A Dark Champion (16 page)

“He apologized,” Rowena said. She was still unable to believe he had done such. It seemed completely out of character for him.

“For?”

“Being rude to me yesterday when I asked him not to fight Stryder.”

Zenobia looked as surprised as she felt. “How unlike him to apologize for anything.”

Rowena frowned at her. “Do you know him?”

Zenobia looked away guiltily.

“What?” she asked as a wave of trepidation came
over her. There was something sinister in the way Zenobia looked about.

“I know many things about those my father held in his prison, and it shames me to no end,” she whispered. “Not so much the stories the Brotherhood tells, which are bad enough, but the ones I heard from my father’s men, who oft bragged over their cruelty to the ones they ‘guarded.’”

Rowena touched her arm in sympathy. “Is that why you helped them escape?”

Zenobia nodded. “My father forgot that my mother’s people were different from his. We are not ornaments to sit quietly at a man’s side, especially when we see injustice. The Ayasheen are descended from the Amazons. It is our birthright and duty to fight, and I can still hear my mother’s voice in my ear that no one should be deprived of their dignity. Her people believed that enemies should either be respected or executed. If you execute them, then they worry you no more. If you allow them to withdraw with dignity, then they will do so. But when an enemy is held down and made to suffer continuously, sooner or later he will strike out, and woe to you when he does. For there is no more fearsome a power than that of long-festered vengeance.”

Rowena nodded. “Your mother was very wise.”

“Aye, she was indeed. You remind me a lot of her.”

She was surprised by Zenobia’s comparison. “Me?”

“Mmm. My mother used to call me
Karima
. It means ‘little monkey’ in her language. She would say that I run about and shriek, throwing things and aggravating others until I get my way. She was quiet and
steady, like an unmovable wall, firm in her resolve and confident with herself.”

Rowena smiled at her. “That sounds much better than ‘stubborn as an ass,’ which is what my uncle calls me.”

Zenobia laughed at that. “Stubborn is only wrong when it causes you to act against your best interest.”

“How so?”

“Remember I told you of the man I love?”

“Aye.”

“’Tis his stubbornness that keeps him from me. Rather than accept what I offer him, he travels the world forever seeking a peace that will never come to him. Sometimes what we want and what we need aren’t compatible.”

“What are you saying?”

“If Stryder wins this troubadour contest and you are given your choice of husband, who will you choose?”

That was easy enough to answer. “I will choose my freedom, of course—at least for as long as Henry will allow it.”

“Because you need it or because you want it?”

Rowena looked away as truth struck her. “Neither. I will choose it because the man I want is much like yours. He won’t stay with me and should I force him to it, he will resent me for it. Better I should grow old alone than married to a man who will only learn to hate me for binding him to me against his will.”

To her surprise, Zenobia laughed again. “You are my mother,
patrulla
.” She took her arm and led her toward the stairs. “Come with me, Lady Rowena. I lost
the man I love, but you…you have me, and together let us see what we can do with yours.”

“Do you think we can win him over?”

Zenobia let out a long, measured breath. “All we can do is try.”

S
tryder walked through the tournament field of knights feeling much like a leper at banquet. The morning’s battle might have acquitted him in the eyes of the law, but in the eyes of everyone else, he was a murderer.

Whispers of gossipmongers, both male and female, followed him everywhere he went. There were no ladies mobbing him. For once he could probably strip himself bare and no woman would dare come near.

Perhaps murder did have some advantages….

Sighing, he saw his brother sitting underneath a tree, alone, plucking at his lute while he made notes on a piece of vellum.

Stryder made his way over to him.

Dressed in his orange and red clothes, Kit looked
up as Stryder’s shadow fell across him. “’Tis a dismal feeling, isn’t it?” Kit asked as Stryder paused by his side.

“What is?”

“Not belonging. Having other people judge you for what they believe you are and not for what you really are.” Kit gave him a wry smile. “Too bad you have no older brother to go and thrash them for you. I would offer my services, but they only laugh at me whenever I try to defend myself or someone else.”

