The Staff and the Blade: Irin Chronicles Book Four (2 page)

The scribe on his right said, “You haven’t even asked where you’re going.”

“Away from here,” Damien said. “Away from battle. And if heaven truly loves me, it will be somewhere warm.”

The scribe smiled, the clean lines of his teeth bright in the waxing moon. “Well, brother, two out of three isn’t bad.”

CHAPTER ONE

S
OLBJERG
, Denmark

1593

“S
COTLAND
?” Sari’s mouth dropped open. “You must be joking.”

“The outer islands,” her sister said. “Not the Scottish mainland. It’s not official yet, but—”

“Well, let’s make sure it doesn’t become official.” Sari stood and abandoned the stolen ivory she’d been practicing with.

“You know your mistress has the final say in your first assignment.” Tala grabbed her arm when she rose and shoved up the thick woolen sleeve. “You’ve got to be joking. This again?”

Sari scowled. “If you don’t try, you don’t know.”

“Only scribes can tattoo magic.”

“We’ll see when I try it.” Sari rubbed the raised welts on her skin where the needle had scratched careful letters she’d practiced for hours. She hadn’t tried it with ink. Yet. But she would. Her curiosity would not be satisfied until she’d attempted it. When she’d asked her old mistress, Greta had only given her a withering look and told her to concentrate on the soil. “I think I’ll try my thigh first. Then if it doesn’t work I won’t have to listen to Mother nagging me.”

“Do you ever just believe what you’re taught?” Tala asked.

“No. Why do you think Mother was so relieved when I was ready for training?” Sari pulled on her wrap. “She’d had fifty years of my experiments. She would have shipped me off to Vinland if they would have taken me.”

Tala laughed at her, and the tinkling sound filled the small room where Sari slept at Adna’s House. Though the house was new, Sari’s room was small and spare, befitting the apprentice she was. Tala’s room was across the hall, decorated with soft touches and examples of the needlework she was so fond of.

The other rooms in the large farmhouse outside Copenhagen were taken by young singers who were apprenticing with the women of Adna’s House. It wasn’t a school. Only the careful scribes with their libraries of rules had actual schools or academies. But singers of every line lived in Adna’s House. Some were widows. Others were unmated singers who had the gift of teaching. Singers who were mated to warriors in the Copenhagen scribe house often taught at Adna’s House, giving the large hall a wealth of teachers from all over Europe.

When young singers around Scandinavia were ready for training past what their community could provide, they petitioned to Adna. If there was room in the house, they were accepted. If you were Tala, with a growing gift of foresight, you were taken automatically. If you were Sari, with robust but more common earth magic, you prayed there was an open room. Luckily, there had been. Tala and Sari would not be separated.

The sisters had giggled with delight when they’d first seen their rooms. It was the first time they hadn’t shared a room or a bed since birth. For the first year, Tala had often crept into Sari’s room, taking comfort with her twin. Now, after ten years of apprenticeship with her mentor, Tala had grown in confidence but lost nothing of her sweetness.

Sari, on the other hand…

“What on earth could Greta be thinking?” Sari marched down the hall. “Scotland?”

“Orkney,” Tala soothed. “There has been an Irin community on the islands for hundreds of years, Sari, and they have never had an earth singer. For a long time it was only scribes, but so many have taken mates.” Her sister’s sky-blue eyes shone. “Children, sister. Like at home. The community is growing. Their farmers are struggling to grow enough to feed everyone. Greta thought you would be well suited to the position.”

Sari racked her brain for anything she knew about the outer islands, but she couldn’t think past her stabbing disappointment.

“And you?” she asked Tala. “Are they still sending you to Spain?”

Tala nodded. “The scribe house in Salamanca has been waiting for a singer of Leoc’s line for many years, sister.”

Sari stopped and put both her hands on Tala’s cheeks. Though they were mirrors in appearance, no one over mistook them for each other. While Sari was constantly out of doors, Tala was the softer sort. She enjoyed embroidery and reading. She loved to cook and mend.

