by Jean Johnson
They don’t need my help, he decided, as each lost spirit was flanked by a pair of his colleagues. This, too, was a task he had done before, though not recently. Witches were tasked with the guiding of the dead toward the Light, the Doorway into the Afterlife. Most of those who died found their own way, but a few strayed into the depths of the Dark, and a few got lost in their own thoughts, and a few, always a few, refused to believe they were dead. At least, at first. These stray souls were in good hands, though. Time to turn my attention to—whup!
A feminine chuckle distracted him from the arms catching his elbows and tugging him off toward the center of the grass. The voice that accompanied the hands on his right didn’t come from a throat, though. (Come, Aradin, youngling! Show these older ones how well we can still dance!)
He didn’t have to glance at her snub nose and her smiling eyes, nor see her long hair and graceful limbs, to know who had caught him. Josai of Glenna Josai, one of his earliest Witch-teachers. Josai was the Guide of the pair, and had lived to a ripe ninety-eight as Host and teacher, but her self-image was a mental projection of her body when it had been lithe and strong in her mid– to late-twenties; physically mature but still youthful and lithe.
The woman on Aradin’s left, who laughed and pulled him along as well, was Glenna, the current Host. Her body in life was now in her mid-fifties, but like Josai, she thought of herself as younger, early twenties or thereabouts. Shorter, a bit plump but with strength and liveliness to match the bounce in her light brown curls, she tugged him into a line dance with her Guide, celebrating life and Afterlife with equal aplomb. Those Witches who had a talent for song-based magic held back from the gathering dancers, bringing forth instruments of will, of hand and of voice, filling the clearing with the sounds of fellowship and joy.
It felt good to dance, to sway and stomp, to twist and turn. He clapped his hands and sang along as several others joined, while still more lines of hand-clasped Witches emerged from the mists. He crossed places and skipped through the steps, grabbed hands and swung his partners around, not caring whether the arms he grasped belonged to man or woman, living or dead.
How long he danced, he could not have said, but Aradin finally spun free of the whirling masses, of the now hundreds of Witches moving in patterns old and new, continuing the cycle of worship and faith that had turned the tragedy of their God’s unfortunate demise into a celebration of His continuing strength. Unfortunately, life moved on, and with it, all celebrations had to share space and time with tragedies, concerns, and the business of the living.
Saleria had told Aradin and Teral of the forescrying mirror and its future-visions of Netherdemon invasion. Spotting one of his fellow Hortimancers first, Aradin turned around, willing his coin-chest to appear in his arms, then approached the older man. Stefal smiled in greeting and shifted on the bench, giving Aradin room to set down the chest. “Ah, good; you brought payment! I got you the best deal I could, but diagnostic Artifacts don’t come cheap. Four hundred twenty-three silver and seven copper pennies, please.”
While Aradin counted out the funds, rounding it up to four hundred fifty as a courtesy, the other man rose, turned once, twice, then sat back down again with a neatly carved chest in his hands. He opened it, displaying the selection of crystal-tipped wands and the palm-sized sheet of glass with a hole along the top that the wands were meant to slot into. His brows rose at the sight of the fine quality. “Crystal? Not a marble slab?”
“This way does take a little bit of your own magic to power it every day, but you don’t have to keep a sharpened grease-pencil tucked into the base, or go through the tedium of scrubbing it clean,” Stefal told him. “We cribbed the design from the Artifacts used by the Master and staff of a place called the Tower, in Aiar.”
“Guardian Kerric’s Tower?” Aradin asked. At Stefal’s surprised look, he nodded. “I’ve actually been in touch with him . . . and I have some concerns to bring to my fellow Witches tonight.”
“About the Tower’s Master?” Stefal asked.
Aradin shook his head. “About something he has seen in a sort of forescrying mirror he has.”
“What concerns do you have?” The question came from a familiar voice off to his left. Walking with more strength in the Dark than she probably showed out in life, Witch Brenna lifted her chin. “What would you bring before tonight’s synod, once the dancing and singing has ended?”
“Visions of an invasion from the Netherhells, Sister,” Aradin stated, his tone respectful and his words grim. “We may praise Darkhan and Dark Ana that such things are few and far between . . . but the images suggest that somewhere out there, even as we speak, certain humans are making pacts with the demonic realms.”
Her wrinkled face tightened into a stern mask. “Such things ended the life of our God, millennia ago. Are you certain of this Seer’s vision?”
