The Grove

NINE

Aradin’s head snapped up in startled realization. He stared unseeing through the mesh of the Bower dome for a long moment, so startled, he couldn’t even think a coherent thought at his Guide. Teral, equally shocked, stayed for a moment, then ducked into the Dark to ask it questions. Guessing which ones the older Witch intended to ask, Aradin focused on the outer world, leaving the inner one to his partner.

Turning, he spotted Saleria kneeling as usual in the center of the mossy ground. The midmorning prayers had been handled, a good lunch had been served by a contrite Nannan, and from the looks of the papers stacked in front of her, the Keeper of the Grove was almost done with the midafternoon lot.

Keeper, yes, but not fully its Guardian.

Aware she still had at least two more prayers to go, Aradin regathered his wits and turned back to the tablet resting on the worktable. A chime startled him into whipping around again just in time to see Saleria scowl and open her eyes. She glanced over at the mirror hanging in the air, little wisps of blonde hair floating around her head.

“I can get it,” Aradin offered, seeing her tenuous hold on the magics she had raised, and nearly lost at the interruption.

At her curt nod, he hurried across the patchwork ground, sticking mostly to the moss and stepping over the sap-slick flagstones. Their earlier efforts to clear the greenery from the ground had simply let the overflowing sap slowly seep out and coat everything. If his flash of insight was correct, they would be able to stop that overflow in short order, but it would first require figuring out how to do what needed to be done.

Tapping the mirror, he activated it with a touch of will and his favorite activation word. “Shauhan.”

The silvered glass flickered blue, then resolved into the image of a brown-haired man. He wore a plain but fine-spun brown tunic fastened down the front with the cloth buttons favored by the eastern kingdoms of Shattered Aiar. It almost blended into the image of book-laden shelves at his back, but not quite. The stranger narrowed his gray eyes. “You are not the Guardian of the Grove. Who are you, and what are you doing with this mirror?”

“You must be Guardian Kerric Vo Mos of the Tower,” Aradin stated quietly, making an educated guess. He kept his voice low and smooth, not wanting to disrupt his partner’s concentration. “I am Aradin Teral, assistant to Keeper Saleria—Guardian Shon Tastra can confirm my assignment. Guardian Saleria is currently busy at the moment with her midafternoon prayers. If you need to speak with her directly, I would suggest rescrying in . . . a quarter hour?” He glanced over at Saleria, who nodded but didn’t open her eyes. “Yes, in a quarter hour. Otherwise, if your query is simple, perhaps I might be able to handle it.”

“. . . I’ll call back.” A flick of Guardian Kerric’s hand ended the link.

Aradin returned to his workbench. He rechecked the notes on the crystal tablet, waiting for Saleria to finish. Teral returned before she did.

(Confirmed,) his Guide said. (The Keeper of the Grove is not fully attuned to all three rifts.)

(Why do I sense a hint of foreboding news in your tone?) Aradin asked.

(Because there is one,) Teral returned grimly. (The original Keeper, Patia, was strong enough to control and blend all three rifts at their full strength. None of us can do so. However . . . each of us is more than strong enough to control one of the rifts. Saleria, you . . . and me. And it would be a very good thing to attune each one of us to a specific locus tree, then blend our magics. But that draws up a host of other problems.)

(Such as our ongoing presence here, versus our duties to the Church back home,) Aradin agreed. (Teral, I can tell you right now that there is an entire lifetime’s worth of Hortimancy work here in the Grove, and I feel very much compelled to stay and help fix it . . . but I am also a Witch of Darkhana. Not just you, but me. We would have to obtain permission to stay. Not just from the Church elders, but from our God and Goddess, and from the God and Goddess of this land.)

Teral agreed. (True. But we don’t have to wait for the Convocation to do so.)

(I know we can petition Darkhan and Dark Ana directly, but we don’t have that kind of connection with Jinga and Kata,) Aradin pointed out.

(No, but she does.) Teral didn’t have to nudge Aradin into glancing at their companion. Aradin was already staring at Saleria, if with a somewhat unfocused gaze.

Sharpening his attention, Aradin studied her. (How do you . . . ? Oh! The prayer petitions!)

Teral clasped him on the shoulder, soul to soul. Warmth flowed between the two men, until the older Guide patted and released him. (I will go speak with our Patron Deities. You find pen and paper to write her a petition. And do hurry; it looks like she’s down to her last sheet.)

(Last but one.) Letting Teral step off into the Dark, Aradin tugged a sheet out of his notebook and, grasping his translation pendant for surety, carefully wrote his request on the page. He stepped away from the table and crouched in front of the quietly praying woman, waiting for her to finish.

This close to the Katani priestess, Aradin felt the magic of her efforts against his skin like a warm, prickly breeze. The moment she sighed and moved to set the sheet in her hands aside, opening her eyes, he placed his quickly written page before her, turned so she could easily read it. Saleria’s brows rose, then drew down together . . . then rose again. She looked between him and the page, and recited what he had written.

