The Grove

THIRTEEN

Her quarters for the Convocation were sparse, little more than a stone platform and a pallet for the bed, two blankets, a heating rune, a modest table for a nightstand, and a shorter version that could serve as a stool. It didn’t even have a door, just a curtain made out of a tapestry with some hastily stitched runes along the edge for privacy. The sunset-liveried servant who brought her to the chamber apologized profusely for the lack of amenities, showed her how to operate the crystalline strips of the ceiling for lighting and the metal rune set into one of the walls for heating, and promised everything would be vastly superior at the next Convocation.

The woman showed her the refreshing room, which would have to be shared between her quarters and three others—at least it had a wooden door for true privacy, plus a bathing tub as well as the usual facilities—and the stack of strange, loop-covered fabric that made up the Nightfall version of toweling cloths, then left Saleria to find some rest for the night. The room wasn’t bare-walled; it had been carved in a forest motif, with suncrystals grown in such a way that they formed softly glowing clouds overhead when the control-rune by the door was set for daylight, and became tiny pinpoints of stars when she touched the rune for turning them off.

It was just enough light to see her way out to the corridor, which was lit a little brighter by softly glowing moons set at intervals among the overhead stars. Whoever had grown the crystals had possessed an artisan’s touch. Setting the suncrystals in her bedchamber to be nothing but stars for eight hours, Saleria stripped down to a tunic and undershorts for sleeping clothes. It felt like she was camping in a silhouetted forest, or perhaps in the Grove as it should have been. A comforting thought.

The suncrystals brightening eight hours later woke her from her slumber. Grumbling to herself over how hard the pallets were in the novices’ hall, Saleria slapped her pillow over her head. Voices in the corridor added to the thought she was back in the training temple, until she heard someone laughing and calling out in a foreign language. Eyes popping open, she pulled the pillow from her head and looked around the room.

Convocation! Not the old teaching temple . . . All the Gods and Goddesses are here! Scrambling out of bed, she snatched up her backpack, wrapped a blanket around herself for decency, and hurried to the refreshing room. And had to wait a few minutes until a priestess in an odd red-and-orange-streaked gown came out. The dark-skinned woman smiled at her, bowed with a hand over her chest, and swept the other at the room she had just vacated.

“Thank you so much! Gods bless you,” Saleria told her, slipping inside.

“Ongi etorria,” the woman replied.

Saleria had no idea what that meant, other than that it sounded friendly. Shutting the door, she breathed in the warm, moist air and hurried to make sure there was still enough heat in the spell for the faucets. Plenty of heat, actually. She made a fast bath, grateful to see someone had brought in linen toweling cloths of the kind she was used to, plus jars of soft soap. Trying one of the nubbly cloths spoiled her for the plain-woven ones, though. There was just one clean towel available, with the rest tossed into a laundry bin.

When she emerged, freshly dressed in a proper priest’s gown with her hair braided back out of the way, she met a tabard-clad woman pushing a hovering sled covered in bins and cleaning supplies. The woman greeted her in heavily accented Katani and slipped into the refreshing room to tend to it. Returning to her room, Saleria found a pair of men and a second woman inside, all servants. The men were unbinding a feather-stuffed mattress to lay on top of the stripped bed, while the woman was sweeping the floor. A stack of sheets and nicer-quality blankets than the previous ones waited on the stool, and a chest sat next to it, the lid opened to reveal colorful layers of fabric.

“I’ll take that, milady,” the woman stated, setting aside her broom so she could relieve Saleria of the wool blanket. “Everyone has been donating something for the comfort of all the holy representatives at the Convocation. Your quarters are being made more comfortable by the generosity of the family Michan. Bobran of Michan, his husband Severth, and their two adopted sons, Goffer and Farathan.”

“Ah—his husband?” Saleria asked, blinking.

“Yes, husband, because the government of Nightfall doesn’t care what genders are paired in marriage,” the woman told her. “So long as we’re all productive citizens and good people, we are welcome here.” She eyed the Keeper of the Grove. “You don’t have a problem with that, do you, Priestess of Katan?”

“Well, no. No,” she stated more firmly. “Kata and Jinga have said that same-gender marriages are acceptable. I was just a little surprised, is all. Please let the family Michan know how much I appreciate their generosity, and their warm welcome. May all the Gods bless them for their kindnesses, including the Patrons of Katan.”

The servant smiled warmly at her. “I will be happy to let them know that, Holiness. Oh, you should have a door within the next two days. We can craft them from wood easily enough, but the latching mechanisms take a little more time. Your name will be written on a card on the door so that you can recognize it, along with your nation, and the symbols for Kata and Jinga, the eight altar tetragrams.”

