Malik knows about her long before she comes to Masyaf, and he’s still furious when Altaïr brings her through the gates. He has no right to be, cannot even claim to have been caught off-guard or betrayed. He knew this was coming, and he is all the more furious with himself for still being upset.
Being assigned to clean out Al Mualim’s books with her does nothing to help. She works quietly and efficiently, and Malik fumes in the silence between them, seethes at being made to guard Altaïr’s new wife. How insulting, belittling — to be turned nursemaid to his own replacement. He may never have given voice to his feelings, but even Altaïr was not that blind. He had to know the cruelty of this action, this request.
“I’m not your competition, you know.”
He sits down the book in hand, an old French dictionary, and turns to the next.
“I do not know what you speak of,” he replies, short.
“For Altaïr’s love,” Maria says.
“Altaïr is our leader and one of my oldest friends,” he says by rote. A ledger, he adds it to the stack in need of further study. “I know you are new here, but competing for the Grandmaster’s love is idiotic.”
Especially when you’ve already won, he doesn’t add. Whatever Maria’s aim, it seems in poor form. So much for grace in victory.
“Malik, please tell me you are just being an ass and aren’t actually that blind.”
He looks up, irritated, to find Maria leaning against the desk with a book forgotten in her hands. She wears the grey uniform of a novice but holds herself with the sure confidence of a knight. In the month since she arrived, he’s never spoken directly with her. She haunts Altaïr’s shadow and says little. He wouldn’t call her shy but hawk-like, taking in everything before making a move. Al Mualim would have liked her, he thinks when he’s feeling ungracious. It’s more often than ever now.
“You can’t believe me ignorant of your feelings,” she says. “I’d have been killed long before now if I were that oblivious.”
Malik turns back to the books, stiff.
“Whatever you think you’ve seen is only the work of your imagination,” he snaps.
“And Altaïr’s, too?”
Now, he freezes. He knew? He knew and he told her? Venom rises in his veins, all that hurt and anger coiling tight and snake-like. Before he can strike, she speaks again.
“He’s never said anything. In truth, he seems oblivious to attentions from anyone.” There’s a note of irritation in her tone that piques Malik’s curiosity. “It’s not in his words but his voice, his actions. The way he talked about you even before I came here — it was not only the love of a brother.”
Swallowing, Malik feels his hackles fall and anger ebb. His gaze drops to the book in his lap, but he doesn’t see the words.
“I guess I’m just saying we needn’t be enemies,” she says. “I’m not here to steal him from you.”
In the face of her kindness, guilt spreads in his belly. Shame at his own behavior crawls across his chest.
“There is nothing to steal,” he admits. “We have never even lain together.”
Relationships like that weren’t condemned in the brotherhood, but relationships at all weren’t celebrated. Altaïr, for his part, has never seemed inclined to expend much effort in that arena except for Adha — and now, Maria.
“Nor have we.”
He looks up in surprise, and she gives a shrug.
“He seems far more interested in philosophy than matters of the flesh,” she says, dry.
Despite himself, despite everything, Malik breathes out a laugh. That does sound like Altaïr.
“I suppose some things never change,” he admits.
He can’t count the nights Altaïr has kept him awake over the years discussing philosophy and theories that would send Malik straight to sleep if it weren’t Altaïr going on about them. He has always had an outsized claim to Malik’s attention.
“Perhaps together, we might have a better chance,” he says, offers.
A small smile curls her lips, the first he’s seen since she came here.
“You mean between the two of us we might find some way through his dense skull?” she asks, dry.
“I confess, short of sitting him down and laying it all out for him, I’m not sure there’s another route,” Malik admits.
Twenty-odd years of subtlety certainly haven’t done the trick. If he ever thought Altaïr would pick up on a hint, that hope is surely vanquished now.
“I was going to suggest we just lay naked on his bed and wait for him to come in,” Maria remarks.
A laugh bursts out of Malik, rusty and surprised. Her smile turns to a grin, still contained but a little brighter now. It wrinkles by the corners of her eyes, slipping out of the polite and cool to something more honest and genuine.
“Knowing Altaïr, he would likely think we were only overwarm and trying to cool down,” Malik rejoins.
Maria’s nose wrinkles, and she tilts her head up as if in despair. She bites at her bottom lip as she looks back down, shaking her head slightly.
“We certainly have some kind of taste,” she says.
“Perhaps we’ve had too many hits to the head after all,” Malik agrees.
Canting her head, Maria doesn’t dispute it. The books around them are long forgotten, the task put aside for the moment.
“I can only imagine how it’s been for you to deal with this for years,” she says.
Malik shrugs, leaning back on his hand.
“I admit I was irked when he assigned us to this task together,” he says.
“Ugh, it’s odious,” Maria groans, gesturing to the books stacked across the room. “I’d rather muck out all the stables than go through another round.”
The complaint surprises Malik, enough that his lips quirk up in a small smile. He’s always been diligent, dedicated to his work — but he was once a child in these halls. When they weren’t studying or sparring, he and Altaïr found plenty of spots to run off to. Setting the last book to the side, he pushes himself off the floor and stands to offer his hand to Maria.
“It may lack the ambience of horse manure, but I know a spot with the best view of the valley,” he offers.
Canting her head, Maria studies him briefly with those sharp eyes before the corners of her lips curl up and she sets the book back on the desk. She takes his hand and lets him lead as they turn to Masyaf together.
