The Tower

by Jean Johnson

  “I am if it means you love me,” she pointed out.

  Stopping her with a squeeze of her waist, Kerric turned to look up at his beautiful, tall, tattoo-painted warrior. “Myal, I love you, I want to share the rest of my crazy life with you, and I want to share the rest of yours, too. ‘If’ that means that I love you,” he scorned, repeating her doubt. “Have I finally made myself clear enough for you?”

  She thought about it a few moments, then nodded. “Yes. You have.”

  Kerric started to head toward the edge of town again, then stopped mid-step. He faced her fully again. “. . . Well?”

  “Well, what?” Myal asked.

  “Well, do you love me that much in return?” he prodded her, rolling his eyes.

  There weren’t enough street lanterns close enough to see the movement of those gray eyes of his, but she could hear it in his tone. Myal looped her arms around his shoulders, pulling him close. “What do you think?”

  “I think, if you don’t answer me promptly, I’m going to turn you over my knee and spank you again,” he stated impatiently. Then paused and added honestly, “Actually, that was rather fun for both of us, so I might do it anyway.”

  She blushed, remembering how much both of them had indeed enjoyed it. Kissing her lover on the forehead, she stated firmly, “Yes, Kerric, I love you that much, too. I look forward to the next sixty-three . . . wait, we haven’t settled what the wager is for, have we? Who gets what, if we win?”

  “We will not discuss that on the city streets,” Kerric stated, nudging her into moving again. He did lift his head for a quick, soothing kiss on her cheek as she complied. “We’ve just fed all of Penambrion, the valley, and the Tower enough gossip fodder for the next dozen weeks. They only need to know there’s a bet on us making it all the way to Happily Ever After. They don’t need to know what the prize is if we do.”

  Nodding, she released him from the loop of her arms and laced her fingers with his once more. A minute later, a thought crossed her mind. “Kerric?”

  “Yes, my love?”

  She liked the sound of that, and decided to use it herself as well, but carefully did not let it distract her from her question. “Kerric, my love, is there a trap, or room, or gauntlet or whatever, called ‘Happily Ever After’?”

  “Yes, there is. And you’ve just triggered it,” he told her. “It’s a timed trap, too. You’ll have sixty-three years to figure a way out of it.”

  Her laughter rang through the night-cloaked streets, mixing well with his chuckle.

  THE SONG OF THE GUARDIANS

  When serpent crept into their hall:

  Danger waits for all who board,

  Trying to steal that hidden tone.

  Painted Lady saves the lord;

  Tower’s master’s not alone.

  Calm the magics caught in thrall:

  Put your faith in strangers’ pleas,

  Keeper, Witch, and treasure trove;

  Ride the wave to calm the trees,

  Servant saves the sacred Grove.

  Cult’s awareness, it shall rise:

  Hidden people, gather now;

  Fight the demons, fight your doubt.

  Gearman’s strength shall then endow,

  When Guild’s defender casts them out.

  Synod gathers, tell them lies:

  Efforts gathered in your pride

  Lost beneath the granite face.

  Painted Lord, stand by her side;

  Repentance is the Temple’s grace.

  Brave the dangers once again:

  Quarrels lost to time’s own pace

  Set aside in danger’s face.

  Save your state; go make your choice

  When Dragon bows unto the Voice.

  Sybaritic good shall reign:

  Island city, all alone

  Set your leader on his throne.

  Virtue’s knowledge gives the most,

  Aiding sanctions by the Host.

  Faith shall now be mended whole:

  Soothing songs kept beasts at bay

  But sorrow’s song led King astray.

  Demon’s songs shall bring out worse

  Until the Harper ends your curse.

  Save the world is Guardians’ goal:

  Groom’s mistake and bride’s setback

  Aids the foe in its attack.

  Save the day is Jinx’s task,

  Hidden in the royal Masque.

  —AS PROPHESIED BY THE SEER HAUPANEA

  Turn the page for a preview of Jean Johnson’s next Guardians of Destiny Novel

  THE GROVE

  Coming in December 2013 from Berkley Sensation

  ONE

  Calm the magics caught in thrall:

  Put your faith in strangers’ pleas,

  Keeper, Witch, and treasure trove;

  Ride the wave to calm the trees,

  Servant saves the sacred Grove.

