The Grove (Guardians of Destiny)

by Jean Johnson

  “I’m . . . not sure I could handle that. Teral and some other woman, I mean . . . if you and I were involved,” Saleria clarified. She laughed a little. “Actually, the four of us I know I couldn’t handle. I rely upon my housekeeper for managing my home, but I know I wouldn’t be able to share more than that with her. Our personalities clash a little too much for such . . . emotional intimacy.”

  She looked down at the last two words, a little embarrassed to be discussing them so soon or so freely. That only focused her gaze on the bit of sternum showing at the neckline of his plain green tunic. A corner of her mind wondered if he had any chest hair.

  Freeing one hand, Aradin lifted it to her chin, nudging her head and her gaze back up to his. “I was promised by Alaya, Teral’s own Guide, that I would eventually find great happiness when I took her Host as my Guide. That I would find happiness—not both of us, as in Aradin-and-Teral. Now, I have no idea if you are going to be involved in that happiness, but I do know I’d like to at least test the possibilities of it. If you’re interested. I find you smart, amusing, and admirable in your dedication to your work. The rest will take effort, open-mindedness, and time.”

  His words made her blink. “Dedication. Work. Right. We need to get moving. I don’t want to have to ward the last bit of the wall in the dark.”

  Nodding, he started to move aside, then shifted back in front of her. “One moment; we forgot one little thing . . .”

  “Oh?” Saleria asked, lifting her brows. Only to find his mouth brushing lightly against hers. Ah. A kiss. Yes, we shouldn’t forget a kiss . . .

  Lightly wasn’t enough, though. Swaying into him, she returned the touch of his lips. Most of her felt grateful he wasn’t celibate by vows, and clearly not by inclination, though Saleria still wasn’t sure about this life-sharing business. But this—this was just a kiss. A wonderful, sensual, delicious kiss. Hints of stubble rasped against her chin and cheek when he tipped his head, deepening their connection, their taste.

  A kiss that ended in a sudden intake of his breath. Pulling back, Aradin blinked, cleared his throat, and told her, “Ah. Teral is back. He’s asking if you want him to step out again for a bit?”

  Conflicting emotions tumbled through her, like tart currants and bitter nuts poured into some sort of sweet batter. Part of her just wanted to keep kissing him, regardless of who watched. Part of her wanted to send Teral away before she even tried. Part of her was thrown off the thought of more kissing by this reminder that, no matter where the Guide was, she was technically kissing two men at once. The rest of her . . . knew what her duty was.

  Regret dipped her gaze to the hands that had risen to his chest at some point in their kiss. She wanted to explore the warmth of his skin, but sighed instead, and gently removed her touch. “I really do have to set the wards, now. That must come first, before all else.”

  “Of course.” Backing down the remaining two steps, Aradin offered her his hand for stability. He felt better about the implicit rejection in her choice when she accepted his help without hesitation, though. Of course, a little distraction might help her get over the weirdness she’s no doubt feeling. “Are all the locus trees shaped like this one on their insides? I stayed out of the eastern one, last time.”

  “As you should’ve stayed out of this one,” Saleria reminded him, activating the cutting end of her staff as they exited the living cave. “But it’s alright. Even without your mage-oath, I believe you’d be trustworthy. And yes, they’re all shaped like that, as if several trees around the clearing had been drawn in and up, twisting together to form a protective shelter. Keeper Patia was the one who conceived of the way to contain the rifts, who grew these trees . . . but she was killed shortly after starting the process. She may have been a Hortimancer, and had a plan in her mind, but I don’t know.

  “I do know they all have step stools in them, though I really should get that particular one replaced with something a little taller . . . which I keep saying every few days or so,” she muttered wryly. “It gets the job done, but . . .”

  “Let me guess: You forget about it the moment you get home again?” Aradin asked her, eyes flicking around the Grove as they emerged from the twisting path tucked between the roots of the trees.

