The Grove

ELEVEN

Touring the Grove while in charge of one third of its energies was a new experience for Saleria. A mostly pleasant experience, since when she walked through it with Aradin Teral, the plants and animals actually behaved around them. Unnaturally so, which was ironic, considering nothing about the denizens of the Grove was natural anymore. But the thettis-vine did not attack them, though it had regrown since the last time it had been trimmed; the ambulatory marigolds swerved around them rather than just blundering forward blindly; and they were able to actually catch a not-rabbit for examination without it trying to bite anyone.

Saleria figured it out within an hour of Teral attuning himself to the last of the rifts, when they had retreated to the Bower to conduct more experiments. “We finally belong here.”

“Hm?” the Guide asked, still in control of their shared body. He was the one examining the not-rabbit on the middle table, since he knew more of diagnostic spells than either Aradin or her. “We finally belong here?”

“We’re no longer foreigners in the Grove. Our energies match the magics that have soaked into every living being within the Grove walls,” Saleria told him, standing at the left table, the one with the flasks and jars. “It just came to me. That’s why we’ve had a peaceful day, relatively speaking. That’s why most of the plants and animals are getting along, rather than trying to tear each other to leafy shreds.”

“That . . . makes sense,” Teral replied thoughtfully. “Hold on . . . Aradin’s going into the Dark to ask a few questions for us. . . .”

“Of course,” she said.

Her own task, the daily petitions, had gone quickly. Used to gauging how much power to push into each prayer, Saleria had discovered it took only a fraction of what she had done before. More of her concentration was required since the energies were now concentrated, but less power while applying it. That freed up more of her time to work as an assistant in turn to the two men. Her current task was the tedious chore of gently grinding up plant matter in a mortar and pestle and staining sheets of absorbent paper with the liquefied remains, so that the spells Aradin had scribed upon them would sort the various components into their individual categories: toxic to humans, not toxic, alkaline, acidic, nutritional, medicinal, and more.

From there, they would be tested on other spell-scribed papers, breaking down their components further into categories of usefulness. Enchanting the papers alone had taken Aradin and Teral two whole days. Tedious work, and boring enough to allow her mind to wander freely. It wandered now to this morning, and the surprise early round of lovemaking in her bed.

Rather than being woken up with the light of dawn filtering through her curtains and the yank of the covers being stolen by her housekeeper, she had awakened in the dim gray light of still-barely-night on her back, with Aradin buried deep under the covers. With his mouth buried between her legs. Just thinking about it, about those lips and that tongue, and the stroking of his fingers up into her depths, questing for that dear-Gods-in-Heaven spot . . .

“Blushing cheeks, far-off gaze . . . idle fingers on the pestle,” Teral teased her, his voice dipping almost as low as Aradin’s could get. “Did he do something this morning that you liked? Or is it just a general memory?”

She blushed and resumed grinding the current batch of leaves, trimmed from a tree that might be useful as a new kind of cold medicine, given the two plants that had been its magically conjoined parents. “This morning.” She debated a long moment, then asked, “Teral, do you . . . strongly miss physical intimacy?”

“Now that’s a loaded question,” he murmured, stroking the antlered rabbit-thing before lifting it off the worktable an arm’s-length from hers. He carried it to the edge of the Bower. Releasing it, the Darkhanan Guide came back to her table, not to the one he had been using for his examination. He leaned his hip against the stout wood, watching her work. “For a man, the physical urge is very real, a literal pressure for release. It doesn’t harm a man not to achieve release—no matter what capricious young lads may try to tell a young lady to get into her bed—but there is always that urge. It diminishes as one gets older, of course, but it is always there.

“From what I learned while sharing my body with my Guide, Alaya, women don’t have the same pressure, as it were. Urges, oh yes,” he agreed. “A woman seems to have a lot more capacity for pleasure than a man. I was privileged to learn these things from her as we shared her form, even if it was my body while making love with friends and dear companions. Of course, our tastes varied; I still prefer making love to a woman as a man over making love to a man as a woman, naturally. And it’s very different while wearing Aradin’s body than when I wear my own . . .”

At her wide-eyed look, Teral leaned close and murmured in her ear.

“He might get mad at me for telling you this weakness, but if you take your feet and gently stroke his manhood with them, he’ll be delirious with pleasure. I myself am more of a breasts-to-manhood type. That really gets my blood flowing,” the older Witch added candidly, straightening back up. He smiled at her, enjoying her flustered blush. “So I suppose the answer to your question is yes, I do miss physical intimacy. But it is Aradin’s life, not mine.

“And as lovely and charming and wonderful as I find you, too,” Teral added, lifting a hand to brush back a wayward curl of her hair, gently tucking it behind her ear, “it is still his life, not mine. I knew it would be, long before I ever met Aradin and became the Guide to his Host. And I knew it long before I became Host to Alaya as my Guide. This is the way life is, as a Witch. Of course, given how strongly the young man is falling for you, this means that you have more say in what happens in any ‘physical intimacy’ than I do.”

She considered his words for several seconds, until the leaves were a well-ground paste, then reached for the purified rainwater to dilute it into a liquid for the testing sheets. “Kata and Jinga have declared that . . . male-and-male pairings, and female-and-female pairings, are just as acceptable as male-and-female pairings. But it’s still just two people. Three and more are . . . Well, they’re not directly discouraged by scripture, but it is considered implicit, since we only have a God and a Goddess in marriage, not . . . well, a God and a God and a Goddess.”

“I wouldn’t build a long-lasting relationship like that unless all three were equals and equally amenable,” Teral agreed, shifting to lean back against the table again, giving her a bit of room. “They say that a triangle is the most stable form of structure . . . but it is only for a physical structure. Two people manage a relationship much more easily than three. There are some lands where they manage three or more in a relationship, but they are rare. However, for a bit of physical fun, if all are agreeable . . . it can be quite pleasurable.”

