The Grove

SEVEN

“More spinach, Aradin?” Nannan asked. Or rather, pressed, since she was already holding out the bowl to him.

(Ugh, not more of that sauce,) Teral muttered in the back of the younger Witch’s mind. (I only get half of your sensations when I’m not in control, and even I think it’s too vinegary to eat.)

(Agreed, but one must be tactful,) Aradin thought back. Which amused him, since it was normally the elder of the two urging politeness and diplomatic caution. Smiling slightly, he demurred, “No, thank you; I appreciate the generosity, but I’d rather not overeat.”

“Overeat?” Nannan scoffed, eyeing him. “You’re nothing but a thin pole! Can you not afford an occasional haunch of meat in your travels?”

(I think it’s a good thing Priestess Saleria spends so much of her days on her feet, or she’d end up overstuffed on this woman’s cooking,) Teral observed dryly.

(To be fair, everything has been quite good, except the sauce on the greens,) Aradin pointed out. Aloud, he merely said, “I do have to walk back to the inn this evening. I’d rather not waddle.”

“Hm. It’s a good thing you’re not staying here,” the housekeeper asserted. She set the glazed pottery bowl on the polished wooden table with a clack. “It just wouldn’t be proper!”

Ever since her nightmare this morning, Saleria hadn’t felt like her normal self. Part of her wondered if it had been sent by Kata and Jinga as a pre-warning of Guardian Kerric’s news about the Netherhell demons. It also felt like a wake-up call to her whole life. The normal smooth running of the Keeper’s duties had been deeply disrupted today, but it made her feel better, not worse. Like the wake-up was needful, even necessary. But her housekeeper’s attitude was threatening to sour that better-world feeling.

Sighing, Saleria put down her fork and cut off her housekeeper the moment the older woman drew in a breath to say more. “Enough, Nannan. The choice of who stays in the Keeper’s house is up to the Keeper. Last I checked, that was me, not you. If I should decide it would better suit my needs to have Witch Aradin Teral stay with us, then stay with us he shall.

“I trust I have made myself clear.” She did not make it a question.

Nannan opened her mouth, thought for a moment, then closed it and subsided. Satisfied, Saleria decided to turn the dinner conversation to work. Normally, she refrained, as Nannan grumbled that such things weren’t appropriate at the dining table whenever Saleria tried to discuss various petitions with Daranen, but tonight, Saleria did not care.

“Now that we have some goals outlined—fixing the flaws in the Grove’s containment of the rift-magics, undoing all the amalgamations of plants and animals, and investigating the sap pools—what materials or furnishings will you need installed in the Bower for your work?” she asked Aradin. “I was thinking perhaps you might want a tent, or a shelter of some sort. It’s been hot and dry the last few days, but it might turn to rain without warning.”

“I hadn’t thought about the rain, but I think I’d like to examine the Bower structure itself, first,” Aradin said, reaching for his water goblet. “There may already be some sort of weather-sheltering shielding on it, or a way to incorporate such spells into the existing structure. That would be the least intrusive solution to any weather problems.”

“True. Will you need any tables?” she asked next. “I was thinking I should get some for my own use, and something for us to sit on, and perhaps a mirror stand—which reminds me, the call I received, it was a sort of group-scrying of several Guardians. One of them wished to say hello to you.”

One brow lifting in surprise, Aradin blinked at her. Swallowing, he set down the glass and shrugged. “I can’t think of who it could be.”

“He was introduced to me as Witch Shon Tastra,” Saleria explained.

Both brows raised at that. “Ah. Yes, I know who that is. He’s one of our highest-ranked members, in fact. I hadn’t realized your communication ability reached all the way to Darkhana. Teral says he met with Tastra shortly before returning to us.”

“Teral says . . . ?” Nannan asked, looking mystified.

Saleria didn’t bother to explain to the older woman. Nannan would learn as they went along. “I had no connection for that far away, but Guardian Kerric of the Tower does. He was the one to call the meeting. At the end of it, Guardian Shon Tastra wished to confirm the original reason why you came here, and to offer his thanks for my willingness to comply. He also recommended I pack a bag.”

“Pack a bag?” This time, the question came from Daranen.

“Yes, for the Convocation,” Saleria reminded him. Her scribe nodded at the realization.

“Of course, of course,” Daranen muttered, following along since he had been privy to the earlier meeting.

“Pack a bag?” Nannan repeated, still mystified and frowning. “But you’re the Keeper! Until you are replaced, you cannot leave the Grove unattended.”

“I already have a potential replacement, Nannan,” Saleria told her. She picked up her fork and scooped up a few sauce-drizzled leaves, but did not eat them immediately. Her housekeeper had that look in her eyes again. “Before you panic, it will only be a temporary journey. A visit to the location where the Convocation of Gods and Man will be reconvened. After it is over, I will return to my post. As for my going, I am the Keeper of the Grove; I am more than qualified to represent the concerns of our people, and that is all that matters—this subject is not open for debate. Nor are you to gossip about it.”

“Hmphf.” From the frown still creasing the older woman’s brow, it looked like Nannan was considering being extra cheerful and extra early in waking up her employer in the morning. The housekeeper had her ways of getting even.

Saleria didn’t care for the attitude. That nightmare and Kerric’s subsequent warnings had shaken her out of her complacencies with a vengeance today. “Don’t even think it, Nannan. Your job is to run this household smoothly . . . which you do quite well, under normal circumstances,” she allowed politely. “But all decisions regarding the Grove and its Keeping are mine and mine alone.

“Now, back to the topic. I think, if nothing else, we can take and enchant a piece of canvas for cover. It could also make a good projection wall for the scryings Guardian Kerric passed on to me,” she stated. “I’d like you to observe and give your opinions along with my own. The more minds we have working on the problems at hand, the better off we’ll be.”

“What problems?” Daranen asked, looking between the Keeper and their Witch guest.

Saleria gave up trying to eat the rest of her greens. She loved the sauce Nannan made, but it worked best on fresh greens; once they started to go limp and soggy, she lost interest. Focusing on the conversation at hand, she explained. “This goes no further than this room, Nannan, Daranen . . . but one of my counterparts up in Shattered Aiar managed to capture a . . . a Seer-like scrying from some distance into the future. Depending upon the shifting, fickle ways of fate, we may or may not have a problem with Netherhell demons within the next year.”

Nannan dropped her fork. Blue eyes wide, she stared at Saleria in shock. “N-Netherhell demons?”

