The Grove

SIX

Breathless from her run, Saleria dropped to her knees by the northeastern of the copper-hued pools, set her Keeper’s staff onto the moss next to it, and swirled her hand over the rippling liquid. A column of mist rose up, pulsing with energies. She touched it with one finger. “This is Guardian Saleria. Who is this?”

“Guardian Kerric, of the Tower. I need to ask a huge favor of you, Guardian of the Grove.”

It sounded like Kerric, but he sounded . . . stressed. Unhappy. Frowning, Saleria asked, “What’s the favor?”

“I have a problem which I need to show you, along with several other Guardians, because it is both alarming and frustrating me to no end. I’m sending you a mirror and a scroll with instructions on how to link it to the Fountainways for communications—I pledge to you, as a fellow Guardian, these are mirrors set to receive and send images and sounds only, no spells or methods of controlling anything you guard.”

“Alarming?” she repeated, seizing on that word out of all the rest. She didn’t like the sound of that.

“Remember that discussion we had a few months back, when I mentioned an invasion by the Netherhells?” he asked.

“Yes, I remember it,” Saleria said, trying to remember exactly what he had said back then.

“Well, it’s back, it’s fluctuating, it’s affecting several points around the world, and I cannot pinpoint what causes it nor what stops it because I am not there, in the regions being affected. But you and the other Guardians are there. And while I can talk your ears off about what I’ve been seeing in my scrying mirrors, it’s never going to be as effective as showing you the images I’ve been recording. So may I please have your permission to link you to the Tower’s scrycasting network? I promise that in several hundred years, the Tower has never once used its mirrors to subvert other mages’ homes, energies, or territories.”

“You sound like you’ve been reciting those words a little too much,” Saleria observed, hearing the weariness in his voice.

“I have. I finally convinced Guardians Tipa’thia and Dominor to join the network. I’ve also got the Guardian of Althinac, and the Guardian of the Vortex . . . Would you please join us in a conference scrycast, Guardian Saleria? The more strong mages we have working on this, the more likely we are to find a solution, because Guardians are the last sort of people to help cause a demonic invasion, which means we’re first and foremost in the responsibility of stopping one. We certainly have the power for it, once we find it.”

She knew what her duty was—to keep the Grove safe and pure from outsiders—and her duty spoke in that same nasal voice as a certain superior, assistant-denying priestess in her life. Paired with her nightmare of demonic bushes and beasts, the combination sent a prickle of warning up her spine. Scrubbing at the nape of her neck, Saleria thought carefully about it.

She didn’t hesitate long. Something about Aradin’s presence had awakened a streak of rebelliousness in the priestess. Bollocks to that. I’m going to trust Aradin Teral—I am trusting him . . . er, them—and I am going to trust Guardian Kerric, and the rest. This is my Grove to tend and keep, with all the powers and responsibilities that entails . . . and I am sick and tired of obeying rules and orders which mismanage this place, and all the true responsibilities I have regarding the powers I Keep.

“Send your scroll and mirror—ah, wait, is the mirror delicate, or can it be left outside?” she asked, aware of the scant shelter given by the lacework tangle of the Bower dome.

“They’re enspelled to be nigh indestructible in most circumstances. Certainly you can’t crack the frame while they’re being used as a mirror-Gate, because they cannot be used as a mirror-Gate. Unless you deliberately throw it back into the heat of a glass forge, it should be fine, rain, snow, or sun.”

“Then send it through,” Saleria told him. “I’ll get ready to catch it and the scroll.”

“Thank you.”

Rising, she braced herself, closed her eyes, and reached into the energies woven into the roof of the Bower dome. Sending and receiving things via the riftways was not quite as smooth as what she had heard from the other Guardians regarding their Fountainways. For one, it was often pure luck as to which rift an object might come from. For another, she was here, not beneath the base of any of the three locus trees.

Still, however incomplete the design of the post-Shattering Grove seemed to be, the riftways had been rerouted to come here. It was the conversion from magical tunnel to enspelled root-based tunnel, to the air over her head that was rough. Sinking mental fingers into the network, she shaped her magic into a cushioned lining for the passages.

It was a good thing, too; the mirror thumped and tumbled three times in the transition. Even with Guardian Kerric’s promises that it was nigh indestructible, her heart still missed a few beats in the mental scramble to soften the blows. A bright swirl of light opened up over her head, and the mirror descended, slowing as her magic shifted with a murmur into a netlike shape. The scroll wasn’t quite so worrisome; it did bang about a bit as well, but it arrived intact, landing in a second, smaller weaving.

She did heed the instinct to check them for possible magical traps, but the scroll was simply a scroll, and the mirror was exactly what it was supposed to be: polished, silvered glass in a metal frame, both carefully enchanted for transmitting visual and audible scryings in both directions upon command, and only upon command, but otherwise unsuitable for use as a mirror-Gate or a spying device. There were too many subtle flaws in the glass, physically preventing such a use; plus the spells involved against scrycasting and anti-scrying were far more refined than what she had seen before. But not to the point of being completely unfamiliar.

Since she didn’t exactly have a place to set the mirror, she leaned it against a mossy boulder, tucked the scroll into her belt, and approached the northeast communications pool. Swirling the mist up out of the surface, she attempted to contact the Tower. “Guardian Kerric, are you there?”

It took him a long moment to answer. “Yes, I’m here; sorry, several conversations at once. Did you get the mirror and the scroll?”

