The Staff and the Blade

by Elizabeth Hunter

  “And what do you want?”

  His shoulders slumped a little. “I want… peace. To be valued for more than my blood and training. Perhaps we’re more alike than you think, Sari. I suppose I want someone to choose me too.”

  ※

  Perhaps we’re more alike than you think.

  Sari stared into the small fire in her cottage, the brewing manual she’d been reading forgotten on her lap. Damien had not joined the village for the evening meal, though several lambs had been butchered and Ingrid and Matthew had celebrated the hard day of work with a feast.

  She had a feeling the cost of Damien’s honesty might be paid in isolation.

  Next to his age and experience, she felt like a child. And while she’d never been a sheltered girl—her parents believing industry and independence were more important than manners—she had been surrounded by love. Rich with it. Her parents loved her. Her sister did too. Her grandparents doted on them all. They were loud and raucous, and some might find them coarse compared to the fine manners or sophisticated parlors of the city scribe houses. But Sari knew they were fierce and generous with their affection.

  I want someone to choose me too.

  She suddenly wanted to give Damien a very long, very hard hug.

  Never one to deny an honest desire, Sari decided she would. She set her book to the side, carefully marking her place, and found her wrap. The warm woolen cloak had been a welcome gift from the women in the village, and she treasured it. It had been dyed a deep blue that matched her eyes. Her hair was long and wild. She’d taken it down when she returned to her cottage and had no desire to put it up again. She stepped into her boots, wrapped her cloak around her shoulders, and walked to the library.

  It was open. It was always open and available for reading or meditation by the sacred fire. She heard Henry reading aloud and followed his voice down a long hallway. She passed his room on the left and walked farther down to a small chamber where a light flickered under the door. She hesitated for only a moment before she knocked.

  Her stomach dropped when she heard his footsteps, but she didn’t run or wilt like a ninny. Damien opened the door. The light was at his back, so she couldn’t read his expression.

  “Sari?”

  Why hadn’t she rehearsed what she wanted to say? Because even she wasn’t capable of embracing a man who’d stated an interest in her and then just stomped off. That would be… unseemly.

  “Sari, are you all right?”

  “I like your voice,” she blurted out. Then she waved a hand. “But that’s not why I came here.”

  She stepped closer and slid her arms around his waist, pulling him close until his arms came around her shoulders. They stood in silence, and Sari felt his heart beating in his chest. Again she noticed the smell of his hair and the fine scent of clean sweat at his neck. Blended with that, the smell of ink, incense, and oils from the ritual bath. She took a deep breath and felt his arms tighten.

  “I’m not saying it is me,” she said softly. “I am not saying it isn’t. But you deserve to be chosen, Damien. I think you are a good man, a scribe who knows honor and sacrifice, and you deserve to be chosen.”

  He didn’t say anything, but his arms pressed around her and he didn’t let go.

  CHAPTER SIX

  SUMMER flew faster than Damien had ever remembered. The barley fields were shorn and the flocks ready for breeding. Summer gardens had given up the last of their bounty and cellars were full.

  And the new beer that Sari and Henry had brewed was ready to be shared with the village.

  It was an impromptu feast, but no less cheerful for it. Damien sat in the corner watching his old friend and his laughing girl as they danced down the center of the lines while the fiddle, lute, and pipes played cheerfully by the fire. One song flowed into another, and Damien couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so content. Their race couldn’t truly become intoxicated by anything other than magic, but beer and liquor did allow a certain mellowing of their normal faculties.

  Henry and Sari were the heroes of the evening. Their first batch of beer had not turned out well, but the second batch did. The nights were growing longer and the wind colder, but that night voices were raised and dancing filled the longhouse as the whole village enjoyed the fruits of their labor and the feast Ingrid and Matthew had prepared. Three children ran past him, laughing and tripping over each other while they chased a dog that had run into the party. He was so distracted by the spectacle that he didn’t notice Sari approaching.