“If we cannot figure out how to prevent their emergence. The important thing is that there are a good eighteen of the strongest and smartest mages around the world already working on the problem, myself included. If a solution can be found, we will find it. Which is why you shall not panic,” she ordered.

Hmphfing again, her face tight with hints of outrage and fear, Nannan rose and reached for the various food bowls. Daranen quickly snagged one of the last bread rolls before the basket was plucked out of reach.

Aradin waited until the housekeeper had taken herself and her burdens off to the kitchen down the hall. “. . . Was it necessary to tell her? Teral says she strikes him as the sort inclined to gossip.”

“She can be discreet,” Daranen told him. “She has to be; the Keeper’s position has been endangered in the past by indiscreet staff. Saleria is no Seer, but she has some of the same level of fame. More, in many ways, for there can be two or three Seers alive at one time in an empire the size of Katan, but there is only ever one Keeper, and perhaps one apprentice.”

“I think it might be best to remove temptation from her presence all the same,” Aradin said. He didn’t need Teral’s mental nudgings to make his recommendations; they were simply wise. “The Netherhells are as real as the Afterlife, but considerably easier to access, since they do not require one to be dead. Gossip about a potential demonic invasion could be considered too alarming to keep silent. Perhaps if we retired to the study?”

Saleria knew he had a point. She shook her head. “I told her what little I did because she does need to know why your presence here is so important. On several levels. But you are right; she doesn’t need to know the rest . . . and Daranen, at this point, your knowing of what are still mere possibilities would only trouble your tranquility and concentration. Whatever Aradin Teral and I have to discuss, we should probably do it in the Bower. Which means tomorrow morning—if you gentlemen will excuse me,” she added just as Nannan came back, “I am in need of a bath and a good night’s rest.

“Aradin, Teral, Daranen, I will see you all in the morning. Good night. And a good night to you as well, Nannan—I can draw my bath on my own for at least one night,” she added, to prevent the older woman from having to choose between handling the supper dishes and preparing the tub. “I did it for many years before I came here. Have yourself an early evening’s rest.”

Aradin rose politely when Saleria did, and bowed to her. “Then I shall see myself out, and see you in the morning.”

(I can hear your sub-thoughts,) Teral mused quietly. He sent his Host a fleeting, wistful smile. (Alas, it is too early to offer to scrub her back. Perhaps later, though.)

(One can only hope,) Aradin agreed, heading for the door. (Let’s see if the inn has a tub available for my own use.)

Saleria did not want to get up. Her bed was comfortable, her body still tired, and she’d been enjoying a very delightful, if slightly bizarre, dream involving Aradin, whipped honey butter, sugared rose petals, and a waterfall made out of something thick and brown that looked like the spicy sauce Nannan slathered on meat when she grilled it. Alas, right on schedule, Nannan bustled into her bedroom, whipped away the covers, and smacked her on the rump. Just as the Keeper had suspected her housekeeper would.

“No mercy for you today, Keeper,” Nannan stated sternly, ignoring Saleria’s offended grunt. “I lay awake half the night, fearing I’d start dreaming about Netherdemons, and if I can’t get my sleep, then you cannot. Up you get!”

Rolling over, Saleria stretched across the feather-stuffed mattress. Her nightshift had ridden up a bit, but at least the heat wasn’t so strong this morning that she longed to be under the enspelled comforter again. A soft groan escaped, and her eyelids started to drift shut against the morning light. Hungry as she was, she was also still tired.

“Oh, no you don’t!”

Saleria yelped as the older woman whapped her in the stomach with a pillow. “I’m up! I’m up!”

Climbing out of the bed, she gave her housekeeper a dirty look, but accepted the lounging robe without complaint. Now that she was upright, with a little adrenaline in her blood from that whap, she could think. I’ll have an interesting day, I think, she decided, knuckling the sleep-sand from the corners of her eyes. Getting Aradin Teral settled, figuring out what we can do about the various plants, working it all in around my schedule of prayers and patrols . . .

Curiosity prompted her to ask, “Nannan . . . did you have any nightmares? If so, I am sorry.”

“No,” the older woman stated, her tone slightly sniffy. She shooed Saleria out of the bedchamber and toward the stairs. “But I wasted half the night worrying I would. Instead, I dreamed about getting into an argument with pickled turnips that looked like striped melons and talked like children. A very odd dream, but not all that frightening.”

“I do love the way you pickle things,” Saleria told her. She didn’t mention her own dream. “Any chance there’re pickled eggs for breakfast?”

Nannan snorted. “No, but Daranen went back to the inn with that man last night, and he certainly came home pickled. I’ll not be surprised if your scribe cannot abide the scratch of his pen on the page today.”

“He was probably enjoying the first new male company we’ve had in a while,” Saleria pointed out. She felt a little envious; there used to be a time when, at the end of her daily duties as a deacon, even a prelate, she had been free to go off and have a drink at the end of the day. Just the one, and sipped slowly, but a drink with her friends. But that had been in a city halfway down the continent. Here, she didn’t have the time or the energy.

Although I might, once we get going on sharing patrolling and energy-gathering duties. That would cut down on a lot of her work. Well, some of it. Aradin would no doubt want to stop and examine a lot of the plants during his patrols, and . . . she winced. That means I’ll still have a lot of work to do. I have to remember this is a long-term solution to the Grove’s many problems, and not a quick one.

Gentle Kata, Fierce Jinga, she thought in a brief prayer as she settled at the table to await her breakfast, grant me the patience and the strength for the task of salvaging the mess that is the Grove, restoring it back into the glorious, safe, holy garden it rightfully should be.

She didn’t hear any reply, but as the Keeper of the Grove, Saleria knew her prayers were at least heard.

Aradin Teral arrived at the front door just as she finished her breakfast. Nannan made him wait in the front hall while Saleria dressed for the day, still not entirely happy with his presence in her otherwise neatly ordered world. Saleria wished the older woman would be more polite, but that would take time, she knew. The two clergy shared a mutual moment of eye-rolling before setting out for the morning’s wall-clearing. Or as Aradin put it wryly, “I need to learn how to take over everything you do each day, for the time you’re at the Convocation.”

His words reminded her of the bag she had packed. Into it she had tucked a money belt, two changes of formal priestly gowns, two changes of Keeper-style pants and short-robes, dried meat, cheeses, and stasis-preserved fruit and bread, a stout cloak in case the weather turned bad, and a preliminary list of concerns she wanted to address to Kata and Jinga. It was a list she kept amending in her spare moments.