“Yes,” she confirmed.

“. . . And have you enchanted it yet with the spell to connect it to the Fountainways?” he prompted her.

“Oh. Right. I’ll, um, be back shortly.” Grateful he couldn’t see her blush, Saleria canceled the mist-spell and went looking for the scroll over by the mirror. It took her a few moments to realize it was tucked into her belt. Blushing harder, grateful no one could see her acting like a fool, she pulled it out and worked loose the red ribbon binding the spindles together.

The instructions were thankfully written in Katani, though the script was a bit archaic in style. Puzzling through them took her several minutes, and practicing the spell—without magic empowering it—took long enough to be aware of just how golden-red the sunlight had turned. A glance to the west showed the sun just beginning to touch the top of the Grove wall, which meant sunset was a very short time away indeed.

As much as she wanted to run through the complex mix of verbal and gestural components a few more times to be sure of the images meant to be held in her thoughts while shaping the energies at hand, she didn’t have much time left. Drawing a deep breath, she squared her shoulders, rested the unrolled scroll on the boulder, and started chanting, fingers, wrists, and elbows moving in graceful, precise angles, helping her to shape the intent of her magic with body as well as mind.

The glass of the mirror flared when she released the last bit of magic, fingers flicking upward. The light slowly faded, turning the surface a soothing shade of sky-blue. A few seconds later, the mirror chimed and the blue started to pulse and ripple in shades both lighter and darker. It was, Saleria realized, very much like the “hold” pattern used by the Council of Mages on the few occasions she had needed to contact them.

The last time she had seen it had been while waiting to speak with Councillor Thannig, in charge of the Department of Prophecies. Stooping, she tapped the mirror and stated her activation word, pushing a bit of will and magic behind it. “Baol.”

The blue field shifted immediately to an image of a curly-haired man in a brown tunic that fastened down the middle of his chest with odd, ribbon-knotted buttons. Behind him, she could see a book-lined wall, but the lighting that fell on his face didn’t quite match the lighting on the books. Some sort of privacy illusion masking the real background, she realized. Like the blue backgrounds some of the Councillors use.

“Greetings! You must be Guardian Saleria,” the man on the other end stated, flashing her a brief smile. It lit up his gray eyes, giving him a charming air. His voice, no longer distorted by the echoing effects of the Fountainways, was as familiar as his face was not.

“And you are Guardian Kerric,” she guessed, and received a nod in return.

“Correct.” Again, he smiled, then sighed and rolled his eyes a little. “If you will kindly wait a few moments, I’m still trying to get Guardian Koro through the steps of connecting his mirror to the Fountainways. There is a privacy screening spell imbued in the mirror that blanks out anything beyond four yards—roughly two body-lengths—from the surface of the mirror. You can choose a plain blue background, a library like mine, or from among a few other choices, though it’s currently set to blue if you don’t want to do anything.

“Otherwise, you could perhaps spend the time while you wait hanging your mirror upright, instead leaving it at this awkward angle you have it at,” he added, peering at her. “But do leave the link open; the moment everyone is connected, we will begin. Oh—hang the mirror sideways; it will help with what I’m going to be showing everyone. It’s been strung on the back for both vertical and horizontal. If you’ll excuse me, I need to put your link on hold . . .”

“Right,” she murmured, as he shifted his arm below her field of view and made the screen turn a rippling blue again. Straightening, she blinked, then turned in a circle, peering around the sunset-gilded Bower, her mind finally processing his last suggestion. “. . . Hang it from what?”

Somehow, Saleria didn’t think hanging it from the sap-dripping vines would be a good idea. Lacking anything else, she gave up and dug in her pouch. Grease pencil in hand—no mage went anywhere without some means of scribing power-focusing runes, and chalk was too easily dissolved in the open-to-the-weather Grove—she scribbled a line of markings along the upper edge of the mirror. Investing energy with a snap of her fingers and a lift of her other palm, Saleria floated the mirror up off the moss-cushioned ground. Then winced. It was the wrong orientation for Guardian Kerric’s request.

“Bollocks,” she muttered, and quickly scribbled a second set of runes along one of the long edges. A twist of her hand shifted the orientation of the rectangular frame from vertical to horizontal. It continued to pulse blue for a while more, long enough for the golden light of the setting sun to retreat up to the top of the Bower . . . which was when Saleria noticed something odd.

What she had thought were budlike, waxy nodules on the underside of the Bower weavings were now starting to glow. The light was soft and pastel, and would not be noticeable from a distance, but it was very similar to the pale blue glow of the warding stones set in the Grove wall. The nodules also came in more colors than blue. Soft pink, pale green, watery yellow, faint amber, dim lilac . . .

As the sun finished setting and dusk closed in, the different colors combined into a soft glow about as strong as the light from both Brother and Sister Moons when they were full. Saleria glanced up at the sky to make sure it wasn’t actually moonlight allowing her to see. Sister Moon was up in the east, slowly waxing toward the full of the coming summer solstice, but the larger curve of Brother Moon had already gone down, and had been a sliver, nowhere near full. Not for over two more weeks. The light cast from those nodes along the underside of the Bower was brighter than what the smaller of the two moons could cast, though not by much.

