The Staff and the Blade

by Elizabeth Hunter

  She walked the length of the small field and turned to walk back. By the time she reached the end, she noticed that Damien was the only scribe standing there, arms crossed as he watched her silently. She smiled and met his eyes on the turn, then her voice rose again in a different song. It had the same purpose as the last one, easing the ground before the plow, but Sari liked the tune more. She loosened her collar and felt the sweat on her neck cool in the biting wind.

  The earth’s soothing energy crept up her legs, and Sari wished she could strip her shoes and stockings off. She wanted to feel the earth between her toes and the mud on her ankles. Instead, she focused on the pair of horses, starting a new song just for them. They raised their heads proudly and snorted as Sari laughed.

  Joy. Peace. Utter and complete rightness in the world.

  Her song rose and carried across the field. She didn’t care who heard. She didn’t care who listened. Her power flowed out of her like water down a worn stone, soaking the ground beneath her, softening the soil until she could hear it whisper to her. Damp, rotting roots and leaves, green hopes for the season ahead. The tiny creatures that lived in the earth rose to feel the warmth of her power.

  She didn’t know how long it took her to plow the small plot, but when she got to the far corner, the sun was still up. She took a deep breath, felt the soothing energy of the soil and the water and the green hedge surrounding her. She let out her breath and her shoulders finally relaxed.

  For the first time since she’d arrived on this isolated island, she felt peace.

  Until a hand planted on her shoulder, a dark, tattooed arm swung her around, and Damien took her mouth with the force of a winter storm. Sari barely had time to catch her breath before his lips took hers. She heard the needy groan work up from her throat when he clutched the homespun wool at her back. He gripped the fabric between her shoulders in his fist and pulled her close, his tongue driving into her mouth as if he would consume her.

  Sari plunged her fingers into his thick brown hair, tugging and twisting the leather strap until it fell free and she could feel the dark warmth of it brushing her cheeks and shoulders, surrounding her with his scent. His lips were as fierce as his visage, biting and tasting hers with abandon. He was hungry, and he made her hungry too. She could smell the clean sweat on his neck and the dust that coated his shoulders. His skin burned beneath her palms.

  And his mouth…

  Hard then soft. Generous and greedy. Sari had been kissed, but she’d never been kissed like this.

  Her shields fell, and a clear word rang in her mind, low and resonant, like a bell struck at daybreak.

  Reshon.

  Reshon.

  Reshon.

  Abruptly, Damien pulled away from her, panting. His eyes looked angry and his lips were flushed. He took the reins where they lay on the plow handle and quickly unhitched the horses from the machine. Without a word, he swung up on the back of the grey mare with a warrior’s grace and tugged at the gelding’s reins.

  Before Sari could raise her shields, Damien left. He rode over the fields and out of sight while she stood on the edge of the field, her mouth hot from his kiss and the echo of his soul voice ringing in her mind.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  DISASTROUS woman.

  It wasn’t her fault. Damien was the fool. A fool taken in by the joy and light of her. Walking across the land, power and magic pouring off her, she’d been intoxicating. The single most beautiful sight in four hundred years of life.

  She was an innocent.

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

  Otto’s words convicted him, and Damien hid from the world.

  He took his meals in his room or the library for the next two weeks. He used the excuse of his current manuscript to occupy him and begged off his usual meetings with Henry. The manuscript recounting the tale of Melaku’s journey had only three known copies in existence. Damien had been working on a precise copy for the past five years, but he’d been letting the business of the village and Henry’s stories distract him.

  Damien worked until late at night, taking advantage of the long days and his guilt. He visited the bathhouse in the middle of the night when no others would be partaking of the ritual bath. Ingrid’s son delivered his meals, and he avoided everyone but Henry.

  He never should have touched her. Her taste had entered his blood, the knowledge just one more painful memory in a lifetime of painful memories. His father’s disappointment. His mother’s anger. The rage and helplessness of battle and the blood of his brothers and friends.

  Isolation would save him. He took comfort in it and the quiet understanding of the village. Ingrid and Henry were accustomed to his moods. Einar could bite stone.

  Damien wondered if the village leader was giving Sari any more grief. Hopefully not. She was an extraordinarily gifted singer. Her power, with training, would be enough to put Einar on his backside. Added to that, she had the spirit to back up her power with action.

  Part of Damien, the part that couldn’t resist tasting her mouth under the spring sky, wanted to take her vibrant presence and hide her away. Wrap her in lamb’s wool so she could never be bruised. Her light would never be dimmed by tragedy or grief. But he knew that Sari wouldn’t stand for it. Like Damien when he’d left home on a fool’s mission, Sari would break any bond and throw off any stifling mantle. The singer was no tame thing.

  A firm knock at the door let him know when Ingrid’s boy brought his tray for the night. Damien put down his pen and rose, stretching so that his raised arms touched the bare ceiling. His rooms were cold; it was better that way. It kept him awake. Focused. When he was warm, he dreamed.

  He walked to the door and opened it, only to slam it shut when he saw Sari’s defiant face on the other side.

  Fuck.

