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Full text of "Assassin's Creed book series _ EPUB format". See other formats. Dark Corners He had a thin face framed by a spill of almost pure white hair, looking. Common KnowledgeSeriesAssassin's Creed Novels Assassin's Creed Origins: Desert Oath by Oliver Bowden, 9. Assassin's Creed Odyssey (The Official. Assassin's Creed has 65 entries in the series. Renaissance. Assassin's Creed ( Series). Book 1. Oliver Bowden Author Gunnar Cauthery Narrator ().


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Read "Assassin's Creed: Renaissance" by Oliver Bowden available from Assassin's Creed: The Secret Crusade ebook by Oliver Bowden Book 3 . ISBN: ; Language: English; Download options: EPUB 2 (Adobe DRM). Assassin's Creed series 5 books by Oliver Bowden (Free Download Epub). The series is set within the 15th century and largely follows the character Ezio. The books in this series are tie-ins to the Assassin's Creed video hamhillfort.info the YA series see: Assassin's Creed: Last Descendants Desert Oath: The.

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The Silver Mask Magisterium 4. Holly Black. Covenant - The Official Movie Novelization. Simon Scarrow. The Spaceship Next Door.

Gene Doucette. Percy Jackson and the Singer of Apollo. The Vagrant The Vagrant Trilogy. Peter Newman. Trigger Mortis. Anthony Horowitz. Scourge of Wolves. David Gilman. Fall From Grace. David Ashton. The Trials of Apollo, Book One: The Hidden Oracle. Wild Justice. Shadow of the Serpent. Magnus Chase and the Gods of Asgard, Book 1: The Sword of Summer. The Last Jedi: Expanded Edition Star Wars.

Jason Fry. Predator - Incursion. Tim Lebbon. The Novice. Sean Black. The Trials of Apollo, Book Three: The Burning Maze. The Dwarven Prince.

Jonathan Moeller. Excalibur Frostborn The Tales of Beedle the Bard. The Battle of Hackham Heath. John Flanagan. The Serpent Sword. Matthew Harffy. Troll Mountain: Episode I. Matthew Reilly. Crucible The Official Prequel. Greg Keyes.

A Trick of the Light. The Trials of Apollo, Book Two: Dark Prophecy. Dark Haven.

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Gail Z. Jay Kristoff. Odessa Sea. Clive Cussler. Sevenfold Sword: The Complete Immortals Series Boxset. The False King Frostborn The Thief's Tale. Journey to Star Wars: Before arriving back at the chateau, she had me run and hide it, and she handed it to Mr. Weatherall now. Open it. See the label inside? Weatherall, surprised. Very possibly. Do you not think it plausible that the English might want me dead? I made it plain to Madame Carroll that I favored a change of monarchy.

And Madame Carroll seemed to think that was enough for her Order. Perhaps not, though. Weatherall shook his head. Killing you risks destabilizing that.

Weatherall nodded. And of the doctor there has been no sight or sound since. The attempt on our lives has disappeared into history, like paupers swallowed up by the Paris fog. I want to hear songs and laughter from the kitchen again. I want an end to this contained sadness and I want my smile to be real, no longer masking a hurt that churns inside.

And more than all of that I want my mother back. My mother, my teacher, my mentor. Every moment of every day I wonder what life would be like without her and have no idea, no conception of life without her. I want her to get better. For how long did we have a normal, conventional relationship? Half an hour?

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I was at the Palace of Versailles with my father, who had business there. Her smile I would come to love later, her red hair nothing special to me then, and the beauty over which my adult eyes would later linger was invisible to my young eyes. And so it was with Elise.

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There was something different about her. She was a girl. Chase me. Her favorite game. How many times did we play it as children and as adults? In a way we never stopped. Even to me now the palace is huge, its ceilings impossibly tall, its halls stretching almost as far as the eye can see, huge arched windows looking out to the stone steps and sweeping grounds beyond.

But to me then? To me then it was impossibly vast. I wonder, had I already fallen in love? And then, just as I started to worry that I would never find my way back to Father, my concerns became irrelevant. A shout had gone up. There was the sound of rushing feet. I saw soldiers with muskets and, quite by chance, came upon the spot where he had met his killer and I knelt to him as he breathed his last. When at last I looked up from his lifeless body it was to see my savior, my new guardian: Francois de la Serre.

