the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

Altaïr had been given a warm spiced drink, then spent the rest of the
night in the Master’s chambers, where he had slept soundly. The Master
himself had been elsewhere, attending to Ahmad’s body. So it had
proved the next day, when Al Mualim returned to him, taking a seat by
his bed.
‘We shall tell the Order that Ahmad left under cover of darkness,’ he
said. ‘They may draw their own conclusions. We cannot allow Abbas to
be tainted with the shame of his father’s suicide. What Ahmad has done
is dishonourable. His disgrace would spread to his kin.’
‘But what of Abbas, Master?’ said Altaïr. ‘Will he be told the truth?’
‘No, my child.’
‘But he should at least know that his father is –’
‘No, my child,’ repeated Al Mualim, his voice rising. ‘Abbas will be
told by no one, including you. Tomorrow I shall announce that you are
both to become novices in the Order, that you are to be brothers in all
but blood. You will share quarters. You will train and study and dine
together. As brothers. You will look after each other. See no harm comes
to the other, either physical or by other means. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, Master.’
Later that day Altaïr was installed in quarters with Abbas. A meagre
room: two pallets, rush matting, a small desk. Neither boy liked it but
Abbas said he would be leaving shortly, when his father returned. At
night he was fitful and sometimes called out in his sleep, while in the
next bed Altaïr lay awake, afraid to sleep in case the nightmares of
Ahmad uncoiled themselves and came to him.
They did. Ahmad had come to him at night ever since. He came with
a dagger that gleamed in the dancing candlelight. Slowly he drew the