the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

victor’s assurance.
‘I’ve never been one to run,’ returned Altaïr, defiant.
Al Mualim chortled. None of this – none of it – seemed to bother him.
‘Never been one to listen, either,’ he said.
‘I still live because of it.’ Altaïr struggled against his invisible bonds.
The Apple pulsed in response and the light seemed to press in on him,
restricting him even more.
‘What will I do with you?’ Al Mualim smiled.
‘Let me go,’ snarled Altaïr. He had no throwing knives but, free of
these shackles, he could reach the old man in just a few bounds. Al
Mualim would have a few last moments to admire his climbing skills
before Altaïr slid his blade into his gut.
‘Oh, Altair. I hear the hatred in your voice,’ said Al Mualim. ‘I feel its
heat. Let you go? That would be unwise.’
‘Why are you doing this?’ asked Altaïr.
Al Mualim seemed to consider. ‘I believed once. Did you know that? I
thought there was a God. A God who loved and looked after us, who
sent prophets to guide and comfort us. Who made miracles to remind us
of his power.’
‘What changed?’
‘I found proof.’
‘Proof of what?’
‘That it is all an illusion.’
And with a wave of his hand he released Altaïr from the imprisoning
light. Altaïr expected to drop, then realized he had never been
suspended at all. Confused, he looked around himself, sensing a new
change in the atmosphere, a building of pressure he felt in his eardrums,