The Staff and the Blade

by Elizabeth Hunter

  “Kirsten?” Mirren’s voice rose from the doorway of her cottage. “Kirsten!”

  “Remember,” Damien whispered. “Calm.”

  The brave girl nodded and took a shuddering breath.

  “What’s happened?” Mirren came running. “Did she fall? Why isn’t she walking?”

  “Twisted ankle.” Damien ducked under the doorway and searched for a place to put the young woman. “Her bed?”

  “Here.” Mirren parted a curtain that divided the room. “She’s not here much anymore. She has her own cottage. What happened?”

  Kirsten said, “It was Ann.” She glanced at Damien. “I think she must be unwell, Mother. She accused me of witchcraft. Her milk has dried up, and she might be running a fever. I checked on the baby, but I couldn’t check her because she and her sisters…”

  Mirren’s eyes blazed. “She did this to you? The scratches? The bruises?”

  “I twisted my ankle trying to get away. I fell on the way back. It hurt so much, but I didn’t want to ask anyone in the human village for help. Damien found me on the road.”

  Mirren was cursing low under her breath, and Damien put a hand on her shoulder. “You know the moods that sometimes strike new mothers. Ann could be ill, Mirren.”

  “And her ignorance would be fed by her mother,” Mirren spit out. “The girl’s mother didn’t even want us to help her give birth. But the husband’s family is traditional. I delivered him myself—well, they assume it was my own mother, of course. The young man—”

  “He wasn’t there, but Ann accused me of seducing him.” Kirsten looked confused. “Why would I seduce her husband?”

  Damien put a hand on her head. “Don’t try to make sense of it, sister. The woman wasn’t well in her mind.”

  Mirren heaved a sigh and poured boiling water into a deep pan. “This hasn’t happened in many years.”

  “But it has happened before,” he said quietly. “We must keep calm heads.”

  Mirren nodded and set to tending her daughter. None of the cuts on her face were serious and with Mirren’s tending would heal quickly. Her swollen ankle would mend. Kirsten’s father, Bernard, was a sensible, steady scribe who would listen to reason and not overreact.

  It was Einar whom Damien was worried about. Einar had been making noises lately about the Irina working so closely with the humans on the island. He tried to keep Sari in the village instead of letting her help the local farmers. Tried to keep Ingrid from trading her herbs in Kirkwall.

  He would say it was for safety, but Einar wasn’t a man who trusted females. His mate, Agnes, was a capable woman, but the clinging sort, and Einar made the mistake of thinking his woman was the model of all others.

  Bypassing the longhouse, Damien walked to the library and hoped Henry would have some ideas. Because Einar needed to be controlled, and Damien’s memories were still too stained with horror to have much perspective about humanity.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  BY the time Sari heard about the attack on Kirsten, the episode had taken on the ring of legend. Like any news in a small, peaceful village, details were exaggerated until Kirsten hadn’t faced three angry women but a whole village of rioting humans bent on her destruction.

  They want to burn the singers.

  The humans are going to try to take the village.

  Einar has a heavenly blade stored under his house.

  Someone from the Irina Council is traveling to Orkney.

  Damien is scribing talesm to ready himself for war.

  Sari pulled off her work gloves and tied her hair back in a quick knot before she walked to the library. Rumors of her friend’s ordeal had come to her in the fields where she was working on the barley harvest with half the village. Mostly the non-gossiping half.

  Still, news had come at midday with the meal, and Sari had run to Mirren’s house, then left in relief when she learned that Kirsten was sleeping and the worst of her injuries were nasty scratches and a sprained ankle that was already healing.

  Sari was hungry, but she didn’t want to hear gossip in the longhouse. It was likely Henry would have some kind of rations in the library, so she decided to go there.

  The fact that Damien would also be there only briefly touched her mind.

  My lovely one. My dearest.

  She could still feel his hands. Feel his mouth at her neck and on her breasts. Sari shoved the thought away. Trouble like Kirsten’s could quickly spiral if the right steps weren’t taken to smother rumors about witches and curses. She didn’t need to think about Damien’s mouth just then.

