The Grove

by Johnson, Jean

  “. . . and he is not a God.” Kelly stated grimly. “He is nothing more than a magically enhanced, murderous thief. A bully, beating up whomever he can find for the magical equivalent of lunch money.”

  A bully indeed, Saleria silently agreed. Then blinked, mind reeling, as Kelly continued. Their hostess outlined how Mekha should be stripped of all power, and that energy purified and given back to the people of Mekhana, who had suffered most under His rule, because He . . . or rather, he . . . was not a living being? Her jaw dropped again. It was true that Saleria didn’t think that Kata and Jinga needed to eat, breathe, or sleep like mere mortals, but . . . to not consider a God a being? Yes, They were manifestations of the group will and belief of Their worshippers, but . . .

  . . . It was done. As she watched, each of the Gods and Goddesses raised one hand. Mekha, diminished in stature and eminence by the Arbiter’s words, by her mortal judgment . . . dissolved and faded. Leaving Saleria with the echo of Kelly’s last words tumbling through her mind.

  They’ll have a rough time figuring out what to do with themselves, and who or what to worship next, but at least they’ll finally be free to try . . . ? Oh Gods, those poor Mekhanans . . . The horror of what they must have endured all this while struck her. Raised in the Katani Empire, where the strongest of mages often took up positions of power in the government, and where any young girl or boy could dream of developing enough magical power in puberty to one day contend for the throne of the empire and be its sovereign king or queen . . . It was unspeakable, what those poor Mekhanans must have endured, living in fear of their so-called God finding out some of them had magic and sucking it out of them, just to selfishly keep himself alive.

  She could feel Jinga’s arms enfolding her soul, lending comfort to her in her distress. (It’s alright . . . They will find their way soon enough.)

  (You have your own thoughts to gather,) Kata added. (For you will soon have your chance to speak the will and the wishes of Katan. Not only to Us—who have heard them every single day, prayed to Us by you and the other Keepers—but to all the Gods of this world. Make sure your requests are worthy ones. You will have a lot of power to back any changes you would have Us make, if We agree they are worth being made.)

  (Don’t think you have to present them right away, either,) Jinga added, as their hostess strove to come up with a suitable symbol for the Convocation. (We will be here for several days, and you may make requests of Us at any point in time. This Convocation . . . will not be the most organized of sessions,) He added, a touch of amusement coloring His thoughts. (But it will continue to be interesting.)

  I’ve no doubt, she thought back at Him, a bit dazed still at having seen a God stripped of power and dissolved back into the aether. A moment later, she sharpened her focus on what was being done and said outside of her head. . . . Chocolate? What exactly is this “chocolate” thing Queen Kelly mentions?

  This time, it was Kata who chuckled. (Did you not hear her? She claims it’s the food of the Gods!)

  . . . Right.

  * * *

  Etrechim was not the most eloquent of speakers. It was clear he was a true priest of his people, for he spoke passionately before his Patron and the other Gods, but he wasn’t very organized, he hadn’t really brought anything written down to help him stay on track, and it was clear he was still overwhelmed by being in the presence of his Deity.

  Slightly more accustomed to at least praying to her Deities, if not always to receiving a direct reply, Saleria wasn’t entirely overwhelmed. Still a bit in awe, but not overwhelmed. In fact, she discreetly slipped out of her seat to go find one of the hastily assembled servants at the back of the now crowded room. Her request for writing materials to augment the original notes she had made was greeted with a nod and a murmur that the man would do his best to find and fetch her something.

  As she returned to the Convocation hall, she crossed paths with a light-brown-haired man, his eyes as aqua-blue as Kelly’s, but with the look of Guardian Dominor about his face. She turned to watch him go, wondering if he was one of Dominor’s apparent plethora of brothers, but the young man had his attention on a woman retreating from the hall. Hoping she would have time to meet Dominor’s kin later, she resumed her seat.

  Two minutes later, the servant in the sunset-clad tabard made his way over to her, crouching a little to try not to disrupt the view of the others watching Etrechim continue his somewhat rambling recital. She accepted the inkpot, quill, and blank sheet of paper he handed her, and wrote down, Suggest to Queen Kelly the next Convocation of Gods and Man starts with more time to accustom everyone to their Deities, or at least have them come a lot more prepared for their allotted time.

