The Grove

FOURTEEN

(Would you like to see again?)

Saleria blinked, losing track of the conversation. Serina, Dominor, and Guardian Daemon of Pasha—who had accompanied his sister, the priestess selected to represent their nation’s Patrons—continued discussing the feasibility of reopening the old cross-continental Portals, which had been vastly superior to the modest mirror-Gate systems used now. The Grove was a part of that network, since the untamed energies of its three rifts were causing a great deal of disturbance in the aether across Katan . . . but when that voice spoke, she listened.

. . . Jinga? she asked, and received the God’s chuckle. Is something happening in the Grove?

The chuckle became a full-on laugh, and she found herself swept up in a warmth and darkness utterly unlike the chilling breathlessness of the Dark. This time when she landed, she seemed to be in the body of a rabbit or other small animal, for her view was low to the ground and half-sheltered by the leaves of a bush.

A strange sound reached her ears. It resolved into the voice of a young man yelling, of heavy, frantic running, and the crackling of branches breaking and being shoved aside. As Saleria watched, Deacon Shanno stumbled into view, twisting and swiping at some sort of dark green vine that had wrapped itself around his head like the tendrils of a cuttlefish. His fine white robes were stained with mud and greenery, leaves were plastered to his skin—leech leaves, she realized with a touch of alarm—and he didn’t see the low rock in his way.

Tumbling to the ground with a yelp, he struggled with the cuttlefish-vine. The fall seemed to have stunned it, for its grip relaxed enough for the disheveled deacon to yank it off. Furious, he grabbed it by its tentacle-tendrils and bashed it against the rock several times, then flung it away. Shanno sat there panting for a few moments, then winced and started picking the leech-leaves off his skin.

“How could she make this look so easy . . . ? No, no,” he corrected himself. “The Keeper was not doing her job. Well, I’m not defeated yet! By Jinga, I swear you’ll learn to obey me! I’ll burn you all to the ground, if I have to!”

Saleria lifted both of her brows at that. Ah . . . Jinga? I really should intervene. Warped and mutated though they may be, the plants and animals of the Grove don’t all deserve to die.

(Hush, My child,) Jinga chided her, enveloping her in darkness once again. (He is salvageable, if he can learn humility. That, and I have a bet with Darkhan going.)

She came back to herself with a rush . . . and dropped her head into her palms. Oh, Jinga . . . Your sense of humor is unlike any other I know . . .

(You should speak with the priest-Exarch Melulose Filomen-Amon, who worships Tifrang, God of Mischief.)

There’s a God of Mischief? She lifted her head, blinking. And people worship Him? As their sole Patron?

(Yep.)

With that, she was alone again in her mind. Vaguely, she heard Serina asking if she was alright, and managed a weak nod. Maybe I don’t want that Ultra Tongue potion Orana promised to get; I’m not sure I’d want to understand a culture that worships a God of Mischief.

She refocused her attention on the conversation the others were having. Guardian Daemon was speaking now.

“. . . And I cannot do anything about the mid-latitude aether disturbances until the missing Guardian of Garama’s Fountain shows up. As much as it pains me, you’re going to have to leave Aiar out of your equations, Serina.”

“But if I don’t expand our efforts into Aiar, then I have to get Senod-Gra fixed!” the Arithmancer complained, tugging on her long, pale blonde braid. “You know what Keleseth is like.”

“Then the solution to your problem is to wait, young lady,” Daemon told her. “The prophecies are slowly coming true, which means the Garama problem will probably fix itself on its own. However, I should point out that Portals to various places in this world in theory can be seized and used to create Portals to other universes. Which includes the Netherhells.”

Serina rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Not if you shield them correctly! Honestly, am I the only one who reads all the pre-Shattering texts anymore?”

“You’re probably the only one with time, interest, and access to a library old enough, love,” Dominor told his wife. The ornate bracelet on his wrist chimed, startling Saleria. He winced. “Right. Time to go relieve Queen Kelly of her duties for the evening shift. I am very glad Rora volunteered to be the nighttime coordinator for the Convocation.”

Kissing his wife, he headed for the door. Not every room had them; some were stone instead of wood like this one. Not every room had furniture, though someone had scrounged up a set of benches and two chairs for this room. But no one could say the location for the new Convocation lacked enough rooms for it. Serina sighed, watching him go, then glanced down at her napping twins. Today, they were cuddled together in a floating, spell-rocked cradle.

Guardian Daemon eyed them, too. The wistful look in his blue eyes made Saleria wonder why such a handsome, commanding man hadn’t found a wife yet. Or even a husband, if such were the ways of his homeland. She ventured a question. “Do you like children, Guardian Daemon?”

“I do, though it’s hard to juggle being the Guardian and having a private life. I can’t wait until my sister Daria can speak to Pashon and Pashana about this stupid civil war tearing our country apart. The only bright side is that it’s winter, which means the fighting has slowed . . . if not the jockeying for power,” he muttered. “As much as I’d like to help you with your project, Serina, that, too, must be quelled and settled first, much like the aether. There are times when I could smack my cousins.”

“I hope the Gods can bring a solution to your nation’s problem,” Saleria offered. “The only turmoil I have to face at the moment involves ambulatory blackberries, and a young deacon in need of a lesson regarding his unwarranted hubris.”