Bemused, Saleria thanked her, tucked her pack under the nightstand table, and took herself out into the maze of corridors. She got lost twice, the second time thanks to muddled directions from one of the servants, but eventually found her way back to the familiar territory near the amphitheater. One of the chambers had been set aside as a great banqueting hall, with tables and benches for dining, and more tables without benches laden with different kinds of food. Some of it hot, some of it cold, some of it fresh, some of it preserved . . . most of it was familiar, though there were a few unfamiliar items. One in particular, a strange dish filled with pale strips of some sort of boiled flour-paste and slathered in a creamy cheese sauce dotted with shrimp, proved quite tasty.

No sooner had she settled at one of the dining tables than a familiar black-robed figure stopped next to her, turned, and sat with her back to the table. “Good morning, Keeper of the Grove,” Witch Orana said, smiling at Saleria over her shoulder. “And how are you faring on this second day of the Convocation?”

“Oh, fine, thank you. Ah . . . are you really over two hundred years old?” Saleria asked, saying the first thing that flew into her head.

Ora nodded. “When you’re cursed—under false accusations—by the mages of Fortuna, it takes the will of the Gods to overturn it . . . but for reasons known only unto Them, They have chosen to keep my Guide and me alive for the full thousand years of our so-called punishment. I did manage to barter a lack of aging out of them, but it’s a very long story. How about your story? How is the Grove doing?”

“I left Aradin and . . . I left Aradin Teral in charge of it, and I have confidence they’ll keep it well,” Saleria told the Witch, correcting herself. “Part of me wants to go home and tell my people all I have seen, and said, and received in reply. But a larger part of me knows my duty is to stay here and continue to witness the Convocation. If anyone were to have a concern regarding Katan, or its citizens, or even our Gods, then it is my duty to remain on hand.”

“Well, if you have any messages for him, Niel and I now have the time to deliver them. Or if you need something from home,” Orana said helpfully. “The laundry services are working now, though I’m told they’re still gathering enough baskets for collecting it. I suspect in three days this place will be ruthlessly organized. I quite approve of how well everything is pulling together, despite its suddenness.”

“Yes, I’m rather impressed by the changes between yesterday and today,” Saleria admitted. “I look forward to seeing what will be here by the end of our stay.”

“I think I should go have a word with His Holiness of the Moonlands,” Orana murmured. “It would be an appropriate act of kindness for his nation to lend the ingredients for enough Ultra Tongue for each nation’s representative to have a drink. Don’t you think?”

Ultra Tongue . . . Ultra . . . oh, the translation potion! Saleria nodded. “That would be wonderful. Someone spoke to me this morning, a woman in bright red and orange robes, but I couldn’t understand a word of it other than her tone, and I’m sure she felt the same about the greeting I gave her.”

“I’ll see to it, then. Oh, Guardian Dominor wanted to let you know that the Fountainways are blocked by the Gateway of Heaven. He’s tried everything he could think of to connect with the others, but all he gets is interference from the sheer energy involved,” Orana told her.

“Well, that makes the kind offers to transport goods and messages from you and your fellow Witches all the more important, doesn’t it?” Saleria pointed out.

“True,” Ora chuckled. “Have a good breakfast. I’m actually off to bed, myself. I’ve been up all night listening to the ongoing petitions. Even at roughly an hour to the priest, it’s still going to take a bit of time to get through all of them. Dominor told me you were going to be recording all of it in scrying crystals. Niel and I look forward to seeing it all . . . but for now, we are very tired.”

“Sleep well—Dark Ana watch over you,” Saleria added. From the smile the other priestess gave her, it seemed to be the right thing to say. One of these days, she thought, watching the black-robed, blonde-braided woman move off, I will learn the full of her story. But for now, if I don’t eat, my food will grow cold. It may be freely given by these Nightfallers, but it shouldn’t be wasted.

Folding her hands together, Saleria gathered her thoughts and her energies, and carefully reworded her normal breakfast prayer. Gods of all nations, please share the blessing of this food with not only myself, but with the bounteous lands that produced it, the skillful hands that plucked and prepared it, and may the energy it gives me as I eat it this morning in turn permit me to give my energies back to the world at large today . . .

Being a morning person, Aradin chose to walk the Grove wall before breakfast, rather than after. Despite the fact that two thirds of the magic was now controlled rather than rolling around the place from locus tree to locus tree in slow, mutation-inducing surges, it still had to go somewhere. Aradin and Teral could use the power from the northern and southern tree-rifts to begin making changes to the warped plants and animals, turning them docile and obedient, but not the eastern one.

The power of Saleria’s locus tree was nowhere near as wild as it had been. It was not, however, under the Witch’s control, either Host or Guide. That meant the eastern stretch of the wall and the side-paths nearest the middle tree had to be tended warily as well as carefully. Aradin considered it an invigorating, appetite-building task.

