by Jean Johnson
“Or they—injuries or illnesses permitting—can turn around and resume occupying the shells of their bodies. And for those who are trained in the holy secrets . . .” a few more tugs pulled it free as he spoke, “. . . one can will the existence of storage space in the Dark—ungh! There we go.” Lifting the lid up and back, he riffled through the scrolls and papers nested inside. “Burgundy ribbon, if I remember right . . . burgundy . . . no, that’s too scarlet . . . ah! Here it is.”
Pulling out the scroll, he untied the ribbon holding it shut. Unrolling the beige parchment, Aradin showed it to her, but given the first half was written in Darkhanan, her blank look was understandable. He recited the preamble for her.
“A prophecy of the Duchess Haupanea of the Duchy of Nightfall, Empire of Katan, penned by Chaiden, night-scribe to Her Holiness, tentatively entitled ‘The Synod Gone.’” He tilted the sheet toward Saleria as she shifted off her chair to kneel at his side, wanting a better look.
This close, he could smell a subtle hint of a flower—possibly honeysuckle—soap, and a bit of spice. Striving to be subtle, he leaned a little closer and inhaled. Definitely honeysuckle, and a touch of something else. Some sort of sweet spice from the local markets. An intriguing combination. I wonder who makes her soaps?
She was waiting for more information. Focusing his thoughts, Aradin continued. “According to the Department of Prophecies here in your own empire, Duchess Haupanea lived during the time of the last Convocation. She left behind a number of prophecies that suggested she would have shaped up to be quite powerful as a Seer.
“Unfortunately, she perished at a young age during a side effect of the Shattering, but this information comes from a copy extracted from the imperial archives from . . . seventy-five or so years after the Shattering? Obviously I wasn’t around then,” he dismissed, “but a previous Darkhanan Witch uncovered this information with the assistance of your Department of Prophecies. The actual prophecy comes from about a year or so before the Shattering. It’s written in the original Katani at the bottom.”
Taking the scroll from him, Saleria unrolled it further, reading the doggerel written on the page. Some Seers spoke in poetry, some in impassioned rants, and some penned their visions, hand moving across page without the owner’s volition. This was one of the first kind, obviously.
Gone, all gone, the synod gone, destroyed by arrogant might,
But not forgotten, not abandoned, not lost into the night.
Old and new, Mankind and Gods, again they both shall speak;
Names be named, lands confirmed, repentances two seek.
Eight and mates shall pave the way, shall build the holy hall.
Eight more and mates shall guard the world, to save or ruin all.
By eight who are kin, by six familiar, one runaway, one unknown,
By mates and friends, by guides and aides, by outworlder on throne.
Gone, all gone, the synod gone, brought back by exiled might;
By second try, the fiends must die, uncovered by the blight.
In dark and day shall living and dead assemble each worthy soul,
For each represents, to beg and assert, the world then remade whole.
Through dark and life, by ship and spell, by first, then second light.
Destroy the false, which spurs the lie, but for this world shall fight.
By one who will stay, and one to betray, and third who shall turn away;
Gone, all gone, but synod’s pawns shall come again one day.
With the last line recited, Saleria sat back on her heels, brow creased in puzzlement. She looked at the Darkhanan kneeling across from her on the other side of the open chest. “This thing speaks of the Convocation of the Gods? Are you sure of that?”
“Yes,” Aradin said. Reaching over the chest, he tapped the parchment “There are several lines that confirm it. ‘Synod’ is an ancient Fortunai word for when all the clergy, all the priests and Holy Orders, get together to discuss holy writ and holy law. Such things are—or were—done at the Convocations. The third line of the first verse speaks of Gods and Man both speaking, again an image of the Convocation. There is a ‘holy hall’ in the first line of the second verse, and an assembly of worthy souls in the third line of the third verse, both of which are signature elements of a Convocation, plus a true representative of each nation’s religious needs . . . which is covered in the second line of the second verse.