“Sounds fascinating,” Serina said, giving her slumbering son one last gentle caress. “We’ve gone on and on about my problems. Let’s hear about yours—you said the rift-Fonts in your Grove actually get concentrated down into a sort of sap?”

“A concentrated sap? You mean, as in a magic-infused sap?” Daemon asked her. “That’s very odd-sounding, but I’d imagine it might be useful in various potions.”

“That’s what Aradin thought,” Saleria agreed. “Witch Aradin Teral; I think you’ve seen him on Kerric’s mirror-links? He’s a Hortimancer, so he deals more with the base ingredients than the end result, but he has some interesting ideas on what the original Keeper who created the Bower might’ve had in mind for the sap.”

“If you need help, I offer my services; I originally trained in Alchemy, though these days I have my hands full trying to keep the civil war from boiling over. With luck, my Gods will give me a solution to the problem so I can recapture all that wasted time with something I actually enjoy doing.” Daemon frowned for a moment, then sighed and shook it off. “But back to the sap. If there’s any chance I could get my hands on some samples of it, I could do some testing for you, maybe some experimentation, see if it’s actually viable as a potion ingredient.”

“Yes, it would be good to get a second trustworthy opinion,” she said, trying not to think too much about the amusing-yet-sad image of Deacon Shanno stumbling through her unprotected Grove. “I’m not an Alchemist or a Hortimancer myself, but here’s what Aradin told me about the Bower’s sap varieties, and from what he’s already tried, something of how they could be turned into potion bases . . .”

Aradin heard her coming. Though the exact words were muffled up until the point the stout wooden door was unlocked and pulled open, the stern alto scolding which the accompanying guardsman was receiving made the Witch grin to himself. Nannan in full fury was a force to be reckoned with, if one was constrained by laws regarding the safety and well-being of law-abiding citizens.

“—knows what you’ve been feeding the poor boy! I will not fail in my duties to the Holy Keeper’s household by letting you poison him just because that daft deacon says he’s guilty! And I will have that boy given a fair trial by Truth Stone, even if I have to drag Duke Finneg himself, Councillor for Conflict Resolution, all the way here from the capital!”

Levering himself up on one elbow, Aradin watched the pair stop by the guards’ table, halted by the hand her escort raised.

“Technically, that would be the job of either Lord Stotten, Councillor for the Law, or Lord Gregus, Councillor for Foreign Affairs, as he is a foreigner,” the guardsman stated. He wasn’t one of the ones that had grabbed the Darkhanan, and didn’t seem the kind to perpetuate a cruel misjustice. Then again, all Aradin had to go on was how the other man’s tone lay somewhere between firm and weary.

“I don’t care if he’s one of my baked salmon and cheese pies!” she retorted. “Locking him up when he’s only been doing Her Holiness’ orders is the real crime here. Now open up that door so I can serve him a real supper,” Nannan ordered, pointing her finger briefly at the bars serving as the fourth wall of Aradin’s temporary home, before poking it into the teal-clad guardsman’s chest. “None of that slop I wouldn’t feed to a pig!”

His eyes narrowed, but he sighed heavily and gestured at the table. “Let me examine the contents of your ‘supper pail’ and I will see if it is safe to pass to the prisoner.”

“You can examine it, but you haven’t earned the right to eat it,” Nannan bartered stoutly.

Amused, Aradin rubbed his chin. The housekeeper made a show of fussing and slapping the guard’s hands when he tried poking and prodding, chiding him for, “. . . not knowing where those fingers have been lately!” and in general making up for all the aggravation she had given Aradin in their earlier weeks. Mainly because she was giving it to his jailers.

Finally, with an exasperated sigh, the guardsman led her to the cell. Curtly ordering Aradin to stay back, he allowed Nannan to step inside. She sniffed, wrinkled her nose, and brought the bucket over to him, muttering about nasty fingerprints in her good food.

It was good food, too; she actually remembered he didn’t like pickled flavors nearly as much as Saleria did, for the seasonings were sweet and spicy rather than sweet and sour. Just thinking about the absent Keeper made Aradin wish the Convocation were over, so that she could take everyone to task for imprisoning him. He didn’t have much time to mope, however. Nannan had more than delivering dinner on her mind, and she gave a piece of it to everyone within hearing range.

Today, that included four guards, Aradin, herself, and an older man who had drunk himself into disorderly conduct and had been hauled here to sleep it off, before working it off with some sort of compulsory service in the morning. Picking garbage off the streets, from the sound of it.

“Well. That fool, Deacon Shanno, seems to think he can handle the wildest beasts of the Grove, but let me tell you, he was in very sorry straits when he came in through the gate earlier! Torn and scratched and bleeding and covered in leaves and stains. Let me tell you, he looked like he’d been in a fight with a cross between a blackberry bush and a cat, and come out the lesser for it.” She shook her head. “I have no idea what all that boy thinks he can manage, but the Grove is not one of them—if there weren’t stout wardings etched into the very stones of the Keeper’s house, why, I’d be afraid for my life, and I’ve been telling everyone exactly so, all afternoon long!”

Wait, why would she . . . ? Ohhh, clever girl, Aradin thought to himself. He merely nodded and used the spoon she had brought to dig into the first dish, vegetables and greens that had been cooked, chilled, then drizzled in honey and mustard for flavor. The stout stone walls of the city prison kept out most of the day’s heat, but it was still warm down here, and the chilled dish tasted good.