  Only then did it occur to her that she was understanding Etrechim’s long-winded, rambling speech.

  (Of course you’re understanding it,) Kata whispered in her mind. (The Convocation of Gods and Man would be nigh-useless as a way to bring the world together in peace and understanding every four years if you couldn’t understand each other the moment the Gateway of Heaven was opened. But it only works in proximity to the Gateway of Heaven.)

  (Keep in mind that, once the Gateway is shut, you’ll have to go back to either babbling at each other without comprehension, or you’ll have to actually learn each other’s languages, by rote memorization, spell, or potion,) Jinga cautioned her. (Now organize your thoughts, Daughter of Katan.)

  She had that much warning before the Fortunai priest ceased his speeches with a trio of heartfelt bows and thanks to his God, and a sweeping bow to all the Deities. That allowed Queen Kelly to step up and speak.

  “Um, Nauvea,” she said, addressing the least powerful of the Goddesses gathered in the chamber. “If I may petition you very quickly on behalf of my sister?”

  “She is ready. Do not delay your own duties,” the young Goddess in the white dress with the white flower in Her hair stated, smiling.

  “Right . . . the next person . . .” Kelly consulted a pad of paper. Saleria was already in motion, leaving the quill, inkpot, and paper behind, but fetching out the scroll Daranen had prepared for this moment. “That would be Priestess Saleria of Katan,” the newly confirmed Queen of Nightfall asserted. “Speak your piece, worship the, ah, Father Kata and Jinga as you see fit—”

  The Father what? Saleria blinked at the other woman in shock. Only the chuckling of Kata Herself in the back of her mind saved her from being affronted by such mangled near-blasphemy.

  (Be gentle and gracious,) Kata encouraged her, as Kelly pushed her pad of notes onto Guardian Dominor, muttering something about queenly business elsewhere. (She’s in the middle of rescuing her blood-bound sister from the “bad guys” as we speak. It has the woman a little flustered, as it would fluster anyone.)

  Right, Saleria thought back at Her and Him. Gracious it is. I can do gracious—if things are as bad as Dominor hinted, please, lend Your aid to helping these kind people, she prayed, moving to the center of the hall. They have reconvened the Convocation of Gods and Man . . . and . . . bollocks to this. I’m saying this out loud, she asserted mentally. And got a chuckle from Jinga.

  “Unto Holy Kata, Maiden and Mother, Lady and Crone, and unto Holy Jinga, Lover and Father, Lord and Guide, Patrons of the Four Aspects of Life and of the Empire of Katan . . . thank You for watching over and blessing Your people all these many years,” she stated in preamble. “Before I read from the list of Your people’s greatest concerns that have been assembled over these last two hundred years, I would like to take this moment to greet all the Gods of the world, and to ask that You continue to shower blessings upon Queen Kelly, her family, her friends, her citizens, and all those who have ever showed them kindness in the path they have taken to reach this day.”

  Though her words were not one of the carefully crafted prayer-speeches Daranen usually developed for her, she spoke them with the same heartfelt conviction she gave to any petition for the sake of Katan. Several of the Gods and Goddesses dipped Their heads slightly
in acknowledgment of her request, encouraging her to continue.

  “I know that there have been some concerns as to whether or not Katan as a nation should even acknowledge this newly founded kingdom—”

  (Empire,) Jinga corrected her.

  “—Empire, sorry,” she apologized, heeding His correction without thinking. “But literally being the person the vast majority of the Empire sends its concerns to, concerns which they wish You to address, I can safely state that the vast majority of Katani harbor no feelings or wishes of ill will toward these Nightfallers . . . despite whatever our government may have complained about. So on behalf of the people of Katan, I thank You for your support of our Convocation’s host-nation.”

  “Well-spoken,” Fate praised her. The Threefold Deity had apparently been selected to speak for all the rest when a group response was required.

  She bowed politely to Them in Their ever-changing Aspects, then returned her attention to the scroll in her hands. If she looked too long at Kata and Jinga Themselves, she might start to babble like Etrechim. It was important for the people of Katan to be represented well, however, so she unbound the rods and unrolled the first portion.