  She plopped down on the bench next to him and sat astride, leaning forward as he rested his back against the wall.

  He was completely in love with her. Of course he was. Days flew by and weeks had turned to months. Damien’s initial admiration and fascination had turned into something far deeper the longer he knew her. Sari was strong and honest and beautiful, and he wanted her. Mostly he wanted her to admit that she had feelings for him as well.

  Damien smiled. “Hello, milá.”

  “You refuse to tell me what that means.”

  “It means… my little cabbage.” He told her something different every time she asked.

  Sari threw her head back and laughed. “Who would call someone a cabbage?”

  “The French.”

  “Truly?” She shook her head, still smiling. “You’re not dancing.”

  “No.”

  “Are you bad at the steps?”

  He shrugged. “I am a fair dancer.”

  “So why don’t you join us?”

  “Because I can watch you dance sitting from here, and I prefer that.”

  Her smile fell. “Why?”

  “You’re a good dancer. And I like imaging those long legs—”

  “Damien.” She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. “Not that. Why me?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You’ve been… all around the world.” She flung her arm out. “Seen ancient cities and modern ones. You’ve fought in wars I can only imagine and met important people.”

  She pressed forward until she was nearly lying on his chest, and Damien fought—and failed—to keep his hands at his sides. He reached up and tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. It fell around her face, wild and as untamed as she was.

  “Are you playing with me?” she asked.

  He shook his head.

  “Then why?”

  “Do you not believe my soul calls to yours? You told me we were reshon.”

  “I said we might be. And that’s not enough.”

  “No?” He caught her chin with his fingers and tilted her face up, a spike of anger making his movements and his voice sharp. “What do you want from me? For me to lay my heart bare so you can step on it?”

  “Why do you think I would step on it?”

  “We might be reshon?” It stung. He released her and leaned back. “Maybe you’re not as honest as I thought.”

  It wasn’t that Damien thought Sari would be dishonest on purpose, but her willing ignorance of their connection was driving him mad. They were reshon. Months of knowing her, nights spent arguing and laughing, heated moments that never resolved. They all confirmed his mad hope. She just refused to see it.

  Sari stood and moved away from him, but he caught her arm and pulled her back.

  “You have a fierce heart, milá.”

  “Don’t—”

  “Someday…” He pressed her palm to his cheek and took a deep breath as she froze. “Someday you will love a man, and the fire of it will be a violent, dangerous thing.”

  “Why do you say this to me?” she whispered. “Am I not also worthy of choosing?”

  “Because there is beauty in your violence. Like the eagle over the fjord, Sari. You will love a man, and if he is a wise scribe who knows what life is, he will cling to it and treasure it even as it lashes him.” Damien closed his eyes and let the heat of her palm sear him. “He will treasure it, because within your love a man would never feel more alive. Even
if he had lived a thousand years, he would burn from it.”

  He kept his eyes closed, expecting her to pull her hand from his and walk away. She didn’t. She stood next to him as the music rose and shifted. A singer stood and opened a song, calling to her sisters to add to the old ballad of Adelina’s doomed love. Voices took turns as they sang the ancient rhyme, but Sari still stood beside him, her hand resting against his cheek.

  Then silently she turned her hand and clasped his fingers in her own, drawing him to his feet.

  Damien blinked. “Sari?”

  She said nothing as she led him out the nearest door, away from prying eyes in the hall and into a night barely lit by the new moon.

  Sari turned when they were out of the hall and cloaked in the shadow of the library, raised her face to his and kissed him.

  It was a soft kiss. Merely a brush of lips over his own. She grew bolder, kissing him over and over, pressing more firmly each time. Damien brought his hand up and cupped the back of her neck, reveling in the heat of her skin as he drew her closer. He fought his instinct to take control and let her explore his mouth. When she slid her hands around his waist, he was reminded of the night she had come to him and embraced him.