Breakfast, however, did not await him in the Keeper’s house when he returned. Instead, teal-clad men seized Aradin the moment he entered through the back door, clasped metal cuffs around both of his wrists with ominous clacks, and dragged him to the Keeper’s study . . . where a rather smug-looking Deacon Shanno, seated in Saleria’s chair, was staring down a red-faced Daranen.

“And I’m telling you that parchment was signed by all four Gods!” the scribe growled. He thumped his fist on the desk. “You have no right to interfere with what the Gods in Their infinite wisdom have decreed!”

“So you say,” Shanno drawled, picking up the paper with its glowing runes. He tensed his muscles, attempting to tear it. It didn’t budge. His smug look faded a little, and he tensed and tried again. A third time, and he crumpled up the paper, tossing it on the desk in disgust. “Cheap theatrics! Some sort of anti-tampering spell, no doubt.”

(I don’t like the looks of this,) Teral told him, as both Guide and Host watched the paper uncrumple itself, smoothing out as flat as if it had never been creased.

(Go tell Saleria what that blond brat is trying to do,) Aradin ordered. (I’ll be fine on my own. They don’t dare harm me, in case it is the truth. I’ll be demanding a Truth Stone to swear it, too.)

(You do that, but be careful. I’ll have her bring up the matter with Kata and Jinga directly, if I have to.) A step back, and Teral vanished from his Host’s Doorway.

“You cannot tear what the Gods have signed, Deacon,” Aradin stated calmly. “And it is signed by the Gods Kata, Jinga, Darkhan, and Dark Ana. Bring me a Truth Stone, and I will prove my declaration true.”

Shanno sneered at that. “The words of a foreigner are near-useless!”

“A Truth Stone is a Truth Stone,” Aradin countered. “Or a Truth Wand, for that matter. I know they exist in Katan.”

“You can swear all you like that the Gods signed this . . . thing,” Shanno retorted, flicking a finger at the sheet. “Unless the Gods Themselves swear it, then for all we know, you have been tricked or deluded into believing it was Their hand, when it was in reality crafted by that power-thieving braggart who now tries to call himself our king!”

Aradin had no clue what he was talking about, though he had a fairly shrewd idea for why. “Deacon Shanno, your hunger for power has caused you to suffer from delusions. I come here at the will of my Gods, with no falsehood or pretense, to be the assistant to Keeper Saleria. Her Gods, your Gods, have accepted my presence.”

“Well, if that’s so, then why don’t we just ask the Keeper herself?” Shanno offered mock-reasonably. He made a show of looking around the room, then shrugged. “Oh dear, it seems she’s nowhere to be found. For all we know, you are the unwitting, unknowing distraction manipulated into coming to Groveham by hidden strings so that the rebels of the so-called kingdom of Nightfall could kidnap Her Holiness.”

Aradin blinked. The younger man’s logic was convoluted, absurd . . . and very, very hard to disprove via Truth Stone. “You are delusional, Shanno of the family Lorwethen. There’s no other word for it in your language. Delusional,” he repeated. He looked at the guards holding him, clad in the imperial blue-green uniform of Katan. “I’ll bet he wouldn’t even take Keeper Saleria’s word once she returns that I am here with her permission as Keeper of the Grove.”

“So you say,” the stern-faced guard on his left said. He lifted his square chin at Shanno. “And he says otherwise. Given that the rebellious Nightfallers have overthrown the true King of Katan . . . I find myself disinclined to believe the word of any foreigner right now.”

“Then fetch me a Truth Stone, or a trusted equivalent,” Aradin said, staring over Shanno’s head. “I have the right under the Laws of God and Man to be questioned by spell. If my words are true, then I am innocent of any wrongdoing, and must be set free.”

“I think we should wait for the questioning until Holy Keeper Saleria has returned from . . . well, wherever,” Shanno offered lightly, flicking one hand vaguely. “That way we can question all parties involved.”

“I told you, she went to the Convocation of Gods and Man, to stand as the holy representative of the Katani people before your God Jinga and your Goddess Kata,” Aradin repeated patiently. “They have roughly two hundred and fifty priests and priestesses representing the three hundred–plus Gods and Goddesses of all the nations in the world. It may take her a couple of weeks to return.”

“So you are deliberately obstructing justice?” the guard on his right asked.

“No!” The situation was getting ridiculous. “I am willing to abide by the Laws of God and Man, which grant me the right to speak the truth and have it gauged by true spell. Either bring forth your Truth Stone and present your accusations in a lawful manner, or let me go.”

“Sounds to me like he’s resisting arrest,” Shanno drawled.

“I am not!” Now he wished Teral were still with him, so he could alert his Guide to this new twist.

