by Jean Johnson
Grumpy.
She didn’t let those emotions out, however. No mage of her great power level dared work their will from unchecked, unfiltered emotions. Certainly not near such a great source of power as what was contained within the Grove walls. At three points in each day, Saleria had to attend one of the three locus trees, giant growths which had been grown in an attempt to contain the magics spilling out of the three hair-thin rifts in the Veil between Life and the Dark. Dragged into the Dark by the deaths of people and animals, excess magic flowed back out through those rifts.
Unchecked, unfiltered, and most importantly, unpurposed, that magic warped whatever it touched in ways a little too close to random for comfort. Unfettered emotions would only make everything worse. The north tree she attended after her first round with the walls. The south tree, just before her last round. The east tree she handled either right before or right after lunch, depending on how many duties she had around that point in the day.
Each trip took about an hour to tend the garden and siphon off the excess energy, and up to two hours to focus it and the energies collected by her staff crystal into prayers. Any modestly powered, competently educated mage trained in combat or at least self-defense could handle trimming the path along the inside of the wall and—on a good day—handle collecting the energies off the locus trees. But focusing it into fueling prayers in ways that were precise, controlled, and effective without unwanted side effects required a powerful priest-mage.
“You don’t need an assistant to do your morning rounds for you,” Saleria mock-recited from her last attempt at getting one out of the High Prelate for her district, Nestine. She kept her magic tightly under wraps, but her words echoed off the wall to her right, pitched nasally high in echo of her superior priestess, a thin, pinch-faced woman who had wielded her political power perhaps a little too long. “Your duties are light, you have the time, and anything less than your best effort would be an indulgence!”
She swiped hard at a branch in her way. Never mind that most Grove Keepers last only ten or fifteen years before exhausting themselves to the point where they have to retire, and that an assistant would lighten the strain immensely . . .
She slashed at a fern growing near the waterfall cascading down through a specially built channel in the wall, forcing it back. It shrank in on itself with an almost shy level of swiftness, making her feel sorry for taking out her irritation on the poor thing. Personalizing the plants could be dangerous. Here in a place where magic literally was a work of random will, a stray thought could twist things toward a particular idea, even make them real. Breathing deeply, she relaxed as best she could, clearing her mind, and continued across the little crescent-moon bridge fording the stream.
From up here, at the highest, easternmost end of the Grove, she had a good view of all three towering locus trees. Dark brown–barked and gnarled in their limbs, coated with leaves and moss tufts of a hundred different shades, they moved in subtle ways that had nothing to do with the wind, and everything to do with the power they struggled to contain. This close to the eastern locus, the creaking was quite audible. Loud enough that it almost hid the rustling approach of something through the ferns and bluebells of the underbrush.
Wary, Saleria waited. A minute or so after she stopped moving, something slightly larger than the size of her head cautiously poked its wiggling snout out from under the bushes. She held herself still, until the animal revealed itself one paw-step at a time. It took her a few moments to identify it, not as a rat but rather as a shrew. A very, very overgrown shrew. A creature known for eating three times its weight on a daily basis in its thumb-length size. This one was as long as her forearm, which meant it could very well be interested in eating all of her.
It leaped, jaws gaping in anticipation of a meaty bite. Her staff slashed down, cutting the creature in half. Side-stepping the fallen bits, she pinned the front half to the ground with the point of the business end, grimacing at the blood now staining the mossy ground. This part of her job, she didn’t like, but she liked the thought of being bitten even less.
She didn’t tap the creature’s remains with the crystal end of the staff; that was blood-magic, and forbidden. Killing an animal for food was acceptable, even necessary for good health. Plants alone did not provide all the nutrition a human needed to survive on this world, after all. But to steal their life-energies for magical purposes, that was what demons did, not good people. It was one of the oldest of the Laws of Gods and Man, that animal sacrifice—humans included—was anathema.