As the day progressed, she showed Aradin how she patrolled and cleared the paths, gathered energies from the locus trees, consulted with Daranen over the prayers to be said . . . and how she prayed in the heart of the Bower, kneeling on the mossy ground, glowing staff balanced in her hands. The rest of her tasks she felt he could handle, as any competent mage who could fight and cast would be able to manage that part. And he did manage, for most of it.

But prayer? To a God and Goddess he did not worship? That was where she wasn’t sure he could do a proper job. How could a foreign priest with a foreign set of Patron Deities properly pray to, and connect with, the Katani God and Goddess?

But he was respectful while she prayed on the second day, and did not set up his alchemical tables or try to figure out the Bower structure. Instead, Aradin shadowed her every movement while they were in the Grove, asking an occasional question but mostly observing, copying, and attempting to get everything just right. He did a good job of it, too; by the end of the third day, Saleria felt he could have made a great apprentice, if it weren’t for that ongoing worry about his ability to shape Katani prayers.

The ongoing worry of the Netherdemon visions was another concern. Each evening, they retreated to her study and used the whitewashed walls to project and view the images Guardian Kerric had captured. No concrete starting-point could be seen, but they took notes on everything they saw, of the types of demons, of the heroes who fought against them . . . and of the heavily robed and hooded humans who interacted with them, seemingly directing them.

It was a disturbing revelation, that people would actually consort with creatures from the Netherhells so willingly . . . and more disturbing that the demons would obey. But there wasn’t much more either could contribute to what they saw, so far. As it was, Saleria herself believed that her own contributions as a Guardian would be slim until she could get the Grove under far better control, rather than merely maintaining the status quo.

On the morning of the fourth day, Aradin took off in one direction, Saleria the other, and they met at the far side of the Grove enclosure in half the time it took her to make her morning rounds. Taking the neglected back path to the Bower took away some of that spare time, but enough was left over that when they arrived—after rousting a nest of nasty root-snakes and a pathetic beehive-like thing which had tried to sting them with soft petals—Aradin started examining the natural wickerwork of the Bower dome.

Saleria pointed out the waxy nodes and mentioned that they had glowed in different pastel hues. Kneeling across from her, Aradin knew within moments what they were supposed to be. He had seen similar effects in his Hortimancy classes. They weren’t lanterns; the glow was merely a provident side effect of their intended effect: monitoring the flow and use of different kinds of magic.

“You see, they don’t come on when dusk falls,” Aradin told her in hushed, enthused tones as they knelt at the base of one of the bark-covered roots forming a main arch. “They don’t, because they’re always on; they’re always active, always monitoring whatever powers are being used—that mirror floating over there, you said it came through the Fountainway? I’ll bet you that had you been free from the need to concentrate and cushion its arrival that you would have seen the copper-hued ones, and maybe one or two others, lighting up with its arrival.”

“The copper ones? So, do the colors indicate what they do?” Saleria asked him, reaching up to gently touch a copper-hued nodule. It felt more like crystal than wax, though the translucent look of it was more like the latter than the former. “Are they like the pools?”

“They should be connected, logically, but I’ll need a special Hortimancy tool to discern their full function.” He flashed her a smile. “That’s why I’ve been shadowing you the last few days. I couldn’t get to work even on the preliminaries without it, but it should be here by tomorrow. The previous days, I got a good look at the Grove overall and how it currently functions. Today, I have time to look around and set up my worktables. Tomorrow, I should be able to get to work on how it should function.”

“Here, here?” Saleria asked, pointing at the ground between them. “Or . . . or somewhere that Teral can pick it up, like he picked up that chest, and those sugar cane seedlings?”

Aradin dipped his head, acknowledging her point. “Technically, it’s in Darkhana, shipped from Fortuna. One of our fellow Witch-priests will pass it to me tonight at the New Brother festival, and we’ll bring it to Katan.”

“New Brother festival?” she asked, once again feeling a bit ignorant of other lands.

“Every new and full of Brother Moon, we Witches gather in the Dark to meet and mingle, to discuss concerns and share news. Those who are ambassadors or envoys often use this time to pass along trade goods—like the sugar cane seedlings I bought,” he told her. “They’re to go to a specific cluster of Witches who work in the royal botanical gardens.

“It’s supposed to be in the evening, but since this corner of the world experiences dusk several hours later than Darkhana does, either Teral will have to start without me, or I’ll have to take the afternoon off,” he told her. “Late afternoon. Can you handle the third locus tree and the Grove wall without me?”

His smile showed that he was teasing her. Saleria narrowed her eyes, but smiled back wryly. “Maybe,” she teased in return. “I was going to offer to let you stay here tonight. I mean, in the Keeper’s house.”

The look of surprise on his face was expected, as was the pleasure, but the relief puzzled her. At least, until he said, “Thank you; that would relieve us of the worry that someone would break into our room at the inn and disturb our body while we’re gone. It’s a bit dangerous for both Host and Guide to be away from their shared body at the same time. Usually we ward the place we’re in, but that takes away some of the energy we need for sustaining our visits in the Dark.”

“I suppose it would be, particularly if they were out to kill you,” Saleria murmured, not pleased by that thought. Not that she suspected anyone of wanting to kill the friendly, charming Witch kneeling at her side, but her imagination could easily supply such a scenario.

“Oh, there is that, but it’s almost as bad if someone calls in a Healer, because they think we’re in a coma of some sort,” Aradin admitted. “Technically, the Hosts’ bodies are in a coma, but meddling with the bodies can harm the link tying our spirits to our flesh. Most mages shield themselves against harmful magics, not helpful ones, and to shield against both is exhausting.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t offer you a room in the house,” Saleria muttered, thinking about her housekeeper. At his puzzled look, she explained. “Every morning, I hate to get up, and Nannan bustles into my room and whips off the covers, and if I don’t move quickly—which I usually don’t, because I hate mornings—she smacks me on the buttocks with a hand or a pillow or whatever. And she likes me. I don’t know what she’d do to you if she thought you had to get up at a specific time and found you lying in bed, unresponsive.”

“Is she a mage?” Aradin asked.

“No,” Saleria admitted. “Just a very good, if forward and, well, pushy, housekeeper. But then I do prefer to laze in bed each morning. I just cannot afford to do so, as the Keeper of the Grove.”

“Then a simple ward on the door will do,” he said. “Those who come to kill mages tend to come with magical abilities to aid them in doing so. As do Healers. We’ll simply tell her that if I don’t respond to three knockings on the door, I’m to be left alone. But that’s only every two weeks or so, and I’m usually back by local dawn—earlier, since Darkhana experiences dawn before Katan does.

“Besides, once you feel confident that I can handle the morning rounds, you can lounge in bed,” he said with a smile. At the questioning lift of her brows, he cocked one of his own at her. “You’ll have an apprentice—me—who can do the morning rounds for you.”

That . . . He . . . Wow, he’s right . . . I can sleep in, Saleria thought with dawning wonder. It pinched into a frown in the next moment, accompanied by a rough sigh. “Except I’ll have to get it through Nannan’s head that you actually can do morning rounds for me. And that’s assuming you’re a morning person. I won’t make you do something you’d hate to do, otherwise. At the end of the day—or the start of it, rather—tending the Grove is still my responsibility.”

Aradin chuckled. “Teral isn’t one, but I am. I love being outdoors at dawn. The crisp chill in the air, the scent of dew on the plants, the little trills of the birds waking up . . . and the colors of sunrise, streaking the clouds and the sky in shades of peach and gold and more? Glorious, all of it.”

The way he looked at her, the warmth and enthusiasm in those intriguing hazel eyes, the smile curving those lips, even the wisp of blond hair that had escaped from its thong, all came together in a very compelling package. Saleria found herself swaying forward on instinct. She checked herself for a moment, then with a silent, fear-dismissing, Bollocks to that, she finished leaning forward and touched her mouth to his.

(Well, that was unexpected,) Teral observed in the back of his mind.

(Unexpected, but welcome,) Aradin returned, his sub-thoughts adding a mental hushing. Teral obediently fell silent. He didn’t step into the Dark, but he did give Aradin full control of the moment. And Aradin gave it to Saleria, meeting her touch for touch but letting her take the lead. It was she who parted her lips first, and her tongue that slid along his bottom lip. He matched her movements, enjoying every moment.

It wasn’t quite enough, though. Tipping his head, he deepened the kiss. She sighed and leaned in closer. Somehow, somewhere in there, they turned in the midst of their embrace until the kiss finally ended with a soft, parting nibble. Sighing happily as he lay next to her, Aradin looked up at the curving limbs of the Bower. The moss was soft and springy under his head and back, and birds twittered in the distance. The hue of the sky was a plain, mid-morning blue . . . but it felt like dawn to him all over again.

“Mmm,” he sighed. “I could enjoy waking up to that, too.”

Resting on her hip, skin still tingling from where his fingers had caressed, where his lips had brushed, Saleria chuckled at his quip. Just as her humor started to die down, a stray thought crossed her mind, and she choked on another peal of laughter, head tipping back. She caught the curious, inquisitive quirk of his brows when she glanced down again. Blotting a tear from the corner of one eye, she shrugged diffidently. “It’s . . . hard to explain.”

Glad they were within the Bower’s protections, Aradin tucked his hands behind his head and shrugged. “Try me.”

“Oh . . .” Searching for a place to begin, she gestured vaguely. “The other morning—I think the day you arrived—I had a grumpy thought when Nannan came in to wake me up and get me moving. I was wishing that one day she’d come in and be silent instead of so vocally firm and cheerful.”

“Oh?” he prompted her, wondering why their kiss would make her think of that.

“Yes, well . . . I imagined, just now, her finding you in my bed, and was thinking that might actually shut her up for once, out of sheer indignation,” Saleria said. She blushed and ducked her head. “Not exactly the nicest thing to think about doing—shocking her indignant, I mean. Not the you-being-in-my-bed bit. I, um . . . Oh!” Her blush faded and her eyes snapped wide. “Teral! Oh, I completely forgot . . . !”

(And here it gets awkward,) Teral muttered in the back of his mind.

(Only if we let it,) Aradin said. He repeated the words out loud, more or less. “It’s only awkward if we let it be awkward. Yes, he was here, but he has nothing against it. You did enjoy it, yes?”

“Well, yes,” Saleria said, since that was far too obvious to bother with a lie.

“As did I,” the blond Witch asserted, before she could tack a but . . . onto her statement. “That’s all he cares about—and he only cares about it because he is my friend.” Shrugging to resettle his shoulders and spine, he said, “It’s my body and my life, and I quite enjoyed it. Nothing will change that part, if we don’t let it. Besides, you can request that he step into the Dark in the future, if that is what you truly want.”

His matter-of-fact attitude was somewhat reassuring, but Saleria still felt a little odd about the situation. While kissing him, she had only been aware of Aradin, not Teral. It was only when that awareness came back to her that things had felt awkward. Unlike her previous worries, however, a new one had surfaced.

“What if he doesn’t like being shut out?” Saleria found herself asking. “Is that honestly fair to him? I mean, yes, he’s technically no longer alive, and it’s not his body . . . but he does have a life of sorts. I guess . . .” She frowned and picked at some of the moss growing between them, trying to order her thoughts as well as her words. “It’s not fair to expect the woman to have to deal with two men at once, one always constantly there and watching, but is it at all fair for the man and the woman to expect the watcher to have to leave, to . . . ah . . . never know intimacy, even if it’s only secondhand? Not that I’m advocating he, uh . . . I mean . . .”

(Give me the body and I’ll tell her myself,) Teral offered.

(I’m too comfortable to move,) Aradin grumbled. He moderated his complaint with an extension of that thought. (Besides, this is part and parcel of her complaint. Here—tell her much more directly.) Unfolding one arm, he reached over and covered Saleria’s fingers with his own. “Here. Let Teral tell you himself, directly.”

“Directly?” Saleria asked.

(Yes, directly,) she heard the lighter-voiced, older Witch say in her mind. Gasping, she started to pull away, but Aradin tightened his grip, keeping her close physically. Teral, however, was the one to reassure her verbally. (This is just a part of our holy magics—and no, it does not break the Laws of God and Man that state how the thoughts of mortals are our last bastion of privacy, and that there shall never be a spell to peer into the head of another living mortal.)

“It . . . it’s not?” she asked, blinking in confusion. “But I thought . . .”

“The Gods have decreed that no living mortal may read the mind of another living mortal,” Aradin told her, gently squeezing her fingers. “But Guides are no longer alive, for all that I have given Teral a semblance of life.”

(If you think of it another way, there is no way that I could be a Guide, residing within my Host, if we could not share our thoughts,) Teral added, silencing her next question. (And I do not do this lightly, nor casually. It is holy magic, and as such, should not be profaned by carelessness or malice, or other ill intentions. I do this to reassure you directly, with no lies between us, that I will accept any request you make to have me step into the Dark whenever you wish to be intimate with my Host. It is his life, and no longer mine.)

Aradin could hear what Teral was saying to her because Teral willed him to hear it. But Aradin could not share his thoughts with her, which left him with mere speech. “The choice is yours, Saleria. But I will be completely honest with you. Teral is now my closest friend . . . and like all closest friends, I’d be inclined to discuss any relationship I may enter into with him, to ask for advice, to offer a moment of humor, to seek sympathy over a misunderstanding or a mistake. I would try to refrain if you asked . . . but would you honestly refrain from discussing such details with your own best, closest friend?”

At his words, a face flashed into her thoughts, nut-brown and heart-shaped, with hazel eyes, tight dark curls, and flashing white teeth frequently bared in a smile. Saleria hadn’t thought about Aslyn in weeks, but she did remember how close she and her fellow acolyte had been, back during their temple training. They still wrote to each other, with Daranen keeping Aslyn’s letters separate from the constant stream of petitions so that Saleria could answer them in her spare time, rather than assume it was meant for some prayer.

Aslyn was now a full-fledged Priestess, not just a Deacon, but her assigned parish and chapel were far to the south. And in her most recent letter, she did talk about the romance budding between her and one of the local landholders, and I wrote back to her with some comments and encouragements I felt I could add, Saleria acknowledged. “I suppose that’s fair. That you can talk to each other. But . . . watch?”

Both men consulted on a swift, subconscious level. Ideally, she would be a woman who could accept the presence of both Host and Guide as a constant in her life . . . but if they pressed that point now, she would resist automatically. The idea was too foreign, too strange; only time would allow her to observe, to think, and to come to a true, rather than a hasty, decision. Aradin sighed and sat up, drawing up his beige-clad knees. Resting his forearms on them, he tipped his head at the rest of their surroundings.

“As much as this debate could go on a bit longer—and should, at an appropriate time—you and I do have more work to do today. Such as figuring out where I can work within this dome so that it doesn’t disrupt your tasks as the Keeper, but doesn’t put me in an awkward spot.” He nodded at the nearest moss-covered lump. “Having seen several of your Katani chapels and cathedrals, I can only presume those eight large lumps are moss-covered altars. Yes?”

Saleria blinked, looked around, then nodded. “Yes . . . yes, they are. I don’t use them in my daily routine, and neither did Jonder. We just kneel in the center, face the direction that corresponds with the season—north for summer, west for autumn, and so forth—and pray. I guess that’s why they’ve been covered over by moss. I mean, I knew they were altars, but I never bothered to strip away the moss. I guess I was thinking that the moss was just one more part of the Grove as a whole.”

“Then there goes the idea of using some of them for my research needs. I don’t think Holy Kata or Holy Jinga would mind if we cleared off the moss,” he said dryly, “but it would probably be sacrilege to clutter their tops with beakers and retorts, and a mortar-and-pestle or three.”

Saleria felt her cheeks grow warm. “I feel a touch of shame for letting things get to this state. All of it, really. The . . . the complacency, the blind obedience to habit and routine.” She ducked her head. “I’m really not the best of Keepers.”

Reaching over, Aradin tucked his finger under her chin, lifting her face so that he could gaze into those blue gray eyes. “Teral and I both disagree on that. You may not have seen or done anything about these problems in the past, but you are doing something about them now, and you’re not letting the traditions, habits, and routines chain everything in place. If you were anything less than the best, you’d probably cling to tradition out of uncertainty or fear, but you’re willing to embrace a different way. Teral says life is about change, after all.”

“True,” she admitted, taking some comfort in his words. She looked at him, her mouth twisting in a lopsided smile. “I feel like that old tale of the priestess being awakened with a kiss. I was asleep in the blindness of my duties, and you’ve woken me up.”

“Then I shall continue to kiss you, to keep you awake,” Aradin promised. Leaning in close, he pressed his lips to her cheek, then pulled back. “But we really do have work to do.” Pushing to his feet, he offered her his hand, and when she stood at his side, squinted up toward the half-clouded sky. “There’s the sun, so . . . that way is north, in this hemisphere—I kept getting all turned around the first few times I tried traveling below the Sun’s Belt. I’m better at it these days, but there’s a part of my brain that says the sun should travel through the south part of the sky, not the north . . . But since it does, and that way is north . . . then this southwestern corner here looks like it has a flat spot free of sap-pools, and it lies mostly out of your way, yes?”

Eyeing the spot he pointed to, Saleria gauged it in her mind against her daily routine, and shook her head. “That would do for me, but the southeastern spot is a bit more roomy. You just have to avoid that cream-dripping vine there, and it forms a sort of L-shaped area, see?”

Following her arm and finger, Aradin studied the subtly terraced area, and nodded. “That should work, yes. I may have to put up a screen to remind myself not to back up into the range of the drips, but it should do nicely. Moss off the altars first?”

“That moss may be saturated with sap below the topmost layers. We should use protective spells,” she warned him.

He grinned in approval. “Now you’re thinking like a Hortimancer. Our clothes are warded, but we should use gloves, too. I’ll have Teral fetch out a couple pairs from my gardening supplies. Mine might be a little big for you, but better too big than too small.”

Removing the moss from the first few of the eight altars led to removing it from around their bases. That in turn revealed a series of flagstone-and-pebble paths. Some of the stones were broad and mostly flat, if a bit worn by countless footfalls from the past; many more were tiny, naturally colored, laid in intricate designs: circles and arcs and diamonds and lines, all packed tightly into a sandy base that was as sap-soaked as Aradin had predicted.

The fumes released when they started stripping away the masses of moss from the ground made both of them a little giddy, but an aeration charm helped avert the worst of the effects. Saleria had to stop every so often to attend to her regular duties, but that didn’t stop Aradin from working hard. The worst trouble was figuring out a way to dispose of the moss.

Most of the magic could be sucked out by the crystal-topped pruning staves . . . but that filled them up more quickly and brightly than either mage expected. It also left a thick, sticky residue in the soft green tufts. Finally, for lack of a better solution, Aradin tried burning the stuff. With Saleria’s permission, he used most of the stored energies to focus the fire and purify the fumes, burning it in a hot, bright sphere until nothing but white ash remained.

That did the trick. After a hearty lunch, and while Saleria focused on her prayer-petitions, Aradin focused on spell-raking up the moss from the underlying stones, draining the power with the spare staves, and searing the sap from the ground. More welled up as he worked, however, revealing the moss had somehow kept the stuff from seeping from the ground all the way to the topmost layers. It did prove his theory, though, that the sap-purified magic had soaked deeply into the ground over the last two hundred years.

(Enough,) Teral finally stated, when three altar platforms and paths toward the center proved to be on the edge of what Aradin could keep up with, containment-wise. (Don’t clear anything else. You need a break, and you need to go to the New Brother festival. I’ll stay and work on this mess.)

Carefully wiping the sweat from his face with his Witchcloak sleeve, since his Hortimancer gloves were stained despite their protective spells, Aradin gave in with a nod. (It’s not going as well as I’d hoped. We can wither the moss with the staves, but we need to come up with a way to burn off the sap faster than it wells up from the ground. Maybe a system of . . . of candles, of sorts . . . like an oil-lamp wick . . .)

(Enough!) Teral softened the order with a mental chuckle, and a mental hand on his Host’s shoulder. (Give over the body, youngling, and get going. You’re not the only one who can cure this problem; I do have a few ideas of my own. The sap that hasn’t yet burned has simply pooled up around the sand-packed stones, but it isn’t overflowing or going anywhere, so it isn’t an immediate threat. Let me handle it, and get yourself to the festival.)

Nodding again, Aradin turned to glance at Saleria. She was still resting on top of the—thankfully dry—moss at the center of the Bower, her hands resting palm-up on her crossed legs, the neatly penned petition papers laid out before her. Her voice had filled his ears with the steady, heartfelt recitations, invoking the holy names and aspects of Jinga and Kata which most closely aligned with each petitioned request. For all it was mental and emotional work, not physical, she had worked up a faint sheen of sweat from her fervent efforts.

He rested as he waited, leaning on the staff in his hands, until she came to an end with the current prayer. The moment she shifted forward to shift the papers into a stack to one side, he cleared his throat. Lifting her head, Saleria craned her neck, looking back over her shoulder at him. “. . . Yes?”

“I thought you should know that Teral’s kicking me out. I’m off to the festival,” he told her. “He’ll keep working on the sap-soaked problem, but this is all we can clear for now.” It wasn’t the most coherent explanation he could have given, but from her nod, she seemed to understand. Nodding himself, he carefully set the staff on a thick, dry-topped patch of moss, then pulled the folds of his cloak down over hands and face, allowing it to envelop his body.

Releasing control of his body was much like releasing control of his balance. With a mental side step to avoid Teral as the older Witch moved forward, he fell back into the Doorway, turned, and strode into the Dark. Teral took over their shared flesh, reshaping it into his own, but Aradin did not stay to watch what happened next over his mentor’s mental shoulder.

Unlike the sunlit warmth of the Grove, with its open skies, abundant greenery, and solid reality, the place between Life and the Afterlife was a cold, dark, echoing realm. Hard ground, barely seen in the gloom, scraped underfoot as he moved. A chilling mist shifted in the distance, rippling with hints of not-here and not-there. There was no clear light-source at this end of the Dark, though he could sense and half-see at the corners of his eyes the slender, silvery ribbon that bound him to his Doorway. The rest of the light illuminating his immediate vicinity came partly from Aradin himself, and partly from Brother and Sister Moons, a gift to Their long-vanished Elder Brother. It was just enough to see the barren ground, and a few lengths in any direction, but little more than that.

At least, right here, right outside his Door. Just like the wielding of magic, willpower was what gave him light, strength, and direction in the faceless, placeless Dark. Tightening his focus as he would have tightened a fist, Aradin concentrated, willing himself toward the Meeting Tree. Four, five, six swift steps into the mist brought him through the swirling wall and into a slightly brighter patch of moonlight . . . and into a place where he was no longer alone.

The light of Elder Brother Moon shone down on the Meeting Tree, one of the few places where Darkhan’s light could shine anymore. It played down among the branches of the gnarled, graceful, flower-laden thing, each twig made out of metal, each blossom and leaf carved from precious stones. It sat in a large square planter carved from pale stone and ringed with redwood benches. The colors were dim but still discernible, jade and malachite leaves, mother-of-pearl petals, and little slivers of amber for the stamens and carpels. It also stood more than twice his height, which meant it rose up above the two dozen or so bodies gathered around its base, ensuring it remained visible and recognizable to all who used it as a waypoint in the directionless void of the Dark.

He had no idea who had first conjured this tree and its moonlit benches, nor how long ago, nor even what kept it here, a permanent fixture in a fixtureless place, but it was a most welcome sight. As were the smiles on the faces that turned to see who approached. Several of the men and women murmured his name, or simple greetings if they weren’t quite sure of who he was. Each reached out with hands that ranged from younger and stronger than his to older and more wrinkled than Alaya’s had been at her passing. He clasped them in turn with a stretch of his own, muttering a greeting here, a name there, enjoying the shock of living warmth against his skin in the intangible but still present chill of the void.

More approached as he settled into a spot near the edge of the group. Aradin turned to greet them, welcoming his brother and sister Witches. Each newcomer made the air warmer, the light a little brighter, until one of the eldest Sister Witches lifted both hands in the air, above her age-stooped back. “A place! A place! We need a place to meet and to worship! . . . Carradin Ruper, you choose the place!”

She asked it of one of the younger male Witches on the other side of the group. Aradin had arrived early enough to witness the night’s selection. Rising a little on his toes, he could just see the younger man opening and closing his mouth in indecision, before the short-haired blond finally shrugged and said, “The Garden Lake?”

“The Garden Lake it is!” the eldest agreed, hands tightening into brief fists. Dropping her arms from overhead, Witch Brenna held them out to either side. Her voice was still strong, if a little roughened with her advanced age. It echoed over the crowd as two score and more approached, pressing near. “You know the rules; three stay to guide the rest, and the rest of us on our way!”

It had been a while since he last volunteered to wait and guide the rest, but Aradin didn’t want to stay away from Teral, Saleria, or the Katani Holy Grove for long. Clasping hands with a middle-aged, dark-haired woman on his right, and a gray-bearded man on his left, he focused on the Garden Lake and followed the line of people as they snaked into the mists at the edge of the Meeting Tree space.

This garden was no twisted nightmare of a place—and he carefully kept the memories of the Grove locked down out of the way, to keep it safe. Within three, maybe four steps through the dark mists, he emerged with the rest on a long, sloping lawn bathed in silvery light. It led down to a vast lake that rippled with silvery streaks of moonlight—full moons, from both the larger Brother and the smaller Sister, despite it being the new of Brother Moon in the real world. Bushes lined the lawn, and benches provided resting places.

This was a vast area, larger than a village commons and filled with details as crisp as those found in real life, rather than blurred by uncertainty. They weren’t the only ones there, though; other spirits, a handful of lost souls, had made their way to the lake. Once fully onto the lawn and with a good four or five emerged behind him, Aradin released the hands on either side. He studied the blurred images, the fading senses of “self” that had once been living people, and counted the heads of the Witches who moved toward them.

They don’t need my help, he decided, as each lost spirit was flanked by a pair of his colleagues. This, too, was a task he had done before, though not recently. Witches were tasked with the guiding of the dead toward the Light, the Doorway into the Afterlife. Most of those who died found their own way, but a few strayed into the depths of the Dark, and a few got lost in their own thoughts, and a few, always a few, refused to believe they were dead. At least, at first. These stray souls were in good hands, though. Time to turn my attention to—whup!

A feminine chuckle distracted him from the arms catching his elbows and tugging him off toward the center of the grass. The voice that accompanied the hands on his right didn’t come from a throat, though. (Come, Aradin, youngling! Show these older ones how well we can still dance!)

He didn’t have to glance at her snub nose and her smiling eyes, nor see her long hair and graceful limbs, to know who had caught him. Josai of Glenna Josai, one of his earliest Witch-teachers. Josai was the Guide of the pair, and had lived to a ripe ninety-eight as Host and teacher, but her self-image was a mental projection of her body when it had been lithe and strong in her mid– to late-twenties; physically mature but still youthful and lithe.

The woman on Aradin’s left, who laughed and pulled him along as well, was Glenna, the current Host. Her body in life was now in her mid-fifties, but like Josai, she thought of herself as younger, early twenties or thereabouts. Shorter, a bit plump but with strength and liveliness to match the bounce in her light brown curls, she tugged him into a line dance with her Guide, celebrating life and Afterlife with equal aplomb. Those Witches who had a talent for song-based magic held back from the gathering dancers, bringing forth instruments of will, of hand and of voice, filling the clearing with the sounds of fellowship and joy.

It felt good to dance, to sway and stomp, to twist and turn. He clapped his hands and sang along as several others joined, while still more lines of hand-clasped Witches emerged from the mists. He crossed places and skipped through the steps, grabbed hands and swung his partners around, not caring whether the arms he grasped belonged to man or woman, living or dead.

How long he danced, he could not have said, but Aradin finally spun free of the whirling masses, of the now hundreds of Witches moving in patterns old and new, continuing the cycle of worship and faith that had turned the tragedy of their God’s unfortunate demise into a celebration of His continuing strength. Unfortunately, life moved on, and with it, all celebrations had to share space and time with tragedies, concerns, and the business of the living.

Saleria had told Aradin and Teral of the forescrying mirror and its future-visions of Netherdemon invasion. Spotting one of his fellow Hortimancers first, Aradin turned around, willing his coin-chest to appear in his arms, then approached the older man. Stefal smiled in greeting and shifted on the bench, giving Aradin room to set down the chest. “Ah, good; you brought payment! I got you the best deal I could, but diagnostic Artifacts don’t come cheap. Four hundred twenty-three silver and seven copper pennies, please.”

While Aradin counted out the funds, rounding it up to four hundred fifty as a courtesy, the other man rose, turned once, twice, then sat back down again with a neatly carved chest in his hands. He opened it, displaying the selection of crystal-tipped wands and the palm-sized sheet of glass with a hole along the top that the wands were meant to slot into. His brows rose at the sight of the fine quality. “Crystal? Not a marble slab?”

“This way does take a little bit of your own magic to power it every day, but you don’t have to keep a sharpened grease-pencil tucked into the base, or go through the tedium of scrubbing it clean,” Stefal told him. “We cribbed the design from the Artifacts used by the Master and staff of a place called the Tower, in Aiar.”

“Guardian Kerric’s Tower?” Aradin asked. At Stefal’s surprised look, he nodded. “I’ve actually been in touch with him . . . and I have some concerns to bring to my fellow Witches tonight.”

“About the Tower’s Master?” Stefal asked.

Aradin shook his head. “About something he has seen in a sort of forescrying mirror he has.”

“What concerns do you have?” The question came from a familiar voice off to his left. Walking with more strength in the Dark than she probably showed out in life, Witch Brenna lifted her chin. “What would you bring before tonight’s synod, once the dancing and singing has ended?”

“Visions of an invasion from the Netherhells, Sister,” Aradin stated, his tone respectful and his words grim. “We may praise Darkhan and Dark Ana that such things are few and far between . . . but the images suggest that somewhere out there, even as we speak, certain humans are making pacts with the demonic realms.”

Her wrinkled face tightened into a stern mask. “Such things ended the life of our God, millennia ago. Are you certain of this Seer’s vision?”

Someone else moved up on Aradin’s other side, drawn by the ways of the Dark to join their conversation. Aradin handed over the coins to Stefal in exchange for his diagnostic wands while Guardian Witch Shon confirmed his words.

“I have been contacted as well. Those of highest rank already know, and a few who are in physical proximity to ourselves and our Fountain,” the older man stated, meaning both himself and his Guide, Tastra, “but it was my intent to bring this before all of us at tonight’s festival.” He spared a brief, slight smile for Aradin. “I am pleased to see my younger Brother had the same idea. As one of my fellow Guardians has said, the more minds we have working on this task, the more likely we are to see a solution.”

Brenna poked her thumb at Aradin. “How does he know what Guardians do or say?”

“I am assigned to Guardian Saleria of Katan, Keeper of the Holy Grove of Kata and Jinga,” Aradin stated, giving his superior a polite bow. “The Dark has confirmed she will make an excellent representative at the Convocation of Gods and Man.”

“Good. The sooner we get that task out of the way, the sooner we can pull our Brothers and Sisters back home,” Brenna said briskly. “Our fellow Darkhanans are growing restless, not being able to call upon as many Witches for last rites as they normally can.”

Shon tipped his graying head thoughtfully. “I’m not sure we should pull our brethren back to the kingdom, once the Convocation is over.”

Brenna wasn’t the only one to give him a sharp look; so did the two younger men. Aradin recovered first, realizing how his fellow Witches could be useful with the other problem on their hands. “Of course. If we stay in each of the kingdoms out there, those of us assigned to posts around the world, we can observe what is happening, and coordinate information swiftly among each other if we find anything that stinks of the Netherhells.”

Shon nodded. “Guardian Kerric said that there were kingdoms, such as Garama on the west coast of Aiar, which have shown signs of being part of a demonic invasion, but which have no local Guardian to watch over its people and their doings. But Garama does have a Witch present, right now.”

Dipping her head, Brenna relented her resistance to the idea. “That does make sense . . . and of all the clergy in the world, we are the ones with just cause to fight the blasphemous reach of the Netherhells.”

“I agree, with one exception.”

The newcomer made Stefal rise and all four of them bow politely. She looked young, with her blonde hair plaited and pinned around her head in marital braids—not a common sight among the other Witches of Darkhana, if not unknown—but she was far older than Brenna and Shon combined.

“High Witch Orana,” Aradin murmured, dipping his gaze as well as his head. “You honor us.”

She smiled wryly. “More like the Dark drew me over here. Niel is tending our body tonight—I do not see Teral; is he tending yours, Brother Aradin? Isn’t it early in the day for where you’re supposed to be?”

He nodded. “We’ve been working with Guardian Saleria to get her power-base cleaned up and prepared for use. I am not certain what use we will be with the Netherhell invasion at this time, but gaining full control of her, ah, version of a Fountain will ensure that we are not unprepared.”

“A wise piece of battle planning. And Brother Shon’s suggestion is most wise. Possibly even providential. The Witches of Darkhana who have scattered around the world to seek out true representatives of each Patron Deity are well-placed to observe and report. But most Witches are not strong enough to face demons alone. I should not need to remind each of you that the memories of the demonic ones are as long as our own, if not longer,” the immortal Witch stated. “They know the Witches of Darkhana have never forgiven them for the death of our God.”

Her words rippled outward, strong and resolute. The dancing came to an end as more and more of the rest turned to face them. The Garden Lake altered subtly, raising their portion of the lawn into a makeshift dais. Tucking his chest under his arm, Aradin shifted to one side, letting those with more seniority take center stage.

“Five thousand years ago, a demon queen of the Netherrealms tried to fake her way into the pantheon of our world’s Patron Deities. She and her followers tried to slaughter our Gods and Goddesses at the Convocation in Fortuna . . . but we were vigilant . . . and almost completely successful at thwarting her plans.” Raising her hands, Orana called out to her brother and sister Witches. “Darkhan gave up His life so that His fellow Gods would live on! Dark Ana, High Priestess and beloved, gave up Her mortal life so that our God would stay ours, despite His demise.

“Every so often, the sinners and the fools of the world seek to make pacts with the demons, and seek to bring them into our realm for the vanity of fleeting power, fame, or glory—but this is our realm!” Lowering her hands, she clasped them lightly before her sternum, forefingers raised and pressed together. “And now we have a foresighted vision of some of them attempting such foolishness again? Yes, the Netherhells are well aware of how strongly we of Darkhana oppose their ambitions . . . but right now, it is highly doubtful that they know that we know they are coming.

“It is best if we keep it that way. For now . . . we will observe. We will continue to find representatives of the Gods and Goddesses so that the Convocation can be reconvened. We will gather support, and lend covert aid to those who are at this time free to act more openly . . . and we will watch for any sign of such foolish attempts in the near future.” Parting her hands, she held one out to Guardian Shon. The other, she held out toward Aradin. “These two of our Brothers, Guardian-Witch Shon Tastra, and Witch Aradin Teral, are already tied into the efforts of the world’s Guardians to seek out the source of these visions and stop the demons in their tracks.

“You will report to Shon and his Guide Tastra as your primary contact . . . and if you cannot find either of them, you will report to Aradin and his Guide Teral. Mark the names and faces of these Hosts; seek and get to know their Guides. For those of you who have stayed within Darkhana, take solace in the work you do in the stead of those who must wander. Say whatever you will here in the Dark, but speak not a word of this in Life—let the demons think we know nothing! Let them think they catch us off guard, even as we set our snares and our traps.

“This is our world, and we will keep it that way.”

“Praise Dark Ana!” someone shouted. “Praise Darkhan!” someone else added. It was joined by a reverent, “For the world!” and an even louder, “For the love of the world!” The rest began chanting and singing, clasping hands and dancing as they swung back into their celebrations.

Serious plans would be laid later, but for now, the men and women, living Hosts and spirit Guides, needed something cheerful to do in the face of such disturbing news. The Dark was not the place to think of strong, unhappy thoughts. Not when a strong thought could become a force of will, and one’s will literally created the reality of this strange place.

Orana moved up beside Aradin, her hand touching his shoulder. “Sorry to put you on the spot like that, Aradin Teral,” she murmured, naming both him and his absent Guide. “But the Dark tells me you’ll actually be more involved than Shon Tastra, in your own way.”

Aradin accepted her warning with a slight nod. It often took him several moments of concentration, of focusing his thoughts and his will firmly enough to query the Dark and receive a response. He had only been a Witch for a little over a decade; Orana and her Guide Niel had been doing so since before the Shattering of Aiar, and no doubt could receive a response with a single, swift thought.

“I bow to your superior strategy, Sir Orana,” he returned, referring to her status as an Arbran Knight of renown. She had been born and raised a Darkhanan, and selected to be a Host, but her Guide was not, and had never been, a Darkhanan Witch. Aradin knew many of the details of how the two had come to be paired, such as the curse that kept them alive and effectively immortal. Resurrecting the Convocation of Gods and Man was their path to ending that curse, and the task which all Witches had pledged to assist, including himself. “For the time being, I am but a simple Hortimancer, striving to restore the Grove. My contact, the Guardian of the Grove, will be involved in some way. I will strive to be a liaison for the Guardians as well as for my fellow Witches.”

She tipped her head for a long moment, thinking quietly, then gave him a wry smile. Squeezing his shoulder, Witch Orana said, “Please pass along my apologies to your Keeper friend for the Shattering of Aiar and the mangling of her Grove. Let her know the Dark approves of the two of you working to make amends for the centuries of neglect in that place. You in particular should be extra sincere when kneeling in the Holiest Garden of Jinga and Kata. Your prayers will be heard in such a holy place, and judged accordingly.”

Okay . . . Bowing, Aradin excused himself from her presence. As much as he pitied and admired the other Witch, Orana Niel also unnerved him. Particularly at times like this. I’d give up quite a lot to avoid being so God-touched as those two . . . yet she’s just told me I’m more or less God-touched as well. Dark Ana, take pity on me and my Guide; all Teral ever wanted was to be an envoy and a world-traveling merchant, while all I’ve wanted is to be a successful Hortimancer.

Of course, they already were what they wanted to be, both him and Teral; the problem was, those occupations now came with world-changing headaches attached. Grove messes and Netherdemon invasions, and Goddess-blessed who-knows-what. He lifted his gaze to the dark mists swirling far overhead in lieu of actual stars. I hope at the very least You’re being entertained by all of this, he thought at his Patron Deities, and spared a thought for the Patrons of Katan as well. I’d hate for all this craziness to pass unappreciated.