by Jean Johnson
It was good food, too; she actually remembered he didn’t like pickled flavors nearly as much as Saleria did, for the seasonings were sweet and spicy rather than sweet and sour. Just thinking about the absent Keeper made Aradin wish the Convocation were over, so that she could take everyone to task for imprisoning him. He didn’t have much time to mope, however. Nannan had more than delivering dinner on her mind, and she gave a piece of it to everyone within hearing range.
Today, that included four guards, Aradin, herself, and an older man who had drunk himself into disorderly conduct and had been hauled here to sleep it off, before working it off with some sort of compulsory service in the morning. Picking garbage off the streets, from the sound of it.
“Well. That fool, Deacon Shanno, seems to think he can handle the wildest beasts of the Grove, but let me tell you, he was in very sorry straits when he came in through the gate earlier! Torn and scratched and bleeding and covered in leaves and stains. Let me tell you, he looked like he’d been in a fight with a cross between a blackberry bush and a cat, and come out the lesser for it.” She shook her head. “I have no idea what all that boy thinks he can manage, but the Grove is not one of them—if there weren’t stout wardings etched into the very stones of the Keeper’s house, why, I’d be afraid for my life, and I’ve been telling everyone exactly so, all afternoon long!”
Wait, why would she . . . ? Ohhh, clever girl, Aradin thought to himself. He merely nodded and used the spoon she had brought to dig into the first dish, vegetables and greens that had been cooked, chilled, then drizzled in honey and mustard for flavor. The stout stone walls of the city prison kept out most of the day’s heat, but it was still warm down here, and the chilled dish tasted good.
Teral picked up on his meaning. (Clever, indeed. She’s also probably spreading word that Shanno cannot manage the Grove, along with word of the Convocation and the Keeper’s presence at it, and our presence here, and how we’re meant to tend the Grove at Saleria’s expressed wishes. If we let the Grove mutations crawl over the walls . . . they’ll wreak havoc in the city, and throw all sympathy for Shanno’s self-professed declarations of competency right out the nearest window.)
(If we let the mutations crawl over the wall, the town will be in danger,) Aradin reminded his Guide, frowning. Out loud, he pitched his voice just loud enough to carry to the guards outside the cell without seeming too obvious about it. “What about the wards on the Grove wall? Is he tending to those? Has he been pruning back the more volatile plants?”
Nannan snorted. “I doubt it. More like they have been trying to prune him. Aradin—as a Hortimancer—how much danger is Groveham in?”
“With Keeper Saleria gone off to represent Katan at the Convocation of Gods and Man, and myself as the only other person authorized, powerful enough, and knowledgeable about what the Grove mutations can do . . .” He dropped his already low voice into a grim bass warning. “It will not be good, Nannan. And though I am here in Groveham, as you can see they have locked me up. I am helpless to stop the coming wave of unmanaged, untamed mutations.”
“Wait a moment . . . how can you talk? I thought we slapped a silencing spell on you!” one of the guards exclaimed. He pushed to his feet and stalked over to Aradin’s cell, glaring at the Witch through the bars.
“Obviously, the will of the Gods allows me to speak,” Aradin retorted dryly. He returned to addressing the housekeeper, knowing the other guards were listening. “The Grove is nothing to mess with. I don’t know what this young deacon thinks he can do to control and contain it, when he hasn’t even spent a single hour following Keeper Saleria around, never mind the month-plus it took me to train under her—and I, a mage-priest of twice his experience.”
From the way Nannan was now smiling at him, her back thankfully to the guards, he had chosen right to play along. Though “play” wasn’t the right word for it, since Aradin meant every word.
“Now, do not make his mistake. Do not go into the Grove yourself, and if you see anything untoward around the house, either run for the guard so they can fetch me to deal with it, or lock yourself inside, behind the many wards laid on that place,” he cautioned her.
“At least I have a safe haven from the beast-bushes,” Nannan told him. “What about the rest of the city?”