“My sweet sister,” Sari said, “living in a rough scribe house surrounded by warriors. What is Nienná thinking?”

Tala blushed. “I’m sure there are mostly mated couples. The Salamanca house is old and established. It’s hardly an outpost in Vinland.”

In fact, Salamanca was one of the most prestigious scribe houses in Europe. There was a scribe academy nearby and a thriving Irin community. Tala’s appointment was an honor, but not surprising considering her skill and lineage.

Sari pinched her sister’s cheek. “Of course, maybe you’re not so reluctant to live among strong, virile warriors, eh?”

“Sari.” Tala covered her blush with both hands. “Don’t embarrass me. I’m hardly likely to find a mate when I’m so young. And I want to be taken seriously, not pursued by eager scribes.” Her blush flared again.

Sari laughed. “Your face tells the truth. And who said anything about a mate? A lover, then. Someone to give that sweet face a kiss or two. Those Spanish scribes will fall over themselves to please you.”

Tala turned away, wrapped her woolen cloak around herself and marched down the hall. “Didn’t you want to talk to Greta about your exciting mission to Scotland?”

Sari smiled at Tala’s back, but in her heart she mourned. Her whole life, her twin had been only a few steps away. Tala was her other half. Irin twins were attuned to each other since birth, and though their magic was often very different—as Sari and Tala’s was—they had a bond akin to that which mates shared. Sari could sense Tala’s feelings, knew her sister was equally excited and scared about her first assignment. But Tala would be heading to the heart of the Irin world, immersed in a land of culture and scholarship, while Sari…

Would be going to Scotland.

※

Spring winds whipped her long blond hair from the intricate knot she’d fashioned before she’d left Aberdeen. The boat from Copenhagen to Aberdeen had only taken a few days, but she’d boarded another smaller vessel to make her way to the outer islands. She’d been accompanied by no other singer. Hers was the only assignment on the isolated islands in the middle of the North Sea. The ship belonged to Irin merchants. The couple was transporting Sari and sacks of grain to the islands, then they’d be taking back a herd of sheep.

“Best lamb you’ve ever tasted comes from the islands,” the friendly man told her. “You can ask anyone around here.”

Though Sari had thoroughly studied the English language the man spoke, she had trouble deciphering his heavy accent. She was told the accent of the islanders was even more pronounced and many of them didn’t speak English at all. Luckily, the language they did speak, Norn, was a variant of old Norse that she’d have an easier time navigating than English.

“Sheep and cows,” she muttered. “So the islands have grass but no grain?” Sari kicked a bag of oats.

“Eh, it’s harder, isn’t it? The grass grows natural-like. The grain?” He shook his head. “That takes a singer’s magic.”

She leaned against the rough wooden board at her back. “I suppose that’s why I’m here.”

“And welcome you’ll be.”

A few hours later, the ship was docking in Kirkwall, the main port on Orkney. Sari bid farewell to the friendly Irin couple and waited for anyone or anything that looked familiar. She watched the sheep driven onto the boats, headed for the market in Aberdeen. There were humans all around her, but Sari had little trouble blending in. There was nothing outward that marked her as a daughter of angels. Unlike the heavily tattooed Irin men, Irina could blend seamlessly with the human population. She felt the whisper of their soul voices when she lowered her shields.

The Orcadians sounded like a peaceful bunch. Their features owed as much to the Norse as to the Scots, but their accent was unique, totally different than what she’d encountered in Aberdeen. But their soul voices…

Everywhere the same. Sari heard snatches of human thoughts and feelings when she lowered her shields, but nothing made her take notice until she caught the calm hum of an Irin scribe’s soul voice approaching from dockside. It was low, resonant, and oddly familiar, sending an unexpected shiver up her spine when a gust of wind snatched her hair and blocked her vision as she turned.

She brushed the hair away from her face to see the scribe approaching from the walkway along the noisy docks. He was as tall as she was and wore dark breeches on his long legs with worn leather boots up to his knees. A brown coat whipped around him in the wind, but he wore no hat. Only a hood covered his head.