“Unto Most Noble Jinga and Most Gracious Kata, does the Darkhanan Witch Aradin Teral send greetings, honorings, and this most fervent request: Please grant Your permission, provided that Your Siblings Holy Darkhan and Holy Dark Ana agree, for Aradin Teral to be assigned permanently to Your Sacred Marital Grove as a Hortimancy assistant to Keeper Saleria, for the purpose of re-taming, healing, and rendering the Sacred Grove safe once more for Your many worshippers to visit and experience directly.

“Aradin Teral believes fervently that Your Sacred Grove should be restored to the peaceful, pastoral beauty it was renowned for before the Shattering of Aiar, and though he is oathbound into the service of Holy Darkhan and Holy Dark Ana, believes fervently that Their Siblings’ Sacred Grove should be restored for the glory of Blessed Kata and Great Jinga,” she continued, sneaking another look at him. “Aradin and his Guide Teral are willing to dedicate time, effort, and many years to this task under Your Holy Keeper Saleria’s guidance. If this is Your will . . . please make Your mark or marks upon this prayer request sheet so that all who view it may know that this is truly Your divine will.

“If this is not favorable in Your Eyes, then let this page turn to ash, and Witch Aradin Teral will merely continue with his current assignments.” Lowering the page, she looked at him.

Aradin pressed his palms together in the near-universal gesture of prayer, and asked, “Holy Sister, will you pray for the granting of my request?”

Wryly amused, a soft huff of a laugh escaped her. She stared past his shoulder for a few moments, considering the merits of his prayer petition, then shrugged. “As it is a prayer that would only bring glory and benefit to Kata, Jinga, and the people of the Empire . . . I will pray for your request. I cannot guarantee that it will be accepted, but I will pray.”

“That is all one can ask,” Aradin reassured her. Rising, he bowed. “I should get back to work—”

The mirror chimed again. Sighing, she pushed to her feet and moved over to it. “Baol.”

Guardian Kerric Vo Mos reappeared inside the silvery rectangle. “Ah, Guardian Saleria. I spoke with a gentleman a few minutes ago . . .”

“Witch Aradin Teral. He has my permission to answer the scrying mirror in my absence, accept messages, and make minor promises,” Saleria stated. The mirror showed Kerric relaxing and nodding. Guardians tended to be protective over who had access not only to their own Fountains and so forth, but to their fellow Guardians’ resources as well. “What can the Guardian of the Grove do for the Guardian of the Tower today?”

“We were wondering if you had on hand, or could get ahold of, any copies of Katani prophecies that might be pertinent to the Netherhell problem,” Kerric said.

“Ah, sorry—I meant to go through mine and make copies for you,” Aradin told Saleria, joining her by the mirror. He nodded at the other Guardian as well. “But it’s about as easy to enchant two copies as it is to make just one. You should have them within a couple days, if that’s alright.”

“That will be fine. I’ve asked the other Guardians to look for pertinent local Seer prophecies . . . and had a request from the Guardian in Mendham to send her copies of everything for the Great Library,” Kerric added dryly. “I may be in love with a Mendhite of my own, but their national obsession with the written word can be a bit much at times.”

“You’re in love with a Mendhite?” Saleria asked, curious.

The smile that spread across Kerric’s face looked a bit dopey, even mushy, for a moment before he returned to his normal businesslike demeanor. “Myal the Mendhite . . . whom you’d know about if you ever accepted my offer of a scrycasting contract. She’s magnificent in action when she’s running a gauntlet, intelligent when she’s working behind the scenes . . . and for whatever Gods-blessed reason, she loves me just as much as I love her.” He flashed Saleria a grin and a flick of his gaze toward the man at her side. “I hope the two of you get to know such a wonderful feeling. With whomever, of course.”

Saleria blushed. Aradin coughed into his fist. Clearing his throat, he answered for both of them. “We’ll, ah, keep that in mind. Actually, I was just thinking a little while ago that all our prophecies should be copied and distributed among all the Guardians. Particularly the ones that deal with multiple locations. A demonic invasion will cause ripples of change across many lands, not just one or two.”

“Very true. The Tower will loan its magics toward the recopying and distribution of all collated prophecies and other such information of interest,” the curly-haired Guardian pledged, glancing off to the side and making a half-seen gesture. “I know Tipa’thia would rather it was her doing all of this centralized paperwork, but the Tower has the centralized connections.”

Saleria looked down at the prayer petition in her hands, looked up at the man at her side, then around at the Grove for a moment. She smiled softly. “On another note, Guardian . . . considering that I might finally have a solution to some local problems on my end . . . I might one day be able to take up that scrycasting offer of yours. If I actually do come to a point where I’ll have the time and energy to spare to watch your Tower adventurers.”

The Guardian of the Tower sat up at that. “You’d be interested in a scrycasting contract?”

“Not immediately . . . but with luck, I’ll soon be able to stop running my own version of gauntlets and have the leisure to watch others navigating difficulties. Now, if that is all, Guardian, I still have one more prayer to complete today,” she added politely. “We’ll get those prophecy copies to you as soon as we can.”

At his nod, she touched the mirror frame to end the call, then sighed. “I need to recontact the Department of Prophecies. They were supposed to gather up a collection of Convocation-related prophecies. I might as well ask them for Seer-foretold Netherhell invasion possibilities as well.”

