by Jean Johnson
PRAISE FOR JEAN JOHNSON AND THE SONS OF DESTINY NOVELS
“Jean Johnson’s writing is fabulously fresh, thoroughly romantic, and wildly entertaining. Terrific—fast, sexy, charming, and utterly engaging. I loved it!”
—Jayne Ann Krentz, New York Times bestselling author
“Cursed brothers, fated mates, prophecies, yum! A fresh new voice in fantasy romance, Jean Johnson spins an intriguing tale of destiny and magic.”
—Robin D. Owens, RITA Award–winning author
“What a debut! I have to say it is a must-read for those who enjoy fantasy and romance . . . Jean Johnson can’t write them fast enough for me!”
—The Best Reviews
“A paranormal adventure series that will appeal to fantasy and historical fans, plus time-travel lovers as well . . . It’s like Alice in Wonderland meets the Knights of the Round Table and you’re never quite sure what’s going to happen next. Delightful entertainment.”
—Romance Junkies
“An intriguing new fantasy romance series . . . A welcome addition to the genre. Cunning . . . Creative . . . Lovers of magic and fantasy will enjoy this fun, fresh, and very romantic offering.”
—Time Travel Romance Writers
“A must-read.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“An intriguing world . . . An enjoyable showcase for an inventive new author. Jean Johnson brings a welcome voice to the romance genre.”
—The Romance Reader
“An intriguing and entertaining tale of another dimension . . . Quite entertaining.”
—Fresh Fiction
Titles by Jean Johnson
SHIFTING PLAINS
BEDTIME STORIES
FINDING DESTINY
THE SHIFTER
The Sons of Destiny
THE SWORD
THE WOLF
THE MASTER
THE SONG
THE CAT
THE STORM
THE FLAME
THE MAGE
The Guardians of Destiny
THE TOWER
THE GROVE
Theirs Not to Reason Why
A SOLDIER’S DUTY
AN OFFICER’S DUTY
HELLFIRE
THE
GROVE
JEAN JOHNSON
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) LLC
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This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.
Copyright © 2013 by Jean Johnson.
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eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-59194-9
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Johnson, Jean, 1972–
The grove / Jean Johnson.
pages cm—(Guardians of destiny ; 2)
ISBN 978-0-425-26224-5 (pbk.)
1. Witches—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3610.O355G86 2013
813'.6—dc23 2013032752
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation trade paperback edition / December 2013
Cover art by Don Sipley.
Cover design by George Long.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
Contents
Praise
Titles by Jean Johnson
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgments
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
Song of the Guardians of Destiny
Acknowledgments
I know that when the Sons of Destiny series ended, a lot of readers requested more of the Corvis brothers. More stories, more appearances, just plain more. And I said, “No.” Mostly, I said “No” because I was not planning on writing any more stories wherein the eight brothers and their wives were central characters, the heroes and heroines of the stories. Then I snuck in a cameo of Koranen and Danau, and even of Morganen, into my anthology of erotically revised fairy tales, Bedtime Stories—specifically into “Snow White and the Seven Dwarves”—but they weren’t the main characters there, either.
That’s pretty much how this series will go. We’ll see old familiar faces, or for those of you new to both series, hopefully they’ll be intriguing people whose backstories you’ll want to know. But they’re not the main characters, and I know that may disappoint some readers. From my perspective, everyone has a story to tell. Sometimes it’ll be an utterly fascinating, gripping tale. Sometimes it’ll be a bit more plebian, or even downright boring. Hopefully, these new heroes and heroines will entertain you somewhere between the first two, at the very least.
Anyway, my thanks to my beta ladies on this, and to you, my readers, for being willing to try a new series. There are so many stories I want to tell, so many new and interesting people to meet and places to explore, I cannot always come back to familiar faces or stick around in favorite territories. But I’ll always try to produce a really good story nonetheless.
Jean
ONE
Calm the magics caught in thrall:
Put your faith in strangers’ pleas,
Keeper, Witch, and treasure trove;
Ride the wave to calm the trees,
Servant saves the sacred Grove.
WESTERN KATAN
Aradin Teral eyed the priest tottering with uneven steps from altar to altar in the Westraven Chapel, located in the heart of the Katan continent. Prelate Tomaso was ninety if he was a day, with hair not only white but wispy and thinned with age, a face with more seams than a student tailor’s practice piece, and two canes to hold himself upright. Still, the man was revered by the locals, some of whom stood in the center of the eight altars. The rest, including Aradin, stood or sat on the benches placed outside the eight altars and watched while the new father toted his infant daughter from altar to altar in the priest’s wobbling wake.
