The Staff and the Blade: Irin Chronicles Book Four (3 page)

He was too old to notice her so keenly. And Einar would dislike her immediately. If he had to, he’d put his foot down. Though Einar was the undisputed leader of the village, it was actually Damien and Henry who had been there the longest. Henry was ancient; all he wanted was to be left alone with his books. Damien had taken on the mantle of Henry’s guardian, so all
he
wanted was food, beer, plenty of work… and for Henry to be left alone with his books. It was a comfortable partnership.

Sadly, Einar was a brash sort and often let his own delusions of grandeur get in the way of the good of the village.

It was a small commune on the north end of the mainland. The humans on the island tolerated them and their secretive ways because the women were excellent healers and midwives and the men were handy and always willing to help on neighboring farms. It was a restful place that often had Irin warriors passing through for a few months or a few years. Orkney was, on the whole, isolated and accepting of the odd and wayward.

Damien had made the outer islands his home for two hundred years and had no plans to return to the mire of politics and war, not when he’d finally stopped dreaming. But Einar dealing with this new girl could be trying.

Damien glanced up to see her watching him and hoped she wasn’t the fanciful sort. She didn’t look fanciful. She looked… direct. Intelligent. Her height was both disconcerting and attractive.

He had no desire to be attracted.

At one point or another, it seemed that all the unmated women of the village had flirted with him. He ignored them and eventually they lost interest and found other men. Or they left the island if they were restless. But none had interested him as more than a passing curiosity. He was sure the new girl would be the same, though he couldn’t imagine one like her settling on the island for good. No, that one had restless eyes.

Three more sacks of grain and he climbed in the back of the wagon, slotting in the backboard so nothing fell out.

“All right there, Damien?” Ingrid asked.

“All right.”

She snapped the reins and the wagon jerked forward, throwing Damien to the side. The girl’s sea chest slammed into his knees and he cursed quietly. He glanced up to see the girl watching him. Her eyes were laughing, and Damien felt compelled to speak.

“Your chest bruised my knees, earth singer.”

“Do you expect an apology? You’re the one who loaded it.”

He narrowed his eyes and watched her, but she didn’t look away like most girls did.

Fearless.

Heaven help her, she reminded Damien of himself at that age. Brash. Confident. Ready to take on the world.

He was the one who looked away.

“Ingrid says you don’t like to drive,” the girl said. “Why? Do you not like horses?”

“I like horses just fine.” But the old nags pulling the wagon and the plow frustrated him. If there was one thing Damien did miss from his old life, it was the feel of a horse racing beneath him. The speed of galloping along the rolling fields surrounding his father’s castle or the empty deserts where he’d once fought. There was no thrill to compare to it except the touch of an eager woman in bed.

Damien shoved that thought to the side as well.

He wasn’t a monk like Henry. On his few trips to Aberdeen, there was a woman he visited, the widow of an old friend. But sharing a bed with Marie was more about friendship and comfort than excitement. He hadn’t seen her in months. And now he couldn’t banish the thought of an eager young partner warming his bed.

Disastrous woman.

He’d dump her in the village and be done with her. Maybe Henry needed to make a pilgrimage somewhere. That would take his mind off things. Ingrid took a sharp left and the sea chest slammed into his knees again. Damien winced but didn’t say a thing.

※

“Damien?”

He was copying a manuscript in his room when he heard Henry’s nervous voice. “In here, Henry.”

“Dami— Oh, there you are.” The scribe’s round face poked around the door. Even though Henry kept up his longevity spells, there was something about the man that screamed old age. Maybe it was the bald head or the squint that no amount of magic was able to cure. Whatever the cause, there was no scribe in his acquaintance that reminded Damien more of the Christian monks who had first sheltered him after the Crusades, and for that, Henry would always have his loyalty.

Henry was utterly kind. Completely faithful. He worshiped scholarship as much as the Creator it came from. There wasn’t an unkind bone in the man’s body.

“Did you need me, Henry?”

“Not precisely. I was simply curious what you thought of the new earth singer. She already seems to have rubbed Einar the wrong way, so I’m predisposed to like her.”

Damien gave him a short laugh.

Henry continued, “Though I’ll try to smooth things over a bit. Einar can be… Well, you know Einar.”

“I do.”

“So?”

Damien put down his pen carefully. “So what?”

“What do you think of the new singer?”

“She’s…” He searched his brain for something noncommittal. “…tall. She’s quite tall.”

“She’s tall?”

Damien shrugged. “And has very blond hair. You’ve seen Norse women before, Henry. She looks Norse.”

“Is she intelligent?”

“It would seem so.” He picked up his pen and turned back to his page.

“Is she humorous?”

“Possibly.”

“Is she—”

“Henry!” Damien huffed a sigh. “Go introduce yourself to the woman. She doesn’t strike me as shy. She was more than happy to speak to Ingrid.”

Henry waved a hand and his cheeks colored. “Well, I don’t want to bother her.”

Damien blinked. “Henry, are you… are you interested in this woman?”

That was a first. Damien couldn’t remember Henry showing any interest in any woman. Ever.

“I must confess that I am, brother.”

Oddly enough, Damien wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He would hardly put the vibrant, fearless woman he’d met with someone of Henry’s personality. But though she’d been in the village for nearly two weeks, he’d managed to avoid her except in passing. Perhaps she’d shown Henry some encouragement or interest.

“That’s… wonderful, my friend.” There was no one more generous of spirit than Henry. If he was truly interested in the woman—

“Did you know Orsala of Vestfold is her grandmother?” Henry’s expression was one of near wonder. “I wonder if she will visit her granddaughter during her time here.”

Damien frowned. “Orsala of Vestfold?”