I suspect there is some long-forgotten way to make them glow brighter, too, Saleria decided, turning in a slow circle so she could peer at the fist-sized bumps. But I’ve always completed my rounds quickly, then tried to put the Grove out of my mind . . . and the few times trouble has stirred, I always patrolled the wall paths, not the interior. Her next thought annoyed her, furrowing her brow with a frown. What else do I not know about my own Guardianship, thanks to having had to waste the last three years of my life just trying to keep up with plant containment and prayer management?

Her annoyance was strong enough to thoroughly squash that inner voice, the nasally one that sounded like High Prelate Nestine. Bollocks to the lot of them! I am in charge, and I will decide what to do with this place. Somehow. With Aradin’s help, and maybe a few others’ . . .

The mirror chimed again, rippling into the image of Guardian Kerric. “There we go. Now that everyone is on the scrycasting together . . . allow me to make all the introductions.” His hands lifted in odd poking and snatching gestures, and small rectangles started to appear down either side of his centrally aligned image. “Starting with your top leftmost corners and going down each column, we have . . . Saleria of the Grove, Dominor of Nightfall . . . Migel of Althinac . . . Keleseth of Senod-Gra, Pelai of the Painted Temple . . .”

Saleria didn’t see her own image in the top left corner, but she did see a man with long, dark brown hair and the slightly slanted eyes of a fellow Katani, followed by a man with a more rugged face, round eyes, and shorter, darker hair. Both were clad in dark tunics, though they were cut differently. Following him were two women, one elderly, with a tanned, wrinkled face and gray-streaked white hair that fell in waves to her red-clad shoulders. The other had a very round face by comparison, with high cheekbones and almond eyes, though the most eye-catching things about her were the subtle markings drawn on her skin. Some continued all the way down onto her shoulders, visible beneath the straps of a sleeveless black vest. It was a garment that was far too daring for most Katani to have worn but which looked oddly right against her inked flesh.

One of the two dark-haired men introduced interrupted Kerric. Saleria belatedly identified him as the one named Migel. “Wait, please—I thought Guardian Tipa’thia was in charge of the Painted Temple. Who is this Pelai? How do we know she isn’t a usurper?”

“She’s not a usurper,” the elderly woman, Keleseth, retorted tartly. “She’s a duly appointed apprentice to Tipa’thia. I’ve already worked with young Pelai on several occasions, at Tipa’thia’s request. The girl is trustworthy, and has my respect.”

The woman they were talking about, the round-faced, tanned woman with strange markings inked in lines both subtle and bold on her face, throat, and what could be seen of her shoulders, shook her head. “It is right to doubt me; I am only an apprentice. But Tipa’thia . . . Guardian Tipa’thia is suffering from an ailment of the heart, and cannot withstand the rigors of her Guardianship at this time. The Healers reassure me she will recover within the week, but it is not the first time, and so I have been set to watch in her place. I am not sure of what help I can be, since I am not fully attuned. But what help I can give, I will.”

“You can be helpful, Pelai, because you are there in Mendhi where some of these invasions may take place,” Kerric asserted. “Back to the introductions, if we don’t mind?”

Saleria nodded, glad to get things back on track. With eighteen Guardians to keep track of—counting herself, which she could not see, as well as Kerric’s larger-than-the-rest image in the center of the mirror—that was still a lot of people.

“After Pelai is Kelezam of Charong, Mother Naima of Koral-tai—whom several of you know was a past Guardian and is standing in for the current Guardian Serina in the final weeks of her pregnancy—plus Ilaiea of the Moonlands, and Koro of the Scales . . .”

Kelezam . . . could have been either male or female. The eyes were brown, the brows dark, the skin lightly tanned, but the hair and the face from nose down were covered in a dark blue cloth that had been wrapped to conceal the Guardian’s identity. Mother Naima also had her hair covered, but only in a white wimple and head-veil, leaving her squarish, middle-aged face exposed. She had a kind smile and hazel eyes, and reminded Saleria of one of her early teachers in the Katani Church.

The woman after Naima was also clad in white, but Ilaiea had no head covering; instead, she had long, straight hair so pale, it looked cream, with odd, pale gold eyes. It took Saleria a moment to realize the woman’s pupils weren’t completely round, but were instead shaped more vertically, almost like a cat’s. Only the light golden tan to her skin kept her from looking like an odd albino. Guardian Koro, on the other hand, had darker tanned skin, jet-black brows, and strange, round viewing lenses perched on his nose. The large crystals were tinted a rich cerulean, deep enough that the exact color of his eyes remained hidden behind them, and his hair—undoubtedly black—was more or less hidden by a deep, dark brown cloak draped over his head and shoulders.

It was clear that not every Guardian wanted their physical identity known to the rest. Saleria herself had no reason to hide, but then this wasn’t a group of petitioners crowding around her in a marketplace. She shook off the thought of her earlier encounter as the Guardian of the Tower continued.

“And on the right, top to bottom, nearest column first . . . we have Daemon of Pasha, Alonnen of the Vortex . . . Marton of Fortune’s Hall, and Suela of Fortune’s Nave,” Kerric introduced, nodding to the scrying windows set to his immediate right, in between glancing downward, no doubt at whatever out-of-sight notes he had taken on who was who. Saleria couldn’t blame him; there were a lot of Guardians in this meeting.

The first, Daemon, was a man in his prime somewhere between Aradin’s and Teral’s ages, with short blond hair, blue eyes, and light skin. The second male was a more ruddy-faced man who wore green-tinted viewing lenses much like Guardian Koro’s, a soft woolen cap much like the head of a medium gray mushroom to conceal most of his hair, and a mouth-muffling scarf knitted from darker shades of gray. His nose was a bit sharp, sticking out above the muffler almost like a raptor’s beak, and his eyebrows an indeterminate shade of brown.

