The Grove

ONE

Aradin Teral eyed the priest tottering with uneven steps from altar to altar in the Westraven Chapel, located in the heart of the Katan continent. Prelate Tomaso was ninety if he was a day, with hair not only white but wispy and thinned with age, a face with more seams than a student tailor’s practice piece, and two canes to hold himself upright. Still, the man was revered by the locals, some of whom stood in the center of the eight altars. The rest, including Aradin, stood or sat on the benches placed outside the eight altars and watched while the new father toted his infant daughter from altar to altar in the priest’s wobbling wake.

In accordance with local customs, the newborn was to be blessed by both the God Jinga and His Wife Kata at each pair of Their four altars, representing the four seasons, four aspects, four this, and four that. It was an interesting religion, one of the older ones around, and apparently a conglomeration of two individual sets of worship combined many centuries ago into a single faith to unify two nations into one. Enough time had passed that the two different styles of worship for the local God and Goddess had been successfully and smoothly blended. Normally, Aradin would enjoy it, as he enjoyed learning about any manner of new culture or faith in his travels.

This time, however, he wasn’t traveling abroad for the usual reasons. If he had been, Aradin would not have been in a large chapel like this, watching a newborn receive an elaborate set of blessings. The Darkhanan sighed under his breath, wondering how long this service would take. At the moment, the most elaborately decorated, flower-wreathed altars were the ones for summer, given the actual time of year down here below the Sun’s Belt. Unfortunately, the age-stooped priest was only just now moving on to the blessings for autumn. Those would be followed by the rites for winter, and then spring, before closing the “year” with one last rite at the summer altar.

(This won’t do at all,) Aradin thought. Not to himself alone, but to the Guide he bore inside the Doorway of his soul. (He’s kind and thoughtful and everyone respects him . . . but I seriously doubt Prelate Tomaso could survive a trip through the Dark. He’d be liable to die physically in there from the shock of it. That’s never a good idea.)

Teral shrugged mentally. It was all the older male could do, since Aradin was the one in command of their shared body. (So we look at the next on our list. Or better yet, ask him who he thinks would be a good representative before their local Gods. Just don’t mention politics.)

(I have to. We almost picked Priestess Tenathe. If we hadn’t been there the day word of the Corvis brothers’ claim for independence reached her ears, we would’ve picked a woman enraged enough to sabotage everything,) Aradin reminded his Guide.

(Yes, yes, I know,) Teral dismissed, clasping a mental hand on his Host’s mental shoulder. (The Seers have predicted this Nightfall place will be the focus for the new Convocation of the Gods, if all goes well, and it is vitally important that Orana Niel speaks before the reconvened Convocation. But it’s hardly our fault the Katani government cannot stand these Nightfallers.)

(Only the politically active ones,) Aradin thought back, snorting softly under his breath. (I don’t envy Cassua, having to deal with the Mendhites. They’ve been seeking a Living Host since before the Aian Convocation fell.)

(Heh, feel sorry for our Brothers and Sisters who have to pick out a Mekhanan priest,) Teral joked back, though it wasn’t much of a joke. Official Katani policy might have been anti-Nightfall, but at least this was a civilized and polite land. The kingdom of Mekhana was not. Or rather, its government was not.

The priest’s voice, wavering but rich with belief, rose and fell in cadences that were familiar, even if the rituals themselves were not. Both males could understand the words being said; Aradin wore a translation pendant, which allowed him to read, write, hear, and speak in a specific language—in this case, Katani. But while the actual words of the blessings and aspects being invoked were unfamiliar, there was something soothing about being in a fellow priest’s presence.

Then again, after having spent almost four months roaming this land, Aradin and his Guide, Teral, were becoming increasingly familiar with the Katani way of life.

Like Darkhana, Katan had a God and a Goddess. The priesthoods of both lands accepted both males and females, mages and non-mages. Then again, both lands had a fairly even ratio of one mage born for every fifty without any added powers, their numbers more or less evenly divided among males and females alike. Of course, the Katani religion was a bit more lighthearted about some things, following in the wake of their so-called Boisterous God Jinga, who served as counterpart and foil for the more Serene Goddess Kata.

Back home, their God was Darkhan, the slain deity who had formerly been the Elder Brother Moon. Millennia ago, His highest priestess, Dark Ana, had bound her very life to His out of love and worship. When the third and farthest moon had been destroyed by demonic efforts, shattering His original power base, she had managed to salvage the God of their ancient people. Now, He served as the God of the Dead, He Who Guides Lost Souls to the Afterlife.

The high priestess’ sacrifice had directly aided the world’s effort to thwart an invasion attempt by the denizens of the Netherhells, and the upwelling of faith and gratitude had elevated her to Goddess level, forever bound to the Dead God. A new faith had been born, rising out of the ashes of the old, and the people of Darkhana had moved on. That background and its resulting mythos didn’t exactly lend itself to an overly cheerful or buoyant religion, though the Darkhanan faith wasn’t completely somber.

Since all lives, all souls around the world went through the cycle of being born, eventually dying, and of traveling through the Dark on their way to the Afterlife, home of the Gods, Darkhanan Witches didn’t think of themselves as being the one true religion, or the only faith worth following. Their entire philosophy when traveling abroad was based around being an adjunct to whatever beliefs a person might hold while they were alive, and an advocate for that person when they were sent to the Gods for judgment on how they had lived their lives, whether that judgment would end in a punishment or a reward.

(We celebrate life, and we do not fear death,) Teral murmured, following his Host’s sub-thoughts. The newborn squirmed a little in her father’s arms, emitting a mehhh meh sound that said she would need nursing soon, but otherwise cooperated. (So while this ceremony is going on a bit long compared to some we’ve seen . . . it’s an auspicious day whenever we can celebrate life, even if it’s in a foreign way.)