“If you know any mages, even those with only a little bit of power, have them go from house to house warding all the doors and windows. That won’t stop the beast-bushes from roaming the streets, but it should give the people a safe place to hide. I’d fix the problem more directly, but all I can do is extend my apologies for anyone who comes to harm over this mess,” Aradin sighed, shrugging expressively. “I have been cast into prison simply because a certain, foolish young man envies my position and covets what he thinks are its privileges, without comprehending its many duties, responsibilities, and pains in the posterior. Deacon Shanno’s presumption and arrogance will cause this city to suffer. Not anything I would do . . . since what I was doing was everything needed to keep this city safe.”
“Well, I’ll at least try to make sure the food is far better than the accommodations. Eat up before it goes bad,” she directed him. “When you’re done, just hand the pail to the guards. I’ll come collect it in the morning when I bring you a hot breakfast—you can let me out now, milords, now that I’m satisfied the man won’t starve, or die of food poisoning.”
“Oh, come now,” the lead guard protested, moving up to the section of bars that formed the cell door. “What we serve wouldn’t kill a fly. But what makes you think we’ll let you bring in a hot breakfast for the prisoner?”
Nannan gave him a pointed look. “And just what sort of reaction do you think the Keeper will have, when Her Holiness finds out you’ve thrown her duly appointed, Gods-blessed assistant in prison for doing his job?” She tsked and shook her head. “I’d hate to be in your shoes, when the wrath of Heaven comes down on your heads.”
“So you say,” one of the other guards stated, lifting his chin. Aradin recognized him as the second man to put him in the anti-magic cuffs. “But you’re just the housekeeper. You don’t have your finger on the pulse of the Department of Temples.”
Nannan exited the cell and gave the other speaker a sniffy look. “You don’t live with Her Holiness day in and day out. You don’t commune with the Gods on a daily basis like Her Holiness does . . . and like she did when she asked Them if Holy Brother Aradin had Their approval to work with her. Which is why you aren’t getting a hot breakfast cooked by me.”
And with that, she flounced out. Aradin was a little bemused by the sight of a somewhat plump, middle-aged woman stalking out with a huffy look and a bounce to her step, but Teral was outright amused.
(Be very, very glad I find Saleria more appealing than Nannan,) he told his Host, chuckling. (That almost endeared her to me.)
(The food’s endearing her to me,) Aradin replied, spreading out the layers of carefully stacked plates tucked into the metal bucket. (Roast beef cold cuts, four kinds of cheeses, that salad we both like of greens with that tasty honey sauce, a dish with chicken and fruit mixed with nuts . . . ah, Gods bless the woman. She’s included one of her cinnin cakes at the bottom!)
Grinning like a little boy receiving presents on his birthing-day, Aradin bit into the broad, flat roll. Unlike the ones found in his homeland, where the sweet added to the spice was found as an icing drizzled over the top, Nannan had figured out some way of injecting a thickened cream filling into the spice-infused, round, bready disks.
Teral sighed in the back of his mind. (I’d chide you for not being a man and eating your vegetables first . . . but even I would eat her cinnin cakes above all else. Eat up, then rest. Tonight, we sneak back through the Keeper’s house to the Grove and augment the wave of beasts that little snot must face.)
(You really like her nickname for him, don’t you?) Aradin asked.
Teral snorted mentally. (He is one! I
f he were my son, I’d turn him over and blister his backside.)
It wasn’t often that Aradin got to turn the tables on his Guide and give sage advice. (Now, Teral, you must remember he is young, and Youth Equals Stupid. At least, until the bludgeoning of a personal learning experience has been applied to a young man’s head. Sometimes thoroughly applied, first.)
(I look forward to witnessing it,) his Guide replied. (Eat your vegetables. We’ll need our strength.)
* * *
Nannan brought the Witch a hot breakfast as promised, and for lunch, and for supper. She kept this up for two full days . . . then didn’t appear with his anticipated lunch. Instead, Aradin Teral could hear even through the glazed windows the shouts of alarm and the cries for the guard. Something about strangling vines and tumbling weeds.
The guards didn’t know what to make of it. He could make an educated guess as to what was happening, of course, but he didn’t speak up about it.
