by Jean Johnson
“Boasting or truthful, you have claimed you understand the interactions between plants and magic, and claimed you are a strong mage—singly or together makes no matter,” she dismissed that part. “If you think you can help assist me, then come now, and prove it. You may take a few moments to visit a refreshing room, which is just two doors down on the left. I will fetch waterskins and a spare pruning staff. Do understand that, should you choose to accompany me, you will do as I say, when I say it, and otherwise not interfere.”
“Of course,” Aradin agreed quickly, bowing again. Not as deeply as before, but with similar sincerity. “I will be as a mere apprentice, and you my teacher.”
Nodding, she led the way out of her office. It was time to go on her next set of rounds. Apprentice. Teacher. Right. He’s too smooth, too experienced, to hold such a subservient role for long, I’d think. Well, we’ll see how well he does when he meets up with his first carnivorous vine.
THREE
Aradin stared in awe at the mutated tangle of plant life that blocked their path, shades of dark green vines, medium green leaves, and bright, white, trumpet-shaped flowers striped faintly with faded gold. “Magnificent . . .”
Saleria raised her brows at that. She didn’t quite look at Aradin, mainly because she wasn’t about to take her attention away from the mutated cross between morning glory and thettis-vine, with the conical blossoms paired with wicked, toxic thorns at the base of each bud. She did, however, speak in a very dry tone. “More like a nightmare made manifest. The toxin on those thorns will slow our reflexes. The leaves are spongy, designed to absorb our blood for nutrients. Our drained corpses will be wrapped in root vines to decompose and feed the whole plant more directly.
“But the flowers are very pretty, I’ll grant you that. Possibly magnificent, if one ignores all the rest. Alas, I cannot,” she finished, gaze roving over the tangle of vines that blocked their path. Today’s tangle was thicker than yesterday’s, though by squinting and shifting a little, she could see it was not as deep. “It also has a rudimentary sense of cunning.”
“Cunning?” Aradin asked her. He, too, did not lift his gaze from the dense layers of vines mounded over the flagstone-lined path. At the edges of his vision, he could see the great, bramble-like branches of one of the nearby locus trees, and of course a profusion of foliage ranging from tiny little mint plants carpeting the edges of the flagstone-lined path to great towering palms with fernlike fronds swaying softly in the breeze overhead. Insects buzzed, birds twittered, leaves rustled gently. It looked like a pastoral setting, save for the fact that this strange, not-quite-morning-glory thicket was blocking their path.
“It constantly tests me, trying to catch me by one means or another. Except it really doesn’t know much, other than to grow thin and stretched out, or to grow dense in a short patch of the path. Dense is easier to clear quickly in just a few strokes, though there is more of a chance that several of those thorns will scratch me and inject their venom,” she said, pointing at the long, straight, gleaming spikes at the base of each flower-bell. “Spread out more linearly over the path, they have more room to flail and it takes longer to clear, but fewer thorns will strike me in a single blow, and I have fewer vines to dodge, so I’m more likely to cut each one that attacks.”
“I see now, and I must agree. Cunning, yes; smarts, no,” Aradin agreed, following along. “It seems to have the aspects of two different plants. The base is clearly one of your morning glory plants, a tenacious vine but one lacking thorns. The other . . . The shape of it reminds me of a plant I saw illustrated in a book from the seas to the north and west, I think.”
“Thettis. It’s an ornamental thorn-vine which sprouts tasty berries that can be distilled into a soporific for healing and pain-management medicines—an appropriate gift for the original Grove,” Saleria stated. “I cannot be completely sure, but round about this area was where the original gift from the Althinac ambassador was planted. The morning glory . . . could have come from anywhere. A stray seed eaten and then defecated onto the thettis by a local bird, perhaps. But the thettis bush was a gift, of that, I am sure.”
“A recent acquisition?” Aradin asked, and received a shake of her head, her blonde curls bouncing over her shoulders with the quick, sharp move.