Teral picked up on his meaning. (Clever, indeed. She’s also probably spreading word that Shanno cannot manage the Grove, along with word of the Convocation and the Keeper’s presence at it, and our presence here, and how we’re meant to tend the Grove at Saleria’s expressed wishes. If we let the Grove mutations crawl over the walls . . . they’ll wreak havoc in the city, and throw all sympathy for Shanno’s self-professed declarations of competency right out the nearest window.)

(If we let the mutations crawl over the wall, the town will be in danger,) Aradin reminded his Guide, frowning. Out loud, he pitched his voice just loud enough to carry to the guards outside the cell without seeming too obvious about it. “What about the wards on the Grove wall? Is he tending to those? Has he been pruning back the more volatile plants?”

Nannan snorted. “I doubt it. More like they have been trying to prune him. Aradin—as a Hortimancer—how much danger is Groveham in?”

“With Keeper Saleria gone off to represent Katan at the Convocation of Gods and Man, and myself as the only other person authorized, powerful enough, and knowledgeable about what the Grove mutations can do . . .” He dropped his already low voice into a grim bass warning. “It will not be good, Nannan. And though I am here in Groveham, as you can see they have locked me up. I am helpless to stop the coming wave of unmanaged, untamed mutations.”

“Wait a moment . . . how can you talk? I thought we slapped a silencing spell on you!” one of the guards exclaimed. He pushed to his feet and stalked over to Aradin’s cell, glaring at the Witch through the bars.

“Obviously, the will of the Gods allows me to speak,” Aradin retorted dryly. He returned to addressing the housekeeper, knowing the other guards were listening. “The Grove is nothing to mess with. I don’t know what this young deacon thinks he can do to control and contain it, when he hasn’t even spent a single hour following Keeper Saleria around, never mind the month-plus it took me to train under her—and I, a mage-priest of twice his experience.”

From the way Nannan was now smiling at him, her back thankfully to the guards, he had chosen right to play along. Though “play” wasn’t the right word for it, since Aradin meant every word.

“Now, do not make his mistake. Do not go into the Grove yourself, and if you see anything untoward around the house, either run for the guard so they can fetch me to deal with it, or lock yourself inside, behind the many wards laid on that place,” he cautioned her.

“At least I have a safe haven from the beast-bushes,” Nannan told him. “What about the rest of the city?”

“If you know any mages, even those with only a little bit of power, have them go from house to house warding all the doors and windows. That won’t stop the beast-bushes from roaming the streets, but it should give the people a safe place to hide. I’d fix the problem more directly, but all I can do is extend my apologies for anyone who comes to harm over this mess,” Aradin sighed, shrugging expressively. “I have been cast into prison simply because a certain, foolish young man envies my position and covets what he thinks are its privileges, without comprehending its many duties, responsibilities, and pains in the posterior. Deacon Shanno’s presumption and arrogance will cause this city to suffer. Not anything I would do . . . since what I was doing was everything needed to keep this city safe.”

“Well, I’ll at least try to make sure the food is far better than the accommodations. Eat up before it goes bad,” she directed him. “When you’re done, just hand the pail to the guards. I’ll come collect it in the morning when I bring you a hot breakfast—you can let me out now, milords, now that I’m satisfied the man won’t starve, or die of food poisoning.”

“Oh, come now,” the lead guard protested, moving up to the section of bars that formed the cell door. “What we serve wouldn’t kill a fly. But what makes you think we’ll let you bring in a hot breakfast for the prisoner?”

Nannan gave him a pointed look. “And just what sort of reaction do you think the Keeper will have, when Her Holiness finds out you’ve thrown her duly appointed, Gods-blessed assistant in prison for doing his job?” She tsked and shook her head. “I’d hate to be in your shoes, when the wrath of Heaven comes down on your heads.”

“So you say,” one of the other guards stated, lifting his chin. Aradin recognized him as the second man to put him in the anti-magic cuffs. “But you’re just the housekeeper. You don’t have your finger on the pulse of the Department of Temples.”

Nannan exited the cell and gave the other speaker a sniffy look. “You don’t live with Her Holiness day in and day out. You don’t commune with the Gods on a daily basis like Her Holiness does . . . and like she did when she asked Them if Holy Brother Aradin had Their approval to work with her. Which is why you aren’t getting a hot breakfast cooked by me.”

And with that, she flounced out. Aradin was a little bemused by the sight of a somewhat plump, middle-aged woman stalking out with a huffy look and a bounce to her step, but Teral was outright amused.

(Be very, very glad I find Saleria more appealing than Nannan,) he told his Host, chuckling. (That almost endeared her to me.)

(The food’s endearing her to me,) Aradin replied, spreading out the layers of carefully stacked plates tucked into the metal bucket. (Roast beef cold cuts, four kinds of cheeses, that salad we both like of greens with that tasty honey sauce, a dish with chicken and fruit mixed with nuts . . . ah, Gods bless the woman. She’s included one of her cinnin cakes at the bottom!)

Grinning like a little boy receiving presents on his birthing-day, Aradin bit into the broad, flat roll. Unlike the ones found in his homeland, where the sweet added to the spice was found as an icing drizzled over the top, Nannan had figured out some way of injecting a thickened cream filling into the spice-infused, round, bready disks.

