by Jean Johnson
“This is what we call bleeding heart, for its shape,” she said, turning the stem so he could clearly see the heart-shaped bells with their little conjoined pendulum-petals curling from the middle of the two blossoms. “Two flowers grown conjoined so that they form a little heart with a droplet-like bit at the bottom. Elsewhere, they’re just flowers, pretty to look at, but little more. But here in the Grove, they have mutated. This peachy-yellow one causes feelings of laughter and merriment. This dark brown one . . . here, have a sniff,” she urged.
Again, he hesitated, but again he complied. Again, the flower-scent, and again, an emotion. This one drew his brows down. Aradin started to turn away, but stopped himself. Analyze the emotion, Host, he chided himself. These plants clearly change emotions. Don’t just be affected by it; think about it. Holding himself still, he concentrated on identifying the urge to, well, pout. “I feel . . . petulant. Or perhaps . . . disappointed?”
“Disappointment,” Saleria agreed. She dropped the brown one to the ground and held out the last one. “Try this pale blue one.”
This time, he didn’t hesitate, though he was wary of a plant that could make him feel things. Sniffing at it . . . he relaxed, sniffed again, and analyzed. “. . . Contentment?”
“Peace, but close enough. There’s a pale bluish-purple that gives true feelings of contentment, though not necessarily of peace—oh, avoid the orange-red ones, the color of a glowing coal in a dying fire,” Saleria warned him, following his gaze to the rainbow of blossom hues available. “Those evoke feelings of hatred with distinct overtones of violence.”
“Amazing,” the Witch murmured. He almost asked what use the flowers could possibly be . . . but then his thoughts spun them into several alchemical possibilities. Plants had always been quite useful for augmenting magic in various ways. This, however, was a leap forward. In the hands of someone good, and combined with the concentrated sap energies, the power of the potions involved would be quite staggering. In the hands of someone evil, devastating would be a very mild word for it. That made him frown. “I am in two minds about preserving such plants.”
“Oh?” Saleria asked, lifting her brows.
“The possibility to calm agitated souls would be a huge benefit, but . . . to force someone to laugh? These things could be all too easily abused, milady,” Aradin warned her. “By unscrupulous Alchemists, and enspelled perfume makers, and who knows who else.”
“True,” she acknowledged. “But the scents fade quickly once plucked. I don’t even know if they can be distilled and preserved or not. But then I’m just the Keeper, a one-woman tender of this magic-warped garden with no time on my hands to experiment.” She started to say more, then paused, frowned, and considered her own words. Looking up at him, Saleria asked, half to him, half to herself, “Or is that the reason why only one Keeper has ever been allowed to tend the Grove since the Shattering? To give us little to no time to experiment with such things?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “But as you are the Keeper of the Grove, it is your choice to allow others to know about this particular plant’s existence, let alone to allow them to experiment upon it or not. Or upon any of the others.”
His words settled her thoughts. Squaring her shoulders, Saleria nodded. “True. Very true. And at the moment, I am inclined to let you experiment . . . carefully, and cautiously . . . with some of what the Grove can do. Or rather, what it has already done. There’s no point in thinking ahead to new possibilities when we have so much to learn about that is out there,” she added, gesturing at their overgrown, terraced surroundings. “The first task is to clean up two hundred years of warped magics. Then we can discuss experimentation.”
That made him choke on a laugh, and not because she was gesturing with the hand still holding the peach-hued spray of flowers. “You don’t ask for much, do you?” Aradin asked, clearing his throat. “I suspect you’re going to need to hire a few more mages if you want all of it done within your own lifetime. Oathbound mages, so that they cannot abscond with any plants or concoct anything without your permission. But still, if your own Order will not supply you with what is needed, then you do have the right to go looking outside the holy ranks.”