(Dark Ana, you’re feeling preachy today,) Aradin groaned. He stifled another sigh, since he didn’t want to seem impatient or bored with the proceedings.

(I’m feeling my mortality, such as it is,) Teral admitted. (Which is odd, because I died in my fifties, and not my nineties—as you well know—but I suppose it’s just a touch of envy, seeing this aged gentleman still getting around, doing what he was ordained to do.)

(I should be so lucky, living to be so old,) Aradin replied, irritation fading as quickly as it had risen. It had to fade; if it didn’t, their shared life would have quickly become unbearable. Both men had lived together, two spirits in the younger man’s body, for well over a decade now. Learning tolerance was one of the key requirements for being a Darkhanan Witch, if an unspoken one.

(Well, you won’t be that much older in a few moments,) Teral pointed out, looking through Aradin’s hazel eyes, (because it looks like the ceremony is coming to an end.)

Sure enough, as the priest’s voice wavered and rose in a final benediction, the gathered worshippers chanted a mass, “. . . Witnessed!” that rang off the vaulted ceiling. Naturally, it startled the infant, who immediately began squalling. The father brought her over to the mother, who had been placed in a cushioned seat of honor at the center of the eight altars. While the new parents fussed gently over the infant, the deacon, a sort of junior assistant-priestess, urged all the witnesses to head for the tables laden with food around the outer edge of the church, food which everyone else had brought as an offering to the Gods and to the new child.

Not hungry, Aradin watched the locals mingle and gossip. He smiled and dipped his head in a friendly way when people came near, but otherwise dismissed his presence as being “. . . just here to chat with Prelate Tomaso” and “I’m in no hurry; I’ll get to my business once you’re all done celebrating this new life.”

One of the older women sat down next to him after a while and proceeded to talk Aradin’s ear off about this, that, the other, all of it local gossip about the family with the newborn, their family members, the history of the village . . . all things which Aradin had no clue about. Patience was another trait favored by Darkhanan Witches, as was politeness. Though he hadn’t originally intended to become a Witch-priest, he had learned how to be patient, polite, and kind. Which meant listening to the elderly woman prattle on until her middle-aged daughter came to collect her when the post-blessing party began to wind down.

(I’ll be happy when we can get back to trading and talking herbs again,) Aradin thought, smiling politely in farewell as the village gossip moved off with her family. (Searching for holy representatives is rather tedious. Though I did like her story about her nephew and the pig down the well.)

(Only because we didn’t have to help rescue it,) Teral agreed, chuckling. (Ah, I see through the corner of your eye that the priest approaches.)

Sure enough, when Aradin glanced to his right, he saw Prelate Tomaso hobbling their way, using his two canes for balance and a touch of support. A quick glance around the chapel hall showed it was now nearly empty, and that the assistant-priestess had grabbed a mop and rag to start cleaning off the now emptied tables. Without fanfare or fuss, the locals had gathered up their food and their belongings and taken themselves out, leaving only a bit of scrubbing and sweeping to be handled by the local church staff.

The elderly man smiled a semi-toothy smile—several were missing from old age—and wobbled over to a spot on the bench next to the foreigner. With a few audible creaks from his joints, he sat down, sighed in relief, then turned toward Aradin.

“Well, well, young man! To what do I owe this honor? It isn’t every day a priest of distant Darkhana comes to visit our far-flung land,” Tomaso stated without preamble. His voice was light and strong with energy, despite his deep age.

Aradin raised his brows in surprise. He spoke quietly, not wanting his deep voice to echo off the walls now that there weren’t any other noises to muffle and mask it. “I wasn’t aware anyone in this region was familiar with my Order. Katan is very far from my home.”

“I and not We?” the local chief priest asked, in turn surprised. He poked an arthritic, age-spotted hand at the broad-sleeved robe Aradin wore. On the outside, the robe looked to be a plain, sturdy, travel-worn shade of tan linen. The inside, however, was lined with a very tightly woven, stark shade of black. “Is this not the robe of a Darkhanan Witch-priest? The lining, I mean? It may have been sixty or so years, but I do distinctly remember meeting with one of your Order.”

Aradin smiled wryly. “Forgive me. Yes, it would be we; and our home. I speak in the singular out of habit so as not to confuse the people in the far-flung lands where we travel. I am Witch Aradin Teral, a procurer of priestly paraphernalia and magical mundanities for the Church of Darkhana, and thus something of an emissary in foreign lands.” He offered his hand, palm up and mindful of the older male’s swollen joints. “You are Prelate Tomaso of the Holy House of Kata and Jinga, correct?”

“That is correct,” the elderly priest agreed. He rested his fingers on Aradin’s palm for a moment, then squeezed with a bit of strength. “And a pleasure it is to meet with you. The last—and only other—one of your kind I met was a Witch named . . . Ora Niel?”

“High Witch-priestess Orana Niel, yes; Ora is her nickname . . . and now that you mention her, I am not surprised you would remember her and her Guide after all these years,” Aradin chuckled wryly. He gestured at the study around them, and the land beyond. “I am actually in Katan on her behalf.”

“Oh, indeed? How fares the young lady?” Tomaso asked.

Considering the “young” lady in question was technically older than both of them combined, Aradin grinned ruefully at the label. “Still more than a match for any man or woman alive, and still as young-looking and lovely as ever. That is, the last I saw her, which was . . . two full turns of Brother Moon ago, if I remember right. As for the reason why I am here, I was—sorry, we—were wondering if you could help us with a little quest we’re on?”

“Well, that would depend upon the nature of the request, of course,” the Prelate cautioned. He patted Aradin on the knee. “But I’m sure it will be something manageable, or at least not too unreasonable. What is your quest, young man?”