“No. From at least four hundred years ago. There are records of all such plants gifted to the Empire, which were naturally brought here to the Grove, making it a showcase of foreign plants as well as native ones. A true garden of the Gods, since it is said that every earthly delight can be found in the Afterlife. The Grove was supposed to be an echo of such a place, with every ornamental or useful herb, bush, and tree gathered into one place.”
“Only now it’s gone wrong. Those who caused the Shattering have much to answer for,” Aradin murmured. He narrowed his eyes. “Did one of those vines just move a little?”
“It did.” Hefting her pruning staff, Saleria prepared herself for the assault. “Stay back. Remember, the spells on the flat end will cut us as well as our attackers, if you aren’t careful. Using a staff for walking is not the same as using a staff for fighting.”
He lifted his own in a two-handed stance, ready to wield it. “Our foremost Witch believes that everyone in our Order should be schooled in non-magical self-defense as well as magical. We are each required to learn at least four close-fighting styles and one ranged skill before being allowed to leave the training cloisters. Teral and I both learned combat with knife, short staff, and Arbran-style wrestling, involving holds and escapes as well as blows and blocks. He also learned sword and bow. I learned mace and sling.”
“Sling?” Saleria asked, distracted by that. “Isn’t that a child’s toy?”
“It’s more versatile than you’d think. I am an herbalist. I can craft potions, put them into carefully cleaned and wax-sealed eggshells, or thin-baked pottery balls, and hurl them at my enemies. If I have the time to prepare them,” he amended, tipping his head ruefully. He didn’t mention that he had several such missiles already prepared, labeled, and stored within the infinite, close space of the Dark. Instead, he lifted the staff she had loaned him. “This pole is a little bit longer than I’m used to wielding, but I think I can compensate. But as it is your Grove, you may certainly lead the way. I’ll just watch your back.”
Saleria nodded and shifted her weight to move forward, but curiosity held her back. Unable to help herself, she asked, “Why magnificent? Of all the words one could choose, about a plant like this . . . ?”
“It’s the blending of the features. I can tell three things went into its making,” he told her, “and it’s all very well done. A master Hortimancer couldn’t have done better. An insane master, to create an ambulatory monstrosity like this, but still, well done.”
“What—three?” Saleria asked, so surprised that she turned to look at him. As her booted feet scraped on the gritty flagstones, the vines moved, whipping outward in an attack meant to bind. She yelped in shock, but reacted on reflex, whipping her staff up and around. The spell cut through most of the tendrils, but some were longer than expected, rising up out of the bushes on the side of the path to try to curl around her legs.
Aradin’s staff whistled through the air, whipping the enspelled end through the impertinent vegetation. Severed bits of limbs skidded across the path, while the main plant shuddered and rustled, retracting itself. It still lurked close to their route, but didn’t try a second attack, and didn’t loom over the path.
Saleria nodded her thanks, and lifted her chin at the flowered mass. “Cunning, and for the next hour or so, it will remember and avoid a second attack. But by tomorrow, it will have forgotten and will try to attack again. Sometimes, if an animal goes astray nearby and has to be put down, I’ll drag its corpse here to dispose of the body faster than letting it rot . . . but I don’t really want to feed it.”
“I probably wouldn’t feed it, either,” Aradin agreed.
“It’s not a plant,” Aradin corrected, his gaze still on the bundle of vines.
That started her again, though this time she didn’t shift her stance. It might seem subdued, but there was no point in taking a chance. “It’s not?”
“See those tiny hairs along the vines? And the round little lumps that gleam like dark pearls?” he asked, pointing over her shoulder so she could sight along his arm. At her nod, Aradin explained. “Those are cilia and ommatidia. The little hair-structures, the cilia, detect vibrations, like odd sorts of ears. I think they ‘hear’ only at certain pitches, since it isn’t reacting to our voices, but it did react to the scrape of your foot on the ground. The ommatidia . . . are insect eyes. Insects aren’t as good at seeing as humans are, and nowhere near as good as an eagle or a hawk, but they are watching us for movement and proximity.
