The Grove

THREE

Aradin stared in awe at the mutated tangle of plant life that blocked their path, shades of dark green vines, medium green leaves, and bright, white, trumpet-shaped flowers striped faintly with faded gold. “Magnificent . . .”

Saleria raised her brows at that. She didn’t quite look at Aradin, mainly because she wasn’t about to take her attention away from the mutated cross between morning glory and thettis-vine, with the conical blossoms paired with wicked, toxic thorns at the base of each bud. She did, however, speak in a very dry tone. “More like a nightmare made manifest. The toxin on those thorns will slow our reflexes. The leaves are spongy, designed to absorb our blood for nutrients. Our drained corpses will be wrapped in root vines to decompose and feed the whole plant more directly.

“But the flowers are very pretty, I’ll grant you that. Possibly magnificent, if one ignores all the rest. Alas, I cannot,” she finished, gaze roving over the tangle of vines that blocked their path. Today’s tangle was thicker than yesterday’s, though by squinting and shifting a little, she could see it was not as deep. “It also has a rudimentary sense of cunning.”

“Cunning?” Aradin asked her. He, too, did not lift his gaze from the dense layers of vines mounded over the flagstone-lined path. At the edges of his vision, he could see the great, bramble-like branches of one of the nearby locus trees, and of course a profusion of foliage ranging from tiny little mint plants carpeting the edges of the flagstone-lined path to great towering palms with fernlike fronds swaying softly in the breeze overhead. Insects buzzed, birds twittered, leaves rustled gently. It looked like a pastoral setting, save for the fact that this strange, not-quite-morning-glory thicket was blocking their path.

“It constantly tests me, trying to catch me by one means or another. Except it really doesn’t know much, other than to grow thin and stretched out, or to grow dense in a short patch of the path. Dense is easier to clear quickly in just a few strokes, though there is more of a chance that several of those thorns will scratch me and inject their venom,” she said, pointing at the long, straight, gleaming spikes at the base of each flower-bell. “Spread out more linearly over the path, they have more room to flail and it takes longer to clear, but fewer thorns will strike me in a single blow, and I have fewer vines to dodge, so I’m more likely to cut each one that attacks.”

“I see now, and I must agree. Cunning, yes; smarts, no,” Aradin agreed, following along. “It seems to have the aspects of two different plants. The base is clearly one of your morning glory plants, a tenacious vine but one lacking thorns. The other . . . The shape of it reminds me of a plant I saw illustrated in a book from the seas to the north and west, I think.”

“Thettis. It’s an ornamental thorn-vine which sprouts tasty berries that can be distilled into a soporific for healing and pain-management medicines—an appropriate gift for the original Grove,” Saleria stated. “I cannot be completely sure, but round about this area was where the original gift from the Althinac ambassador was planted. The morning glory . . . could have come from anywhere. A stray seed eaten and then defecated onto the thettis by a local bird, perhaps. But the thettis bush was a gift, of that, I am sure.”

“A recent acquisition?” Aradin asked, and received a shake of her head, her blonde curls bouncing over her shoulders with the quick, sharp move.

“No. From at least four hundred years ago. There are records of all such plants gifted to the Empire, which were naturally brought here to the Grove, making it a showcase of foreign plants as well as native ones. A true garden of the Gods, since it is said that every earthly delight can be found in the Afterlife. The Grove was supposed to be an echo of such a place, with every ornamental or useful herb, bush, and tree gathered into one place.”

“Only now it’s gone wrong. Those who caused the Shattering have much to answer for,” Aradin murmured. He narrowed his eyes. “Did one of those vines just move a little?”

“It did.” Hefting her pruning staff, Saleria prepared herself for the assault. “Stay back. Remember, the spells on the flat end will cut us as well as our attackers, if you aren’t careful. Using a staff for walking is not the same as using a staff for fighting.”

He lifted his own in a two-handed stance, ready to wield it. “Our foremost Witch believes that everyone in our Order should be schooled in non-magical self-defense as well as magical. We are each required to learn at least four close-fighting styles and one ranged skill before being allowed to leave the training cloisters. Teral and I both learned combat with knife, short staff, and Arbran-style wrestling, involving holds and escapes as well as blows and blocks. He also learned sword and bow. I learned mace and sling.”

“Sling?” Saleria asked, distracted by that. “Isn’t that a child’s toy?”

“It’s more versatile than you’d think. I am an herbalist. I can craft potions, put them into carefully cleaned and wax-sealed eggshells, or thin-baked pottery balls, and hurl them at my enemies. If I have the time to prepare them,” he amended, tipping his head ruefully. He didn’t mention that he had several such missiles already prepared, labeled, and stored within the infinite, close space of the Dark. Instead, he lifted the staff she had loaned him. “This pole is a little bit longer than I’m used to wielding, but I think I can compensate. But as it is your Grove, you may certainly lead the way. I’ll just watch your back.”

Saleria nodded and shifted her weight to move forward, but curiosity held her back. Unable to help herself, she asked, “Why magnificent? Of all the words one could choose, about a plant like this . . . ?”

“It’s the blending of the features. I can tell three things went into its making,” he told her, “and it’s all very well done. A master Hortimancer couldn’t have done better. An insane master, to create an ambulatory monstrosity like this, but still, well done.”

“What—three?” Saleria asked, so surprised that she turned to look at him. As her booted feet scraped on the gritty flagstones, the vines moved, whipping outward in an attack meant to bind. She yelped in shock, but reacted on reflex, whipping her staff up and around. The spell cut through most of the tendrils, but some were longer than expected, rising up out of the bushes on the side of the path to try to curl around her legs.

Aradin’s staff whistled through the air, whipping the enspelled end through the impertinent vegetation. Severed bits of limbs skidded across the path, while the main plant shuddered and rustled, retracting itself. It still lurked close to their route, but didn’t try a second attack, and didn’t loom over the path.

Saleria nodded her thanks, and lifted her chin at the flowered mass. “Cunning, and for the next hour or so, it will remember and avoid a second attack. But by tomorrow, it will have forgotten and will try to attack again. Sometimes, if an animal goes astray nearby and has to be put down, I’ll drag its corpse here to dispose of the body faster than letting it rot . . . but I don’t really want to feed it.”

“I probably wouldn’t feed it, either,” Aradin agreed.

“So, we have morning glory and thettis. What’s the third plant?” she asked, touching the crystal end of her staff to the fallen, dying vines. The ones still attached twitched a little, but did not move in their direction.