  WESTERN KATAN

  Aradin Teral eyed the priest tottering with uneven steps from altar to altar in the Westraven Chapel. The man was ninety if he was a day, with hair not only white but wispy and thinned with age, a face with more seams than a student tailor’s practice piece, and two canes to hold himself upright. Still, the man was revered by the locals, some of whom stood in the center of the eight altars. The rest, including Aradin, stood or sat on the benches placed outside the eight altars and watched while the new father toted his infant daughter from altar to altar in the priest’s wobbling wake.

  In accordance with local customs, the newborn was to be blessed by both the God Jinga and His Wife Kata at each of Their four altars, representing the four seasons, four aspects, four this and four that. It was an interesting religion, one of the older ones around, and apparently a conglomeration of two individual sets of worship combined many centuries ago into a single faith in a single, unified nation. Enough time had passed that the two different styles of worship for the local God and Goddess had been successfully and smoothly blended. Normally, Aradin would enjoy it, as he enjoyed learning about any manner of new cultures and faiths in his travels.

  This time, however, he wasn’t traveling abroad for the usual reasons. If he had been, Aradin would not have been in a large chapel like this, watching a newborn receive an elaborate set of blessings. The Darknanan sighed under his breath, wondering how long this service would take. At the moment, the most elaborately decorated, flower-wreathed altars were the ones for summer, given the actual time of year down here below the Sun’s Belt. Unfortunately, the age-stooped priest was only just now moving on to the blessings for autumn. Those would be followed by the rites for winter, and then spring, before closing the “year” with one last rite at the summer altar.

  ( . . . This won’t do at all,) Aradin thought. Not to himself alone, but to the Guide he bore inside the Doorway of his soul. (He’s kind and thoughtful and everyone respects him . . . but I seriously doubt Prelate Tomaso could survive a trip through the Dark. He’d be liable to die physically in there from the shock of it. That’s never a good idea.)

  Teral shrugged mentally. It was all the older male could do, since Aradin was the one in command of their shared body. (So we look at the next on our list. Or better yet, ask him who he thinks would be a good representative before their local Gods. Just don’t mention politics.)

  (I have to. We almost picked Priestess Tenathe. If we hadn’t been there the day word of the Corvis brothers’ claim for independence reached her ears, we would’ve picked a woman enraged enough to sabotage everything,) Aradin reminded his Guide.

  (Yes, yes, I know,) Teral dismissed, clasping a mental hand on his Host’s mental shoulder. (The Seers have predicted this Nightfall place will be the focus for the new Convocation of the Gods, if all goes well, and it is vitally important that Orana Niel speaks before the reconvened Convocation. But it’s hardly our fault the Katani government cannot stand these Nightfallers.)

  (Only the politically active ones,) Aradin thought back, snorting softly under his breat
h. (I don’t envy Cassua, having to deal with the Mendhites. They’ve been seeking a Living Host since before the Aian Convocation fell.)

  (Heh, feel sorry for our Brothers and Sisters who have to pick out a Mekhanan priest,) Teral joked back, though it wasn’t much of a joke. Official Katani policy might have been anti-Nightfall, but at least this was a civilized and polite land. The kingdom of Mekhana was not. Or rather, its government was not.

  The priest’s voice, wavering but rich with belief, rose and fell in cadences that were familiar, even if the rituals themselves were not. Both males could understand the words being said; Aradin wore a translation pendant, which allowed him to read, write, hear, and speak in a specific language—in this case, Katani. But while the actual words of the blessings and aspects being invoked were unfamiliar, there was something soothing about being in a fellow priest’s presence.

  Then again, after having spent almost four months roaming this land, Aradin and his Guide Teral were becoming increasingly familiar with the Katani way of life.