The scribe nodded politely as he passed the humans but didn’t stop to speak to any of them. No one approached him. As he drew nearer, Sari was able to see his face. The unknown scribe was arresting in his visage. Damp, shaggy hair fell over dark eyes. His fierce gaze reminded her of the sea eagles who nested near her grandparents’ land and hunted on the fjord. No wonder none of the humans tried to stop him. If she hadn’t been expecting an Orcadian scribe to meet her, she would have avoided him as well.

Direct and unsmiling, the forbidding male approached her. “You are Sari?”

His voice called shivers up her spine, and Sari quickly shoved them down, embarrassed by her reaction to the somber man. “I am.”

The scribe sent his gaze down her body, then slowly up again until their eyes met. Nothing about him looked Orcadian. His hair was rust brown and his face planed. High cheekbones led down to a jaw covered with a thick beard. His eyes were dark brown with flecks of gold and green. He caught her gaze for only a second before he looked away.

“Einar was expecting an older singer.” His English wasn’t Orcadian either.

“Are there many older singers longing to settle on isolated islands in the middle of the North Sea?” Sari asked, shifting the satchel that held her most personal possessions. “If there are, perhaps one of them might take my place.”

He didn’t smile, but she could see his eyes lighten in amusement. “Don’t you find Orkney welcoming?”

“Not so far.” She looked pointedly at the small chest near her feet. “I have been traveling for almost a week. If you’d be kind enough to—”

“The wagon will take us to the other side of the mainland.” He bent down and hoisted Sari’s chest onto his shoulder.

Sari was barely able to conceal her surprise. It wasn’t a large chest, but she knew it was heavy. “Sir—”

“Damien,” he said as he began walking. “My name is Damien.”

Sari followed him with ease. She was a tall woman, like all those in her family, and she matched the scribe in height. If he’d asked for her assistance, she could have easily carried the other handle of the chest. “Would you like my help?”

“No.”

The wagon stood waiting at the end of the docks, a rounded Irina sitting on the driving board. She held out her hand with a cheerful smile. “Hello, dear. You must be Sari.”

Damien grunted and heaved her chest in the back of the wagon, then turned and walked back to the ship. Sari watched his retreating figure.

“Ignore Damien,” the woman said. “I’m Ingrid. Welcome to Orkney.”

Sari watched as Damien hoisted a sack of grain to his shoulder. “Should we help?”

“Oh no,” Ingrid said. “He prefers working alone. That’s just his way.”

The scribe had the strength and bearing of a warrior. An old one. So why was he carrying sacks of grain to isolated islands in the middle of the sea?

“Come join me.” Ingrid patted the board beside her. “Damien will ride in back.”

“Won’t he drive?” Sari climbed up behind the horses and set her satchel by her feet. If there was one thing she knew of all men in her village, they were always keen to be the one driving the wagon or sled.

“Damien?” Ingrid shook her head. “He doesn’t drive at all. Enough about the male, dear. Tell me about yourself! What brought you here? I’m sure Einar was expecting someone older, but I’m certain Greta wouldn’t have sent you to us if you weren’t a skilled singer.”

“I am,” Sari said. “I’m very good. It will take me some time to acclimate to the soil and vegetation here, but once I’m settled, your crops should be much more successful.”

Delight colored Ingrid’s features. “I do like a confident young woman! Very pleased to meet you. I cannot wait to see what Einar thinks of you.” Ingrid laughed. “This should be lively.”

CHAPTER TWO

T
HIS
was going to be a disaster.

Damien brought another bag of grain to his shoulder and lifted it, catching traces of the women’s conversation as he loaded the bags from the Aberdeen boat. The new singer was hardly more than a girl no matter how confidently she walked. And she wasn’t the kind of docile creature Damien associated with Ariel’s line. Earth singers were usually the calm, quiet sort, content to work their magic in the fields and woods, not quick-tongued women with eyes that cut through the comfortable cloak of numbness he’d worn for the past three hundred years.