The Staff and the Blade by Elizabeth Hunter
“How can we help them if we don’t know who their sires are? How can we make sure they have some assurance of self-determination?”
“How can we help them”—her voice rose again—“when a councillor who said he would be their ally turns his back on them over one troubling report?”
“That is political reality, Sari. Konrad does not answer to you.”
“Konrad doesn’t even listen to me,” she scoffed.
“Trust me,” Gabriel said. “Everyone listens to you. They don’t have a choice when you spend most of your time yelling. You are the thorn in the side of every councillor who disagrees with you, scribe and singer alike.”
Sari thought she was supposed to be offended by that, but she just couldn’t find it in her to care.
※
Her mate found her in the back garden. Damien had been at the Archives all day. He spent most of his time when they were in Vienna working on a translation of Old Slavic battle songs from his grandmother. He was translating them into the Old Language, curious if any contained martial magic that could be recovered for the Irina.
He worked in the Archives, corresponded with his men in Istanbul, and avoided politics like the plague no matter how much his family tried to draw him in. Though his father had died in battle one hundred and twenty years before, his mother, the praetora of the region where Damien had been born, had never loosened her grip on power and politics. Katalin was as ruthless as she had ever been.
And she still disliked Sari.
Damien came and knelt beside her as she dug her hands in the soil. The garden was the only thing that gave Sari peace in the city. Well, the garden and her mate. The former was overgrown—they’d returned to Vienna only the week before—but it still recognized her song. The latter shifted her until she was leaning against him, still pulling weeds as she sat between his legs.
“Hello, milá.” He brushed her hair to the side and kissed her neck. “How is our brother?”
“He’s well.”
Damien kept away when Gabriel visited. Though the two could see each other in passing without Gabriel going into a rage, the relationship had never healed. Sari didn’t know if it could. Her brother covered his grief with work and political machinations, but he had never recovered from Tala’s death. And though Gabriel could acknowledge Tala’s part in putting herself at risk, Damien was still the easier target.
“He gave me some news that was not welcome,” she said. “Konrad has withdrawn his objections to the kareshta registry movement.”
“Hmmm.”
“That is not a surprised ‘hmmm.’”
“No, it’s not.”
“Did you see this coming?”
Damien paused before he spoke. “I know the number of women who come to the house in Istanbul,” he began, “and I also know that angelic presence is very low in my city.”
“Because of Jaron.”
“Because Jaron didn’t take many human lovers, and he didn’t allow many minor angels in his territory. But Jaron is gone, so that will likely change.”
“And?”
“And just in the past year, three women have come to our house looking for sanctuary. Three in a very quiet city.”
“And we sent them to Sirius.”
Sirius was part of Kostas’s faction, and the rebel Grigori was even more passionate about the women and children under his care. He had a keen mind and solid judgment. In fact, he reminded Sari very much of Damien.
“We send them to Sirius,” Damien agreed. “But not every watcher has a Sirius close by. And Kostas is very secretive about his resources. He won’t talk to many aside from you, Max, and Ava. So what do the other watchers do, my love? Where do the women go? Who teaches them about our world and makes sure they pose no threat?”
Much as she was loath to admit it, Damien had a point. “The Irina should be teaching them. I’m not as foolish as Gabriel seems to think. I don’t believe they should be taught powerful spells unless we know we can trust them. But I do believe we have a responsibility to at least teach them shielding.”
“I agree. But who will teach them?”
“There should be Irina in every scribe house,” Sari said, pulling more weeds and wishing she had something bigger to take her aggression out on.
“And there, my love, is the sticking point.” Damien leaned forward and rested his chin on her shoulder. “Do you think the Elder Council wants to admit they need the Irina? Not only back in the Library, but in every scribe house in every city around the world? Think about it. Any Irina who took such a posting would have to be powerful enough to teach and train the kareshta. Not only matrons and builders and healers. Martial Irina. In every scribe house.”
Her back went up. “And is that a bad thing?”
“To a council that has wielded absolute control for generations without answering to anyone? Absolutely. They see the martial Irina as a threat. Women who took the law into their own hands and fought under no one’s authority before the restoration of the singers’ council. No rules. No protocol. It will take time for attitudes to change.”
And Sari had to admit that most Irina trained in combat would buck at the thought of obeying a watcher’s commands. She was one of the few who had operated within the hierarchy before the Rending, and even that had been tempered by being a watcher’s mate. She couldn’t imagine Renata following orders. Or Mala. So who would take these positions?
She took a deep breath and leaned back into Damien’s chest. “I hate this.”
“There are no easy answers, Sari. We do the best we can.”
Move forward. That’s what they’d agreed on. Move forward to make a difference. To create a better world. No looking back.
But why did it have to be in Vienna?
“I hate politics.” She sat up and started yanking out weeds again. “I hate councilors who change their minds. And singers who can’t make up their minds. Factions with no leaders, and coalitions that exist solely to reject every reform proposed.”
