Page 29 of The Champion

We all did not go home.

We all did not survive.

Death to the Brotherhood. May you all burn in the fires of Lucifer’s deepest pit.

At the bottom, stamped in blood was a symbol she had seen just this morning while Stryder had stood naked before her...

Stryder was washing the sleep from his face when he heard someone enter his tent without preamble.

He spun to catch the culprit only to have them dodge and move quickly away, out of his grasp.

“‘Tis only I,” a soft, feminine voice said.

Stryder growled low in his throat. “Can I not be free of you this morn?” he groused as he turned to face Rowena. Though to be honest, he did feel a bit of growing respect for the lady who had outmaneuvered him.

She straightened with a haughty stare at him. Instead of making one of her infamous remarks, she closed the distance between them and took his right hand into hers.

A small chill stole up his spine at the way she caressed the brand on the back of his hand. As always, the sight of that mark made his stomach shrink. hHis anger snap.

“What is this from?” she asked quietly.

“It’s nothing,” he said, trying to pull his hand away.

She wouldn’t release it. “Why does this make you angry?”

“Rowena–“

She didn’t take the warning. Her fingers brushed over the raised skin where the Saracens had seared their mark of a scimitar and moon on his flesh. He’d been only ten-and-five when they had branded him. Even after all these years, he could recall the pain of the wound. The degradation.

“Is this part of the Brotherhood of the Sword?”

He tensed at her question. “What do you know of the Brotherhood?”

“I travel with minstrels, milord. There are whispers of a group of men who were once prisoners in the Holy Land. Men who saved others and brought them home. Noble and decent men who still fight to bring more home and see them safely to the bosoms of their families.”

Pain racked Stryder, but his anger overshadowed that. No one was supposed to know of them. “Where have you heard this?”

“I told you, there are many who sing of such tales. The stories started about two years ago and no one is certain who began them. The words and music show up anonymously at various tournaments where we gather, lauding the virtues and bravery of the Brotherhood’s members.” She narrowed her gaze on him as if she could read his very mind. “You are one of them, aren’t you?”

Stryder had been hiding for so long that he couldn’t bring himself to admit it to her. “Release me.”

To his relief, she did. “‘They travel through the night on the wings of heavenly stallions bringing hope and new faith to those left behind. Even though they are free, they never forget their past and spend their lives trying to bring peace to others.’”

He frowned at her words. “What is that you quote?”

“One of the chansons that is written about the Brotherhood.” She held the note out to Stryder. “This was on the ground just outside of Cyril’s tent. I find it hard to believe that he was a member of your Brotherhood, but you...”

Stryder stared at the paper. He could read none of it, but he could see the bloody symbol. It was the same as the one on his hand. “What does this say?”

“Can you not read Arabic?”

“I can’t read anything, Rowena.”

He expected to see condemnation from her for his “uneducated” status. Instead, she merely nodded and then read the note for him.

Stryder’s gaze darkened. “Are you sure this came from his tent?”

“Aye. It looked as if it had been blown free of wherever it had been placed.” Her brow puckered. “What does the person mean that not everyone survived or went home?”