The Grove

by Johnson, Jean

That, too, worked. At least, the glare did. Defensively, the guard backed up toward the door. “Fine. But don’t expect the bread to be fresh. And you’ll be lucky to get scrapings out of the roasting pan. You’re a prisoner, foreigner, not an honored guest.”

  Aradin arched a brow at that, but obviously said nothing. Moving over to the cot, he sat down on it to await his meal. As annoying as she could be, he knew he was going to miss Nannan’s cooking right after the guard returned with something for him to eat.

  Teral slipped into his Doorway. He paused on the threshold, taking a few moments to absorb Aradin’s new surroundings, then sighed and settled into place behind his Host. (You’re not going to like Their reply.)

  (I’m not?) Aradin asked, both brows lifting. (Have They refused to prove Their word is true?)

  (Sort of,) his Guide hedged. (Orana spoke with Kata on our behalf, since she was in the amphitheater, and Saleria was apparently elsewhere, probably having lunch given the time of day on that side of the continent. Kata said, and I quote, “The young man in question needs a lesson in humility if he is ever to become a true priest. Let him ride the wave a bit before you save the day.” Orana didn’t know what She meant by that, but I think I can guess.)

  So could Aradin. He winced and sat back on the narrow cot, resting against the stone wall. (Oh, that’s going to be unpleasant.)

  (Exactly. Without either of us on hand to shunt all the energies, the Grove is going to go wild in just a matter of days,) Teral said.

  (Yes. And to add insult to injury, I’m going to have to sit here like a good little prisoner and eat jailer’s slops.) Aradin knew he was complaining about a very trivial matter, when the Grove running wild was anything but trivial. He couldn’t help it, though. He’d missed breakfast after having gone on a vigorous hike, manipulating magics and taming wild plants along the way.

  (You know . . . she didn’t say we had to stay locked up,) Teral mused. If he’d had control of their body, Aradin knew from his tone he would have been scratching his bearded chin thoughtfully.

  He also could guess from long association with the other Witch what was going through his Guide’s mind. ( . . . You’re right, She didn’t. And Jinga has a reputation for being occasionally mischievous.)

  (And perhaps we could speed things up by ensuring the “wave” in question was a truly wild one?) his Guide offered.

  Aradin grinned. One of the other two guards glanced his way. He smothered the urge to smile, affecting a sober expression while he waited for his food. (We’ll still have to wait until nightfall. Our spare robe is hanging up in Saleria’s dressing room. Think we can make the Witchcloak transfer to it?)

  (After nightfall, yes. We both know exactly where it is, after all. But until you can get those anti-magic cuffs off, you won’t be able to leave, let alone manifest, once you go into the Dark,) Teral warned him. (They will anchor you there. Only when they’re safely bagged in silk will we have a chance of getting them out again.)

  (Well, then you’d better go round up a Host or a Guide in the Dark who knows how to pick locks, and who has a spare shielding sack on hand,) Aradin told him. (If you’re lucky, you won’t return until after I’ve choked down whatever gets scraped out of the prison’s dirtiest pots.)

  (Oh, it won’t be that bad, surely,) Teral dismissed.

  (And who was it who warned which one of us about speaking rashly, hmm?) Aradin countered.

  (Fine. Consider it your punishment for tweaking the nose of the Threefold God,) Teral retorted, and ducked into the Dark. He left Aradin smiling, though, for all it would most likely be true.

  * * *

  The food was divine. Miracles had been wrought since just that morning. Saleria felt guilty for enjoying all the fruits and vegetables and even fish and meats, when she knew how hard Nannan cooked for her. But she did enjoy it.

  The Keeper of the Grove could not remember a more exotic feast in her life, though she felt sorry for Witch Orana, who had been pressed into delivering bushels and baskets and stasis chests of food from various nations around the world via the Dark. The more that word spread about the Convocation of Gods and Man being restored, the more people from all over the world wanted to donate to it, to touch it in some way and be a part of this momentous occasion.

  “Excuse me, but are you Priestess Saleria of Katan?” a middle-aged woman asked, interrupting Saleria’s next bite of the latest version of pasta, a dish she had learned came from a land called Guchere.

  Setting down her fork, Saleria nodded. “Yes, I am. How may I help you?”

