The Staff and the Blade

by Elizabeth Hunter

  “So Mala is here,” Malachi continued. “And restless. If you’d like an extra hand, I’m sure she’d enjoy getting out of the scribe house. She’s quieter, but she’s worse than Max about being bored.”

  “Send them both,” he said. “I’ll find something for them to do. If nothing else, they can train with my mother’s men for a time. I know Mala would enjoy it, and Sari would enjoy having her sister along.”

  “Consider it done. I can’t imagine Mala objecting, but I’ll let you know if she doesn’t want to leave Orsala right now.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Safe travels.”

  He fumbled with his phone, trying to keep his eyes on the road and still hit the damnably small buttons to shut the thing off. Sari reached out and took the phone from his hand.

  “Let me.” She took it and shut it off, putting it away in the center console.

  “Sorry we woke you.”

  “Why must you both yell on the telephone?” she said with a yawn. “They are not bullhorns.”

  He grimaced. “I am still uncomfortable with this human magic.”

  She laughed, but it was true. Technology had many benefits, but Damien was still becoming accustomed to the rapid pace of change.

  “What were you talking about?” she asked. “I only caught the last bit about the children and Mala.”

  “Malachi should be brought to the Watchers’ Council,” Damien said.

  “What?”

  “Sorry, I was just thinking aloud. He should be nominated for promotion to his own house. He’s more than ready.”

  Sari thought for a long while. “I don’t know if he is.”

  “He’s more than capable.”

  “But his children are young,” she said. “And we are away as much as we are in Istanbul. In practice, he is a watcher. He shares those responsibilities with you.”

  “But he does not have the title.”

  “I don’t know if he wants it.” She rubbed her eyes. “Not yet anyway. Sharing those responsibilities with you allows him and Ava to travel for her work and to visit her family. When their children are young, that is probably more important than a title.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Talk to him about it, but I suspect he is happy where he is.”

  Damien took her hand. “You are wise, my mate.”

  “I know. You’re very fortunate to have me.”

  He grinned. “Malachi is going to send Mala and Leo to Rěkaves.”

  “Why?”

  “Because… it’s Katalin. Who knows what she has planned?”

  “Hmmm.”

  “I see you don’t disagree with me.”

  “I would never disagree with you about your mother,” she said. “I do wonder if you’re being too cautious.”

  “I just don’t understand why she’s asking us now. We’ve been in Vienna regularly for almost three years.”

  “True. But you told me yourself time moves more slowly for her.”

  Katalin of Vértes was a medieval Irina born in the middle of the tenth century. When she was trained, the Elder Council was a power more theological than political. Most practical decisions in the Irin world were made by families with lines that traced directly back to the Forgiven. Katalin and Damien’s father, Veceslav, were a political mating designed to unite two of the strongest lines of Mikael’s descendants. Damien was their only surviving child.

  Katalin was praetora. The undisputed leader of Rěkaves and Mikael’s house now that his father had died. To say that she lived in another time was an understatement. While the rest of the Irin world had modernized and power had coalesced in Vienna, Rěkaves and the surrounding area had remained locked in feudal tradition. The council left Katalin alone because Mikael’s house continued to produce the most-skilled warriors of the Irin race.

  Damien reached for Sari’s hand. “There is something else going on,” he said. “I know it. The only question is, how forthcoming will she be?”

  ※

  Damien pulled onto the road that led to the warden’s house at the edge of Rěkaves land and slowed as he wound through the trees. Sari rolled the window of the borrowed Range Rover down, and he inhaled the familiar scent of pine and woodsmoke. Within a few minutes, he saw the wood-and-stone warden’s house and the large barn where vehicles were stored. He parked the Range Rover in front of the barn and took a deep breath.

  “We’ll take horses from here,” he said, pocketing the keys to give to the warden.

  “No road?”

  “Katalin despises anything with a motor,” he said, opening his door and walking around to open Sari’s door.

  “How medieval,” she said with a smile.

  “Very.”

  The first flashback from his old life came when he knocked on the warden’s door and an older scribe opened it a second before he bowed deeply.

  “Sir,” he said. “We did not expect you so early.”

  “We left Vienna before dawn. Please don’t…”

  But the man was already straightening. He didn’t look Damien or Sari in the eye when he said, “I will have the groom fetch your horses immediately.”

  Damien let out a defeated breath and held out his keys. “I leave my vehicle in your care, Warden.”

  “I will have it fueled and washed in case you need it, sir.”

  “Our luggage is inside.”

  “I will have it brought to the castle immediately.”

  Sari was suspiciously silent as the scribe led them out to the barn and the stable behind it. Within moments, Damien and Sari were led to a pair of Arabians, a black stallion and a chestnut mare, already saddled and ready for their riders.

  “Kazimír.” The groom handed the stallion’s reins to Damien. “And Draga.” Sari took the mare’s. “The finest from our stable, sir. Chosen for both of you by the praetora herself for your use during your stay.”

  “Thank you, brother.”

  Damien saw the smile flirting at the corner of Sari’s lips as he greeted the horses and the groom left them. “Just say it.”

  “You’re—as Ava would say—kind of a big deal here, aren’t you?”