Aradin cleared his throat, consulting silently with Teral on a good way to word their request. Finally, he sighed. “Well, we need to find a priest or priestess who would be the best possible emissary between your Gods and your people . . . without politics getting involved. Someone who has the holiness to speak with blessed Kata and Jinga on your people’s behalf,” he stated, nodding at the eight altars, “but also some level of authority with which to bring back the words of the Gods to your people, and have them be heeded. But again, without politics muddying the issues. The perspective of a . . . to put it politely, a bureaucrat, would only make the situation difficult to manage properly, and possibly make it prone to failure.”

Tomaso wrinkled his brow in thought. He had plenty to spare, and the pouty look of his half-scowl was almost cute in a way. Brows working, he mulled it over, then asked, “Perhaps what you need is a Seer, not a priest?”

“That would be more of a one-way form of communication, from the minds of the Gods to the mouth of Their chosen vessel, to the ears of us mere mortals,” Aradin corrected gently. “That is also a matter of simple warnings of the future. What we seek is a two-way communicator who can work with those things we mortals already know about. An arbiter and an advocate. Someone who is used to speaking with your God and Goddess, bringing the concerns of your people to Them, and bringing back whatever rulings or prayer-effects They may choose for Their replies.”

“Well, I don’t know about rulings, exactly,” Tomaso mused, scratching at his wrinkled, stubbled chin, “but if there’s any priest or priestess in the Empire who speaks with the Gods on a daily basis about the concerns of their parishioners, and manages the sheer power of prayers on a daily basis, all without dabbling in politics . . . then it would be the Grove Keeper. That’s about as far as you’ll get from politics for a holy intermediary who also possesses a distinct level of authority.”

“The Grove Keeper?” Aradin asked. He could feel Teral’s confusion and curiosity alongside his own. “I don’t think either of us have heard of that position before. At least, not outside of the land of Arbra, where their deity is the Goddess of Forests . . . and I’m not sure if that is one of the titles or not. What do they do?”

“He . . . actually, I think it’s a she right now,” the elderly priest corrected himself. “She is the Guardian of the Grove, a place which used to be the Holy Gardens where Blessed Kata and Jinga were wed, uniting the two main kingdoms of this continent into a single empire ages ago. Unfortunately, when the Convocation of the Gods destroyed the Aian Empire two hundred years ago, give or take . . . the Grove became a place of untamed, uncontrolled magics. Energies too powerful to allow pilgrims to visit or betrotheds to wed.”

“That sounds like yet another location in need of healing,” Aradin muttered dryly. (Which means it is all the more imperative Orana Niel speaks at the Convocation of Gods,) he added silently to his Guide.

Tomaso continued, patting Aradin’s knee. “If there is anyone who is an expert on judging the merits and turning the petitions of the people into the quite literal power of prayer, it would be the current Grove Keeper. If you will indulge an old priest in the lengthy process of rising and retiring to my study, I will see if I can find a map showing you how to get to the Grove. That is, if you are prepared to travel that far, and to face the dangers which make it an ill-advised place to visit for the unprepared, never mind the unwary.”

“I am a well-trained mage, and a cautious man by nature,” Aradin comforted him, clasping the older priest by the shoulder. Rising, he turned and offered his hand to assist the elderly clergyman to his feet. “And my Guide is even more careful than I. If it is not forbidden for a foreigner to visit such a holy place, then we will go.”

“Forbidden? No, not at all,” Prelate Tomaso dismissed. “But difficult? Yes,” he grunted, struggling to his feet. “It is no longer the garden of delights it once was—one more tug, young man! Ahhh, there we go. This way . . .” Canes in his hands, the priest headed for one of the doors leading into the wings of the church. “My body may be getting old, but the Gods have given me a still-sharp mind. I remember your fellow Witch’s visit. She brought the most lovely, delicate tea from some place in Aiar. A mountainous land . . . Cor-something . . .”

Aradin perked up at that. “Oh, yes, I’ve had a variety of Aian teas in our travels. And other things. Studying plants is one of my specialties. I’m always eager to find out what plants are being harvested and used in various ways locally for magical, medicinal, and culinary uses wherever I go.”

“Heh! You’ll find the Grove a terrifying place, then,” Tomaso chuckled. “But before you go, I think I can find a tin of spell-preserved tea somewhere. Will you stay and have a cup, while I dig for those maps? And perhaps—could I have a chance to meet your, erm, Host? No, sorry, your Guide, was it? You would be the Host, yes?”

“Yes, and we’d be delighted,” Aradin agreed, following him through the door. Privately, he wondered what the elderly priest meant by that quip about the Grove, but knew he’d either learn it in conversation or learn it when he got there. The polite thing was to let his host dictate their conversation. “Teral would be happy to meet you in person as well, so to speak. At least with you, we won’t have to explain what to expect first.”

Chuckling, the Prelate continued to lead the way, his pace slow but otherwise steady. “I suspect you’ll have to explain it to the Grove Keeper, if she has the time to meet with you to discuss your request. They’re usually wonderful people, the Grove Keepers, very trustworthy, but they’re often far too busy with their duties to bother with learning about foreign lands and exotic oddities.”

Aradin smiled wryly. “That actually fits in with what we’re looking for. I can only hope she’ll suit our needs.”

Saleria, Guardian of the Grove, did not want to get up. In fact, a part of her was afraid to get up. To get up, face the unending labor and the burden of her day.

Earlier, she had woken under a nightmare of being bound in chains to forever wander the paths of an increasingly menacing, overgrown garden, one filled with shadows that moved and hissed in unnatural ways. The plants themselves seemed to have taken on a demonic twist, with the glowing red eyes, fangs, and claws of beasts from a Netherhell. As things stood right now, the Grove wasn’t that far off from the dream. Not yet fully malevolent, but . . . unsettling.