  “Hear then, O Gods, the concerns of the people of Katan as they may have touched not only the citizens of the Empire, but those of other lands as well . . .”

  * * *

  Prelate Lanneraun was a riot when away from the sanctity of his cathedral and its eight altars, very much resembling his Patron Deity, Jinga. He was almost as old as that priest had been back in the Westraven Chapel, Prelate Tomaso, and had a plethora of amusing, even outright hilarious tales regarding his job as the chief Groveham priest, most of which centered around various hilarious incidents involving all the weddings he had officiated over the years. Aradin found himself laughing so hard that at more than one point he had to wipe tears from his eyes, particularly over the story about the hunter whose pet ferrets had somehow gotten loose and gone on a rampage through the wedding banquet set up on a table in one of the Groveham cathedral’s side halls.

  “. . . And of course by then, there was absolutely no way anyone was going to eat anything at any of those tables. That is, until the huntsman’s dogs broke loose, chased down the ferrets, and started licking them! Not to mention all the platters smeared with food!”

  Aradin howled in amusement, clutching at his stomach because it hurt so much from all the effort. Lanneraun waited politely while he recovered most of his breath, but neither Aradin nor Teral—who was equally breathless with laughter, for all the Guide technically didn’t breathe—completely trusted him. The wrinkled seams of Lanneraun’s face creased even further as he delivered the final punch line, his dark brown eyes twinkling with merriment.

  “That, my dear boy, was when the bride looked at the mess and said, ‘Well, I guess I’ll just have to thank Sweet Kata for ensuring I’ll never need to clean another plate again!’”

  He dissolved, helpless with laughter. The Groveham prelate grinned at him, enjoying his breathless mirth. Aradin finally managed to get one full breath, then a second . . . before starting to laugh again. A knock at the door was followed by the panel opening, and a familiar blond head poking itself inside.

  “Whatever in the Names of the Gods is going on in here?” he heard Deacon Shanno ask without preamble or leave to enter.

  The appearance of the arrogant young man quelled some of Aradin’s merriment, though not quite all of it. He didn’t like the younger man, and didn’t trust him, but Aradin was grateful for the respite. Squirming to sit more upright, he focused on regaining his breath, stomach muscles sore from their workout.

  Lanneraun lifted one of his age-gnarled hands, gesturing between them. “Deacon Shanno, I would like you to meet Witch-Envoy Aradin Teral, of Darkhana. Witch Aradin here is the equivalent of a prelate in rank, if not a high priest.”

  “Actually, I’m a lot closer to a high priest, if I have the various Katani rankings right . . . deacon, priest, prelate, high priest, and then your holy leader . . . right?” Aradin asked, and received a nod. He managed a smile in Shanno’s direction. “And we have met, if only briefly. I am glad to see you again, Deacon. Your mentor here has a marvelous sense of humor.”

  “So I heard,” the young man stated dryly, folding his arms. “Prelate, what is this outlander doing here?”

  Lanneraun lifted his age-thinned brows, their color long since turned white above his brown eyes. “Manners, Deacon Shanno. Witch-priest Aradin has been assigned here by the Gods Themselves as an assistant to Keeper Saleria. Even if he weren’t assigned to Groveham, he should still have your respect as a holy guest.”

  Shanno compressed his lips into a thin line. He gave Aradin only the slightest tip of his head . . . then narrowed his blue eyes. “Wait . . . as an assistant to Keeper Saleria? On whose authority?”

  “On the authority of the Gods,” Aradin said, glancing at the younger man from under his lashes. It was clear from the faint sneer on the deacon’s lips that he didn’t quite believe the Witch. “Both my own God and Goddess, Darkhan and Dark Ana, and your God and Goddess, Jinga and Kata, approved of my assignment to assist Keeper Saleria in the management and reclamation of the Sacred Grove.”

  “You?” Shanno asked, flipping a hand at Aradin. “A foreigner?”

  “Yes. Me. A foreigner.” Aradin wasn’t surprised by his disbelief, or his disdain. The younger man had struck him as a bit arrogant.