Whatever scraps of life-energy that weren’t drawn along with the animal’s spirit into the Dark, on its way to the Afterlife, were reserved for the plants to absorb. The cycle had to be preserved. Plants gave life-energy, the power behind all magic, to all the animals, and that energy was returned when their bodies returned to the earth at the end of life. Stealing life-energy for magic weakened mages, tainting them with the demonic touch of the Netherhells. Only in very special circumstances would a mage—a good mage—ever spill blood, and usually only their own.
Once, early in her apprenticeship to Grove Keeper Mardos, Saleria asked him what would happen to the magics spilled when these warped animals were slain. His reply had been vague. Sometimes it seemed like the energies just returned to the plants in the usual, normal, perfectly sane way. Sometimes, though, it seemed to quicken the mutation of the nearest plants.
Yet another patch of Grove ground I’ll have to watch for abnormalities. If I had an apprentice or an assistant, I could spend my time in trance, examining what happens to the flow of powers. But no, I’m not allowed to bring along anyone to watch my back.
Grimacing, she muttered under her breath another odious quote, mincing the words half through her nose, until she sounded almost like a buzzing wasp. “Most powerful mages aren’t interested in living a priestly life, and so all of our powerful priest-mages are needed exactly where they already are, with none to spare.”
Bollocks to that.
The moss didn’t seem to be wiggling or growing or changing in any way. At least, not right away. Content for now that the body was truly dead, she nudged both halves a little farther away from the wall-edged trail so the remnants of the shrew-thing could decompose, returning its physical nutrients as well as its energies to the soil. Stepping carefully around the stained patch, she continued on her morning rounds.
Taking life-energy from the plants was normal and natural, a part of the cycle of magic. It could be used without harm or taint. But she didn’t take it from every plant she met, just the ones that were threatening the wall or the path. Taking all the plant life forces would have been just as bad as taking the life of an animal, a needless waste.
Not that she had to take many, for nothing else challenged her authority. Even the southern locus tree more or less behaved itself, allowing her to drain the magic with her crystal-tipped staff. No lashings, no writhing vines or thorns, no limbs trying to pick her up. Just a quiet draining with barely even a gnat to buzz by and threaten her nose with a tickling as it passed.
Wary, staff crystal glowing like a reddish, cabbage-sized sun, Saleria retreated back to her home. A relatively calm start to her day wasn’t the usual way things ran at the Grove. Still, it was with relief that she hung the staff with its now brightly glowing gem in the tool shed for the moment and retired to her study on the ground floor of her home.
Daranen, her appointed scribe, got to have the luxury of sleeping in an extra hour, compared to her. Sometimes he joined her at breakfast, but not today. That did not mean he had a light workload, though; the middle-aged man often stayed up later than her, reading the day’s mail. But he was always up and ready to work when she got back from her first set of rounds.
In the last three years, Saleria had grown to expect him sitting in his favorite green tunic and trews at his desk when she returned from the Grove. It was a nice desk, set at an angle to hers so th
at both could enjoy the view through the bay window at the front of the cottage. She could almost envy him getting to sit in such a comfortable, padded leather chair, too. She certainly didn’t sit all that much throughout her day.
This morning, Daranen was there as expected, clad in one of his many green outfits, but he was not seated at his desk. Instead, he had taken one of the cushioned chairs opposite it and was chatting companionably with a strange man. Their backs were to Saleria when she entered, but when Daranen heard her, he finished whatever he was saying in a murmur and politely stood, giving her a bow. “Good morning, Keeper Saleria.”
“Good morning, Daranen,” Saleria returned. Her gaze flicked between the middle-aged, brown-haired man and the younger, blond-haired male rising from the other chair. He, too, turned to bow to her. “And good morning to you, milord.”
“Keeper, this is the Witch-priest Aradin Teral of far-distant Darkhana, which is a land placed far to the north and east of the Sun’s Belt,” Daranen introduced. “Witch-priest, this is High Priestess Saleria, Guardian of the Grove and Keeper of the Holiest Garden of Katan.”
