The Staff and the Blade: Irin Chronicles Book Four (6 page)

“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.”

Damien scowled. “Why would anyone choose to do that?”

“Personal goals. Family obligations. There are any number of very good reasons.”

Disastrous woman.
He craned his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of her in the fields. “I’ll make her see it. I’ve lived alone too long.”

“Yes,
you
have,” Henry said. “But
she
is young. Many singers do not want the obligations of family and mate so early in life.”

Damien turned back to his friend. “You asked me why I know it is her.”

“Yes.”

“Because she is my equal.”

“…may you be blessed to find a mate as warlike as yourself…”

The words, spoken almost three hundred years before, came back to him. His equal. That was what his soul was looking for. A woman with the spirit to stand at his side. Not follow him, but stand beside him and fight as long and as hard as he would.

“Damien.” Henry dropped his voice. “You are a battle-hardened warrior of Mikael’s line. Both your mother and father were of the guardian’s blood. You were commissioned by the Elder Council and pledged to one of the most feared human orders in the world because of your skill in battle and strategy. You have slain hundreds of Grigori and killed one of the Fallen with your own hand.” Henry paused. “You know the council will call you back someday, and you will be given charge over a house. Most likely a significant one.”

“I know all this.”

“This girl is an earth singer of the northern people and barely out of her training.”

“Yes,” Damien said. “And she is my equal.”

CHAPTER FIVE

I
RRITATING
man. Sari saw him in the longhouse as she entered to take her morning meal. The quiet scribe had taken to eating breakfast as early as she did. Prior to what she was now thinking of as their disastrous conversation, he rarely spent time with others of the village. He was a loner, which didn’t surprise her. He was polite to everyone, spare of speech, and only truly smiled at the children.

Ever since she’d made the mistake of being truthful, he’d dogged her. If she was eating breakfast alone, he would join her and ask her how she had slept. If she was sitting by the fire, he’d sit across from her and draw in a leather-bound journal he always carried with him. If she asked for volunteers to work a field, he was always the first to step forward.

It was maddening.

She hadn’t been lying. She wasn’t a silly girl to find his quiet ways intriguing. The men in her life were bold men who spoke their mind, often without being asked. Her father was loud, possessed of an infectious laugh and a raucous sense of humor. Sari absolutely adored him. Her grandfather was quieter but always had a story ready for his loved ones. Her first lover,
only
lover, had been a sweet scribe from a neighboring village who had shared her passion for learning and debate. They were still fast friends who would meet for meals and stories when they could.

Damien’s mysterious history and taciturn demeanor did nothing but irritate Sari.

That morning she hadn’t been sitting long enough for her oats to cool before he sat across from her and put his own bowl down.

“Mirren mentioned that your sister is in Spain,” Damien said without preamble. “Would you like to know of it?”

“Yes. But I want to know it from her.”

He nodded. “Yet she is not here. I am.”

Sari paused. “You have been to Spain.”

“I have been many places,” he said quietly. “Spain is one of them.”

Sari
did
want to learn of Tala’s new home from her own sister, but no letters had yet reached her. She ached for knowledge of the strange world her twin now lived in.

“What is it like?”

A slow, fond smile spread across Damien’s face. “Warm.”

“Warm?”

“In the summer, almost too warm. The earth bakes as if the sun was its oven, and the dust can spread everywhere. Sometimes weeks or months will go by with no rain.”

“No rain at all?”

“None.” He pulled out his leather journal. “But the summer is also when the grapes grow sweetest and the orange trees blossom.”

“Oranges?” Sari was entranced. She’d heard of the sweet fruit that grew in warm countries but had never tasted it or smelled its blossom. She’d only seen pictures in books.

“The wind is filled with the scent of them,” Damien continued. “Some days it feels as if the sweetness coats your skin because the air is so laden.”

He opened his journal and paged to the front. Sari tried not to crane her neck when she looked. Each page was filled with intricate drawings and words in a flowing script she recognized from his tattoos. Coins and scraps of paper were tucked into the seams along with some leaves and faded blooms. He found the page he was looking for and turned it toward her, lifting a pressed flower from the book.

“Here.” He held it out. “This is what the blossoms look like. They’re pure white on the tree.”

Sari took the delicate flower and held it to her nose, but no hint of scent remained. Still, she examined it, noting the size and shape of the petals. The leaf. The stem. “Do you have others?”

“Other flowers?”

She nodded, eying his journal. “How many places have you been?”

The flicker of a shadow in his eyes. “Many places.”

“So you said.”

He took the dried bloom from her hand and folded it carefully in the paper before he placed it back in the book. He said nothing for minutes, so Sari went back to eating her breakfast and tried to ignore her burning curiosity.

“The world is full of beautiful, wild places,” Damien finally said softly. “Sadly, it’s also full of violence and danger.”

She set down her bowl. “Which is greater, the beauty or the violence?”