She had finally relaxed after waking, taking stock of her normal surroundings, and had gradually drifted back to sleep, but now that it was daylight, she knew she had to get up. Duty demanded that she get up. She just didn’t want to comply.

Her bed was soft, comfortable, and at this time of year kept cool by spell. The birds were chirping noisily outside the diamond-paned windows of her bedchamber, the morning light was bright and cheerful, and she could hear the faint creak of the plants growing fat on magic, warm sunshine, and yesterday’s brief but thorough rainfall. But mostly she heard the birds twittering cheerfully. Noisily.

Groaning, she dragged the spare pillow over and plopped it on top of her head. That cut out the bright light and muffled the bird-twitterings, but did not disguise the sound of the door opening. Nor did it shield her from her housekeeper’s cheerful greeting.

“Good morning, Keeper! It’s time for your breakfast.”

The pillows sandwiching her head did muffle her impolite reply, but didn’t stop Nannan from tugging at the one atop her head. Saleria tugged back, clutching it in place. She got the covers ruthlessly stripped away instead. That let a bit of the early morning warmth wash over her lightly clothed body, a warning that the day would soon grow hot.

“Oh come now, Your Holiness,” Nannan scolded, lightly swatting Saleria on the rump. The younger woman yelped, but the matron ignored it. “Time to get up and get to work. Those prayers aren’t going anywhere without you, you know . . . but those plants might!”

Just once, Saleria thought grumpily. Just once I’d like to see her be silent when she comes into my bedchamber . . . or not come in at all. Unfortunately, she is right about the damned plants.

Disgruntled, she allowed the housekeeper to drag her out of bed and into a lounging robe so she would be decent at the breakfasting table. The food was hot and filling, vegetables and meat with a bit of cheese-toasted bread. Saleria did appreciate that she didn’t have to cook it. She also liked how the bath was already drawn for her by the time she was done eating, and that she had a fresh set of clothes to slip into once she was dry—clothes which, like her bedding, were enspelled to keep her cool in the face of the day’s rising heat.

It all made for a very nice change from her early days as an acolyte, and later an assistant, when all junior priests and priestesses had to do every little chore around a temple or a chapel.

Of course, such luxuries freed her up for greater responsibilities. She didn’t have a traditional parish, nor a traditional congregation. So instead of heading to a chapel hall to begin the morning rituals—there were priests who handled that for her here at Groveham, on the edge of the Grove—she headed out the back door of her home, which abutted the wall guarding the sacred garden. Opening the tool shed, she grabbed one of the crystal-tipped cutting staves stored inside and surveyed the great wall ringing the Grove. Today, she chose to turn right.

Originally, there had been a magnificent entry gate, opened every morning by the Grove Keeper for pilgrims and petitioners. The Grove had been quite popular with visitors, particularly those who wished to be wed on such hallowed ground. Now, however, the gates were shut, with enspelled chains fixing them in place. There were other modest entrances into the Grove, but only this one was used consistently, and the others could only be unsealed with permission from the Grove Keeper.

Groveham itself handled the pilgrims who still came “. . . to at least be near the Grove” when seeking the blessings of Jinga and Kata. It stretched out to the west, down to the lake and the major trade river that permitted easy travel between the northern and southern halves of the land. The Grove occupied the center of a modest valley ringed by a wall made of costly imported stone, since the local hills were made of soil, not rock.

Almost every building was made of wood and plaster, save for the building housing the city guard, with its barracks for the men, a courtroom for formal judgments, and the prison cells for the infrequent misbehavior of the town’s inhabitants and visitors. Even the Keeper’s House was wood, save for the wall it shared with the Grove.

The Grove rated the same level of care as the Guard Hall; the original wall had first been a wooden fence, erected and carved with warding spells in an attempt to control the comings and goings of pilgrims. Prior Keepers had struggled to keep them out to be sure they didn’t denude the local plant life just to “bring home something touched by the Gods.” But wooden structures were easily destroyed, and that had made the Keepers import stone for a more stout barrier.

That had happened around three hundred years ago, and a good thing, too. These days, the mortared stone barrier and its plethora of embedded warding crystals were kept well-maintained to make sure the plants didn’t go anywhere. Not because of pilgrims, which were not allowed in the Grove anymore, but because they might try to go somewhere else of their own volition.

It looks like the blackberry vines are getting out of hand today, Saleria thought, tightening her grip on the pruning staff. Imbued at one end with a collecting crystal, and the other end with razor-sharp, heat-treated spells, it was designed to slice through and cauterize anything it touched when held and activated. Mostly it was the plants that were warped by the wild magics streaming out of the three rifts, but sometimes the small animals, insects and birds and such, were mutated, too.

Extra-long, wickedly curved thorns flexed and curled as she approached, reminding her of her dream of clawed animal paws on the plants. One of the vines whipped away from its attempt to climb the wall, lashing at her. Saleria jumped out of the way and slashed when she landed. A second vine flailed between her legs, missing her ankle by an inch. She was grateful she wasn’t wearing a skirt, and that her knee-high boots were crafted from sturdy leather.

Her clothes weren’t standard priestly wear. Most of the priests and priestesses across the empire wore long flowing robes or gowns in white, edged with swirling curls of whatever the current seasonal colors might be. In summer, those edging colors were often pink and purple, hues meant to represent flowers. Their shoes were low-cut, suitable for temple grounds where everything was tamed and tidy, and they rarely wielded weapons.

Saleria’s clothes were white with pink and purple trim, yes, but she wore a set of tightly woven trousers, a tunic, stout leather boots, matching gloves that covered her to mid-forearm, and a sashed jacket. The jacket was cut to resemble the robes her contemporaries wore, but it only fell to mid-thigh, not to her ankles. Each item was embroidered or carved with protective runes, most to protect her from attack, others to keep her warm in winter and cool in summer.