“What is your name?” the guard on the right asked him.

“Aradin. Why?” he asked

The guard on the left clamped his hand around the Witch’s throat. Aradin struggled, alarmed, but it was too late; not only did both guards tighten their grip, but the left one spoke. “Voche Aradin obstrum obstarum!”

Magic washed over him from that grasping hand, first up into his head, then down into the rest of his body—where it quickly drained to the rune-etched cuffs on his hands. Still, enough remained that when Aradin tried to protest, nothing but the hiss of his own breath escaped. Some sort of silencing spell? And that little blond turd is looking twice as smug now. He glared at the deacon. I wonder how much you bribed these guards . . . and how badly your own Patron Deities will punish you for giving false witness, False Priest!

Daranen started arguing, equally shocked, but the middle-aged scribe was merely shoved aside while the two guards hauled Aradin out of the Keeper’s house. Without his breakfast, and without any way to continue to protest his innocence aloud. Wisely, Aradin did not resist. There was a loophole in his capture; the spell said Aradin, but not Aradin Teral. Wherever they were taking him, so long as he was allowed to keep his Witchcloak with him, or could at least wait for the darkness of night, he could fix everything.

All it would take was a bit of patience . . . when he didn’t want to be patient. Being a priest hadn’t been his first choice for his life’s calling, but he had learned that praying sometimes actually helped. Darkhan, Dark Ana . . . Kata and Jinga, it doesn’t hurt to pray to You, either. You all know the truth. May this idiot get what he deserves, without anyone else being harmed.

He knew it wasn’t the most gracious prayer in the world. Of course, he could have argued that he had just cause, but if there was one thing he had learned from watching Saleria pray, a true spirit put as much power as any rift-spilled magic could. Part of her power came from the purity of her intent. Marched up the street between the two guards, Aradin sighed and strove to do better.

At least the cell they gave him was clean. Aradin had stayed in far worse places trying to pass themselves off as inns. While he wasn’t completely sure the pallet was free of fleas, the walls and floor were stone, the high, barred window had glazed panes that let in just enough light to have read by if he’d had a book with him, and the facilities were quite civilized, with a porcelain flush-bowl and a small sink behind a chest-high privacy screen. Katani-style corked faucet, of course, but one couldn’t have everything. There was even a small wooden cup for drinking, rather than anything crude like a bucket of stale, possibly scummy water.

The only thing missing was a fourth stone wall. His was one of half a dozen cells, each with one wall of stout, rune-chased bars to keep in the criminals of Groveham. Currently, he was the only prisoner, set in one of the middle chambers. With a cell on either end and the remaining four facing the far wall, there was nothing between him and the two guards lounging at their table but those bars and a few body-lengths.

Clean, but boring. After four hours, he rapped on the bars until he had the attention of the guard who had spell-silenced him, and brought his fingers to his mouth, miming eating. Then he rubbed his stomach and gestured at his mouth again.

“What’s that?” the imperial guard mocked, lifting a hand to his ear. “I can’t hear you! You’re going to have to speak up.” He chuckled.

Aradin planted his hands on his hips and gave the guard his best stern priest’s glare. It worked. Grumbling, the guard flipped his hand.

“Fine. I was just having some fun. I’ll get you a bucket of pig-slops.”

Aradin folded his arms, glaring from under his brows. Though mind-to-mind speech was forbidden between two living mortals, he thought as hard as he could, Try it, and you will be chastised by Kata Herself, even if I have to go all the way to the Convocation in person to fetch Her!

That, too, worked. At least, the glare did. Defensively, the guard backed up toward the door. “Fine. But don’t expect the bread to be fresh. And you’ll be lucky to get scrapings out of the roasting pan. You’re a prisoner, foreigner, not an honored guest.”

Aradin arched a brow at that, but obviously said nothing. Moving over to the cot, he sat down on it to await his meal. As annoying as she could be, he knew he was going to miss Nannan’s cooking right after the guard returned with something for him to eat.

Teral slipped into his Doorway. He paused on the threshold, taking a few moments to absorb Aradin’s new surroundings, then sighed and settled into place behind his Host. (You’re not going to like Their reply.)

(I’m not?) Aradin asked, both brows lifting. (Have They refused to prove Their word is true?)

(Sort of,) his Guide hedged. (Orana spoke with Kata on our behalf, since she was in the amphitheater, and Saleria was apparently elsewhere, probably having lunch given the time of day on that side of the continent. Kata said, and I quote, “The young man in question needs a lesson in humility if he is ever to become a true priest. Let him ride the wave a bit before you save the day.” Orana didn’t know what She meant by that, but I think I can guess.)

So could Aradin. He winced and sat back on the narrow cot, resting against the stone wall. (Oh, that’s going to be unpleasant.)