Lying on the narrow cot, hands tucked under his head, Aradin listened to them debating the matter in hushed tones. Should they hold to the requests which the young deacon had given them, or should they interrogate Aradin under a Truth Stone? Not every word was clear enough to hear despite the way he strained, even held his breath occasionally, but the Darkhanan still got the impression that Shanno had held some secret over the captain of the Groveham city guard, demanding certain concessions of the older man.
The current shift of jailers didn’t know what that secret was, but it did impress them that the deacon would know some secret that would make their stern captain eager to obey. They finally ended their debate by deciding to just sit tight and wait. All three of them waited, Aradin and the two men in their leather armor and teal-colored tabards . . . until the ground started shaking with a rhythmic thudding.
The noise was accompanied by panicked shouts and screams of fear from somewhere outside. Levering himself off the cot, Aradin moved over to the window, stood on the tips of his toes, and peered out through the bars. He didn’t see anything other than the multistoried wood and plaster building across from him for several long moments—then something grayish-brown, leafy, and bizarre strode past with an odd creaking sound between each thump, thump, thump, shaking the walls and the floor. An even louder sound escaped whatever-it-was, somewhere between a creak and a groan.
A rather wooden creaking, he belatedly realized. (That extra magic we poured into the aether circling the Grove, all these nights?) he reminded Teral. (I think it just bore unexpected fruit.)
(Fruit, hell,) Teral countered as something crashed and crumbled in the distance, accompanied by more frantic screaming. (I think it bore an entire tree!)
Sure enough, the huge thing came back. From this angle, Aradin could actually see partway up its tree-trunk legs. From the bits of long, slender leaves on the ends of drooping branches, he guessed it to be some member of the willow family, but the bark was thick, rugged, and much more auburn in hue than a proper willow gray. If he had to place the other parent tree, he would have guessed a redwood or some other conifer. (I hope this didn’t break off from one of the locus tree groupings.)
(That would be bad,) Teral agreed grimly. (I think we overdid it a little.)
“—I’ve got it!” he heard Shanno shouting somewhere out of sight. The youth came closer, though Aradin still couldn’t quite see. “Ignifa shoudis!”
Hissing noises sliced through the air, along with a faint glow of golden-orange light off to the left, and a whoompf sound that ended in a rising, groaning creak, the sound of a treeman screaming. Aradin wished for a stool, or that the cot could be pulled away from the wall, but it was firmly secured. Teral was a little taller and might have had more luck in his own body, but he didn’t want to risk the guards knowing he could swap faces. All he could do was listen to Shanno cast a few more spells, hear the crackling and snapping of more than just moving tree limbs, and see the glow of increasing flames reflecting off the building across the street.
“There, that should do it,” he heard Shanno proclaim in a grim, satisfied tone. Except there wasn’t any crashing reminiscent of a tree hitting the ground, just the snapping of flames . . . and the creaking of limbs. The deacon’s voice cracked in a yelp, followed by a bashing that shook the ground, but was too gentle to be the tree falling down. Sure enough, the deacon yelled, “Why won’t you fall down?”
The treeman groan-roared and smashed again. Someone else screamed, “—My house! My shop! Fire! FIRE!! Somebody help me!”
“Everything—everything’s under control!” Shanno called out. “Everything . . . Someone get a water mage out here!—Damn you, tree, why don’t you die? All those stupid bush-beasts did!”
(Because a tree is far larger than a fireball spell,) Teral answered the deacon, his words heard only in Aradin’s head.
(And because it’s covered in conifer bark, which is very thick and insulative,) Aradin agreed, remembering his Hortimancy lessons. (The exteriors of such trees might get scorched and the leaves burned off, but the core of the tree will continue to live, if it’s large enough.)
“Dammit—hudorjen hudorsomm!”
A long, heavy splashing noise was joined by a massive hissing. Moments later, a great cloud of steam and smoke billowed past his prison window. Faintly through the cracks around the edges of the glass-paned, iron-barred barrier, Aradin could smell burnt pine pitch. Shanno shouted his water-summoning spell again, splashing more liquid on the unseen battleground. The treeman thumped off into the distance, its flames hopefully extinguished.
