The Staff and the Blade

by Elizabeth Hunter

  More like a penal colony in Sari’s mind.

  They were guarded by the scribes, but the singers were isolated. No longer could an Irina practice her healing or study a new agricultural practice in a neighboring territory. No longer could a pregnant singer hunt with her mate. No longer could an artist take a commission directly from a human patron or a singer compose music for a human church. Mothers were cosseted and pampered “for their safety” while children grew up isolated from the human world they were supposed to protect.

  More and more, the Irin were withdrawing from the world around them. Sari had grown up isolated by geography, but nothing like the Irin children born now. It was a troubling time to think about raising a family.

  As for the scribe houses…

  As a watcher’s mate, she was granted special permission to live in the scribe house that had once housed multiple warriors’ families. Tala lived there as well, but only because of her position as seer. The Irina librarians and archivists had been sent away, along with the female healers.

  Scribes were put in their place while singers were forced to live in an isolated rural retreat one hundred miles southwest of Paris. After a number of frightening incidents where singers were targeted by the French church, the scribes’ council would hear no arguments to the contrary, and the singers’ council had been divided. The Irina of France were hidden away; the rest of Europe followed suit.

  “How far is the retreat from the scribe house?” she asked. “How are the roads?”

  “Two days’ ride.” He squeezed her hand. “I know. I don’t like it either.”

  There would be no jovial camaraderie among new Irina sisters, no cheerful songs in the house. Scribes without small children would only see their mates when they could be released from patrol and training. In Sari’s mind, it was a recipe for disaster. She knew Damien did not approve of the practice, but he also understood why so many Irina chose to enter retreats and so many Irin males encouraged it.

  “Is it so bad a thing to be in a place that is safer?”

  Sari squeezed his hand and felt him squeeze back. They might never agree, but she knew his concern came from a place of deep love. The only thing Damien truly feared was losing her, yet he had never held her back, even as his superiors encouraged him to do so. It had become “unseemly” for a watcher’s mate to patrol with her scribe. Proper Irina pursued creative or intellectual pursuits, not war.

  Sari no longer had any patience for science and soft magic. She had worked for a hundred years to be her mate’s equal, but she knew he still outstripped her in the field. Since he was older, she could accept it, but Sari longed for more spoken magic to use in combat. According to her grandmother, the Irina had once been as feared in battle as the Irin. But then the world had gentled and much martial magic had been lost.

  Why would the Irina need martial magic? She could hear the voices already. The scribes were there to protect them. Irina magic was meant for healing and building. Growing and creating. Martial magic was ugly and hard, not nearly refined enough for the tongue of heaven’s daughters. The ignorance was rife among singers and scribes both.

  Gabriel’s fist, she thought with a growing scowl. What have we done to ourselves?

  ※

  “Sari!” Tala barreled out of the house and into Sari’s arms as soon as she jumped out of the carriage. “I missed you. I missed you so much.”

  “I missed you. Has it truly been seven years?”

  “Eight.” Tala sniffed and wiped her eyes, one arm still hanging around Sari’s neck. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

  “I can’t either.” Sari laughed through her own tears. “Grandmother must have had to intervene.”

  Tala laughed but didn’t let go, even as the sisters turned to walk into the house. Sari glanced over her shoulder to see Damien’s fond smile and warm eyes. He quietly instructed the young scribe driving the carriage and grabbed Sari’s valise from the interior. As they approached the house, Tala’s mate came to the door.

  “Well met, Watcher.” Gabriel held out his hand, grasping Damien’s at the wrist before he pulled him into a hug. “Well met, brother.”

  “Does the fire still burn in this house?” Damien asked.

  “It does,” Tala said, her arm squeezing Sari’s waist. “And you are welcome to its warmth. You and your own.”

  As the seer of the house, Tala was subordinate only to Damien as watcher. She and Gabriel had been in charge of the Paris house until Damien could arrive, the previous watcher having already departed for his new post in Hamburg.