  Like Darkhana, both lands had a God and a Goddess. The priesthoods of both lands accepted both males and females, mages and non-mages. Then again, both lands had a fairly even ratio of one mage born for every fifty without any added powers, their numbers more or less evenly divided among males and females. Of course, the Katani religion was a bit more lighthearted about some things, following in the wake of their so-called Boisterous God Jinga, who served as counterpart and foil for the more Serene Goddess Kata.

  Back home, their God was Darkhan, the slain deity who had formerly been the Elder Brother Moon. Millennia ago, His Highest Priestess, Dark Anna, had bound her very life to His out of love and worship. When the third and farthest moon had been destroyed by demonic efforts, shattering His original power-base, she had managed to salvage the God of their ancient people. Now, He served as the God of the Dead, He who guides lost souls to the Afterlife.

  The High Priestess’s sacrifice had directly aided the world’s effort to thwart an invasion attempt by the denizens of the Netherhells, and the upswelling of faith and gratitude had elevated her to Goddess level, forever bound to the Dead God. A new faith had been born, rising out of the ashes of the old, and the people of Darkhana had moved on. That background and its resulting mythos didn’t exactly lend itself to an overly cheerful or buoyant religion, though the Darkhanan faith wasn’t completely somber.

  Since all lives, all souls around the world went through the cycle of being born, eventually dying, and of traveling through the Dark on their way to the Afterlife, home of the Gods, Darkhanan Witches didn’t think of themselves as being the one true religion, or the only faith worth following. Their entire philosophy when traveling abroad was based around being an adjunct to whatever beliefs a person might hold while they were alive, and an advocate for that person when they were sent to the Gods for judgment on how they had lived their lives, whether that judgment would end in a punishment or a reward.

  (We celebrate life, and we do not fear death,) Teral murmured, following his Host’s sub-thoughts. The newborn squirmed a little in her father’s arms, emitting a mehhh meh sound that said she would need nursing soon, but otherwise cooperated. (So while this ceremony is going on a bit long compared to some we’ve seen . . . it’s an auspicious day whenever we can celebrate life, even if it’s in a foreign way.)

  (Dark Anna, you’re feeling preachy today,) Aradin groaned. He stifled another sigh, since he didn’t want to seem impatient or bored with the proceedings.

  (I’m feeling my mortality, such as it is,) Teral admitted. (Which is odd, because I died in my fifties, and not my nineties—as you well know—but I suppose it’s just a touch of envy, seeing this aged gentleman still getting around, doing what he was ordained to do.)

  (I should be so lucky, living to be so old,) Aradin replied, irritation fading as quickly as it had risen. It had to fade; if it didn’t, their shared life would have quickly become unbearable. Both men had lived together, two spirits in the younger man’s body, for well over a decade now. Learning tolerance was one of the key requirements for being a Darkhanan Witch, if an unspoken one.

  (Well, you shouldn’t be much older in a few moments,) Teral pointed out, looking through Aradin’s hazel eyes, (because it looks like the ceremony is coming to an end.)

  Sure enough, as the priest’s voice wavered and rose in a final benediction, the gathered worshippers chanted a mass— “ . . . Witnessed!”—that rang off the vaulted ceiling. Naturally, it startled the infant, who immediately began squalling. The father brought her over to the mother, who had been placed in a cushioned seat of honor at the center of the eight altars. While the new parents fussed gently over the infant, an assistant-type priestess urged everyone to head for the tables laden with food around the outer edge of the church, food which everyone else had brought as an offering to the Gods and to the new child.

  Not hungry, Aradin watched the locals mingle and gossip. He smiled and dipped his head in a friendly way when people came near, but otherwise dismissed his presence as being “. . . just here to chat with Prelate Tomaso,” and, “I’m in no hurry; I’ll get to my business once you’re all done celebrating this new life.”

  One of the older women sat down next to him after a while, and proceeded to talk Aradin’s ear off about this, that, the other, all of it local gossip about the family with the newborn, their family members, the history of the village . . . all things which Aradin had no clue about. Patience was another trait favored by Darkhanan Witches, as was politeness. Though he hadn’t originally intended to become a Witch-priest, he had learned how to be patient, polite, and kind. Which meant listening to the elderly woman prattle on until her middle-aged daughter came to collect her when the post-blessing party began to wind down.