“It’s not a plant,” Aradin corrected, his gaze still on the bundle of vines.

That started her again, though this time she didn’t shift her stance. It might seem subdued, but there was no point in taking a chance. “It’s not?”

“See those tiny hairs along the vines? And the round little lumps that gleam like dark pearls?” he asked, pointing over her shoulder so she could sight along his arm. At her nod, Aradin explained. “Those are cilia and ommatidia. The little hair-structures, the cilia, detect vibrations, like odd sorts of ears. I think they ‘hear’ only at certain pitches, since it isn’t reacting to our voices, but it did react to the scrape of your foot on the ground. The ommatidia . . . are insect eyes. Insects aren’t as good at seeing as humans are, and nowhere near as good as an eagle or a hawk, but they are watching us for movement and proximity.

“As I said, this is as good as the work of any mad master Hortimancer . . . since only an insane person would try to blend animal and vegetable like this,” he finished.

Saleria stared at the vines in horror. Before, she had simply, if grimly, disliked the thing, dealt with it whenever it grew large enough to menace her, and moved on to the next overgrown whatever. But combined with bits from a bug? Creepy. In a tight, clipped voice, fingers white-knuckled on her staff, she stated, “I am now very uncomfortable, knowing that.”

“The more I think about it, the more I believe the previous abominations we’ve met on just this one walk through the Grove may have had a blend of three characteristics as well. Not the quieter, less aggressive blends,” he murmured, “but the ones that have tried to attack us, yes. You were talking about the three, ah, locus trees each producing magic, and needing to be drained on a rotating schedule? I suspect that, if there are ever hours where you have to skip a round, or are too sick to go out at all that day, the excess magics spill over and warp through each other, surging and eddying and crossing like little whirlwinds of power.”

“That would make some sense,” Saleria admitted. “The few times I have been ill with a cold or fever, the Grove has usually been wilder a week or so later. Uncontrolled, unpurposed magic may be strong, but without a concrete purpose behind it, driving it with the will of the mage, no magic can create whole beasts or bushes in a single day.”

“But it can begin the warping process,” Aradin said. Lifting his staff, he tipped it at the vines. “Shall we prune this bush-beast back a little further and continue on our way, then?”

Nodding, Saleria eyed the vines, then lunged a little, slashing in a sudden attack. More bits of warped plant limbs dropped to the path. She did it again, and a third time. Once it was trimmed back to her satisfaction, she started to tap the vines with the crystal end of her staff, then stopped. Eyes wide, she glanced at Aradin.

“Wait . . . if these are part animal, then . . . then isn’t this blood-magic?”

“They are far more plant than animal, so I think it shouldn’t matter as much as you’d think. Besides, you have been doing this for many years, you and your predecessors, yes? And you are obviously not corrupted by the madness of the Netherhells whispering in your ears?” he added. At her hesitant nod, he shrugged. “Then the Gods have already accepted it as beneficial. I wouldn’t drain that shrew-thing you mentioned, but something that is two parts plant and one part tiny insect shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Right.” She hesitated a moment more, then touched the cuttings, draining the magic still trying to make them twitch. Unlike animals, plant bits did not die within a minute of being severed from the bulk of the original plant; in fact, if conditions were right, they could take in water, grow new roots, and become a new problem. It was therefore best to ensure they shriveled and died completely. “Not to mention the use to which it is purposed does nothing for me personally, but is instead purposed specifically to help others. So . . . it is not evil. So long as I take great care to ensure the energies are not used for evil ends.”

“That is the way magic works in all lands, yes,” Aradin murmured, following her. His staff had a crystal, too, but he intended to let her gather the majority of energies. He didn’t want her having even the slightest suspicion that he was interested in such things for his own ends. He honestly wasn’t—neither of them were, Host or Guide—but it was still wise to conduct themselves circumspectly.

That, and her rump presses rather magnificently against the folds of her trousers and jacket, whenever she bends over a little bit, just like that . . .

(A magnificent rump, indeed,) Teral agreed, following his line of thought with equal masculine appreciation. (But don’t speak aloud the same word for her backside that you used to describe a monstrous amalgamation of plants and insect.)

(My dear Guide, I am not that stupid,) Aradin retorted, watching her stretch out the staff again. Though he did continue to enjoy the view as she drained the last few severed tendrils.

Saleria snuck yet another glance at her companion. So far, Witch Aradin Teral had proved as good as his word. Their word? His, theirs, it mattered not. He had let her take the lead—a thing not all men were inclined to do—and had done nothing more than support and defend her movements when the magic-warped inhabitants of the Grove had proven a bit too bothersome. But now, after visiting the eight altar-stones arrayed along the major inner paths and trimming back the excess growths, it was time to visit the Bower.

She knew from her conversations with other Guardians scattered around the world that the Bower corresponded to a Fountain Hall, the chamber holding the energies from a singularity-point, spewing magic much like the rifts from the shattered Portals did. Of course, a Fountain Hall had its rift in the center of its chamber; the Bower was instead located in the center of the triangle formed by the three locus trees. But there were similarities . . . including the vast amount of somewhat tamed magical power available in the Bower.

No one in Katan would dare try to wrest away control of the Grove’s magic from the Grove Keeper. It would be considered tantamount to slapping Kata on the rump and yanking up the back of Jinga’s trousers. Not a good idea. As much as the belief and faith of the people as a whole created a kingdom’s Patron Deity or Deities, and gave Them the power to enact miracles great and small, the Gods did have minds of Their own sometimes. They would probably not react with benevolence or forgiveness to such an act of hubris, either the slapping-and-yanking, or the theft of the Grove’s power.

But Aradin Teral was an outlander, an outkingdom foreigner, a stranger from a far-distant land. . . .

“Teral says he has noticed how you keep glancing at me in the last few moments, and would like to know why,” Aradin stated, catching her off guard. “I find myself curious as well.”

Saleria blinked, then cleared her throat. “I . . . er . . . How?” she finally asked. “You didn’t once look at me.”

In fact, he wasn’t looking at her now, but Aradin didn’t have to. He tapped the edge of his face next to his eye. “Any Guide can shift his attention to see things in the Host’s peripheral vision. There’s a small learning curve, but it’s been quite handy so far, particularly in potentially dangerous situations. Or ones where I need to be socially aware.” Now he glanced her way, giving her a smile. “So you might as well ask what you wanted to ask. Whatever it is, we won’t be offended, I assure you.”