  Tala finally released Sari and went to embrace Damien. “Brother, it is so good to see you.”

  Sari went to Gabriel, and the quiet Spanish scribe pulled her into a tight hug. Sari hadn’t been sure she would like her sister’s mate, but she did, as did Damien. They both had great respect for Gabriel’s character and devotion to Tala. It wasn’t easy being the mate of a seer. No mate could protect Tala from the demons that sometimes whispered to her, and there was little Gabriel could do at times except guard her body while she wandered in her mind.

  “She is so happy,” Gabriel whispered. “I think you are as well.”

  She patted his cheek. “Now we are as we always should have been. Tala and I were never meant to be apart.”

  “I’m glad you’re here.” Gabriel turned to Damien. “And you! I have a stack of letters for you to answer. Welcome to Paris.”

  “The blessings of leadership,” Damien said. “I await them after we’ve taken rest.”

  “And a bath.” Sari pulled off her cloak. “The crossing was safe, but I’ve slept in caves that were more comfortable.”

  “But secure.” Damien put an arm around her and kissed her temple. “Safety is more important than comfort.”

  “So you say.” They entered a large, well-appointed scribe house that felt empty without the bustle of singers and children. Sari saw the library open and a few younger scribes wander out, curious about the new watcher and his mate. But no songs rose from the kitchen. No children ran underfoot.

  Damien’s thoughts must have mirrored her own. “It’s different than I remember.”

  Gabriel said, “The previous house was torn down when the ritual fire was moved to this one. It doesn’t have the age or magic that the old house did, but the location is better to keep an eye on the city as it grows.”

  “And the retreat?”

  “Farther than we would like,” Gabriel said. “But secure. The landowner who controls the area has an understanding with the council. The roads are good. I’ve worked out a rough schedule for the mated scribes so that they’re not long from their families.”

  “We’ll talk about how to rotate some of the unmated scribes into the retreat as well,” Damien said.

  “The unmated?” Gabriel asked.

  “It’s not healthy for our younger brothers to be long away from their Irina sisters,” Damien said. “Mated or not, our men need the influence of Irina.”

  Tala smiled. “I hadn’t thought of that,” she said. “But you are right.”

  They chatted for a few more minutes, Damien and Sari greeting the scribes that were in the house and hearing reports of those who were patrolling, along with two more who were investigating rumors of a highwayman north of the city whom Gabriel suspected was a Grigori in truth.

  By the time they were able to retreat to their new quarters, Sari was nearly dead on her feet. She sank into a large copper tub filled with steaming water and let her eyes close. Damien came to her side, crouching down and running a finger across her cheek.

  “You speak Norse with her.”

  “Norwegian,” she corrected. “Do we really?”

  “You do.”

  “I suppose it’s a good thing you’ve learned it then.”

  “Does Gabriel speak it?”

  “I think so. I’ve lost track of all the languages he knows.” She leaned her head on his shoulder. “Even more than you, I think.”

  D
amien picked up the pitcher on the floor and dipped it in the tub. Then he tipped her head forward and poured the warm water over the golden hair he loved.

  “Modern houses…,” Sari murmured. “I could become accustomed to this comfort.”

  “Don’t linger too long unless you want company, milá. Or a stinking man in bed.”

  Sari laughed and put her hand on his cheek. His jaw was rough and stubbled. She missed the beard he’d once had, but her mate had learned long ago to blend with modern human fashion as a means of camouflage.

  “Come in the bath with me.”

  He pressed a kiss to the curve of her neck. “We’re too tall. I was jesting, Sari. Take as long as you like. Enjoy your bath.” He stripped off his shirt before he knelt next to her again and poured another pitcher of water down her back as Sari enjoyed the rose-oil soap someone had placed by the tub. She scrubbed at the grime of their journey as Damien washed the suds away.

  Sari sighed and leaned forward on her knees. “I promise I won’t leave you with a cold bath. Just a few minutes more.”