On the other hand, Guardian Marton had brown, curly hair and hazel eyes, his somewhat overweight face—unusual in a mage, where expending magic meant expending life-energy—looking a bit older than Daemon’s, unconcealed by anything that could impede identification. The woman in the image below his had sun-streaked light brown hair and light brown eyes, with similar facial features, sort of ovalish heads with pointed chins, high hairlines, and high cheekbones. They didn’t exactly look like siblings, but they did seem to be from the same nation, probably Fortuna, from what their titles suggested.

“. . . And in the final, far right row, we have Tuassan of Amaz, Shon Tastra of Darkhana, Sir Vedell of Arbra, and Callaia, newly appointed Guardian of Freedom’s Thought,” Kerric finished.

Saleria nodded at Tuassan; his skin was a rich dark brown, the hue of someone who lived close to the Sun’s Belt, much as those who lived in the far north of Katan could boast. She knew Amaz was a kingdom along the southern coast of Aiar, just to the north of the Belt. Tuassan was one of the four she had worked with before, and it was good to actually see his face for once.

Shon Tastra of Darkhana . . . she belatedly realized was a Darkhanan Witch. He also looked older than Teral, with greenish eyes, long, light brown hair streaked heavily with gray, narrower shoulders, and the same ubiquitous black-lined, sleeve-bearing cloak that Aradin Teral wore, visible when he lifted a hand in greeting. The outer layer of his robe, however, was a shade of blue just a little bit darker than the masking background the mirrors provided. When he held himself still, only his head, throat, and a stripe of dark green tunic down the middle of his chest could be easily seen.

Sir Vedell was also older than average, with a gray-streaked beard, short-cropped brown hair, fair skin, and brown eyes. A scar marred one cheek, but otherwise he looked like any confident man just past his prime. Callaia, the last of the women and the last Guardian to be introduced, looked rather young. She also looked rather sober; either that, or possibly annoyed by this meeting.

Her viewing lenses were grayish and small, unlike Koro’s or Alonnen’s; the wire frame perched on the end of her nose, allowing her blue gray eyes to look out over their tops. Of all of them, her hair was the curliest, framing her face in thick ringlets. For a brief moment, Saleria wished she had hair that luxuriously curly, instead of merely wavy. But then it’s probably a pain to comb out and keep tangle-free . . .

Having given everyone a chance to examine their counterparts, Kerric cleared his throat and resumed speaking. “Unfortunately, while there are a lot of you attending this call, you are the only Guardians I could get to cooperate with this endeavor. Nor are all of you going to be affected directly by what the problem is, unless circumstances keep changing randomly . . . which they have been, so there are no guarantees. But the more minds we bend to this problem, the greater the hope is that some of us will have clues to what is going on, and that all of us will be able to think of a solution.”

“What is the problem, Guardian Kerric?” the last woman to be introduced, the curly-haired blonde named Callaia, asked him tersely, almost tartly. “Forgive my impatience, but it is early morning here, and I have much to do today.”

“I may know something of what is wrong already, but it is sunset here, and I would like to retire for the night at a reasonable hour,” Saleria added. “Can you summarize it for the others?”

Kerric quickly lifted both hands, cutting off the further comments that started to emerge from the scryings of the men and women in their little mirrors-within-a-mirror windows. “Please, milords, miladies, fellow Guardians. I will explain if you’ll let me. As you may know, one of my specialties is mirror-based magics. A few years back, with the blessings of several pertinent Patron Deities from around Aiar, or at least their clergy, I was able to craft a special mirror that could peer one year into the future . . . and just a few months ago, I saw the mighty Empire of Fortuna being overrun by what looked like a massive demonic army from a Netherhell.”

Shocked silence reigned for a moment, then several of the others started to raise their voices in protests, questions, and denials. Saleria kept silent, but only because the news wasn’t a shock to her. Nor was it to the dark-haired Dominor of Nightfall, whose blue eyes had narrowed in a thoughtful frown. Guardians Marton and Suela looked and sounded the most offended, asserting firmly and loudly that such a thing could never happen in their homeland. Guardian Kerric raised his hands again.

“Please! Some of you already know of this, and the mirror has been tested for the accuracy of its foreseeings. If things do not change, then these invasions will happen . . . but that is the key, isn’t it? Things can and may change . . . which means for the worse, or for the better. The first image happened shortly after the disaster with Guardian Sheren’s Fountain, which has since been shut down for the interim, which is why she hasn’t been included in this conference. Hopefully, she will finish recovering and get her Fountain reconnected to the rest of us so that she can join these discussions, but as Menomon is one of the few places I have not seen under attack, same as with Althinac and a few other rare places, we can use those lands as a . . . a controlled test subject, where we know nothing they do out of the normal will alter anything in the years ahead.

“The important news, good gentles, is that after figuring out how to refocus my future-scrying mirror, I have been able to project it anywhere from one year up to five years into the future . . . and I have repeatedly seen hints and images of demonic invasions from the Netherhells. Some days they go away, other days they come back. As I said, these images change from hour to hour, day to day, based upon tiny actions and influences that seemingly have no connecting threads.