“I’ll presume you speak in general, since there’s no way for the two of you to ever be in two places at once,” Saleria said. A corner of her mind did wonder what it would be like to be with two men at once, but she wasn’t about to share Aradin—who already carried Teral more or less everywhere he went—with a third man in the equation. That would be more than unfair to Teral.

“Not exactly,” Teral said. “It is possible, if rare, for there to be two of us at once.”

“You mean, in the Dark?” Saleria asked, dubious. “I wouldn’t think anyone would want to make love in a place where the dead roam.”

“No, I meant in life, in two separate bodies.” At her sharp look, he folded his arms across his chest and rubbed at his gray-streaked beard. “It’s not often discussed with outsiders, but there is a way for a Host and a Guide to manifest in two separate bodies. We call it the wedding-gift of the Moons, for in the light of both Brother and Sister Moon—reflected via mirror or spell onto both sides of a Host’s body—the Host and Guide can separate physically.

“It is doubly exhausting for the Host, and isn’t done casually . . . but the power of temporary separation was granted unto our Goddess, Dark Ana, so that She could enjoy the delights of being husband and wife with Her beloved Darkhan. Most of the time They are the Dual One, two Gods in one form . . . but sometimes They are the Dual Ones, and we rejoice whenever They appear side by side,” he said.

She blushed at the thought, then paled at the implication . . . then blushed again. In the light of the Moons . . . say in the Grove . . . with just Aradin and Teral, and me . . . oh my.

Clearing her throat, she muttered, “I wouldn’t think you’d, ah . . . That is . . .” Gathering her wits, Saleria asked, “Teral, why did you tell me this? Why not earlier than now, I mean?”

“Because before, you were not open to the idea. Now, you don’t seem to object to my presence anymore,” he stated. “And because if things keep progressing as they have between my Host and you . . . well, Aradin’s a bit of a romantic deep down inside. He’s been thinking vague thoughts about you and him restoring the Grove well enough that the very first new wedding to take place within its walls would be yours and his. And vague thoughts of raising children, should you be amenable.

“You see, in this place, with you,” Teral said, gesturing with one hand at the Bower, the Grove, and her, “he has all of the great loves in his life combined. The man is besotted with the idea of spending the rest of his life here, working on this place, the ultimate Hortimancer’s dream task . . . and with you in particular. The more he helps you with the Grove, the less likely you are to ‘burn out,’ as you once said all Keepers do, within an average of ten years—I think you will find that the rift now tied to you will make all the magic you have been marshaling and expending that much easier to manage. You will be able to last for scores of years as one of its Guardians. So will he. And so will I, as his Guide.”

“Yes, I’ve already noticed the boost to my powers, though now I’m worried about accidentally sneezing while walking through the Grove, leaking a burst of magic, and creating some new blend of species,” she agreed dryly. “So you’re telling me this, about how you and Aradin can become two separate men, because . . . ?”

“It is an option, nothing more,” Teral stated, refolding his arms.

She couldn’t quite believe him. She was ignorant of other lands and customs, not naive. “With no personal agenda, or ulterior motive?”

Leaning over, he gave her a direct look. “So long as you keep Aradin sexually satisfied, I will feel no physical pressure while I’m in control of our shared flesh. And so long as you do not hate me . . . if you can, in fact, feel and express some level of kindness and caring toward me . . . then my emotional needs will be met. That, above everything else, will satisfy me.” His brown gaze softened. “Do you feel some small affection for me?”

It was a wistful question. Despite the gray streaking his dark hair and his beard, Saleria could see for a moment the younger man he had once been. On impulse, she rose up onto her toes and kissed his cheek. “I feel a lot of affection for you, Teral. As much as you are technically two separate men . . . you are a package deal, and you are very much a part of what makes Aradin the man he is today. And I do care for you as you, yourself. As Teral.”

Unfolding his arms, he wrapped them around her, embracing the young woman. She returned it, gripping his ribs with a snuggle of her cheek against his collarbone. Teral rested his own on the top of her head, enjoying the soft strength of her body. That was when he felt Aradin return from the Dark.

(What the . . . Teral, is there something I should know?) Aradin asked, his mental tone amused by the situation in which he found his Guide and the woman he loved.

(Hush, or you’ll embarrass the woman. I explained and reassured a few things for her, then asked if she has any emotional affection for me. She stated that she does care for me, and I hugged her for it,) his Guide calmly stated. (And I am quite enjoying this hug, thank you for asking.)

Rather than take offense—or worse, feel jealous—Aradin instead laughed. (Marvelous! I’m glad she’s taking to you so well. I suppose you’ll want the body for a little bit longer?)

(Yes, please,) Teral decided after only a brief moment of thought. (She smells wonderful, feminine without being overpoweringly flowery, and she feels . . . ! You know how she feels in our arms. So, yes, please.)

(No worries. But eventually I’ll want to explain what I found out about reverting all these magical mistakes.) Aradin let his inner laughter fade. (I’m afraid there’s not much we can do to separate the animals from the plants . . . and that over seventy-five percent of whatever’s in the Grove in this day and age is too dangerous to let loose on the rest of the world. On the bright side, somewhere between thirty-five and forty percent of it will be useful. Particularly the saps, when added to potion bases. We just have to be extremely careful about not letting certain plants out of our control.)

(I’ll let her know in a few moments,) Teral stated.

Saleria was the one to break the hug. Inhaling deeply, she let go of her breath and the Guide. “Thank you. I think I needed that.”