Someone else moved up on Aradin’s other side, drawn by the ways of the Dark to join their conversation. Aradin handed over the coins to Stefal in exchange for his diagnostic wands while Guardian Witch Shon confirmed his words.
“I have been contacted as well. Those of highest rank already know, and a few who are in physical proximity to ourselves and our Fountain,” the older man stated, meaning both himself and his Guide, Tastra, “but it was my intent to bring this before all of us at tonight’s festival.” He spared a brief, slight smile for Aradin. “I am pleased to see my younger Brother had the same idea. As one of my fellow Guardians has said, the more minds we have working on this task, the more likely we are to see a solution.”
Brenna poked her thumb at Aradin. “How does he know what Guardians do or say?”
“I am assigned to Guardian Saleria of Katan, Keeper of the Holy Grove of Kata and Jinga,” Aradin stated, giving his superior a polite bow. “The Dark has confirmed she will make an excellent representative at the Convocation of Gods and Man.”
“Good. The sooner we get that task out of the way, the sooner we can pull our Brothers and Sisters back home,” Brenna said briskly. “Our fellow Darkhanans are growing restless, not being able to call upon as many Witches for last rites as they normally can.”
Shon tipped his graying head thoughtfully. “I’m not sure we should pull our brethren back to the kingdom, once the Convocation is over.”
Brenna wasn’t the only one to give him a sharp look; so did the two younger men. Aradin recovered first, realizing how his fellow Witches could be useful with the other problem on their hands. “Of course. If we stay in each of the kingdoms out there, those of us assigned to posts around the world, we can observe what is happening, and coordinate information swiftly among each other if we find anything that stinks of the Netherhells.”
Shon nodded. “Guardian Kerric said that there were kingdoms, such as Garama on the west coast of Aiar, which have shown signs of being part of a demonic invasion, but which have no local Guardian to watch over its people and their doings. But Garama does have a Witch present, right now.”
Dipping her head, Brenna relented her resistance to the idea. “That does make sense . . . and of all the clergy in the world, we are the ones with just cause to fight the blasphemous reach of the Netherhells.”
“I agree, with one exception.”
The newcomer made Stefal rise and all four of them bow politely. She looked young, with her blonde hair plaited and pinned around her head in marital braids—not a common sight among the other Witches of Darkhana, if not unknown—but she was far older than Brenna and Shon combined.
“High Witch Orana,” Aradin murmured, dipping his gaze as well as his head. “You honor us.”
She smiled wryly. “More like the Dark drew me over here. Niel is tending our body tonight—I do not see Teral; is he tending yours, Brother Aradin? Isn’t it early in the day for where you’re supposed to be?”
He nodded. “We’ve been working with Guardian Saleria to get her power-base cleaned up and p
repared for use. I am not certain what use we will be with the Netherhell invasion at this time, but gaining full control of her, ah, version of a Fountain will ensure that we are not unprepared.”
“A wise piece of battle planning. And Brother Shon’s suggestion is most wise. Possibly even providential. The Witches of Darkhana who have scattered around the world to seek out true representatives of each Patron Deity are well-placed to observe and report. But most Witches are not strong enough to face demons alone. I should not need to remind each of you that the memories of the demonic ones are as long as our own, if not longer,” the immortal Witch stated. “They know the Witches of Darkhana have never forgiven them for the death of our God.”
Her words rippled outward, strong and resolute. The dancing came to an end as more and more of the rest turned to face them. The Garden Lake altered subtly, raising their portion of the lawn into a makeshift dais. Tucking his chest under his arm, Aradin shifted to one side, letting those with more seniority take center stage.
“Five thousand years ago, a demon queen of the Netherrealms tried to fake her way into the pantheon of our world’s Patron Deities. She and her followers tried to slaughter our Gods and Goddesses at the Convocation in Fortuna . . . but we were vigilant . . . and almost completely successful at thwarting her plans.” Raising her hands, Orana called out to her brother and sister Witches. “Darkhan gave up His life so that His fellow Gods would live on! Dark Ana, High Priestess and beloved, gave up Her mortal life so that our God would stay ours, despite His demise.
“Every so often, the sinners and the fools of the world seek to make pacts with the demons, and seek to bring them into our realm for the vanity of fleeting power, fame, or glory—but this is our realm!” Lowering her hands, she clasped them lightly before her sternum, forefingers raised and pressed together. “And now we have a foresighted vision of some of them attempting such foolishness again? Yes, the Netherhells are well aware of how strongly we of Darkhana oppose their ambitions . . . but right now, it is highly doubtful that they know that we know they are coming.
