The Grove (Guardians of Destiny)

by Jean Johnson

  Nodding, Saleria stepped back fully into her bedchamber and closed the door. Normally, she breakfasted in a lounging robe, but today she would get dressed first. Not because she felt the need to be fully clothed, but as a concession to Nannan’s sense of propriety. In Katan, men and women could couple without stigma if they were responsible about contraceptive amulets and such, but not in the streets, and not at the table.

  Contraceptive amulets. Bollocks, she thought, wincing. I’ll need to get an amulet, won’t I? Because if I’m completely honest with myself . . . that comment about him wanting to see me and my legs in many other positions was rather appealing. As well as amusing.

  With a grin at that thought, she moved toward the dressing closet to find a fresh Keeper’s uniform to don. It was rather nice being thought of as an attractive woman, and not just a priestess.

  * * *

  “Holy Saleria, at the Healer’s?” Deacon Shanno called out. Wincing, Saleria turned to find the thin, blond priest clutching a hand over his chest. “I hope it’s nothing serious!”

  She finished shutting the door to the Groveham Healer-mage’s shop and composed a quick, quelling reply. “It isn’t serious, and even if it were, it wouldn’t be your business. God and Goddess bless you for your kindnesses and courtesies, Deacon Shanno.”

  Saleria meant it as a parting comment, but he didn’t let it end there. Instead, the young priest turned to join her as she strode down the street. “On the contrary: The health and well-being of the Grove Keeper is the business of every man and woman in Groveham. Why, without you, who would we turn to in the advent of another perambulating peony attack, hmm?”

  I’ll lay odds he’s just trying to suggest himself as a backup for that, she told herself. Out loud, she merely said, “Groveham will be fine. Shouldn’t you be preparing for midday prayers?”

  “Oh, I have time,” the young man dismissed, flicking a hand. His mouth curved in a smug little smile. “Actually, I’ve just heard the juiciest news from the High Temple itself this morning.”

  “Oh?” Saleria asked, curious in spite of herself.

  “Yes, it seems that, very soon, you won’t be the only person talking directly with our Gods. Well, you and the Arch Priest,” he dismissed. “I heard that the King and Council are working on getting the old Convocation of the Gods resurrected! I have an aunt who works closely with Lady Apista; you know, the Councillor for the Temples? And that it involves finding a special someone who can bridge the concerns of the Katani nation with our Patron Deities directly. The details are all a big secret, of course, but my aunt did say they were working hard on the problem.”

  Her first thought was that if it was truly “all a big secret” then Shanno shouldn’t have known about any of it. Her second thought came with the dawning force of comprehension. He has an aunt he talks with about state secrets—therefore a close aunt—who works with the Councillor for the Temples, a high-ranked priestess-politician. That must be why he was promoted to Deacon when he doesn’t exactly inspire thoughts of maturity . . . and no doubt is why he keeps thinking so highly of himself. Of course he would, with nepotism on his side . . .

  Bollocks to that, she thought, giving him a polite nod as they parted company at one of the side streets. It’s a good thing he isn’t on any apprenticeship list for the Keeper’s position. I wouldn’t trust him to keep silent on some of the more personal prayer requests, never mind huge secrets.

  That was another of the reasons why the Keeper did not intermingle publicly. That way all petitions were kept private, and thus respectful of the requests. It also meant she didn’t have to say no to anyone in person. With written requests, a petitioner never had to face the sting of a rejection. There were certain things which, by the Laws of God and Man, she could not request Kata and Jinga to achieve through prayer. The destruction of other Gods, the decimation of an entire population, the death of a particular person . . . and other, subtler things.

  Somehow, I don’t think Shanno would hesitate to push magical power into a prayer for personal wealth and personal gain. Or to force a specific, named person to do something against their free will, such as fall in love with a petitioner. Or worse, with him, using the power of prayer for his personal gain. Though to be fair, he’s not yet ready to settle on any one young lady, from what I’ve seen.

  “Look, it’s the Keeper!” someone called out as she passed the entrance to one of the town’s four inns.

  “Is that really her? She looks so young.”