Damien’s words came back to him as Stryder squatted by Kit’s notes. “Has it always been that way with you?”

Kit looked away from him.

“Kit?” Stryder asked, drawing his brother’s attention back to him. “Where were you when I went to Michael to find you? He said he had thrown you to your own means when you returned. Where had you been?”

“Nowhere.”

“Kit…”

His brother looked aggravated by the inquisition. “Take not that tone with me, Stryder. I’m not one of your men to quake in terror of it. I happen to know you would never hurt me.”

Nay, he would not. Ever. But he wanted answers to this. If Kit were in fact Aquarius…

“Why won’t you trust me?” Stryder tried again, this time more calmly. “After these last few years together, I still know very little about you.”

“You know enough.” Kit’s gaze locked with his. “You are the only brother I have ever known. The only
family, for that matter. And until the night you saved me in Canterbury, I never knew what it was like to belong anywhere. For that I thank you, and I would never betray you or any you hold dear.”

Those words were so odd….

Stryder offered him a brotherly smile of affection. “I regret the years I wasn’t there for you, runt. I wish you’d never known a day of sadness.”

“I know.” Kit looked back at his paper.

Stryder paused to watch three men walk by, men who glared maliciously at him and Kit.

He rose to his feet and the men immediately quickened their steps.

“I envy you that power,” Kit said quietly as Stryder looked back at him. “What I wouldn’t give to make people tremble in fear of my displeasure.”

“Then why don’t you train as a knight? I would teach you everything I know.”

Kit scoffed at that. “I’m frail. Too thin. More woman than man.”

Stryder beat back the anger those words evoked. “Raven is thinner than you are and younger than you to match, and yet he wins more fights than he loses. And you most definitely are not more woman than man.”

Kit locked gazes with him. His brother’s eyes were piercing. Searching. That intense stare made something inside Stryder almost cringe. “And if I told you I was attracted to other men, what would you say?”

“Nothing,” Stryder answered honestly and with conviction. “I know that for the lie it is. Not that it would matter to me even if you were. We are brothers,
you and I. Nothing changes that. Ever. Wherever I am, you are always welcome and I will kill any who says otherwise.”

Kit’s eyes teared as he looked away.

Stryder knelt beside him again. “Kit?”

Kit glanced back at him as a single tear fled down his cheek. “Why is it only you and Rowena who have ever seen that truth in me? No woman will look at me unless she’s trying to use me to get to you. Why is that?”

“I know not. Any more than I can understand why they misjudge me now. But you know something? I care not what these fools think. Do you?”

He saw the indecision on his brother’s face.

“Kit…”

“I’m considering it.”

Shaking his head, Stryder rose to his feet and held his hand out to his brother. Kit took his hand with a strong grip. Stryder hauled him to his feet.

He inclined his head toward the list. “Come, little brother. There is something I would show you.”

Kit followed after him without question.

“You know, Kit, the best way to make a maid crave you is skill with a sword.”

Kit arched an amused brow at him.

Stryder shook his head as he understood that look. “There was no double entendre intended,” Stryder said with a dark laugh.

He left Kit standing at one end of the list and went to pull two throwing daggers out of a straw dummy. Returning to his brother’s side, he handed one over.

“It takes a light touch, but…” Stryder let fly the
dagger, which landed just below where a man’s heart would be. “’Tis rather easy once you practice a bit. You think you can do that?”

Kit raised the dagger and barely looked at the dummy. He threw it fast and hit the straw-filled knight straight between the eyes.

Dumbstruck, Stryder stared at the knife. As did every knight on the field.

“Beginner’s luck,” Kit said nonchalantly.

Again Damien’s accusation ran in Stryder’s head.

Was it possible?

Stryder looked at the knife, then at his brother. “Are you sure there’s nothing you wish to tell me?”

“Nay.”

Still suspicious, Stryder watched as Kit turned and went to retrieve his lute and paper. His brother might dismiss what had just happened, but Stryder knew better. It took a lot of practice and skill to throw a dagger like that.

A lot.