  “I’ve a message from Priestess Orana Niel,” the brunette in the sunset tabard stated, and handed over a rolled up piece of paper. An oddly rolled up piece, for it had been pinched at alternating angles, which made it look something like a cross between a bit of honeycomb and a chewed-up stick. At the Keeper’s odd stare, the servant gestured at it. “She explained to me that this is the easiest way to conceal a message without using a spell, because she said once it’s been rolled up and pinched, you can’t get it to roll up perfectly a second time. You can see I haven’t peeked at it, milady.”

  “Yes, I can see that. I just didn’t know why it had been rolled up like this,” Saleria told her, taking the scroll from the Convocation servant. She peeled open a layer and a half, then tried to rewrap it . . . and failed. “How clever . . . It really can’t be rewrapped, can it?”

  The older woman grinned. “I’ve been delivering those half the day, now. Everyone’s been amazed by the trick of it. Have a good supper, milady.”

  “And you, when you get to it,” Saleria replied, more of her attention on unscrolling the sheet of paper. The message, when she got to it, made her eyes widen. Neatly penned in Katani lettering, its content was alarming.

  Aradin Teral has been harassed by someone named Deacon Shanno. They are now under arrest, if unharmed. Goddess Kata in Her wisdom has decided to let things stand for now. She said this would teach “the young man” a lesson in humility, and something about “ride the wave,” whatever that means.

  Yours, Orana Niel.

  Dear Kata! Saleria thought, alarmed. Aradin, arrested? And to be taught a lesson in humility?

  A voice laughed inside her head. Not Jinga’s, but Kata’s. Normally serene, the Goddess chuckled in Saleria’s mind. (Not the Witch, Keeper, but the deacon-child, who in his arrogance does not understand what he attempts to wield. Here, let Us show you . . .)

  Blinking, Saleria swayed and clutched at the dining table, anchoring her sense of balance as the world shifted. She knew she was still seated in the dining hall somewhere under the mountains of Nightfall Isle, but her sense of sight and sound showed a completely different scene, of leaving her body behind to fly high over a broad island, then a vast span of water, chasing the sun like a spell-flung skylark.

  Her mind relaxing into Kata’s control, Saleria blinked as the width of Katan itself streaked rapidly past, until she alighted on a curving, interwoven branch of the Bower itself, in a spot which allowed her to peer down at a familiar blond man.

  Deacon Shanno, oblivious of the bird’s-eye view which Saleria now had of him, picked up a flask from one of Aradin’s tables, sniffed at the contents, made a face, and set it back down again. “Poncy fellow. Smells like a perfume shop in half these bottles. The other half like a child that’s been rolling in the grass . . .

  “I think I shall have to get rid of all of this,” he decided, fluttering his hands at the collection of tables interspersed between sap pools and altars. “Cluttering up a holy sanctuary with alchemical equipment? Blasphemy!” Shanno asserted. Then he cleared his throat and tried again, this time with less volume, but a deeper tone. “Blasphemy.” He attempted it a third time, testing out yet another way of emphasizing it. “Blasphemy . . . blasphemous. Hm. I’ll have to work on that.”

  He turned in place, squinting up at the vines as they slowly oozed and dripped around him. Saleria almost held her breath, for he looked like he was about to step backward into a pale am
ethyst sap-pool which Aradin had identified as concentrated fecundity—in other words, perfect for lust potions, conception potions, and even contraception potions, if treated just right alchemically. Unfortunately, he noticed it before anything could happen. Shanno gave the puddle a bemused look, then stepped away.

  “No, no, this is all wrong! Why would the seat of power be dripping with . . . goo?” Shanno muttered in disgust.

  Tentatively, he reached out to touch a sap-slick vine, the one which Aradin Teral had used to show how it caused a sugarcane plant to grow faster than natural. Nothing happened, other than that he got the slightly sticky stuff on his fingers. Stooping, Shanno scrubbed it off on a bit of moss. From the way he immediately straightened and moved on, Saleria assumed he did not see the moss quiver, then thicken.

  “This should be a true garden, filled with flowers, and trees, and bowers . . . ew, is that a bug?” He peered out between two of the interwoven, rough-barked roots forming the edge of the Bower’s dome, and made a face. “Far too nature-filled for my tastes. But still, I’ll have the prestige of tending it while the Keeper is away . . .”