Like everyone else her demeanor changed when my father was around, and she curtsied and withdrew, leaving us alone.

I remembered that evening years ago when Mother and I had returned from Paris, survivors of a terrible attack in an alleyway, and how he had been unable to stop taking us in his arms.

Now, as he stood there looking more like a governor than a father, I would have given anything for one of those embraces. He turned and paced, hands clasped behind his back.

My fingers worked at the fabric of my smock.

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He cleared his throat. Just as your strength comforts our household it will one day be of benefit to the Order. His eyes were dark circles in the reflection of the glass. I knew why he found it difficult to look at me. It was because I reminded him of her. I reminded him of his dying wife. Your mother means the world to us both. And if there was a moment when I might have asked him why, if he knew my pain, did he spend so much of his time with Arno and not with me, then that was it.

Little else was said before he left. Sometime later I heard that he left to go hunting — with Arno. The physician arrives soon. He never brings good news. I knew that there were serious matters they wanted to discuss when Olivier was asked to withdraw, the door closed and Father bade me take a seat. I nodded enthusiastically, looking from one to the other. Obviously you take after your mother. I was forgotten.

For a second it was just Mother and Father in the room, being playful and flirting with one another.

And then, just as quickly as the moment had begun, it ended and the attention returned to me. Poor Ruth. With Arno on the estate not only did I have a playmate whenever I wanted one, but a boy playmate. Her dreams lay in ruins. I suppose, looking back, I had taken advantage of him rather. I loved besting him in pretend sword fights. During Mr. At other games — skipping, hopscotch, shuttlecock — we were evenly matched.

But I always won at sword fighting. When the weather was fine we roamed the grounds of the estate, spying on Emanuel and other grounds staff, skimming stones on the lake. When it rained we stayed indoors and played backgammon, marbles or jacks. We spun hoops through the great corridors of the ground floor and roamed the floors above, hiding from housemaids, running giggling when they shooed us away.

And that was how I spent my days: Even then, though I never would have articulated it as such, I knew that Arno represented my escape. And of course nobody had failed to notice how close Arno and I had become. Now I know how she might have felt. Yet it had never occurred to me that my friendship with Arno might be a cause for concern. Not until that very moment when I stood before them in the chamber and they told me they had something to say about him.

And a little bit of my world shook. The other of the Assassin doctor in the alleyway, his hat tall in the fog. My mind was racing. But does this mean Arno will want to kill me?

Arno is still your friend. Though his father, Charles Dorian, was an Assassin, Arno himself knew nothing of his destiny.

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No doubt he would have been told, in time, perhaps on his tenth birthday as we were planning to do with you. Simply the son of an Assassin. In many ways Arno is, was and always will be an Assassin. I felt myself coloring.

Was it so obvious? It is gratifying to see. Most encouraging. Perhaps we can save him from the clutches of his people. Let Arno be for me, nothing to do with the way we see the world, the way we want to shape the world. Let the bit of my life I share with Arno be free of all that. He pursed his lips, not especially liking this wall of resistance thrown up by his womenfolk.

A child of this house. He will be brought up according to the doctrines of the house. To put it bluntly, Elise, we need to get to him before the Assassins do.

If the Assassins reach him, they will bring him into the Order. He would not be able to resist. Not when the children are so young.

Do as you wish for the time being. We shall review the situation later. What will I do without her? To the rest of the house, she began to cease to exist. My morning routine stayed the same, spent with my governor, then in the woods at the edge of our grounds, learning sword fighting with Mr. I watched as he began to gravitate toward my father. My father and I were both trying to cope with the gradual loss of Mother, both finding different ways to do it. The laughter in my life gradually faded away.

I used to have a dream. In the fantasy I was sitting on the throne. I am sitting on the throne before my assembled subjects, who in the daydream have no identity but I suppose must be Templars. They are assembled before me, the Grand Master. Each day that she grows a little weaker and closer to death, and each day that he gravitates closer toward Arno, the impression of them at my side becomes more and more indistinct.

My shoulders shook as I began to sob. Be strong for me. I am being taken from you and you must see that as a test of your strength. You must be strong, not only for yourself, but also for your father.