Teral sighed in the back of his mind. (I’d chide you for not being a man and eating your vegetables first . . . but even I would eat her cinnin cakes above all else. Eat up, then rest. Tonight, we sneak back through the Keeper’s house to the Grove and augment the wave of beasts that little snot must face.)

(You really like her nickname for him, don’t you?) Aradin asked.

Teral snorted mentally. (He is one! If he were my son, I’d turn him over and blister his backside.)

It wasn’t often that Aradin got to turn the tables on his Guide and give sage advice. (Now, Teral, you must remember he is young, and Youth Equals Stupid. At least, until the bludgeoning of a personal learning experience has been applied to a young man’s head. Sometimes thoroughly applied, first.)

(I look forward to witnessing it,) his Guide replied. (Eat your vegetables. We’ll need our strength.)

Nannan brought the Witch a hot breakfast as promised, and for lunch, and for supper. She kept this up for two full days . . . then didn’t appear with his anticipated lunch. Instead, Aradin Teral could hear even through the glazed windows the shouts of alarm and the cries for the guard. Something about strangling vines and tumbling weeds.

The guards didn’t know what to make of it. He could make an educated guess as to what was happening, of course, but he didn’t speak up about it.

Lying on the narrow cot, hands tucked under his head, Aradin listened to them debating the matter in hushed tones. Should they hold to the requests which the young deacon had given them, or should they interrogate Aradin under a Truth Stone? Not every word was clear enough to hear despite the way he strained, even held his breath occasionally, but the Darkhanan still got the impression that Shanno had held some secret over the captain of the Groveham city guard, demanding certain concessions of the older man.

The current shift of jailers didn’t know what that secret was, but it did impress them that the deacon would know some secret that would make their stern captain eager to obey. They finally ended their debate by deciding to just sit tight and wait. All three of them waited, Aradin and the two men in their leather armor and teal-colored tabards . . . until the ground started shaking with a rhythmic thudding.

The noise was accompanied by panicked shouts and screams of fear from somewhere outside. Levering himself off the cot, Aradin moved over to the window, stood on the tips of his toes, and peered out through the bars. He didn’t see anything other than the multistoried wood and plaster building across from him for several long moments—then something grayish-brown, leafy, and bizarre strode past with an odd creaking sound between each thump, thump, thump, shaking the walls and the floor. An even louder sound escaped whatever-it-was, somewhere between a creak and a groan.

A rather wooden creaking, he belatedly realized. (That extra magic we poured into the aether circling the Grove, all these nights?) he reminded Teral. (I think it just bore unexpected fruit.)

(Fruit, hell,) Teral countered as something crashed and crumbled in the distance, accompanied by more frantic screaming. (I think it bore an entire tree!)

Sure enough, the huge thing came back. From this angle, Aradin could actually see partway up its tree-trunk legs. From the bits of long, slender leaves on the ends of drooping branches, he guessed it to be some member of the willow family, but the bark was thick, rugged, and much more auburn in hue than a proper willow gray. If he had to place the other parent tree, he would have guessed a redwood or some other conifer. (I hope this didn’t break off from one of the locus tree groupings.)

(That would be bad,) Teral agreed grimly. (I think we overdid it a little.)

“—I’ve got it!” he heard Shanno shouting somewhere out of sight. The youth came closer, though Aradin still couldn’t quite see. “Ignifa shoudis!”

Hissing noises sliced through the air, along with a faint glow of golden-orange light off to the left, and a whoompf sound that ended in a rising, groaning creak, the sound of a treeman screaming. Aradin wished for a stool, or that the cot could be pulled away from the wall, but it was firmly secured. Teral was a little taller and might have had more luck in his own body, but he didn’t want to risk the guards knowing he could swap faces. All he could do was listen to Shanno cast a few more spells, hear the crackling and snapping of more than just moving tree limbs, and see the glow of increasing flames reflecting off the building across the street.

“There, that should do it,” he heard Shanno proclaim in a grim, satisfied tone. Except there wasn’t any crashing reminiscent of a tree hitting the ground, just the snapping of flames . . . and the creaking of limbs. The deacon’s voice cracked in a yelp, followed by a bashing that shook the ground, but was too gentle to be the tree falling down. Sure enough, the deacon yelled, “Why won’t you fall down?”

The treeman groan-roared and smashed again. Someone else screamed, “—My house! My shop! Fire! FIRE!! Somebody help me!”

“Everything—everything’s under control!” Shanno called out. “Everything . . . Someone get a water mage out here!—Damn you, tree, why don’t you die? All those stupid bush-beasts did!”

(Because a tree is far larger than a fireball spell,) Teral answered the deacon, his words heard only in Aradin’s head.

(And because it’s covered in conifer bark, which is very thick and insulative,) Aradin agreed, remembering his Hortimancy lessons. (The exteriors of such trees might get scorched and the leaves burned off, but the core of the tree will continue to live, if it’s large enough.)

“Dammit—hudorjen hudorsomm!”

A long, heavy splashing noise was joined by a massive hissing. Moments later, a great cloud of steam and smoke billowed past his prison window. Faintly through the cracks around the edges of the glass-paned, iron-barred barrier, Aradin could smell burnt pine pitch. Shanno shouted his water-summoning spell again, splashing more liquid on the unseen battleground. The treeman thumped off into the distance, its flames hopefully extinguished.