  Oh, Kata, Saleria thought in disgust. I think I’ve seen enough . . .

  Apparently not, for her literal bird’s-eye view followed Shanno out of the Bower and down the paths. Sunset was only an hour or so away. By this point in time, all three of them—herself and Aradin Teral—would be channeling power directly from the Bower to the Grove walls. That slowed the sap-dripping as well as ensuring that the heart of each locus tree would not overfill and thus overflow with untapped magics. But it was clear Shanno had no clue what to do. He hadn’t even grabbed a pruning staff from the shed just inside the Grove.

  Sure enough, something lunged out of the bushes, slapping at his ankles. Shanno shrieked when the thettis-vine attacked, stumbling back. By pure miracle, the thorns only snagged his white priest-robes. Yanking his hem free, he hopped back out of range of a second lash, his blue eyes wide.

  “U-Unnatural place,” he stammered. Then muttered to himself, snapping his fingers. A faint shimmer bubbled around him in a protective ward. “. . . There. That should do it. I’ll come back and burn you out, see if I don’t!” he warned the bush. A blush stained his cheeks. “Listen to me; I’m talking to myself! Unnatural place. I’ll take great pleasure in casting several fire spells on that patch tomorrow morning. But you can wait until morning. I’m off to have myself a nice supper, and a bit of dessert for a job well done . . .”

  Nothing else attacked him, which was a pity. Saleria watched him disappear into the Keeper’s house, where he received nothing but tight-lipped, dark glares from Nannan. From the unlit state of the kitchen, she would apparently rather let herself and Daranen starve than fix the deacon anything. Shanno gave her an arch look, the kind that said he would be back, and marched out of the house.

  The skylark’s view swooped into the streets after him, but rather than following the deacon all the way to the cathedral, it detoured to the guard hall. Settling much like a bird on the sill of a glazed window, Saleria had a few moments to peer inside past the bars. She caught sight of a familiar, beloved dark blond head, of a well-known hand dipping a chunk of bread into a bowl of something unidentifiable, an unfamiliar bit of metal wrapped around Aradin’s wrist . . . and then the skylark took off, winging its way back to her body with breathless speed.

  (Give it two more days, Keeper,) Kata advised her. (Then you may join your Witch-lover if you wish . . . though only briefly. You are needed to stand witness here as well as there.)

  Saleria landed with a swaying jolt in her body, no longer a mental bird lofted by her Patron. She felt a feather-soft touch, as if Kata had brushed Her lips against Saleria’s brow, then nothing more. Alone with her thoughts, Saleria wondered if she should do anything about what she had seen. Not go to Aradin immediately—not against her Goddess’ advice—but if she should tell anyone what was happening. Hunger distracted her.

  Her food was still warm, though not quite hot. Digging into her meal, she nibbled on some exotic reddish carrot-thing cooked into a sweet dish with bits of spice-dusted fruit. A yellow nubbly something that had been pickled and chilled hit her palate next. It reminded her of Aradin and Teral politely declining some of Nannan’s vinegar-based sauces . . . and that in turn reminded her that the Keeper of Katan wasn’t the only member of the priesthood involved.

  I shall have to seek out the Witch-priest representing the people of Darkhana, she decided, dipping a bit of fresh-baked bread into the spicy-sweet dish’s sauce. Darkhan and Dark Ana would no doubt like a say in how Their priest has been treated by a deacon of my own Order . . . Lifting the bit of bread to her mouth, she hesitated. Oh. Oh, right . . . Poor Aradin. Who knows what he’s dipping his bread into at this very moment? Kata, Jinga, make sure he’s fed something healthy, at the very least! Or I shall have to have very cross words with the Guard Captain of Groveham.

  * * *

  While the night shift guards quietly played some sort of card game in the glow of a modestly rapped lightglobe, Aradin meticulously draped the folds of his Witchcloak over every inch of his body. Tugging the deeply cowled hood over his head, he fitted his wrists into the oversized sleeves, wriggled just a bit to make sure even the cuffs overlapped . . . and relaxed into his own Doorway. Teral took his place, anchoring their shared body in reality.

  Glenna awaited him, as did her Guide, Josai. Glenna smiled and wiggled the strange implement in her hand. “Bet you didn’t know I could pick a lock . . .”