“In fact,” Kerric added dryly, “the very first image came when I was debating whether to exile a group of invasive traitors either to Darkhana or to Arbra. When I chose Darkhana, the visions came back, but choosing Arbra negated the visions of Fortuna being invaded within a year. I have since kept an eye upon the exiles with the help of Guardian Sir Vedell and most recently Guardian Alonnen. Some of their actions may or may not cause the demonic invasion . . . but some seemingly have nothing to do with it, as one of the visions shifted in the middle of the night, when all involved were sleeping innocently. Or as innocently as power-hungry thieves might get.”

The Guardian of the Vortex spoke up. Aside from that rather hawkish nose and those green lenses, there wasn’t much to be seen of his cap-and-scarf-covered head. His voice was a mild, low tenor, proving he was at least as male as his looks suggested. “I can corroborate their activities, as they have come within the far edges of my scrying range. In the last three weeks, they have hired themselves out as an extremely effective mercenary group to various holdings along the Mekhanan-Arbran border, and have been able to disarm or disable any number of Mekhanan engineering items.”

“Skills they no doubt picked up while running the gauntlets of the Tower,” Kerric apologized. “Let’s hope they continue to fight for a righteous cause, though I apologize in advance if they turn to the other side.”

Alonnen shrugged. “The Arbrans aren’t too sorry at the moment, since it’s been wreaking havoc against their long-standing enemy. I also heard a rumor just before this meeting that the current bounty on their heads on the Mekhanan side of the border is rather substantial, since one of them is a fairly powerful mage . . . and powerful mages usually attract very unwanted attention within that land.”

Kerric nodded and picked up the thread of the discussion. “As you can see, one group of people can have a huge impact on the world. We think they are only a small part of the Netherhell problem, however. In over half of the images so far, the worst of it starts within Mekhana’s unpleasant borders within half a year or so, except when something happens to the priesthood within Mekhana. Then the invasions start in other lands. But we don’t know what happens to cause the collapse of their priesthood.”

“A collapse of their priesthood would be a good thing,” Sir Vedell stated dryly. “But that would only happen if their thrice-blighted God went away.”

“You said it moves to other lands. What lands would those be?” Keleseth of Senod-Gra asked, her tone clipped, her age-lined face stern with impatience. She repeated herself as Kerric glanced down, checking his notes. “You said Menomon and Althinac and Senod-Gra are not involved, but which ones are?”

“Actually, Senod-Gra is, in some of those visions, and Althinac is one of your nearest neighbors, of this gathering,” Kerric told her. He lifted a clear pane of crystal into view and tapped on it with his fingers, summoning up glowing writing. “So far, my analysis has identified the following locations as potential starting points, with anywhere from just one vision through to many repeating incidents: Mekhana has the most, followed by the Jenodan Isles, Charong, Mendhi, Senod-Gra, the Draconan Empire, three kingdoms in Aiar—including Pasha, Amaz, and Garama—plus Fortuna at least twice, and Nightfall Isle just the once, with no repeats since . . . but with no guarantee it couldn’t come back around to starting there, either. Or that it couldn’t start in Katan, or Aurul . . . or worse, a land we have no way to easily watch over.”

“Such as Garama?” Tuassan of Amaz repeated, his tone skeptical. “I think my Fountain is connected to every single Fountainway on Aiar—and I know yours is, Guardian Kerric—but I’ve never heard of any such Guardianship in the land of Garama.”

The Guardian of the Tower grimaced. “Unfortunately, there used to be a Fountain and Guardian in the Garama region of the old Aian Empire . . . but it was lost when the Empire Shattered, and there’s no powerful school of mages nearby I could contact as a substitute for examining whatever events might trigger a demonic emergence there, of all places. I’m hoping to arrange an expedition to Garama to look for its remnants, to see if the Fountain has been sealed somehow, or if it is still there. I will select a trustworthy mage from among my own staff and oath-bind them to manage the Fountain if it still exists and is unguarded . . . but I won’t hold my breath.”

“Well, don’t look for much help from Pasha for the time being,” Guardian Daemon stated. He rubbed his short-trimmed, sandy blond goatee, cropped as closely as the matching blond hair on his head, then flicked his hand out expressively. “On the bright side, I doubt any of the king’s sons would dare go so far as to dabble in demonic pacts in order to gain the throne. But we are embroiled in a nasty civil war at the moment. I have my hands full protecting my Fountain and trying to keep the worst of the magics being flung about from wrecking too much of the land, for the non-mages’ sakes.”

Saleria blinked, frowned, and turned away from the mirror, trying to think. “What was that . . . What was it that he showed me . . . ?”

“Guardian Saleria?” Kerric asked. “You have something to say?”

Turning back to the mirror, she nodded. “Yes, prophecies. I have a guest from Darkhana who is helping me with something—helping a lot of us, around the whole world—with something found in a set of prophecies. Guardian Daemon’s comment about people trying to claim the throne made me think of one of its lines . . . hold on . . .” Wracking her memory, she dredged up the line. “Something something . . . ah! By mates and friends, by guides and aides, by outworlder on throne. That was it. Perhaps you should be looking for your solution outkingdom, instead of from within, if the prophecy speaks of the need for a leader on a throne?”

One of the other Guardians coughed. Dominor lifted his fist to his mouth for a moment, clearing his throat. “I am fairly certain that one is referring to our ‘outworlder on throne’ . . . which has yet to fully happen, but which will happen soon. At least, she’s the only outworlder I know of, and she’s already here, working on turning Nightfall into a kingdom with herself as our queen.”