Aradin could hear it evoking more panicked screams, and an occasional crash from its limbs swinging against whatever got in its way, or displeased it, or for whatever reason a treeman might rampage through a town, then it faded into the distance. He relaxed back onto his heels and sighed. (No, this is not good for poor Groveham . . .)

“What was out there?” one of the guards called out to him. “What did you see?”

Pushing away from the wall, Aradin crossed to the bars and braced one hand on the rune-chased metal. “What did I see? I saw very little from the window . . . but I could guess most of it from what I heard.”

“So what did you hear?” the teal-clad man rephrased impatiently.

“I heard the warped amalgamation of an utterly untamed, uncontrolled Grove-tree transformed into a living, moving, angry treeman, rampaging through the streets of your city, because I am locked up in here and am unable to do my assigned job as the Keeper’s assistant. I heard,” he continued tersely, cutting off the guard as the other man opened his mouth to speak, “Deacon Shanno utterly failing to destroy that treeman, and in fact, only enraging it further, into bashing into a house and setting it ablaze. I heard Shanno attempting to put the fire out . . . and the sounds of the treeman moving on, continuing its rampage through town unstopped.

“I heard your fellow Groveham citizens crying out for help as their homes were damaged and set ablaze . . . and I see you sitting there, complicit in the deacon’s arrogant stupidity, compounding the damages hour by hour of a situation already out of your combined control.” He flicked his gaze over the gaping guardsman, then over at his equally slack-mouthed companion. “Tell the good deacon that when he is ready to admit he cannot handle the Grove, I will step in and bring it back into line.

“But tell him to hurry. The longer the Grove runs unchecked, the harder it will be even for a powerful mage-priest such as myself, or even the Keeper, to contain what he has let loose upon this town . . . and the surrounding countryside . . . and its neighboring lands, and their neighbors.”

Returning to his cot, Aradin stretched out on it, wondering how much more of Shanno’s madness the people of Groveham could take, and trying to let go of his mounting anger over the whole mess.

(I swear, if I didn’t trust Orana to bring back the true word of the local Goddess in this matter, I’d be doing a lot more than just “ride the wave to save the trees.”)

(Actually, it’s “ride the wave to calm the trees,”) Teral corrected him. (But if the little snot does get his head out of his rectum, you and I had best be prepared to counter all the madness out there.)

(It shouldn’t be too difficult for most of it,) Aradin sighed, thinking of the things he and Teral and Saleria had learned over the last few weeks. About the magic of the Grove, how it had gone wild, how it affected the denizens of the Sacred Garden, and how that magic was still tied to the three distinct resonances of each locus-tree’s rift. (Between you and me, we should be able to control two thirds of anything that comes of there.)

(Unless it’s one of the two-rift mutations, or an exceptionally rare one-rift variety. If it’s one of Saleria’s, we’ll have half or little chance at controlling it via our attunement to its rift-energies.)

(Oh, thank you. You’re such a warm and shiny ray of positive thinking,) Aradin mocked.

(I’m dead. I’m allowed to be gloomy from time to time. Though I prefer the term “pragmatic,”) Teral replied. (Besides, normally you mock me for being optimistic.)

(True.)

The people of Groveham didn’t wait for the next day. Within an hour of the treeman’s badly thwarted rampage, they flocked to the entrances of the guard hall and shouted for answers, for assistance, and for Aradin’s release. Finally, the captain of the guard, the same mage-warrior who had silenced Aradin’s voice, stalked into the basement and snatched the keys from one of the two men on duty.

“Damned citizens . . . damned deacon . . . Damned Department of Temples,” he muttered, approaching the door. “Get out here, foreigner. You’re being given one shot at proving you can tame the Grove. Nobody else in this town is strong enough as a mage, not even me.”

Aradin uncurled himself from the cell cot, grateful he had chosen to use the facilities a few moments ago and didn’t have to stop for that now. The not even me made him look closer at the other man. Soot smeared his armor, and blood stained his tabard, a slightly fancier version than the other guards’ covering. Some of it seemed to be the captain’s own, for he had a fresh pink scar on his chin, the kind that said someone had applied some Healer’s magic to seal it, though not quite enough to render it completely smooth. Another session or two might heal it scarlessly, if he had the time to spare for that.

“I’ve also heard how you broke my silencing spell somehow, so you’re bound to be incredibly powerful. If you are what you say you are, then you will put that power to work protecting Groveham and restoring the Grove to a contained menace rather than a rampant one,” the captain added, unlocking the door. He didn’t swing the barred grille open yet, though, choosing to instead fix Aradin with a hard look. “Fail, and I will kill you myself. I can kill men far easier than those giant walking trees.”

“I am the Gods-appointed assistant to Her Holiness Saleria, Keeper of the Sacred Grove. I am everything I have said, and more,” Aradin said calmly.

The guard swung the door open. “Hold out your hands, so I can remove the anti-magic cuffs.”

Aradin stepped through, then reached into one deep sleeve and pulled out the pink silk bag Josai had given him, unwinding the cords wrapped around its neck.