  Damien ran the soap up her spine. “I shall endeavor to amuse myself.”

  Clever fingers she never tired of. He traced her spine with his knuckles and dug his thumbs into the tight muscles at her lower back. He brushed the wet strands of her hair to the side and kneaded her shoulders until Sari felt boneless.

  She blinked awake when she felt the water cool. “You let me fall asleep.”

  “You were exhausted.”

  Sari stood and reached for a linen wrap hanging nearby. “You should have woken me. The water will be cold.”

  Damien’s eyes caressed her form even as she wrapped the clean linen around her body.

  “I have other plans now,” he said. “Forget the bath.”

  Sari laughed and tugged at the breeches he was still wearing. “Bathe yourself. I promise I’ll make the cold water up to you in a warm bed.”

  He caught her laughing lips in a kiss, opening her mouth with his tongue and teasing a delicious shiver from her. He commanded her. Her heart. Her body. Sari was almost embarrassed by how she let him rule her.

  Nipping at her lower lip, Damien said, “Go. Warm my bed, mate.”

  “Who will wash your back?”

  “I’ll manage.” He tugged at her wrap. “Go before this comes off you and you get wet again.”

  “Is that a promise?”

  “Yes.”

  ※

  Sari woke in the middle of the night to the sounds of retching down the hall. She sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

  “Sari?”

  “I think it’s Tala,” she whispered. “Go back to sleep. I’m going to help Gabriel.”

  “Need me?” he murmured.

  “No, love.” She brushed a kiss over his cheek. “Sleep.”

  Sari wrapped her dressing gown around her and slid her feet into warm slippers she’d placed by the bed. The house was new, but the floors were still freezing. She lit a candle and opened their chamber door. Quiet voices and a soothing song drifted down the hall.

  “Tala?”

  The voices stopped, but Gabriel came to the door. “Sari? I’m sorry we woke you. Tala is fine.”

  “Can I help?”

  Gabriel opened the door wider and ushered her inside. Tala was pale and resting on a chaise by the fire while two young scribes cleaned the floor and changed the linens.

  “Such a bother,” her sister muttered, a hand pressed over her eyes. “If they’d wait for me to feel better—”

  “Don’t be silly,” Sari interrupted her. “You have to bear the visions. Let others care for you in our way.”

  Gabriel gave her a conspiratorial wink and handed her a cool cloth. “For the headache.”

  “I remember.”

  Sari went to Tala and scooted her sister forward until she could sit behind her and draw her head back. Tala sighed and rested her head on Sari’s shoulder as she had when they were girls.

  “Cloth?”

  “On my neck.”

  “Your temples?”

  “Like spikes.”

  Sari placed the cool cloth around Tala’s neck and began to rub her temples as she hummed a healing song their mother had sung when the visions first started to wake in Tala at age twelve. She finished one song as Gabriel and the brothers cleaned the room, then segued into another as the tension started to leach out of her sister.

  They were alone when Tala let out a long sigh. “It’s the same vision. Over and over.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No.” She shifted in Sari’s arms. “Maybe.”

  “The same vision. That’s significant, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Time?”

  “It’s past. I wake up in the forest near home. It’s present. I see the war. Whatever battles we’ve most recently heard of, I’m seeing them. But it’s the future that scares me.”

  Sari combed her fingers though Tala’s long hair. “War is always a frightening time. And this war has come on the heels of revolution.”

  “It’s not the war, it’s the silence,” Tala murmured.

  “The silence?”

  Sari could tell that Tala was drifting off. “No one is there. All the children…”

  The hairs rose on the back of Sari’s neck. “What about the children?”

  “Gone.” Tala turned her face to Sari’s shoulder. “They’re all gone.”

  Her sister’s shoulders relaxed into an exhausted sleep, but Sari’s eyes rose to the doorway. Damien had roused himself, his hair and nightclothes were rumpled, but his eyes were narrowed and keen. He watched Tala as she slept, his eagle eyes distant. Sari could almost see the thoughts shifting in his mind.