They could protect against, but not prevent, those attacks. She whirled and lashed again with the staff. A third vine lopped off with a sizzle of scorched vegetation, and a fourth fell as well. The rest of the vines quivered and backed off a little, cowed by her forceful attack. She marched forward, slashing at a few more that dared to reach for the outer wall.

Once they were cowed, she swung the staff around and touched the fallen vines with the crystal-knobbed end, siphoning off the extra energies. If she didn’t do that, the severed plants could very well use their excess energies to set down roots and grow more of their kind.

Her job was part warrior, part groundskeeper, and part mage-priest. Not exactly something one trained for under the usual circumstances. Saleria was lucky; her father had served as a lieutenant in the Imperial Army as a young man. He had trained all three of his children to fight physically as well as magically. In contrast, her mother was a modestly powered mage who served the road-and-sewer crews for their home city to the south. Her sister served as an architect’s assistant, a fellow construction-mage like their mother, and their brother had gone into the army in their father’s footsteps.

Saleria herself had felt the call to be a priestess in her mid-teens, a decision she had never regretted. Her family hadn’t, either; since she had chosen the priesthood, her magical education had been paid for by tithes and taxes, rather than out of their own pockets. Her deep belief in the God and Goddess had driven her to study hard, to ensure she would be a truly worthy holy servant. Of course, she had never quite outgrown the urge to stay in bed and sleep late in the mornings, but once she did get up, she did her job well.

A good thing, too. The blackberry vines weren’t the only plants trying to escape the confines of the Grove walls. The marigolds were on the move. Rolling her eyes, she waded forward, swinging her staff with the enchanted end set to thump, not cut. Each oversized plant came up to just above her waist, with a blossom as broad as her torso and leafy limbs that didn’t do more than bruise individually. As a mass, though, they could batter cracks into the wall if she let them stray close.

The trick was to get them separated and herded away from the wall. Thankfully, they weren’t intelligent; once pointed in a particular direction, they just shuffled that way until nightfall. They did, however, have to be kept away from the sunflowers. Saleria didn’t know why the two flower species couldn’t get along. She wasn’t an herbalist, wasn’t a gardener, and frankly wasn’t certain if anyone would ever know enough about the oddities here in the Grove to control them. As it was, for two hundred years, the Grove Keepers had been forced to focus on the simple containment and magic-draining of the many plants and the sources of their warping.

Once the mobile marigolds were pointed away from the wall, Saleria continued on her way. Every morning and evening, just after sunrise and just before sunset, she patrolled the walls. The brisk walk did her good, keeping her fit and healthy, and so long as she kept up with the chore, it wasn’t too onerous. Except she couldn’t quite shake the unsettled feeling that lingered in the wake of her nightmare. It left her feeling dissatisfied. Disaffected.

Grumpy.

She didn’t let those emotions out, however. No mage of her great power level dared work their will from unchecked, unfiltered emotions. Certainly not near such a great source of power as what was contained within the Grove walls. At three points in each day, Saleria had to attend one of the three locus trees, giant growths which had been grown in an attempt to contain the magics spilling out of the three hair-thin rifts in the Veil between Life and the Dark. Dragged into the Dark by the deaths of people and animals, excess magic flowed back out through those rifts.

Unchecked, unfiltered, and most importantly, unpurposed, that magic warped whatever it touched in ways a little too close to random for comfort. Unfettered emotions would only make everything worse. The north tree she attended after her first round with the walls. The south tree, just before her last round. The east tree she handled either right before or right after lunch, depending on how many duties she had around that point in the day.

Each trip took about an hour to tend the garden and siphon off the excess energy, and up to two hours to focus it and the energies collected by her staff crystal into prayers. Any modestly powered, competently educated mage trained in combat or at least self-defense could handle trimming the path along the inside of the wall and—on a good day—handle collecting the energies off the locus trees. But focusing it into fueling prayers in ways that were precise, controlled, and effective without unwanted side effects required a powerful priest-mage.

“You don’t need an assistant to do your morning rounds for you,” Saleria mock-recited from her last attempt at getting one out of the High Prelate for her district, Nestine. She kept her magic tightly under wraps, but her words echoed off the wall to her right, pitched nasally high in echo of her superior priestess, a thin, pinch-faced woman who had wielded her political power perhaps a little too long. “Your duties are light, you have the time, and anything less than your best effort would be an indulgence!”

She swiped hard at a branch in her way. Never mind that most Grove Keepers last only ten or fifteen years before exhausting themselves to the point where they have to retire, and that an assistant would lighten the strain immensely . . .

She slashed at a fern growing near the waterfall cascading down through a specially built channel in the wall, forcing it back. It shrank in on itself with an almost shy level of swiftness, making her feel sorry for taking out her irritation on the poor thing. Personalizing the plants could be dangerous. Here in a place where magic literally was a work of random will, a stray thought could twist things toward a particular idea, even make them real. Breathing deeply, she relaxed as best she could, clearing her mind, and continued across the little crescent-moon bridge fording the stream.

From up here, at the highest, easternmost end of the Grove, she had a good view of all three towering locus trees. Dark brown–barked and gnarled in their limbs, coated with leaves and moss tufts of a hundred different shades, they moved in subtle ways that had nothing to do with the wind, and everything to do with the power they struggled to contain. This close to the eastern locus, the creaking was quite audible. Loud enough that it almost hid the rustling approach of something through the ferns and bluebells of the underbrush.