  “We’re not supposed to follow her—some nonsense or other about custom—but I heard that she . . .”

  Saleria moved a little faster, looking neither right nor left. She let her feet carry her out of hearing range of the conversation. Another problem Shanno has caused. He’s too caught up in the prestige of being a priest to grasp that power comes with more obligations and responsibilities than privileges . . . and I am wasting too much of my time thinking about him. Setting thoughts of the young deacon aside, she turned another corner and hurried back toward her home. Her midmorning break would soon be over, and she would have a pile of sorted petitions to pray over.

  She reached the main street leading to the Keeper’s House just in time to see Aradin coming from the direction of the market, and paused to await his approach. From the smile lighting up his face, he had been successful in gaining the centrifuge he wanted from the glazier, Remas. She didn’t see it being carried anywhere, but now that she knew about his cloak, it was only a short guess for Saleria to realize where he had put it: into the Dark, where he wouldn’t have to physically carry the awkwardly shaped metal stand or its carefully balanced, hand-blown flasks.

  “Hello again, Saleria,” he greeted her when he reached her side. They started walking together, matching strides fairly well without much effort. A couple children darted around them, hollering something about a game of tag. Aradin glanced at her. “Did you get whatever you were looking for?”

  Saleria blushed a little. The anklet was hidden inside her boot, but she was aware of the smooth bit of carved stone resting against her skin with each step. She hadn’t worn one in a while, and had just let the previous one expire before finally removing it at roughly the year-and-a-half mark, when such things tended to run out of magic. “Yes. I did. I trust you got what you wanted as well?”

  He grinned. “Not everything I’ve wanted recently, but I did get the centrifuge, yes.”

  That was exactly the sort of flirting her housekeeper had been upset about. Saleria wasn’t the least bit offended by it. Not when she was enjoying a level of attention she hadn’t known since moving to Groveham. Acolytes were discouraged from forming any sort of long-term relationship, since that could interfere with their rather lengthy studies, but there had been a span of time where she, as first a deacon, then a fully-fledged priestess, had flirted occasionally with her fellow Katani. Even courted a little. But being the Keeper meant losing the time for such things.

  Having Aradin Teral assist her with the Grove’s needs meant there was actually a possibility of time for such things now. Flirtations. Courtship. Lovemaking. She felt her cheeks warm again and cleared her throat. “I, ah . . .” For a moment, her mind went blank, then she said the first thing she could think of. “I’ve been packing for the trip. Guardian Shon Tastra suggested it. I don’t know what to expect, so I’ve been packing and repacking, and I’m not quite sure how much is enough, or too much, to take with me.

  “I was wondering if I could get your advice tonight,” she finished. “After the Grove has been tended, and everything is quiet.”

  “I’ve never packed for this sort of trip myself,” he reminded her, avoiding the word Convocation since they were still in public. “I don’t know what sort of help I’d be.”

  “Perhaps, but you’ve traveled farther than I have, and have served as an envoy to many lands,” she said.

  They passed a mother gently leading a
toddler by one hand, the other holding an empty basket, no doubt on their way to the marketplace. One day, Saleria would be free of her duties and could contemplate having a child or two. For now, she could only look, long for a brief moment, and get back to the topic at hand.

  “I know the Gods see us at all times, even when we’re at our worst, but there will be representatives from . . . from hundreds of lands. I have no wish to let down the Empire by appearing less than my best. But neither do I care to haul around a full chest of clothes and accessories.” She slanted her companion a pointed look. “Unlike some people, I have no ready access to a magical, infinite, portable storage room everywhere I go.”

  He grinned at her teasing, taking no offense. “How very true. I’d offer to hold on to your goods for you on this one . . . but I must remain behind by the very nature of the journey.” They reached the front entrance of the Keeper’s house. Aradin opened the door, but leaned close so he could murmur in her ear. “But if you do want my advice, whatever it’s worth . . . I would be happy to visit you this evening. Your pack is in your bedchamber, is it not?”