My passing makes him vulnerable to the raised voices of the Order. You must be a voice in his other ear, Elise. You must press for the third way. And one day you will be the Grand Master, and you must lead the Order abiding by your own principles. The principles in which you believe. Her eyes were cloudy and the smile floated on her face. So much of it. In you, I see the best of your father and the best of me.

My hands gripped her upper arm through the sheets. Her so-thin upper arm through the sheets.

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As though by holding it I might prevent her soul departing. Her red hair was spread across the pillow. Her eyes fluttered. I rushed to the door, flung it open, called for one of the Maries to fetch Father, slammed the door shut again and returned to her side, but the end was coming quickly now, and as death settled over her she looked at me with watering eyes and the fondest smile I have ever seen.

When she was ill I wanted her back to full health. Now she is dead I just want her here. I just want her in the house. This morning I watched from my window as three carriages arrived on the gravel outside and valets lowered steps and began to load them with trunks. Shortly afterward the three Maries appeared and began giving each other kisses good-bye. They wore black and dabbed their eyes and of course they grieved for Mother but it was a temporary grief by necessity, because their work here was over, payment made, and they would go to tend to other dying women and feel the same passing sadness when that next appointment came to an end.

I tried not to think of their departure as being in indecent haste. I tried not to resent their leaving me alone with my grief. They were hardly alone in not knowing my depth of feeling. Mother had made Father promise not to observe the usual mourning rituals, and so the drapes of the lower floors stayed open and the furniture was not cloaked in black.

There were newer members of staff who had only known Mother briefly, or never met her at all. The Mother I remembered was beautiful and graceful and protective, but to them she was remote. She was a weak lady in bed, and a lot of households had one of those. Even more than the Maries their mourning was nothing more than a brief pang of sadness. And so the household carried on almost as though nothing had happened, just a few of us truly grieving, the few who had known and loved Mother as she was.

She curtsied, thanked me for my comfort and left. We were like two survivors of a great battle sharing memories with our eyes. She, I and Father were the only three remaining in the chateau who had tended to Mother as she lay dying.

She clasped me to her, pulling me into her bosom and rubbing my back as though trying to wind me. I feel nothing. Unable to stand the upper floors any longer, I left to wander the chateau, passing through the hallways like a ghost.

The corridor seemed too long between us. He was hopping from one foot to another. But that was it. He was probably missing Father, I reasoned, watching him go. Out timetables were ordered so that Arno should be with the governor while I trained with Mr.

Weatherall, so that he would never see me sword fighting. Perhaps in his own journal one day he will talk of signposts toward that moment when the penny dropped. Weatherall sat on a stump waiting for me. He had used to sit with his legs crossed and the tails of his jacket arranged over the stump, cutting quite a dash, and where before he had bounded from it to greet me, the light dancing in his eyes, a smile never far from his lips, now his head was bowed as though he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Beside him on the seat was a box about a foot and a half long, a hand wide.

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His eyes were heavy. His bottom lip trembled a little and for a horrible moment I wondered what I would do if Mr. Weatherall were to cry. Sure enough a short sword lay within. Its sheath was soft brown leather with white stitching along the sides, and the belt a leather strap designed for tying at the waist. The blade of the sword took the light; the steel was new, its handle bound tight with stained leather.

There by the hilt was an inscription. Love, Mother. I wished I could move forward to a time when the sword thrilled me. For now I felt nothing. There was a long pause.

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Neither of us had the heart for it. At the end, I mean. Ill Later, I was summoned to see Father and the two of us sat on a chaise longue in his darkened study, he with his arms around me, holding me tight. He had shaved, and outwardly was the same as he always was, but his words emerged slow and forced and brandy clouded his breath. I found myself almost envying his ability to touch the source of his pain. And I did. I let it out. And at last I began to cry. Extract from the Journal of Arno Dorian 12 September Guilt- stricken, I laid down her journal, overwhelmed by the pain that poured off the page.

Horribly aware of my own contribution to her misery Elise is right. To the selfish young boy I was, it was just something that prevented Francois and Elise from playing with me. An inconvenience that meant that until things returned to normal — and Elise was right, because of the house opting not to mourn, things did seem to get back to normal more quickly — I had to make my own entertainment. But I was only a little boy, just ten. Ah, but so was Elise, just ten.