“True,” she agreed. “My scribe isn’t a priest, but his work is needed for the Grove. Same with my housekeeper, so I don’t have to exhaust myself cooking and cleaning, or living in a mess and eating at the nearest inn.” Lifting the pale blue blossom to her nose, she sniffed for a moment, enjoying the aura of calmness the flower imbued, then dropped both it and the other stem onto the ground. Turning her staff around, she touched them with the crystal end, absorbing a tiny bit of energy from each plant as it withered. “Let’s get to the southern locus and get the wall recharging over with. Sunset is drawing near.”
Nodding, Aradin started to follow her past the scorched spot when a tiny, crawling something at the corner of his eye caught his attention. It was enough to prompt his muscles; he slashed out and down, searing a last clover-leaf spider-thing. A long, careful look showed no others moving about. Hurrying forward, he caught up to the athletic Keeper after several long strides.
Once he was within comfortable chatting distance, he asked, “I get the impression you don’t like being in the Grove at night. Most plants require daylight. I wouldn’t think they’d be active at night.”
“Most are quiet, yes . . . but some still move around, and . . . well, so are animals. Active at night, I mean. Which probably explains why more of the Grove plants are active at night,” she added soberly, remembering the bug-eyes on that vine earlier in the day. “If they’re amalgamations of both plant and animal, the animal half would permit them extra mobility when the sun is not feeding them energy. It’s not the fact that some are still active that prompts me to move, however. It’s that I don’t have good night vision, and cannot always see the dangers before they’re upon me.”
“Ah. That makes sense. I have a few spells in one of my grimoires that might help with that, with ways to enhance one’s vision magically,” he offered. “But I can understand wanting to—”
Something bushy leaped out at them. It wrapped its branches around Saleria’s body from knees to shoulders and dragged her off the path. Startled, Aradin bolted after her, staff whirling. He slashed behind her back, cutting through a thick branch with a thump-and-sizzle of burning plant. The bush-thing shrieked and rustled, tightening its grip on the grimly chanting priestess. Her clothes started to glow with a golden light. A second aura sprung up, one with a fiery orange hue to it. Quickly putting up a personal shield of his own, Aradin flinched as the bush-thing burst into flames a second later.
Coughing a little on the smoke, Aradin looked around to make sure nothing else was going to attack while Saleria patiently, grimly waited for enough of the bush-beast to char and die so she could escape. She looked like she was holding her breath, and when she broke free, lurching back onto the path, she did gasp for air. None of her clothes were singed when she cancelled the shield-spell, though some of the bush-beast’s soot soiled her white outer jacket.
Saleria wrinkled her nose and dusted it off with her free hand. Or tried to; the dark speckles merely smeared. Giving up, she resumed heading up the path to the southern locus tree. “I love reading the prayer petitions and knowing I can do something about them. I don’t love the rest of this job.”
“I don’t blame you,” Aradin murmured.
They moved up the path, both keeping an eye out for more attacks or interruptions. The closer they got to a locus tree, the more its towering spray of branches shaded the overgrown garden around them. Moving up and down along the winding path, they approached the southernmost tree. The Bower was a broad structure, big enough to dwarf the Keeper’s home, but so was the base of each locus tree.
Aradin had seen and studied a wide array of plants in his travels, but even for him, it was difficult to discern exactly what kind of tree the
locus had originally been. The closer he got to this one, his second chance to study one, the more he realized it wasn’t what kind of tree . . . but rather, what kinds. That’s a bit of birch, there . . . and pine . . . cedar . . . oak . . . is that maple? Some of these branches have needles, some have leaves—is that a spray of willow leaves?
It made sense, in a twisted sort of way, that the locus trees might be amalgamations of several species as well. The whole of the garden was filled with such things. Following in her wake, Aradin watched as Saleria touched a rune near the cutting tip of her staff. A golden glowing line swung out at an angle, allowing her to lower it to the moss-edged stones of the path. Scorching as she scraped, she shoved back the encroaching growths, and occasionally swiped the searing-hot spell up and around in an arc, clearing the undergrowth that led to the base of the tree.