“Holiness,” the stranger murmured, bowing a little deeper in politeness at her rank. He was clad in a fine-spun brown tunic and trews cut along Katani lines, and a pair of sturdy walking boots that looked like they had seen some wear. But he also wore an open, floor-length, deep-sleeved, deep-hooded robe that was a light shade of brown on the outside, but lined with a linen so black, it made his lean-muscled frame stand out all the more whenever he moved.
“Holy Brother,” she replied politely, hoping that was the correct form of address for a foreign priest—it was for a fellow Katani priest, at any rate. It seemed to be acceptable, for the fellow nodded his head politely.
Saleria assessed him as her father had taught her, by seeking out the subtle clues to the man’s profession. Aradin seemed a rather handsome fellow, in a lean sort of way. He wasn’t nearly as thin or pale as the new Groveham Deacon, a young man by the name of Shanno, but he wasn’t at all pudgy, like the older Daranen was starting to turn. Then again, a man who traveled was generally a man who stayed fit. Still, he did more than just walk; his wrists were lean, the tendons well-defined, and there was no spare fat about his face; she guessed he was familiar with some form of self-defense, though she could see no blade or staff about him. Of course, Saleria had a similar level of fitness, and her staff had been left in the shed just inside the garden. His may have been left at one of the inns here in Groveham.
He did have a certain calmness, an aura of peace about him of a kind that few warriors held, but which was common in a priesthood. It was not completely unheard-of for foreign clergy to travel to far-flung lands, nor for them to want to visit a place where two Gods had been joined in marriage before Their chosen peoples, uniting their kingdoms as one, but it was not a common occurrence. Saleria couldn’t remember if she’d heard of a kingdom called Darkhana before, but it sounded like Daranen had a clear idea of where that was, and might even know if this fellow was a legitimate holy man. The Grove had its share of rare foreign priests, but it also bore the occasional visit from false would-be Seers and the like. Thank Kata and Jinga, not that often.
“Have you come hoping to see the Grove?” she asked their visitor, curious. For all that the Grove was the center of her world these days, she wasn’t so naive as to believe other lands would have heard of its troubles, even after two hundred years had passed. Some foreign visitors—priestly or otherwise—came simply because they had seen it mentioned in an old book and were curious. Those were the ones she had to forewarn with the truth. Not often, but once or twice a year. “If so, I’m afraid it’s a bit too dangerous for casual viewing these days.”
“Not exactly, though I do have a personal interest in magically enhanced gardening,” Priest Aradin said. At Saleria’s bemused look, the blond man waved it off with a graceful flick of his hand. “Mostly, I am here to discuss a potential need which I am hoping you, in your office as a formal go-between for your people and your Gods, would be interested in fulfilling. Do you have time for a discussion today?”
Saleria lifted her brows, then turned to Daranen. “Well? Do I?”
“Ah, yes, just a moment.” Hurrying over to his desk, her scribe picked up a book-sized chalkboard and a stack of folded parchments. “Fifty-three petitions for rain in the northlands interspersed with the usual requests for good sunlight in the southern regions listed on this slate, reworded in the usual way into the standard prayers to avoid both flooding and drought. They all vary in the original request, but that’s what it all boils down to in the end, and is an ideal mass prayer for today’s needs. The rest are minor requests for things like finding lost pet dogs and such, which can be put off for later in the day.”
“Drought prayers only take half an hour or so,” Saleria murmured, recalling similar requests. “So . . . yes, milord, I do have time to chat with you. Though I should get those drought prayers out of the way first.”
He nodded politely, a lock of his blond hair slipping forward. It was darker than her own, more of a sandy color, and rather thick. It was also long, following the current trend in Katani fashion. If his eyes had been a bit more slanted and his outer robe set aside, he might have been able to pass for a native, but there was just enough of an exotic air to the man to make him look intriguing.