Wary, Saleria waited. A minute or so after she stopped moving, something slightly larger than the size of her head cautiously poked its wiggling snout out from under the bushes. She held herself still, until the animal revealed itself one paw-step at a time. It took her a few moments to identify it, not as a rat but rather as a shrew. A very, very overgrown shrew. A creature known for eating three times its weight on a daily basis in its thumb-length size. This one was as long as her forearm, which meant it could very well be interested in eating all of her.

It leaped, jaws gaping in anticipation of a meaty bite. Her staff slashed down, cutting the creature in half. Side-stepping the fallen bits, she pinned the front half to the ground with the point of the business end, grimacing at the blood now staining the mossy ground. This part of her job, she didn’t like, but she liked the thought of being bitten even less.

She didn’t tap the creature’s remains with the crystal end of the staff; that was blood-magic, and forbidden. Killing an animal for food was acceptable, even necessary for good health. Plants alone did not provide all the nutrition a human needed to survive on this world, after all. But to steal their life-energies for magical purposes, that was what demons did, not good people. It was one of the oldest of the Laws of Gods and Man, that animal sacrifice—humans included—was anathema.

Whatever scraps of life-energy that weren’t drawn along with the animal’s spirit into the Dark, on its way to the Afterlife, were reserved for the plants to absorb. The cycle had to be preserved. Plants gave life-energy, the power behind all magic, to all the animals, and that energy was returned when their bodies returned to the earth at the end of life. Stealing life-energy for magic weakened mages, tainting them with the demonic touch of the Netherhells. Only in very special circumstances would a mage—a good mage—ever spill blood, and usually only their own.

Once, early in her apprenticeship to Grove Keeper Mardos, Saleria asked him what would happen to the magics spilled when these warped animals were slain. His reply had been vague. Sometimes it seemed like the energies just returned to the plants in the usual, normal, perfectly sane way. Sometimes, though, it seemed to quicken the mutation of the nearest plants.

Yet another patch of Grove ground I’ll have to watch for abnormalities. If I had an apprentice or an assistant, I could spend my time in trance, examining what happens to the flow of powers. But no, I’m not allowed to bring along anyone to watch my back.

Grimacing, she muttered under her breath another odious quote, mincing the words half through her nose, until she sounded almost like a buzzing wasp. “Most powerful mages aren’t interested in living a priestly life, and so all of our powerful priest-mages are needed exactly where they already are, with none to spare.”

Bollocks to that.

The moss didn’t seem to be wiggling or growing or changing in any way. At least, not right away. Content for now that the body was truly dead, she nudged both halves a little farther away from the wall-edged trail so the remnants of the shrew-thing could decompose, returning its physical nutrients as well as its energies to the soil. Stepping carefully around the stained patch, she continued on her morning rounds.

Taking life-energy from the plants was normal and natural, a part of the cycle of magic. It could be used without harm or taint. But she didn’t take it from every plant she met, just the ones that were threatening the wall or the path. Taking all the plant life forces would have been just as bad as taking the life of an animal, a needless waste.

Not that she had to take many, for nothing else challenged her authority. Even the southern locus tree more or less behaved itself, allowing her to drain the magic with her crystal-tipped staff. No lashings, no writhing vines or thorns, no limbs trying to pick her up. Just a quiet draining with barely even a gnat to buzz by and threaten her nose with a tickling as it passed.

Wary, staff crystal glowing like a reddish, cabbage-sized sun, Saleria retreated back to her home. A relatively calm start to her day wasn’t the usual way things ran at the Grove. Still, it was with relief that she hung the staff with its now brightly glowing gem in the tool shed for the moment and retired to her study on the ground floor of her home.

Daranen, her appointed scribe, got to have the luxury of sleeping in an extra hour, compared to her. Sometimes he joined her at breakfast, but not today. That did not mean he had a light workload, though; the middle-aged man often stayed up later than her, reading the day’s mail. But he was always up and ready to work when she got back from her first set of rounds.

In the last three years, Saleria had grown to expect him sitting in his favorite green tunic and trews at his desk when she returned from the Grove. It was a nice desk, set at an angle to hers so that both could enjoy the view through the bay window at the front of the cottage. She could almost envy him getting to sit in such a comfortable, padded leather chair, too. She certainly didn’t sit all that much throughout her day.

This morning, Daranen was there as expected, clad in one of his many green outfits, but he was not seated at his desk. Instead, he had taken one of the cushioned chairs opposite it and was chatting companionably with a strange man. Their backs were to Saleria when she entered, but when Daranen heard her, he finished whatever he was saying in a murmur and politely stood, giving her a bow. “Good morning, Keeper Saleria.”

“Good morning, Daranen,” Saleria returned. Her gaze flicked between the middle-aged, brown-haired man and the younger, blond-haired male rising from the other chair. He, too, turned to bow to her. “And good morning to you, milord.”

“Keeper, this is the Witch-priest Aradin Teral of far-distant Darkhana, which is a land placed far to the north and east of the Sun’s Belt,” Daranen introduced. “Witch-priest, this is High Priestess Saleria, Guardian of the Grove and Keeper of the Holiest Garden of Katan.”

“Holiness,” the stranger murmured, bowing a little deeper in politeness at her rank. He was clad in a fine-spun brown tunic and trews cut along Katani lines, and a pair of sturdy walking boots that looked like they had seen some wear. But he also wore an open, floor-length, deep-sleeved, deep-hooded robe that was a light shade of brown on the outside, but lined with a linen so black, it made his lean-muscled frame stand out all the more whenever he moved.

“Holy Brother,” she replied politely, hoping that was the correct form of address for a foreign priest—it was for a fellow Katani priest, at any rate. It seemed to be acceptable, for the fellow nodded his head politely.