“I have stayed a guest of that cell for only one reason. I respect the word passed to me by Kata Herself that Deacon Shanno has needed a lesson in humility. If you have a problem with the disasters that have plagued Groveham, blame him for his arrogant choices, and the consequences therein. It was his choice to interrupt my solemn duties, weakening and ruining the protections woven by the Keepers of the Grove for the last two centuries . . . and your choice to assist him in making all of this happen.”

As the guard blinked at his cold words, Aradin upended the bag. Belatedly, the captain tried to catch them, but the cuffs tumbled free of his grasp and clattered onto the neatly swept flagstones of the prison floor. Stuffing the bag back into his sleeve, Aradin flashed the other man a brief smile and strode for the door leading upstairs.

“After all, had I ‘resisted’ my arrest, it would have been the first actual act of law-breaking on my part.”

(Easy,) Teral cautioned him. (Not a word more. Don’t overplay it.)

(I know how I’m playing this,) Aradin said. He heard the captain tossing the cuffs on the table downstairs, and the guard’s boots on the stairs catching up, but didn’t stop. (I’m going to exercise my authority as Saleria’s assistant—or rather, according to prophecy, her Servant—and then hand over all the aftermath details to her, since she knows more about what would be an acceptable punishment than either of us.)

(Let me send word to one of the others to be on standby to fetch her,) Teral offered. (If we have giant treemen stomping around, who knows what else might have been created, or escaped.)

(Agreed. Don’t be gone long,) Aradin cautioned him, for time in the Dark sometimes flowed oddly compared to the living world.

(Three steps, and I’m there; three steps, and I’m back,) Teral promised, slipping out of his Host’s Doorway.

Aradin headed for the street. Most of the townsfolk, trying to crowd their way into the courtroom on the ground floor, ignored him. The merchant who had sold him all those glass flasks, however, recognized him. “Hey . . . Hey! That’s Aradin.” Denisor pushed his way through the crowd. “Yes, it is him—this is the man Nannan says was handpicked by the Keeper to cover for her while she’s at the Convocation!”

Quickening his steps, Aradin made it out onto the street before the tide of citizens overwhelmed him. They spilled out after him, calling out for his help—then skidded to a stop, eyes wide. He didn’t even have to ask why; the creaking of wood behind him and the sobbing breaths of an utterly exhausted young man met his ears the moment the crowd fell quiet. Teral, I need you!

No reply. Spinning on his heel, Aradin flung up one arm, invoking a mage-shield. The treeman wasn’t attacking the Darkhanan. Instead, the massive willow-pine had cornered a shaking, crying Shanno in the damp rubble below the house that must have been smashed and scorched earlier. The willow-pine creature, only vaguely man-shaped because it had two trunk-legs, poked at the faltering bubble protecting Shanno from its touch, and poked again. It didn’t have an actual head, nor any real suggestion of a face, but the way its upper branches were tilted made it look like it was tipping its head in contemplation of what to do with its tormentor.

It curled up several willow branches at the end of one of its upper limbs into a knotted tangle of a fist, and lifted it high, preparing to smash down on that rubbery bubble.

Aradin firmed his will and reached for the resonances of the rift he had attuned to, pushing magic and mind into a single command. “Stop!”

The tree swung its canopy-head his way. It contemplated him for a few moments, then turned back to its target. Aradin bit back a curse—and felt Teral reaching his Doorway.

(Get under the cloak! I have her with me!) his Guide ordered. The treeman lifted its limb high once more.

(Give me your power first!) Aradin snapped back, and pulled on Teral’s own magics, on his attunement. “Stop!”

The tree stopped. Its lesser twigs and leaves swayed, making Shanno shudder, but the thickest sections of the treeman ceased moving. Gasps escaped the watching townsfolk behind him, and a few cheers broke out. Aradin didn’t pause; he knew Saleria was utterly untrained to keep herself alive and breathing while in the Dark, a trick only the strongest Darkhanan Witches could manage for long with their physical, real-world bodies. Spirit form was one thing, but flesh was entirely another.

Flicking up the hood of his Witchcloak, Aradin hunkered down, wishing it was the bigger, all-black cloak back at the Keeper’s house. He did the best he could, however, whispering one of the spells all Darkhanan Witches had to master. “Sonoxo mortori.”

Darkness spilled out of his cloak, shoving aside the daylight. With his back to the happy townsfolk of Groveham, Aradin stepped back once, twice . . . and caught Saleria as she stumbled free, gasping for breath. A mutter dismissed the darkness, leaving her swaying in his grip, clad in the better of her two priest-gowns. She still had a half-eaten chicken-leg in her hand, and blinked owlishly at the streets, the frozen tree-thing looming over the sobbing deacon, and the gaping, crushed hole in the building behind the huddled blond youth.

“. . . What in the Netherhells have you done to my town?” she demanded, her voice cutting through the happy noises behind her. She started toward Shanno, then checked her stride, looked at the drumstick in her grip, sighed roughly, and tossed it to the side of the street. “Interrupting my dinner, ruining my town—what is this thing?”

Shanno didn’t answer. He was still a huddled ball of misery. Aradin moved up to join her, answering in the deacon’s stead. “I think it used to be a willow. And a redwood. And possibly a fox, or maybe a ferret. It doesn’t seem to have the fearfulness of a rabbit, at any rate.”

“I don’t care what it is. You, back to the Grove!” Saleria ordered, pushing some of her will behind her words. This close to the Grove, she was once again within reach of the rift to which she had been attuned.