(Exactly. Without either of us on hand to shunt all the energies, the Grove is going to go wild in just a matter of days,) Teral said.

(Yes. And to add insult to injury, I’m going to have to sit here like a good little prisoner and eat jailer’s slops.) Aradin knew he was complaining about a very trivial matter, when the Grove running wild was anything but trivial. He couldn’t help it, though. He’d missed breakfast after having gone on a vigorous hike, manipulating magics and taming wild plants along the way.

(You know . . . she didn’t say we had to stay locked up,) Teral mused. If he’d had control of their body, Aradin knew from his tone he would have been scratching his bearded chin thoughtfully.

He also could guess from long association with the other Witch what was going through his Guide’s mind. ( . . . You’re right, She didn’t. And Jinga has a reputation for being occasionally mischievous.)

(And perhaps we could speed things up by ensuring the “wave” in question was a truly wild one?) his Guide offered.

Aradin grinned. One of the other two guards glanced his way. He smothered the urge to smile, affecting a sober expression while he waited for his food. (We’ll still have to wait until nightfall. Our spare robe is hanging up in Saleria’s dressing room. Think we can make the Witchcloak transfer to it?)

(After nightfall, yes. We both know exactly where it is, after all. But until you can get those anti-magic cuffs off, you won’t be able to leave, let alone manifest, once you go into the Dark,) Teral warned him. (They will anchor you there. Only when they’re safely bagged in silk will we have a chance of getting them out again.)

(Well, then you’d better go round up a Host or a Guide in the Dark who knows how to pick locks, and who has a spare shielding sack on hand,) Aradin told him. (If you’re lucky, you won’t return until after I’ve choked down whatever gets scraped out of the prison’s dirtiest pots.)

(Oh, it won’t be that bad, surely,) Teral dismissed.

(And who was it who warned which one of us about speaking rashly, hmm?) Aradin countered.

(Fine. Consider it your punishment for tweaking the nose of the Threefold God,) Teral retorted, and ducked into the Dark. He left Aradin smiling, though, for all it would most likely be true.

The food was divine. Miracles had been wrought since just that morning. Saleria felt guilty for enjoying all the fruits and vegetables and even fish and meats, when she knew how hard Nannan cooked for her. But she did enjoy it.

The Keeper of the Grove could not remember a more exotic feast in her life, though she felt sorry for Witch Orana, who had been pressed into delivering bushels and baskets and stasis chests of food from various nations around the world via the Dark. The more that word spread about the Convocation of Gods and Man being restored, the more people from all over the world wanted to donate to it, to touch it in some way and be a part of this momentous occasion.

“Excuse me, but are you Priestess Saleria of Katan?” a middle-aged woman asked, interrupting Saleria’s next bite of the latest version of pasta, a dish she had learned came from a land called Guchere.

Setting down her fork, Saleria nodded. “Yes, I am. How may I help you?”

“I’ve a message from Priestess Orana Niel,” the brunette in the sunset tabard stated, and handed over a rolled up piece of paper. An oddly rolled up piece, for it had been pinched at alternating angles, which made it look something like a cross between a bit of honeycomb and a chewed-up stick. At the Keeper’s odd stare, the servant gestured at it. “She explained to me that this is the easiest way to conceal a message without using a spell, because she said once it’s been rolled up and pinched, you can’t get it to roll up perfectly a second time. You can see I haven’t peeked at it, milady.”

“Yes, I can see that. I just didn’t know why it had been rolled up like this,” Saleria told her, taking the scroll from the Convocation servant. She peeled open a layer and a half, then tried to rewrap it . . . and failed. “How clever . . . It really can’t be rewrapped, can it?”

The older woman grinned. “I’ve been delivering those half the day, now. Everyone’s been amazed by the trick of it. Have a good supper, milady.”

“And you, when you get to it,” Saleria replied, more of her attention on unscrolling the sheet of paper. The message, when she got to it, made her eyes widen. Neatly penned in Katani lettering, its content was alarming.

Aradin Teral has been harassed by someone named Deacon Shanno. They are now under arrest, if unharmed. Goddess Kata in Her wisdom has decided to let things stand for now. She said this would teach “the young man” a lesson in humility, and something about “ride the wave,” whatever that means.

Yours, Orana Niel.

Dear Kata! Saleria thought, alarmed. Aradin, arrested? And to be taught a lesson in humility?

A voice laughed inside her head. Not Jinga’s, but Kata’s. Normally serene, the Goddess chuckled in Saleria’s mind. (Not the Witch, Keeper, but the deacon-child, who in his arrogance does not understand what he attempts to wield. Here, let Us show you . . .)