Saleria assessed him as her father had taught her, by seeking out the subtle clues to the man’s profession. Aradin seemed a rather handsome fellow, in a lean sort of way. He wasn’t nearly as thin or pale as the new Groveham Deacon, a young man by the name of Shanno, but he wasn’t at all pudgy, like the older Daranen was starting to turn. Then again, a man who traveled was generally a man who stayed fit. Still, he did more than just walk; his wrists were lean, the tendons well-defined, and there was no spare fat about his face; she guessed he was familiar with some form of self-defense, though she could see no blade or staff about him. Of course, Saleria had a similar level of fitness, and her staff had been left in the shed just inside the garden. His may have been left at one of the inns here in Groveham.

He did have a certain calmness, an aura of peace about him of a kind that few warriors held, but which was common in a priesthood. It was not completely unheard-of for foreign clergy to travel to far-flung lands, nor for them to want to visit a place where two Gods had been joined in marriage before Their chosen peoples, uniting their kingdoms as one, but it was not a common occurrence. Saleria couldn’t remember if she’d heard of a kingdom called Darkhana before, but it sounded like Daranen had a clear idea of where that was, and might even know if this fellow was a legitimate holy man. The Grove had its share of rare foreign priests, but it also bore the occasional visit from false would-be Seers and the like. Thank Kata and Jinga, not that often.

“Have you come hoping to see the Grove?” she asked their visitor, curious. For all that the Grove was the center of her world these days, she wasn’t so naive as to believe other lands would have heard of its troubles, even after two hundred years had passed. Some foreign visitors—priestly or otherwise—came simply because they had seen it mentioned in an old book and were curious. Those were the ones she had to forewarn with the truth. Not often, but once or twice a year. “If so, I’m afraid it’s a bit too dangerous for casual viewing these days.”

“Not exactly, though I do have a personal interest in magically enhanced gardening,” Priest Aradin said. At Saleria’s bemused look, the blond man waved it off with a graceful flick of his hand. “Mostly, I am here to discuss a potential need which I am hoping you, in your office as a formal go-between for your people and your Gods, would be interested in fulfilling. Do you have time for a discussion today?”

Saleria lifted her brows, then turned to Daranen. “Well? Do I?”

“Ah, yes, just a moment.” Hurrying over to his desk, her scribe picked up a book-sized chalkboard and a stack of folded parchments. “Fifty-three petitions for rain in the northlands interspersed with the usual requests for good sunlight in the southern regions listed on this slate, reworded in the usual way into the standard prayers to avoid both flooding and drought. They all vary in the original request, but that’s what it all boils down to in the end, and is an ideal mass prayer for today’s needs. The rest are minor requests for things like finding lost pet dogs and such, which can be put off for later in the day.”

“Drought prayers only take half an hour or so,” Saleria murmured, recalling similar requests. “So . . . yes, milord, I do have time to chat with you. Though I should get those drought prayers out of the way first.”

He nodded politely, a lock of his blond hair slipping forward. It was darker than her own, more of a sandy color, and rather thick. It was also long, following the current trend in Katani fashion. If his eyes had been a bit more slanted and his outer robe set aside, he might have been able to pass for a native, but there was just enough of an exotic air to the man to make him look intriguing.

His voice, a deep, smooth bass, pulled her attention back from her musings. It came with an odd shift in the way he stood and studied her, tipping and twisting his head slightly to the side before he straightened it and spoke. “I realize my next request may be a bit unusual, being a holy man of a completely different nation . . . but may I observe your prayer rituals? I ask in respect for your Order’s traditions,” Aradin added, an oddly mature look in his hazel eyes. “One of my jobs as I travel is to observe the rituals and rites of other faiths.”

That puzzled her. Saleria frowned in her confusion. “Why would a priest from another faith be ordered to observe foreign religious rites?”

“In Darkhana, we have our own customs for daily life,” Aradin told her, gesturing at himself with both hands, then held one out toward her as well, “but in one thing, all lands are the same. We are born, we live, and we die. Your God and Goddess oversee the four seasons of life, from infancy through youth, maturity, and on into the elderly stages. Our God and Goddess oversee the transitions from Life to the Afterlife, and all that lies between.

“Although I am from Darkhana, which lies a very long distance from here, all cultures must deal with death and its transitions. All deaths, in all lands, go through the same stages: The deceased must make the passage through the Dark to the Afterlife where they will be judged and assigned their just punishments, rewards, and perhaps reincarnation chances by the Gods . . . and the living must be comforted and counseled through their grief.

“In that regard, our faith is a . . . a supplement to your own, in a way. We specialize in such things. Wherever we go, we need to be prepared to handle bereavement, to ensure souls are not lost as they make the journey toward the Afterlife. Yet we cannot really stand ready to help others in this, our holy task, without understanding the local system of faith,” he concluded, clasping his hands lightly in front of his torso. A light shrug accompanied his words. “One of the best ways to achieve understanding is to observe the local religion in action, which we would like to do. With your permission, and with great respect on our part.”

Saleria blinked at him. “‘We’?” she finally asked. “‘Our’? Who is this we you reference? Is there more than one of you in your delegation?”

“In a way, yes. In a way, no—one moment,” he added. Again, he closed his eyes and tipped his head, as if stretching a muscle in his neck. Blinking, he opened his eyes again. Giving her a rueful smile, the foreign priest spread his hands slightly. “We are a Darkhanan Witch. This body—my body—belongs to myself, the man named Aradin. I was raised an herbalist and a mage until my late teens, when I was sent to an academy with the intent to study more of the ways of Hortimancy—plant magics—than my family alone could teach me. In the middle of my trip, I was asked to go to the aid of a Witch-priest who had been caught under a storm-felled tree.”

“I don’t understand,” Saleria interjected, frowning. “What has this to do with using the plural for yourself?”