Stopping on the path, she planted her free hand on her hip, the other keeping her staff carefully upright so it wouldn’t bump into either of them. “Even if I ask something obnoxious, like ‘Which do you prefer to eat, feces or rotting corpses for breakfast?’”

Caught off guard, Aradin choked on a laugh. He swung around to face her, his staff equally upright, but with his hand over his mouth. Snickering a bit, he coughed, cleared his throat, and addressed her question. “Oh, I hardly think you’re the sort to ask something truly obnoxious. You’ve been more than gracious all this while, and I don’t see that ending any time soon. But you do have an important question you wish to ask . . . so, why not ask it?”

“Alright. While it would be unthinkable for a Katani to try to wrest control of all the magic available in the Grove, for fear of incurring the wrath of our God and Goddess,” Saleria explained, “you, on the other hand, are a foreigner. More than that, you are a foreign priest, to foreign Gods. You care not a whit for our Patron Deities. How do I know you will not try to wrest control of the Grove from me, or steal its powers, or . . . ?”

He held up his hand. “I, Aradin of Darkhana, bind unto my powers this vow: I promise I have no intention of stealing the powers of the sacred matrimonial Grove of Holy Kata and Jinga, nor of using those stolen powers in ways which would bring grave harm to yourself, the people of Katan, your Patron Deities, or the rest of the world, save only whatever may be needful in the name of self-defense or the defense of others. So swear I, Aradin of Darkhana.”

Bands of silver light edged with dark blue shimmered over his body, sweeping him from the crown of his blond head to the soles of his brown-booted feet. Saleria blinked. She hadn’t expected that. Not a mage-oath, binding Aradin to the exact wording of his vow via his own powers. It was deeply satisfactory, however. And a neatly spoken piece of law-speaker’s cleverness. He could not steal the powers . . . but he could still be free to borrow them, by request or by gift.

“You surprised me,” she admitted. “But . . . it is well-spoken. If craftily.” She started to move forward, then checked herself after two steps and faced him again. “Now, what about Teral making that vow?”

A grin cracked his lips, showing his mostly straight white teeth; one of his canines sat just a little bit crooked. But that grin confused her, at least until he spoke. Lifting his finger, Aradin waggled it at her. “You are very, very clever to have spotted a potential loophole like that, milady. Well done! Here, hold my staff while we trade places.”

Taking it from him, Saleria watched as he pulled his hood over his head and down to his throat, then tucked his hands into the robe’s sleeves. As the heat of the day had increased, he had pulled the robe shut around his body, no doubt keeping it cool via temperature charms. Now his frame shifted, he straightened, and the taller, broader-shouldered, older figure of Teral pushed the hood back. Giving her a slight bow, he spoke in his smooth, cultured baritone.

“I, Teral of Darkhana, bind unto my powers this vow: I promise I have no intention of stealing the powers of the sacred matrimonial Grove of Holy Kata and Jinga, nor of using those stolen powers in ways which would bring grave harm to yourself, the people of Katan, your Patron Deities, or the rest of the world, save only whatever may be needful in the name of self-defense or the defense of others.

“So swear I, Teral of Darkhana.” This time, the bands of dark blue light were stronger than the silver, though the latter still sizzled from graying brown head to beige-clad toe. Bowing, he straightened and raised one eyebrow. “I trust that will suffice as to both our intentions, Holy Sister?”

She smiled wryly and dipped her head in return. “It will suffice, Holy Brother.” He started to shift the hood forward, no doubt to switch bodies again. Saleria quickly held out his borrowed staff, forestalling him. “Please, stay for a little bit, and walk with me. I am curious about you as well.”

(Go ahead,) Aradin encouraged him. (You’re due some time in your own body.)

(Only because she swears this “Bower” place isn’t dangerous. I’d rather you did all the ducking and dodging,) Teral joked silently. Nodding his head, he accepted the staff and gestured for Saleria to take the lead. “As you wish, milady.”

Now that she had his—their—acquiescence, Saleria wasn’t quite sure where to begin. She started walking again, letting Teral follow a few paces behind. Aradin’s comment about obnoxious questions did raise a point, so she started with that. “I am not at all familiar with the, ah, ways of your kind. If any question I ask is obnoxious, please forgive me in advance, and just let me know it isn’t something you care to answer.”

“Such courtesy is appreciated.” Watching the younger woman’s hips sway with each step, Teral could not only see what Aradin had seen; he could feel their shared body responding to it. (I do believe there are some serious drawbacks to being flesh and blood. At least, where my dignity is concerned.)

(Feels good, doesn’t it?) Aradin teased. It was still his body, and he could still feel the blood pooling at the sway of those hips, but it felt distanced, almost numb, since he wasn’t the one in control.

(Indeed.) Teral smiled pleasantly when the blonde priestess glanced back at them. Her almond-shaped eyes and high cheekbones made her look very different from Darkhanan women. The differences were exotic and alluring, making both men aware of her unpretentious beauty. (No hints of painting or primping, no subtle tricks or artifice, just natural, beautiful woman, as her Gods clearly made her to be. Oh, to be alive again . . .)

(Albeit with your Alaya’s permission,) Aradin chuckled in the back of Teral’s mind. (These days, you’d need mine.)

The view he had was much like peering at a bright window or a scrying mirror over Teral’s shoulder from a hushed, darkened room. The perspective was a little off, too, since his Host’s version of the body stood just a little bit taller. But he was used to it by now. Everything behind and around him was dark, save for what Teral saw, quiet save for what Teral heard . . . and the whispers of what Teral thought. The stronger the thought, the louder the whisper. The thought prompting his quip hadn’t been loud, but it was one he himself had been thinking.

(Then again, Teral, I’m not sure if this Katani woman would care to have either of us as a lover. You’re technically a dead man in a borrowed body, and neither of us is alone, unless one of us steps into the Dark.) Aradin started to say more, then hushed. Priestess Saleria had finally found a question she wanted to ask.

“So . . . how did you become a Guide?” she asked.

“A tree fell on me, and Aradin was the nearest willing mage I could ask to be bound to before I died.” At her flustered look, Teral smiled. “Or did you mean what made me choose to become a Witch in the first place?”