“There was something about fiends in the prophecy I read as well,” Saleria said, peering at his face in its rectangle in the uppermost left corner of the mirror. “And ‘fiends’ is commonly used as a nickname for Netherhell demons. Which is why I thought it might apply.”

Pelai spoke, catching their attention. “The Guardian of the Grove is correct about one thing. Prophecy may very well have something to do with all of this. I will request the librarians in the Great Library to look for records of unfulfilled prophecies involving the Netherhells, demons, fiends, wars, and invasions.”

“We have a fairly extensive library here as well, which I could have the nuns search.” The offer came from the white-wimpled, middle-aged woman named Mother Naima.

Guardian Dominor groaned and covered his face with a hand. “For the love of the Gods, Naima, don’t tell Serina what you’re up to. She’s fretting enough over her pregnancy.”

Mother Naima snorted. “As if I would! By the way, you should be coming over soon, yes?”

“Yes, but not until this meeting is done,” he dismissed. “And I’ll not be upsetting my brothers or sister-in-law just yet over speculations on something that might not happen, and so far probably won’t begin on Nightfall itself . . . though I will give this problem my attention. Once my wife finishes giving birth, that is.”

Kerric, Saleria noted with a bit of sympathetic amusement, looked like he was striving his best not to be impatient at all the sidetracked conversations. He cleared his throat after a moment. “Ahem. As I was saying, we all have things to contribute in this discussion. Since we have at least a few months before we’d probably have to act in some fashion, I would like to send each of you the sets of recordings I have made so far from the future-scrying mirror, and my notes on locations and possible triggering events. Not that I have many of the lattermost, but at least it’s a start.

“Each of you know your own regions far better than I ever will,” he added pointedly. “I am setting aside a portion of the Tower’s scrycasting abilities and powers to work as a routing matrix; these mirrors we’re using all link to here and thus to each other, so please feel free to use them to talk to each other. And though some of us have more direct and immediate problems in our own lands to contend with, we are all Guardians of this world, defenders and protectors of its most precious resources. This includes our neighbors both distant and near, as well as ourselves, our families, and close friends. The Netherhells are therefore all our problem.”

“What sized crystal will we need to store the scrycast recordings in?” the gold-eyed, middle-aged Ilaiea asked. She sounded rather autocratic, as if she were more accustomed to being in charge than most Guardians in Saleria’s admittedly limited experience. Still, the odd, golden-eyed woman had a practical question.

Saleria didn’t have a crystal, though. Technically the crystal at the end of the staff lying on the ground a few steps away was more than large enough, but it was bound with spells for empowering the cutting and scorching end of the staff, and meant mostly for storing and releasing energy in a controlled flow. “I don’t have any crystals around for storage, myself.”

Kerric held up his hand as a few of the others started to explain whether or not they did as well. “It’s alright if you don’t. I know Keleseth, Tuassan, Daemon, and a few of the others have the capacity to store and manipulate scrycast recordings, but it won’t be necessary. I have prepared enough scrycasting Artifacts for everyone. I’ll send them through, one at a time, in a moment. They’ll come in pre-spelled cages, which can be used to project the captured images onto a flat, whitewashed wall—and yes, I’ll send them with instruction scrolls. They’re common among some of our clients, but only a few of you may have seen them before.

“Brother Moon will be at new-dark in four more days,” he continued. “Let’s have our next mass scrycast meeting at that point in time . . . and I’ll continue to experiment with the forescrying mirror and see what new information I can turn up. Please write down your observations and ideas, however wild. At this point, I’m willing to consider anything. Can everyone agree to meet again in four days? You’re free to contact each other between now and then; just activate your mirrors in the usual ways and state the name of the Guardian and/or their location to make the connections. Or call for ‘the Tower’ to reach one of my assistants, who can help connect you if you’ve forgotten a particular name, since there are quite a lot of us at this meeting. In four days, then? At the same time? We can arrange for other, better times at that meeting, once we all know our schedules and can correlate them to one anothers’.”

A few murmured agreements, and a few nodded their heads, including Saleria, but no disagreements met his proposal. Kerric nodded and started naming Guardians, distributing the crystals with half-seen flicks of his hands. Watching him, Saleria almost missed when it was her own turn to catch the incoming Artifact and scroll. Mostly because she was envious that he clearly knew exactly how to manipulate the powers of his own Fountain, and could do it so well.

Catching the cage and scroll as she had the mirror and its scroll, she cradled them in her hands and nodded a farewell to the others. The mirror flared blue for a moment, terminated at Kerric’s end, then became a simple reflective surface, showing her the dimly lit environment of the Bower. Without the other Guardians to focus on, she could hear the plop of an occasional droplet of sap hitting its designated pool. She could also hear the evening breeze rustling through the leaves beyond the protective cage of the Bower, and the faint buzz of insects.

Insects which could very well be morphing into part-plant hybrids . . . An unsettling thought. Hoping it wasn’t so, Saleria debated what to do. She had the caged crystal, with its gem-strung wire box, and a scroll on what to do with it, but barely sufficient light to read the instructions, and no white wall to play the captured images against once she did. She had the pruning staff, which she picked up . . . but she had no portable light source other than its faint, low-charged glow to lead her on the paths out of here.

She also had a fellow mage somewhere out there, one who had only experienced a small taste of the Grove’s weirdnesses and dangers. Reworking her clothes, she belted her overjacket so that she could tuck the caged crystal and the scroll into it. That left her hands free to wield her staff. Charging the end with enough personal power to make it glow, she headed out of the Bower.