  “Pretty much. When I get back to the house, I just want to relax, forget about all the hard work I’ve done, eat a nice meal, attend to evening prayers—simple ones, with no force of will or magic poured into them—and rest.” She wanted to roll her eyes and sigh, but while the air did escape her lungs a little roughly, her eyes flicked in wary little glances all around. “Having to constantly be alert is exhausting for both mind and body.”

  Aradin murmured a sympathetic sound, following her back to their starting point. As she fell silent, her concentration on the potential dangers of the Grove, Teral spoke in his mind. (Looks like the two of you are getting along nicely.)

  (Yes, though she’s uncertain about getting involved with two men in one body,) the younger Witch sighed mentally. He, too, kept a sharp eye out for other surprises, but spared half his attention for his partner. (What did the Dark tell you about her?)

  (Provided nothing changes drastically, she’ll make a very strongly affirmative representative at the Convocation,) his Guide murmured. (Rather surprisingly strong a “yes,” in fact, far better than the last one.)

  (Did you meet with the others?) Aradin asked next.

  (I found Niel and Tastra at the Meeting Tree, along with a few others. Niel said to tell you thank you. He also said that makes fifteen left for the others to find, plus capturing a suitable Mekhanan priest without in turn being caught,) Teral relayed. (I am very glad we were already out and about in the far direction from that blighted land when the call went out to start choosing representatives.)

  (As am I. Has he had any indication the Convocation will be in the next few days?)

  (No, but he has started issuing orders that travel packs be made ready. He did hint that he and his Host will be leaving their current location soon. Within a turning of Brother Moon, from the sound of it,) Teral added. (Mind that branch; I think there’s something on it.)

  Aradin glanced to his right, but whatever it was, the branch stopped swaying after just a moment, and nothing else moved but himself, Saleria, and a bit of early evening wind in the highest branches of the locus trees. They passed the burned spot where the spider-leaf-things had been. Teral viewed these things through the edges of Aradin’s vision, and offered a comment.

  (Looks like you had an interesting time without me.)

  (This place is insane . . . and I want to stay and fix it, if I can. This goes beyond the reason why we’re here, studying Saleria for the Convocation of the Gods,) he warned his Guide. Mentally, he slashed a hand outward, indicating the overgrown garden, though physically he moved with the same fluid caution as ever, hands cradling his borrowed staff. (This place is a mess, and it has been badly mismanaged ever since the last Convocation. Barely managed, with only one mage-priest to tend the whole place. And it’s not Saleria’s fault.)

  (Is it not?) Teral asked, his tone pointed. Aradin drew in a breath to argue with himself, but his Guide gently cut him off. (If she is named the Keeper of this place, then it should be her decision how to manage it. Which includes pulling in extra staff as needed. The sergeant overlooking the actual battlefield sees so much more than the general studying the terrain maps back home.)

  (True,) Aradin conceded. (She is taking charge of her battlefield now. I know I’ve helped goad her into making that decision. But how can I look at this place and not feel offended by its mismanagement? As a Hortimancer, it is my duty to coax the best in magical effects from the plants that I grow and tend, for the betterment of all. Except I don’t have any to grow and tend, and have just been seeking and buying new ones for the gardens back in Darkhana. This place, however . . .)

  (Yes, I know,) Teral soothed as they reached th
e back entrance to the Keeper’s house and turned left to start following the outer wall. (But it is not your God and Goddess’ holy garden. It is hers. If you want to stay and help, you will have to prove it to both sets of Patrons—you can start by asking if she’d be willing to carry a petition on your behalf regarding the proper, better management of this place. Once you have more of her respect and trust, of course . . . and locking her in an embrace doesn’t count.)

  (I’m not a callow youth,) Aradin reminded his Guide. The distance from the locus tree to the Wall wasn’t all that far, thankfully, which meant they were finally near enough to see it without obstructing foliage. (I know quite well that sex does not equal trust.)

  (True . . . What is she doing now?) Teral asked, peering through Aradin’s eyes. The combination of the brilliant blue white glow of the crystal and the golden sunlight slanting in from the west made it hard to be sure, until Saleria moved into a patch of shadow. Then it became more clear.