Aradin could hear it evoking more panicked screams, and an occasional crash from its limbs swinging against whatever got in its way, or displeased it, or for whatever reason a treeman might rampage through a town, then it faded into the distance. He relaxed back onto his heels and sighed. (No, this is not good for poor Groveham . . .)
“What was out there?” one of the guards called out to him. “What did you see?”
Pushing away from the wall, Aradin crossed to the bars and braced one hand on the rune-chased metal. “What did I see? I saw very little from the window . . . but I could guess most of it from what I heard.”
“So what did you hear?” the teal-clad man rephrased impatiently.
“I heard the warped amalgamation of an utterly untamed, uncontrolled Grove-tree transformed into a living, moving, angry treeman, rampaging through the streets of your city, because I am locked up in here and am unable to do my assigned job as the Keeper’s assistant. I heard,” he continued tersely, cutting off the guard as the other man opened his mouth to speak, “Deacon Shanno utterly failing to destroy that treeman, and in fact, only enraging it further, into bashing into a house and setting it ablaze. I heard Shanno attempting to put the fire out . . . and the sounds of the treeman moving on, continuing its rampage through town unstopped.
“I heard your fellow Groveham citizens crying out for help as their homes were damaged and set ablaze . . . and I see you sitting there, complicit in the deacon’s arrogant stupidity, compounding the damages hour by hour of a situation already out of your combined control.” He flicked his gaze over the gaping guardsman, then over at his equally slack-mouthed companion. “Tell the good deacon that when he is ready to admit he cannot handle the Grove, I will step in and bring it back into line.
“But tell him to hurry. The longer the Grove runs unchecked, the harder it will be even for a powerful mage-priest such as myself, or even the Keeper, to contain what he has let loose upon this town . . . and the surrounding countryside . . . and its neighboring lands, and their neighbors.”
Returning to his cot, Aradin stretched out on it, wondering how much more of Shanno’s madness the people of Groveham could take, and trying to let go of his mounting anger over the whole mess.
(I swear, if I didn’t trust Orana to bring back the true word of the local Goddess in this matter, I’d be doing a lot more than just “ride the wav
e to save the trees.”)
(Actually, it’s “ride the wave to calm the trees,”) Teral corrected him. (But if the little snot does get his head out of his rectum, you and I had best be prepared to counter all the madness out there.)
(It shouldn’t be too difficult for most of it,) Aradin sighed, thinking of the things he and Teral and Saleria had learned over the last few weeks. About the magic of the Grove, how it had gone wild, how it affected the denizens of the Sacred Garden, and how that magic was still tied to the three distinct resonances of each locus-tree’s rift. (Between you and me, we should be able to control two thirds of anything that comes of there.)
(Unless it’s one of the two-rift mutations, or an exceptionally rare one-rift variety. If it’s one of Saleria’s, we’ll have half or little chance at controlling it via our attunement to its rift-energies.)
(Oh, thank you. You’re such a warm and shiny ray of positive thinking,) Aradin mocked.
(I’m dead. I’m allowed to be gloomy from time to time. Though I prefer the term “pragmatic,”) Teral replied. (Besides, normally you mock me for being optimistic.)
(True.)
* * *
The people of Groveham didn’t wait for the next day. Within an hour of the treeman’s badly thwarted rampage, they flocked to the entrances of the guard hall and shouted for answers, for assistance, and for Aradin’s release. Finally, the captain of the guard, the same mage-warrior who had silenced Aradin’s voice, stalked into the basement and snatched the keys from one of the two men on duty.
“Damned citizens . . . damned deacon . . . Damned Department of Temples,” he muttered, approaching the door. “Get out here, foreigner. You’re being given one shot at proving you can tame the Grove. Nobody else in this town is strong enough as a mage, not even me.”
Aradin uncurled himself from the cell cot, grateful he had chosen to use the facilities a few moments ago and didn’t have to stop for that now. The not even me made him look closer at the other man. Soot smeared his armor, and blood stained his tabard, a slightly fancier version than the other guards’ covering. Some of it seemed to be the captain’s own, for he had a fresh pink scar on his chin, the kind that said someone had applied some Healer’s magic to seal it, though not quite enough to render it completely smooth. Another session or two might heal it scarlessly, if he had the time to spare for that.