His voice, a deep, smooth bass, pulled her attention back from her musings. It came with an odd shift in the way he stood and studied her, tipping and twisting his head slightly to the side before he straightened it and spoke. “I realize my next request may be a bit unusual, being a holy man of a completely different nation . . . but may I observe your prayer rituals? I ask in respect for your Order’s traditions,” Aradin added, an oddly mature look in his hazel eyes. “One of my jobs as I travel is to observe the rituals and rites of other faiths.”
That puzzled her. Saleria frowned in her confusion. “Why would a priest from another faith be ordered to observe foreign religious rites?”
“In Darkhana, we have our own customs for daily life,” Aradin told her, gesturing at himself with both hands, then held one out toward her as well, “but in one thing, all lands are the same. We are born, we live, and we die. Your God and Goddess oversee the four seasons of life, from infancy through youth, maturity, and on into the elderly stages. Our God and Goddess oversee the transitions from Life to the Afterlife, and all that lies between.
“Although I am from Darkhana, which lies a very long distance from here, all cultures must deal with death and its transitions. All deaths, in all lands, go through the same stages: The deceased must make the passage through the Dark to the Afterlife where they will be judged and assigned their just punishments, rewards, and perhaps reincarnation chances by the Gods . . . and the living must be comforted and counseled through their grief.
“In that regard, our faith is a . . . a supplement to your own, in a way. We specialize in such things. Wherever we go, we need to be prepared to handle bereavement, to ensure souls are not lost as they make the journey toward the Afterlife. Yet we cannot really stand ready to help others in this, our holy task, without understanding the local system of faith,” he concluded, clasping his hands lightly in front of his torso. A light shrug accompanied his words. “One of the best ways to achieve understanding is to observe the local religion in action, which we would like to do. With your permission, and with great respect on our part.”
Saleria blinked at him. “‘We’?” she finally asked. “‘Our’? Who is this we you reference? Is there more than one of you in your delegation?”
“In a way, yes. In a way, no—one moment,” he added. Again, he closed his eyes and tipped his head, as if stretching a muscle in his neck. Blinking, he opened his eyes again. Giving her a rueful smile, the foreign priest spread his hands slightly. “We are a Darkhanan Witch. This body—my body—belongs to myself, the man named Aradin. I was raised an herbalist
and a mage until my late teens, when I was sent to an academy with the intent to study more of the ways of Hortimancy—plant magics—than my family alone could teach me. In the middle of my trip, I was asked to go to the aid of a Witch-priest who had been caught under a storm-felled tree.”
“I don’t understand,” Saleria interjected, frowning. “What has this to do with using the plural for yourself?”
“It has everything to do with it,” Aradin told her. “Darkhanan Witches are twofold. Like our Goddess and God, there are a Host and a Guide. The Host is the living person. The Guide is a deceased former Witch, whose spirit is bound into the Host so that they may literally help guide the person hosting their soul. In this way, their lifetime of accumulated experience and wisdom can be preserved and passed down. Teral—the Witch pinned under the tree—was dying, and I was asked to become his Host, so that I could continue to preserve his experiences, and the memories he had from his Guide, Alaya . . . and when she was a Host, that of her Guide, and of his, and of his, stretching back for over a thousand years.
“The person who spoke just now, with the request to watch you pray? That was Teral, my Guide,” Aradin explained. “He and I can share control of my body, whenever I will it. We can also do more—if I may demonstrate?”
Bemused, she glanced at Daranen, who looked equally intrigued. She gestured with a hand for the foreign priest to proceed. “Provided it harms none, you may.”
He smiled wryly at her as he lifted the deep hood of his robe up over his head. Dropping it down past even his chin, he pulled the front edges closed, then tucked his hands up the opposite sleeves, and bowed slightly. A strange ripple passed through the flesh hidden beneath the beige folds, then he straightened up. Only . . . it wasn’t the lean, blond priest anymore.
