The Staff and the Blade

by Elizabeth Hunter

  Damien scowled. “Why would anyone choose to do that?”

  “Personal goals. Family obligations. There are any number of very good reasons.”

  Disastrous woman. He craned his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of her in the fields. “I’ll make her see it. I’ve lived alone too long.”

  “Yes, you have,” Henry said. “But she is young. Many singers do not want the obligations of family and mate so early in life.”

  Damien turned back to his friend. “You asked me why I know it is her.”

  “Yes.”

  “Because she is my equal.”

  “…may you be blessed to find a mate as warlike as yourself…”

  The words, spoken almost three hundred years before, came back to him. His equal. That was what his soul was looking for. A woman with the spirit to stand at his side. Not follow him, but stand beside him and fight as long and as hard as he would.

  “Damien.” Henry dropped his voice. “You are a battle-hardened warrior of Mikael’s line. Both your mother and father were of the guardian’s blood. You were commissioned by the Elder Council and pledged to one of the most feared human orders in the world because of your skill in battle and strategy. You have slain hundreds of Grigori and killed one of the Fallen with your own hand.” Henry paused. “You know the council will call you back someday, and you will be given charge over a house. Most likely a significant one.”

  “I know all this.”

  “This girl is an earth singer of the northern people and barely out of her training.”

  “Yes,” Damien said. “And she is my equal.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  IRRITATING man. Sari saw him in the longhouse as she entered to take her morning meal. The quiet scribe had taken to eating breakfast as early as she did. Prior to what she was now thinking of as their disastrous conversation, he rarely spent time with others of the village. He was a loner, which didn’t surprise her. He was polite to everyone, spare of speech, and only truly smiled at the children.

  Ever since she’d made the mistake of being truthful, he’d dogged her. If she was eating breakfast alone, he would join her and ask her how she had slept. If she was sitting by the fire, he’d sit across from her and draw in a leather-bound journal he always carried with him. If she asked for volunteers to work a field, he was always the first to step forward.

  It was maddening.

  She hadn’t been lying. She wasn’t a silly girl to find his quiet ways intriguing. The men in her life were bold men who spoke their mind, often without being asked. Her father was loud, possessed of an infectious laugh and a raucous sense of humor. Sari absolutely adored him. Her grandfather was quieter but always had a story ready for his loved ones. Her first lover, only lover, had been a sweet scribe from a neighboring village who had shared her passion for learning and debate. They were still fast friends who would meet for meals and stories when they could.

  Damien’s mysterious history and taciturn demeanor did nothing but irritate Sari.

  That morning she hadn’t been sitting long enough for her oats to cool before he sat across from her and put his own bowl down.

  “Mirren mentioned that your sister is in Spain,” Damien said without preamble. “Would you like to know of it?”

  “Yes. But I want to know it from her.”

  He nodded. “Yet she is not here. I am.”

  Sari paused. “You have been to Spain.”

  “I have been many places,” he said quietly. “Spain is one of them.”

  Sari did want to learn of Tala’s new home from her own sister, but no letters had yet reached her. She ached for knowledge of the strange world her twin now lived in.

  “What is it like?”

  A slow, fond smile spread across Damien’s face. “Warm.”

  “Warm?”

  “In the summer, almost too warm. The earth bakes as if the sun was its oven, and the dust can spread everywhere. Sometimes weeks or months will go by with no rain.”

  “No rain at all?”

  “None.” He pulled out his leather journal. “But the summer is also when the grapes grow sweetest and the orange trees blossom.”

  “Oranges?” Sari was entranced. She’d heard of the sweet fruit that grew in warm countries but had never tasted it or smelled its blossom. She’d only seen pictures in books.

  “The wind is filled with the scent of them,” Damien continued. “Some days it feels as if the sweetness coats your skin because the air is so laden.”

  He opened his journal and paged to the front. Sari tried not to crane her neck when she looked. Each page was filled with intricate drawings and words in a flowing script she recognized from his tattoos. Coins and scraps of paper were tucked into the seams along with some leaves and faded blooms. He found the page he was looking for and turned it toward her, lifting a pressed flower from the book.

  “Here.” He held it out. “This is what the blossoms look like. They’re pure white on the tree.”

  Sari took the delicate flower and held it to her nose, but no hint of scent remained. Still, she examined it, noting the size and shape of the petals. The leaf. The stem. “Do you have others?”

  “Other flowers?”

  She nodded, eying his journal. “How many places have you been?”

  The flicker of a shadow in his eyes. “Many places.”

  “So you said.”

  He took the dried bloom from her hand and folded it carefully in the paper before he placed it back in the book. He said nothing for minutes, so Sari went back to eating her breakfast and tried to ignore her burning curiosity.

  “The world is full of beautiful, wild places,” Damien finally said softly. “Sadly, it’s also full of violence and danger.”

  She set down her bowl. “Which is greater, the beauty or the violence?”

  He shook his head. “It’s not that simple. Sometimes the beauty is violent. And sometimes the violent is beautiful.”

  Sari understood him. “An eagle hunting the fjords is beautiful.”