“It has everything to do with it,” Aradin told her. “Darkhanan Witches are twofold. Like our Goddess and God, there are a Host and a Guide. The Host is the living person. The Guide is a deceased former Witch, whose spirit is bound into the Host so that they may literally help guide the person hosting their soul. In this way, their lifetime of accumulated experience and wisdom can be preserved and passed down. Teral—the Witch pinned under the tree—was dying, and I was asked to become his Host, so that I could continue to preserve his experiences, and the memories he had from his Guide, Alaya . . . and when she was a Host, that of her Guide, and of his, and of his, stretching back for over a thousand years.

“The person who spoke just now, with the request to watch you pray? That was Teral, my Guide,” Aradin explained. “He and I can share control of my body, whenever I will it. We can also do more—if I may demonstrate?”

Bemused, she glanced at Daranen, who looked equally intrigued. She gestured with a hand for the foreign priest to proceed. “Provided it harms none, you may.”

He smiled wryly at her as he lifted the deep hood of his robe up over his head. Dropping it down past even his chin, he pulled the front edges closed, then tucked his hands up the opposite sleeves, and bowed slightly. A strange ripple passed through the flesh hidden beneath the beige folds, then he straightened up. Only . . . it wasn’t the lean, blond priest anymore.

The now slightly taller, broad-shouldered figure lifted his hands to the hood, shifting it back out of the way. The face he revealed was older, with a dark, neatly trimmed, gray-streaked beard. His hair, also dark brown with faint threads of silver, fell to mid-chest, the same as Aradin’s, but that chest was broad and strong . . . and the tunic and trousers he wore were of a slightly different cut, dyed a somewhat faded forest green.

“As you can see,” the new figure in the Witch-robes stated, his voice a smooth baritone instead of a deeper bass, “I have the ability to appear as myself, whenever my Host wills it.” One hand on his chest, the other sweeping to the side, he bowed to her. “Teral Aradin at your service, Holy Sister.”

“Teral Aradin?” Daranen asked, brows lifting. “Not Aradin Teral? So . . . whoever holds the current appearance puts his name first?”

“That is correct,” the new foreigner stated.

Saleria blinked, trying to regather her wits. She was sensitive to the flow and twists of magic; it was part of her job as Guardian and Keeper of the Grove to be aware of such energies. Yet she had felt nothing. Frowning softly, she tried to make sense of it. “How is this trick managed? I sensed no spell at work. I can see no aura or hint of an illusion, either.”

“It is holy magics. The robe is a part of it, though any sufficient amount of darkness will suffice,” Teral stated. He lifted a hand, rubbing at his bearded chin for a moment, then shrugged. “I suppose a dark enough shadow might do as well, provided no eyes lay upon the Witch making the transition. As for it being an illusion, this body is still physically that of my Host, though it is currently shaped like my own. When I was still alive and Host to Witch-priestess Alaya, she could take on her feminine form whenever I willed it as well, and be accounted in all ways a female, save that it was still my body at the end of the day.”

Daranen let his jaw drop for a moment, then shut it, swallowed, and glanced at Saleria. “Begging pardon . . . and no insult meant, milord, but . . . I’m not sure I could agree to that, myself. Being turned into a woman? Thank you, but no.”

Teral smirked at the younger man. “I found it to be an advantage in understanding the other gender. I have passed along some of that understanding to my Host, Aradin, as well. Our Order finds it very useful to have both genders understand the ways and thoughts of the other. Of course, it also depends on who is available to take up being the next Host when a previous Witch dies. But still, it is useful.”

“I am sure it is,” Saleria murmured, at a loss for anything else to say. She shook her head to clear it. “As fascinating as this is, I am not sure it would be wise to allow you into the Grove. Not for fear of your bringing insult or disrespect,” she added quickly, firmly, as the older priest drew breath to speak, “but because the Grove is simply too dangerous for the unwary.

“You are, however, most welcome to visit the Groveham Chapel,” Saleria allowed. “Prelate Lanneraun is elderly, but well-versed in tending the needs of both the local congregation and those Katani who travel here on pilgrimage for one reason or another.” She paused, eyed him warily, then added, “Erm . . . if you would kindly switch back, so that I could tell your, ah, Host of this?”

Teral held up a hand in a gentle, graceful motion. “There is no need for that, Holy Sister. Unless one of us steps into the Dark to consult with the Knowing, or to help escort a soul to the gates of the Afterlife, we are always here, and always aware of what our other half experiences.”

She didn’t quite believe him, but she didn’t quite disbelieve him, either. It was all rather . . . fantastical, that was the word for it. Like some storyteller’s tale. “Well, erm . . . gentlemen,” Saleria managed politely, giving the foreigner a slight bow, “if you will excuse us, my scribe and I need to consult on the prayers at hand. Since it seems to be a lovely day budding outside, perhaps we could meet in the square up the lane from here? By the fountain with the entwined fishes? I shouldn’t be more than an hour at most, if not less.”

“As you wish, Holiness. We look forward to speaking with you in a little while.” Bowing, Witch Teral pulled his hood back up over his head, tucked his hands up his sleeves, and . . . shrank slightly. Straightening, Witch Aradin revealed his face, bowed a second time to her, and allowed Daranen to escort him—them?—to the front door.

Bemused, Saleria moved over to her desk and dropped onto her padded leather chair, utterly at a loss on how to handle the weirdness of this foreigner. Two men in one body . . . one technically dead, but able to “live” again in his own form, thanks to the other? And they travel the world, studying other lands? How very bizarre . . .

The twittering of a bird outside reminded her that time would not stand still while she tried to make sense of outkingdom ways. Sitting up with a grunt, she sorted through the neat stacks of correspondence Daranen had placed on her desk and started reading the letters with the requests for drought management. Saleria pushed thoughts of Aradin-and-Teral out of her mind.

Strange two-in-one foreigners would have to wait while the Keeper of the Grove attended to her daily work.