Aradin and Teral backed her wordlessly, pushing their own energies behind her command. The treeman creaked, shifted, and started walking. Mindful of the fact it might just keep walking around the Grove if it didn’t have a purpose, Aradin ordered firmly, “Find a sunny spot inside the Grove, and plant yourself.”

“You heard what he said,” Saleria added, confirming his command. The tree relaxed its knotted branches, letting them brush the walls of the buildings it passed or trail on the ground with little scraping sounds interspersed between the thud, thud, thud of its makeshift feet. It turned a corner, some of its higher branches visible over the tops of the city’s roofs, and kept going toward the Grove.

As much as she wanted to yell at the blotchy-faced, huddled figure of the young deacon, to rail at him for allowing Groveham to be so badly harmed, with who knew what damage to buildings, and injuries to people . . . she refrained. Drawing a deep breath, she let it out slowly, then did it again in the meditation techniques for calmness which all novices were taught. In fact, she began the ritual prayer-chant for such things, moving closer to Shanno as she spoke.

“I call upon Kata, Goddess most serene, to calm my troubled mind and soothe my ire-filled soul,” she recited, her eyes on the disheveled younger priest. “I call upon Jinga, God of inner strength, to teach me to let go of my anger, rather than hold on and let it tear me asunder.”

Shanno’s face, tear-streaked and blotchy from crying, came into view as he slowly uncurled. Licking his lips, he moved them near-silently, echoing her words. Reciting the meditation ritual with her helped ease most of his trembling when she continued.

“I call upon Kata, most benevolent, ever-wise, to remind myself that most troubles are fleeting and thus not worth fretting over. I call upon Jinga . . . I call upon Jinga . . . ?” she prompted him, stopping just a length or so away.

“I . . . I c-call upon Jinga . . . to help me admit my weaknesses . . . to strengthen my character . . . I’m s-sorry! I’m so sorry!” he sniveled, wiping his dirty sleeve across his face. Some of the dark stains and red patches remained, for they were bruises, not soot or shame-stirred blood. “I didn’t know—I’m so sorry I did this to Groveham!”

“Well, now you do know what the Grove is capable of, Shanno,” Saleria said, studying the upset young man. She might not have been the best priestess in the world at that moment herself, either, for she couldn’t feel any real sympathy for him. Every single bad choice leading straight to this situation had been a free-willed choice made by him in spite of her many warnings. “Now, having seen it firsthand, do you think you have the power as a mage to command and control it?”

The deacon shook his head rapidly, his hair sliding across his shoulders. A twig with a few willow-style leaves had tangled in the light gold locks at some point, proving he had narrowly escaped several attacks. “N-No. I don’t . . . I won’t ever have that m-much power. I c-couldn’t even . . .”

He gestured lamely at the destruction, shifting to sit on the lightly charred, cracked, plaster-covered boards that had once been part of an upper story wall. Saleria folded her arms lightly across her chest. “And now that you know this . . . what do you plan to do about the results of your misjudgment?”

She nodded pointedly at the rubble under his backside, then lifted her chin at the hole in the building overhead, and tipped her head toward the rest of the town and the other signs of treeman-wrought wreckage.

Sniffing hard, Shanno looked around, then hung his head. “I . . . I’ll use my magic to . . . to help fix everything. Everything I can. But . . . there’s beasts and things and bushes, and a second one of . . . of those trees . . . please, help save the city! I’m so sorry, Holiness, I didn’t mean to cause any harm! I—I just thought . . .”

“Next time, when someone tells you what your limitations are, give careful consideration to whether or not there are actual limits to what you can do, Shanno,” Saleria told him. “Because every single mortal in the whole of this world has areas where we are weak. I myself am incredibly ignorant of foreign lands and foreign ways, but I am not ashamed to admit it. And I will never cook as well as my housekeeper, Nannan. But it does not pain me to admit that, either.

“My strength as the Keeper of the Grove may seem enviable, and something worth grasping . . . but you have not seen the thorns lurking on the branches you would grab. Well, now you have,” she allowed, then firmed her tone. “And now you will get up and shield all these people, Deacon, with what magic you do have. Go inside, stay inside,” she ordered, “and wait for Aradin, Teral, and me to corral and contain all the creatures your weaknesses have let loose.”

Nodding, he pushed wearily to his feet, staggered a little on some of the crumbled bits of wall, then limped toward the guard hall.

Saleria watched him go, then moved closer to the very welcome face of her assistant and lover. Under her breath, she asked, “You know more about what’s been going on than I, so . . . how are we going to do this?”

“I know only parts of it,” he returned in a murmur of his own. Gesturing along the path the treeman had taken, he started walking with her toward the Grove and her home. “Teral has an idea, now that he’s seen all three of us controlling that thing with our attunement.”

“I’d like to hear it, Teral,” Saleria stated, looking straight at Aradin. It was a subtle courtesy she had seen some of the others at the Convocation giving to Orana Niel.

Aradin almost handed his body over to his Guide, but checked himself. Now was not the time to be swapping consciousnesses, not when Teral had far more experience at watching for danger out of the corners of his Host’s eyes than he himself did. “Teral says most Guardians work in conjunction with their Fountain, at their Fountain, to cover the area affected by its magics. That it’s easier to start from that strongest position. And that . . . ah . . . yes, and that it’s possible to set up scrying spells to track down anything carrying the taste of the Grove’s locus-rifts.”

