The Dark Knight

The Tower of London housed many royal secrets. The chamber above the dungeons held a carefully guarded one.

A narrow shaft of sunlight streamed in through an arrow loop in one wall, creating more shadows than light in the cavernous room. There, in a place few men entered willingly, a man dressed in long, dark robes stood before a row of dusty shelves. Searching for something, he moved into the light. The brightness made his blond hair appear an angelic halo of curls, a disarming contrast to the inky darkness of his robes that shifted and flowed around him like a living thing; at once bloodred, then black, then the deep blue color of midnight. He leaned closer to the cluttered shelves, pushed aside a dried frog and a stack of parchment scrolls to lift a tarnished metal chest.

“The signs are favorable, Sefu,” Mordecai told the black cat who sat staring at him from the sun-warmed flagstones. He walked toward a scarred wooden table
with the chest cradled in the crook of his arm, polishing the lid with the wide cuff of his sleeve. Beneath thick layers of grime and tarnish, the metal began to gleam the color of bright silver and he caught the faint scent of cedar. His fingers traced intricate etchings of moons and stars. “Fate may be my master, but I shall soon wield the power of destiny. Our visitor will arrive by nightfall. He will prove the truth of my words.”

“Your visitor has already arrived.”

The soft, lethal voice startled Mordecai and the box clattered onto the table. He glanced first at the cat, then toward the deepest shadows of the room where the figure of a gray-clad man emerged like smoke from mist. There was only one man who could catch him so off guard, so unaware of another’s presence.

Recovering his composure, he picked up the box to make sure it wasn’t damaged, then greeted his visitor with a genuine smile. “You will forgive my clumsiness, I trust? I did not expect to see a creature of night before the sun set.”

The shadowy figure continued toward him. “I am what you have made of me, Mordecai; a creature of nightmares.”

There was no arguing with the truth and Mordecai inclined his head to acknowledge as much. Many men would consider this the worst sort of nightmare, coming face-to-face with a man most often referred to simply as “The Assassin.” Few lived to tell of such a meeting, but Mordecai was not afraid. If anything, he felt a certain measure of pride in his creation.

The man who stood before him bore little resemblance to the angry, frightened boy who had appeared on his doorstep all those years ago. Even then, Dante Chiavari had claimed only one purpose in life: to destroy the man who had murdered his parents and stolen his birthright.
It was Mordecai who had decided that the best way to serve justice to one monster was to create another.

Dante had proven himself an apt pupil. He had learned how to study his prey, how to memorize every habit and routine to find the weakness that would prove fatal. Moreover, he had honed an expert’s knowledge of every substance that could kill or debilitate, along with the precise formulas required to accomplish either goal. But poisons were not the only way to kill. Long hours of practice had turned Dante’s natural talent with blades into another deadly skill. He had earned the right to be feared.

Even more effective than Dante’s sudden, silent arrival at the Tower was his appearance. The color of his garments blended well with the shadows, but not well enough to conceal their unusual style. He wore the garb of a Muslim warrior, an infidel transported from the Holy Lands to the cold shores of England.

Although it was an odd choice of garments for an Italian nobleman, for a man of his profession it was practical. The loose, flowing djellaba concealed many weapons of his trade, with only the ebony handle of a dagger revealed above the sash around his waist. The length of fabric drawn down from his headdress was fashioned to protect a desert dweller from the sun and sands, but served equally well as a disguise. All Mordecai could see of his face were eyes the color of emeralds; a cold, glittering color that reflected nothing of his soul.

A card appeared in The Assassin’s hand, made of stiff parchment and illuminated with a painting that depicted a magician in long robes with one hand reaching toward the heavens and the other resting on a scarred wooden table. The face of the magician was an unmistakable portrait of Mordecai.

“I am curious to know why you have summoned me
to your lair,” Dante said, as he tossed the card onto the table. “We were not to meet again until I returned from Venice. Are there new developments?”

Mordecai bit back a hasty retort. He reminded himself that Dante was unlike any other mercenary in King Edward’s hire or any apprentice he had trained before or since. He remained silent while Dante drew the scarf away from his face.

There was a rumor at court that only dead men had laid eyes on The Assassin’s face. An exaggeration, of course, since there were a few at court who were familiar with the Italian exile named Dante Chiavari, but only a handful of people knew that the exile and The Assassin were one and the same. Even in his guise as an exile, people tended to avoid him. When Dante turned his full attention on someone, there was a dark intensity to his character, an almost visible force that made people nervous. Still, he had long ago mastered the art of disguising his true nature as well as his face. Few would believe how easily he could blend into a crowd when he put his mind to it, especially since most people would say his face was one that they would remember.

Dark stubble covered the line of his jaw while deep brackets framed a hard, unyielding mouth. The profile of his face followed Roman lines more than his Venetian ancestry, and he had the look of a man who never laughed and rarely smiled. The business of death was hardly a laughing matter, so the lack of humor in such a man was no surprise. Judged separately there was nothing remarkable about his features, yet somehow they combined with those unusual green eyes to create a darkly handsome face.

More unsettling was the look in his eyes as his gaze slid away to survey the chamber. A predator was always wary of his surroundings, watching for unexpected dangers,
constantly calculating distances and defenses. And like all predators, there were no ghostly shadows lurking in his hooded eyes, no demons of guilt. He was exactly what Mordecai had set out to make all those years ago: a killer without regrets, one who killed simply to survive in his world. What stood before him exceeded all of Mordecai’s expectations.

“Everything is in readiness for your trip to Venice?” he ventured.

“Do you really have to ask?” Dante moved to one of the arrow slits cut through the thick walls and glanced out at the sky, then turned to face Mordecai again. He leaned his shoulder against the wall and looked deceptively relaxed now that he did not have to watch his back. “Everything is proceeding as planned and we leave on the morning tide, as I am sure you already know.”

“Then nothing has changed to affect your plans in Venice,” Mordecai said. “Your petitions will be held until the Council completes an investigation into the murders, but they will revisit the issue soon enough. Once everyone is free of Lorenzo’s blackmail, the restoration of your name and birthright will be in everyone’s best interests. Still, once you return to England, it will take months for the Doge to recall you from exile, months in which you must be seen in public here to dispel the notion that you have set foot in Venice anytime in the last decade. Have you given thought to what you will do in the months you are waiting for the Council’s ruling?”

“I have given thought to what I will not do.” Dante folded his arms across his chest, a clear sign that he suspected what was coming and didn’t plan to go along with it. “There is nothing the king could offer that would tempt me. I am done with that life.”

“That life is not quite done with you.” Mordecai held up one hand. “Nay, do not argue just yet. There is good reason that you should listen to what I have to say.”