Contents
The Staff and the Blade
Title Page
Dedication
DREAMS
Damien's Vow
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Epilogue
GHOSTS
Adelina's Lament
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Epilogue
MEMORIES
Uriel's Fall
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Epilogue
VISIONS
Sari's Song
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Milena
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Connect with Elizabeth
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Elizabeth Hunter
Copyright
WARRIORS. LOVERS. ENEMIES. Legends.
The Staff and the Blade
Their union became pivotal in Irin history, but to understand Damien and Sari's ending, you must go back to their beginning. Four hundred years ago, a young singer and a hardened warrior met and loved each other, but their life was torn apart by violence.
Love. Desire. Grief. Betrayal.
No matter how much pain and anger stain their lives, bonds in the Irin race cannot be abandoned. Damien and Sari will never truly leave each other, because those who are destined cannot be ignored.
The Staff and the Blade is a four-part book of approximately 480 pages. It is the fourth book in the Irin Chronicles.
THE STAFF
AND THE BLADE
Irin Chronicles Book Four
※
Dreams
Ghosts
Memories
Visions
※
ELIZABETH HUNTER
YENE ANBESSA—
YOU are my favorite distraction
DREAMS
※
DAMIEN OF Bohemia was a legend content to live in obscurity. Weary from a century of human and Irin bloodshed, he took shelter among those who would not question his silence or the martial spells he wore over his body. Until an earth singer of raw power and no delicacy came to the village where he hid. Sari of Vestfold wasn't intrigued by the mysterious warrior or his moody silences. And she wasn't interested in listening for the whisper of his soul. Even when those whispers promised a connection that could tie them for eternity.
※
MINE IS THE fire. Mine is the blood.
Mine, her soft touch and her sharp tongue.
She that wields a strong hand
And a gentle embrace
Is my lover.
My own.
Mine is the need and the desire.
My witness, her song.
Daughter of heaven,
Beloved of my heart.
My Sari.
My own.
PROLOGUE
PARIS, 1314
SMOKE curled from the pile of wood stacked at the feet of the condemned. His brother stood, holding an elderly knight, a leader of their order whose hands were folded in prayer and whose eyes were lifted to heaven. The old knight didn’t know what Damien and Otto were. None of the Templars did. The two men were knights of Bohemia, sent to serve the Christian god in the holy war. Nameless servants given to a cause greater than themselves.
They were Irin scribes, sent by their elders to protect those innocents—pilgrims of any religion—traveling along the roads to the Holy Land. Damien's company had watched over them, protecting them from a threat lost in legends. Grigori. Sons of the Fallen. Human legend had given them many names. Succubus. Vampire. Demon. They were the dark sons of angels who took and fed from vulnerable humans, especially women and children.
Despite that eternal threat, it wasn’t supernatural forces that were killing his brother. The air was acrid with smoke. The crowd jeered as scheming human rulers, fat with gold and titles, watched on.
No, it hadn’t taken the sons of the Fallen to claim the silent scribe now standing in the growing flames. Plain human greed had slain him and those comrades he refused to abandon.
Otto. Damien mouthed his brother’s name, standing on the edge of the crowd, his drab human clothes and cloak hiding his identity.
The tired scribe shook his head but kept his eyes on his brother even as the humans began to cry in fear. Gasped prayers and tearful pleas from the youngest. They were old men and frightened boys. Most of those condemned were innocent of any crime. All were innocent of the crimes they’d been accused of.
Every instinct in Damien cried out to save them.
A hand on his shoulder. “Brother, you agreed.”
Stephen, the watcher of the Irin scribe house in Paris, held him back.
“This is not justice,” Damien said through gritted teeth.
“No, Damien, this is human politics.”
He clamped down a guttural cry as he saw Otto’s head fall, the smoke taking his consciousness before the flames took his body.
“Hold, brother. Give him his peace.” Stephen braced both his hands on Damien’s shoulders and watched as, one by one, the humans around Otto also passed into unconsciousness and the flames grew higher. The crowd grew more volatile.
Otto could have escaped his human captors at any time. He had most of the same spells inked on his body that Damien did, but Otto’s skills of subterfuge were even greater. Otto had tamed his magic so that he moved in shadow, barely a flicker of movement to the normal human eye. He could have passed from the humans’ sight in front of their eyes, leaving them wondering what tricks their minds were playing. Otto was the most feared of their order, the silent blade with eyes that had seen too much.
I am resigned, brother. I cannot return to life as it was. The thought of touching anything pure with these hands is abhorrent. I have found my peace with our human brothers-in-arms, many of whom are honorable men. There are worse ways to die. Send a message to my mother and father that I will see them in the heavenly realm. Do not tell them this was avoidable.