Or rather, to the hollow at the base of the tree. The last time, Saleria had asked him to wait outside. This time, Aradin slipped in behind her, walking as softly and quietly as he could, in case she had simply forgotten he was there. The flagstones seemed to lead a winding course between the almost wall-like rise of the smaller roots, but that was a misperception, he realized; the cracks between flagstones were straight and square-cornered, not angled or curved as they were on other winding points in the Grove.
Which means this was once a straight path . . . and here’s a different sort of stone. Yes, strong, pinkish granite . . . and a line of black basalt, he identified, staring at the ground. Here’s where the original Portal stood. Reflexively, he glanced up, but there wasn’t a rectangular archway overhead. Just a mixture of intergrown trees.
The space under the heart of the locus tree was not dome-shaped so much as it was cone-shaped. Besides themselves, the paving stones underfoot, a shimmering, pale gray light overhead, and the roots and trunk of the great tree all around, there was only one other object: a four-stepped footstool, placed in the center of the floor.
The dark rectangle of rock it rested upon looked very much like similar thresholds he had seen on a trip to the Empire of Fortuna, which still had functional Portals, if only within its own boundaries. The Portal gates had been massive rectangular doorways, broad enough for two carts to have driven through side by side. Here, the basalt of the threshold looked like it ended at the base of the upswept inner roots, and thus was indeed wide enough for two carts, but from the way the interior wall of the tree swept up and in, there wasn’t really that much room available when one was upright; more like barely a cart’s width.
Lifting his gaze to the peak of the conical space, he squinted against the light. It wasn’t as bright as sunshine, but it was bright enough. No bigger than a modest-sized worm, a finger-length piece of yarn cut from pure daylight, the rift hung at the very peak of the space. It did so in a hazy cloud of mistlike energies. Some swirled up into the tree trunk like upward-trickling beads of moisture. Some dripped downward like falling sparks from a blue white fire, only to evaporate before reaching the floor.
His hostess did something to kill the cutting spells on her staff, then inverted it. Stepping up onto the footstool, she gripped her staff by the deactivated end and stretched up onto her toes to get the crystal orb to touch that rift. Seeing her sway, Aradin set his staff on the ground and moved up behind her. He was taller than her in either form, but he didn’t take the staff from her. Instead, he grasped her by the ribs under her arms and lifted her up off her feet with a grunt.
Saleria gasped and swayed a little, but quickly resumed the chore of sucking the spare energies into the faceted egg on the end of her staff. She hadn’t expected the lift, though it did make gathering the upper energies a little easier. The trick was making sure the crystal never actually touched the rift for more than a fraction of a heartbeat. Overloading the crystal with too many energies might make it explode, and that would be bad.
He was remarkably strong for having such a relatively lean body; she didn’t feel his arms start to tremble until the last few seconds or so. Lowering her staff in a decisive motion got her lowered as well, until her boots touched the top level of the step stool. “Thank you,” she stated, turning to face him. Only to find he was right there, facing her from the next level down. That meant his head was just a little bit lower than hers. That those intriguing hazel eyes were close enough for her to see little flecks of blue and green among the streaks of brown and green.
“Have you . . . ?” Aradin hesitated, and licked his lips.
Saleria followed the flick of his tongue. The glide made her aware of how nice his mouth was, of the faint hints of a blond beard striving to grow on his shaved chin. Aware of the heat of his strong frame, a kind of heat that had nothing to do with temperature runes controlling her comfort on such a warm day, and everything to do with the masculine scent of him. She blinked and looked into his eyes again. “Have I . . . what?”
“Have you, ah, taken any oaths of chastity? Celibacy? Abstention from . . . romantic congress?” he asked her. His cheeks picked up a faint pink glow.
“I . . . well, no. Of course not,” she repeated, bemused by this turn of the conversation. “You couldn’t get anyone into the priesthood with a mandatory vow of celibacy, not when we have a married God and Goddess. But . . . uh . . . surely your own Order . . . ?”