  Damien let out a sigh and mounted the stallion. “It’s a thirty-minute ride to the castle,” he said. “Let’s enjoy that time in silence, shall we?”

  Sari let out a delighted laugh and swung on top of her mare. The equally spirited Draga leapt ahead, Sari urging her to a canter up the road. Damien kept behind her, scanning the familiar meadows and forests of his youth. Not much had changed in this corner of the world. His mother saw to that. He breathed deeply and enjoyed the fresh air and the controlled power of the animal beneath him.

  He patted Kazimír’s neck. “You’re a fine one, aren’t you?”

  The horse gave a proud toss of his head.

  “Care to stretch your legs?”

  The stallion tensed beneath him, sensing Damien’s shift in mood. He leaned forward and urged the stallion to a gallop, passing Sari and racing up the hill. Knowing his mount knew the roads better than he did, Damien closed his eyes for a moment and let the horse carry him, let himself fall back into the ancient rhythm of man and steed, a partnership that had often been his only company on long and lonely journeys. He pulled Kazimír to a halt at the top of the hill and looked out over the castle where he had been born.

  A single white tower dominated the skyline across the valley, the ancient structure rising from a hill in the center surrounded by rolling meadows. A narrow river cut through the land, curving around the central hill and feeding the fields and orchards that surrounded it. Ancient stone walls encircled a Gothic castle Damien’s father had renovated in the thirteenth century. He knew modern improvements had been made, but the heart of the castle remained as it had always been, as unchanging as the line of Mikael’s blood who had built it.

  As he watched, a banner rose over the central watchtower. A red dragon on a black field, gold thread catching the light in the sun.

  Meros ni she-ar.
<
br />   Meros ni gharem.

  By the time Sari reached him, the banner had already risen and was flying in the wind, and watchmen were gathered on the walls. Damien watched her reaction as she caught sight of his childhood home for the first time.

  “Heaven above.” Her mouth dropped open. “That’s…”

  “Rěkaves. The river house. Seat of Mikael’s praetores.” Damien lifted an eyebrow and smiled at his mate. “Welcome home, reshon.”

  ※

  They followed the river road through the village at the base of the castle, Damien nodding politely to the residents who came out to greet him. It was an Irin village, mostly consisting of families who had made their home here when a son or daughter was taken into Katalin’s training. By the early twenty-first century, generations of farmers and tradesmen from all over the world had made the community unique in Damien’s knowledge. Because Mikael’s blood ranged over the earth, faces from Europe were as common as those from Asia, Africa, and the Americas, along with every combination one could imagine. Though the language was modern, accents were diverse.

  “I amend my earlier statement,” Sari said as they rode through the village. “You’re not kind of a big deal, you are a big deal.”

  “I’m not here very often.”

  “Did you know it would be like this?”

  He deftly avoided the question. “You never know what to expect from the praetora.”

  He wondered what Sari’s reaction would be when they were greeted at the castle. From the warden and groom’s welcome, Damien had a feeling he knew what was coming.

  As they rode up the hill, he heard the massive iron gate opening. The sound of hoofbeats on stone and wood against metal. As they crossed the threshold, the drums started. The castle grooms came forward to take their horses as Damien and Sari were led up a walkway built into the castle walls. He took her hand and gripped it, surprised at the way his heart beat with the drums. It was instinctual. Elemental.

  It was in his blood.

  When they reached the top of the central watchtower, they turned, and Damien saw the open courtyard spread below them, clear but for the drummers lining the walls and his standard hanging from the ramparts. He stood next to Sari, his face impassive as the drumbeats picked up.

  “What is this?” Sari whispered.

  “Our welcome.”

  Low chanting came from an arched doorway, deep voices that echoed a moment before Mikael’s warriors burst into the sunlit courtyard. Two staff bearers—a singer and a scribe—leapt over each other, engaged in the martial dance of the sabetes, the staff fighters, as their brothers and sisters circled them, stomping their feet and pounding their staffs on the ground.

  The fighters’ skin was bared from the waist up, silver talesm and gold mating marks alive in the open air. It was an acrobatic battle display of sweeping movements and choreographed strikes.

  The drums beat on and the chanting did not stop. A chorus of staffs struck the ground in unison as the warriors’ chanting rose.

  “Meros ni she-ar!”

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  The staff bearers fell back and the karebes broke through, their silver swords beating against leather-clad shields. They stepped with ceremonial solemnity as two pairs of swordsmen stepped forward and engaged in a dance as thrilling as it was lethal. One pair fought with short sword and dagger, the other with Eastern sabers.

  “Meros ni gharem!”

  Blades struck against shields.

  Damien glanced over at Sari, who appeared rapt with wonder at the martial display. It was Sabet e Kareb, the staff and the blade, the traditional martial greeting of Mikael’s warriors. Damien could feel the drums in his chest, the rhythm rising through his feet as the men and women fought. A single misstep and any of the combatants could be seriously injured. Damien knew from experience those blades were not dull.

  And through the clashing of metal, he heard her. The beat of the drums could not drown out the hoofbeats of his mother’s war mount.