  Generous. Heaven above, her heart was so generous. He wanted her desperately. She nipped at his lower lip and let out a frustrated sigh.

  It was the sigh that did him in.

  Clasping her cheeks between his hands, Damien angled her mouth and dove deep, then he gripped her hair in his fist and held on with everything in him. Their passion roared to life, like brush thrown on a bed of coals. Hot and sharp and flaring. Her mouth was demanding; she bit the edge of his tongue as he drew back. Then Damien’s mouth plunged down her neck.

  He plumped her breast beneath her bodice and slicked his tongue over the soft flesh that swelled along the edge. Her back arched and she clung to his shoulders.

  “Damien!”

  He said nothing, starving for the taste of her skin. He pulled down her dress and cupped her breast as his other hand threw up her skirts until he could feel the firm curve of her bottom in his palm. He squeezed hard and felt her gasp as his mouth closed around the rosy red blush of her nipple.

  Sari was no delicate female but a strong, lush woman. He feasted on her breast, even as his other hand explored between her legs. She was wet and slick, and his body was already hard as a randy lad’s. She had stripped him bare of his control. When she spread her legs for his exploring fingers, he did not hesitate.

  My eyes have seen too much to ever look on that which is lovely again.

  He pushed the thought away, along with the guilt of touching Sari’s body with blood-stained hands. She was eager and hungry and he could satisfy her. He was made to satisfy her. He would do anything, be anything, sacrifice anything to give her what she needed. That was his only thought as he teased her flesh with his hands and tongue.

  “Ah!” Her soft cries of pleasure fed a deep longing within him. “Damien… Damien, please.”

  He lifted his lips to her mouth and caught Sari’s cries as she came in his arms. His fingers were slick as he softened his touch and eased her down from the height of her pleasure. He slid his hand back and cupped her again, smoothing his palm over the supple skin of her buttock and thigh. Furious kisses turned lazy and languid. Her heart was still racing. He closed his eyes and pressed his ear to her chest, listening to the sweet rhythm, then turned his head and feathered kisses over her breast.

  “Sari,” he whispered, “you are so lovely. In every way, lovely.”

  “Take me home.” She leaned against the wall of the library as Damien rested against her breast. Her fingers threaded through his hair. “Warm my bed.”

  He ached with wanting her body, but he wanted her heart more. “Are you ready to be mine, Sari? Completely and utterly?”

  She paused in her caresses. “You mean…”

  “You can try to deny it, but I know. We are reshon. Once I have taken you, you will have no other,” he said. “I will not let you go. You know what I want, so be sure, Sari.”

  She wasn’t sure. He could tell by her stiff posture and the pounding of her heart. Damien stepped back and carefully covered her breasts before he eased her skirts down, smoothing them until they fell to her feet. But he didn’t let her go. He put his arms around her and held her close, kissing her forehead before she buried her face in his neck.

  “I am patient, milá,” he whispered. “My lovely one. My dearest.”

  ※

  Damien was checking on the flocks the next day, watching the dogs round up the stragglers to move them closer to pastures near the village. His mind wandered to the night before and the taste of Sari’s mouth. The feel of her flesh under his hands. He frowned and examined his palms.

  Sari was no shy girl, so he doubted he’d been the first to put his hands on her body, but he wondered if her other lovers had been scribes of learning or men like him. Warrior. Farmer.

  Damien’s hands were rough. They had always been rough, ever since he’d held his first blade at ten years old. His palms were callused and his nails ragged and gritty. Some nights Damien stared at them in the candlelight as he held his quill and saw them dripping with blood. He would wash them—soak them in near-boiling water—but the blood lingered. It lingered because he knew these years were only a reprieve. It had taken the council fifty years to find him in Scotland, but they had.

  Then the letters had started. The enticements that felt to him more like veiled threats. Henry was right. He was no Rafaene scribe needing peace and meditation. He would be called back into service. Perhaps to Vienna or Rome. Perhaps to Damascus or Salamanca.