My dear brother, my eyes have seen too much to ever look on that which is lovely again.
You commanded us with honor, despite our orders. I thank you, but I am resigned.
“Otto.” Old guilt overwhelmed him.
Damien’s tears wet his cheeks as the flames reached his brother, licked up the tattered clothes that barely covered the intricate talesm inked on his skin. The dedicated work of hundreds of years turned black at the heat of human flames. It was those very markings that had made Otto’s so-called inquisition a foregone conclusion. The quiet warrior had been accused of consorting with the devil and practicing magic.
Little did they know…
Red tinged the corners of Damien’s vision. He felt the black rage rising. The ignorant humans around him ju
mped and craned to see the humiliation of the once-proud Templars as they were brought to their knees.
Stephen would not be able to hold him back when his rage broke. No one would if he—
A cool hand on the back of his neck. A soothing, delicate female scent and a whispered command in his ear.
“Slemaa.”
Peace. The familiar command of a watcher’s mate. Jovana, Stephen’s partner, pressed her cheek to his shoulder, whispering peace over and over as Stephen held Damien’s other arm and shoulder. The Irina singer, as old and powerful as the mother Damien had left behind, worked her magic with her voice as Irin scribes worked theirs with pens and ivory tattoo needles.
“Slemaa, Damien,” she whispered again. “Otto is gone now. At peace. Let us get you away from this place. You know you are in danger.”
“Every Templar is in danger,” he said woodenly as they led him away from the bonfire and the teeming crowds.
“You must leave,” Jovana said. “Paris is not safe for you. There is a warrant out from the crown. Your name is known here, and your duke’s connections hold no sway with someone as greedy and power mad as Phillipe.”
He tried to turn, but their firm hands urged him onward.
“Stephen has made arrangements. You must go, Damien. Tonight. Immediately.”
The rest of her words were lost in the memory of Otto’s laughter around a campfire. Recollections of when Otto still smiled. When he held children who had been frightened, with an equal measure of gentleness and strength. Children had always trusted Otto. He could not touch them for long—none of their race could touch humans without hurting them—but his quiet presence had always brought comfort and confidence. Otto was safe.
Ironic, since Otto, like Damien, was a master of war.
Over the decades of the cursed Crusades, Otto laughed less in the camp at night. They all did. The blood, the loss, the waste had simply been too much. And then they had slain the angel.
I am resigned.
The only thing Damien felt anymore was guilt and rage. Rage and emptiness and a soul weariness he knew was leading him to the edge of madness.
My eyes have seen too much to ever look on that which is lovely again.
※
Hours later, he was packed onto a horse with three Irin scribes and one singer surrounding him, headed for the coast. Jovana reached up, took his hand, and pressed it between her own.
She clenched Damien’s hand, and he felt her power as it flowed into him, jolting survival instincts that had long surrendered.
“You will go,” she said. “You will heal. You are a warrior, Damien of Bohemia, but you are a scribe first. Find your peace, refill your soul, and one day you will fight again.”
He looked down at the delicate brown fingers in his hand. “If I had a singer such as you at my side, I could have taken Damascus and slain every Fallen in the city.”
Jovana smiled. “Then may you be blessed to find a mate as warlike as yourself, Damien.”
Stephen stepped to his mate’s side and patted the neck of Damien’s mount. “Is that a blessing, my love, or a curse?”
“A blessing.” Jovana’s eyes lit with quiet humor. “As Damien knows full well.”
“My lady.” Damien bent down and pressed his lips to her fingers. Another pulse of magic. “You do me an honor. Thank you for your care. May the light continue to burn in your house.”
“Return to us as a friend and a blessing.” Stephen spoke the old words. “And may your path be safe before you.”
Jovana and Stephen were smiling when Damien rode away, leaving the light of the scribe house in Paris burning, a warm safe haven to any Irin in need, tended by the scribes and singers who lived there with their families, caring for travelers and keeping the humans safe from the demons that hunted in the night.
The scribe on his right said, “You haven’t even asked where you’re going.”
“Away from here,” Damien said. “Away from battle. And if heaven truly loves me, it will be somewhere warm.”
The scribe smiled, the clean lines of his teeth bright in the waxing moon. “Well, brother, two out of three isn’t bad.”
CHAPTER ONE
SOLBJERG, Denmark
1593
“SCOTLAND?” Sari’s mouth dropped open. “You must be joking.”
“The outer islands,” her sister said. “Not the Scottish mainland. It’s not official yet, but—”
“Well, let’s make sure it doesn’t become official.” Sari stood and abandoned the stolen ivory she’d been practicing with.
“You know your mistress has the final say in your first assignment.” Tala grabbed her arm when she rose and shoved up the thick woolen sleeve. “You’ve got to be joking. This again?”