“Oh, it was my pleasure. I haven’t had a good long hug in quite some time. By the way, Aradin is back,” he told her. “And before you ask, he approves of me hugging you. Now, the rest of his news isn’t quite so happy. If you both like, I’ll hand the body back over to him now.”

Saleria nodded—then bounced up on her toes and kissed his other cheek. “That’s so you remember I do care, even when you’re not in charge of the body. Now bring Aradin and his lips back, please, so I can kiss him and them properly.”

He chuckled and started pulling the Witchcloak into place. “Impertinence, milady. I’ll have him give you a swat on the rump for me, once we’ve swapped.”

Saleria waited for her turn in the discussion of prophecies among all the Guardians on her Bower mirror. The sharp-nosed, face-shrouded Alonnen was talking. She glanced briefly at her lover, who was gently decanting some sort of sap-infused potion into a set of jars, but didn’t call out to him. He had his task this afternoon, and she had hers.

At least she had the time for this discussion, rather than having to hurry everyone along so she could work on draining the eastern locus tree post-lunch. Now that she was the actual Guardian of the eastern rift, she could drain it from within the Bower directly, a very neat convenience. Which left her waiting for her turn to speak.

“. . . But that’s just it. ‘When the floodgates open’ could refer to something on my end of things, but I can’t say even to the lot of you what it is. A lot of these prophecies so far point toward this corner of the world, either Arbra or Fortuna or Mekhana or its neighbors, but none of them peg it exact,” Alonnen concluded, cap-covered, scarf-wound head waggling in a visual shrug. With even his eyes obscured by those green-tinted lenses he wore, he looked more like a puppet from a children’s show than a man.

“Guardian Saleria,” Kerric stated, turning to her. It was an interesting visual effect because his chair actually swiveled one way and the view of a book-lined wall behind him swerved the other, as if he really were surrounded by a circular library. “You said you finally sorted through the copies you received from the Katani Department of Prophecies? What have you to share with us?”

“Well, I did share the earlier one, from Seer Haupanea from two hundred years ago,” she stated. “Now, I know you all don’t think the verses, ‘Gone, all gone, the synod gone, brought back by exiled might; By second try, the fiends must die, uncovered by the blight’ have much to do with a potential Netherhell invasion. But ‘fiend’ often refers to the denizens of those blighted dimensions, and that Nightfall Isle—founded by an exiled group of brothers—is trying to reconvene the Convocation of the Gods.”

“We’d know more about it if Guardian Dominor weren’t so distracted by Serina’s pregnancy,” Guardian Ilaiea snorted.

Saleria wondered what the pale-haired woman had against the as-yet-unmet Guardian Serina. She had to let it go, however. “As I was about to say, Guardian Ilaiea, I have here another prophecy by the same Seer, Haupanea, which seems to speak much more directly of the events in question . . . and Seers have been known to make several prophecies about one really big event, or a related series of events.

“This one I actually thought would be important for all of us to hear,” she added, selecting the scroll from the table she had moved near the mirror. “Because the title of it is ‘Song of the Guardians of Destiny.’” That got her their respectful, quiet attention. Nodding to herself, Saleria unrolled the scroll. “Here is the full prophecy:

“When serpent crept into their hall:

Danger waits for all who board,

Trying to steal that hidden tone.

Painted Lady saves the lord;

Tower’s master’s not alone.

“Calm the magics caught in thrall:

Put your faith in strangers’ pleas,

Keeper, Witch, and treasure trove;

Ride the wave to calm the trees,

Servant saves the sacred Grove.”

“So it mentions Kerric’s Tower and your Grove,” Ilaiea scoffed, interrupting her at only the second verse. “So it’s coming true. Tell us something new.”

“I am trying to, Guardian,” Saleria stated sternly. “There are eight verses in all . . . and the third verse is when things start getting hairy:

“Cult’s awareness, it shall rise:

Hidden people, gather now;

Fight the demons, fight your doubt.

Gearman’s strength shall then endow,

When Guild’s defender casts them out.

“Synod gathers, tell them lies:

Efforts gathered in your pride

Lost beneath the granite face.

Painted Lord, stand by her side;

Repentance is the Temple’s grace.”

She paused and gave the others a pointed look.

Pelai, still sitting in for Guardian Tipa’thia of Mendhi, sat forward, her tattooed brow pinching in a frown. “Synod gathers, tell them lies? And a verse about a Painted Lord? If the synod referred to is the same one that means the Convocation of Gods and Man . . . then does that mean something will happen at the Convocation to set this all off? Or . . . well, it could refer to the Mendhi Temple of the Painted Warriors. Our most formal gatherings are called synods.”

“I don’t know,” Saleria stated, shrugging. “There are four more verses to go.”

“The part about Gearmen makes me think of what we’ve discussed of Mekhanan engineers,” Alonnen mused. “And it’s very clear that the demons are involved somehow . . . which does not make me happy.”

“Nor I,” Sir Vedell stated. “Arbra has borne the brunt of far too many normal attacks by the Mekhanans. I do not like the idea of throwing demons into the mix.”

“What are the rest of the verses?” Guardian Sheren, the eldest female in the group, demanded. “Can we please get back to that? Go on, Guardian Saleria. We’re listening. Or we should be.”

“Brave the dangers once again:

Quarrels lost to time’s own pace

Set aside in danger’s face.

Save your state; go make your choice

When Dragon bows unto the Voice.”

“Dragon?” Ilaiea interjected. She was hushed by five of the fifteen Guardians attending this meeting. Saleria squared her shoulders and kept reading doggedly.

“Sybaritic good shall reign:

Island city, all alone

Set your leader on his throne

Virtue’s knowledge gives the most,

Aiding sanctions by the Host.”