Damien knelt beside her and began to pull weeds. “Don’t forget the polite speech.”
“Double-talk.”
“Endless compromise.”
“Fluid principles.” She ripped a stubborn dandelion out by the root.
“Covering your ass before looking out for the greater good.”
“Campaigns!” Sari yelled. “When no one is supposed to be bloody campaigning!”
Damien laughed and grabbed her around the waist, tackling her to the grass before he kissed her.
“We are not politicians, my love.”
Sari huffed. “I hate being bad at things.”
Damien laughed harder.
“But I’m shit at politics,” she said, his laughter making her smile. “I’m utter and complete shit at it. All I want is to walk into the Library and bash them all about their perfectly coiffed heads and kick their linen-covered asses. Maybe break some things.”
“I think you already did that.”
“Well, I’d like to do it again.”
His laughter fell away, and Sari closed her eyes as Damien traced a line along her jaw.
“They need you,” he said quietly. “Whether they appreciate you or not. They need you kicking their asses instead of kissing them. They need your passion. Your principles. Your unwillingness to bend.”
She sighed. “I know compromise is necessary.”
“There are plenty in Vienna willing to compromise,” he said. “What is needed is others who will hold them accountable.”
“So you approve of my obstinate disregard for political subtlety?”
“My love”—he kissed her nose—“I revel in it.”
※
Sari was chatting online with one of the haven guardians in Canada the next day. Several e-mails from Gabriel had told her everything she needed to know about the kareshta registry vote and the status of the motion. The council was still stymied, but this time it was by a few of the elders who didn’t want kareshta to hav
It was an extreme position, but it had split the coalition enough that no mandates would be handed down in the near future. For the moment, watchers would retain control over how they dealt with the women and children who came to them.
Sari was hoping that if enough of the watchers tapped Irina resources in their area to help them deal with the new kareshta, then the registry might become a moot point. Local singers and scribes could deal with each case individually, without the need for intervention from Vienna. It would also move more Irina into scribe houses and back into mainstream Irin society.
She heard a key rattle in the door.
“Sari?” Damien called.
“In the library.” She signed off from her session with Abigail’s daughter and closed the computer. “Why are you home already?”
She expected a teasing reply about missing his mate, but Damien said nothing. He wasn’t the most talkative of men, but his silence that afternoon unnerved her.
“Damien?”
He walked into the library and leaned against a bookshelf. “I received a letter from Katalin today.”
Sari frowned. “I didn’t see anything in the mail.”
“She sent a messenger.”
Sari rolled her eyes and decided to sort her own mail, which had been piling up for a week. Her mate’s mother could be singularly aristocratic, old-fashioned, and paranoid. “What did the letter say? Did she ask if I was dead yet?”
“Please don’t joke about that.”
Sari looked up. “You’re in a mood.”
Katalin had been appeased by Sari’s connections when Orsala was on the council, but she was still obsessed with bloodlines, and Sari suspected that—should she meet a tragic end—Katalin would waste no time in trying to breed Damien to a singer with Mikael’s blood.
Or breed him to any singer. Damien’s mother had been more than clear about her desire for grandchildren, a topic that Sari and her mate were currently avoiding.
“What did Katalin want?” she asked absently, sorting through the mail and mentally bracing herself for the children discussion again.
“She wants us to come for a visit.”
The letters dropped from her hand. “A what?”
“A visit.” Damien didn’t look any more thrilled than she did.
“To Rěkaves?”
“Yes.”
Sari paused, unsure of what reaction Damien might be expecting. “Do we have to?”
“When has my mother ever specifically requested that we come to visit her?”
Sari blinked. “Never.”
Sari and Damien had never been invited to his mother’s home even though the old castle where Damien had been born, raised, and trained as a warrior was only a little over four hours away by car. They had met his mother in Vienna twice. Once before the Rending and once in the past year after the Irina Council had been reformed. Both meetings had felt more like diplomatic visits than family dinners. Sari had briefly mentioned the possibility of Katalin becoming involved with the new council only to receive an unblinking, glacial stare.
Katalin of Vértes did not become directly involved in politics.
If Damien’s mother was requesting a visit, she had a reason other than meddling in Damien and Sari’s life.
“I think we must go,” he said. “She would not be asking unless it was important.”
Sari nodded, watching Damien as he read the letter again. It was written on thick linen paper with black ink calligraphy. Katalin didn’t use a computer or a secretary for her letters, Damien had once told her. If you received a letter from the praetora, it was written in her own hand.
“Damien?”
He looked up. “Yes, milá.”
“We’ll go. As soon as you like. I don’t have any meetings this week that can’t be postponed.”
“Thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” she said. “How long has it been?”
Damien looked up. “How long has what been?”
“How long has it been since you’ve been home?”
“Home?” Damien laughed, walked over, and kissed her, tossing Katalin’s letter on the pile of Sari’s mail. “I’d hardly call Rěkaves home.”
She smiled. “How long has it been, Damien?”