  That was definitely a flirtatious tone in his voice. And when it dipped deeper than usual on the word bedchamber, Saleria felt her body respond to the low baritone, almost bass, tones. Clearing her throat, she replied, “Yes. It is.”

  “I look forward to being invited inside.” Again, his voice dipped, this time on the last word.

  Blushing, Saleria hurried her steps a little to give herself some breathing room, since her skin now felt a little flushed, the air a little hot, despite the cooling charms stitched beneath the hems of her garments.

  Behind her, unheard anywhere other than inside Aradin’s head, Teral chuckled. (I think she’s a little rusty on her flirtations. She did start it, but . . .)

  Aradin smiled to himself. He nodded to Saleria when she excused herself to use the downstairs refreshing room, and decided to take advantage of the one up near his bedchamber. (I think she’s cute when she’s flustered. But then I also think she’s gorgeous when she’s in her element, like she was this morning.)

  (You sure that wasn’t due to those legs of hers?) Teral gently teased his Host.

  (That helped,) Aradin admitted with aplomb. (But seeing her in full priestly power . . . ? Magnificent.)

  (Falling for her just a little?) Teral asked.

  (Falling for her just a lot,) Aradin confessed. Long accustomed to his Guide’s constant presence, he took care of the needs of his body without hesitation. (She’s smart, she’s funny, she’s peaceful and wise, and she holds a position of great responsibility, even authority, yet she’s down-to-earth and unpretentious.)

  (Yes,) Teral agreed. (I suspect she’d be as wonderful a person if she were a mere temple cleaner. But even then, she’d probably be promoted to a place where her skills and leadership would be better utilized and appreciated.)

  Aradin moved to wash his hands at the sink. Unlike lever-operated spigots found elsewhere in the world, these Katani used cork-stuffed pipes. It was a bit odd, and one couldn’t really control the volume of water, but at least there was a lever for controlling the heating spell. He noticed that today’s flow didn’t feel quite as warm as it had felt last night, even when he pushed it to the far left. He made a mental note to ask Saleria who attended to such spells in her home, herself, or some hired mage.

  (She said she was going to get some information from the, ah, Department of Prophecies on anything pertaining to the Grove, and why it has ended up this way. I hope she hears back from them soon,) he stated. He corked the faucet shut, then frowned in thought. (Teral, the prophecy mentioning the Convocation of Gods and Man, “The Synod Gone” . . . did any of that sound like it mentioned a Netherhell invasion to you?)

  (Possibly. I’ll fetch it out for you to study . . . in your copious free time,) his Guide added as Aradin dried his hands. (Try not to spend all night making love to her. Neither of you can afford to sleep in, in the morning.)

  (You have great faith in my seductive abilities. I’m not planning on making it into her bed tonight. But I am hoping for at least a few more kisses,) Aradin said. Exiting the room, he went downstairs to rejoin Saleria at the back door. (Hand me the analyzer kit, will you?)

  (Which wand would you like?) Teral asked him, using the holy light which all of their kind could summon in the Dark to read the little instruction booklet that had come with the case. (General-purpose sampler, or something more specific, like the power-flow tracer?)

  (General-purpose sampler, I guess, until we get to the Bower. I’d like more samples of the plants and such on the path to the heart of the Grove, and particularly a sample of the thettis-bug vines. If I can figure out how the two plants and the insects are melded together, I might be able to figure out how to calm or even tame them. I won’t hold my breath over being able to separate them back into their original three species, though.)

  (That would probably be futile, yes. Let’s see . . . you would want . . . the bronze and carnelian wand, I think. The kit says it’s useful for discerning properties of plants and animals,) the older Witch decided.

  Teral handed the tablet and the selected wand to his Host, who extracted them from his Witchcloak sleeve, only to tuck the tablet into the pouch hung on his belt. The orange-tipped wand, barely the size of a grease pencil, Aradin kept in his hand. Saleria wasn’t yet at the back door, but she joined him within a few moments, carrying the satchel that held Daranen’s neatly penned list of prayer petitions for the day. Slipping the strap for it over her head, she unlocked the back door and escorted Aradin outside, then opened up the shed to hand him one of the pruning staves.