  “Actually, Aradin Teral here is a highly trained Hortimancer,” Lanneraun stated, supporting Aradin. “He certainly knows his herbology—at the very least his Aian teas. He was able to discern purely by taste the region where the brew I served him was grown, and the spices I like to add.”

  Shanno narrowed his blue eyes. “I’ll bet he is. Well. Gods bless you, foreigner. If you’ll excuse me, I must tend to my duties.”

  (Oh, for the ability to skulk off in a different body,) Teral sighed in the back of Aradin’s mind. (I don’t quite trust that youth where we are concerned.)

  (I don’t think he can really do all that much to us,) Aradin dismissed. (We have the blessing of the Katani Gods, after all.)

  “Deacon Shanno is young. A bit arrogant, but hopefully some sense will be knocked into him,” the prelate dismissed.

  (Isn’t saying that tugging on the shirt-tail of our divine neighbor, Fate?) Teral asked Aradin.

  (Fine. If it happens, I’ll try to be ready for whatever “it” is,) he sighed.

  “Now, where were we?” Lanneraun asked rhetorically. “Ah, yes, the huntsman’s wedding . . .”

  Aradin quickly held up one hand, the other going to his still-sore stomach muscles. He chuckled lightly, but even that much was motivation to quit. “Please, have mercy, Brother Prelate; I don’t think my stomach can take much more mirth. That, and it’s past midafternoon. I’ll need to hurry to make my pre-dusk rounds. With Her Holiness at the Convocation, maintaining the safety of the Grove is up to me in her absence.”

  “Ah, well . . . it’s so nice to have an appreciative audience who hasn’t heard my tales before. But I do understand the call of one’s duty. May Kata and Jinga bless you in your tending of the Grove, Brother Aradin,” Lanneraun stated, rising to his feet with a little effort; but only a little.

  Rising as well, Aradin clasped hands with him. “I do look forward to hearing the rest of your tales another day. Gods bless you, too. I’ll go let myself out.”

  Nodding, Lanneraun waved him off, moving from his visiting chairs to the seat behind his desk. Aradin turned left as he exited the room. There was a side door he could use that would avoid the main sanctuary, one that would get him closer to the Keeper’s home by a full city block. As he passed the next door, he could hear Deacon Shanno speaking.

  “What do you mean, she’s busy? I need to speak to Lady Apista immediately!” the deacon asserted.

  An unfamiliar voice spoke in an apologetic tone, but by that point Aradin was well past the doorway and couldn’t hear the exact words. Mindful
of the passing time, he hurried out the side door. Between Aradin and Teral, the two of them could control and use up the flow of two thirds of the Grove’s rift-energies without having to visit each locus tree. But with Saleria absent, her rift’s magic would have to be gathered and used up the old-fashioned way, which meant walking the outer wall to empower its wards.

  THIRTEEN

  Her quarters for the Convocation were sparse, little more than a stone platform and a pallet for the bed, two blankets, a heating rune, a modest table for a nightstand, and a shorter version that could serve as a stool. It didn’t even have a door, just a curtain made out of a tapestry with some hastily stitched runes along the edge for privacy. The sunset-liveried servant who brought her to the chamber apologized profusely for the lack of amenities, showed her how to operate the crystalline strips of the ceiling for lighting and the metal rune set into one of the walls for heating, and promised everything would be vastly superior at the next Convocation.

  The woman showed her the refreshing room, which would have to be shared between her quarters and three others—at least it had a wooden door for true privacy, plus a bathing tub as well as the usual facilities—and the stack of strange, loop-covered fabric that made up the Nightfall version of toweling cloths, then left Saleria to find some rest for the night. The room wasn’t bare-walled; it had been carved in a forest motif, with suncrystals grown in such a way that they formed softly glowing clouds overhead when the control-rune by the door was set for daylight, and became tiny pinpoints of stars when she touched the rune for turning them off.

  It was just enough light to see her way out to the corridor, which was lit a little brighter by softly glowing moons set at intervals among the overhead stars. Whoever had grown the crystals had possessed an artisan’s touch. Setting the suncrystals in her bedchamber to be nothing but stars for eight hours, Saleria stripped down to a tunic and undershorts for sleeping clothes. It felt like she was camping in a silhouetted forest, or perhaps in the Grove as it should have been. A comforting thought.