“Surely you’ve heard of her.” Henry sat on the bench by Damien’s door. “Her singing of ‘The Lux Cycle’ was considered transformative by Vienna.”

“‘The Lux Cycle’?”

Henry nodded with enthusiasm.

“Henry, are you interested in this woman because of who she is or because you admire her grandmother’s scholarship?”

His cheeks colored pink again. “Well, I’m sure this young woman—”

“Sari. Her name is Sari.”

“I’m sure Sari is lovely. I am simply curious.” Henry’s eyes grew wide. “Do you think my curiosity would offend her? Perhaps she came here to escape recognition. I should not say anything, should I?”

Damien couldn’t hold back his smile. “Henry, I doubt your interest in her grandmother would offend her. And as to why she’s on Orkney, I think it has more to do with grain production than escape.”

Henry wasn’t listening. He tapped his foot against the bench in rhythm. “I should write to the brothers in Edinburgh. They might know more about why she’s here.”

“Or you could ask the girl.”

“I thought you said her name was Sari.”

“It is.” He just avoided saying it. His hand reached for a piece of blotting paper, and he wrote out her name as it would appear in the Old Language, unable to resist his curiosity. He let his pen linger, carelessly spreading ink where it touched the page.

Beautiful.
Sari
was beautiful.

CHAPTER THREE

S
ARI
nodded politely to the young man who brought porridge to the table. She gave him a half smile in thanks as Einar continued to ramble.

“—obviously something you’re not understanding. I’d not expect you to so quickly of course, but seeing as the growing season here is so short—”

“It’s similar to some of the land where I grew up.” Sari interrupted him, tired of his monologue. She took a drink of the excellent milk the village dairy produced and set down her mug. “Greta said you’d not had an earth singer here in many years. But I don’t feel any residual magic. Have you ever had one?”

Einar shrugged. “Not since I’ve been here. Before that? Who knows. Does it matter?”

Sari took a bite of porridge to avoid the sharp retort sitting on her tongue.

Henry, the friendly scholar who’d been peppering her with indirect questions about her grandmother for the past week, sat down on her left. He glanced between Sari’s carefully silent face and Einar’s complacent expression.

“Good morning. What are we talking about?” Henry asked.

“Henry,” Einar started, “you’ve been here a long while.”

“Indeed.” His bald head bobbed. “In fact, I’ve been here the longest, if you recall, Einar. Perhaps you’d forgotten that.”

Einar’s eyes narrowed, and Sari bit her lip and took another gulp of milk.

“I’m sure it’s easy to forget,” Henry continued, seemingly oblivious to Einar’s irritation. “You do have so much on your mind in the village. But in fact, I have been on Orkney for over two hundred years. And before that I was in Scotland. That’s where I met Damien, you see,” Henry said to Sari. “I met him in Scotland and we both came to Orkney. So you see, both Damien and I have been here far longer than Einar. But of course it’s very hard to remember those things when you are very busy.”

Sari managed to stifle a smile. “Thank you, Henry.”

“Of course,” Henry said. “But I’m reminded of my question: What are we speaking of?”

“Earth singers,” Einar grumbled with a curled lip. “The girl was asking if the land had felt an earth singer recently.”

“Oh.” Henry’s eyes went wide. “Probably not ever, Einar. Didn’t you tell the scribe house in Edinburgh this was untouched land?”

Sari sighed and closed her eyes. No wonder she’d been feeling stymied. She’d been searching for traces of old magic on ground that had never felt its touch.

“No,” Einar said. “What does it matter?”

“It matters quite a lot,” Sari said. “Land that has never known earth magic is like land that has never been plowed. It will take longer—much longer—for it to reach its full potential.” She took another drink of milk, emptying her cup before she banged it down. “You should not expect a full harvest this year. Petition to Aberdeen for a greater share of grain this winter.”

Einar looked ready to erupt. “Listen, girl, if you’re not up to the task—”

“No single singer is up to the task of breaking virgin ground in a short season’s time,” Sari said. “If you’d told my mistress at Adna’s House the truth—”

“Are you calling me a liar?” Einar growled.

“I’m calling you ignorant,” Sari said. “They should have sent three of us to break ground. I’ll need three times as long to do it on my own.”

She ignored the stubborn scribe on her right, now fuming in the near-silent room. Through their argument, the bustle of the longhouse had ceased and all eyes had turned toward them.

“You’re an arrogant chit, aren’t you?” Einar said. “I take it your father never used the back of his hand on that mouth.”

Henry sat silently next to Sari, watching the argument but making no move to interrupt. He glanced at her, and she could see the curve of a smile at the corner of his lips. It gave her a surge of confidence.

“My father didn’t need to raise his hand to me,” Sari said, continuing to eat her porridge like her heart wasn’t in her throat. “He is a wise man, and I was happy to listen to him and take his counsel.”

Einar was the worst sort of petty tyrant. She’d seen his type before, scribes or singers who gained prominence in a small community only to forget the true meaning of leadership, which was—her father had taught her—sacrifice.

His nostrils flared, and he looked seconds away from erupting in anger as the door banged open and a gust of the ever-present island wind blew into the room followed by the dark form of Damien.

Sari’s gaze swung toward him without thinking. In her weeks on the island, the man had been a ghost. She’d see him for a moment at the end of the common hall, then he was gone. People spoke of him, but he never appeared. They’d passed in the village once, but he’d had his hood pulled up and she didn’t even know if he saw her. Ingrid told Sari that it had been Damien to ready the small cottage where she had taken residence. It was stocked with wood for the fire and as clean as Adna’s House.

She wondered if he’d been the one to cut the clutch of wildflowers sitting cheerfully on the kitchen table.

Probably not.

Damien paused when he closed the door and turned slowly. Dark eyes swept the room as he pulled his hood back.