“Yes, that,” she corrected herself. A swipe of her staff severed a tree limb bending their way. She paused to drain it into the glowing crystal at the other end of her staff. “I meant . . . I had a revelation, a moment of divine inspiration, I suppose you could say. I was in a youth choir, organized by the cathedral in my city—my father is an instructor for the Imperial Army, and my mother serves as a road crew mage, so it wasn’t a case of following in either’s footsteps.

“Anyway, we were singing a hymn to the seasons, to the four faces of our Gods . . . and it was so sublime, every note blended in purity and harmony . . . perfect. Just perfect. I knew then that I was being called to serve my Goddess and God.” Smiling softly, ruefully, she continued toward a structure of intertwined branches forming a lacework dome. “It sounds silly to say that a ‘mere song’ inspired me to become a priestess, but over a decade later, I can still remember how perfect everything was in that moment. How holy and pure.

“I could have become a secular sort of mage, but I felt my powers would be better used to serve everyone, not just those who could afford my services,” she concluded. “I know what made Aradin a Witch-priest—proximity to you and your tree,” Saleria dared to tease lightly, since neither man seemed to treat it like a huge tragedy, for all that it had been. “But what made you choose to be a Witch-priest, instead of a normal priest, or a normal mage, or . . . or a bookbinder or something?”

“An excess of mouths to feed. My mother would get pregnant at the drop of her nightshift,” Teral stated bluntly, though with humor in his tone as she gaped at him. “That, milady, was how she put it. I was seventh in a family of thirteen children.”

“Goodness!” Saleria exclaimed softly, impressed by that. “Um . . . not to be rude, but . . . ?”

Teral knew what she was trying to ask delicately. “There was just something about Mother’s energies that, ah, prevented contraceptive amulets and potions from working for her . . . and she did enjoy being mother to a huge brood of little ones. Ours was the house where the neighborhood children would congregate to play, and study, and be accepted, thanks to her. Father worked as a glassmaker, but the trade in our city could only support so many apprentices, and his wages only so many mouths to feed. Particularly when we became teenagers, with the huge appetites to match.

“I was very good at the scholarly arts, so the high priest of our cathedral was willing to sponsor an apprenticeship for me to become a member of the clergy, a clerical sort of priest. But then puberty struck, my magic started coming out, and he had me transferred to Witch-craft training. I had some aptitude for trading and negotiating, so eventually I was apprenticed to this rather elderly woman named Alaya Vondren. Her Guide was male, you see, and they thought that with so many sisters in my family background, I could handle being paired with a female when it was Alaya’s turn to pass on and become a Guide,” Teral stated. “They already knew she could handle being paired with a male.”

They were almost to the Bower, following the path as it switched back and forth at a gentle slope down into the bowl-like vale at the heart of the Grove. Saleria kept an eye out for warped plants and animals, but her curiosity was strong. “You’ve mentioned you have a God and Goddess . . .”

“Yes, the Dual One. Darkhan, the Dead God, formerly the God of Elder Brother Moon before its destruction thousands of years ago,” Teral said, “and His Host, Dark Ana, formerly the mortal Arch Priestess Ana.”

“Well . . . I can understand why it would be more comfortable to be paired with someone of the same gender constantly sharing your life,” Saleria stated, “but from a theological standpoint, wouldn’t it make more sense for all of you to swap genders every generation, so to speak?”

He chuckled, his voice deepening almost to Aradin’s bass. Grinning, he rubbed at his neatly trimmed beard. “You’ve hit the nail on the head with your hammer, there. Yes, it would make more sense. But to serve as a Witch, one must be willing to do so. Growing up with as many sisters as brothers, older and younger and all learning how to get along with each other, I was . . . comfortable, I suppose you could say, around the fairer sex. From listening to my sisters’ plaints, I could understand some of how they thought. Then again, I wasn’t completely sure I’d want to share my life with Alaya once she’d passed on from Host to Guide . . . until I got to know her.”

“Oh? A charming, sweet lady?” Saleria asked.

“Sweet? No. Charming? Yes,” the older priest agreed. “She was sharp but fair, clever without needing to resort to cunning, and wouldn’t put up with nonsense from a young man. Or anyone else, really. And in time, I grew to love her as a close friend and confidant, both before and after we joined as Host and Guide. Vondren, I respected and trusted, and missed him once he was gone . . . but part of him lived on in Alaya’s memories, and in Alaya’s work. She had traveled a lot as a purchasing agent for the Church, as had he before her. I learned the craft of negotiation and diplomacy from her, and Aradin has learned it from me.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed how charming and diplomatic he can be,” Saleria observed dryly, motioning for Teral to stop. They had reached the edge of the Bower. Here, there were magics woven into the giant, gazebo-like structure that would keep out anything hostile, hungry, or hurtful. But sometimes creatures liked to lurk in the bushes just to either side of the intertwined structure. It wasn’t as if she could alter her daily routine to avoid being seen.

Nothing seemed amiss, so she nodded and moved inside. A rustling noise was her only warning. Spinning, she brought up her staff, but Teral had already moved, warned by both noise and Aradin’s sharp gaze catching the movement at the corner of their shared eyesight. Swinging his staff, the middle-aged priest whacked it into the overgrown, rabbity thing that leaped out of the bushes on too many legs, jaws agape and tail trailing . . . a rope of spider-silk?

It did not matter, save that the line of silk showed where the body of the beast was flung by his soundly struck blow. The thing smashed into the bushes halfway up the hill and tumbled down through the foliage. It came to a rest under a fernlike bush, just barely visible, and still breathing but otherwise not moving. Teral grimaced. “Sorry. Meant to hit it with the cutting end, not the crystal.”

“Still, a well-struck blow,” Saleria praised, grateful the older man hadn’t been harmed. She moved up beside him, both of them warily watching the rabbit-spider-thing for signs of further aggression. “And I thought Aradin said he was the one with mace-wielding skill.”

“Oh, it bleeds over,” Teral admitted. “I can wield a sling well enough to bring down supper, if need be. After a few tries, but still, only a few. And he can shoot a deer at fifty paces with bow and arrow, if he’s really hungry. Should we be going after that thing?”

“It’s in a patch of peaceferns. Unless it’s really hungry, the mutant should go to sleep for several hours, then wander off. I’d rather not try to get to that spider-thing myself, since I’d come under the soporific effects of the plant’s perfume,” she said.