“We can tell that Darkhanan Witch-craft is involved, because it speaks of ‘dark and day’ and ‘living and dead’ which we interpret to mean the Hosts and Guides who navigate the Dark, the means by which we will assist the true representatives of each nation to attend the Convocation when it is time for it to begin. Plus one or two other signs we already knew about,” he added dismissively. “Or at least have had time to question the Dark about.”
“Question the Dark,” she repeated, skeptical.
“Yes. Remember, we can only ask questions and receive a true answer for things that are happening, or have already happened. Our best Witch has been questioning the Dark about this and other prophecies for a very long time. The ‘exiled might’ and the ‘eight who are kin’ have finally come into play, which usually means the rest of the prophecy is also due to come true,” Aradin told her. “You have no idea just how long our Order has been working on getting the Convocation of Gods and Man reinstated. Generations’ worth—basically since right after the Shattering ended the last one. We are very committed to seeing that all aspects of its reinstatement go smoothly.”
He didn’t say more than that. It was enough that he could tell from her softened frown that she was considering the truth of his words, paired with the truth of the scroll. Well, their words, technically. It was actually Teral who had worked the hardest on paying attention to this task, not him, but then Teral had heard about it long before his death by fallen tree. Aradin himself hadn’t cared, and would have continued not caring, if he hadn’t met the subjects of the “repentances two seek” part. Meeting a pair in as desperate straits as those two could change anyone’s mind.
(Best not to talk about it, though,) Teral murmured, following his Host’s thoughts. (Most people just don’t understand, and it takes too long to explain.)
(Why do you think I’m leaving it out?) Aradin shot back.
Lowering the scroll to her lap, Saleria shook her head, blonde curls sliding over her white-clad shoulders. “It’s rather strange . . .”
“What is?” Aradin asked. Since she seemed done with the scroll, he reached across the chest to take it.
She handed it back with a shrug. “When I was in my teens, I had a . . . a revelation that I was meant to serve the Gods. Life-changing. But if this scroll of yours is a true prophecy, and you think I am destined to be a ‘worthy soul’ sent to represent my people at the next Convocation . . . I’d think I should feel like I was part of a prophecy. But it’s a different feeling from my moment of revelation. This does feel important, like there is something there, but . . . it’s not life-changing.”
That made him smile wryly. “Not all revelations are life-changing. And not all life-changes are revelations.” Closing the lid, Aradin caught her hand and gently squeezed it. “Now I’m not saying you are the absolute perfect choice for being the Katani representative at the next Convocation of the Gods . . . mainly because neither I nor Teral have asked the Dark yet if you will be . . . but from everything we’ve heard about you on our way here, and after speaking with you, I’d like to think you have that potential.
“I’d also like to get to know you better,” Aradin stated. It was the truth. Saleria was not a conventional priestess, even for a cleric of a foreign land. She fascinated him, with her mix of wisdom and naivety . . . but to be honest, so did the little snippets he kept hearing about what was wrong with her Grove. He focused on luring her with that as well. “Plus, I think I may have enough knowledge about
the many interactions between plants and magic to be able to help you with your difficulties.
“If so, that would solve both our problems. I could stay and tend the needs of the Grove while you go to the Convocation to tend the needs of your people . . . and as a mage-priest, I would be willing to swear before both your Gods and mine to take every bit as much care with the tending of the Sacred Grove as you yourself would take. An oath-binding, even.” He gently stroked the backs of her fingers with his thumb.
Feeling his warm, lightly callused skin caressing hers, Saleria blushed. She wasn’t accustomed to anyone holding her hand. At least, not like this, not in a courtly way. Now that she was the Keeper, her time had been deemed too dedicated to the needs of the Grove to receive petitions in person, so she no longer even prayed in the presence of others, let alone clasped hands with them for a joint prayer. His scent reminded her of that exotic perfume, sandalwood, with a hint of musk. His eyes were a mix of wood brown and leaf green, reminding her of a garden. Of what the Grove should be.