“We’ll be a little late in the day’s schedule, at this rate,” Aradin warned her. “But his request is important.”

She sighed. “I know. First I’ll try to contact someone in the Department. If we have to wait, I can focus on your prayer request. Although I do wonder why you put in the bit about having Jinga and Kata mark this request sheet. Usually Their miracles are more subtle or widespread than that.”

Aradin nodded, but gestured at the page. “It occurred to me that, with such a long-standing tradition of the true needs of your position going unmet or ignored, that it would likely take a Divine Decree to get your superiors to accept all the changes you and I would like to implement. It also addresses the very pertinent fact that I am a foreign priest, sworn to a different set of Patron Deities. I know there are sticklers who would object strongly to my presence, based on this fact alone, and that again it might require a Divine Decree to ensure I am permitted to stay here at your side, assisting in the restoration of the Grove.”

“You have a point,” she allowed. Glancing between him and the mirror, she fluttered her hand off in the direction of his worktables. “Well. Since you’ve pointed out you’re not an officially approved presence just yet, go off over there and get back to work while I try to contact Councillor Thannig of the Department of Prophecies on this thing, if I can refocus it. We don’t need them to see you here and be distracted by trivialities that will hopefully be settled by the end of the day.”

Bowing politely in agreement, Aradin moved back to his table and his experiments on the flow and melding of three disparate sources of magic here in the Grove. Belatedly, he remembered he had not yet discussed the fact that each locus tree rift needed a Guardian attuned to it, but knew it could be handled later. Such as tonight . . . when we’re supposed to be discussing her packing needs for the Convocation, with all the temptations of being in her bedroom . . .

Right. I’d better write myself a note to address it tomorrow, once we’re back here in the Grove. Somehow, I think we’ll be busy with other concerns tonight. One way or another.

By the end of supper, Saleria could feel herself frowning. She managed to dredge up a smile of thanks at Nannan’s choice for dessert tonight, a layering of different fruits, a drizzle of cream, and a light dusting of spices, but the frown came back even before she scraped up the last slice of juicy toska, sweetened by the pear from the other layers but still tart enough to make her mouth pucker. It wasn’t the naturally tangy-sour fruit that made her frown, though.

“Is something wrong?” Aradin finally asked, leaning close to murmur the question while Nannan took his and Daranen’s dishes back to the kitchen.

She thought about it a moment, then nodded at the sheet of paper sitting next to her plate. “I haven’t seen anything about the paper change yet. I know I put power into my prayer. And it’s not an unreasonable request by any means. Not like . . . not like asking for a child’s deceased parents to be brought back to life.”

“Hm. Well, the answer isn’t a flaming ‘no,’ either,” Daranen pointed out. When both of the others looked at him, he shrugged and lifted his palms. “Jinga has been known to intervene when He doesn’t want something to happen . . . and even Serene Kata has an occasional flare-up of temper.”

“True,” Saleria agreed, lifting her brows briefly. They came back down into a frown, making her aware of the tension building up in her muscles as they waited, and waited, and waited. She looked over at the Darkhanan to her left. “Hasn’t Teral returned yet? You said he left when you presented this to me. He’s been gone for several hours now.”

“Time in the Dark doesn’t always move at the same rate as time out here in Life,” Aradin said.

“Maybe he got lost?” the middle-aged scribe offered. “The Dark is dark, after all. Otherwise they’d call it the Light, or something.”

The blond Witch shook his head, letting his hair slide over his shoulders. “No. It’d be impossible for Teral to get lost. For one, he has many decades of experience traversing the Dark. For another, his soul is literally bound to my Doorway by an unbreakable strand of his very self. Delayed, yes. But lost, never. Not while we are bound together, and not while I live.” He lifted his water glass, hesitated, then dipped his head. “Of course, if I were to die of a sudden shock, then his tether to my Doorway would snap. But he’d know it, and know to head for the Light, after reporting my death to the others in the Church . . . and probably not until after he’d gone looking for my soul, to steady it and prepare it for another Witch-acolyte to accept.”

“I thought someone had to be on hand for that,” Saleria said. “Like you were, for him.”

“There’s a small period of grace, a handful of days, where it’s easy to bind a soul into a Doorway. The longer a soul wanders in the Dark, however, the more difficult it becomes for them to find a potential Host, enter their Doorway, and bind themselves in place,” Aradin told them. “The longest case I know of would be Sir Niel, who wandered for almost a year and a half in the Dark before he found the Doorway of his Hostess, Orana.”

“Sir Niel?” Daranen asked. “He wasn’t a Witch?”

The emphasis her clerk put on that title made Saleria wonder what else she didn’t know about the rest of the world. Aradin drank from his cup, set it down, and glanced between Saleria and her scribe.

“It’s . . . a complicated story,” he said. “It involves a deep, hidden betrayal, the framing of someone for a most brutal murder, and one of the deepest miscarriages of justice I have ever known or heard about. But the telling of it would easily take all night, and then some,” he demurred, rising from his seat. Offering Saleria his hand, he added, “If I remember correctly, you requested my advice on what to pack for the Convocation once your work for the day was done, yes?”