  “Mind if I take a cutting from that vine made from thettis, morning glory, and some sort of bug?” he asked her. “I’d like to study it in more detail, and compare it with my notes on what I’ve scanned elsewhere in the Grove this morning.”

  “Take what you need,” Saleria said, gesturing for him to take the lead. “Just don’t let it set down roots.”

  She didn’t seem as cheerful as she had earlier. Aradin glanced back at her as he headed down the path that led to the Bower, noting the slight but discernible slump in her shoulders, the way her gaze aimed more often down than out and up. “Is something wrong?”

  Saleria sighed, thinking of what Daranen had told her when she had fetched the day’s work. “There’s a special petition in among the rest. It’s from a young boy who lost his parents. He’s . . . not openly welcomed by his aunt and uncle-in-law. In fact, it sounds like they’re openly resentful of the extra mouth to feed. He wants me to pray to Kata and Jinga to bring his parents back. It could be the complaining of a child who is exaggerating things, but it could also be the truth. Either way . . .”

  “A moral dilemma,” Aradin agreed. He returned most of his attention to the path, but being a fellow priest, he did know why she wasn’t happy. “Attempting to pray for such things is forbidden by the Laws of God and Man, if I remember my lessons right.”

  “It is. A Healer can pray for divine aid when healing someone mortally wounded or freshly dead, attempting to revive them within moments of their demise, but those long departed?” She shook her head, then sighed roughly. “Nor can I pray for Kata and Jinga to change the minds of his next-family. We are given free will by the Gods, and it is the one gift They cannot, and will not, take back. My prayers are backed by magic. They can literally move . . . well, not mountains, but small hills have been known to shift. Little ones.” She gestured with a hand down by her knee, and flashed him a rueful smile, her sense of humor tainted by her regret over the petition in her satchel.

  He smiled back, enjoying the joke, since it leavened the otherwise somber conversation. “So what can you do?”

  Something rustled in the bushes. Both froze, gripping their staves and looking all around for an attack. After a moment, an ambulatory marigold waddled into view. One of the bushes fought back, i
ts branches gripping at the plant. The marigold smacked it with its leaves, flailing back and forth. Bits of greenery ripped off and drifted down before the marigold managed to free itself and continue on its way.

  Saleria relaxed a little, though she wondered where the others had gone. Usually, they moved as a pack. They moved slower in pockets of sunshine, often stopping to set down roots and replenish themselves with nourishment from the soil. As she watched, the marigold hit just such a patch of mossy, sunlit ground, stopped, and wiggled its roots into the soil with a little shake.

  “What can I do?” she asked, repeating his question. “I can pray that he finds himself in the tender care of people who love him for who he is, and encourage him for who he can be. I can pray that he finds help and mentors. That he has a good home to abide in, with food and clothes and a good education leading to a good career. I can pray that he finds friends who will help him, support him, and stand up beside him whenever he needs to stand up for himself, lending him their encouragement and their support as he grows up and becomes a man. If I set my prayers to target no one . . . then that will be allowed by the Laws of God and Man. The energy may be more diffuse when it acts, but it is free to encourage what is already potentially there.

  “And who knows, maybe the diffused prayer will encourage his aunt and uncle-in-law to open their minds and soften their hearts. Maybe it will soothe his feelings of loss and pain so that he can see they do care about him; hopefully, they do, but if not, maybe it will do both. Or maybe it’ll open the hearts of other kin to offer to take him in, where an extra mouth to feed won’t be as much of a resented burden.” She shrugged, mounting the next little hill.

  Ah, there are the rest of the marigolds, she thought, watching them camped in another clearing . . . to the visible disgruntlement of some of the already established plants. There was a bit of leaf-slapping and branch-smacking as certain patches fought for the best sunlight, but otherwise they were relatively peaceful. Glancing at Aradin, she watched one of his sandy blond brows raise in that neat little trick of his, and smiled at his confusion. Personally, she found the marigolds’ antics to be more amusing than annoying. As she had mentioned to him before, not everything in the Grove was outright dangerous.