Sören strode briskly through the transept, followed closely by Fillan. Their boots clacked against the stone, disturbing the nocturnal silence in the church of Scone. They advanced using the light of the candles, which were placed at the foot of the pillars in the aisles, unevenly dispelling the darkness. Above their heads, the stained-glass windows of the second floor were only blackness and they could barely make out the ribbed patterns.
“Hurry up, I said!” said the Norwegian impatiently. “They’re waiting for us!”
Even though Fillan knew that the council of the Brotherhood was to be held that evening, no one had told him exactly when. Exhausted by the journey, he had dozed off in the makeshift camp that they had set up in the forest a few feet from the cloister. Sören had shaken him awake shortly after midnight.
“There’s nobody here,” noted Fillan as they reached the choir pews opposite where they’d entered.
“They’re down below,” Sören replied, as if it were obvious.
“Below?”
The mercenary approached a semi-circular bas-relief which adorned the apse and drew a curious inverted V-shape amid the abundant engraved thistles. He lit two torches as the ground shook and a series of slabs disappeared to reveal a spiral staircase that descended underground.
“Are you coming too?”
“Just this once.”
Deep down, Fillan was relieved. Even though Sören was colder than ever, his presence reassured him.
After an initial flight of steps made of stone blocks, a second flight appeared, larger and carved out of the rock. In a descent that seemed to go on forever, the stairs led them into the depths of Scone.
When Fillan arrived at the bottom of the stairs, a long corridor with smooth walls opened out. He thought he was entering the Other World. His footsteps were muffled, and the torch he held at arm’s length made the walls around him shimmer. He had no clue what material these walls were built with, but they didn’t seem to be made of stone or metal.
“What is this place?” he asked in a whisper, as if afraid to wake someone—or something. “It’s nothing like the architecture of the abbey.”
Like nothing I’ve ever seen in my life, he thought.
“That’s because it was here before,” the mercenary explained.
“Before?”
“Yes, long before. Would you believe me if I told you that it was not men who built it?”
Was he implying that the gods themselves had fashioned this place? It was absurd, and Fillan resented him for playing games with him.
By the light of his torch, Fillan suddenly discovered that the corridor led to a bridge overhanging an abyss. He let out a curse of surprise.
“Oh, yeah, I should have warned you,” Sören breathed, with a hint of a chuckle in his voice.
“Is it deep?”
“Enough that I don’t recommend you try to check it out yourself. Keep going, and watch where you step.”
The narrow structure stretched above the darkness. Thin wisps of mist floated here and there, blown by a faint breeze. Several drips echoed in the distance, producing curious echoes that reverberated off walls concealed by darkness.
Fillan advanced slowly, his legs trembling. Every two strides he couldn’t help but check that the stone was holding his weight, though every look he cast into the impenetrable darkness on either side of his feet made him shiver.
As he progressed, he continued to wonder about where he was. He had never seen a bridge of such artistry, cut several feet long in one long block. He was beginning to doubt that the Norwegian had been joking. There was definitely something supernatural in this place.
He sighed in relief and mopped his brow when he reached a new corridor, at the end of which flickered a light. He found himself surrounded once more by the same shimmering walls, but these were engraved with countless symbols that he had never seen before, either.
After a few strides, the corridor opened into a large, circular room bathed in an orange light. Large candles gave off a gentle warmth and showed a glimpse of very high walls rising towards a ceiling of darkness.
For furniture, there were only five wooden armchairs that clashed so much with the rest of the room that he realized they must have been brought there.
“Fillan!” rejoiced Thomas de Balmerino, seated in the largest of the armchairs. “Welcome! Sören, thank you for joining us. We saved you a seat.”
“I’d rather stay standing,” he replied, grumbling.
“As you please.”
With a wave of his hand, the abbot invited Fillan to the center of the circle he formed with three other people.
