaceful expression, and he
smiled a little as Altaïr sat up, as though he didn’t want to frighten the
boy. His eyes, though, were sunken dark hollows as if pain had burned
the life from within him. And in his hand he held a dagger.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and they were the only words he spoke, his last
words, because next he drew the knife across his throat, opening a
gaping red mouth in his own neck.
Blood swept down his robe; bubbles of it formed at the wound on his
neck. The dagger dropped with a clunk to the floor and he smiled as he
slid to his knees, his gaze fixed on Altaïr, who sat rigid with fear, unable
to take his eyes from Ahmad as the blood poured from him, draining out
of him. Now the dying man lolled back on his heels, at last breaking that
ghastly stare as his head dropped to the side, but he was prevented from
falling backwards by the door. And for some heartbeats that was how he
remained, a penitent man, kneeling. Then at last he fell forward.
Altaïr had no idea how long he sat there, weeping softly and listening
to Ahmad’s blood spreading thickly across the stone. At last he found the
courage to step out of bed, taking the candle and carefully skirting the
bleeding horror that lay on the floor. He pulled his door open,
whimpering as it made contact with Ahmad’s foot. Outside the room at
last, he ran. The candle snuffed out but he didn’t care. He ran until he
reached Al Mualim.
‘You must never tell anyone of this,’ Al Mualim had said, the next day.