“That thing has flowers?” Teral asked, squinting at the fern. Aradin focused, too, and whispered into his mind. “Ahhh, I see—or rather, Aradin sees. Tiny little knobby things that look more like miniature fiddleheads than flowers, the same shade of green as the rest of the plant, save for tiny paler green speckles . . . Have you tried an air-cleansing spell, to filter out the perfume?”

“Well . . . no, but it would have to be paired with a body-cleansing charm, to remove the pollen,” she said.

“Mm. Well, if you’ll permit it, this is more Aradin’s area of expertise than mine. He’d be willing to climb up there and dispatch the creature, if you like,” Teral offered. “Though I suspect it’s as much to get a closer look at the plant-life as anything.”

“I’m torn,” she murmured. “That creature is large enough to be a menace, and should be removed, but I shouldn’t like to endanger your Host. I appreciate the offer, but . . .”

Teral placed his hand on her shoulder, turning just enough to face her without ruining Aradin’s edge-of-the-eye view of the downed brown rabbit-spider thing. “Please, Priestess; we are here to help, and are fully prepared to help. You should not be the only person to face all these dangers, and the Gods know this. In fact, I suspect the hand of Threefold Fate in arranging for my Host in specific to be the one assigned to this continent. He is a formally trained Hortimancer, and he has been sent here to find you, a woman who cares for her people but naught for politics, all while tending an overgrown nightmare of a garden that should be restored and remade safe and sane.

“The three hardest things to say in the world are ‘I love you,’ ‘I’m sorry,’ and ‘I need help,’” Teral continued. “You are clearly a strong woman, for you are set in circumstances which would clearly require at least three people to manage easily. The lattermost statement should not be a problem for you, nor should it be made a problem by those around you,” he added softly, gently. “Is it not one of the Laws of God and Man, ‘Ask and you may receive; stay silent, and you will not’ . . . ? Ask, Holy Sister, and you shall receive our help; this, I pledge to you.”

It was a supreme irony that this strange, two-in-one outlander was so willing to help her tend to the holiest place in the entire Empire of Katan where her own Order was not. . . . Bollocks to them! Saleria thought, frowning at the idea of being offered help but having to refuse it for . . . for whatever internal, priestly-political reason her superiors may have. “Alright. Witch Teral Aradin . . . or Aradin Teral, whatever . . . would you be so kind as to very carefully get up there and dispatch that poor rabbit-spider-thing, so that it doesn’t attack us or escape the Grove at some point?”

“As milady commands,” Teral murmured. Handing over the staff for a moment, he swept the hood up over his head, tucked his arms in his sleeves, and bowed politely under its dark embrace.

Bodies once again swapped, Aradin pushed the hood back. He frowned in thought a few moments, accepted the gardening staff from Saleria once more, and began murmuring spells in his deep voice. Magic rose from his body like a mist, weaving its way around his leaner frame until it flashed and faded into a rippling aura that could be seen more from the way it made the eye twitch than from any distinct visual effect.

A second murmur thickened several patches of air into misty, flat-topped clouds. They formed a stairwell and footpath just above the plants. As soon as the last one was laid, he swiftly mounted the makeshift steps and hurried toward the twitching animal. Impressed, Saleria wondered if he would be willing to teach it to her. Such a thing would make her own daily routine that much easier, if she could just walk over minor mutated plants which weren’t troublesome in order to get at the heavily mutated animals and plants that were.

Of course, it would be far better if I didn’t have to deal with mutated plants and animals at all . . . Recent conversations with Guardian Kerric, up north in Aiar, suggested there were other things she could be doing with the magic of her not-quite-Fountains, things to drain and use the excess energies. Ways to permanently do so, without the need for a living mage to constantly pray every day. Perhaps not automatic prayers; those need to be guided by a willing spirit. But . . . little things, perhaps creating and maintaining aqueducts of water for the dry northlands, though that might prove to be too far away for the magic to reach. Or some system of heating and cooling for the local houses, or . . .

She watched as Aradin studied the creature a long moment, then slashed in three strokes. It squealed and thrashed on the first, thrashed again on the second, and twitched on the third. Its movements slowed, then stopped. Aradin bowed his head, murmured something with a hand stretched out over the creature’s body, then turned and made his way back at a more leisurely pace. A few murmurs shed the cocoon of shimmering air from his body. Saleria caught a whiff of perfume-laced pollen, but only a whiff before the soft breeze wending its way through the Grove carried the soporific stuff away.

“Three parts animal,” he stated, dismissing the puff-clouds with a gesture once he reached the flagstone path. “Rabbit, jumping-spider, and mouse or shrew. Milady, as one mage to another, I say to you this place needs to be brought under control. In my oath, I swore I would not use the powers of this place to cause harm, but I am not the one you should be worried about. There is so much magic steeped into everything living within the garden’s walls . . .”

Breaking off, he shook his head, looking past her into the Bower, though with the kind of faraway gaze that said he wasn’t really seeing it.

“. . . Such negligence makes me wonder why your hierarchy would be so blind to the needs of this place. Unless, of course, absolutely none of your priesthood has ever studied the interactions of magic, animals, and plants,” he concluded, focusing on her again. “Otherwise, they are willfully allowing massive mutations to occur, and for no good reason that I can see.”

“I think there may be a prophecy involved, based on something Jonder, the previous Keeper, said about the mess I was inheriting from him,” Saleria murmured. She looked at the Bower and shrugged. “I suppose I could contact the Department of Prophecies to see if there is. Who knows? Maybe that prophecy you showed me—which I should check up on, to verify—has a corresponding one that is also going to come true about this place, and I can finally get more than myself working on this place.

“I may not know much about foreign lands, but I do know prophecies tend to . . . to go off in clusters, like flocks of geese taking to flight.” She paused, debated whether or not to say her next thought, then shrugged mentally and said it anyway. “Which is rather apropos, since geese taking off tend to defecate on everything, and that’s often how a flock of prophecies going off tends to feel, from what I’ve heard.”

Aradin smiled wryly at her simile, but otherwise said nothing to that. Particularly since he’d heard similar things, too. He didn’t know if there were any other prophecies dealing specifically with this place or not, just the ones dealing with his assigned task. Instead, the Witch gestured wordlessly at the upside-down basket of brown-barked, interwoven boles stretching a good sixty feet wide and roughly sixty feet high at its center.