“As I said, this is as good as the work of any mad master Hortimancer . . . since only an insane person would try to blend animal and vegetable like this,” he finished.
Saleria stared at the vines in horror. Before, she had simply, if grimly, disliked the thing, dealt with it whenever it grew large enough to menace her, and moved on to the next overgrown whatever. But combined with bits from a bug? Creepy. In a tight, clipped voice, fingers white-knuckled on her staff, she stated, “I am now very uncomfortable, knowing that.”
“The more I think about it, the more I believe the previous abominations we’ve met on just this one walk through the Grove may have had a blend of three characteristics as well. Not the quieter, less aggressive blends,” he murmured, “but the ones that have tried to attack us, yes. You were talking about the three, ah, locus trees each producing magic, and needing to be drained on a rotating schedule? I suspect that, if there are ever hours where you have to skip a round, or are too sick to go out at all that day, the excess magics spill over and warp through each other, surging and eddying and crossing like little whirlwinds of power.”
“That would make some sense,” Saleria admitted. “The few times I have been ill with a cold or fever, the Grove has usually been wilder a week or so later. Uncontrolled, unpurposed magic may be strong, but without a concrete purpose behind it, driving it with the will of the mage, no magic can create whole beasts or bushes in a single day.”
“But it can begin the warping process,” Aradin said. Lifting his staff, he tipped it at the vines. “Shall we prune this bush-beast back a little further and continue on our way, then?”
Nodding, Saleria eyed the vines, then lunged a little, slashing in a sudden attack. More bits of warped plant limbs dropped to the path. She did it again, and a third time. Once it was trimmed back to her satisfaction, she started to tap the vines with the crystal end of her staff, then stopped. Eyes wide, she glanced at Aradin.
“Wait . . . if these are part animal, then . . . then isn’t this blood-magic?”
“They are far more plant than animal, so I think it shouldn’t matter as much as you’d think. Besides, you have been doing this for many years, you and your predecessors, yes? And you are obviously not corrupted by the madness of the Netherhells whispering in your ears?” he added. At her hesitant nod, he shrugged. “Then the Gods have already accepted it as beneficial. I wouldn’t drain that shrew-thing you mentioned, but something that is two parts plant and one part tiny insect shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Right.” She hesitated a moment more, then touched the cuttings, draining the magic still trying to make them twitch. Unlike animals, plant bits did not die within a minute of being severed from the bulk of the original plant; in fact, if conditions were right, they could take in water, grow new roots, and become a new problem. It was therefore best to ensure they shriveled and died completely. “Not to mention the use to which it is purposed does nothing for me personally, but is instead purposed specifically to help others. So . . . it is not evil. So long as I take great care to ensure the energies are not used for evil ends.”
“That is the way magic works in all lands, yes,” Aradin murmured, following her. His staff had a crystal, too, but he intended to let her gather the majority of energies. He didn’t want her having even the slightest suspicion that he was interested in such things for his own ends. He honestly wasn’t—neither of them were, Host or Guide—but it was still wise to conduct themselves circumspectly.
That, and her rump presses rather magnificently against the folds of her trousers and jacket, whenever she bends over a little bit, just like that . . .
(A magnificent rump, indeed,) Teral agreed, following his line of thought with equal masculine appreciation. (But don’t speak aloud the same word for her backside that you used to describe a monstrous amalgamation of plants and insect.)
(My dear Guide, I am not that stupid,) Aradin retorted, watching her stretch out the staff again. Though he did continue to enjoy the view as she drained the last few severed tendrils.
* * *
Saleria snuck yet another glance at her companion. So far, Witch Aradin Teral had proved as good as his word. Their word? His, theirs, it mattered not. He had let her take the lead—a thing not all men were inclined to do—and had done nothing more than support and defend her movements when the magic-warped inhabitants of the Grove had proven a bit too bothersome. But now, after visiting the eight altar-stones arrayed along the major inner paths and trimming back the excess growths, it was time to visit the Bower.
