Page 4 of The Storm
A blessing and a curse for one destined to wage war. Most Rafaenes took regular breaks from battle against the Grigori—the descendants of fallen angels who preyed on humanity—to rest and heal their spirit. It was accepted and necessary.
But when Renata had met him, Balien hadn’t taken a break in three decades. Forced into respite, he’d come to Renata’s beloved mountains, acting as a courier for a scribe house in Jerusalem. A tedious job for a warrior feared by demons on three continents.
But Renata had met him, and she knew. Balien had taken one look at her and been struck dumb. All they’d needed was a single touch to feel their connection.
Reshon.
Destined by heaven, Balien was the man designed to complete Renata’s soul, as she’d been created for him. Once they mated, they would live in each other’s subconscious, connected by dreams, even if their paths took them to opposite corners of the earth. It was the mating that every Irin dreamed of.
She rested her head against his heart, listening to the strong beat of it as her parents’ distant voices grew nearer.
“… the conflict between the written and the oral versions of the tale only confirm—”
“That there is no conflict?” her mother asked with a laugh. “Why must everything be so rigid, Giorgio? Scribes must write everything down and file everything in neat boxes. That is not how Irina history is kept.”
“Which makes it less exact,” Giorgio said.
“Which makes your scrolls only words on a page,” said her mother, Heidi. “They convey nothing of the meaning—the emotion—behind the history.”
“And do you wantemotionwith your history?” Giorgio asked. “Is that necessary for learning?”
“Of course we do,” Balien said quietly, interrupting him. “For the horror of war isn’t captured by words, Father, but by the lament of a widow. The cries of a fallen brother. If we forget the emotion behind history, we have lost our souls.”
Giorgio nodded deeply. “I see your point, my son.”
“But you didn’t see mine?” Heidi said. “It had to come from a soldier for you to listen?” She narrowed her eyes and stalked up the path, brushing past Balien as Giorgio ran after her.
“Heidi!” he cried. “That’s not what I was trying to say. I was only…”
Their voices drifted in the distance as Renata bit her lips to hold in her laughter.
“They will be like this always,” Balien said. “Won’t they?”
Renata let herself laugh. “I’m afraid so.”
He took her hand and tugged her along. “Ah, we can always take to the roads if it becomes too much.”
“I can protect you,” Renata said. “I have my staff.”
Balien winked at her. “Thank heaven.”
Despite his joking, she knew he adored her family. His own parents were formal and a bit distant. Not unloving, but it was not in their way to be familiar. The chaos and warmth of the library at Ciasa Fatima was welcome to him. It was a small library with only four or five families in residence at once. They were constantly running out of room for people in favor of making room for books, so rooms were constantly being added and construction never ceased. It was crowded and messy and highly unorganized in anything nonacademic.
And Renata thought it was glorious.
Her mother and father were the undisputed leaders of the small Irin community as others came and went, but those who left always came back to visit. Ciasa Fatima was a haven in the wilderness and free of the politics that often marked larger and more connected libraries.
They crested the last hill before the house and almost ran into Giorgio and Heidi.
“Father?” Balien asked. “What is it?”
Both her parents were frozen. Still as statues. They stared into the distance, and Renata could feel a deep surge of magic swirling around them.
Balien’s eyes followed theirs and he pushed her behind him. “Renata, stay back.” He drew out the twin silver daggers he always wore.
“Balien?”
Giorgio grabbed his own daggers and fell into step behind Balien. For though every Irin male was tasked with the protection of wisdom and knowledge, every scribe was also a warrior, trained in the killing arts to protect the vulnerable.