“That is definitely Senod-Gra,” Keleseth, Guardian of that city, muttered. She gestured for Saleria to continue before anyone could hush her, too.

“Faith shall now be mended whole:

Soothing songs kept beasts at bay

But sorrow’s song led King astray.

Demon’s songs shall bring out worse

Until the Harper ends your curse.”

Saleria paused, but no one interrupted, so she gave the final lines.

“Save the world is Guardians’ goal:

Groom’s mistake and bride’s setback

Aids the foe in its attack.

Save the day is Jinx’s task,

Hidden in the royal Masque.

“. . . And that’s it. All eight verses,” she concluded. “Eight Guardians, eight verses. Lines speaking about demons more than once, and how it’s the task of the Guardians of the world to save it.”

“Well, the first verse has already happened,” Guardian Kerric asserted before anyone else could speak. “The serpent was the mage—technically mages—who tried to steal the power of my Fountain. First the mage who also tried to take over Sheren’s and Rydan’s Guardianships, Xenos or something, then that fellow Torven, who betrayed the trust expected of my Maintenance staff. And the Painted Lady in question is my own beloved, Myal . . . so there’s the link to the other verses from the Synod Gone prophecy, the romantic aspects of it as it were.”

“And I can definitely confirm the second verse is about my Guardianship,” Saleria added. “I am the Keeper of the Grove, I am being helped by Witch Aradin Teral, there is a wave of magic that needs to be calmed . . . whatever role we are to play in all of this, part of it comes from the Grove calming down.”

Mother Naima chuckled. “Guardian Serina would no doubt say that’s a sign her project to calm the world’s aether for the reinstigation of the old Portals is coming true . . . since that’s what she wants you to do anyway. Calm the magics of your Fountain, and you should be able to recreate the old Portals across the length and breadth of Katan. If I’ve followed her lectures on the subject aright.”

Aradin abandoned his project, hurrying over to her side. “—Excuse me for interrupting,” he called out, moving into the mirror’s viewing range. “But from what Guardian Saleria, my Guide, and I have been able to figure out, it’s going to take a few years to get the energies of the Grove quelled to that level of stability. Portal magics are nothing to muck around with. A Gate, you can push through a small patch of the aether, but a Portal requires far more stability.

“Don’t expect to step from here to Fortuna in the span of a heartbeat within the next three to four years. In fact, don’t expect to step from far northern to far southern Katan within the next three to four years,” he finished dryly. “But we will work on it, yes.”

The abbess chuckled. “That’s all she can rightfully expect, that you’ll work on it—and I’ll tell her so if she starts getting frenetic about it. I . . . hold on a moment.”

She shifted away from the mirror, face craning past its edge. Aradin, seeing he wasn’t needed, gave Saleria a reassuring touch on her back and moved off to resume his work once more. A moment later, the middle-aged woman with the white wimple and head veil leaned back into full view of her mirror, her expression a delighted smile.

“Well, now, Natua be praised! Serina’s actually in labor this time, and not just false pains. I should have enough time to wrap this up, but hopefully it won’t go on too much longer. I’ll want to be on hand for the traditional Natallian blessing of the newborn. So let’s not take forever parsing out who gets which verse to study and dissect, hm?”

“Study and dissect?” Sir Vedell asked her.

“Well, yes, of course,” Naima said. “If those of us who think the verse refers to our own purview study it in depth, we can look for specific local instances which match the prophecy. That will free up the rest to study the prophecy as a whole, looking for larger patterns, or for anything pointing it at some other place or person instead. It’s a good way to divide the labor.”

“I concur,” Kerric said. “That was my own thought.”

“Well, the next one would probably be my purview,” Alonnen stated. “I’m the Guardian tasked with keeping an eye on the Mekhanans, and ‘Gearman’ and ‘Guild’ both reek of Mekhanan society.”

“I suppose Tipa’thia and I will have to keep an eye on the fourth verse,” Pelai said. “It could mean any Painted ‘Lord’ anywhere around the world—any male Painted Warrior—but combined with the words ‘synod’ and ‘Temple,’ which is where Tipa’thia’s Guardianship resides, it should mean something will happen in Mendhi. Also possibly ‘beneath the granite face’ or whatever the verse said.”

Saleria nodded, since that was the correct wording for that line. She looked at the middle-aged woman with the pale platinum hair. “Guardian Ilaiea, you questioned the line about dragons?”

“It . . . well . . .” For a moment, the normally self-possessed woman looked a little flustered, before she gathered her dignity and her authority. “The Draconan Empire might have something to do with it, but they haven’t had any real dragon-sightings in hundreds of years. The Moonlands, however, have dragons aplenty, but we’ve been separated from the rest of the world by the will of the Gods Themselves.”

Guardian Koro spoke. Like Alonnen, he had once again hidden most of his dark hair behind a deeply cowled hood, and his eyes behind deep blue viewing lenses. “Somehow, I doubt the mighty Draconan Empire—the ‘Dragon’ of the southern hemisphere—would ever deign to bow to anyone.”

“The power of the Singer of the Moonlands is not to be mocked,” Ilaiea retorted. “We are the Voice of the Moons, and wield power beyond your comprehension.”

“Guardians, please,” Kerric interjected, his expression calm but his tone conveying a hint of impatient eye-rolling. “We are all on the same side. We do not need to play ‘my Guardianship is more powerful than yours’ . . . because if we judge solely by the size of the power-flows we handle, Guardian Saleria has all of us beat, as she commands the powers of three singularities at once.”

Saleria blushed at the mention of her power, and cleared her throat. She wished she could be like Aradin and return to some other task, but she had to stay here and be a good Guardian for the sake of the world.