Saleria nodded, reasoning it through. “Yes, that makes sense. Since most of the magic has been confined within its walls all this time, the stuff that reeks of the Grove outside those walls should be easy to find.”

“It may take time, but if we sweep around the Grove and the outlying land in the same direction the aether circles, we should be able to use the crest of the wave to augment our own efforts—that’s my own suggestion,” he added.

She smiled slightly, skirting another patch of rubble. “Considering you didn’t preface it with ‘Teral says,’ I figured as much.”

He smiled back, and caught her hand. “I’ve missed you. How much longer will the Convocation take?”

“Another week or so—is that an azalea bush? With little snake heads for flowers?” Saleria asked, taken aback at the raggedly spherical bush-thing slowly moving up the street. It did so by shifting its serpent-heads to make itself sort of tumble and roll this way and that.

“I . . . really can’t say,” Aradin replied cautiously, unsure he wanted to get close enough to tell. “The real question is, with, what, forty heads? With forty heads . . . what does it eat, and with what part does it excrete?”

Caught off guard by the oddball question, she chuckled and leaned into him, letting their shoulders bump as they walked. “I’ve missed you terribly, too, Aradin. Both of you, Teral. I can only stay a day or so; the Nightfallers want me to be on hand to represent Katan when the, ah, priest of the Independence of Mandare—some rude, woman-hating kingdom somewhere to the east—has his chance to speak with his God.”

“Oh?” Aradin asked. “I’ve heard of the Mandarites, and they’re just southeast of Darkhana by a few weeks of sailing. But Katan is its own continent, with no other neighbors other than Nightfall. What have they to do with you?”

“It seems they’ve tried to invade and claim Katani and Nightfaller territories for their own without either of our nations’ permission, and Queen Kelly wants me to help lay out some strict ground rules for their future behavior. Particularly if they ever want to get near the Convocation again.” She shrugged, then stopped, watching the snake-bush thing warily. “I think it’s spotted us. Let’s tell it to head back, and anything else in our path, shall we?”

“Right. Back to the Grove,” Aradin and Teral ordered the mutation, putting rift-power behind their combined will. The serpent-azalea hesitated, fumbled a bit, then got itself lurching into movement the other way.

“Go on,” Saleria urged with voice and will, making it lurch-tumble a little faster. She swung their clasped hands a little. “I’m not going to be able to stay longer than a day . . . but at least I do mean a full day. Hopefully this won’t take that long to clean up. The Grove-escapees, I mean. I, um, won’t be able to stay long enough to help put Groveham back together. I have to head back for the Mandarite thing.”

She wrinkled her nose at the other signs of fighting and fire-damage.

Aradin squeezed her fingers. “I know what you meant. We have about an hour until sunset, locally, but we don’t need daylight to track magical energies. The first thing we need to do is walk the wall and repair it, since somehow I doubt that treeman used the door to your house.”

“He was certainly almost tall enough to just step over the wall. Or she, or whatever it was,” Saleria agreed. She shook it off, and squeezed his hand lightly. “Kata and Jinga gave me visions of you and the deacon over the last few days. You in that cell, Nannan bringing you your first real meal . . . Some of what Shanno suffered was funny, but this . . . This isn’t funny. I honestly don’t know what to do. About assigning penance, or punishment, or whatever. Restitution I guess is the best word.”

Glad he didn’t have to explain what had happened to him to keep him from stopping Shanno, Aradin gave her some of the ideas he’d been mulling over during his daylight incarcerations. “Fine everyone involved. Hit them in their income. Shanno, the captain of the guard he somehow blackmailed into helping imprison me, the other guards . . . take some of their wages and share it out to all the people whose homes were damaged. Make them labor by hand and by spell to restore what was ruined in these last few days.”

She mulled that over, then nodded. “That’s a good idea. It forces them to live with the ongoing troubles they have caused, days and months and years of consequences, because they didn’t take a few extra minutes to really think through in advance what would honestly happen if they made the wrong choices. I’ll have to consult with Prelate Lanneraun, and then with the Department of Temples, though. I may be the highest-ranked cleric here in Groveham, but I’m not Shanno’s superior, never mind the prelate’s.”

Aradin winced in memory, touching his stomach. At her concerned glance, he brushed off her worries. “Oh, it’s nothing. I’m just remembering how much Lanneraun made my stomach hurt with all the laughing I did.”

“Oh, Gods . . . he didn’t tell you the weasels in the wedding cake story, did he?” Saleria asked with a wince, instantly sympathetic when he nodded. She touched her own stomach. “I was sore for a full week after he told me that one—I’m sorry I forgot to warn you about that old man’s wicked sense of humor. And yes, I know they’re technically ferrets, but ‘weasels’ sounds better.”

“Yes, it does,” he agreed. “By the way, Teral says the serpent-bush is slowing down. He thinks it may need another command.”

“Or maybe it’s just getting tired because it’s an azalea bush with snake heads instead of flowers,” she countered. “But I guess we can give it a magical push to keep it moving—I will be so heartily glad when we get the Grove tamed and returned to normal. Or as close to it as we can. A year from now, five years, or fifty . . .”

“We’ll get it done,” he promised her.