  “Henry?” She pulled open the door of the library and walked into the dim room. Her eyes had barely adjusted when she saw Damien walking toward her. “Oh Damien, I—”

  He stopped her words with a deep, thorough kiss that bent her back and stole her breath. He wrapped an arm around her waist and put his other hand at the side of her neck, brushing his thumb over her hammering pulse as he tasted her. He took his time, and when he drew away, her eyes were crossed and her knees were weak.

  “Hello.” He licked his lips as if tasting the memory of her mouth. “I thought you were in the barley fields today.”

  “I was.” Sari was still wrapped in his arms, and Damien showed no intention of letting her loose. “I heard about Kirsten.”

  “She’ll be fine. Henry and I need to speak to Einar before he does something foolish.”

  “Good luck with that.” She glanced down at their bodies pressed together. “Are you going to…”

  “Kiss you again?” His hands rose to her cheeks. “I’d be happy to, milá.”

  And he did, teasing her mouth playfully with the tip of his tongue and nibbling at her lower lip. She could feel him smiling against her when she put a hand on his chest and pushed him back.

  “I was going to ask if you were going to let me go,” she said, trying to sound cross. “Don’t you need to speak to Einar so we don’t have a riot?”

  “I like kissing you more; the day is suddenly much brighter.” Something fell in a crash from down the hall and Damien shrugged. “And Henry is putting on his boots.”

  Something crashed again.

  “Does he need help?”

  “If he does,” Damien growled, “someone else can help him.”

  Sari wriggled out of his arms and started toward the hall, but Henry emerged, his spectacles askew but his boots on.

  “Ah, Sari!” He smiled. “Isn’t it awful about Kirsten? Poor girl. We’re going to talk to Einar. Try to calm the situation.”

  Sari straightened Henry’s spectacles. “Try to talk sense into your friend. Tell Damien he can’t grab me whenever he likes and kiss me. Especially when the village is in crisis.”

  Henry looked confused. “Are you doing that now?”

  Damien said, “As often as possible.”

  “I thought you were trying patience. You said something about a campaign of attrition.”

  Sari’s mouth dropped open. “What?”

  Henry’s eyebrows rose. “Damien did point out—quite correctly—that it worked well against the Mongols in Hungary.”

  Damien said, “I decided that a more direct forward assault was called for.”

  Sari narrowed her eyes. “And how did that work against the Mongols?”

  “Not well.”

  “There’s a lesson to be learned there.”

  Henry patted her back and made for the door. “This is entertaining, but we really need to go stop Einar from riding to the village without us. That man is not known for his tact or discretion.”

  Damien swooped down and stole one more kiss before she could respond.

  “That was a stealth attack,” he whispered, biting her earlobe. “In case you were wondering.”

  ※

  “It’s not been so blatant as what happened to Kirsten,” Ingrid said later that night in the longhouse after the evening meal. “But it’s been there.”

  “Talk of witchcraft?”

  Ingrid nodded. “
I hear it in Kirkwall. At the market. The humans here… they’re a traditional sort. They’ve not felt the conflict between their human faith and our magic in the past. Wisewomen were always here. The men, they don’t notice as much.”

  “Too dangerous?” Sari had come in from the harvest to hear that Henry, Einar, and Damien had gone to the neighboring village where Kirsten had been attacked. They had not yet returned, and Sari was trying to distract herself from worrying.

  Damien didn’t need her worry. He was a warrior.

  “Weakness invites violence,” Ingrid said. “These villagers see us the same as their human women and they dismiss us. Don’t understand why we speak up with the men or sit on the village council here. We’re strange to their eyes. Add our magic to that as well, and…”

  Sari nodded. She wasn’t ignorant of the growing unease between humans and the Irin people. There was a reason she’d been raised in a small village in the country. Even in larger cities, Irin families kept to themselves. It wouldn’t do to have the men questioned when they went out hunting Grigori. It wouldn’t be wise to have the healers and scholars scrutinized.