And yet so far ahead of me in intelligence. She writes of our time with the governor, but how he must have groaned when it was my turn to be taught. Or so it seems to me reading these pages. The little girl I knew was just a little girl, full of fun and mischief and yes, like a sister, inventing all the best games, being handy with the excuses when we were caught out of bounds or stealing food from the kitchen or in doing whatever other japes she had planned for the day.

Little wonder, then, that when Elise was sent to the Maison Royale de Saint-Louis school at Saint- Cyr in order to complete her education she ran into trouble. Neither of those two opposing sides of her personality were suitable for school life, and predictably she hated the Maison Royale. Hated it. Though it was just under thirty kilometers away from Versailles, she might as well have been in a different country for all the distance she felt between her new life and her old. In her letters she referred to it as Le Palais de la Misere.

Visits home were restricted to three weeks in the summer and a few days at Christmas, while the rest of her year was spent submitting to the regimes of the Maison Royale.

Elise was not one for regimes. Not unless they suited her. The regime of learning sword with Mr. She hated the restrictions of school life. So in her journal there is entry after entry of Elise in trouble at school. The entries themselves become repetitive. Years and years of unhappiness and frustration. The way things worked at the school was that the girls were split into groups, each with a head pupil. Of course Elise had clashed with the head of her group, Valerie, and the two had fought.

Time and time again, Elise was brought before the hated headmistress, Madame Levene, asked to explain herself, then punished. And time and time again she would respond with insolence and her insolence would make the situation worse and the severity of the punishments was increased. And the more the punishments were increased the more rebellious Elise became, and the more rebellious Elise became the more she was brought before the headmistress and the more insolent she was and the more the punishments were increased.

I, an orphan, had never been sent letters before, and the novelty of receiving them from Elise never faded. And of course she wrote of her hatred for school, but the correspondence lacked the detail of her journal, from which pulsed the scorn and contempt Elise felt for other pupils, for the teachers and for the hated headmistress, Madame Levene. The king had apparently stood on the terraces at Versailles to enjoy the huge display, but even so it was not enough to cheer Elise. Instead, her journal was filled with a sense of injustice and of Elise at odds with the world around her — page after page and year after year of my love failing to see the vicious circle into which she was locked.

It was mourning. And reading on, I began to discover that there was something else she had wit hhe ld from me.

With the window behind her offering a sweeping view of the school grounds that even I had to admit was stunning, she sat with her hands clasped on the desk in front of her, watching with a thin smile as Father and I sat in chairs on the other side of the desk, the awkward Father and his rebellious daughter.

He looked old and tired and I could imagine the chattering Crows at his shoulder, constantly badgering him — do this, do that — while to add to his woe his errant daughter was the subject of irate letters home, Madame Levene detailing my shortcomings at great length.

The king authorized the building of a wall around Paris. He has tried to increase taxes but the parlement in Paris supported the nobles who defied him. Our stout and resolute king panicked, withdrew the taxes and there were demonstrations of celebration. Soldiers ordered to fire into the demonstrators refused to do so.

He nodded. Perhaps they hope that the man on the street will be grateful, pass a vote of thanks and return home. I fear that once the workingman has the bit between his teeth, once he has a taste for the power — the potential power of the mob — then he will not be content merely with the withdrawal of some new tax laws.

I think we may find a lifetime of frustration flooding out of these people, Elise. Of the controller-general of finances?

He has been forced to leave the country. Other ministers have followed. There will be unrest, Elise, you mark my words. A lady. And you should be behaving like one.

All it did was make me feel like a pretend-lady. When I felt like a real woman was after school, when I discarded the hated bone-stiff dress, unpinned my hair and let it drop to where it met my newly acquired bosom. When I gazed into the looking glass and saw my mother staring back at me. Then with a deep breath he turned to the headmistress. He drummed his fingers on the leg of his breeches. You know exactly what I mean. Before you came away to school we agreed that the time was right to adopt Arno into our family.