Blushing, Saleria set down her spoon, scooted back her chair, and placed her hand in his. Covertly, she glanced at Daranen, only to see her scribe looking away, but not quite able to hide his smile. Her face warmed further, but at least he didn’t seem to object to the idea of her and her guest heading off to her bedchamber. “Yes, I should like your advice on what to pack. I haven’t traveled much in my career, while you have.”

“Good night, you two,” Daranen stated, picking up his wine cup to sip at the dregs. “Don’t wear yourselves out by ‘packing’ all night long. You’ll still have to work in the morning.”

Aradin choked. Coughing, he tried not to grin too much. Leaning over, Saleria picked up her own water glass with her free hand and offered it to him. He accepted it, but cleared his throat and spoke before sipping. “Careful, milady . . . In some cultures, drinking from the same cup is the same as an offer, and acceptance, of marriage.”

It was Daranen’s turn to choke. Saleria blushed again. Before she could speak, however, Aradin sipped from the cup, cleared his throat again, and returned it to her with a slight bow.

“But then, it also requires a special drink to be held in the cup, and not just plain water. So you’re safe from marriage.” Keeping her other hand tucked in his, he tugged her gently away from the table as soon as she set the glass down. He waited until they were at the foot of the stairs to the upper floor, then lifted her fingers to his lips for a brief kiss. “That is, for now.”

And I thought the ongoing frown was annoying, Saleria thought, following him up the steps. I’m surprised my hair hasn’t caught fire from the burning in my cheeks! She didn’t have to guide him to her bedroom; he went straight to the right doorway without prompting. He did, however, wait for her to step in front of him and open the door before following her inside.

Her bedchamber was just high enough that, in the daytime, she could see into the Grove over the top of its wall. She had plenty of windows, too—four pairs of sashes that could be swung outward, each one glazed with two dozen rectangular panes set in carefully leaded frames. But night had fallen while they ate their supper, leaving the pair with a greatly darkened view.

At night, only the two moons, the stars in the sky, the ward-stones on the wall, and little hints of those waxy, faintly glowing nodules could be seen through the gloom outside. There were lights in Groveham, lightglobes and oil lanterns and the like, but that was on the other side of the house; not much light reached the Grove itself, just whatever the stars and moons and the faintest traces of magic could provide.

The moment she rapped on the lightglobe by the door, even that much of a view vanished. It was replaced by awkward, if well-lit, reflections of the two of them entering her chamber. Saleria felt almost as disjointed as her gridwork-disrupted image did, as if there were several versions of herself competing for space in her room: The part of her that was the Keeper, knowing she had to get up before sunrise in the morning. The part of her that was a priestess, knowing she couldn’t lead Aradin into expectations of a romantic encounter without at least some sincerity of affection from her heart. The part of her that honestly did want help in packing for what had to be the single most monumental religious moment in two hundred years, the chance to stand before not just her own Patron God and Goddess, but the Patron Deities of hundreds of nations around the world. The part that wanted to take him in her arms, and somehow get them to her bed without any awkwardness, or pauses, or . . .

Feeling awkward, she turned and backed up to the bed, with its feather-stuffed mattress shaken and patted and mounded until it was fluffy and high, and dropped onto its edge. Dented its perfection. Sat there feeling awkward, tired, and wanting without any getting.

“I have no idea how to do this . . .”

She didn’t realize she had spoken until the words were already out, filling the quiet between them. In three steps, he was close enough to kneel at her white-clad feet. In two heartbeats, he had her hands cradled in his. In one smile . . . lopsided and honest . . . he warmed her heart.

“If you’re talking about packing, I can help with that,” Aradin told her. He continued before she could correct him. “But if you’re talking about having a man at your bed, I have enough experience to know what to do . . . but I also know it’ll be different with you.”

She considered his words, then eyed him warily. “Different, because each woman is an unique individual when it comes to tumbling, and lovemaking, and all of that?”

Freeing one hand, he touched his finger to her lips. Content she would stay silent, Aradin explained. “Different, because if I could have stood before my God and Goddess—and before yours, too—and said to Them, ‘This is what I want with my life; this, and thus, and so, and these are the things I have always longed for’ . . . my youthful visions of turning my predilection for working with plants and my burgeoning magics into an outstanding, challenging Hortimancy career . . .

“Things like my yearnings to explore the vast world, and my longings for a wonderful place to settle down.” He shifted his hand, brushing the backs of his fingers lightly against the velvety-soft skin of her cheek. “My dreams of a brilliant, willing partner to work at my side and share my life . . . If I had gone to Them and stood before them, and a hundred and more Gods besides . . . then this is what They would have given me.” Hazel gaze earnest, he looked into her eyes and gave her the absolute truth. “I do not pray every day like you do, conducting empowered pleas capable of moving mountains, praying literally to make the world a better place . . . but I have faith, absolute faith, that They will grant these things to me, and grant similar things to you.”

