The Staff and the Blade: Irin Chronicles Book Four by Elizabeth Hunter Page A

whisper of Damien’s unique resonance. The depth of it went straight to her stomach, though she didn’t catch anything meaningful. Sari slammed her shields up again and bent to her task.
    “Careful, she’s ornery,” Sari said, lifting up a hoof.
    “I have her.” Damien hummed and held the ewe. “Ornery females like me. Even when they won’t admit it.”
    Sari rolled her eyes but kept her mind on her task. The flock’s hooves weren’t terrible, but they were overgrown and she was worried about rot.
    “Why did he wait so long?” Sari muttered.
    “Einar waits until the ground is driest. Here, that means almost into June.”
    She grunted and went back to her task.
    “You have a steady cut,” he said. “Strong hands.”
    “Do you have an opinion about my mannish hands?”
    “You mistake me, Sari. I’ve never held anything but admiration for a woman with a good strong grip.”
    She glanced over her shoulder as she let the ewe’s leg down. Damien’s eyes were dancing though he didn’t smile.
    “Bedding humor, scribe?”
    “Forgive me. The sight of a fine woman’s legs does move the imagination. Do you always wear breeches when you’re with the animals?”
    “Skirts are cumbersome. And why does no one ever remark on males wearing breeches?” She glanced at him as he pulled another ewe up the low platform. “Perhaps women’s imaginations are as prone to wander at the sight of a man’s fine thigh?”
    “Wonder away, milá . Let me know if you’d like to inspect my thighs more closely. I am more than happy to satisfy your curiosity.”
    She said nothing for a time and concentrated on her task. They weren’t the only couple in the field trimming. The pasture was filled with the sounds of laughter and joking, along with an occasional curse or the bleating complaint from a sheep.
    “Speaking of your thighs…”
    Damien barked out a short laugh. “Were we? Please continue.”
    Sari offered him a reluctant smile as she lifted the back hoof of a particularly noisy ewe. “You wear many talesm for a scribe your age. Your torso is covered. How far down do they go?”
    Damien was suddenly quiet.
    Sari was surprised. Most scribes, in her experience, were happy to speak of their talesm. More than happy, some bordered on gloating. A man who wore talesm such as Damien would be the envy of others.
    She had no capacity for delicacy. “Did I offend you in some way?”
    He shook his head and bent to hold the sheep. “Continue. We’ve hours of work yet.”
    “And here I thought it would pass quickly while we talked of thighs.” Sari bent over again and lifted the right hoof. “If I offended you, I apologize.”
    “You didn’t offend me. I do carry a heavy number of talesm for my age.”
    “It’s a testament to your strength, I’m sure.”
    “More a testament to my breeding.”
    She stood and untied the red yarn from around the sheep’s neck and slapped it away, snagging another marked with red. “Breeding?”
    “Yes.”
    Sari paused, but he didn’t continue. “You can’t say something like that and then—”
    “Why don’t you believe in fate?” Damien put a fist on his hip. “That is like me saying I do not believe in the sun. Or in the earth. Fate exists. It moves us all. The happiest unions I have known have been reshon.”
    “Matings do not have to be reshon. Hold her.” She bent and picked up a front hoof as Damien put strong arms around the ewe’s neck and shoulder. His hold meant that she could feel his heat. Feel his breath against her neck when he spoke.
    “They don’t have to be reshon,” he said, “but the best ones are.”
    “I don’t agree. My parents are not reshon. They chose each other when they mated. They loved each other and they chose each other.” Her cheeks were red, but she refused to be embarrassed. She was a grown woman. There was no shame in stating her desires. “That’s what I want. To be chosen, not swept up in a mystical inevitability.”
    “What if your