In accordance with local customs, the newborn was to be blessed by both the God Jinga and His Wife Kata at each pair of Their four altars, representing the four seasons, four aspects, four this, and four that. It was an interesting religion, one of the older ones around, and apparently a conglomeration of two individual sets of worship
combined many centuries ago into a single faith to unify two nations into one. Enough time had passed that the two different styles of worship for the local God and Goddess had been successfully and smoothly blended. Normally, Aradin would enjoy it, as he enjoyed learning about any manner of new culture or faith in his travels.
This time, however, he wasn’t traveling abroad for the usual reasons. If he had been, Aradin would not have been in a large chapel like this, watching a newborn receive an elaborate set of blessings. The Darkhanan sighed under his breath, wondering how long this service would take. At the moment, the most elaborately decorated, flower-wreathed altars were the ones for summer, given the actual time of year down here below the Sun’s Belt. Unfortunately, the age-stooped priest was only just now moving on to the blessings for autumn. Those would be followed by the rites for winter, and then spring, before closing the “year” with one last rite at the summer altar.
(This won’t do at all,) Aradin thought. Not to himself alone, but to the Guide he bore inside the Doorway of his soul. (He’s kind and thoughtful and everyone respects him . . . but I seriously doubt Prelate Tomaso could survive a trip through the Dark. He’d be liable to die physically in there from the shock of it. That’s never a good idea.)
Teral shrugged mentally. It was all the older male could do, since Aradin was the one in command of their shared body. (So we look at the next on our list. Or better yet, ask him who he thinks would be a good representative before their local Gods. Just don’t mention politics.)
(I have to. We almost picked Priestess Tenathe. If we hadn’t been there the day word of the Corvis brothers’ claim for independence reached her ears, we would’ve picked a woman enraged enough to sabotage everything,) Aradin reminded his Guide.
(Yes, yes, I know,) Teral dismissed, clasping a mental hand on his Host’s mental shoulder. (The Seers have predicted this Nightfall place will be the focus for the new Convocation of the Gods, if all goes well, and it is vitally important that Orana Niel speaks before the reconvened Convocation. But it’s hardly our fault the Katani government cannot stand these Nightfallers.)
(Only the politically active ones,) Aradin thought back, snorting softly under his breath. (I don’t envy Cassua, having to deal with the Mendhites. They’ve been seeking a Living Host since before the Aian Convocation fell.)
(Heh, feel sorry for our Brothers and Sisters who have to pick out a Mekhanan priest,) Teral joked back, though it wasn’t much of a joke. Official Katani policy might have been anti-Nightfall, but at least this was a civilized and polite land. The kingdom of Mekhana was not. Or rather, its government was not.
The priest’s voice, wavering but rich with belief, rose and fell in cadences that were familiar, even if the rituals themselves were not. Both males could understand the words being said; Aradin wore a translation pendant, which allowed him to read, write, hear, and speak in a specific language—in this case, Katani. But while the actual words of the blessings and aspects being invoked were unfamiliar, there was something soothing about being in a fellow priest’s presence.
Then again, after having spent almost four months roaming this land, Aradin and his Guide, Teral, were becoming increasingly familiar with the Katani way of life.
Like Darkhana, Katan had a God and a Goddess. The priesthoods of both lands accepted both males and females, mages and non-mages. Then again, both lands had a fairly even ratio of one mage born for every fifty without any added powers, their numbers more or less evenly divided among males and females alike. Of course, the Katani religion was a bit more lighthearted about some things, following in the wake of their so-called Boisterous God Jinga, who served as counterpart and foil for the more Serene Goddess Kata.
Back home, their God was Darkhan, the slain deity who had formerly been the Elder Brother Moon. Millennia ago, His highest priestess, Dark Ana, had bound her very life to His out of love and worship. When the third and farthest moon had been destroyed by demonic efforts, shattering His original power base, she had managed to salvage the God of their ancient people. Now, He served as the God of the Dead, He Who Guides Lost Souls to the Afterlife.
The high priestess’ sacrifice had directly aided the world’s effort to thwart an invasion attempt by the denizens of the Netherhells, and the upwelling of faith and gratitude had elevated her to Goddess level, forever bound to the Dead God. A new faith had been born, rising out of the ashes of the old, and the people of Darkhana had moved on. That background and its resulting mythos didn’t exactly lend itself to an overly cheerful or buoyant religion, though the Darkhanan faith wasn’t completely somber.
Since all lives, all souls around the world went through the cycle of being born, eventually dying, and of traveling through the Dark on their way to the Afterlife, home of the Gods, Darkhanan Witches didn’t think of themselves as being the one true religion, or the only faith worth following. Their entire philosophy when traveling abroad was based around being an adjunct to whatever beliefs a person might hold while they were alive, and an advocate for that person when they were sent to the Gods for judgment on how they had lived their lives, whether that judgment would end in a punishment or a reward.