Touched deeply by his words, Saleria covered his hand with her own, cradling it against her cheek. She turned her head to the side for a brief kiss, then lowered their shared touch to her lap, where their other hands were still clasped. “Considering I know you didn’t set out to be a priest originally, I am grateful you do feel a calling, now.”

Aradin smiled, ducking his head a little. “. . . If I admit I’m a little surprised by the strength of it, will that count against me?”

She snorted, scoffing at the idea. “Considering I’m smart enough to realize your desire to serve as a priest is tied up with your desire to work as a Hortimancer, no, I’m not that surprised. You do so in a slightly different way than I, but we both still serve.” Leaning close, she brushed her lips against his brow. “And that’s why I’m falling for you. All of you.”

Lifting his chin, he met her next forward sway lips to lips . . . and felt a jolt of sunshine within him, making him gasp. One strong enough that she gasped, too, from the touch of the Light carried in Teral’s grasp. Swaying back onto his heels, Aradin struggled to retain his physical senses. It was difficult, for the bowl that his Guide carried was large, and over-full, and spilled with every breath, filled past the brim with a great big bowl of “. . . Yes!”

(Yes, indeed,) Teral whispered, sharing his revelation with both his Host and their hostess. He spilled some of the divine answer into Saleria’s mind, sharing it in equal measure so that all three of them could manage what he had barely been able to carry home. (Great Darkhan and His Beloved Dark Ana have agreed. We may stay and assist you, Keeper Saleria, with the restoration of the peaceful and safe sanctity of the Holy Grove of Katan . . . provided Jinga and Kata agree.)

Aradin almost replied mentally, but knew Saleria would want to hear his own thoughts. He nodded and said aloud, “Yes, and I have faith They will agree, as I was explaining to Saleria just now.” He smiled at the blonde woman seated on the edge of the bed before him. “I have absolute faith.”

Saleria squeezed his hands. For the first time, it didn’t feel weird for Teral to whisper into her mind. It didn’t feel strange to know the older, deceased spirit was there inside this younger man’s body. Aradin looked only a few years older than her, in his early thirties at most to her twenty-six years, and she knew the older Witch had been cut down in the latter half of his prime, but . . . it felt right for both of them to be there, in her bedchamber with her. Looking into those hazel eyes, fancying she saw hints of Teral’s brown gaze amid the flecks of green, she smiled.

“I have faith, too, that both of you are destined to be here with me.” Seeing Aradin smile again, lopsided and rueful, she cupped his cheek. “Mind you, I’m still not entirely sure about Teral actually watching everything, when we, ah . . . get around to using this bed. But he is a part of you, and I accept both of you for who you are, and who you’ve become so far.”

“. . . Saleria?” Daranen’s voice echoed up the stairs. “Your Holiness!” Hurried footsteps and the swift creak of two floorboards preceded the scribe’s appearance at her door, which still stood open. Daranen held the forgotten petition in his hand, his voice a little breathless. “Holiness, I have just witnessed a miracle,” he said. Lifting the sheet of paper she had left on the dining table, he turned it to face her, to face both of them. “All four of Them signed it.”

Along with the plain black ink which Aradin had penned onto the page, beneath the neatly scribed lines, yet somehow intertwined with the words, lay two images. The outermost one was a glowing, silver octagon edged with the eight tetragrams representing the Eight Altars of Kata and Jinga, each one inked in the eight holy colors of brown, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet. In the center of the octagon lay a sigil unfamiliar to Saleria, of a doorway, just the posts, threshold, and lintel, marked in silvery white, and a small, glowing black disc cradled inside.

She looked at Aradin. “Is that the mark of your Patrons, in the center?”

He nodded, releasing her hands so he could rise. “Yes. The black circle is the long-lost Third Moon, representing Darkhan, which is carried inside the Light-filled Doorway of Dark Ana’s soul.”

“Well, holy or otherwise,” Daranen said, nodding at the page, “what I want to know is how They got the color black to glow like that.”

Aradin grinned and shrugged, spreading his hands. “They’re Gods. Anything is possible when They have the faith of their followers to support it.”

“Well, now it’s my headache to figure out where to put this, without offending four Gods if I just try to stuff it into a records cupboard or something . . . But I’ll bid you a formal welcome to the Grove, and to its service, Aradin Teral, holy Witch of Darkhana and Hortimancer of the Sacred Grove of Katan,” Daranen told Aradin. He bowed and started to turn away, then gave both Aradin and Saleria a stern look. “Celebrate however you’d like, but remember, you both have to go to work tomorrow. And try not to be too loud. I may be three doors down, but the walls of this house aren’t that thick.”

“Considering you always stay up far later than I do, and have the freedom to get up later, you’ve no cause to complain,” Saleria said somewhat tartly, feeling her cheeks warming once more. She softened her tone. “But we’ll keep in mind that dawn comes early in the summer. Good night, Daranen, and sleep well when you get there.”

“A good night to both of you, then,” Daranen returned, and pulled the door shut as he retreated down the hall.

“That was tactful of him,” Aradin murmured.

Unsure if he was trying to be sardonic or not, Saleria let it go. She still didn’t quite know how to get the handsome outlander into her bed, but she did know how to get him into her baggage. Namely, by crossing to it, carrying it back to the bed, and dumping out the contents.