Nodding, Saleria led him into the moss-floored heart of the Grove. Beyond the woven woodworks and mossy ground was another odd sight. Leafless vines dangled down from overhead; each one dripped a thick, colorful liquid like sun-warmed honey, but in shades of blue and pink and green as well as amber. Each slow dribble collected in a small, moss-edged basin. Aradin eyed those little pools of pastel liquid warily.

Thankfully, there were plenty of mossy paths between the vines, marked by dark and light, tough strains of moss, or at least something mosslike, thick and cushiony underfoot. He followed her down to a stone slab that served as her altar, wondering what the purpose was for the sap. It wasn’t until he squinted, invoking his ability to see the flow of magical energies, that he gasped and stumbled, overwhelmed by what he Saw.

Saleria, hearing his sharp intake of breath, turned to see what was wrong. She barely managed to get him braced as he lost his footing on the mossy path. Steadying the foreign priest, she waited for him to recover his senses. He did so with a sharp little shake of his head and a rapid double-blink.

“I . . . That stuff is . . . is pure concentrated magic.” He pointed at the saplike substance and gave her a wide-eyed look. “In liquid form!”

“Yes,” she admitted, since anyone with the ability to see the flow of energies through the aether could have told that much. “I only gather the excess energies directly in my patrols. The locus trees themselves focus most of it into these collection basins.”

“Collection . . .” His wits were still a little scattered, as were Teral’s. Both Host and Guide squinted again, focusing on trying to See where the energies went once gathered. “I don’t . . . Grove Keeper,” he finally asked formally, “where do these concentrated energies go, once they gather in the basins?”

“They return to the land, of course,” Saleria stated matter-of-factly. It was quite obvious to her way of thinking; the earth beneath their feet was a great grounding source. It quelled and calmed lightning, and it shunted energies off of mages’ shields while dueling, so it made sense to her that the sap should drain into the land. That was how magic should be returned to the plants.

Except he was gaping at her with a mixture of shock, disbelief, and even a touch of horror.

“. . . What?” Saleria finally asked, wanting him to explain his reaction. “Magic should go back into the land, to feed the plants and make them grow. That is the cycle of magic, you know.”

“Not this much magic!” Aradin protested. “That would be like . . . like stuffing a baby full of fatty, super-sweet foods, and then not realizing why your infant looks like a padding-stuffed footstool two breaths from a heart attack! I apologize for the crudeness of my analogy,” he added as she recoiled a little, “but plants should not be force-fed vast amounts of magic. From the thickness of the ground cover within the walls of this Grove, I would not be surprised to learn that that sap is being shared among all the various root systems. And because it is mixed into the groundwater, it is no doubt the cause of all these plants being mutated. Or at least, the main cause, augmented by eddies of overflowing magic from the . . . what was it you said? The locus trees?”

She touched her hand to the base of her throat, horrified herself by the idea. All this time . . . ? “Surely . . . surely you exaggerate?”

“I wish I could—here, let me fetch out a seedling,” he stated. Resting his borrowed staff against the edge of the altar, he reached into the sleeves of his robe. Teral silently passed him a stalk of sugar cane from its storage spot in the Dark. Pulling it out of his sleeve, the younger Witch showed his hostess the finger-long stalk of greenery and its little burlap-bound ball of earth-encased roots. “This is one of a hundred samples of sugarcane from your northern coast which I picked up for trade with my people. I haven’t been able to pass them to my fellow Witches in Darkhana just yet because it is summer here, which means winter back home, above the Sun’s Belt and the seasonal divide—they’re safer being stored in the stasis of the Dark for now, since nothing ages in its embrace.

“But watch what happens if I imbue it with some of my magic. Pure magic,” he stated in clarification. Balancing the root-ball on his left hand, he held up his right and focused his will. With a whisper of breath, greenish light streamed out of his palm and his fingertips and soaked into the cane stalk. It stood there for several long moments, then trembled slightly . . . then quivered and flexed, growing in both length and size.

The crackling, creaking sound it made as the elongated leaf-stalk grew from one finger-length to three and spilled out a couple extra leaves was clearly audible. Eerily familiar, in fact. Saleria paled, realizing that this was some of the same sort of rustling noises that had serenaded her all day and all night for each of the three years she had served as Keeper and Guardian of the Grove.

He speaks the truth . . . Sweet Jinga, this is the truth! Swallowing, she looked at the mage-priest, who ended the demonstration with a dismissive flick of his fingers. The cane-plant continued to grow another finger-length even though the flow of energy had ended, turning it into a stalk as long as his forearm. But it did eventually stop.

“See what I mean?” Aradin asked her. “But this magic differs from your ‘pure sap’ over there by one very important factor. The only thing I was focusing on was growing a large, healthy plant . . . but I was still focusing the magic.” His free hand pointed off to the side at the dripping vines. “That stuff is not being focused, other than that I believe it may have been separated from mixed kinds into purified types of magical energies. Copper for communication, silver for scrying, grass green for healing and growth, light purple for transport, pale blue for weather control, or who knows what the colors mean . . . but if all it’s doing is seeping back into the ground and isn’t being used properly . . . ?”

“The . . . the result would be . . . madness,” Saleria murmured, the horror of it shocking her senses. She turned in a slow circle, looking out beyond the sheltering wickerwork of the Bower dome. At the madness beyond their enspelled shelter.

“Exactly. Madness. A monstrous amalgamation of intents and purposes blended together by random chance, rather than by a guiding hand,” he stated flatly. Lifting the sugar cane stalk one last time in poignant reference, he carefully tucked it root-ball first up his sleeve, returning it to its place in the Dark. “In fact, I would think the very soil of the Grove is super-saturated with pure magic-sap, if it’s been dripping and dispersing through the ground for roughly two hundred years. No wonder this place is a mess!”

His words made her feel ashamed for never having realized it. For never having questioned it . . . since his words did make a horrible sort of sense. Saleria rested her staff next to his and folded her arms defensively across her chest. “Well, pardon me for not being a fancy Hortimancer. I am a mage-priestess of Kata and Jinga, and my lessons revolved around imbuing prayers with magic, not the imbuing of magic into plants!”

(Gently,) Teral cautioned his young Host. (She’s about to resist any idea you’d offer her, because your words sound like accusations of incompetence and idiocy.)

Aradin knew his Guide was right. It wasn’t how he wanted her to feel, either. Quickly switching to diplomacy, he held up his hands in a placating gesture. “I know that, and the fault isn’t yours, Saleria. It isn’t even likely to be that of your superiors; they, too, would be far more focused upon the spiritual needs of your people—too busy looking at prayers for the health of the forest, and not paying any attention to the needs of each individual bush and tree. Literally.