  “But does the fish he snatches think so?” He gave her the edge of a smile.

  “So you were the eagle?”

  “Sometimes.” He closed his eyes and let out a long breath. “But so was I the fish.”

  Sari couldn’t help herself. “How old are you? Where do you come from? The writing in your journal, what language is that?”

  “Slavic mostly. Some Latin. I spoke both as a boy.”

  “Slavic?”

  “I was born in a place called Bohemia. Do you know it?”

  Sari shook her head, and Damien opened his journal to another page where a map had been drawn. Damien pointed to the top left. “Here are the northern lands where you are from.”

  “I recognize them.”

  His finger inched down. “And here is Orkney.”

  “Yes.”

  He trailed his finger down and over a large peninsula in the south. “And here is Spain, where your sister lives now.”

  “I cannot imagine the journey.” Sari watched his finger trace up and over to settle in the heart of the map. The center.

  “This is Vienna, where the elders preside.”

  “I know. My grandmother is an elder singer, though she does not reside in the city more than a few months at a time.”

  He inched his finger to the side. “And this is Bohemia, where my family is from.”

  Sari looked at the map. There were far more lands that he had drawn in. The whole of the right page was filled with his hand.

  “But have you been everywhere on this map?” She glanced and caught him watching her. “All these places?”

  He nodded.

  Sari hadn’t known it was possible to travel so far. She thought Orsala’s tales of Vienna were exotic.

  “How many years?” she asked.

  He hesitated.

  “I know you’re much older than me. I’ve seen your talesm.”

  “I spent two hundred years training, fighting, and traveling,” he said.
“And I’ve been here two hundred.”

  “Four hundred?” Not as old as she’d thought then. She gave him a crooked smile. “Barely out of your foolish youth then.”

  His eyes were warm. “Older than you.”

  “Oh, everyone knows that scribes take far longer than singers to master their magic.”

  “I have a new study now.” The smile at the corner of his lips was wickedness. “I’m looking forward to mastering something far more interesting then magic.”

  Irritating man.

  “Well”—Sari stood and picked up her bowl, trying to ignore her pounding heart—“it’s good that you’re four hundred years old. I’m sure you’ve learned to handle disappointment.”

  ※

  The whole of the village came together to ready the breeding ewes for pasture. It was midsummer and all the fields had been planted, so Sari and the other women of the village were trimming hooves while Einar and his mate, Agnes, walked through the flock, picking the hardiest to breed with the new ram that Einar had traded for in Kirkwall the week before. Others checked the flock and tied a red string around the necks of the ones whose hooves were overgrown.

  Sari had to admit that, faults aside, Einar knew his sheep. It was probably the reason he was the leader of the village. While grain provided sustenance, it was sheep and wool that provided funds for trading off the small island. Orkney sheep were well known, even in Scotland, and their wool was valued.

  The flock had been sheared months before, but the spring ewes Einar chose would be trimmed and put in richer pasture close to the village. Shearing was never a pleasant job—especially in the height of summer—but Sari had to admit Damien took on the task without complaint.

  Damien and Matthew, Ingrid’s mate, had been chosen to do the more delicate job of shearing the ewes for breeding. It had surprised Sari at first. Damien hardly seemed the type to master animal husbandry. But as she watched him, she saw his calm demeanor settle over each animal he touched. He hummed under his breath, using firm, gentle pressure to hold each ewe before he clipped it quickly. Passing near him, Sari realized the song was one of her own.

  Sari held the sheep’s hooves and cut, slicing her hands more than once during the process. The ground of the island didn’t wear the hooves the way the rocks in her homeland did. Here the land was soft and damp throughout the year.

  “Oh, thank you, Damien!”

  Sari looked up, blowing away the hair that had fallen into her face, when she heard Kirsten’s voice. The young woman had been holding each sheep while Sari worked.

  “What?” Sari asked Kirsten, pausing in the middle of a trim.

  Damien was walking toward them as Kirsten said, “Didn’t you hear me? I need to get back to the village to help Mother ready a bundle of herbs for the humans. Damien offered to take over helping you. He and Matthew are finished with the shearing.”

  “Of course he did,” she grumbled.

  Kirsten smiled. “He must like you. No one holds sheep for trimming by choice.”

  “Go on.” Sari nodded toward the village with a grimace. “Leave me with the irritating male.”

  “You mean fascinating?” Kirsten whispered with a wink. “You can’t fool me, Sari.” She spoke more loudly. “Thank you, Damien. Mother will be grateful to have me back.”

  “You’re welcome.” His low voice washed over her and Sari couldn’t help herself. She lowered her shields just to catch a whisper of Damien’s unique resonance. The depth of it went straight to her stomach, though she didn’t catch anything meaningful. Sari slammed her shields up again and bent to her task.

  “Careful, she’s ornery,” Sari said, lifting up a hoof.

  “I have her.” Damien hummed and held the ewe. “Ornery females like me. Even when they won’t admit it.”

  Sari rolled her eyes but kept her mind on her task. The flock’s hooves weren’t terrible, but they were overgrown and she was worried about rot.

  “Why did he wait so long?” Sari muttered.