“Right. Here is what I have. It’s not a very big pack, more of a knapsack than a full pack, but I have a toiletry kit of soap and toweling cloth, a comb for my hair, a tunic for sleeping in, two sets of, um, undergarments,” she said, pausing for a brief blush, “including socks and such, plus two formal priestly gowns, and two sets of Keeper’s garb—those are the trousers, tunic, and vest-robe you usually see me wear.

“Oh, and a belt, and a pouch with some money in it, and this outer pocket on the knapsack has some seedcakes in it, made from several fruits and grains and carefully wrapped in a stasis-enchanted packet so they’ll stay good for a long time.” She gestured at the set, and shrugged. “Am I missing anything? I keep thinking of things I want to add, but they add bulk and weight . . .”

Aradin considered her words, consulting silently with Teral. The inner glow of their Patrons’ answer had faded a bit, enough to think clearly. Both men gave her selection careful consideration, then sighed. “It’s good, but you should add three more things. A knife, for eating or survival or whatever—you can add one of your distinctive staves if you must, but a knife is essential when traveling—a full waterskin for drinking . . . and a good weather-proof cloak, one big enough to use as a bedroll if needed.”

“Oh, right, the cloak is over there. I figured that out already,” she admitted. Saleria then frowned. “But I thought I was going straight to the Convocation and coming back via your Dark Portal trick.”

“Ideally, yes,” Aradin agreed. “But Teral and I both think you should be prepared for just about anything. We believe the Convocation will take place in a civilized place, but no one has seen it yet; we just know it has been foretold. Also, if you find you cannot stomach a return trip through the Dark, then you must be prepared for traveling until you can reach a mirror-Gate that can bring you back to Groveham. We can arrange to have more supplies sent across if there are still Witches around, but it’s best to be prepared for the worst.

“Oh, and Teral would like to remind you that as a competent, trained mage, you can start your own fires, warm and cool your clothes, and even create warding spheres to hold off weather and such . . . but there may be a point where you cannot rely completely on your magic. A good knife, a stout cloak,” Aradin told her, “and a waterskin to go with the food you’ve packed will be essential for just such a case. Teral says the knife doesn’t have to be big, so it should fit inside the pack. The waterskin can be tied to the outside of the pack, and the cloak can be stashed next to it, so you can grab both when it’s time to go.”

She considered his words—their words, and their reasoning—and sighed. “I guess you’re right. It would be better to be prepared than to find myself in need and have to do without. I thought about taking some jewelry, of doing my hair in some fancy way . . . but . . . They’re Gods. They’ve seen me naked,” Saleria said. “They’ve seen me when I’ve been red-eyed and runny-nosed with a bad cold, and trying to shape my prayers in the midst of a fit of sneezing—if I had more time to prepare, and could take proper baggage along, perhaps a few companions, then I’d go with more of the clothes and the means to represent the people of Katan the best I can in front of the others who will be there.

“I’m tempted to add an extra pack as it is . . . but there is that uncertainty in where and when the Convocation will be held. I don’t want to be late for it, or burdened down by more than I can quickly grab and carry,” she said, putting her feelings on the matter into words. “Far better for me to be there, and garbed in what They see me praying in every day, than for me to be absent on the most important day of my life.” Saleria looked up at him, her expression earnest. “I may never be picked again for this task, but for this one time, I will do my absolute best for my people. I will not fail them.”

Aradin wrapped his arms around her, tucking her against his chest. When she rested her cheek on his shoulder, he gently stroked her hair. It felt right to hold her in that moment, and right to say the words that came unbidden into his mind.

“I believe you,” he murmured. “I believe in you, and I believe you will succeed. At anything you decide to do. Teral believes in you, too, you know,” he added, cuddling her close. She felt right in his arms, a perfect partner for a too-brief, yet eternal moment of contentment. Almost like hugging a mortal Goddess . . . with no blasphemy intended, he thought quickly, averting any possible ill consequences.

(And on that note, I shall retire to the Dark for a while,) Teral muttered in the back of his mind. (I won’t deny I’d like to stay and enjoy the moment secondhand, as she’s both quite lovable and quite lovely . . . but that, I think, isn’t something she’s prepared to understand.)

(No, she isn’t,) Aradin agreed. There were times when his Guide felt more like an extension of his own mind, a wiser, older, somewhat different version of himself, for all they were two distinct men. At times like those, it was easy to share every experience he had. But it wasn’t fair to expect others to comprehend. There might be a few jests made, but there was no real rivalry between the two: The Host was the living half, with all the rights that entailed; the Guide was there merely to aid, to ensure that a lifetime’s worth of wisdom was not lost to the Dark when that soul died. A lifetime, and more. (Any advice on how to treat her, before you go?)

(Go slow. And focus more on the emotions than the sensations,) the older Witch advised. (It may sound cliché, but the two of you could make a great pairing from what I’ve seen . . . and since we’re going to be here more or less permanently, it behooves you more to treat her with an equally permanent level of respect.)