“The fault, if there is one, lies with whoever created this system and then did not explain it properly to their successors. You have been left a horrible mess through no fault of your own, you and your immediate predecessors,” he told her, sympathy in his gaze, “and you have been forced to deal with it for the last two hundred years with no instructions or clues about what is really happening.

“In fact, you are to be commended for managing it as well as you have, with all the knowledge of a priest plopped into a garden mangled by generations of ignorant management. But, ignorance can be enlightened with knowledge,” Aradin reminded her, raising a finger in caution as she drew in a breath to speak. “Whoever left your predecessors with no understanding of what should be done, that person was negligent, leaving their successors in ignorance. Ignorance can be turned into a chance for education and exploration, so there is a great deal of hope for both the safe managing and the eventual restoration of the Grove as a place where people can walk safely, without needing the disciplined will of a highly trained mage.”

Somewhat mollified, Saleria still tipped her head in puzzlement, then lifted her brows. “Ah. Because their thoughts could inadvertently focus the magic, literally soaking the ground underfoot. In fact, those thoughts have probably been wafting over the walls and their wardings for all I know. Even those with the least affinity for magic can still cast a potent curse if they put every ounce of thought and will and emotion behind it, and this place is saturated, so even a casual unshielded thought could cause problems. I suspect the wardings on the walls of the Grove hold out such things from the townsfolk as well as strive to contain the mutations living within . . . but no wall or ward is perfect.”

“Exactly. I came in here with my thoughts and my energies carefully shielded, as all trained mages do when traveling in unfamiliar or potentially dangerous territory. As you yourself naturally do, when walking its paths,” he pointed out. “But the average Katani? Chaos, the moment they step inside. Or perhaps off the flagstone paths, since I can feel a subtle warding spell upon them as well as on the outer wall. I suspect the lack of flagstones underfoot here in the Bower means that whatever prayers you send out from here are amplified by that more direct level of contact with the sap-soaked ground.”

She nodded. “It has always been more effective if I send out the empowered prayers from here, though the moss has always felt mostly dry to me, and has never left undue stains. And the basins . . . the liquid in the basins does go down visibly after each round of prayers,” she murmured, glancing at the nearest pool, a slowly dripping vine of lavender-hued goo. Saleria looked back at Aradin. “But what can we do about the sap? I know how to channel the energy in the containment crystals into prayers, but the sap?”

“My alchemical skills are a little rusty,” Aradin admitted, turning to look at the vines all around them, “but I would think such a liquid, purified and filtered into clean types of fluid magic, would make for absolutely astounding bases for potions. Those green ones . . . Wait, let’s experiment with another cane stalk. May I?”

Bemused, but following his train of thought, Saleria nodded and gestured for him to proceed. Fetching another finger-length seedling from the depths of his sleeve, Aradin crossed to one of the green-dripping vines and carefully guided the stalk under one of the slow-forming droplets. With the clothbound root-ball in his fingers, he let just one drop splat onto the stalk. It oozed along the leaves as he tilted it first down, then up . . . whereupon the seedling grew with a similar creaking rapidity after a similar pause. Just one drop was enough to make the plant swell to the length of his full, out-stretched arm.

“Unguided, unfocused . . . My aura-sight says it’s perfectly safe to eat, but I find myself leery to try,” Aradin stated quietly, showing her the stalk. “I don’t know what a travel-refined sap might do . . . Perhaps make it become ambulatory, able to uproot itself and walk about? Or an elemental fire; would that make it resistant to being burned, or make it spontaneously combust?”

“I . . . I don’t know,” Saleria whispered, thoughts whirling with the implications. Abruptly, she turned and tipped her head back, surveying all of the vines. “So much sap . . . so many different kinds . . . All this time, we should have known. We would have known, if tradition could have allowed more than one Keeper to tend the Grove at a time!”

“Your people could make a fortune selling liquefied magic,” Aradin murmured, distracting her from what looked like an impending tirade. He didn’t want her upset here in the heart of the magic; her shields were probably adequate, but he didn’t want her testing that theory. “In fact, I’d be willing to pay for the chance to experiment, to see if it could be used as the base for various potions.” At her sharp look, he shrugged. “I’ve been dealing more with the buying of herbs than the making of unguents in the last few years, but I did pass my alchemical classes with fairly high marks.”

A frown creased her brow. “That doesn’t seem right. Selling the liquid doesn’t seem right,” Saleria clarified, catching sight of his puzzled look. She spread her hands. “This is the Sacred Grove. All holiness, and by extent, all prayers, and thus all magic emanating from this place, is to be put to use for the betterment of all of Katan. I could no more sell a bottle of sap than I could sell a prayer!”

“I cannot fault that kind of reasoning, as one priest to another,” Aradin allowed. “But it is of limited supply, and if it can be bottled and used in brews, then your government—secular or religious—will want to seek some sort of recompense for its existence, and to regulate who receives some, and who does not . . . and most likely they will wish to see a profit from its sale, rather than have it be handed away for free. After all, they have to feed and clothe and house you, do they not? And feed and clothe and house your scribe? Such things cost money.”

“Yes, and Nannan, my housekeeper, and all the paper and ink that Daranen has had to buy,” Saleria murmured, following his line of thought. She winced at that, and at the thought of her own which followed it. “Bollocks to bureaucracy! If I told any of the higher-ups about how this sap might be useful in potions, they will try to regulate it. Stranglehold it, in fact. But it should be preserved for holy uses!”

(Convocation?) Teral suggested, along with an undercurrent of thought that whispered in several layers through the back of Aradin’s mind.

“Ah—Teral just offered a possible solution to the dilemma,” he stated, holding up his hand to forestall more swearing from her. Not that either he or his Guide could be offended by her brief invective; the members of the priesthood on the Isle of Storms were much more vulgar when they wanted to be, and Teral still remembered that trip all too clearly from his own lifetime. Aradin focused on the needs of the present, explaining what his Guide was thinking. “One of the rights of the advocate at the Convocation of Gods and Man is to make petitions to their Patron Deity or Deities.”

“And that means . . . ?” Saleria asked.