  “Our mandate has always been to help humanity,” Sari said quietly. “Protect them.”

  Ingrid shrugged. “At the risk of our own safety? You know what has happened in the Catholic countries. The fear overwhelms reason.”

  “They speak of locking us up,” Sari said. “I had a letter from Tala that said there is talk in Salamanca of forcing singers, mated or not, into communities away from humans. Locking them out of scribe houses and libraries.”

  Ingrid scoffed. “Madness. The elder singers would never permit it. The scribe houses are mostly staffed by Irin warriors, but who do they turn to for counsel and healing? Who would take the place of our singers who support them? Not to mention how many mated Irin fight together. Mated warriors are far stronger when they work in tandem. That has been our way since ancient times.”

  Sari didn’t share Ingrid’s confidence. “I fear the twisted thinking of humans influences our people. Humans see their woman as less.”

  “Then they are foolish to deny half their race.” Ingrid patted her hand. “Besides, there simply aren’t enough of us to survive without singers and scribes working together. We’d be in a sad place indeed if all the singers were sequestered in villages. Heaven would weep, Sari, to see their daughters hidden away.”

  ※

  Hours later she rested in the library. She didn’t want to return home, and she was worried about Damien and Henry. The sun was long set and the crisp fall wind had turned biting. She built a fire and put out a bottle of whisky for when the men returned.

  She was dozing in front of the warm hearth when she heard them stomping and speaking in low voices.

  “Sari?” Henry called. “You didn’t have to wait for us, sister, but thank you so much for doing so.”

  Sari blinked and rubbed her eyes. “Henry, where’s—”

  “I’m here.” His voice came from the door. He took off his cloak and hung it on the hook by the door. “What are you doing here, Sari? It’s so late.”

  He sounded exhausted. They both did.

  “I didn’t want you to come home to a cold house,” she said, rising and clearing her throat. “I’m sure you’re tired, so—”

  “Milá.” Damien sighed walked to her, pulling her into his arms and wrapping her up. “Thank you.”

  The relief was instant. Something tight and angry uncurled in her chest and she hugged him back. His rough chin scraped her cheek, and he took a deep breath as if inhaling her scent.

  “I’ll take the whisky to my room,” Henry said quietly. “Good night. Thank you, Sari. It’s lovely coming home to a warm house. That was very thoughtful.”

  “You’re welcome, Henry.”

  Damien didn’t let her go.

  “I didn’t like that you were gone so long,” Sari said. I didn’t like that you went without me. “What happened?”

  “Much blustering and puffing of chests. Be glad you missed it.”

  “Did they apologize?”

  “Not in so many words, but they were clearly chagrined that Kirsten was hurt. And afraid.”

  “Of Kirsten?”

  He drew back, smiling a little, and tucked a piece of her wild hair behind her ear. “No, Sari, not of Kirsten.”

  She blinked when he kissed her forehead. Oh. Him. They were afraid of Damien. Her dark, hooded warrior was rarely seen in human villages. The sight of him on horseback, visiting at dusk after a woman of his people had been attacked, must have filled them with dread.

  “Come,” he whispered. “Don’t go out into the cold tonight. Come with me.”

  Her body heated despite her exhaustion. “You said I needed to be sure.”

  The corner of his mouth turned up. “I’m too tired to bed you properly. Keep me warm. That’s all I want from you tonight.”

  Sleep with him? “In your bed?” It was an intimacy she’d shared with no man, not even her first lover.

  “Yes, in my bed.” He steered her down the hallway. “I’ll even wear a tunic if you like.”

  “Do you not normally? Even in winter?”

  He stopped and spoke against her ear. “I prefer nothing on my skin when I sleep. When I was at war, I had to sleep in armor.”

  “Oh.”

  “But I will make an exception for you.”

