The Staff and the Blade: Irin Chronicles Book Four Read Online Free Page A

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.
    “Brothers. Sisters. Good morning.” He took the offered bowl of porridge and inclined his head in thanks. Then he walked to the table as if his joining them for breakfast was a daily occurrence and sat across from Sari at the table. He met her eyes briefly, then looked away. “Good morning, earth singer. Henry. Einar.”
    The common hall, which had been silent, felt void of sound. Sari had never seen Damien take his meals with the rest of the village. Ingrid, who was the village cook, said he often took his meals with Henry in the library, but other than the old scribe, he didn’t appear to have any friends.
    “Damien,” Henry said with a smile. “Perhaps you can clarify something for us. Has the ground around the village ever been worked by an earth singer?”
    Damien paused and pursed his lips. “Not one formally trained.”
    “Ah!” Henry said. “There you go, Einar. Damien has a far better memory than I do for practical things. With books, of course, I am far superior.”
    Sari saw the corner of Damien’s mouth