“You already know Deorsa,” said the abbot, “and I understand that you talked to William Wallace soon after you got here. This woman is named Amy, of the Comyn clan. As for me, I am Thomas de Balmerino, Abbot of Scone.”
Fillan took in the woman, who had every trait of a northern warrior. In her thirties, she had blonde hair trimmed to the length of her muscular shoulders. The scar that cut into her chin and part of her left cheek made her look fierce.
“We know everything that’s happened to you since you left Berwick, but you—what do you know, my boy?”
Fillan did not like the way the monk called him ‘my boy.’ It sounded like ‘kid’ from Sören or Edan’s ‘maggot.’
“Not much,” he replied simply. “I have been told hardly anything. All I know is that you call yourselves the Brotherhood of Assassins.”
He glanced sideways at Sören, not wishing to embarrass him in front of the Brotherhood.
“The reason is simple: those who brought you here knew almost nothing.”
The monk turned his head towards the mercenary.
“And we are sincerely sorry. It seems like someone betrayed us in the south, as soon as the English crossed the border. We couldn’t do anything else.”
“The past belongs to the past,” replied the mercenary.
“That’s a wise reaction.”
Fillan held back a giggle. He recalled the Norwegian shouting at Deorsa in Dalkeith and yelling at the abbot as soon as they arrived in Scone. He was far from wise.
“Since we are talking about the past,” continued Thomas, “that is where we must begin, so that you understand why you are here. The history of the Brotherhood reaches back several centuries. We have always opposed an entity of which you have already become acquainted through the Lann Fala. It is the Order of the Templars.”
All listened calmly to the abbot’s presentation except for Sören, who carelessly picked his fingernails with his dagger, his mouth twisted into an evil grin.
“What differentiates Assassins from Templars?”
“It’s a vast subject, which we could discuss with you for hours! The Templars are convinced that the only way to achieve a harmonious and orderly society is by controlling the population. According to them, people’s self-reliance leads to chaos because of the nature of man.”
“And the Assassins don’t believe that? So, what? You yearn for… disorder?”
The monk smiled, watching him.
“No, everything is not always so black or white. We believe that nothing matters more than free will. And that when a handful of people have all the power and rule over all the others, it is the door to injustice—because this, too, is the nature of man.”
“And you can be sure that we hate injustice above all,” added William.
“What actually happens? Do you fight?”
“Direct confrontations are not common, although we always seek to cut off the heads of the most dangerous snakes. You see, members of the Order covet powerful artifacts that they hope to use to control the masses. We do everything we can to thwart their plans so that these objects do not fall into their hands.”
“Artifacts?”
“Like the Stone of Destiny,” William explained.
“Aren’t these just old symbols from legends? What’s so special about them?”
Thomas, William, and Amy looked at him benevolently as Deorsa chuckled.
“Many are symbols,” said the woman slowly, “but they are also more than that. They have a real power.”
“A power? You mean, like magic?”
“So some might call it; others speak of a gift from the gods. Tell me, my boy, do you believe that such a thing can exist?”
Fillan shook his head: it was more unlikely than old Tilda’s rantings, more implausible even than to believe that the place where they stood could have been built by gods.
And yet, he thought.
“And yet,” continued Thomas, “it is. Sören denied our Brotherhood; he can confirm it for you.”
Fillan quickly turned to the Norwegian, who nodded.
“What do I have to do with this?” he asked.
“Have you got any ideas?” called William.
“Is this about the Children of Fal?”
“That’s right,” agreed Thomas. “The Brotherhood, the Children of Fal, the Lann Fala, the Order of the Templars: everything is intertwined in an intricate web woven with the needle of fate. Long ago, the Tuatha Dé Danann walked these lands and bequeathed the artifacts we spoke of, but not only that. They also left behind the Children of Fal. They are very precious beings, because they carry the heritage of Tuatha in their blood. Like objects of power, the Brotherhood has protected these children in Scotland for hundreds of years.”
“From what? The Order?”