(We celebrate life, and we do not fear death,) Teral murmured, following his Host’s sub-thoughts. The newborn squirmed a little in her father’s arms, emitting a mehhh meh sound that said she would need nursing soon, but otherwise cooperated. (So while this ceremony is going on a bit long compared to some we’ve seen . . . it’s an auspicious day whenever we can celebrate life, even if it’s in a foreign way.)
(Dark Ana, you’re feeling preachy today,) Aradin groaned. He stifled another sigh, since he didn’t want to seem impatient or bored with the proceedings.
(I’m feeling my mortality, such as it is,) Teral admitted. (Which is odd, because I died in my fifties, and not my nineties—as you well know—but I suppose it’s just a touch of envy, seeing this aged gentleman still getting around, doing what he was ordained to do.)
(I should be so lucky, living to be so old,) Aradin replied, irritation fading as quickly as it had risen. It had to fade; if it didn’t, their shared life would have quickly become unbearable. Both men had lived together, two spirits in the younger man’s body, for well over a decade now. Learning tolerance was one of the key requirements for being a Darkhanan Witch, if an unspoken one.
(Well, you won’t be that much older in a few moments,) Teral pointed out, looking through Aradin’s hazel eyes, (because it looks like the ceremony is coming to an end.)
Sure enough, as the priest’s voice wavered and rose in a final benediction, the gathered worshippers chanted a mass, “. . . Witnessed!” that rang off the vaulted ceiling. Naturally, it startled the infant, who immediately began squalling. The father brought her over to the mother, who had been placed in a cushioned seat of honor at the center of the eight altars. While the new parents fussed gently over the infant, the deacon, a sort of junior assistant-priestess, urged all the witnesses to head for the tables laden with food around the outer edge of the church, food which everyone else had brought as an offering to the Gods and to the new child.
Not hungry, Aradin watched the locals mingle and gossip. He smiled and dipped his head in a friendly way when people came near, but otherwise dismissed his presence as being “. . . just here to chat with Prelate Tomaso” and “I’m in no hurry; I’ll get to my business once you’re all done celebrating this new life.”
One of the older women sat down next to him after a while and proceeded to talk Aradin’s ear off about this, that, the other, all of it local gossip about the family with the newborn, their family members, the history of the village . . . all things which Aradin had no clue about. Patience was another trait favored by Darkhanan Witches, as was politeness. Though he hadn’t originally intended to become a Witch-priest, he had learned how to be patient, polite, and kind. Which meant listening to the elderly woman prattle on until her middle-aged daughter came to co
llect her when the post-blessing party began to wind down.
(I’ll be happy when we can get back to trading and talking herbs again,) Aradin thought, smiling politely in farewell as the village gossip moved off with her family. (Searching for holy representatives is rather tedious. Though I did like her story about her nephew and the pig down the well.)
(Only because we didn’t have to help rescue it,) Teral agreed, chuckling. (Ah, I see through the corner of your eye that the priest approaches.)
Sure enough, when Aradin glanced to his right, he saw Prelate Tomaso hobbling their way, using his two canes for balance and a touch of support. A quick glance around the chapel hall showed it was now nearly empty, and that the assistant-priestess had grabbed a mop and rag to start cleaning off the now emptied tables. Without fanfare or fuss, the locals had gathered up their food and their belongings and taken themselves out, leaving only a bit of scrubbing and sweeping to be handled by the local church staff.
The elderly man smiled a semi-toothy smile—several were missing from old age—and wobbled over to a spot on the bench next to the foreigner. With a few audible creaks from his joints, he sat down, sighed in relief, then turned toward Aradin.
“Well, well, young man! To what do I owe this honor? It isn’t every day a priest of distant Darkhana comes to visit our far-flung land,” Tomaso stated without preamble. His voice was light and strong with energy, despite his deep age.
Aradin raised his brows in surprise. He spoke quietly, not wanting his deep voice to echo off the walls now that there weren’t any other noises to muffle and mask it. “I wasn’t aware anyone in this region was familiar with my Order. Katan is very far from my home.”
“I and not We?” the local chief priest asked, in turn surprised. He poked an arthritic, age-spotted hand at the broad-sleeved robe Aradin wore. On the outside, the robe looked to be a plain, sturdy, travel-worn shade of tan linen. The inside, however, was lined with a very tightly woven, stark shade of black. “Is this not the robe of a Darkhanan Witch-priest? The lining, I mean? It may have been sixty or so years, but I do distinctly remember meeting with one of your Order.”