“Sybaritic good, island city, and Host all refer to Senod-Gra,” Keleseth reconfirmed. Second eldest of the Guardians, not quite as old-looking as Sheren but still quite gray-haired herself, she nodded firmly. “That would be my Guardianship, and I can tell you that while I’ll allow quite a lot to happen in the City of Delights, demon-worship is not one of them. I’ll keep a very vigilant eye on what’s happening out here.”

“It does say ‘Host’ and not ‘Hostess,’” Guardian Miguel stated, speaking up for the first time since greeting everyone at the start of the meeting. “Perhaps it refers to your successor?”

Keleseth opened her mouth to argue, but Guardian Sheren got there first. “Oh give it up, Kel. You know you’ve been looking at possibly retiring in the next few years. I’d be retired myself, if I had a successor I could count on. Guardian Dominor’s promised me that his younger brother Koranen and my apprentice Danau can somehow combine their abilities to make up for Danau’s deficits, but I won’t rely on that until I’ve seen it for myself, and tested it for a good year solid—I suggest you start casting around for a good male successor for your own needs, and follow the prophecy.”

“I already have a perfectly good female successor,” Keleseth replied.

“But if you follow the prophecy exactly, we have a chance of success,” Guardian Koro reminded her. “That means picking a male successor, not female.”

“If that is true, do you, Guardian Koro, really think the Dragon Empire will bow to the Voice of the Moonlands?” Guardian Ilaiea asked him archly. “Since you seem to be on their side.”

Saleria couldn’t be sure, given the hood and the tinted lenses, but she thought she saw Guardian Koro narrow his eyes at the older woman. Guardian Kerric cleared his throat firmly. “Gentleladies, gentlemen, we are getting off topic . . .”

“I’ll keep an eye on the verse that mentions the Dragon,” was all Koro said to that. “It may not be within my jurisdiction, but I do know something of the Draconan Empire, being a sort of . . . neighbor . . . to the Five Lands.”

“As will I, since it involves a Voice of the Gods,” Ilaiea stated primly. “And I can think of no better than myself, or my daughter. We are, after all, the Singers.”

“That’s just fine, but that leaves us with two verses I personally cannot place,” Guardian Sir Vedell told the others, capturing their attention. “Something about harpers and something about jinxes, a king being led astray, and a royal mask or disguise of some sort. Does anyone know what any of that means?”

The others shook their heads, save for Kerric. The Guardian of the Tower flicked his hand out in a vague gesture. “Possibly the seventh stanza refers to the old Fountain of Garama. If I remember correctly, Garama has a sect of quasi-priest-mages called Harpers, and that would tie into the Synod Gone prophecy, which speaks of the line, ‘By eight who are kin, by six familiar, one runaway, one unknown.’ If we take the ‘eight who are kin’ to mean Guardians Dominor, Rydan, and their six brothers, then that leaves six of us who have been able to identify our verses, plus a ‘runaway’ and an ‘unknown’ Guardian.”

“About the only advantage we have,” Pelai stated, “is that those last two verses are indeed last. Two have come true so far . . . but if I recall correctly, Guardian Kerric, your verse took place almost half a year ago. Guardian Saleria’s is only just now coming true. We do have some time, still, before knowing who the unknown and runaway Guardians need to be becomes important to the prophecies.”

“Some time, yes,” Kerric agreed, “but just because there have been a couple turnings of Brother and even Sister Moon between my situation and Saleria’s is no guarantee it will take another six months between hers and Alonnen’s, since he’s the closest Guardian to Mekhana and that verse. In fact, it could be another six months from now, or it could be only six days. But you are right, in that those two verses appear to be at the end of the chain of events leading up to the lot of us hopefully thwarting a Netherhell invasion.

“Guardian Saleria, do you have copies made of both prophecies in question?” he asked her, turning back to the Keeper.

“Yes. My scribe spell-copied a good dozen prophecies onto these scrolls,” she said, lifting the one in her hand. “It starts with the ‘Guardians of Destiny,’ since that one speaks the clearest of the problem, then moving on to the Synod Gone, one that seems to speak of Senod-Gra and demons, and a few others of lesser importance. The Guardians one is the most significant, so Daranen put it at the top. I can pass them through the Fountainway to you, Guardian Kerric, for distribution.”

“If you would send them now, I’ll make sure they get rerouted. Is everyone ready to receive a copy of these Katani prophecies?” Kerric asked.

Saleria watched the miniature scrying windows flanking either side of Kerric’s face. When all nodded, she murmured a levitation spell, lifting one scroll after the other up into the air, then muttered a second spell to open up the Bower Fountainways. With a tumble of the rods and a flutter of the ends of the silk ribbons tying each scroll shut, they vanished into the Fountainway, headed for Kerric’s hands.

She had already received five similar prophecy-laden scrolls from the others, as each Guardian had come prepared to share their findings. Mother Naima looked eager to be off soon, to witness the birth of Guardian Serina’s children. Saleria had no such convenient excuse to get back to work, just the more tedious task of helping prepare potion ingredients for Aradin. Although if I brought some sort of stool or chair to the Bower to sit on, maybe it wouldn’t be quite so tedious, she thought, listening to Kerric redistribute her offerings. I could sit and sort ingredients while I listened to the others talk. Yes, I think I’ll do that.

The Bower was rapidly filling with tables, storage chests, various bits of alchemical gear, and more. The moss had been trimmed well back from several paths, and the intermingled saps saturating the ground had been collected into barrels for storage until it could be separated and purified or burned somehow. A stray corner of her mind, bored with the mirror-scryed meeting, wondered just how different the place would look in another month, if it had only taken a single turning of Brother Moon to change things as much as they had . . . and only in the Bower, so far. The entire span of the Grove awaited their efforts.