He smiled and slid his hands around her waist. A subtle pressure on the small of her back swayed their bodies together. “For the same reason, we don’t have any.”
“But—what about Teral?” Saleria asked, feeling a little awkward at the thought that the older Witch might be studying her behind those hazel eyes.
Aradin shook his head in brief dismissal. He liked the feel of her leaning against him, the warmth of her in his arms. His Witchcloak had kept him cool in spite of the day’s heat, but it was open along the front, letting their bodies touch. Letting their bodies stir a different sort of warmth in his flesh. “He’s gone into the Dark to ask it a few questions, and to seek out a friend. He won’t be back for a while.”
“Oh.” She mulled that over. “But . . . what about when he comes back? Isn’t that awkward for . . . ah . . . relationships? Always having that other person there, or at least almost? Watching both of you, whatever you do?”
Sighing, Aradin loosened his hold on her waist. He didn’t release her or step down, but he did ease his grip in case she wanted to move away. “It can get awkward, but only if we let it get awkward. And it’s far less so for a fellow Darkhanan than an outlander such as yourself. But it doesn’t have to be awkward. At the end of the day, this is still my life, and my choice. Teral . . . approves. Tentatively,” he amended, tipping his head in acknowledgment of his Guide’s reservations. “We don’t know everything about your culture, though we did know that casual . . . entanglements . . . are not frowned upon, with the right precautions.”
A soft frown pinched her brow. Saleria considered his words, and their implications. Particularly the unspoken ones. “But what about long-term entanglements? Is that the price your priesthood pays, never being able to know and hold on to a lasting love?”
The snork sound that escaped him broke the somber mood instilled by her words. Biting his lip, trying not to let his shoulders shake too much, Aradin shifted his hands to her face. Gently cupping it, he mastered his mirth. “No, it doesn’t cost us the price of never being able to have a permanent love. It does make it a little rarer, since many people don’t care to share their beloveds with more than one person at a time. But, I’ll ask you this:
“What would you expect would happen if you fell for a man who had a son from a previous love? Someone whom he was responsible for? Someone he couldn’t set aside on a whim and ignore?” Gently, he tipped her face so that their foreheads touched. “Would that stop either of you from knowing love and happiness, always having that boy constantly around, watching and listening, and demanding attention?”
“Well . . . no,” she allowed. Her training had inc
luded how to counsel widows and widowers with children on the risks of new romantic relationships. “But Teral isn’t your son,” she pointed out. “He’s older than you.”
“And if I came with an aging father or grandfather who depended upon me for care, would you automatically cast all of us aside as not worthy of your time or your affection?” he asked her next. At her wry look, he smiled wryly and released her cheeks. Sliding his hands down her arms, he laced his fingers with hers. “It is true that some people cannot manage it. They have neither the patience nor the energy to deal with children, or parents, or whatever. But many more do. Teral likes what he sees so far in you. I like it, too. If either of us should fall in love with you . . . since our tastes in women are similar, you’d more than likely just have two men falling in love with you.”
She didn’t untwine their fingers, but neither did she let the subject go. “What if Teral is the one who falls for me, and . . . and I for him? But not you? What would you do? What if you fell for someone else at the same time? Or . . . or you and I for each other, and Teral for, oh, my housekeeper, Nannan? How would you explain that love-tangle?”
Wincing a little, he dipped his head. “That does start to complicate things, yes. But I as the Host would have the highest priority, and control of the situation. If it were just you and Teral . . . and I had no others in my life . . . I would consider giving the two of you time to share and grow your love. If it were all four of us—and as I have yet to meet your housekeeper, I have no idea how she’d react to such a thing—then my life, wants, and wishes would still have priority. If all four of us were amenable to sharing, then it might be very possible . . . But in most cases, it would simply devolve to you and me, and Teral would have to content himself with warmer memories from his own life, and mild displays of affection.”