She knew she was woolgathering, but then Aradin—the younger of the two—was attractive. Part of her mind strayed from the subject at hand, wondering what strictures or rules Darkhanan priests and priestesses had on their courtship practices. Part of her mind wondered why she was even thinking such an absurd, abstract thought, and another, third part wondered how she would even begin to find out the answers to such personal questions.
Not like I could bring it up in polite conversation. At least, not right away. It would take several conversations to find out what else he might want from me . . . or with me . . . but the only way that would ever happen is . . .
Behind her, Daranen coughed discreetly. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for your midday path-walk and tree-draining, Holiness?”
“Oh, right.” Tugging her fingers free was easy; he didn’t clutch at them or resist, just let them slide from his grasp as if in one last caress. She could still feel the lingering warmth of his skin on hers, and wished she could just take his hand and not have to think about being the Keeper of the Grove for a while. Blushing, Saleria rose to her feet.
So did Aradin Teral. He smiled at her, tugged his hood up into place, swooped the folds of his voluminous robes around both his body and the chest, turned completely around in a swirl of tan-and-black hemline, and faced her again. The chest had vanished somewhere in that spin, and again she could detect no magic in the act.
“How . . . ?” she asked, distracted by its disappearance. “I sensed no magic whatsoever, yet it had to be by magic. So how did you do that?”
“I’d tell you, but most people outside our Order don’t like hearing the answer,” he told her, pushing the hood off his head one more time. It was still the younger, blond-haired Aradin, or at least his body. And he stood and talked like the younger man did. “So, since there’s nothing more to discuss while you think about it, should I accompany you on your walk today?”
“But I do want to know,” Saleria protested, clinging to her curiosity. She stepped forward as she spoke, one hand coming up to touch his tan-robed arm. Her eyes searched his, and she felt odd, as if she were . . . flirting with him. . . . I’m flirting with him? I guess I am. “Please? It’ll plague me all day if I don’t know, and then I’ll be distracted, and get mauled by a . . . a stray, ambulatory fern bush or something.”
Just a little bit taller than her, he had an excellent view of her eyes from this close. They looked a bit more gray than blue here in the indirect daylight that illuminated her study. They also looked sincerely interested in his answer, wide, framed with short but thick golden lashes. A straight nose lay between them, and her rose-pink lips rested below, slightly parted as she awaited his answer.
What he wanted to do was kiss her. What he had to do was answer her question. Shrugging, Aradin spread his hands, then clasped them. “As you may know, death draws magic into the Darkness. Additionally, you may know that certain weak points in the Veil between Life and Death allow some of that magic to rush back into the world again, yes?”
“Yes, I know all that. I deal with it on a daily basis,” she dismissed impatiently. “Particularly the spewing back out into the living world part.”
“Well, if you know how to open a doorway into the Dark . . . a one-way opening into the realm of the wandering dead, rather than a Fountain being a doorway flowing from there to here . . . then your magic gets sucked into the Dark, does it not?” His smile didn’t falter, though he did watch her pupils expand in shock, along with a shiver that rippled over her frame. He softened his smile, taking pity on her. “We of Darkhana are not afraid of any aspect of death, Holy Sister. It is simply a transition between states of existence. A transition which many of us have learned to master . . . and no, I do not refer to immortality.”
“Oh, you don’t?” Saleria asked, dropping her hand so she could fold her arms across her chest.
Tipping his head, Aradin let Teral answer for both of them. “There is nothing that a mortal being can do to completely stop the advancing of age in a human’s body, young lady,” the older Witch stated. “Slow it, yes, but there is nothing we should do to stop its advancement, beyond taking care for our good health. We can slow it through exercise and good food, and even a few spells, but aging is part of the experience of being human, of being mortal.