The mirror chimed, startling her. Returning to the patiently hovering frame, she held her crystal-topped staff off to one side to keep it from blinding either her or her unexpected caller, and activated the mirror with her free hand. “Baol.”

To her surprise, it was Guardian Shon Tastra . . . though she didn’t know why she should be surprised. The older gentleman smiled and dipped his head politely. “Guardian Saleria . . . we are given to understand you are hosting a Darkhanan Witch, is this correct?”

“Yes, a man . . . a pair of men,” she corrected herself, “by the names Aradin and Teral.”

“Just Aradin Teral, no ‘and,’” the Guardian Witch corrected gently. “But yes, I understand what you meant. In fact, my Guide, Tastra, spoke with Teral just a little while before Guardian Kerric’s scrycast. Based on some of her conversation with him, I wanted to reassure you personally that we—the Church of Darkhanan Witches—did indeed assign him to the Empire of Katan to look for a suitable representative of your people before the Convocation of Gods and Man, and that Tastra has verified Teral’s queries of the Dark regarding your suitability.”

That was the first Saleria had heard of it, but then again, her thoughts right after Teral’s return had first focused on the awkwardness of her kissing two men in one body, then on the tasks of the Keeper, re-energizing the wards that kept the weirdnesses of the Grove confined as much as possible within its walls.

“And the answer to that query would be . . . ?” she probed delicately.

“That you are eminently suitable. As a fellow priest, I thank you for your willingness to represent the best interests of your people,” Guardian Shon stated, giving her a slight but formal bow. “Aradin Teral will have more details for you, but since you and I have had the chance to meet more directly, I should like to reassure you that the Witches of Darkhana will be at your disposal for movement to and from the place of the Convocation, once we have firmly identified it and established the exact timing of the event.

“Since we cannot at this time guarantee exactly what sort of facilities will be available,” Shon added, turning one hand over in a shrug, “my recommendation is that you pack and keep ready a bag with a few changes of clothes, some coinage for emergency funds, and a little bit of travel-ready food, just in case. Past records of previous Convocations have stated that entire retinues have traveled with the priesthoods of the various Patron Deities, along with baggage trains . . . but those were in the days when the great Portals worked, and everyone knew exactly what sort of hosting facilities the long-established Aian Empire had to offer. This time, it will be in the incipient kingdom of Nightfall, with who knows what level of amenities at hand.”

“I understand—and I thank you for reassuring me of all of this,” Saleria added politely. “I hadn’t thought of the need to pack a traveling bag so soon, but it is a good idea.”

“Just remember, we do not know exactly when the Convocation is set to resume,” Shon cautioned her. “It could be three days from now, or three weeks, or three months. We only know that it will take place within roughly half a year. It is better to be ready than to be regretful.”

“Of course. Do you have any messages for Witch Aradin Teral?” Saleria asked politely.

The other Guardian chuckled at that. His smile crinkling the corners of his eyes, he demurred, “Beyond saying ‘hello,’ I have no messages at this time, but I thank you for the courtesy. We do have other means to communicate directly, via our holy ways . . . but this neatly crafted scrying mirror of Guardian Kerric’s would make things more convenient, if you would permit us to occasionally speak with our Brother Witch . . . ?”

“Of course,” she agreed quickly. “Aradin has already offered to help me with certain local problems, which will greatly ease the troubles of my Guardianship if they can indeed be managed. I wouldn’t hesitate to allow him to use this mirror to chat with you. It’s the least I can do. With his . . . their . . . arrival, I feel as though I’ve been awakened to my own local problems, and that I finally have the power to do something about them. He—they—are most welcome, here in the Grove.”

“Then I shall bid you good night with a happy heart . . . and head back to my bed, since it is very much the middle of the night here, and I am no longer a young man,” Shon stated dryly. “It is a pleasure to meet you face to face, so to speak, but it is very late. May you sleep well, Guardian Saleria.”

“And you, Guardian Shon . . . er, Guardian Shon Tastra,” she corrected herself, wanting to be polite. “A good night to you and your Guide.”

Nodding, Shon lifted his blue-and-black-sleeved hand to the frame of his mirror, ending the connection. Saleria stared as the blue background covered the mirror for a moment, then faded back into a reflection of herself and the rest of the Bower. Part of her was gratified to know Aradin Teral was exactly who and what he—they—said they were. Part of her wondered if the presence of all these Darkhanan witches scattered around the world was for the sake of the potential Netherhell invasion, and not just for the Convocation of the Gods being reinstated.

Part of her was tired, and hungry, and ready to call it a night. Leaving the mirror hanging in midair, Saleria picked her way out of the moss-lined swale of the Bower. The sunset glows in the west were almost completely gone, leaving her only with the glow of her staff and the faint hues of those locus-nodules for illumination.

Walking warily back to the sheltered courtyard by the entrance to the Keeper’s house, Saleria began to realize just how creepy the Grove was at night. She had been wary before, but Aradin’s revelation about the plant-bug mixtures earlier still unnerved her. Nothing actively leaped out at her, nothing tried to attack . . . but it felt like everything within the blue white glow of the crystal end of her staff was aware of her approach, her retreat, and her general presence. Leaves shifted on some of the plants, their broad surfaces swerving to follow her. Vines occasionally twitched. Little rustling sounds followed her, too, sounds which she couldn’t pinpoint to a particular plant’s movements.