“Among other things,” replied the abbot. “Every Child of Fal is destined to join the Brotherhood to help protect the heritage of his ancestors. It has always been so, and it is why the Templars keep hunting them down and killing them. Ten years ago, the Order took advantage of the political instability caused by the death of the king and attempted to permanently annihilate the Brotherhood and the Children of Fal. They wanted to kill two birds with one stone. They succeeded, in part, and all of us here have paid the price of their rage. Your clan has always been linked to the Brotherhood; that’s why they were slaughtered.”
“And I would be one of those Children?”
In the light of what Thomas revealed to him, the question that had been nagging him for weeks now frightened him.
“Yes, you bear the mark.”
Fillan instinctively raised his wrist to observe his birthmark. He finally understood Sören’s reaction upon discovering it after they fled Cranshaws.
“You got it,” Amy Comyn proclaimed. “That brand designates you as a Child of Fal from your birth. You were but an infant when the druid of your clan entered a trance and received confirmation that you were indeed born under the shadows of providence.”
“You have always been destined to join the Brotherhood,” Deorsa explained in a honeyed voice.
Fillan thought he heard Sören grumble. The mercenary appeared more and more annoyed as the members of the Brotherhood continued talking.
“For the moment,” continued Deorsa, “you are only a target who we had to hide. But you can become something else.”
An Assassin, Fillan thought.
“Come a little closer,” William called, drawing a sword from behind his chair. “This is Claidheamh Fal, the legacy of your clan, Fillan. It means ‘Sword of Fal.’ Nobody other than you can handle it and be worthy of it.”
Fillan grabbed the blade. It was incredibly light, and he noticed a strange, inverted V engraved on the pommel. The handle, covered with dark straps, was quite long: he could grab it with both hands. On both sides, the hilt ended in ornate Celtic tracery. He pulled the weapon halfway out of its laced leather scabbard and discovered a dazzling blade with a deep gutter that hinted that the core metal was different from its surface metal. The cutting edge was thinner than parchment.
“It is a weapon that has seen many battles,” Thomas explained. “Just like its twin.”
William grabbed a second, identical sword, which he kept in a tartan.
“This one should have gone to Ailéas,” the old man explained. “The Children of Fal are always twins. Most importantly, the birthmark you have on your wrist means ‘two’ in the lost language of the Tuatha.”
Fillan remained silent, allowing a moment for his emotions to run through him. He felt overwhelmed.
“Do I have a choice?” he finally asked in a shy voice.
“Of course,” William replied. “In your veins flows the legacy of those who forged Scotland and who fought the Order, but it is up to you to embrace this destiny.”
“Or write another one,” Amy added.
“I would even add,” said Deorsa, “that nothing good ever comes from coercion and we will not force you into anything.”
Fillan took a moment of consideration as he tightened the scabbards of leather between his fingers.
“For the moment, my only desire is to make Cornavii pay for what he did.”
“Revenge is an excellent motivator,” explained Thomas. “But in the long term, you will have to move beyond it to serve a greater cause. The cause of the Brotherhood.”
He wasn’t sure what that meant, but he saw the opportunity to survive longer, as Ailéas would have wanted.
“What will happen if I accept?”
“We will train you, and you will become a fully-fledged member of the Brotherhood,” said the monk, clasping his hands.
“For eight years, we have been trying to rebuild what was destroyed by the Lann Fala. With their return and the progression of the English, your help would be invaluable.”
“And could I change my mind, later?”
They all cast meaningful glances at Sören.
“It’s quite possible,” agreed Amy, enunciating each word.
“You don’t have to decide immediately,” added William. “We will have a second meeting tomorrow evening, which leaves you some time to reflect on all we have said.”
Fillan caught the blue gaze of the Norwegian and stared at him for a long time, watching for a movement, a grin, a hitch in his breathing—anything that could help him decide.
But the mercenary looked away, troubled, and left the room without a word.