  His stomach growled at the scent of the lamb stew. He didn’t move. Didn’t say a word. If he was lucky, she’d leave the tray and abandon him to his mood. He closed his eyes and bit out a silent curse when she remained unmoving on the other side of the door.

  “Coward,” she said simply. She didn’t whisper. Didn’t even sound angry. She was just stating fact.

  Coward.

  He was. Damien opened the door again, pulling the familiar mask of indifference over his face. He held out his hands for the tray. “Thank you for bringing my meal.”

  Sari ignored him and marched into the room, glancing for a place to put down the food. Dismissing the table where his manuscript and inks were spread, she set the steaming bowl and mug of ale on the end of his narrow bed before she turned. Her hands were on her hips as she surveyed his small room.

  “Cozy,” she said.

  “It suffices.”

  “It’s freezing in here.” She raised a judgmental eyebrow at the cold hearth in the corner of the room.

  “I prefer the room cold when I’m working.”

  “Apparently.”

  He shared a large house with Henry and the village library, but his room in it was small. Henry and Damien shared the responsibility of tending the sacred fire of the village and the ritual room where the scribes inked their talesm.

  The library was silent that night. She stood in his room, magic casting a glow around her, angry and powerful. She was, quite simply, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Damien felt dirty and small next to her.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “You have the gall to ask me that?”

  He paused. “You’re correct. I offer you my sincere apology. I should not have kissed you.”

  “You shouldn’t apologize for kissing me. You should apologize for walking away.”

  Damien finally managed to look her in the eye. She didn’t look angry or coy. Her face, as always, was direct and open, her blue eyes clear as the sky.

  “No,” he said. “I should apologize for kissing you.”

  “Why?”

  He paused again. “I don’t want to tell you.”

>   “Because I won’t understand?”

  “I’m not so foolish.” His voice was quiet. “I don’t want to tell you because I think you’ll understand too much.”

  She raised her chin. “Thank you for not patronizing me.”

  “If you were the kind of woman I’d patronize, I never would have kissed you.”

  He walked to the table and put his quill in the stand; then he capped his ink and set the manuscript to the side.

  “Why did you kiss me?” she asked.

  Damien closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His fingers pressed into the rough oak of the table. “I kissed you because your song was the most beautiful thing I’ve heard in three hundred years.”

  She was silent for a moment. “I doubt that. My voice isn’t very good.”

  “Then my ears are better than yours,” he said quietly.

  “Are you sure it wasn’t because you thought I might be your reshon?”

  He spun and glared at her. “What?”

  She said nothing.

  “I never took you for a foolish girl,” Damien said, “but the fact that you’d joke about something like that—”

  “I’m not joking. Your soul was whispering it before you walked away.”

  Damien froze. He could not hear as she did. Had no idea if she was lying or not. If she wasn’t…

  It changed everything.

  “I wasn’t trying to listen,” she said quickly, looking flustered. “I promise. But… you surprised me. And then I couldn’t not hear it. Your soul voice is just… It doesn’t matter! I came here tonight because I want you to know that you’re not allowed to kiss me like that and walk away. If you want to kiss me again, then—”

  “Why doesn’t it matter?” Damien asked, ignoring her words about kissing. He’d kiss her if he damn well wanted to. In fact, maybe he’d make sure she did the kissing from now on and he’d be the happy receiver of her attentions.

  Reshon.

  The word hung in the air. A mad hope and a foolish dream.

  She frowned. “What?”

  “Why doesn’t it matter if you heard my soul say reshon?”

  It mattered to him. It mattered more than anything.

  Her cheeks were an angry red. “Because I don’t believe in fate. I make my own fate. My own decisions. And I didn’t come to this village to find a mate. I came for a purpose, and I have no intention—”

  “Maybe I do.” He stepped closer, and suddenly her heat felt like a promise he wanted to wrap his cold heart in. She was a disaster of a woman. Breaking into his life and bashing at the comfortable numbness he’d spent three hundred years cultivating. She was a disaster, and if she was telling the truth…

  He dismissed the thought of her lying. There wasn’t a deceptive bone in the woman’s body. She couldn’t even perform polite deceptions from what he’d observed. She was honest to the point of rudeness.

  Which meant she was telling the truth. His heart jumped in his chest.

  “Maybe you do what?” She backed away from him, but he didn’t stop. “Believe in fate or have intentions?”

  “Both.”

  She stopped near the door but didn’t cross the threshold. Thank heaven for stubborn, face-saving females. Damien stepped close enough that he could feel her heat warming his skin. He let his eyes drop to her lips and suppressed the urge to take them again. The next time they kissed, he wanted Sari to kiss him. He bent so his lips were only inches away. He didn’t have to bend far. He loved that she was so tall; he’d never had a lover nearly as tall as he was.

  “Both?”

  “It’s cause and effect, Sari.” He let his voice wrap around her name, tasting it. Teasing it between his lips.

  “What are you talking about?” Her pulse thrummed in her neck.

  “I do believe in fate. Therefore…” He let his voice drop to a whisper. “I have intentions.”