  “Einar waits until the ground is driest. Here, that means almost into June.”

  She grunted and went back to her task.

  “You have a steady cut,” he said. “Strong hands.”

  “Do you have an opinion about my mannish hands?”

  “You mistake me, Sari. I’ve never held anything but admiration for a woman with a good strong grip.”

  She glanced over her shoulder as she let the ewe’s leg down. Damien’s eyes were dancing though he didn’t smile.

  “Bedding humor, scribe?”

  “Forgive me. The sight of a fine woman’s legs does move the imagination. Do you always wear breeches when you’re with the animals?”

  “Skirts are cumbersome. And why does no one ever remark on males wearing breeches?” She glanced at him as he pulled another ewe up the low platform. “Perhaps women’s imaginations are as prone to wander at the sight of a man’s fine thigh?”

  “Wonder away, milá. Let me know if you’d like to inspect my thighs more closely. I am more than happy to satisfy your curiosity.”

  She said nothing for a time and concentrated on her task. They weren’t the only couple in the field trimming. The pasture was filled with the sounds of laughter and joking, along with an occasional curse or the bleating complaint from a sheep.

  “Speaking of your thighs…”

  Damien barked out a short laugh. “Were we? Please continue.”

  Sari offered him a reluctant smile as she lifted the back hoof of a particularly noisy ewe. “You wear many talesm for a scribe your age. Your torso is covered. How far down do they go?”

  Damien was suddenly quiet.

  Sari was surprised. Most scribes, in her experience, were happy to speak of their talesm. More than happy, some bordered on gloating. A man who wore talesm such as Damien would be the envy of others.

  She had no capacity for delicacy. “Did I offend you in some way?”

  He shook his head and bent to hold the sheep. “Continue. We’ve hours of work yet.”

  “And here I thought it would pass quickly while we talked of thighs.” Sari bent over again and lifted the right hoof. “If I offended you, I apologize.”

  “You didn’t offend me. I do carry a heavy number of talesm for my age.”

  “It’s a testament to your strength, I’m sure.”

  “More a testament to my breeding.”

  She stood and untied the red yarn from around the sheep’s neck and slapped it away, snagging another marked with red. “Breeding?”

  “Yes.”

  Sari paused, but he didn’t continue. “You can’t say something like that and then—”

  “Why don’t you believe in fate?” Damien put a fist on his hip. “That is like me saying I do not believe in the sun. Or in the earth. Fate exists. It moves us all. The happiest unions I have known have been reshon.”

  “Matings do not have to be reshon. Hold her.” She bent and picked up a front hoof as Damien put strong arms around the ewe’s neck and shoulder. His hold meant that she could feel his heat. Feel his breath against her neck when he spoke.

  “They don’t have to be reshon,” he said, “but the best ones are.”

  “I don’t agree. My parents are not reshon. They chose each other when they mated. They loved each other and they chose each other.” Her cheeks were red, but she refused to be embarrassed. She was a grown woman. There was no shame in stating her desires. “That’s what I want. To be chosen, not swept up in a mystical inevitability.”

  “What if your reshon chose you? Would you deny him?”

  “There is no choice in fate.”

  “So what you’re saying is that if your soul mate found you…” He paused until she stopped in her task and looked at him. “If he met you, Sari. Loved you. Chose you. You would still deny him because you think he had no choice?”

  “There is no choice in fate.” Her heart pounded, but she could not look away.

  “Do you know what my fate was?” His voice was lo
w and intimate. “My fate was to be another male in the breeding line of Mikael’s warriors.”

  “Breeding line—?”

  “For centuries, my family has searched for the strongest warriors, male and female. The ones they deem the purest of Mikael’s line. They search the world. Language and homeland do not matter. When they find the strongest warriors, we are expected to mate and breed to produce warrior offspring. Like Einar choosing and breeding the best in his flock.”

  Sari’s mouth fell open. “Irin families do not breed their young like livestock.”

  “Your family does not. My family does.”

  “But—”

  “We have no choice. We have only duty. I have never known any of my family to find their reshon. It is a luxury we are not allowed.”

  “And you?” Sari’s heart pounded.

  He leaned back and took the clippers from her hand. Sari shifted so that she held the ewe for Damien as he focused on the task. Despite the boil of emotions she felt from him, he was still firm and gentle handling the animal.

  She finally said, “You have been away from your family for two hundred years.”

  “Yes.”

  “They have not found a woman for you? In all that time? Or do you have a mate half a world away while you make bedding jokes with me?”

  “They found a woman for me,” he said. “But I refused to return home. I was no longer content with my fate.”

  “So you don’t believe in it either.”

  He glanced up with burning eyes. “I believe in fate. The fate the Creator chose for me—a mate chosen by heaven—not the fate of my family.”

  “And you have not seen them or written to them in two hundred years?”

  He looked down and continued working. “My mother writes. I do not answer. The singer they chose for me mated with another, but my mother has not given up. They will call me back to service soon.”

  “Who? Your family?”

  “The Elder Council. My family has more than a little influence in Vienna. Once they call me back into service, my family believes I will accede to what they want for me.”