Sari scowled. “If you don’t try, you don’t know.”
“Only scribes can tattoo magic.”
“We’ll see when I try it.” Sari rubbed the raised welts on her skin where the needle had scratched careful letters she’d practiced for hours. She hadn’t tried it with ink. Yet. But she would. Her curiosity would not be satisfied until she’d attempted it. When she’d asked her old mistress, Greta had only given her a withering look and told her to concentrate on the soil. “I think I’ll try my thigh first. Then if it doesn’t work I won’t have to listen to Mother nagging me.”
“Do you ever just believe what you’re taught?” Tala asked.
“No. Why do you think Mother was so relieved when I was ready for training?” Sari pulled on her wrap. “She’d had fifty years of my experiments. She would have shipped me off to Vinland if they would have taken me.”
Tala laughed at her, and the tinkling sound filled the small room where Sari slept at Adna’s House. Though the house was new, Sari’s room was small and spare, befitting the apprentice she was. Tala’s room was across the hall, decorated with soft touches and examples of the needlework she was so fond of.
The other rooms in the large farmhouse outside Copenhagen were taken by young singers who were apprenticing with the women of Adna’s House. It wasn’t a school. Only the careful scribes with their libraries of rules had actual schools or academies. But singers of every line lived in Adna’s House. Some were widows. Others were unmated singers who had the gift of teaching. Singers who were mated to warriors in the Copenhagen scribe house often taught at Adna’s House, giving the large hall a wealth of teachers from all over Europe.
When young singers around Scandinavia were ready for training past what their community could provide, they petitioned to Adna. If there was room in the house, they were accepted. If you were Tala, with a growing gift of foresight, you were taken automatically. If you were Sari, with robust but more common earth magic, you prayed there was an open room. Luckily, there had been. Tala and Sari would not be separated.
The sisters had giggled with delight when they’d first seen their rooms. It was the first time they hadn’t shared a room or a bed since birth. For the first year, Tala had often crept into Sari’s room, taking comfort with her twin. Now, after ten years of apprenticeship with her mentor, Tala had grown in confidence but lost nothing of her sweetness.
Sari, on the other hand…
“What on earth could Greta be thinking?” Sari marched down the hall. “Scotland?”
“Orkney,” Tala soothed. “There has been an Irin community on the islands for hundreds of years, Sari, and they have never had an earth singer. For a long time it was only scribes, but so many have taken mates.” Her sister’s sky-blue eyes shone. “Children, sister. Like at home. The community is growing. Their farmers are struggling to grow enough to feed everyone. Greta thought you would be well suited to the position.”
Sari racked her brain for anything she knew about the outer islands, but she couldn’t think past her stabbing disappointment.
“And you?” she asked Tala. “Are they still sending you to Spain?”
Tala nodded. “The scribe house in Salamanca has been waiting for a singer of Leoc’s line fo
r many years, sister.”
Sari stopped and put both her hands on Tala’s cheeks. Though they were mirrors in appearance, no one over mistook them for each other. While Sari was constantly out of doors, Tala was the softer sort. She enjoyed embroidery and reading. She loved to cook and mend.
“My sweet sister,” Sari said, “living in a rough scribe house surrounded by warriors. What is Nienná thinking?”
Tala blushed. “I’m sure there are mostly mated couples. The Salamanca house is old and established. It’s hardly an outpost in Vinland.”
In fact, Salamanca was one of the most prestigious scribe houses in Europe. There was a scribe academy nearby and a thriving Irin community. Tala’s appointment was an honor, but not surprising considering her skill and lineage.
Sari pinched her sister’s cheek. “Of course, maybe you’re not so reluctant to live among strong, virile warriors, eh?”
“Sari.” Tala covered her blush with both hands. “Don’t embarrass me. I’m hardly likely to find a mate when I’m so young. And I want to be taken seriously, not pursued by eager scribes.” Her blush flared again.
Sari laughed. “Your face tells the truth. And who said anything about a mate? A lover, then. Someone to give that sweet face a kiss or two. Those Spanish scribes will fall over themselves to please you.”
Tala turned away, wrapped her woolen cloak around herself and marched down the hall. “Didn’t you want to talk to Greta about your exciting mission to Scotland?”
Sari smiled at Tala’s back, but in her heart she mourned. Her whole life, her twin had been only a few steps away. Tala was her other half. Irin twins were attuned to each other since birth, and though their magic was often very different—as Sari and Tala’s was—they had a bond akin to that which mates shared. Sari could sense Tala’s feelings, knew her sister was equally excited and scared about her first assignment. But Tala would be heading to the heart of the Irin world, immersed in a land of culture and scholarship, while Sari…
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