The tears dropped from his face onto the toe of the priest’s shoe. A moment later the priest raised his foot and touched the tearstained toe to the tip of the dagger. It lay almost parallel to the sword, but the priest nudged it slowly until it sat crosswise so that the dagger formed the bar of a cross. Or the hilt of a sword. How often Sir Guy had noticed how similar cross and sword were to one another.

“Look at me.”

Sir Guy raised his eyes and saw that the priest was smiling. It was not a nice smile. It was like looking at a snake smile, and as his seamed faced wrinkled with the smile, the priest’s eyes once more seemed to be as much green as brown. Like the mottled skin of a toad.

“Swear to me, Guy LaRoque, knight of the Sacred Order of Hospitallers. Swear that you will live according to this agreement, now and for all of the days of your life. Swear that you will do everything in your power—everything that your faith and your imagination and your will demands—to insure that the substance of this agreement comes to pass. Swear that to me, now, on your knees, before God.”

Sir Guy bent forward and caught a fold of the priest’s robe and kissed the hem. “I swear,” he said, the words as much a vow as a plea. “I swear before God, to the end of the world and the redemption of my sinner’s soul … I swear.”

“Then rise, Sir Guy LaRoque, knight of the holy Hospital of Jerusalem, protector of the Holy Land, soldier of God. I bless you and sanctify this Holy Agreement and all of its precious secrets. I bless it and God blesses it. Amen.”

Sir Guy wept and kissed the priest’s hem again before he climbed to his feet. “Thank you, Father. Thank you!”

The priest waved away the gratitude and the tears.

“What do you call this crusade of yours—of ours—my son?”

“In truth I have not yet thought of a fitting title. Ibrahim has already given his order a special name. The Tariqa. It is the Sufi word for ‘the path.’ He will be its first Murshid, its first guide along that path.”

The old priest nodded. “We will have to do the same, for you know that you cannot use the name of the Sacred Order of Hospitallers for this cause.”

“I confess that I’ve come up dry on that and—”

“Ordo Ruber,” said the priest.

“Father?”

“The Red Order. We are born in the blood of Christ, are we not? And it is the blood of sacrifices and martyrs that shall sanctify our cause.”

Sir Guy murmured the name, feeling how the words and all of their many possible meanings fit in his mouth. “Yes,” he said. “That is perfect. The Red Order.”