Listening with half her attention to what Guardian Marton was reporting from the prophecy archives of Fortuna—which wasn’t much more than what they already knew—she wondered if she dared sneak off-mirror long enough to grab a mortar and pestle to grind something while she listened. Anything to help keep her normally active body busy, however important and interesting the discussions at hand might be.

(Wake up, both of you!)

Guhh . . . whah? Wits swimming in a fog of deep sleep interrupted, Aradin became aware of himself and his surroundings. He had been sleeping in his favorite position, wrapped around Saleria from behind. The moment he identified the warm curves in his arm, the shapely naked bottom pressed against his equally naked groin, he instinctively cuddled closer. Nudged her with his loins, hoping it was early enough for . . .

(Oh for the love of the Light—wake UP!)

Both of them jolted, Aradin with wide eyes and Saleria with a gasped, “T-Teral?”

(Yes, and I apologize for coming back so early in the morning without warning, but it is time.)

“It’s time?” she asked. “Time for wha—oh!”

Aradin, struggling more with his body’s reaction to hers than to Teral’s words, found the source of his interest elbowing him accidentally in her awkward wriggle to get out of the bed. “What the . . . ?”

“Convocation! It’s time!” she clarified.

His eyes snapped open. Then squinched shut as she rapped the lightglobe by her bed, flooding the night-dark room with light. He grunted as his eyes smarted, waiting for them to adjust to the abrupt glow.

(Both of you need to hurry. The people of Nightfall are going to have all the petitions timed in the order of each priest’s arrival, so they want Katan’s representative to show up quickly, as a diplomatic courtesy from their rival, Nightfall. I have to go tap the rest of my fellow Guides in the contact-chain, but I won’t be long.)

“Right, right . . .”

Sliding out of the bed, Aradin squinted against the rapping of another lightglobe and followed Saleria into the dressing room. Now that they were more or less stationed here in Groveham permanently, and Nannan was able to do his laundry along with the rest—he and Teral had scrounged up and enchanted some tools to help that task go more easily for the non-mage housekeeper—he was keeping half of his things in Saleria’s dressing room. Their dressing room.

“Teral says they want you to arrive among the first, since the order of petitions heard will be in the order the priests arrive. As a courtesy from Nightfall to Katan, since they’re stealing your nation’s chance at reconvening it, as well as gaining their independence in the act.” He reached for a clean set of undertrousers.

She nodded, barely keeping her balance as she struggled into her own undergarments. “More power to them—oh! Prelate Lanneraun! I’m scheduled to go visit him today for lunch to discuss the upcoming Autumn Festival, one of my eight public appearances. And I thought of something: Aradin Teral, I give you both permission as officially appointed assistants to the Keeper of the Grove to use its powers in any way you best see fit while I am gone, in the understanding that you shall hide nothing from me when I return. I almost forgot about your oath-binding, but now you should be free to use the Grove energies to defend it against any possibility. I just need to find some paper and a pen and an inkpot for a note to the Prelate . . .”

“I’ll pray to all four Gods that it won’t ever have to come to that. And I can go visit Prelate Lanneraun for you,” Aradin reminded her, touching her arm in brief reassurance before pulling on a pair of trousers. “We don’t need to waste time with a letter. If nothing else, I can always tell him to postpone making the arrangements until your return.”

“Aradin, we don’t know how long this Convocation will take. The ancient records spoke of it lasting up to a month! If I am gone more than a month, the whole festival would have to be postponed, and that’s not going to happen,” she reminded him. “Not here in Groveham, the town right next to the Sacred Grove.”

“Then as your assistant, simply appoint me to stand in your stead,” he offered. “Or better yet, ask that other Guardian, uhh . . . Dominor, if there’s a way to transmit a mirror-scrying of the Convocation on that mirror Guardian Kerric gave you, and we’ll make that the focal point of the festival. Or even a captured recording if you come back early, like what we’ve been viewing of the Netherhell invasions.”

Her brows rose. “That is actually a very good idea. I’ll talk with Guardian Dominor as soon as I can, since he has one of Kerric’s mirrors, too. He did say yesterday that he and Guar . . . er, ex-Guardian Serina had returned to Nightfall, now that the nun-lady, Mother Naima, was back in control of Koral-tai. Something about crafting spells to make it safe to move their newborn twins.”

Aradin nudged her hands, which had paused midway through donning her pink-edged white tunic. “Keep putting on your clothes, woman.”

Nodding, she continued donning them. He did as well, shrugging into a tunic and slipping his feet into a pair of house-sandals. Picking up the belt, which now held a leather scroll case filled with a list of Katan’s needs which Daranen had compiled for them, as well as the knife and the pouch added earlier, he helped buckle it around her waist while she adjusted the fit of her overvest. He handed her the backpack next, then helped swirl the cloak into place over it all.

“It’s a good thing my clothes are spell-stitched for comfort,” she muttered, “or I’d sweat to death before I even arrived.”

(I’m back,) Teral announced, returning to his Host’s Doorway. (Good, she’s ready—not that Witchcloak, the big one! The one they specially made for priest-transport.)

(Right, sorry,) Aradin shifted his hand from the robe that had the tan outer lining to a more voluminous, all-black robe. Shrugging into it, he turned to Saleria, cupped her face in his hands, and kissed her. Not a very long kiss, but a heartfelt one. Pulling back a little, he rested his forehead against hers. “Put your trust in Teral and the other Witches; we are all bound to help you in this trip. If you absolutely cannot return through the Dark a second time, it will be alright. You have the money for both ship passage and mirror-Gatings, once you reach the mainland. Just send word back through our fellow Witches to Teral, is all I ask.”

“Yes, Groveham does have a mirror-Gate station,” Saleria agreed, distracted with worry. “Should I get something to eat before I go? I don’t know if they’ll have food.”