“Without physical signs of the passage of time, then time itself becomes meaningless. Weeks and months and years all slide past. Reference points are lost. Confusion sets in, and the lessons we strive to learn are washed away in the flood of same-again same-again, day after day. We start to lose the urgency of life, and with it, the compassion for our fellow beings.” He gave her a gentle smile. “We give power and compassion to our Gods because we know we are mortal, fragile, and somewhat short on time.”
“Yet don’t you Guides have a sort of immortality of your own?” she asked, shifting her palms to her hips. She . . . didn’t feel like flirting with him as much, when it was Teral, for all that she liked the look of Aradin’s body. Saleria kept that point of awkwardness to herself, though, pursuing instead her curiosity. “What’s to stop you from binding yourself to the next priest, and the next?”
“The bond can only be set once for a spirit whose body has died,” he stated, shaking his head. “When Aradin dies and his body decays, I will be released into the Light, because I can only be bound once, and I chose to be bound to the Doorway found in his body, with his permission. It is my physical anchor, just as my body was the physical anchor for my own soul when I was alive, and the anchor for my own Guide, Alaya. And some day, should Aradin choose to become a Guide, he will have one choice and one alone, with no taking it back and no changing his mind—changing his soul—for another’s Door,” Teral revealed. He paused, then tipped his head, Aradin’s head, handing back control of their shared body.
Once again, it was Aradin who spoke. “. . . I did not make the choice to be his Host lightly. I would not ask anyone else so lightly, and I shall hope I won’t ever have to make it as abruptly, either. Normally, one or more acolytes are chosen and trained in the last few years of a Witch’s life, serving alongside the person who is expected to become their Guide. That helps ensure the personalities hopefully match. If not . . . it can be a rough transition period while the two get to know and learn tolerance for each other.”
“As your experience was?” Saleria asked, guessing shrewdly from the slight hesitancies in his words.
Aradin dipped his head in a brief but telling nod. “It could have been considerably worse, but we’re both honest enough to admit the first few months were . . . awkward. Becoming a Witch-priest was not on my original list of things to do with my life. But we have managed to strike a very reasonable compromise. We get along as well as any two close friends, now.”
Saleria studied him a long moment, then shook her head. All this swapping back and forth was confusing, the differences subtle and hard
to catch. “If it’s all the same, if you turn out to be suitable for helping me . . . I’d rather only one of you spoke from, well, one body at a time. Each your own body. It gets confusing otherwise. Just pass along what the other one wants to say, if you don’t actually switch, please?”
In the back of Aradin’s mind, his Guide sighed. (Typical . . . but understandable. Since your points are valid on each of our suitability for the problems at hand, please let her know that I agree to her terms.)
(Not like I have much of a choice, either. We are under orders to cooperate wherever it is in the best interests for all. And if nothing else, we can at least try to be more discreet when switching control. Though to be honest, I think it’ll remind me of our earliest days,) Aradin agreed, a faint smile twisting his mouth. Reviving the Convocation was their goal, and that had to come first. Shrugging, he spread his hands. “Teral agrees to your terms, and I shall do my best to comply as well.”
“Good,” she said. “No insult to your Guide or anything, but I prefer to see the person speaking with me. It’s one thing when you’re around a corner, but another thing entirely when you’re using someone else’s lips. It’s very disorienting.”
Aradin nodded, a lock of his blond hair sliding free of his robe. “That is quite understandable. Even a few people within our homeland’s borders still find it awkward to speak to one while seeing another. We have grown . . . lax . . . in our protocols, and both of us apologize.”
The bow he gave her was as graceful as it was sincere. Saleria couldn’t find fault with his—their—politeness. And that’s enough of that line of thought, she decided silently. Or my head will end up aching abominably from trying to keep track of it all.
Another soft, semi-discreet cough from her scribe reminded her of her sense of duty. Sighing, she headed for the door. Then stopped and turned back to face the strange two-in-one priest. She made another decision, a split-second decision, and spoke with it firmly in her mind.