Blinking, Saleria swayed and clutched at the dining table, anchoring her sense of balance as the world shifted. She knew she was still seated in the dining hall somewhere under the mountains of Nightfall Isle, but her sense of sight and sound showed a completely different scene, of leaving her body behind to fly high over a broad island, then a vast span of water, chasing the sun like a spell-flung skylark.

Her mind relaxing into Kata’s control, Saleria blinked as the width of Katan itself streaked rapidly past, until she alighted on a curving, interwoven branch of the Bower itself, in a spot which allowed her to peer down at a familiar blond man.

Deacon Shanno, oblivious of the bird’s-eye view which Saleria now had of him, picked up a flask from one of Aradin’s tables, sniffed at the contents, made a face, and set it back down again. “Poncy fellow. Smells like a perfume shop in half these bottles. The other half like a child that’s been rolling in the grass . . .

“I think I shall have to get rid of all of this,” he decided, fluttering his hands at the collection of tables interspersed between sap pools and altars. “Cluttering up a holy sanctuary with alchemical equipment? Blasphemy!” Shanno asserted. Then he cleared his throat and tried again, this time with less volume, but a deeper tone. “Blasphemy.” He attempted it a third time, testing out yet another way of emphasizing it. “Blasphemy . . . blasphemous. Hm. I’ll have to work on that.”

He turned in place, squinting up at the vines as they slowly oozed and dripped around him. Saleria almost held her breath, for he looked like he was about to step backward into a pale amethyst sap-pool which Aradin had identified as concentrated fecundity—in other words, perfect for lust potions, conception potions, and even contraception potions, if treated just right alchemically. Unfortunately, he noticed it before anything could happen. Shanno gave the puddle a bemused look, then stepped away.

“No, no, this is all wrong! Why would the seat of power be dripping with . . . goo?” Shanno muttered in disgust.

Tentatively, he reached out to touch a sap-slick vine, the one which Aradin Teral had used to show how it caused a sugarcane plant to grow faster than natural. Nothing happened, other than that he got the slightly sticky stuff on his fingers. Stooping, Shanno scrubbed it off on a bit of moss. From the way he immediately straightened and moved on, Saleria assumed he did not see the moss quiver, then thicken.

“This should be a true garden, filled with flowers, and trees, and bowers . . . ew, is that a bug?” He peered out between two of the interwoven, rough-barked roots forming the edge of the Bower’s dome, and made a face. “Far too nature-filled for my tastes. But still, I’ll have the prestige of tending it while the Keeper is away . . .”

Oh, Kata, Saleria thought in disgust. I think I’ve seen enough . . .

Apparently not, for her literal bird’s-eye view followed Shanno out of the Bower and down the paths. Sunset was only an hour or so away. By this point in time, all three of them—herself and Aradin Teral—would be channeling power directly from the Bower to the Grove walls. That slowed the sap-dripping as well as ensuring that the heart of each locus tree would not overfill and thus overflow with untapped magics. But it was clear Shanno had no clue what to do. He hadn’t even grabbed a pruning staff from the shed just inside the Grove.

Sure enough, something lunged out of the bushes, slapping at his ankles. Shanno shrieked when the thettis-vine attacked, stumbling back. By pure miracle, the thorns only snagged his white priest-robes. Yanking his hem free, he hopped back out of range of a second lash, his blue eyes wide.

“U-Unnatural place,” he stammered. Then muttered to himself, snapping his fingers. A faint shimmer bubbled around him in a protective ward. “. . . There. That should do it. I’ll come back and burn you out, see if I don’t!” he warned the bush. A blush stained his cheeks. “Listen to me; I’m talking to myself! Unnatural place. I’ll take great pleasure in casting several fire spells on that patch tomorrow morning. But you can wait until morning. I’m off to have myself a nice supper, and a bit of dessert for a job well done . . .”

Nothing else attacked him, which was a pity. Saleria watched him disappear into the Keeper’s house, where he received nothing but tight-lipped, dark glares from Nannan. From the unlit state of the kitchen, she would apparently rather let herself and Daranen starve than fix the deacon anything. Shanno gave her an arch look, the kind that said he would be back, and marched out of the house.

The skylark’s view swooped into the streets after him, but rather than following the deacon all the way to the cathedral, it detoured to the guard hall. Settling much like a bird on the sill of a glazed window, Saleria had a few moments to peer inside past the bars. She caught sight of a familiar, beloved dark blond head, of a well-known hand dipping a chunk of bread into a bowl of something unidentifiable, an unfamiliar bit of metal wrapped around Aradin’s wrist . . . and then the skylark took off, winging its way back to her body with breathless speed.

(Give it two more days, Keeper,) Kata advised her. (Then you may join your Witch-lover if you wish . . . though only briefly. You are needed to stand witness here as well as there.)