  She reached up to tap the crystal end of her staff to a dull orb set in the middle of one of the crenel-like peaks along the Grove wall. As the two males watched, a tiny bit of the bright energy gleaming in the egg-shaped sphere bled into the dull round orb, until it glowed with a steady, mild, bluish light. Tiny little gems dotted along the top and the base of the wall started glowing as well. When they reached back to the last set of tiny, lit dots, and halfway to the next darkened orb, she moved to it and touched the charged crystal to it as well.

  (She’s a glorified lamplighter,) Teral thought in disgust. Aradin would have protested, except he could sense his Guide’s sub-thoughts even before he expressed them. (She has so much more power in her, and there are ways to extend the locus powers directly to these wardings, yet they have her wasting her time recharging them manually? Gods Above! There had better be a damned good reason for this horrible mess, prophecy or no, or I’ll have to go find and slap some sense into the spirit that left this place in such a mismanaged mess!)

  (I’m sure they’ve long since moved on to the Light of the Afterlife, and maybe even been reassigned by now,) his Host thought dryly. (But if they’re still in the Dark, give them a second slap from me.)

  (I’ll do that,) Teral promised. (Now, if you’re going to follow through on staying here and helping out, why don’t you ask her what’s happening?)

  Nodding, Aradin moved up to join Saleria, rather than hanging back. “I think I know what you’re doing, but I’d like to make sure I have it right. You’re emptying a bit of the gathered energies into those ward-crystals, right?”

  “Yes. It’s just a simple mnemonic spell—I don’t even have to chant it verbally anymore—and it’s very much like opening a spout to add a dribble of cream to a cup of Aian tea. It can take seven or eight seconds to fill the main orb, then a single second more for each pip-crystal on the wall,” Saleria told him. “So a total of twenty seconds per orb . . . thirty seconds total, to get from one to the next,” she added, lifting the crystal away from the orb and taking several swift strides forward. “It takes longer to do evening rounds than morning, and I—”

  She stopped mid-sentence, hearing a chime in her ear.

  Aradin peered at her in concern. “And you . . . what? Is something wrong?”

  “Bollocks!” she cursed, frowning in the direction of the Bower. “That’s the communications chime. But who would be calling me in the middle of evening rounds?” Torn, she glanced at the wall with the unlit orb just beyond the brightly glowing crystal on her staff, and the sunset-silhouetted wickerwork of the Bower in the distance. If she hurried, she’d get there within a few minutes, but the outer wards would never get done before the sun set at this rate. “Bollocks! Why do they have to call now?”

  Aradin made up her mind for her. Holding out his staff, he waited until she absently clasped it, then grasped the brightly lit one in her other hand. “What are the mnemonic words to open the flow of energies?”

  She blinked at him. For a moment, they stood there, each with a hand on a staff. For a moment, the dutiful side of her brain argued in a tantrumlike way that this was her job, and not the responsibility of some foreign priest-mage. But that part of her brain sounded an awful lot like High Prelate Nestine, high-pitched, nasally, whiny, and obstructive. Bollocks to that! she thought, and mentally shoved her instinctive, internal objections aside.

  “The mnemonic is joula-joula-drip-drop-dribble.” She blushed a little as she recited it, and added quickly, “I didn’t come up with it. The previous Keeper, Jonder, didn’t, either, nor did he know who had. It’s just been that way for a very long time, is all. Joula-joula-drip-drop-dribble, and you picture it acting like a teapot spout in a thin stream, with your thumb on a reverse plunger style stopper.”

  Taking the staff, he lifted it to the orb and concentrated on the visualization, reciting the words. He could feel the press of the energy, and wrapped his mind carefully, cautiously around the orb as an extra safety measure. “Joula-joula-drip-drop-dribble . . .”

  Light spooled from the faceted crystal to the polished orb in a misty stream. It soaked in, taking about ten or so heartbeats under the extra restriction, then slowly started spreading to the smaller gems embedded in the wall. Saleria watched anxiously, still hearing the chime of the communications stream in the distance. When the last needed gem was filled, he stopped murmuring the chant and pulled the staff away.