  Sari walked past him and into his room. She’d lit a small fire in the hearth there as well. “Wear what makes you comfortable, Damien. You know I will.” Sari unbuttoned her kirtle and slipped it off, leaving herself in the long chemise she wore against her skin. Without a backward glance, she slid under the covers of the bed and wished she’d thought to heat a few bricks to warm the linens.

  No matter. When Damien slipped in behind her, his chest was a furnace. He wrapped a bare arm around her waist and pulled her back into his chest.

  “Relax,” he said, pressing a kiss to the curve of her neck. “Just sleep, Sari.”

  “I don’t know if I can.”

  “Have you never shared a bed before?”

  “Only with my sister.”

  “Hmmm.” His hum held a satisfied note as his chest rose and fell in a deep breath. “Sleep. And dream of me.”

  It should have been impossible, but she did.

  They were in the field where he first kissed her, but the sun wasn’t shining as it had been. The moon was full and the hills rose in black waves around them as the night wind rustled the barley.

  He stood alone in the center of the field, staring down at his outstretched hands.

  She stood in front of him, but he did not see her.

  “What do you see?”

  “Blood.” He spoke and the wind ceased. “So much blood.”

  She curled her long fingers around his and lifted his hands to her mouth.

  “No.” He tried to pull away, but she held on. “Don’t.”

  She kissed them, and he fell to his knees. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pressed his head to her belly.

  “Love me.” His voice was no plea. He commanded, even from his knees. “Love me, milá.”

  “I do.”

  ※

  She woke. The night was pitch-black save for the glowing coals in the hearth, but Sari felt no cold. Damien rested at her back, breathing deeply, his arms still tight around her.

  Love me.

  I do.

  Oh, she did. So deeply it scared her. For the first time, Sari lowered her shields and let the unguarded thoughts of Damien’s soul flow over hers. She reveled in the way his voice caressed her mind. It was nonsense, a tumble of impressions and words in the old language. Feelings more than thoughts.

  Happy. Peace. Warmth. Love.

  So much love.

  Reshon.

  She turned in his arms and lifted her mouth to his, softly kissing his unguarded lips until his eyes blinked open.

  “Sari?”

  “Shhhh.”

  She kept k
issing him, whispering kisses that trailed over his face. His soft lips. His rough jaw. Her fingers followed her lips, tracing the hard planes and arching brows. He said nothing, watching her cautiously until he gave in and closed his eyes, surrendering to her attentions. His chest rose and his hand skimmed down her side, sweeping along the curve of her breast and over her hip until he reached her thigh. He pulled up her chemise under the woolen blankets and stroked the soft skin behind her knee before he pulled up her thigh and hooked it over his hips.

  Bare. He wore nothing against his skin. Sari could feel the heat of his body and the heavy weight of his erection pressing against her. With a soft groan, she put her mouth at his neck and sucked, tasting the salt of his skin where he was warmest. His hand gripped her thigh when she used her teeth. She licked down his neck and across his collarbone, her tongue tracing the ink on his skin. She could feel his magic rising and reaching out.

  She was not his mate. Not yet.

  But she was his reshon.

  She should have told him, but her mouth was doing other things. More essential things. She wanted to know every inch of his skin. A strange, feral possession rose in her when she remembered her dream. She reached for the hand that wasn’t gripping her thigh, the hand that lay against her cheek, the rough pads of his fingers resting lightly, almost delicately, against her flushed cheek.

  He tried to pull away, but she brought that hand to her lips and touched the knuckles with her mouth.

  “I love your hands,” she whispered when he stiffened. “I do.”

  It broke whatever resistance had been holding him back. Damien tilted her chin up and crushed her mouth to his, holding her almost painfully against his chest. He stole her breath, then stole it again when he bit teasing nips along her chin. Sari wriggled against him until he cooperated and tugged the chemise up and over her head so she was naked against him.

  The shivering overtook her, and Sari trembled against his chest, but Damien took her mouth again and drank her in. As he did, a wave of deepest peace settled over her. It was as if her soul rose up, settled against his, and came to rest.