Saleria landed with a swaying jolt in her body, no longer a mental bird lofted by her Patron. She felt a feather-soft touch, as if Kata had brushed Her lips against Saleria’s brow, then nothing more. Alone with her thoughts, Saleria wondered if she should do anything about what she had seen. Not go to Aradin immediately—not against her Goddess’ advice—but if she should tell anyone what was happening. Hunger distracted her.

Her food was still warm, though not quite hot. Digging into her meal, she nibbled on some exotic reddish carrot-thing cooked into a sweet dish with bits of spice-dusted fruit. A yellow nubbly something that had been pickled and chilled hit her palate next. It reminded her of Aradin and Teral politely declining some of Nannan’s vinegar-based sauces . . . and that in turn reminded her that the Keeper of Katan wasn’t the only member of the priesthood involved.

I shall have to seek out the Witch-priest representing the people of Darkhana, she decided, dipping a bit of fresh-baked bread into the spicy-sweet dish’s sauce. Darkhan and Dark Ana would no doubt like a say in how Their priest has been treated by a deacon of my own Order . . . Lifting the bit of bread to her mouth, she hesitated. Oh. Oh, right . . . Poor Aradin. Who knows what he’s dipping his bread into at this very moment? Kata, Jinga, make sure he’s fed something healthy, at the very least! Or I shall have to have very cross words with the Guard Captain of Groveham.

While the night shift guards quietly played some sort of card game in the glow of a modestly rapped lightglobe, Aradin meticulously draped the folds of his Witchcloak over every inch of his body. Tugging the deeply cowled hood over his head, he fitted his wrists into the oversized sleeves, wriggled just a bit to make sure even the cuffs overlapped . . . and relaxed into his own Doorway. Teral took his place, anchoring their shared body in reality.

Glenna awaited him, as did her Guide, Josai. Glenna smiled and wiggled the strange implement in her hand. “Bet you didn’t know I could pick a lock . . .”

“You’d win that bet,” Aradin told her. He held up his wrists. “Anti-magic cuffs, wrongfully applied. The instigator will get his comeuppance shortly, if Teral and I have anything to do with assisting it along . . . and of course we will.”

The other Witch chuckled, then started poking and prodding at the cuffs. “Good thing these are more or less nullified by the Dark . . . ah, there we go. Simple enough mechanism. A twist, a push, another twist . . . huzzah!”

Josai swooped under Aradin’s wrist and caught the falling cuff in a quilted satchel before it could land on the not-ground of the Dark. She hovered, waited, and caught the second one as well. Pulling the drawstring tight, she wrapped the ends around the throat of the bag, knotted them, and held it out to Aradin with a bow.

“Thank you, ladies,” he praised both women. “Since I’ve only been borrowing them, I’ll make sure to return these to their proper owner. When everything has been cleared up, of course.”

“Just don’t touch those nasty things while you’re in the Dark,” Josai reminded him tartly. “Or you’ll be stuck in here again until someone can separate you.”

“You also owe us both a dance, next turning of Brother Moon,” Glenna added. “Be careful when cloak-swapping.”

“I will,” he promised. Bag in hand, Aradin turned to his right, took three steps, and arrived back at his Doorway. (Ready to go?) he asked Teral, stepping just far enough back to be out of the way, yet close enough to still hear.

(More than ready; this hard pallet is not good for my back.) Drawing in a deep breath to brace their body, Teral sank through the Doorway. Silently, the Witchcloak sank downward onto the cell cot. Unless the cloak remained exactly where it was, unnoticed and untouched, they would not be able to return to it.

Aradin kept his fingers on his Doorway while Teral pulled their flesh through. One short step, two—with their free hands clasped, the fingers of his other hand brushed the frame of the other, fuller Witchcloak, still hanging in Saleria’s dressing room. Then, with Teral to anchor him, he released the other cloak and pulled himself into the new opening. Thankfully, the room was dark, for the deep hood was how the cloak had been hung on its peg. A gentle tug released it from the wooden projection, allowing him to step away from the wall and cast about for the lightglobe.

Which should be . . . two steps to the left, about head-height . . . there. His fingers bumped into it, summoning a gentle glow. Once he had enough light to see by, Aradin set the bag with the cuffs on an empty patch of shelving. He made his way to the refreshing room, freshened up, rapped off all the lights, and worked his way downstairs. The moment his foot touched the ground floor, a board squeaked beneath it.

“—Back again, are you, you little snot? By the Gods, I think not!”

Aradin jumped back, tripped on the bottom step, and landed on his backside with a grunt. “Nannan!” he gasped. Or tried to. All that came out was a strangled wheeze. (Dammit—the spell’s still choking me from speaking?)

He flipped the cloak folds over his body and quickly swapped places with Teral—who hastily threw up an arm to block the smacking of whatever it was the housekeeper had in her hands. A broom, from the rustling thump of it.

