The Staff and the Blade Page 2

  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

  THIS 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.

  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

  SARI 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 man
y 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.”