Maybe it’s worse that nothing is leaping out at me, Saleria thought, glancing behind her to see if she could spot the subtle lights of the Bower at the top of one modest rise in the path. I’m constantly keyed up for an attack, which means I’ll be over-stressed if one finally does happen.

The lights were very faint from this distance, barely a quarter mile from the wickerwork dome. They weren’t the only lights, though; where the overgrown roots and branches of the locus trees rambled among, over, and under the various other plants and paths, an occasional waxy nodule could be seen by its faint glow in the gathering darkness. But only from up close; the father away she got from a particular root or bough, the more likely it was to be obscured by other plants.

Glancing down the path toward the wall, Saleria frowned. Something had moved. Wary, she gripped her staff, peering through the gloom. The movement was subtle, seen more at the edges of her vision when she looked off the meandering course of the path. When she looked directly at them, the plants up ahead were standing still, but when she glanced to the side, they seemed to shift in her peripheral vision. Unnerved, Saleria readied herself for a fight.

It’s not the walking marigolds. I can hear them rustling when they move. I cannot hear anything right now other than my own heartbeat, a bit of wind in the upper branches, and . . . footsteps? Frowning, she stopped moving and concentrated, looking off to the side to give her left ear a better chance to hear. Those were footsteps. When she glanced back toward the path . . . there was indeed movement, but not the sort expected.

It was a light source that moved, a soft-glowing ball cast in a distinctly greenish hue, not the expected bluish white. That was what made the plants seem to move even when they did not, the play of that leaf-colored light sliding over the various surfaces. Oddly though, none of those plants followed the mage-priest casting it, though the blue white glow of her staff continued to cause a subtle, unnerving stir in the foliage around her.

Saleria continued down the path toward Aradin. He looked unharmed, which relieved her, and the staff he carried was now dark, emptied of the energies used to refresh the Grove wards. Before she could speak, he called out to her softly.

“Saleria, can you cover the glow from your crystal, please?” he asked, nodding at the staff in her hands.

“My crystal?” Surprised, she eyed the blue white glow hers emitted . . . then quickly studied the plants around her, which were reacting to it but not to his green mage-light. Comprehension dawned. Pressing one hand to the polished, faceted surface, she focused on drawing energy out of the matrix until the glow dimmed. She didn’t remove all of the energy, but did reduce it to the faintest of glows. Her skin tingled from the resumed energies flowing back into her sense of self, but it didn’t otherwise affect her. “. . . Is that better?”

“Yes,” he said. “Plants react to red light by growing more blossoms, and blue light by growing more leaves, but most cultivars tend to ignore green light. If you want to move around safely at night, I suggest casting a green mage-light, not anything blue, red, or white.”

“Since white contains all colors, including blue or red,” Saleria murmured, recalling her old magery lessons in optical illusion and illumination crafting. She looked around, pausing to listen, but there were no subtle movements, no rustlings. “No wonder I’ve never felt comfortable in the Grove after sundown; my pruning staff was the greatest source of light, and it’s bluish white light, at that.”

“All the attraction of a plant wanting to grow leaves and vines in that light, and the activity of an animal, able to see by it and move around at night,” he agreed. “Thankfully, the path is fairly calm right now. Shall we return to your house?”

Saleria looked around at their green-lit surroundings, then at the Darkhanan Witch. At a man who had the knowledge she needed, and the willingness to help her when few others could or cared. Honesty prompted her to speak.

“Were you sent by my Gods, Aradin Teral?” she asked him. “Because for all the times I’ve privately complained about my task, you do seem to be the answer to my prayers. Or at least, you seem to know far more than I do about what is going on within the Grove.”

He smiled but bowed his head, an oddly shy move. “If I am here by the will of any God or Goddess, I do not know. I do know I am drawn to help others—the habit of all these years in my unexpected holy calling, no doubt—but I find it even easier to offer you my assistance, because what you need help with dovetails with my secular calling. As I have said before, I am a Hortimancer,” Aradin said, his smile broadening with a touch of pride. “Plants and their interactions with magic are my specialty.”

“And I need all the plant-knowledgeable help I can get,” Saleria admitted. “Right, then. Supper is served shortly after sundown. Nannan will have it waiting for us—I told her you’d be dining with us tonight.” She started moving down the path toward the wall and her home, then paused to flash him a teasing smile. “If you do good work, I’ll even let you move into one of the guest rooms, and pay you in room and board.”

He chuckled. “What, I’m not going to be paid in solid coin?”

“It’s holy work, Holy Brother,” Saleria reminded him, her tone mock-pious. She spread the fingers of her free hand, her gaze lifted toward the dark, half-clouded sky and the stars that were starting to show. “The Gods pay us in ways we cannot even begin to conceive.”

A hastily lifted hand didn’t quite hide the “—horseshit,” he mock-coughed . . . but he did grin at her when he finished mock-clearing his throat.

She grinned back. “Yes, I do know it’s a load of bollocks. That’s what High Prelate Nestine told me when she said I was being assigned to apprentice the previous Keeper. I insisted on a high salary anyway . . . and I’m just as sick and tired of hearing it as you are. But I can afford to keep you in my employ, so long as you do not exaggerate your expenses.”

“Room and board, and a modest stipend for supplies—most of which will be left here when my work is done—will cover my expenses nicely,” he reassured her. “The rest can be negotiated.”