by Jean Johnson
“I thought someone had to be on hand for that,” Saleria said. “Like you were, for him.”
“There’s a small period of grace, a handful of days, where it’s easy to bind a soul into a Doorway. The longer a soul wanders in the Dark, however, the more difficult it becomes for them to find a potential Host, enter their Doorway, and bind themselves in place,” