The Grove

EIGHT

“More spinach, Teral?” Nannan asked their “newest” guest, smiling at him. Almost simpering.

“Thank you, but no more, please. It’s good,” Teral temporized as politely as he could, “but the sauce is a bit tart for my foreign taste buds, I’m afraid.” He softened his refusal with a slight smile, and Nannan set the bowl back down gently. She didn’t thump it as she had for Aradin, but then she hadn’t given the younger, blond priest such a coquettish pout, either.

Saleria didn’t think Nannan understood what Teral was. From the way Nannan was reacting, the fact that Teral was a part of Aradin, physically, had gone right over the housekeeper’s head. No doubt she just fastened on to the half-truth that he’s a fellow Darkhanan Witch-priest who is here accompanying Aradin on his visit . . . and completely ignored the part where they’re technically two men in one shared body.

Worse, she’s flirting with him. Saleria winced when Nannan rested her chin on her fingers and leaned his way, her lashes fluttering briefly over her deep blue eyes. Saleria tried not to think about the love-quadrangle she had worried over earlier. For her own sanity, that was not an option, not if she herself was going to be playing courting games with Aradin. Which she wanted to do; she did not lie to herself about that. Aradin was fascinating, intelligent, learned, and kind. Not to mention helpful, handsome, funny . . .

Clearing her throat, she spoke up before her housekeeper could continue her flirtations. She knew her choice of topic would only encourage such things, but it had to be discussed. At least, until Nannan realizes what Aradin-Teral is. Then the fecal matter will probably hit the aeration charm . . .

“Teral, I believe you were listening when I discussed a change in living arrangements with your Host earlier, yes?” she asked. “If you like, I could assist you in moving your and Aradin’s belongings to the Keeper’s house after supper.”

“Oh! I have just the room for you,” Nannan agreed quickly, smiling at the gray-and-brown-haired priest. “It’s the one right next to mine, with a lovely view of the neighbor’s garden.”

“Actually, I was thinking we could put Aradin Teral in the room next to mine,” Saleria said dryly. “I figure that would be more convenient, since they will be my apprentices.”

Nannan frowned at her briefly, then fluttered her free hand at her employer. “Oh, fine, you can put the young man next to you. This gentleman will be next to me . . . yes?”

“I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way, milady,” Teral stated, his tone quelling, but accompanied by a polite smile. “Where Aradin goes, I go. Where I go, Aradin goes.”

“Nonsense!” Nannan dismissed. “You may be travel companions, but you aren’t joined at the hip.”

Teral slanted a look at his hostess. Saleria couldn’t hear his voice in her mind, but she didn’t have to; his expression spoke volumes. “Nannan,” she said firmly, forcing the older woman to glance her way. “They are more than just ‘joined at the hip.’ Teral is dead. He is a ghost. What you see is Aradin’s body, shaped by holy magics to look like Teral’s, but only in a borrowed sense. They share their body, and just the one body alone, which means they only need one bed.”

“A . . . what?” Lifting her chin from her knuckles, Nannan stared back and forth between the two of them. Across the table from her, Daranen wisely kept quiet, but didn’t let her dawning realization stop him from serving himself another helping of roast duck.

“A guh . . . ? No,” she denied, shaking her head. The housekeeper looked back at Teral and shook her head again, faster. “No, he can’t be dead! Not in the holy house of the Grove Keeper! Kata and Jinga would never allow the dead to walk around! Your jest is not funny, young lady.”

“She does not jest. I am quite dead,” Teral informed her, cutting into his own meat with fork and knife. “My body was squished in half under a fallen tree, and in my last few minutes of life, I called upon my God and Goddess to transfer my spirit into the body of a young mage named Aradin, whom you have met. By holy magics I was able to join my spirit with his, rather than head straight for the Afterlife. It is the way of Darkhanan Witches to share the accumulated wisdom of the deceased Guide with the body and life of a younger Host.”

“But . . . you’re real,” Nannan asserted tentatively. She reached out, hesitated, then pushed on his forearm, felt the fabric of his beige-and-black sleeve. “You’re clearly alive—and you clearly need to eat, and drink . . . right?”

“This is Aradin’s body, not mine,” he corrected her gently. “I am simply caring for it in his absence. His spirit has gone off to commune with our fellow Witches, and he has left me in charge for the time being. For the sake of alleviating an even worse state of confusion—since our personalities and behaviors are not the same—I have used holy magic to reshape his body into a semblance of what mine used to look like . . . but my own body has long since rotted and returned to the soil. I’d like to think it’s been fertilizing some pretty flowers in the cemetery where it was buried. Pushing up daisies, as it were—I believe that’s an expression they use here in Katan for the bodies of the deceased, yes?”

Biting her lip to quell the urge to laugh, Saleria nodded. Teral continued blithely, urbane and charming even as he ruined Nannan’s grasp on her half-formed fantasies. The housekeeper’s look of crumbling hope and dismay only grew as he spoke.

“This body is Aradin’s. Mine has ceased to be. And I should say that Aradin’s body may not like the vinegar-sauce you used on the greens, but I find the herb stuffing and the basting of the duck absolutely delicious. He’ll be rather sorry he missed tasting this meal, I can tell you that.”

“But . . . You . . . ?” Nannan stared at him, then looked to Saleria for help, her brow furrowed and her mouth turned down at the corners. “He . . . ?”

“Nannan, the ways of worshipping other Gods and Goddesses are perfectly valid, however strange they may be, even if they are rarely encountered outside their homelands,” Saleria told her. “Aradin and Teral are two men sharing Aradin’s body; they are both envoys of their people, and holy priest-mages of fairly high rank. We will treat them as honored guests while they stay with us, and you will treat them with respect. Aradin the Living Hortimancer and Teral the Deceased Guide are staying here to assist me as we finally strive to restore order and peace to the Grove. That task is far more important than any . . . any flirtations that may have been considered.”

Like a lifeline, Nannan seized on that word. Arching her brows, she gave Saleria a disapproving look. “Oh, really? Isn’t that why you wanted to place that younger man in the room next to your own? I do have eyes in my head, and I have seen how flirtatious the two of you have been at the other meals.”

Teral chuckled at that, drawing her attention back to him. “True, but isn’t life itself meant for the living to enjoy, milady, not just endure?” he challenged her. He nodded at Saleria. “Our kind hostess, the Keeper of the Grove and thus one of the holiest beings in your empire, is also a lovely young lady, quite alive, and quite worthy of seeking out all the joys thereof. Given she tends the very place where your Holy Jinga and Kata were wed, I would think she has every right to seek out a romantic union of her own—perhaps even as an imperative, to further her holy calling.”

“That’s true, I do,” Saleria agreed, resting her chin on the back of her hand. Her pose was similar to Nannan’s earlier one, but far more relaxed than flirtatious. She gave Teral a grateful smile, glad he had neatly cut the argumentative legs out from under her housekeeper’s stance. “Not just any gentleman will do for me, of course, but I’ll never know which partner is right for me unless I enter and trod the steps of the courtship dance.”

“But . . . you’re dead,” Nannan asserted, glancing between the two before settling on the dark-haired Darkhanan again. “You can’t have a romance with anyone . . .”

“I could, but only if my Host, Aradin, agreed to it. And only if the lady herself agreed to it . . . and only if Aradin’s choice of romantic companion agreed to it.” Holding up his hand, he forestalled another protest from the plump housekeeper. “Suffice to say, I am not concerned that the odds are so heavily stacked against such a thing from happening. I have had my share of romances while I lived in my own body . . . and I have lived through the romances of my own Guide, back when I was alive and was Host to a fellow Witch-priestess.

“It works when everyone involved agrees . . . but it is now Aradin’s life, and Aradin’s choice, first and foremost. He, I think, would far rather choose Saleria, who is close to his own age and engaged in work similar to his preferences,” he concluded. “Romances work better when the partners are of a similar age.”

“Not to mention, you’ve been rather rude to him all along, so I doubt he’d agree to let you have Teral borrow his body for you to flirt with,” Saleria stated. That earned her a chiding look from the older Witch. Sighing, she refrained from rolling her eyes. “Pardon my bluntness, and forgive me for any offense.”

Nannan sat back in her chair and frowned at the table. “This is all very strange,” she muttered. “The dead should stay dead.”

Daranen spoke, joining the conversation. “The Laws of God and Man state that the ways of all Deities, and by extension Their servants, Their priesthoods, shall be respected in every land, so long as those ways cause no harm to their neighbors or their surroundings. Foreign Gods and Goddesses need not be worshipped in someone else’s land, but Their ways and servants are to be respected,” the scribe clarified. “To do less than show common respect for a servant of the Dual One, Darkhan and Dark Ana, is to do less than show respect for a servant of the Married Gods, Kata and Jinga.”

Saleria shrugged and spread her hands when Nannan glanced her way for support. “Daranen has it right. Even I learned that in my temple training, as part of our courses on how to behave as a holy emissary while traveling overseas. If it applies to a priest or priestess of Katan, then it applies in reverse to a priest, priestess, or Witch of Darkhana.”

Caught between three such clearly united forces, Nannan scowled for a long moment, then sighed roughly and slumped against the carved wooden slats of her seat. “Well, it’s still very strange. And very disappointing. And . . . and very strange!”

“You are of course free to feel that way, if you like,” Teral allowed lightly. “It is simply a foreign way of service and worship, and does not cause any harm to the worship or the ways of Kata and Jinga, however strange our Darkhanan ways may appear. Now, to get back to the original topic . . . as you may have noticed, Holiness,” he said, addressing Saleria once more, “neither I nor Aradin need help ‘moving’ our belongings. But I should return to the inn to close out our rental agreement.

“Milady Nannan,” he added, turning back to the housekeeper, “do you think there might be a bit of that delicious apple cake left over from last night? And if there is, could you perhaps have a slice waiting for me when I return, with that spicy-sweet sauce? It’ll be yet another treat my Host, Aradin, will have to miss out on, but I find I am enjoying most of your cooking, now that I am free to enjoy it directly rather than sensing it only secondhand.”

The housekeeper blushed and smiled tentatively, not completely immune to his charm despite Teral’s uncomfortable revelations. Saleria bit her lip again to keep from laughing. From what she had observed, Aradin had a different quality and style of charm, but both men were clearly used to smoothing their path diplomatically in their travels.

I can’t blame Nannan for being re-captivated, she decided, listening to her housekeeper promising to save him a piece. The older woman didn’t quite simper, but she wasn’t quite as dismayed as before, either. I do find Teral charming myself.

“Good morning, Nannan!”

“Aieee!”

Wits scrambled by sleep, it took Saleria a few moments to process the noises that had awakened her. When she did, she realized her housekeeper was now berating their house guest for scaring the older woman. Dragging the spare pillow over her head, Saleria tried to ignore the argument in the corridor outside her door.

With the feather-stuffed cushion muffling some of the sounds, she couldn’t hear any distinct words, but she could hear how cheerful Aradin sounded as he replied to Nannan’s scolding. Teasing her, from the sound of it. An involuntary smile curved her lips, and she stretched under the covers, luxuriating in the thought that maybe, just maybe, she could sleep in.

Nannan’s voice grew abruptly louder as she marched into the Keeper’s bedroom, “. . . and you’ll never be allowed to do anything of the sort, you—you foreigner!”

Oh, that does it! That was far too rude for her to ignore. Rolling over, Saleria flung her pillow at Nannan the moment she spotted the older woman. Shrieking and flinching as it hit her shoulder, Nannan clutched at her ample chest.

“Oh! Oh, how dare you?” she demanded, facing Saleria.

Pushing up onto her feet on the bed, Saleria towered over her housekeeper. She knew she looked ridiculous, with her hair in a tangled mess and her night-tunic barely covering her thighs, but she had had enough. “How dare you, Nannan of the family Bourain?” Saleria demanded. Two steps moved her to the edge of the bed, where she balanced and glared. “I told you to treat Aradin Teral as an honored guest in this house. Yet you have done nothing but insult and berate him—and for nothing more than giving you a polite greeting.”

“But the man is a—” Nannan protested.

Saleria cut her off, jabbing her finger at the housekeeper. “You will attend the morning prayers in the cathedral today. You will say the Prayers of Penitence—all eight of them—and you will do it twice over. You will do one round of them as you apologize to Holy Kata for disturbing the tranquility of Her Keeper’s house, and for failing to be hospitable to an honored guest. You will do the second round as you apologize to Holy Jinga for lacking a sense of humor, and a sense of grace under pressure.

“You are not the Grove Keeper,” she added sternly. “You are the housekeeper. You keep this house and its contents clean and tidy, you wash the linens, you make the beds, you cook excellent food, and you are supposed to make all visitors, guests, and residents feel welcome. Most of the time you do all these things well, but today, you have failed.

“Attend to your penance after breakfast,” Saleria ordered the older woman, “and when you have come to accept that your actions have been rude and thus unacceptable behavior for the importance of your station, you may tender an apology to our holy guest. I will not have you lie to Aradin Teral before that point in time, but I hope that you will reflect on your poor behavior as you pray, and gain enlightenment as to what went wrong.”

Nannan bowed her plaited head in subdued obedience. It wasn’t often that Saleria used the “priestly voice of authority” on anyone, but she had trained on how to use it, and its sparing use made it all the more powerful in its impact. When she chose to exercise her authority as the Keeper of the Holy Grove, there were only four who outranked her: the King of Katan in all matters secular, the Arch Priest of Katan in all matters pertaining to the running of the Church of Katan . . . and Kata and Jinga Themselves in all matters religious. She still had to answer to others in terms of her budget, but then not even the King of Katan was above the headaches of fiscal meetings.

Stepping off the bed, Saleria softened her tone as she gently touched the older woman on the arm. “I know you’ve come to think of the three of us as a family, and yourself as the mother figure between you, me, and Daranen. I appreciate that you do feel protective of me, Nannan, and that you no doubt wish to guard what you think are my best interests. But in less than one week, I have awakened to the untenable neglect which the Grove has been subjected to all these years.

“And it is not just that I see the problem clearly now,” she continued, trying to coax the habit-reluctant woman to her view. “It is that I now have a solution to the problem at hand, thanks to the understanding that Aradin Teral brings.”

Sighing, Nannan mumbled under her breath, “But he’s an outlander. How could he have the Grove’s best interest at heart?”

She didn’t bother with further coaxing. That wasn’t going to sway the housekeeper’s heart, or her emotional instincts. Only the most blunt truth would work, Saleria guessed. “Because he swore a mage-oath in front of me to do no harm to the Grove or its rightful Keepers while he is here. That’s how both of us can trust him, Nannan.”

Thankfully, the blond outlander lurking by her doorway did not object to Saleria’s choice of reason. Not that it wasn’t the truth, but it wasn’t all of the truth. She trusted him as a fellow priest, too, and for other, half-formed reasons. Part of it came from talking with Guardian Shon Tastra, but part of it was just how well he and she were getting along.

“Can you be kind and polite to him from now on?” Saleria asked her housekeeper. Nannan sighed, but nodded. “Good. Go attend to breakfast for both of us, and remember to do your penance afterward. Since I’m now thoroughly awake,” she added dryly, “I think I can get dressed and ready myself without any further prodding today.”

Nodding, Nannan headed for the door. She slowed at the sight of Aradin, but dipped her head as he shifted out of her way. “. . . Sorry, milord.”

“May your Gods bless you for your kindnesses,” he returned politely.

Saleria lifted her brows at that, but didn’t say a word until after Nannan had vanished from view. Moving up to the door, she murmured under her breath, “It’s a very good thing that woman never took Deacon Parella’s classes on How to Insult People Politely.”

“Hmm?” Aradin asked. Most of his attention was caught by the long, muscular legs revealed by the hem of her short sleeping tunic, but he managed to drag enough of it free to look up at her and ask a more coherent question. “What brought that up?”

She knew what had held his attention. It was obvious where his gaze had been, and the implied compliment warmed her skin. “Deacon Parella was one of my instructors at the temple. She taught us acolytes that a truly good insult sounds like a compliment,” Saleria told him, striving to ignore her blush and stick to the topic at hand. “You just asked our God and Goddess to bless Nannan for her kindnesses . . . implying that the opposite should befall her for any unkind acts.”

Mouth twisting in a rueful smile, he shook his head. “It was sincerely meant, though I do see your point. But Witches are strongly encouraged to let go of grudges; such things threaten to poison the relationship between Host and Guide. Teral says our task is to share the wisdom of accumulated lifetimes with any and all who need it. Holding a grudge would not be wise, and would definitely prevent sharing our knowledge with the ‘any and all’ part.”

“A wise way to approach the matter,” she agreed.

About to say more, she realized Aradin’s gaze had drifted downward again. Down to the hemline of her night tunic. There were several responses to that gaze she could make. Had it been Daranen, she’d have muttered something about needing to get dressed and would have retreated. Had it been Deacon Shanno . . . No, never. No way is that little twit ever getting a look at my legs, she knew. But Aradin . . . and Teral? She had to include the older Witch, even if she couldn’t see him. But mostly it was Aradin she could see studying her with those hazel eyes framed by those dark blond lashes. Aradin, whose masculine interest and appreciation warmed her self-confidence as a woman.

So she settled for a simple, pointed, and flirtation-laced, “See anything you like?”

Aradin flicked his gaze up to her face. “From this angle, yes,” he admitted, giving her a slow smile. “But I’ll need to see your legs from several other positions, too, to be absolutely sure.”

Tipping her head back, she laughed. She hadn’t even been awake a fraction of an hour yet, and already she had ridden a wild ride of emotions. From being annoyed at how she was awakened, to unhappy with Nannan’s attitude, from feeling stern about seeing the insults stopped, to flattered amusement . . . the lattermost feeling was a definite improvement on her morning. She felt him lean close and lowered her chin in time to receive a kiss on her cheek . . . and an arm slipped around her waist.

Warm and male, fully dressed for the day, Aradin cuddled her close. It felt remarkably good to be cuddled in his arms, up against his side. Natural, in fact. Saleria gave in to the urge to snuggle close, enjoying the intimacy of his embrace.

“You are far too appealing like this,” he murmured after several seconds. He kissed her brow and sighed. “Unfortunately, we have far too much work to do to dally in the mornings. You with your morning clearing rounds, I with my scanning wands, needing to take readings from all the plants and the wickerwork of the Bower. But one of these evenings, milady, I’m going to want to see your legs again, from several different angles . . . and quite possibly the rest of you, if you’ll agree.”

She sighed, reluctant to admit he was right, but knowing she needed to admit it. “Mornings are definitely out . . . but you’re right. Evenings are a possibility.”

He gave her a last squeeze and started to pull away, which meant the kiss she aimed for his lips ended up on his chin instead. He stilled for a moment, lips curving in a slow, surprised, but warm smile. Giving her shoulders a little squeeze, he let her go. “I’ll see you at the breakfast table.”

Nodding, Saleria stepped back fully into her bedchamber and closed the door. Normally, she breakfasted in a lounging robe, but today she would get dressed first. Not because she felt the need to be fully clothed, but as a concession to Nannan’s sense of propriety. In Katan, men and women could couple without stigma if they were responsible about contraceptive amulets and such, but not in the streets, and not at the table.

Contraceptive amulets. Bollocks, she thought, wincing. I’ll need to get an amulet, won’t I? Because if I’m completely honest with myself . . . that comment about him wanting to see me and my legs in many other positions was rather appealing. As well as amusing.

With a grin at that thought, she moved toward the dressing closet to find a fresh Keeper’s uniform to don. It was rather nice being thought of as an attractive woman, and not just a priestess.

“Holy Saleria, at the Healer’s?” Deacon Shanno called out. Wincing, Saleria turned to find the thin, blond priest clutching a hand over his chest. “I hope it’s nothing serious!”

She finished shutting the door to the Groveham Healer-mage’s shop and composed a quick, quelling reply. “It isn’t serious, and even if it were, it wouldn’t be your business. God and Goddess bless you for your kindnesses and courtesies, Deacon Shanno.”

Saleria meant it as a parting comment, but he didn’t let it end there. Instead, the young priest turned to join her as she strode down the street. “On the contrary: The health and well-being of the Grove Keeper is the business of every man and woman in Groveham. Why, without you, who would we turn to in the advent of another perambulating peony attack, hmm?”

I’ll lay odds he’s just trying to suggest himself as a backup for that, she told herself. Out loud, she merely said, “Groveham will be fine. Shouldn’t you be preparing for midday prayers?”

“Oh, I have time,” the young man dismissed, flicking a hand. His mouth curved in a smug little smile. “Actually, I’ve just heard the juiciest news from the High Temple itself this morning.”

“Oh?” Saleria asked, curious in spite of herself.

“Yes, it seems that, very soon, you won’t be the only person talking directly with our Gods. Well, you and the Arch Priest,” he dismissed. “I heard that the King and Council are working on getting the old Convocation of the Gods resurrected! I have an aunt who works closely with Lady Apista; you know, the Councillor for the Temples? And that it involves finding a special someone who can bridge the concerns of the Katani nation with our Patron Deities directly. The details are all a big secret, of course, but my aunt did say they were working hard on the problem.”

Her first thought was that if it was truly “all a big secret” then Shanno shouldn’t have known about any of it. Her second thought came with the dawning force of comprehension. He has an aunt he talks with about state secrets—therefore a close aunt—who works with the Councillor for the Temples, a high-ranked priestess-politician. That must be why he was promoted to Deacon when he doesn’t exactly inspire thoughts of maturity . . . and no doubt is why he keeps thinking so highly of himself. Of course he would, with nepotism on his side . . .

Bollocks to that, she thought, giving him a polite nod as they parted company at one of the side streets. It’s a good thing he isn’t on any apprenticeship list for the Keeper’s position. I wouldn’t trust him to keep silent on some of the more personal prayer requests, never mind huge secrets.

That was another of the reasons why the Keeper did not intermingle publicly. That way all petitions were kept private, and thus respectful of the requests. It also meant she didn’t have to say no to anyone in person. With written requests, a petitioner never had to face the sting of a rejection. There were certain things which, by the Laws of God and Man, she could not request Kata and Jinga to achieve through prayer. The destruction of other Gods, the decimation of an entire population, the death of a particular person . . . and other, subtler things.

Somehow, I don’t think Shanno would hesitate to push magical power into a prayer for personal wealth and personal gain. Or to force a specific, named person to do something against their free will, such as fall in love with a petitioner. Or worse, with him, using the power of prayer for his personal gain. Though to be fair, he’s not yet ready to settle on any one young lady, from what I’ve seen.

“Look, it’s the Keeper!” someone called out as she passed the entrance to one of the town’s four inns.

“Is that really her? She looks so young.”

“We’re not supposed to follow her—some nonsense or other about custom—but I heard that she . . .”

Saleria moved a little faster, looking neither right nor left. She let her feet carry her out of hearing range of the conversation. Another problem Shanno has caused. He’s too caught up in the prestige of being a priest to grasp that power comes with more obligations and responsibilities than privileges . . . and I am wasting too much of my time thinking about him. Setting thoughts of the young deacon aside, she turned another corner and hurried back toward her home. Her midmorning break would soon be over, and she would have a pile of sorted petitions to pray over.

She reached the main street leading to the Keeper’s House just in time to see Aradin coming from the direction of the market, and paused to await his approach. From the smile lighting up his face, he had been successful in gaining the centrifuge he wanted from the glazier, Remas. She didn’t see it being carried anywhere, but now that she knew about his cloak, it was only a short guess for Saleria to realize where he had put it: into the Dark, where he wouldn’t have to physically carry the awkwardly shaped metal stand or its carefully balanced, hand-blown flasks.

“Hello again, Saleria,” he greeted her when he reached her side. They started walking together, matching strides fairly well without much effort. A couple children darted around them, hollering something about a game of tag. Aradin glanced at her. “Did you get whatever you were looking for?”

Saleria blushed a little. The anklet was hidden inside her boot, but she was aware of the smooth bit of carved stone resting against her skin with each step. She hadn’t worn one in a while, and had just let the previous one expire before finally removing it at roughly the year-and-a-half mark, when such things tended to run out of magic. “Yes. I did. I trust you got what you wanted as well?”

He grinned. “Not everything I’ve wanted recently, but I did get the centrifuge, yes.”

That was exactly the sort of flirting her housekeeper had been upset about. Saleria wasn’t the least bit offended by it. Not when she was enjoying a level of attention she hadn’t known since moving to Groveham. Acolytes were discouraged from forming any sort of long-term relationship, since that could interfere with their rather lengthy studies, but there had been a span of time where she, as first a deacon, then a fully-fledged priestess, had flirted occasionally with her fellow Katani. Even courted a little. But being the Keeper meant losing the time for such things.

Having Aradin Teral assist her with the Grove’s needs meant there was actually a possibility of time for such things now. Flirtations. Courtship. Lovemaking. She felt her cheeks warm again and cleared her throat. “I, ah . . .” For a moment, her mind went blank, then she said the first thing she could think of. “I’ve been packing for the trip. Guardian Shon Tastra suggested it. I don’t know what to expect, so I’ve been packing and repacking, and I’m not quite sure how much is enough, or too much, to take with me.

“I was wondering if I could get your advice tonight,” she finished. “After the Grove has been tended, and everything is quiet.”

“I’ve never packed for this sort of trip myself,” he reminded her, avoiding the word Convocation since they were still in public. “I don’t know what sort of help I’d be.”

“Perhaps, but you’ve traveled farther than I have, and have served as an envoy to many lands,” she said.

They passed a mother gently leading a toddler by one hand, the other holding an empty basket, no doubt on their way to the marketplace. One day, Saleria would be free of her duties and could contemplate having a child or two. For now, she could only look, long for a brief moment, and get back to the topic at hand.

“I know the Gods see us at all times, even when we’re at our worst, but there will be representatives from . . . from hundreds of lands. I have no wish to let down the Empire by appearing less than my best. But neither do I care to haul around a full chest of clothes and accessories.” She slanted her companion a pointed look. “Unlike some people, I have no ready access to a magical, infinite, portable storage room everywhere I go.”

He grinned at her teasing, taking no offense. “How very true. I’d offer to hold on to your goods for you on this one . . . but I must remain behind by the very nature of the journey.” They reached the front entrance of the Keeper’s house. Aradin opened the door, but leaned close so he could murmur in her ear. “But if you do want my advice, whatever it’s worth . . . I would be happy to visit you this evening. Your pack is in your bedchamber, is it not?”

That was definitely a flirtatious tone in his voice. And when it dipped deeper than usual on the word bedchamber, Saleria felt her body respond to the low baritone, almost bass, tones. Clearing her throat, she replied, “Yes. It is.”

“I look forward to being invited inside.” Again, his voice dipped, this time on the last word.

Blushing, Saleria hurried her steps a little to give herself some breathing room, since her skin now felt a little flushed, the air a little hot, despite the cooling charms stitched beneath the hems of her garments.

Behind her, unheard anywhere other than inside Aradin’s head, Teral chuckled. (I think she’s a little rusty on her flirtations. She did start it, but . . .)

Aradin smiled to himself. He nodded to Saleria when she excused herself to use the downstairs refreshing room, and decided to take advantage of the one up near his bedchamber. (I think she’s cute when she’s flustered. But then I also think she’s gorgeous when she’s in her element, like she was this morning.)

(You sure that wasn’t due to those legs of hers?) Teral gently teased his Host.

(That helped,) Aradin admitted with aplomb. (But seeing her in full priestly power . . . ? Magnificent.)

(Falling for her just a little?) Teral asked.

(Falling for her just a lot,) Aradin confessed. Long accustomed to his Guide’s constant presence, he took care of the needs of his body without hesitation. (She’s smart, she’s funny, she’s peaceful and wise, and she holds a position of great responsibility, even authority, yet she’s down-to-earth and unpretentious.)

(Yes,) Teral agreed. (I suspect she’d be as wonderful a person if she were a mere temple cleaner. But even then, she’d probably be promoted to a place where her skills and leadership would be better utilized and appreciated.)

Aradin moved to wash his hands at the sink. Unlike lever-operated spigots found elsewhere in the world, these Katani used cork-stuffed pipes. It was a bit odd, and one couldn’t really control the volume of water, but at least there was a lever for controlling the heating spell. He noticed that today’s flow didn’t feel quite as warm as it had felt last night, even when he pushed it to the far left. He made a mental note to ask Saleria who attended to such spells in her home, herself, or some hired mage.

(She said she was going to get some information from the, ah, Department of Prophecies on anything pertaining to the Grove, and why it has ended up this way. I hope she hears back from them soon,) he stated. He corked the faucet shut, then frowned in thought. (Teral, the prophecy mentioning the Convocation of Gods and Man, “The Synod Gone” . . . did any of that sound like it mentioned a Netherhell invasion to you?)

(Possibly. I’ll fetch it out for you to study . . . in your copious free time,) his Guide added as Aradin dried his hands. (Try not to spend all night making love to her. Neither of you can afford to sleep in, in the morning.)

(You have great faith in my seductive abilities. I’m not planning on making it into her bed tonight. But I am hoping for at least a few more kisses,) Aradin said. Exiting the room, he went downstairs to rejoin Saleria at the back door. (Hand me the analyzer kit, will you?)

(Which wand would you like?) Teral asked him, using the holy light which all of their kind could summon in the Dark to read the little instruction booklet that had come with the case. (General-purpose sampler, or something more specific, like the power-flow tracer?)

(General-purpose sampler, I guess, until we get to the Bower. I’d like more samples of the plants and such on the path to the heart of the Grove, and particularly a sample of the thettis-bug vines. If I can figure out how the two plants and the insects are melded together, I might be able to figure out how to calm or even tame them. I won’t hold my breath over being able to separate them back into their original three species, though.)

(That would probably be futile, yes. Let’s see . . . you would want . . . the bronze and carnelian wand, I think. The kit says it’s useful for discerning properties of plants and animals,) the older Witch decided.

Teral handed the tablet and the selected wand to his Host, who extracted them from his Witchcloak sleeve, only to tuck the tablet into the pouch hung on his belt. The orange-tipped wand, barely the size of a grease pencil, Aradin kept in his hand. Saleria wasn’t yet at the back door, but she joined him within a few moments, carrying the satchel that held Daranen’s neatly penned list of prayer petitions for the day. Slipping the strap for it over her head, she unlocked the back door and escorted Aradin outside, then opened up the shed to hand him one of the pruning staves.

“Mind if I take a cutting from that vine made from thettis, morning glory, and some sort of bug?” he asked her. “I’d like to study it in more detail, and compare it with my notes on what I’ve scanned elsewhere in the Grove this morning.”

“Take what you need,” Saleria said, gesturing for him to take the lead. “Just don’t let it set down roots.”

She didn’t seem as cheerful as she had earlier. Aradin glanced back at her as he headed down the path that led to the Bower, noting the slight but discernible slump in her shoulders, the way her gaze aimed more often down than out and up. “Is something wrong?”

Saleria sighed, thinking of what Daranen had told her when she had fetched the day’s work. “There’s a special petition in among the rest. It’s from a young boy who lost his parents. He’s . . . not openly welcomed by his aunt and uncle-in-law. In fact, it sounds like they’re openly resentful of the extra mouth to feed. He wants me to pray to Kata and Jinga to bring his parents back. It could be the complaining of a child who is exaggerating things, but it could also be the truth. Either way . . .”

“A moral dilemma,” Aradin agreed. He returned most of his attention to the path, but being a fellow priest, he did know why she wasn’t happy. “Attempting to pray for such things is forbidden by the Laws of God and Man, if I remember my lessons right.”

“It is. A Healer can pray for divine aid when healing someone mortally wounded or freshly dead, attempting to revive them within moments of their demise, but those long departed?” She shook her head, then sighed roughly. “Nor can I pray for Kata and Jinga to change the minds of his next-family. We are given free will by the Gods, and it is the one gift They cannot, and will not, take back. My prayers are backed by magic. They can literally move . . . well, not mountains, but small hills have been known to shift. Little ones.” She gestured with a hand down by her knee, and flashed him a rueful smile, her sense of humor tainted by her regret over the petition in her satchel.

He smiled back, enjoying the joke, since it leavened the otherwise somber conversation. “So what can you do?”

Something rustled in the bushes. Both froze, gripping their staves and looking all around for an attack. After a moment, an ambulatory marigold waddled into view. One of the bushes fought back, its branches gripping at the plant. The marigold smacked it with its leaves, flailing back and forth. Bits of greenery ripped off and drifted down before the marigold managed to free itself and continue on its way.

Saleria relaxed a little, though she wondered where the others had gone. Usually, they moved as a pack. They moved slower in pockets of sunshine, often stopping to set down roots and replenish themselves with nourishment from the soil. As she watched, the marigold hit just such a patch of mossy, sunlit ground, stopped, and wiggled its roots into the soil with a little shake.

“What can I do?” she asked, repeating his question. “I can pray that he finds himself in the tender care of people who love him for who he is, and encourage him for who he can be. I can pray that he finds help and mentors. That he has a good home to abide in, with food and clothes and a good education leading to a good career. I can pray that he finds friends who will help him, support him, and stand up beside him whenever he needs to stand up for himself, lending him their encouragement and their support as he grows up and becomes a man. If I set my prayers to target no one . . . then that will be allowed by the Laws of God and Man. The energy may be more diffuse when it acts, but it is free to encourage what is already potentially there.

“And who knows, maybe the diffused prayer will encourage his aunt and uncle-in-law to open their minds and soften their hearts. Maybe it will soothe his feelings of loss and pain so that he can see they do care about him; hopefully, they do, but if not, maybe it will do both. Or maybe it’ll open the hearts of other kin to offer to take him in, where an extra mouth to feed won’t be as much of a resented burden.” She shrugged, mounting the next little hill.

Ah, there are the rest of the marigolds, she thought, watching them camped in another clearing . . . to the visible disgruntlement of some of the already established plants. There was a bit of leaf-slapping and branch-smacking as certain patches fought for the best sunlight, but otherwise they were relatively peaceful. Glancing at Aradin, she watched one of his sandy blond brows raise in that neat little trick of his, and smiled at his confusion. Personally, she found the marigolds’ antics to be more amusing than annoying. As she had mentioned to him before, not everything in the Grove was outright dangerous.

Murmuring a harvesting spell, Aradin wafted some of the torn bits of foliage over to the path. Pulling out wide-mouthed sample jars, he sorted them with another spell and a tap of the carnelian-tipped wand in his hand, then scooped them into the glass containers, which went back into his sleeves. “I’ll want to analyze these as well. I’ll try to work quietly while you pray. If you finish with a little extra time to spare, you can help examine the Bower structure with the, ah . . . Teral says that one’s the amethyst-tipped wand. The readings from that should help draw a map on the tablet of the various power conduits running through the trees. From there, we can better determine what spells were woven into the structure, but forgotten long ago by the various Keepers.”

“Right. I think I should take that or a similar wand to the eastern locus tree, too, at midday,” she offered. “Maybe if you and I use that air-walking spell of yours, and trace the paths of the branches and roots more directly?”

“That should work,” he agreed, smiling briefly at her. “I could pull out some of the other wands, too, on the way, maybe get a few more samples. Particularly as we get closer to the tree, to see if a particular locus rift’s energies have a greater impact closer to the source.”

Saleria nodded. “I’m very grateful you’re here to help with this, Aradin. Until the other night when Guardian Kerric called, I didn’t even know that the waxy nodules on the underside of the Bower glowed. I was never here in the dark . . . yet I feel like I was lost in the dark, until you came.”

“Sometimes it just works out that way. Teral says you shouldn’t berate yourself for what happened in the past. Learn from mistakes and make amends when you finally notice the neglect. That’s all any of us can do,” Aradin relayed.

She nodded again. “It may take telling my brain that several more times before it sinks in, and I don’t always succeed in believing it, but I do know that all I can do sometimes is move on.”