(I already know how to suck eggs, Grandfather,) Aradin retorted mildly, focusing more of his attention on the warmth and the softness of the woman snuggled in his arms than on their inner conversation. (The Grove alone does not compel me to stay and explore this corner of the world. Being a Hortimancer for this place is a huge responsibility. This . . . might be a huge reward for all the good things I’ve done in life. If I don’t muck it up. I’ll see you in the morning.)

(Sweet dreams. Eventually. Oh, and I’ll wager you a local silver coin that she’s sensitive behind her knees.)

(Go, Teral,) Aradin ordered. With a mental wave, his Guide disappeared, leaving him to hold Saleria in what felt like perfect contentment. I could hold her like this forever, and I think she’d be happy to stay. I know I am, right here, right now. It was a very good feeling.

It was an almost perfect contentment; she turned slightly after a few more moments and nuzzled her face against the underside of his jaw. That felt good, too, as did the nibbling of her lips along his chin. Aradin met those lips with his own; that made the sensations both different and better. The feel of her curves pressing against his muscles, the way she nibbled on his bottom lip, all of it was better than simply standing there, holding her.

Saleria wanted to touch him. She slid her hands under the edges of his black and tan outer robe, then stilled. Breaking their kiss, she started to speak. “Um, is he still—?”

“He’s gone,” Aradin reassured her. “Nipped off into the Dark to do whatever until dawn.”

She relaxed a little, and slid her palms up his chest to his shoulders, easing back the folds of his Witchcloak. “Does he ever get jealous? Of not being able to . . . ?”

“It doesn’t come up very often,” Aradin had to admit. Shrugging out of the robe, he draped it over the chair next to her bed as he addressed her questions. “I think if he never got any physical affection, either directly or secondhand in the back of my mind, then it might become a problem. He may technically be dead, but he also still has the chance to enjoy life in some part.”

Following that line of thought, Saleria sighed. “And it would be cruel to deny him the delights and comforts of life . . . Well, I can’t say I’m comfortable with it. Right now, at least. But . . . I’m not vehemently opposed to it. He is handsome, you know—so are you, in a different way.”

Aradin grinned at her hasty amendment. “Be sure to give him a hug and let him know, the next time he physically appears. Now, since he is not here . . . care to tell me what you like about my appearance?”

She blushed and cleared her throat, trying to find a good place to start. “Well . . . I like your hair. It’s soft, and healthy, and it seems dark when you’re in the shadows,” she told him, lifting a hand to one of his locks. “Yet it picks up all these lovely golden highlights in the sun. I find myself anticipating each patch of sunlight we cross, when we’re in the Grove.”

“I see,” Aradin murmured. Unbuckling his belt, he set it on the black fabric of his cloak lining, then pulled his tunic over his head. “What about my chest? Or my arms? Do you like them?”

Saleria started to speak, but found her wits distracted. Aradin didn’t have a muscular barrel of a chest, unlike his absent Guide, but for all that he was lean, he was well-muscled. Having grown up with a warrior for a father, having seen his fellow guardsmen—who came in all body shapes, but were one and all fit men—she had always enjoyed the various different ways a man could look and be healthy. But as she sought for the words to admit she admired his figure, she instead burst into laughter when he flexed his biceps . . . and kissed the left one.

He grinned back at her, showing that he knew he looked silly. “See anything you like?”

That reminded her of her own pert question to him earlier. Regaining her breath, she smiled at him. “Aradin . . . you are lean and fit. I like that in a man.” Moving close, she lifted her hands to his chest. Her palms slid over the warmth of his skin, enjoying the light dusting of hair coating it. Blond and faint, it was felt more than seen. It wasn’t enough, though. Playfully, she leaned back, eyed his arms, then lifted her chin. “Flex them again, please? Something looked out of balance.”

Obedient, he lifted his arms and bent them, making the biceps and triceps show. Satisfied, Saleria leaned over and kissed the right one.

“There,” she said, straightening. “Now they’re even again.”

“Oh, no,” Aradin argued lightly. He could still feel the imprint of her lips, and the tingling feel of the places her fingers had caressed. “Your kisses upon on my skin are not the same as my own, you know. They are vastly superior and far more potent. My left arm is feeling sorely underappreciated right now.”

Mock-rolling her eyes, she leaned in and kissed that arm, too. Pulling back, she shrugged out of her over-vest. Saleria turned to pitch it at the clothes basket in the corner, and found Aradin’s hands moving around her waist, seeking the buckle of her belt.

“What I like about your own hair is how soft and fine it is. Like sunshine spun from spiderwebs,” he told her. He let her take the belt once he had it undone. Shifting his fingers to her locks, Aradin sifted them through the fine strands. “That is, if you’re not upset at the comparison. Most people don’t like spiders.”

“So long as it’s not trying to eat me, I don’t mind,” Saleria said. “Spiders and spiderwebs are all a part of nature, which means they’re a part of any garden, including the Grove. Little ones are not the problem. It’s the big, mutated ones that try to hunt me instead of something small and buglike—those are the ones I don’t like.”

“Then I’ll make sure they never get in here,” Aradin promised her. With her hair tugged gently out of the way, he brushed his mouth along the curve of her neck.