She knew from her conversations with other Guardians scattered around the world that the Bower corresponded to a Fountain Hall, the chamber holding the energies from a singularity-point, spewing magic much like the rifts from the shattered Portals did. Of course, a Fountain Hall had its rift in the center of its chamber; the Bower was instead located in the center of the triangle formed by the three locus trees. But there were similarities . . . including the vast amount of somewhat tamed magical power available in the Bower.
No one in Katan would dare try to wrest away control of the Grove’s magic from the Grove Keeper. It would be considered tantamount to slapping Kata on the rump and yanking up the back of Jinga’s trousers. Not a good idea. As much as the belief and faith of the people as a whole created a kingdom’s Patron Deity or Deities, and gave Them the power to enact miracles great and small, the Gods did have minds of Their own sometimes. They would probably not react with benevolence or forgiveness to such an act of hubris, either the slapping-and-yanking, or the theft of the Grove’s power.
But Aradin Teral was an outlander, an outkingdom foreigner, a stranger from a far-distant land. . . .
“Teral says he has noticed how you keep glancing at me in the last few moments, and would like to know why,” Aradin stated, catching her off guard. “I find myself curious as well.”
Saleria blinked, then cleared her throat. “I . . . er . . . How?” she finally asked. “You didn’t once look at me.”
In fact, he wasn’t looking at her now, but Aradin didn’t have to. He tapped the edge of his face next to his eye. “Any Guide can shift his attention to see things in the Host’s peripheral vision. There’s a small learning curve, but it’s been quite handy so far, particularly in potentially dangerous situations. Or ones where I need to be socially aware.” Now he glanced her way, giving her a smile. “So you might as well ask what you wanted to ask. Whatever it is, we won’t be offended, I assure you.”
Stopping on the path, she planted her free hand on her hip, the other keeping her staff carefully upright so it wouldn’t bump into either of them. “Even if I ask something obnoxious, like ‘Which do you prefer to eat, feces or rotting corpses for breakfast?’”
Caught off guard, Aradin choked on a laugh. He swung around to face her, his staff equally upright, but with his hand over his mout
h. Snickering a bit, he coughed, cleared his throat, and addressed her question. “Oh, I hardly think you’re the sort to ask something truly obnoxious. You’ve been more than gracious all this while, and I don’t see that ending any time soon. But you do have an important question you wish to ask . . . so, why not ask it?”
“Alright. While it would be unthinkable for a Katani to try to wrest control of all the magic available in the Grove, for fear of incurring the wrath of our God and Goddess,” Saleria explained, “you, on the other hand, are a foreigner. More than that, you are a foreign priest, to foreign Gods. You care not a whit for our Patron Deities. How do I know you will not try to wrest control of the Grove from me, or steal its powers, or . . . ?”
He held up his hand. “I, Aradin of Darkhana, bind unto my powers this vow: I promise I have no intention of stealing the powers of the sacred matrimonial Grove of Holy Kata and Jinga, nor of using those stolen powers in ways which would bring grave harm to yourself, the people of Katan, your Patron Deities, or the rest of the world, save only whatever may be needful in the name of self-defense or the defense of others. So swear I, Aradin of Darkhana.”
Bands of silver light edged with dark blue shimmered over his body, sweeping him from the crown of his blond head to the soles of his brown-booted feet. Saleria blinked. She hadn’t expected that. Not a mage-oath, binding Aradin to the exact wording of his vow via his own powers. It was deeply satisfactory, however. And a neatly spoken piece of law-speaker’s cleverness. He could not steal the powers . . . but he could still be free to borrow them, by request or by gift.
“You surprised me,” she admitted. “But . . . it is well-spoken. If craftily.” She started to move forward, then checked herself after two steps and faced him again. “Now, what about Teral making that vow?”