  “I do this, and I keep an eye out for anything that might attack, yes?” he asked her. “I think I can manage it from here.”

  She nodded. “Yes, exactly. Well done—thank you! I’ll be back before you know it!”

  Nodding in return, he watched her turn and sprint back the way they had come, seeking the best path back to the Bower. (I hope she’ll be alright.)

  (She should be. Mind on your work,) Teral advised him. (You’ve a job to do.)

  “I know what I’ve promised to do,” he murmured out loud, and crossed to the next orb. “Keep your share of our eyes and ears open while I get this spell just right.”

  SIX

  Breathless from her run, Saleria dropped to her knees by the northeastern of the copper-hued pools, set her Keeper’s staff onto the moss next to it, and swirled her hand over the rippling liquid. A column of mist rose up, pulsing with energies. She touched it with one finger. “This is Guardian Saleria. Who is this?”

  “Guardian Kerric, of the Tower. I need to ask a huge favor of you, Guardian of the Grove.”

  It sounded like Kerric, but he sounded . . . stressed. Unhappy. Frowning, Saleria asked, “What’s the favor?”

  “I have a problem which I need to show you, along with several other Guardians, because it is both alarming and frustrating me to no end. I’m sending you a mirror and a scroll with instructions on how to link it to the Fountainways for communications—I pledge to you, as a fellow Guardian, these are mirrors set to receive and send images and sounds only, no spells or methods of controlling anything you guard.”

  “Alarming?” she repeated, seizing on that word out of all the rest. She didn’t like the sound of that.

  “Remember that discussion we had a few months back, when I mentioned an invasion by the Netherhells?” he asked.

  “Yes, I remember it,” Saleria said, trying to remember exactly what he had said back then.

  “Well, it’s back, it’s fluctuating, it’s affecting several points around the world, and I cannot pinpoint what causes it nor what stops it because I am not there, in the regions being affected. But you and the other Guardians are there. And while I can talk your ears off about what I’ve been seeing in my scrying mirrors, it’s never going to be as effective as showing you the images I’ve been recording. So may I please have your permission to link you to the Tower’s scrycasting network? I promise that in several hundred years, the Tower has never once used its mirrors to subvert other mages’ homes, energies, or territories.”

  “You sound like you�
�ve been reciting those words a little too much,” Saleria observed, hearing the weariness in his voice.

  “I have. I finally convinced Guardians Tipa’thia and Dominor to join the network. I’ve also got the Guardian of Althinac, and the Guardian of the Vortex . . . Would you please join us in a conference scrycast, Guardian Saleria? The more strong mages we have working on this, the more likely we are to find a solution, because Guardians are the last sort of people to help cause a demonic invasion, which means we’re first and foremost in the responsibility of stopping one. We certainly have the power for it, once we find it.”

  She knew what her duty was—to keep the Grove safe and pure from outsiders—and her duty spoke in that same nasal voice as a certain superior, assistant-denying priestess in her life. Paired with her nightmare of demonic bushes and beasts, the combination sent a prickle of warning up her spine. Scrubbing at the nape of her neck, Saleria thought carefully about it.

  She didn’t hesitate long. Something about Aradin’s presence had awakened a streak of rebelliousness in the priestess. Bollocks to that. I’m going to trust Aradin Teral—I am trusting him . . . er, them—and I am going to trust Guardian Kerric, and the rest. This is my Grove to tend and keep, with all the powers and responsibilities that entails . . . and I am sick and tired of obeying rules and orders which mismanage this place, and all the true responsibilities I have regarding the powers I Keep.

  “Send your scroll and mirror—ah, wait, is the mirror delicate, or can it be left outside?” she asked, aware of the scant shelter given by the lacework tangle of the Bower dome.

  “They’re enspelled to be nigh indestructible in most circumstances. Certainly you can’t crack the frame while they’re being used as a mirror-Gate, because they cannot be used as a mirror-Gate. Unless you deliberately throw it back into the heat of a glass forge, it should be fine, rain, snow, or sun.”