Shivering, Saleria enjoyed it for a few moments, tilting her head to give him more access. She couldn’t stand like that forever, though. Stepping forward, she pulled her tunic over her head, baring her undercorset. The tunic went into the basket. A glance over her shoulder showed Aradin’s hazel eyes following her every move, though he, too, had stepped back to give himself some room. As she watched, he pulled off his boots and set them on the cloak-draped chair, and followed it with his socks.

At her puzzled look, he smiled. “I’ll fold the cloak over my things, and Teral will take them into the Dark and exchange them for fresh clothes in the morning. It’s been a boon while traveling, storing everything in the Dark. No thief can steal what he or she cannot find, let alone reach.”

“That is clever,” Saleria agreed, bemused, “but what if they steal your cloak?”

“They cannot activate its powers, for only a Witch is attuned to the magics of a Witchcloak,” he reassured her. Fingers unfastening the lacings of his trousers, he shed them, adding the garment to the pile on the chair. “So they cannot get into the Dark to steal any of our possessions.”

“I can understand that part, but I meant, wouldn’t that leave you more or less naked?” she pointed out, eyes sliding down his lean body to the loose undertrousers he still wore, dyed a faded shade of soft green.

“Most of us can cast a shadow-bubble spell, wrapping our bodies in enough darkness to be able to access the Dark, and we all store a change of clothes and supplies there,” he reassured her. Moving back to her, Aradin knelt at her feet and tapped one of her boots on the toe. Obediently, she lifted her foot, resting a hand on his shoulder for balance while he gently eased it off. “Or we can simply wait until nightfall, and fetch what we need then. Let me get your sock, too . . .”

She held still while he peeled it off, and nodded. “That’s rather convenient. You make me wish I could use a similar arrangement when I travel to the Convocation.” Switching feet, she let him remove the other set. “I think I might add a second gown. Summer-weight. And just put the belt—and the knife—on the outside of the . . . ohhh. Oh, Gods . . .”

Aradin grinned. For a woman who spent most of her days on her feet, he had privately suspected it was her feet, not her knees, that would be the most sensitive part of her body. He’d still have to investigate higher, of course, but for now, he just kept kneading her toes, leaving her heel braced on his thigh. “Like that, do you?”

“You . . . uhhh . . .” She could feel it all the way up her legs, up into their juncture and beyond. “Youhavenoidea,” Saleria managed to blurt, if a bit breathlessly. She wobbled, though, not quite able to keep her balance when every little rub and caress threatened to liquefy her legs. “Careful!”

“Do you want me to stop?” He stroked gently along the arch, and firmly along the outer edge of her foot, then pulled his hands back toward her toes.

“Netherhells, no!” Saleria gasped. That felt so good, both sensual and sexual at the same time, a heady mix of sensations. “I just . . . bed. Need to lie . . . bed. On the bed.”

Chuckling, he let go. At her pout, he patted her thigh and rose. “Pack up your bag, and I’ll give you more, I promise.”

“Both feet?” Saleria asked, considering his offer.

He grinned slowly. “All the way up your legs, if you like.”

Whirling, Saleria grabbed her things on the bed and started stuffing them into the shoulder pack. That provoked a laugh from her companion. Covering her hands with his own to stop her movements, Aradin pulled everything back out, then with quiet murmurs and little touches that combined demonstrations and caresses, he showed her how to fold, then roll up her clothes tightly to reduce the space they used.

Saleria had never considered such an ordinary sort of chore, like packing a travel bag, to have any potential for seduction before. It wasn’t just how he handled her corset-vest, either, though the sight of such masculine hands stroking the gathered cups as he folded and tucked did make her long to feel that same gentle, deft touch on her breasts. It was everything else, too. The care he took in making sure her trousers wouldn’t crease. The caress of his palm as he smoothed the sleeves of her formal gown.

Even the way he rolled up her socks and stuffed them into a pair of clean, nearly new ankle boots, adding them to fill the extra room that he had created in the pack, made her want those hands on her body instead. Inspired, Saleria let him finish the packing, applying her touches to him instead. While he folded in the sleeves of her spare summer-weight gown, she slid her fingers along his spine. When he rolled it up, she cupped his buttocks, enjoying the play of the muscles bunching and releasing under her touch.

Somehow, he got the extra gown in, too. It wasn’t easy; Aradin had known this shared moment of packing could be a seduction, but it was supposed to be a seduction of her, not of them both. Not of him. Heat flooded his muscles everywhere she touched, tensing and releasing them, only to leave them with a slight shiver as the warmth of her fingers moved on. Standing there in just his undertrousers, no tunic or pants to hide his reactions, he carefully folded the flap of the pack, lifted it off the bed, and set it on the floor near his cloak.

She squeezed his rump when he straightened up. Cheeks flushed with heat, he turned to face her . . . and found her hands sliding to cup the front of his hips. Losing some of his breath in a shudder, Aradin quickly covered her fingers with his own. “C-Careful,” he stammered, feeling the blood in his veins rushing inward from his extremities to meet those beautiful, bold hands. “Or I won’t be able to . . . concentrate . . . to massage your feet.”