He stopped and stared out the window that looked into the back garden. “I went home briefly in 1890.”
“When your father died.”
“Yes.” He paused but said nothing more about his father. “Before that? The last time I lived in my mother’s home was at the end of the thirteenth century.”
Sari blinked. “So long?”
“I was only there for a few years before I left for Paris with the rest of the order.” He crossed his arms, but did not turn to her. “I went to Orkney after Paris, and you know the rest.”
Sari tried to imagine being so distant from her roots. Though she’d traveled, most of her life had been spent in Northern Europe and Scandinavia. Sarihöfn was home.
Damien turned and caught her expression. “Don’t look at me like that, milá. I am not a wanderer to be pitied.”
“But where are your roots, Damien?” The earth singer in her was dissatisfied with his response. “Where do you feel most at home? I can’t imagine, reshon.”
“Sarihöfn. London. Istanbul. You.” He walked over and kissed her cheek. “You are my home, Sari. I can wander the world for the rest of my life. The only home I need is you.”
CHAPTER TWO
DAMIEN used the hands-free calling on his phone to speak to Malachi while Sari caught a nap on their way north.
“So while we’re seeing more activity from new Grigori,” his first lieutenant was saying, “none of it is organized. Those we do track down are either low-level irritants or connected to Kostas in some way.”
Damien’s ears pricked at the mention of the rogue Grigori commander. “Are his men hunting in the city?”
“Some. So far everyone we’ve encountered has checked out with Sirius.”
Kostas was the leader of a faction of free Grigori, and Sirius was his second-in-command. They were sons of the Fallen whose angelic sires were dead and who chose to lead a more disciplined life. They did not hunt human women, though a few of Kostas’s men were in consensual—if precarious—relationships with humans.
Most of their focus was on hunting fallen angels. They also found and cared for kareshta and Grigori children who had not yet been corrupted. The more Fallen they killed, the more Grigori had free will. It was one of the reasons Damien had allowed the Grigori commander to take some of the heaven-forged blades from Mikael’s armory during the Battle of Vienna. To his knowledge, Kostas and his men had tracked and killed two Fallen since then, though they were only minor powers.
“Use caution when dealing with them. I don’t know how disciplined their command structure is,” Damien said.
“I suspect it is even more strict than ours.”
Because though a Grigori could live life without killing humans, it was still rare. They did not have written magic to control their need for human souls, nor did they have mates who fed their energy as the Irin did. The few who managed did so because leaders like Kostas kept them on a tight and brutal leash.
“How often do you speak to him?”
Malachi asked, “To Kostas? Rarely. But Ava has regular contact with his sister, Kyra, and Sirius and I have exchanged phone numbers.”
“Keep me informed if anything looks like it’s changing.”
Istanbul, his post for centuries, had always been a quiet one. Jaron, who had controlled the city for most of Damien’s term as watcher, had not allowed his sons to run rampant, nor had he hundreds or thousands of them as other fallen angels did. There was a brief spike in violence after Volund had taken over, but that had calmed when Jaron and Volund killed each other in Vienna. For the most part, Istanbul was a peaceful part of the Irin world, well able to allow
“Can you spare Leo right now?” he asked Malachi.
“I can.” The man paused. “Is there something I need to be aware of?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“I thought you and Sari were in Vienna.”
“My mother called us to Rěkaves, her castle west of Prague.”
“Going home for a visit?” he asked. “So why are you asking about Leo?”
“I have a feeling this isn’t a simple visit,” Damien said. “My mother does not do simple visits. She has some task for me.”
“You have Sari. And a veritable army of Mikael’s warriors in your mother’s training, if rumors are correct.”
“They’re correct…” He rubbed his jaw. “But I don’t know them. I don’t trust them. Or my mother. So if you could spare Leo, he would be welcome to join us.”
Malachi thought. “I can spare Leo. Max is here and grumbling about not having enough to do lately. So I’ll just double up his patrols. Do you want me to ask Mala as well?”
Damien’s ears perked up. “Is Mala there?”
“She and Orsala came for a visit with Ava and the children.”
He smiled. “And how are your tiny terrors?”
Malachi groaned. “Still not sleeping. Well, I should say that Geron sleeps very well. Until Matti wakes him. The poor little man has no rest from his sister.”
Sari grumbled at the talking and turned toward Damien in her sleep, a frown marring her face.
“Geron will have no rest from women,” Damien said, smiling at his sleeping mate. “It’s best he learns this early.”
“I’ll be sure to share this wisdom with my infant son. Out of my mate’s hearing, of course.”
“Good.” Damien smiled. “They are treasures, brother.”
“They are.” Contentment laced Malachi’s voice.
For the first year, nightmares had been Malachi’s constant companion. His feelings about children had been as conflicted as Sari’s after the battle. Ava’s pregnancy and his children’s birth had healed the cracks in his soul. Ava and Malachi were family, and Damien was relieved to witness their peace.