“For the time being, you and I could work to contain the overflowing magic. I could do a little experimentation with potions-crafting, and working on undoing the warped amalgamations of plants and animals in the Grove. Once we know what the possibilities are, you could present our findings to Blessed Kata and Jinga. At that point, you could ask Them if it would be permissible to use the liquid magics in potions, and whether or not it should be sold, or regulated, or handed away for free,” Aradin said. “You could even ask Them to fix the Grove so that it no longer spews wild magics into the world, and thus return it to a natural sort of garden, however holy.”

“That would be a very wise and balanced solution to the problem,” Saleria agreed, thinking over the possibilities. “Not even the Arch Priest would go against the word of Kata and Jinga Themselves, and the King certainly wouldn’t dare. Our God and Goddess have been known to manifest in person and depose an unworthy mage-king or –queen where needed. They have done so at least a full dozen times over the course of our long history . . . I think.”

A sly smile curved the corner of his mouth. Daringly, Aradin teased her lightly, “Let me guess, history lessons were lumped into the same category as outkingdom lands when you were learning how to be a priestess?”

She lifted her chin a little as she replied, but wasn’t too offended. “I’ve always been far more concerned about the current needs of my fellow citizens of Katan, and not what our ancestors needed. There’s nothing I can do about the needs of the past.”

“A good point,” he conceded, dipping his head in a slight bow. “Now, since it is always wise to have clear thoughts and clear options when going before the Gods . . . may I have your permission to set up an herbalist’s table here in the Bower and conduct a few experiments?”

“What, right here?” she asked, looking around at the moss tiers of ground and half-tangled wickerwork dome surrounding them.

“It would be best done right here, because you yourself already ensure that no one else reaches this spot without your permission and your escort,” Aradin reminded her. “That makes it the safest place to avoid our experiments being detected by bureaucratic minds. It also ensures that I work under your supervision, and only with your permission, and that no one else can meddle with or imbibe my experiments unwittingly.”

“I don’t know about supervision, exactly,” Saleria murmured, eyeing him. “Usually when I’m here, I’m concentrating on focusing gathered magics into prayer-spells. Or conversing with my fellow Guardians from other points around the world.”

“You converse with others from here?” Aradin asked. “How, if I may ask?”

She nodded at one of the copper-hued puddles near the altar at the center of the moss-lined hollow. Its vine almost touched the surface. “Some of these basins serve a clear purpose. That one there permits voice-based communication with other Guardians who govern unwieldy pools or focal points of magic. All it requires is a touch of the liquid . . . though I am told that if I ever bring a mirror in here, Guardian Kerric can link a simple visual scrying surface between his power-source and mine. I have considered it, particularly in light of the troubles he’s been seeing over the last few months, but, well . . .”

“You don’t want anyone peering into the heart of the Grove and possibly trying to wrest away control of it?” Aradin guessed shrewdly.

She blinked in surprise and shook her head. “No, the power of my God and Goddess would prevent that. No, I’m more worried about leaving a mirror out in the open, where the rain could fall on it, the temperatures could shift and crack it with too much cold or too much heat, or even a bird could fly past and drop its liquid chalk on the surface just at the wrong moment in time,” she muttered bluntly. “The point is, the Bower keeps some things out, yes, particularly hostile plants or hungry creatures, but not all things are kept outside the gazebo’s weave. This is a garden, not a stronghold.”

“That makes sense,” he allowed. “Though with a properly enspelled frame, such things won’t matter. In fact, I was just reading a book about that sort of thing, written by an Aian mage, Kerric Vo Mos. It had some clear instructions on how to enchant a protective frame for an outdoor mirror.”

“Kerric Vo Mos, you said?” Saleria repeated, brows lifting.

“Yes. I could show you the book if you like,” he told her, gesturing at the wide cuff of his sleeve.

“No, that won’t be necessary. You see, Kerric Vo Mos is the same Guardian I just mentioned,” she told him, mouth curving up in humor.

His brows rose. “Oh. I did not know that. But that means you should already know the man knows mirror-based magics like no other,” Aradin said, eyeing her. “Not that I’m advocating a mirror must be placed in here; just that it can be done safely, with the right precautions and protective spells. The decision is yours.”

Saleria nodded, then frowned softly in thought. Finally, she sighed and threw up her hands, letting them drop at her sides. “Fine! Educate me in all the finer points of all the bits of the world I’ve been missing ever since I chose to become a priestess. But it’ll have to be done piecemeal, since there’s only so much time I can allot out of each of my days for education. I still have to walk the paths, drain the plants and the trees, and convert it all into prayer-energies.”

The smile he gave her was a ruefully amused one. “If I were to spend all our spare time—widespread and scattered though it may be—in teaching you such things . . . then I would have to stay here for the rest of my natural life. Are you prepared to host me that long, Holy Sister? The Convocation may happen a few days from now or a few months, but what you propose would require a much, much lengthier association.”

He looked rather appealing when he smiled like that. Of course, he looks rather appealing any time he smiles, period, Saleria acknowledged, studying him. So why does it annoy me all of a sudden to be called his Sister, even if it’s only by vocation? Sighing, she let it go for the moment. Sort of. “I’m prepared to do whatever it takes to get this Grove under better control, so that it no longer poses a danger to pilgrims who come here seeking to be closer to our God and Goddess. If that means asking for your help, then I shall ask for it . . . within the strictures of my office and the guidelines as I understand them.

“And I’d like you to call me Saleria,” she said, prompted by that inner, annoyed thought. “That is, if I may call you Aradin or Teral as appropriate? If we are to work together on the problems of this place, I’d say that strict formality is a thing for chapels and cathedrals, not for a pair of gardeners trying to tame the Grove. So we don’t really need to keep calling each other Priest or Witch or Holy Sibling, yes?”

His smile widened. “I quite agree. Saleria.”

“Thank you, Aradin.” There, that feels a lot better. A silly little thing, setting aside an otherwise appropriate label, but it feels right, she decided, smiling back. Turning her thoughts to what lay ahead, she said, “I’m not sure of what your experiments would require, but if you’re willing to assist me on morning and evening rounds, it would free up the time to bring in whatever might be needed—and bollocks to the Prelate who says I cannot have an assistant,” Saleria added firmly. “I am the Keeper of the Grove. I shall be the one to decide how best to Keep it.”

Aradin grinned behind her back, enjoying her burst of assertiveness. (I do believe we’re a good influence on the lady.)

(I doubt her superiors would say that,) Teral observed dryly, but not without humor. (But yes, I do believe we are. As she says, it’s her job, not theirs.)