When and where would Kit have learned such? And what other skills had his brother acquired that he knew nothing about?

Late that afternoon, Rowena sat in the great hall with her lute in her lap as she sang to a very small group of troubadours, mostly women, and a few men who sought to curry her uncle’s favor. Other ladies, mostly those who had young sons they didn’t wish to see die in battle, had come to hear her. They alone seemed to agree with her viewpoints against war.

At least no one was mocking her.

Oddly enough, there were two of her own ladies-in-waiting missing—Elizabeth and Bridget. She assumed they were both off with some man who had caught their fancy.

It was very typical of both of them, and it was something she would never hold against either one. She loved her friends too dearly for that.

Everyone was being respectful and attentive until the door behind her that led to a back hallway opened. There was a collective gasp and frown from the group before several heads went together and whispers instantly began.

Rowena turned to see what had so captured their attention. Behind her, she found Damien and three of his men entering the hall. It was something unheard of.

Damien pulled up short as he realized he was the center of everyone’s attention. “Forgive me,” he said quietly to Rowena. “I was hoping not to interrupt you.”

“Think nothing of it, milord. I can—”

“Please, Rowena, play. It is, after all, why I came here this day. I wish to hear your songs.”

To her utter astonishment, he and his men took seats off to the side, in the back of the small crowd.

Suddenly unsure of herself and completely self-conscious of the fact that Damien was staring at her with eyes she couldn’t see, she began her song anew and tried her best to ignore a man whose very presence set her ill at ease. Indeed, she could feel the weight of his steely gaze on her as if it were a touch. It unnerved her greatly.

There was something extremely disconcerting
about Damien, and it wasn’t just the fact that she had no idea what the man looked like. It was as if darkness itself was cloaked around him.

Rowena sang three more songs to finish her recital. Her audience, including Damien, applauded graciously. She curtsied to them and as she righted herself, a sudden movement on the gallery high above the hall caught her attention.

Looking up, she was startled as she met the deep blue stare of Stryder, who stood watching her.

He offered her a warm smile before he stepped back, out of her line of sight.

Her heart leapt at the thought of him being here to hear her when she knew how much he hated such things.

Without thinking twice, she set her lute aside and made for the spiral stairs. Several people tried to stop her, but she quickly excused herself and rushed upstairs.

She ran down the long hallway where he must have escaped. Where could he be? The only way to leave the hall was down the stairs she had flown up.

Yet there was no sight of him anywhere. Had her eyes deceived her?

“Stryder?”

She started past a door when she heard his quiet response. “I’m here, Rowena.”

She stopped and turned to see him stepping out of the shadows. It was so good to see him upright and dressed.

Before she could stop herself, she threw herself into his arms and kissed him soundly.

Stryder growled at the taste of her. At the heated demands of her tongue dancing with his. She tasted of warmth and softness. Of hope.

Most of all, she tasted of Rowena and her unique femininity.

He cupped her face and drank his fill of her lips, letting the hands that skimmed his back take him away from the doubts and fears in his mind.

She pulled back slowly. “Why did you come after you said we should keep our distance?”

“I didn’t think you would see me.”

“But you saw me?”

“Aye.” He cupped her cheek with his warm hand. “You’re a very talented lady.”

“You hate talented women.”

“I don’t hate you.”

She covered his hand with hers and kissed his palm. “You’re not helping me to put distance between us.”

“I know. You’re like a siren luring me.”

“Perhaps we should have your men lash you to a mast?”

He laughed at her reference to Odysseus, who had sailed his ship safely through the sirens’ lair only because his crewman had tied him down. “Best get Swan to do it. He’d make sure the ropes held. I’m not so sure about the others.”

She smiled at that. “And where is your motley band of friends?”

“Scattered to the ends of the county looking for clues.”

“Rowena!”

They both turned to see Joanne at the top of the
stairs. Her face was pale, her eyes filled with tears as she rushed toward them.

“What’s wrong?” Rowena asked, terrified of what had her friend so distraught.

Tears fell down her cheeks. “’Tis Elizabeth. She’s dead.”