  (I’ll be happy when we can get back to trading and talking herbs again,) Aradin thought, smiling politely in farewell as the village gossip moved off with her family. (Searching for holy representatives is rather tedious. Though I did like her story about her nephew and the pig down the well.)

  (Only because we didn’t have to help rescue it,) Teral agreed, chuckling. (Ah, I see through the corner of your eye that the priest approaches.)

  Sure enough, when Aradin glanced to his right, he saw Prelate Tomaso hobbling their way, using his two canes for balance and a touch of support. A quick glance around the chapel hall showed it was now nearly empty, and that the assistant priestess had grabbed a mop and rag to start cleaning off the now emptied tables. Without fanfare or fuss, the locals had gathered up their food and their belongings and taken themselves out, leaving only a bit of scrubbing and sweeping to be handled by the local church staff.

  The elderly man smiled a semi-toothy smile—several were missing from old age—and wobbled over to a spot on the bench next to the foreigner. With a few audible creaks from his joints, he sat down, sighed in relief, then turned toward Aradin.

  “Well, well, young man! To what do I owe this honor? It isn’t every day a priest of distant Darkhana comes to visit our far-flung land,” Tomaso stated without preamble. His voice was light and strong with energy, despite his age.

  Aradin let his brows raise in surprise. He spoke quietly, not wanting his deep voice to echo off the walls now that there weren’t any other noises to muffle and mask it. “I wasn’t aware anyone in this region was familiar with my Order. Katan is very far from my home.”

  “I and not We?” the local chief priest asked, in turn surprised. He poked an arthritic, age-spotted hand at the broad-sleeved robe Aradin wore. On the outside, the robe looked to be a plain, sturdy, travel-worn shade of tan linen. The inside was lined with a very tightly woven, stark shade of black. “Is this not the robe of a Darkhanan Witch-priest? The lining, I mean? It may have been sixty or so years, but I do distinctly remember meeting with one of your order.”

  Aradin smiled wryly. “Forgive me. Yes, it would be ‘we’ and ‘our’ home. I speak in the singular out of habit so as not to confuse the people in
the lands we travel. I am Witch Aradin Teral, a procurer of priestly paraphernalia and magical mundanities for the Church of Darkhana, and thus something of an emissary in foreign lands.” He offered his hand, palm up and mindful of the older male’s swollen joints. “You are Prelate Tomaso of the Holy House of Kata and Jinga, correct?”

  “That is correct,” the elderly priest agreed. He rested his fingers on Aradin’s palm for a moment, then squeezed with a bit of strength. “And a pleasure it is to meet with you. The last—and only other—one of your kind I met was a Witch named . . . Ora Niel?”

  “High Witch-Priestess Orana Niel, yes . . . and now that you mention her name, I am not surprised you would remember her and her Guide after all these years,” Aradin chuckled wryly. “I am actually in Katan on her behalf.”

  “Oh, indeed? How fares the young lady?” Tomaso asked.

  Considering the “young” lady in question was technically older than both of them combined, Aradin grinned ruefully at the label. “Still more than a match for any man or woman alive, and still as young-looking and lovely as ever. That is, the last I saw her, which was . . . two full turns of Brother Moon ago, if I remember right. I was—sorry, we—were wondering if you could help us with a little quest we’re on?”

  “Well, that would depend upon the nature of the request, of course,” the Prelate cautioned. He patted Aradin on the knee. “But I’m sure it will be something manageable, or at least not too unreasonable. What is your quest, young man?”

  Aradin cleared his throat, consulting swiftly, silently with Teral on a good way to word their request. Finally, he sighed. “Well, we need to find a priest or priestess who would be the best possible emissary between your Gods and your people . . . without politics getting involved. Someone who has the holiness to speak with blessed Kata and Jinga,” he stated, nodding at the eight altars, “but also some level of authority with which to bring back the words of the Gods to your people, and have them be heeded. But, again, without politics muddying the issues. The perspective of a . . . to put it politely, a bureaucrat, would only make the situation difficult to manage properly, and possibly make it prone to failure.”