  Her chest rose and he let his eyes fall to her breasts. Her skin would be soft and pale beneath her dress. Her gold hair would spill over her shoulders when he unwound it. Would spill over his body when she—

  “You can keep your intentions to yourself,” she said tartly. “I’m not a silly girl, besotted with the dark, mysterious warrior who kissed me, then ran away.”

  “I rode away. And I won’t be doing that again.”

  She scoffed, and Damien allowed himself a smile. There was a lightness in his chest he couldn’t describe.

  Hope. He thought it might be hope.

  “I only told you that because I thought it would unnerve you,” she confessed. “I wanted the upper hand because I was angry with you.”

  “Were you lying?”

  Her eyes flashed. “Of course not.”

  “Do I seem like the kind of man who is easily unnerved?”

  Her mouth opened and closed again.

  “Lesson learned, milá. That’s only your first lesson about me.”

  “I hope you enjoy your supper,” she said. “I scraped the bottom of the pot, so there should be a few burned onions in it. You’re welcome.”

  And with that, Sari turned and walked out the door. Damien tucked that bit of knowledge about his future mate away.

  Sari was a woman who liked having the last word.

  He could handle that.

  ※

  Damien took his breakfast in the common room the next morning. He’d woken early and visited the ritual bath, then spent an hour in meditation before he inked a new spell.

  He needed clarity.

  The resulting punch of magic left him restless. He took the bowl of porridge Ingrid handed him and looked for Sari.

  Ingrid asked, “You finished with your manuscript, Damien?”

  “No.”

  “Ah.” She smiled. “I didn’t think it was the work keeping you away. Mistress Sari has been up and out already. She took her breakfast to the fields with Kirsten.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Is that so?”

  “Maybe it’s her turn to avoid you, eh?”

  He leaned over and kissed Ingrid’s plump cheek. “Do you really think that will work?”

  The cheerful cook gaped at him. “Who are you? And what have you done with my sour friend?”

  He allowed her a smile before he took his breakfast to one of the long tables. Instead of focusing on finishing his food as quickly as possible, he let his eyes roam around the room.

  While many mated couples took their meals in privacy, the majority of the village ate their morning and midday meals together in the longhouse in the center of the village next to the library. It was built with community in mind. Ingrid, the village cook, and her mate lived in the back, but the common room was the site of everything important in village life. Meals. Sings. Meetings about problems or welcome ceremonies.

  It was a long room with just a few high windows. A fire burned from a stone hearth in the center of the hall, the community kitchen was at the front, and smaller benches and rugs were strewn at the end for the children. Damien saw one mother nursing her babe near the fire while her mate spoke to her quietly with a hand on his son’s small foot.

  It was a good village. A safe place. There were probably a million Irin villages scattered like this over the world, but this one had been his home for two hundred years. He still felt like an outsider, and he had to admit it was entirely his own doing.

  Henry sat down across from him. “What are you doing out of the library?”

  “Eating breakfast.” Damien stared out the door near the hearth. If he followed the path out the door, taking it out of the village and toward the grain fields, he would find her. He could drink in her presence and soak in her light.

  “I scraped the bottom of the pot…”

  Damien burst into laughter. By the time he composed himself, every eye in the hall was on him.

  Henry’s eyes were the size of saucers. “Are you feeling well?”

  “She’ll have no patience for gentle wooing.”

  “Who won’t? What are you talking
about?”

  “Sari.”

  “The earth singer?” Henry frowned. “You mean… I thought you didn’t like her.”

  “She may be my reshon.”

  “That… would be surprising. Are you sure you’re well? I know you were in the ritual room this morning. Do you think—”

  “I think…” Damien narrowed his eyes. “I need a plan.”

  “For what?”

  “For wooing Sari, of course.”

  “I don’t even know what’s going on.” Henry put his head in his hands. “You are indifferent to women. You always have been.”

  “Not true.”

  “Fine. You’ve been indifferent to them the entire time I have known you.”

  “That is true.” He poured himself a mug of milk from the pitcher on the table. “But I am not indifferent to her.”

  “Why?”

  “Why does it matter?” Damien asked.

  “My friend, consider this.” Henry put his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “You say you need a plan to woo her. I propose that a good beginning to this plan would be to identify the reasons you are pursuing this woman. This woman, and no other, in over two hundred years.”

  “She heard my soul whisper reshon. She told me this.”

  “And you believe she is being truthful?”

  “You’ve spoken with her. Does she seem like a woman who would lie?”

  Henry’s eyes were pained. “More than one in the village can attest she is not.”

  Damien nodded and took a drink of his milk. “So she speaks truth. My soul recognized hers.”

  “Brother, you know her hearing that could mean any number of things. Your soul could have called to hers, or it could simply be the desire for a reshon. The longing for connection. Loneliness—”

  “No.” Damien shook his head. “As soon as she said it, I knew she was right.”

  “I ask you again, why? What about this woman calls to you?”

  Damien’s gaze drifted out the door again. “Sari said she doesn’t believe in fate.”

  “Fate is a conundrum. If she truly is your reshon, there is something in her soul—and something in yours—that can only be fulfilled by each other. But either of you may choose to turn away from that. If she doesn’t believe in fate, she may reject your connection even if it is compelling.”