“It is best if we keep it that way. For now . . . we will observe. We will continue to find representatives of the Gods and Goddesses so that the Convocation can be reconvened. We will gather support, and lend covert aid to those who are at this time free to act more openly . . . and we will watch for any sign of such foolish attempts in the near future.” Parting her hands, she held one out to Guardian Shon. The other, she held out toward Aradin. “These two of our Brothers, Guardian-Witch Shon Tastra, and Witch Aradin Teral, are already tied into the efforts of the world’s Guardians to seek out the source of these visions and stop the demons in their tracks.
“You will report to Shon and his Guide Tastra as your primary contact . . . and if you cannot find either of them, you will report to Aradin and his Guide Teral. Mark the names and faces of these Hosts; seek and get to know their Guides. For those of you who have stayed within Darkhana, take solace in the work you do in the stead of those who must wander. Say whatever you will here in the Dark, but speak not a word of this in Life—let the demons think we know nothing! Let them think they catch us off guard, even as we set our snares and our traps.
“This is our world, and we will keep it that way.”
“Praise Dark Ana!” someone shouted. “Praise Darkhan!” someone else added. It was joined by a reverent, “For the world!” and an even louder, “For the love of the world!” The rest began chanting and singing, clasping hands and dancing as they swung back into their celebrations.
Serious plans would be laid later, but for now, the men and women, living Hosts and spirit Guides, needed something cheerful to do in the face of such disturbing news. The Dark was not the place to think of strong, unhappy thoughts. Not when a strong thought could become a force of will, and one’s will literally created the reality of this strange place.
Orana moved up beside Aradin, her hand touching his shoulder. “Sorry to put you on the spot like that, Aradin Teral,” she murmured, naming both him and his absent Guide. “But the Dark tells me you’ll actually be more involved than Shon Tastra, in your own way.”
Aradin accepted her warning with a slight nod. It often took him several moments of concentration, of focusing his thoughts and his will firmly enough to query the Dark and receive a response. He had only been a Witch for a little over a decade; Orana and her Guide Niel had been doing so since before the Shattering of Aiar, and no doubt could receive a response with a single, swift thought.
“I bow to your superior strategy, Sir Orana,” he returned, referring to her status as an Arbran Knight of renown. She had been born and raised a Darkhanan, and selected to be a Host, but her Guide was not, and had never been, a Darkhanan Witch. Aradin knew many of the details of how the two had come to be paired, such as the curse that kept them alive and effectively immortal. Resurrecting the Convocation of Gods and Man was their path to ending that curse, and the task which all Witches had pledged to assist, including himself. “For the time being, I am but a simple Hortimancer, striving to restore the Grove. My contact, the Guardian of the Grove, will be involved in some way. I will strive to be a liaison for the Guardians as well as for my fellow Witches.”
She tipped her head for a long moment, thinking quietly, then gave him a wry smile. Squeezing his shoulder, Witch Orana said, “Please pass along my apologies to your Keeper friend for the Shattering of Aiar and the mangling of her Grove. Let her know the Dark approves of the two of you working to make amends for the centuries of neglect in that place. You in particular should be extra sincere when kneeling in the Holiest Garden of Jinga and Kata. Your prayers will be heard in such a holy place, and judged accordingly.”
Okay . . . Bowing, Aradin excused himself from her presence. As much as he pitied and admired the other Witch, Orana Niel also unnerved him. Particularly at times like this. I’d give up quite a lot to avoid being so God-touched as those two . . . yet she’s just told me I’m more or less God-touched as well. Dark Ana, take pity on me and my Guide; all Teral ever wanted was to be an envoy and a world-traveling merchant, while all I’ve wanted is to be a successful Hortimancer.
Of course, they already were what they wanted to be, both him and Teral; the problem was, those occupations now came with world-changing headaches attached. Grove messes and Netherdemon invasions, and Goddess-blessed who-knows-what. He lifted his gaze to the dark mists swirling far overhead in lieu of actual stars. I hope at the very least You’re being entertained by all of this, he thought at his Patron Deities, and spared a thought for the Patrons of Katan as well. I’d hate for all this craziness to pass unappreciated.
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.