  He was the blood of Mikael’s line.

  Sari looked down at the pale woman in her arms. Her sister had never been a warrior but had seen visions of death and violence when her cheeks still carried the roundness of youth.

  Tala was Damien’s sister, but she was also his seer. Part of the reason the council had transferred him to Paris was because they needed his expertise. Meager their possessions might have been, but among them was wrapped the black knife that had killed the angel in Scotland and brought her mate back onto a warrior’s path.

  When she looked back up, Damien was watching her.

  “We’ll talk in the morning.”

  Sari wrapped her arms more tightly around Tala and nodded before he walked away.

  CHAPTER TWO

  IF there was one thing that Damien hadn’t missed during his time of isolation in Orkney, it was record keeping and correspondence. The Irin could be a singularly pedantic race. They loved their records and journals, letters and ledgers. As a scribe, Damien knew he should love them too. But while translation and research filled something in his soul, the rote transmission of information did not.

  And damn if there wasn’t an abundance of information in Paris.

  “As you can see”—Gabriel shuffled through piles of papers on Damien’s desk—“Ensel decided that many of these needed to be answered by the new watcher, not the old.”

  Damien lifted an eyebrow. “A bill for the stonemason he hired needed to be paid by me?”

  “Let us say that he was not pleased to be leaving this post.”

  “He had been here for seventy years.”

  “And he enjoyed the lights of Paris.” Gabriel tossed another letter on the pile. “His transfer to Kiev was not something he anticipated.”

  “His mate?”

  Gabriel shrugged. “Many a watcher has a mate who is an asset to the house. Who are, in fact, essential to its health.”

  “And there are some who are not.”

  “Patricia will not be missed by either the scribes of the house or their families. She was the one who urged Ensel to move the house singers from Paris to the retreat not long after they came.”

  Damien steepled his fingers. “Why?”

  “She said for their sa
fety. Abra—who was the healer here—will tell you Patricia was a jealous woman who always resented that she and Ensel were not reshon. She was insecure in their union.”

  Damien snorted. “Ridiculous. You and Tala are not, and I have rarely seen two people more suited for each other.”

  A smile touched the corners of Gabriel’s lips. “Thank you, brother.”

  “Do you think we could get a reversal from Vienna?”

  Gabriel’s eyebrows rose. “About the singers in the retreat?”

  “Yes.”

  “Doubtful. The council has become intractable in the matter. Exceptions such as mates and seers like Tala are one thing, but a baker, an archivist, or a seamstress? What need is there for them to be in a scribe house instead of a guarded retreat?”

  “A healer then,” Damien said. “None of the scribes here is a trained healer.”

  “We didn’t need to be with Abra around. But then Patricia…”

  “Enough,” Damien said. “Do you think she would come back?”

  “Abra? Farrin is here. Of course she would.”

  Farrin, the healer’s mate, was a capable scribe who served as the weapons master of the house. Damien had already met and spoken with the man. He liked his brusque demeanor and quiet steadiness. Abra was a small singer from North Africa who had mated with Farrin when he was learning to forge blades in Spain.

  “There is no excuse for not having a healer in the scribe house. Frankly, I think it was foolish to move her to the retreat, but I don’t know if the village can spare her at this point.”

  Gabriel scratched his chin. “There is a family with child at the moment, but it is their second. They may not need a healer so close if the singer has had an easy birth in the past.”

  “Ask. And Abra should have an apprentice anyway. Suggest it to her as a way to lighten the load. If none is available in the village, call one from the nearest Irina training house.”

  “The closest house is in Brittany.”

  “That will work; just get me a healer.”

  He shuffled through more bills regarding the house and a few that were legitimate items for him to deal with as the new watcher. Correspondence from nearby houses in Lyon and Brussels. A transfer request from one of the scribes in order to be closer to a sister who had lost her mate. A request for seclusion in a Rafaene house for another scribe. The list of tasks went on and on. He would spend weeks just answering letters.