  Then his hands would drip with blood again, just as they had for one hundred years.

  My eyes have seen too much to ever look on that which is lovely again.

  If he were less selfish, he would leave her alone. Leave her safe in the northern lands where Grigori were scarce and the twisted politics of Irin and Irina power trickled to rumors that little affected the daily life of their kind.

  But he wasn’t a saint. He hadn’t been innocent for centuries. If Damien was going to be forced back into the Irin power structure, he wanted Sari at his side. Mated to him. Loyal to him. He would always know truth because Sari would never tell him sweet or gentle lies. He wanted to be everything to her. He wanted her to desire him desperately, because the heat in his dreams tormented him.

  He was so lost in his thoughts he almost didn’t see the girl. In fact, he didn’t see her at first, he heard her. A whimper like a pup. A catching breath and a hiss of pain.

  Damien caught sight of her as she crested the hill.

  “Kirsten?”

  The young healer stumbled when she heard her name. “Brother Damien…” Her voice caught in a soft sob before she could say more.

  Damien ran to her, catching her before her legs gave out. “Sister, what has happened?”

  She’d been attacked, but by what, Damien could not understand. Her clothes were torn and her face clawed, but he could see no bites on her legs when he lifted her skirts. Her ankle was bruised and swollen, but no other mark was on her. There were no predators on the island to speak of. Even a wild dog didn’t seem likely.

  “Kirsten, what did this?”

  She started crying and her tears mixed with the claw marks on her face, causing her to wince.

  “Not what,” she said. “Who.”

  “Who?”

  Still crying, she forced out the words between hiccuping breaths. “Ann. Ann and her sisters. In the human village. I was… I was checking the baby. She only gave birth two weeks ago, but everything was normal. I was just there to check the baby. I’ve been to the house with Mother before.”

  Damien lifted her and whistled for the dogs. They trotted over, their tongues hanging out, and followed him as he walked swiftly to the village. The sheep would have to wait. “Was the babe healthy, Kirsten?”

  “She was fine. Fine! But then Ann, she…
I don’t know what happened. Her sisters blocked the door and Ann said cruel things. She called me unnatural. That her milk was dry and it was my fault. That I wanted her babe to die so I could seduce her husband. It was madness.”

  No, it was a poison that he’d hoped the islands would escape. He’d heard the humans whisper in Aberdeen, but on Orkney they called his sisters spae-wives and wisewomen. The Irina still practiced their healing arts among the humans when singers in other parts of Europe had drawn back from their calling years before for fear of human ignorance and superstition.

  “Damien, Ann and her sisters called me…”

  “A witch?”

  She nodded.

  He forced himself not to curse. Cursing wouldn’t solve anything, but something needed to be done and he doubted Einar was up to playing politics. No, this would be a job for Henry.

  “They clawed at my face,” she said, touching her cheek as if she still couldn’t wrap her mind around the violence that had touched her. “I think they wanted to blind me. Why would they do that, Damien?”

  “Because they’re ignorant and afraid.”

  “Ann was sweet to me before. She thanked me for coming to help deliver the babe. It was her first.” Kirsten winced when he shifted her.

  “Almost home, sister.”

  “Why would she do this?”

  His heart broke. Kirsten was such a little thing and had lived a sheltered life. She’d never seen an Irina burn or drown at the hands of humans. Never seen a scribe out of his mind with grief taking vengeance in the worst way. This was why the calls for isolation were growing louder. The days of peaceful coexistence with the human population of Europe were coming to an end because of the fear of witchcraft and of any women of learning.

  “Almost home,” he said, hoping his calm would seep into the girl. He brushed a spell over her sweaty forehead, watching the faint gold glow as her breathing evened out. “Easy, Kirsten.”

  The last thing they needed were otherwise peaceful scribes and singers of Orkney making out for the humans in anger. Relations could be salvaged. Their haven could remain. But only if cool heads were in charge.