  Katalin rode into the courtyard astride a powerful chestnut mare, leading a company of riders armed with pikes, long axes, and sabers. She rode tall and straight, her russet hair flying loose behind her as she held her battle-ax high. She galloped around the courtyard, striking a series of targets thrown in her direction, each colorful wooden disk shattering as her weapon found the mark.

  The drums and the chanting. The staff strikes and the ring of metal hitting shield. And over the warriors of Rěkaves hung the heavy fog of magic. Damien could feel it in the air, hear the songs of the singers rising and the snap of ozone as blade struck blade.

  Katalin held her ax out to the side, halting in the center of the courtyard, her chin lifted as her dark eyes rose to Damien’s. She wore no finery to greet him, nor would he have expected her to. She was clothed in leather breeches, tall riding boots, and a blood-red shirt the same color as the dragon in Damien’s standard. A braided gold torque encircled her neck.

  “Warriors of Mikael’s line,” she called in the Old Language. “What do we claim?”

  As one, the scribes and singers spoke, and Damien couldn’t keep from joining their chorus.

  “Meros ni she-ar.

  Meros ni gharem.

  Meros ni silaam achokab!”

  Ours is the blood.

  Ours is the bone.

  Ours is the vengeance of heaven.

  As one, the scribes and singers surrounding Katalin turned toward Damien, fell to one knee, and shouted, “Ave, praetor!”

  Sari slowly turned to Damien and said, “I think we need to talk.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  THEY were shown into Katalin’s receiving room after the greeting in the courtyard, solemn servants nodding and serving wine and refreshments before they took their leave.

  “So you’re the praetor,” Sari said without preamble. She grabbed a handful of grapes and a glass of wine before she sat on one of the low chaises near the fireplace. It was summer, but the stone walls of the castle still attracted a chill. “How long?”

  “For around one hundred twenty years or so.” Damien did not sit. He wandered around the large room lined with bookcases, chests, and wardrobes.

  From the informality of the setting, Sari knew that this was the Katalin’s office, for lack of a better word. This was not a cozy family room or a formal sitting room with art on the walls. Swords and axes hung on one wall, polished but well used. Boots were lined up on a rack near the door. A coat was thrown over the back of a chair piled with stacks of papers and books. It smelled faintly of lavender, wax, and oil.

  The only decoration was a large oil portrait of a hawk-faced man whose profile told her it must have been Damien’s father or grandfather.

  “You’ve been praetor of Mikael’s guard since your father died,” she said.

  He ran a hand through hair still tousled from their hard ride to the castle. “There is always a praetor and praetora. Once my father died, the title came to me, whether I wanted it or not.”

  She cocked an eyebrow at him. “You’ve been neglecting your duties?”

  He gave her a withering look. “Do you really think Katalin needs my help?”

  Sari shrugged. “She called you here. You tell me.”

  “She never approved of my taking a watcher’s position with the council. She thought I’d serve for a while before coming home.” He ran a finger along a line of books. “Put in a hundred years or so to cement political connections in Vienna as my father did, then return here.”

  “And mate with a nice girl she’d chosen for you?”

  “I don’t think niceness would be a deciding factor,” he muttered.

  “But you didn’t.”

  He huffed out a breath and finally turned toward her. “My father and mother were both still living. I wasn’t needed here.”

  “But your father is gone.”

  “And I’m still not needed.”

  Sari munched on the grapes, feeling intimidated by the surroundings and forcin
g herself to ignore the twisting in her stomach.

  “She called you here,” she said. “Had the warriors greet you in formal fashion, displaying their prowess, and then call you their praetor. I think you need to be prepared for anything, my love.”

  “Can you really imagine the two of us living here with Katalin?”

  No. She cleared her throat. “You are a scribe well acquainted with duty and tradition, while I am a Northern ruffian from a land that has never acknowledged any Irin nobility. I honestly don’t know what to think or how we’d get along here.”

  “You and Katalin would butt heads at every turn,” he said.

  The door swung open and Katalin strode in. “Don’t assume, my son. It was your father’s failing; don’t let it be yours. It’s what got him killed, you know.”

  Damien refused to look at his mother. “I am not willing to live my life caught between my mother and my mate,” he continued as if Katalin had never arrived.

  Sari said, “Hello, Katalin.”

  “Sari, please don’t get up.” Katalin sat at her desk.

  “I wasn’t planning on it.”

  “I trust you’ve been taken care of.”

  “The warden said our bags would be brought to the castle immediately.”

  Damien crossed his arms over his chest. “Katalin, why have you called us?”

  “Welcome home, praetor. I trust the guard meets your approval.” She kicked her booted feet up on the end of the desk and leaned back. “How do you find your castle?”

  “Your castle is in excellent condition, praetora. The village also appears to be flourishing.”

  “The harvest last fall was an excellent one, and the brewery is now shipping all over the country,” Katalin said, glancing at Sari. “Your mate would be well met. There are several skilled earth singers working in the village.”

  “My mate would be better suited to—”

  “Your mate is quite capable of speaking for herself,” Sari said. Turning to Katalin, she continued. “Thank you. I might tour the land. It would be refreshing to be among singers of my blood. The warriors’ greeting was impressive.”