“Enough, woman!” Teral ordered, grasping the shaft and wrestling it to a standstill. “This is Teral, not that little snot, as you so aptly named him.”

“T-Teral? Oh, Gods!” Dropping her end of the broom, the housekeeper tried to cuddle him in apology. The Darkhanan Guide put up with it for a few moments, then pushed her off. Gently, but firmly.

“Enough. Now is not the time nor place,” he added. “I take it the little snot isn’t here?”

“No—and I’ll thank you to put a stop to this nonsense! I would’ve stopped him before, if the guards hadn’t been here earlier. And I would have come up directly, if I hadn’t been, erm, indisposed,” she mumbled, blushing. “You know, in the refreshing room for a bit.”

Teral held up one hand, determined to regain some dignity. “Please, nothing more need be said of the matter. I’ll value the bruises you have given me as a sign of your devotion to your mistress’ household, but there’s no need to demonstrate more of your combat prowess. Your broom, milady.”

Blushing again, she took back her makeshift weapon. “So . . . what will you be doing now?”

“I shall be preparing the Grove for Deacon Shanno’s visit on the morrow. If he wants to handle the Grove, I say let him try . . . as in, try it at its worst.”

Nannan blanched a little and clutched her broom close. “You . . . you’re going to unleash it on the town?”

He hadn’t considered going that far. “Er, well . . .”

A masculine chuckle startled the Witch. Not just Teral, but Aradin as well, for it came from neither of them. A deep, laughing male voice whispered in their minds. (Now, bring no lasting harm to anyone else . . . but prove beyond a doubt that the “little snot” has not what it takes to handle the responsibility of My Wedding-Grove.)

(Ah, certainly, Lord Jinga,) Aradin managed to reply. (Certainly. We’d better get going—would You be willing to arrange our safe return to the prison cell, unnoticed?) he asked daringly.

(It would help further the illusion that Shanno is free to do as he pleases,) Teral added.

The deep chuckle they heard was the only answer they received, for Jinga did not speak again.

(Wait—my voice . . . ?) Aradin asked. Nothing. Sighing mentally, he prodded his Guide. (Well, get on with it. Even with only one of us able to speak, I can still cast whatever spells I’ve made an instinctual habit, so I’m not completely useless . . . but you’ll still have to do most of the work.)

(Not unless we can distill a counter-potion from the communications sap, which we should be able to do quickly enough,) Teral told him. Out loud, he said to Nannan, “It’s best you don’t know what I’ll be planning, so you can claim on a Truth Stone you don’t know what I’m up to or where I’ve gone.”

If Aradin had been in charge of their shared body, he would have smacked his forehead. (Of course! With magic that concentrated, it’d be like a modified Ultra Tongue brew! Not that I know how to brew one, but I do know the potion variety that allows you to learn another language permanently, and it does so by using an enchanted talisman. If I dunk all of the translation amulets we’ve collected over the years . . .)

(First we have to get to the Bower,) Teral reminded him. (The wards were not refreshed tonight . . . and given our charming visitor, I don’t think we should do anything to restrengthen them just yet.)

(Between you and me, we can keep the worst of the Grove’s amalgamations from running free. We’ll have to keep an eye out for whatever Saleria would’ve been here to control, though. Some things can be let through to Groveham’s streets,) Aradin said. (But as much as that little snot needs to learn a lesson in humility, the rest of the city doesn’t need to have their homes invaded by walking clumps of clawed, thorny skunkweed.)

Teral nodded and dusted himself off, heading for the back door. (Right. We’ll grab a pole from the pruning shed for our own safety’s sake, and maybe to siphon and redirect some of tonight’s wave of magic—amplifying it carefully—and then return to the Dark to see if we have been given a window of opportunity to return to the cell before the morning slops come round.)

(Come now, it wasn’t horribly bad. Those drippings were rather tasty, and there were a few scraps of beef in the bowl, plus a few vegetables,) Aradin joked. (A bit mushy from being overcooked, but not too bad all the same.)

“Teral?” Nannan’s voice arrested the Guide. He turned in time to see her holding out a small bucket covered with a kerchief tucked into the top. “A bit of bread, some cheese, and smoked sausage slices, in case they didn’t feed you . . . well . . . Aradin right, when they hauled him away. I didn’t have time to actually cook anything. I’m sorry.”

He smiled at her and accepted the luncheon pail. “We both thank you for your kindness. Rest assured, this will be quite enough. Aradin wasn’t starved, though we’ve both had much better. Sleep well, Nannan. We’ll make sure the house is well-warded before beginning the night’s mischief.”

“You’d better,” she half-threatened. “Or I’ll use my broom to smack you and that young Aradin, too.”