  “You’d win that bet,” Aradin told her. He held up his wrists. “Anti-magic cuffs, wrongfully applied. The instigator will get his comeuppance shortly, if Teral and I have anything to do with assisting it along . . . and of course we will.”

  The other Witch chuckled, then started poking and prodding at the cuffs. “Good thing these are more or less nullified by the Dark . . . ah, there we go. Simple enough mechanism. A twist, a push, another twist . . . huzzah!”

  Josai swooped under Aradin’s wrist and caught the falling cuff in a quilted satchel before it could land on the not-ground of the Dark. She hovered, waited, and caught the second one as well. Pulling the drawstring tight, she wrapped the ends around the throat of the bag, knotted them, and held it out to Aradin with a bow.

  “Thank you, ladies,” he praised both women. “Since I’ve only been borrowing them, I’ll make sure to return these to their proper owner. When everything has been cleared up, of course.”

  “Just don’t touch those nasty things while you’re in the Dark,” Josai reminded him tartly. “Or you’ll be stuck in here again until someone can separate you.”

  “You also owe us both a dance, next turning of Brother Moon,” Glenna added. “Be careful when cloak-swapping.”

  “I will,” he promised. Bag in hand, Aradin turned to his right, took three steps, and arrived back at his Doorway. (Ready to go?) he asked Teral, stepping just far enough back to be out of the way, yet close enough to still hear.

  (More than ready; this hard pallet is not good for my back.) Drawing in a deep breath to brace their body, Teral sank through the Doorway. Silently, the Witchcloak sank downward onto the cell cot. Unless the cloak remained exactly where it was, unnoticed and untouched, they would not be able to return to it.

  Aradin kept his fingers on his Doorway while Teral pulled their flesh through. One short step, two—with their free hands clasped, the fingers of his other hand brushed the frame of the other, fuller Witchcloak, still hanging in Saleria’s dressing room. Then, with Teral to anchor him, he released the other cloak and pulled himself into the new opening. Thankfully, the room was dark, for the deep hood was how the cloak had been hung on its peg. A gentle tug released it from the wooden projection, allowing him to step away from the wall and cast about for the lightglobe.

  Which should be . . . two steps to the left, about head-height . . . there. His fingers bumped into it, summoning a gentle glow. Once he had enough light to see by, Aradin set the bag with t
he cuffs on an empty patch of shelving. He made his way to the refreshing room, freshened up, rapped off all the lights, and worked his way downstairs. The moment his foot touched the ground floor, a board squeaked beneath it.

  “—Back again, are you, you little snot? By the Gods, I think not!”

  Aradin jumped back, tripped on the bottom step, and landed on his backside with a grunt. “Nannan!” he gasped. Or tried to. All that came out was a strangled wheeze. (Dammit—the spell’s still choking me from speaking?)

  He flipped the cloak folds over his body and quickly swapped places with Teral—who hastily threw up an arm to block the smacking of whatever it was the housekeeper had in her hands. A broom, from the rustling thump of it.

  “Enough, woman!” Teral ordered, grasping the shaft and wrestling it to a standstill. “This is Teral, not that little snot, as you so aptly named him.”

  “T-Teral? Oh, Gods!” Dropping her end of the broom, the housekeeper tried to cuddle him in apology. The Darkhanan Guide put up with it for a few moments, then pushed her off. Gently, but firmly.

  “Enough. Now is not the time nor place,” he added. “I take it the little snot isn’t here?”

  “No—and I’ll thank you to put a stop to this nonsense! I would’ve stopped him before, if the guards hadn’t been here earlier. And I would have come up directly, if I hadn’t been, erm, indisposed,” she mumbled, blushing. “You know, in the refreshing room for a bit.”

  Teral held up one hand, determined to regain some dignity. “Please, nothing more need be said of the matter. I’ll value the bruises you have given me as a sign of your devotion to your mistress’ household, but there’s no need to demonstrate more of your combat prowess. Your broom, milady.”

  Blushing again, she took back her makeshift weapon. “So . . . what will you be doing now?”

  “I shall be preparing the Grove for Deacon Shanno’s visit on the morrow. If he wants to handle the Grove, I say let him try . . . as in, try it at its worst.”