In response I gave him my most beatific, innocent look. His eyes grew affectionate as we shared the moment. He was more measured when he spoke. Simply to say that if you continue to fail to abide by them, then I shall have to take matters into my own hands. It was the moment I came closest to simply bursting out laughing. Bring him into the fold. My heart grew heavy at the thought — the thought of somehow losing Arno. Yet it was do that or have Father do it himself.

There and then I decided that, for him, I would improve. I would do right by him. Be the daughter he deserved. Not only had I neglected to persuade Arno of the joys of converting to the Templar cause a situation at least partly informed by me disloyally wondering if in fact there were any joys in converting to the Templar cause , my behavior at the Maison Royale had failed to improve.

It had really failed to improve. It had got a lot worse. Why, only yesterday Madame Levene called me into her office, the third time in as many weeks. How many times had I made the trip across the years? And I had learned to anticipate the swish of the cane. Even welcome it. Not to blink when the cane left its brand upon my skin. It was just as I expected this time, more repercussions from a fight with Valerie, who as well as being our group leader was also the star drama pupil when it came to productions by Racine and Corneille.

Take my advice, dear reader, and never pick an actress as an adversary. They are so terribly dramatic about everything. Or, as Mr. It had happened while I was supposedly on probation for an act of minor revolt at dinner the month before, which is nothing worth going into here.

The point was that the headmistress claimed to be at the end of her tether. Quite enough young lady. Except, this time, I was pretty sure it was more than just talk. Do your worst, Levene; do your worst, Father. Now, however, I switched to looking at Madame Levene, her pinched, pruny face, her eyes like stones behind her spectacles.

And from what I read in the letter, this emissary has been given the task of beating some sense into you. My father was sending an emissary. Perhaps he planned to isolate me, I thought, suddenly realizing how horrific I found the idea. My father, one of only three people in the world I truly loved and trusted, simply shutting me out. There was another circle of hell into which I could be cast.

Madame Levene gloated. It appears that your father is too busy to attend to this matter himself. He must send an emissary in his place. Perhaps, Elise, you are not as important to him as you might imagine.

Those stony eyes glittered. I had stayed out of trouble the week prior to his arrival. According to the other girls I was quieter than usual. Actually, what I was doing was readying myself, mentally and physically. The emissary would be expecting meek acquiescence. He would be expecting a frightened teenager, terrified of expulsion and happy to take any other punishment.

The emissary was expecting tears and contrition. I was summoned to the office, told to wait, and wait I did. It had never brought me any luck. Now was its chance. But first, you shall write to him a letter of abject apology. And when that is done I shall administer your punishment, which you may expect to be the most severe you have ever experienced.

Then he pulled up a chair, put his elbows to the surface of the desk and, whispering, we began to talk. He chortled softly. After all, you were expecting to have seven shades of shit knocked out of you. Not the reaction I wanted. Your education — delayed. Your induction — delayed. Your ascendance to Grand Master — delayed.

Exactly what would that path have achieved, eh? And the family name, come to that. So why are you so intent on dragging it through the mud? Why are you seeing to it that you never get as far as Grand Master? Most able pupil I ever had, but also the most impulsive. Bit too full of herself. How would I manage that? So you could sneak away every now and then instead of always being the center of attention. The sword given to you by your mother was for exactly that purpose.

Nothing could be further from the truth. Every single one of them would like to end the reign of de la Serre and make it so their family name carries the title Grand Master. Every single one of them is looking for reasons to depose your father and snatch the title for himself. Their policies differ from those of your father, remember? He hangs on to their confidence by a thread. Having an errant daughter is the last thing he bloody needs.

No doubt Madame Levene had her ear pressed hard against it, and it was for her benefit that Mr. I could smell wine on his breath. Been trying to get back in ever since. Likes a wager by the sounds of things. Weatherall shot me an impressed look. Could be that killing your mother would have brought him even greater disgrace. To me this sounds as though he was offering his services to the highest bidder, trying to clear those gambling debts.

I reckon our friend Ruddock was working as a sword for hire. He would have been around when you were a child. He had some dodgy ideas and your father turfed him out of the Order. The idea was too far-fetched. Weatherall continued. With her out of the way. There might be people within our own organization who wished us wrong. I had to find out — I had to find out either way. And also. There are some similarities between me and Mr. Well, I could say the same of you, pissing away the last of your education, making enemies when you should be forging connections and contacts.

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