“That’s what the travel cakes are for,” he reminded her. “But you should be fine. Besides, some people feel the urge to vomit after traveling through the Dark, so, ah, best if you don’t have anything in there.”

(Ready?) Teral asked both of them, since Aradin was still touching the Keeper.

They both nodded, and Aradin kissed Saleria one last, quick time before releasing her. Shrugging the hood of his cloak up over his head, he opened wide the deep black edges and swept them around her. “Grab my body with yours,” he directed, “and be ready to have it shift into Teral’s. The moment it does, he will pull you through my Doorway into the Dark. Do not be afraid . . . though you may feel uncomfortable.”

“I’m not afraid,” Saleria promised him—both of them. She wrapped her arms around his chest and Aradin wrapped the folds of his Witchcloak around them both, sealing out the light from the enchanted white globe resting in a bracket near the dressing room door. “I love you both.”

“Oh, sure, now you mention it,” Teral quipped dryly with both voice and mind, as much to distract her from the sudden shifting of the flesh under her arms as to simply comment about it. Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her from the comfortable land of the living to the breathless, gloomy chill of the Dark. “Keep your thoughts firmly on me, if not on our destination.”

She wanted to say, Considering I have no clue where we’re going . . . , but she carefully blanked that out of her mind. She also wanted to breathe, but didn’t know how, in this horrible, uncanny place. Aradin and Teral hadn’t said so directly, but she had the feeling that thoughts became reality here in the Dark. So instead of dwelling on either fact, she visualized as strongly as any prayer that Teral would take them to exactly where they needed to be in just three easy steps—and sure enough, in just three steps, they were in a strange, dimly lit place by a tree.

The ground around the odd-looking tree was crowded with the bodies of black-robed men and women moving back and forth. It wasn’t easy, walking with her arms wrapped around Teral’s chest, but they managed. She had been warned not to let go, for without a Witch’s holy powers to shelter her, the Dark could quickly become a very confusing and dangerous place. The last thing the Keeper of the Grove needed was to get physically lost between Life and the Afterlife.

“Priest coming through!” Teral called out, escorting her into the midst. The sea of faces—since the dark robes were hard to see in the gloom—parted before them, until they came to a tallish, black-haired man with astounding, vivid blue eyes. “Saleria, this is Guide Niel, who will take you through to Host Orana’s Doorway. Niel, this is Guardian Saleria,” the gray-bearded man told the clean-shaven one. “Make sure she gets anything she needs while she’s in Nightfall.”

“Within the constraints of time and duty, she will have priority in our attention,” Niel promised. He touched Saleria’s shoulder, gripping it for a moment before sliding his arm around her. “Shift your grasp to me, and be ready to be holding my Host. It will be safe to let go when you see the light of day.”

She nodded and wrapped her arms around his muscular chest, squeezing her eyes shut as the other Witches helped pull the folds of his cloak around the two of them. A shuffling step back and to the side, and the hard male chest morphed into a softer feminine one. A moment later, light bloomed around her, air rushed in to meet her . . . and nausea welled up inside of her.

With a nudge from the Witch, Saleria let go and staggered free, trying not to heave. Hands caught her, holding her more or less steady while she fought a battle between casting up the lack of food in her stomach and the desperate need for air. A brief retch escaped her, but nothing actually emerged, sparing everyone that embarrassment.

“Easy, you’re okay now,” a female voice soothed her. It took a few seconds for the urge to stop, and a few more beyond that for her to be able to focus her eyes. When she did so, she found herself in a stone corridor lined with an astonishing number of images carved into the solid granite walls. So solid, she couldn’t see any seams, so it was a set of walls that either had been magically grown or had been carved out of a mountain. Probably the latter, since magically it was far easier to part and rend stone than grow it seamlessly whole. At least it gave her something to focus her mind upon.

For a moment, all she could think of was the line from the Guardians of Destiny poem, Lost beneath the granite face, but then her gaze focused on the woman holding her by the shoulders. A little shorter than Saleria, the other woman looked to be about the same age, mid-twenties, clad in similarly cut, dark green trousers, but with a matching dark linen corset over her pale green tunic. Strawberry blonde hair and aquamarine eyes met her curious gaze.

“Feeling better?” the woman asked. Saleria nodded. “Good. Priestess Ora,” the woman stated, looking over Saleria’s shoulder, “a little warning about how they might react in coming through your Dark-place would have been in order. Thankfully, she didn’t actually puke anything up on me.” A squeeze of Saleria’s arm, and the redhead released her, facing her again. “Now then . . . I am incipient Queen Kelly of Nightfall, and you’re the second of a long line of priests who are about to descend upon us all, when we’re not the least bit ready for you . . . but we’re going to try to be. May I have your name, your nation, and the name or names of your Patronage?”

“Ahh . . . I am Guardian Saleria, Keeper of the Sacred Grove of Katan, and my Patrons are Kata and Jinga,” she said, mind reeling with the thought that she had dry-retched over the boots of this high-ranked woman. “Ah, no offense with my stomach, and . . . sorry.”

The incipient queen chuckled and patted her on the shoulder. “No offense taken—Ora, you might want to go back to the amphitheater hall and just wait while people start coming through, rather than having to pull them out of that cloak of yours in the middle of a corridor. I’ll send someone down to help you . . . Priestess Saleria, Rora already took the priest of Fortuna off to get him some rooms, so I guess you’re stuck with either following me around, or heading back into the amphitheater with Witch Ora, there, to wait until we can get some actual servants down here—we’ve had a bit of an emergency, making it imperative that we start the Convocation unexpectedly early, you see.”

