the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

None of this would have been lost on Altaïr, who had gathered most
of the Assassins to hear what he had to say. Darim was among them,
with his bow, the young Malik, too, and Mukhlis, who took his place
beside the Master on the dais outside his tower. Nerves fluttered like
moths in my stomach and I found myself taking short, jagged breaths to
try to control them, finding the background noise of battle disconcerting.
The Mongols, it seemed, had chosen this moment to launch another of
their attacks on the castle, perhaps aware that its defences were
temporarily depleted.
‘Brothers,’ said Altaïr, standing before us, ‘our time together was
brief, I know. But I have faith that this codex will answer any questions
you have yet to ask.’
I took it and turned it over in my hands, in awe of it. It contained the
Master’s most important thoughts, distilled from decades of studying the
Apple.
‘Altaïr,’ I said, barely able to form words, ‘this gift is … invaluable.
Grazie.’
At a sign from Altair, Mukhlis stepped forward with a small bag that
he handed to the Master.
‘Where will you go next?’ asked Altaïr.
‘To Constantinople for a time. We can establish a guild there before
returning to Venice.’
He chuckled. ‘Your son Marco will be eager to hear his father’s wild
stories.’
‘He is a little young for such tales. But one day soon, sì.’ I grinned.
He passed the bag to me and I felt several heavy objects inside it
shift.