She didn’t see, but Saleria nodded anyway. It wasn’t her place to worry over something she didn’t know anything about yet. But that did bring up the request she had promised to make. “Oh—I need to see Guardian Dominor. Do you know who he is, and where I can find him?”

The oddly dressed queen chuckled. “Go with Priestess Ora, there; she’ll take you back to the amphitheater. As for Dominor, he’s busy unlocking the great doors between the amphitheater and the Fountain Hall. They’re only to be used by the Gods, of course; the rest of us mere mortals have been instructed to take the long way around—it seems he’s picked up at least a couple bad habits from Rydan since taking over the Guardianship of this place. Don’t worry, priestess; he’ll be along shortly to start getting ready for everything. If nothing else, you’ll see him when the Convocation begins.”

“I really should see him beforehand. I promised I would ask if he could figure out a way to pass along a scrying of the Convocation to Guardian Kerric, of the Tower,” Saleria said. “I figured everyone around the world will want to see a recording of what happens here, and as it’s Guardian Dominor’s Fountain . . .”

Queen Kelly blinked her blue eyes twice, then shrugged. “I suppose it makes sense you’d have some magical way of doing that.” Before Saleria could ask why she phrased it so oddly, the other woman lifted her wrist and tapped a strange bracelet on it. “I’ll call him and have him meet you in the amphitheater. If you’ll go with Orana?”

Turning, Saleria found herself face to face with a woman in a voluminous black Witchcloak, with green eyes and a braided coronet of hair just a little more golden than her own. The Witch smiled at her, eyes dipping down briefly over Saleria’s cloaked body and back in an assessing look. “So you’re the priestess our Brother Witch has fallen in love with?”

“If you mean Aradin Teral, then yes. Guardian Saleria, Keeper of the Sacred Grove of Katan,” Saleria introduced herself.

“Sir Orana Niel, Darkhanan Witch, High Priestess, and twofold Knight of Arbra . . . it’s a long story,” the other woman stated. She gestured behind her. “If we walk this way, it won’t take long to get back to the amphitheater. You may call me Ora if you like. While my strongest instinct is to help Queen Kelly organize everything her people will need for this Convocation, I have just been reminded a second time that I will be pretty much useless for anything but bringing two hundred forty-six more clergy through my Doorway.”

Saleria gestured as well. “Lead on. So long as I get to attend the Convocation of Gods and Man, you can put me wherever you wish.”

Orana chuckled. “Tempting. Actually, given how both you and Priest Etrechim—the representative from Fortuna—came through first . . . if you could stay by me and comfort the rest of the priests coming out of the Dark, that would be very useful. At least, until we get more helpers down here.”

“Alright,” Saleria agreed. Ducking into an alcove, the pair stepped into a vast, vaulted chamber lined with hundreds of benches arrayed in curved rows on one side of the hall and hundreds of thronelike stone chairs on the other half. There were two others here: a middle-aged man with gray-salted black hair, and a youngish woman with plain ash-brown hair. “If anyone actually retches on me, I’ll deal with it, but I reserve the right to go change clothes before you’re allowed to start the Convocation. Just for dignity’s sake. I know the Gods have seen every moment of my life, even at my worst, but this is a formal occasion.”

The other woman chuckled again, heading for the center of the amphitheater. “I think you’ll be a good match for Aradin Teral.” At Saleria’s questioning look, the Witch-priestess smiled at her. “I’ve become rather good at judging a person’s character over the years.”

“So you think I’ll be good for him?” Saleria asked. She guessed that, being a fellow Witch, this woman and her Guide must have been talking with Aradin and Teral all along. The name sounded familiar.

“I think he’ll be good for you. Ah, here we are. Lady Rora, Priest Etrechim of Fortuna, this is Priestess Saleria of Katan.”

The somewhat elderly man smiled and bowed. “Vershu’da, Clergy Saleria. Natuska gar shuden ona faishoudo sbesidin.”

“Uhh . . . beg your pardon?” Saleria asked, confused by his words.

“Oh, right. I speak via Ultra Tongue, which translates everything I say so that both of you can understand, and allows me to understand each of you,” Ora explained. “But that does not guarantee that either of you can understand each other. Etrechim simply greeted you, and said he is honored to share this momentous occasion with such a lovely representative as you.”

The other woman, Lady Rora, nodded. “Several of us on the Isle of Nightfall have drunk the Ultra Tongue potion, and we’d all be happy to translate in between carrying out our duties.”

“I see.” Saleria looked at the priest, whose wrinkled face showed an equal level of comprehension. She bowed to him. “Please extend my greetings to the Clergy of Fortuna, and tell him that I am honored to be sharing this moment with him as well.”

“She greets you in turn, Holiness,” Rora translated, though it felt odd to Saleria that she could understand every word of the other woman’s efforts, “and is equally honored to be sharing this moment with you as well.”

“. . . I think I need to get a dose of this ‘Ultra Tongue’ translation potion as well,” Saleria said. “Is it expensive?”

“It can be, depending . . . Ah, excuse me,” the blonde Witch murmured, stepping back from all three. She tugged at the folds of her black robe. “It is time to bring across another holy voice of some far-flung nation.”

Saleria quickly shed her cloak and backpack onto a nearby bench, readying herself to catch whoever would stagger out next. “Translations can wait; comforting those who cross the Dark cannot.”

“Gar taknim lostock ona sbesido,” Etrechim stated, looking ready to assist as well.

The black-robed Witch swirled and disgorged another male, shaken and pale. He fell into Saleria’s arms and trembled, breath hitching in a near-sob.

“There, there,” she soothed, grateful she was a strong woman. She patted him on the back and hoped he understood her tone, if not necessarily her words. “You’ll feel better in a few moments, I promise . . .”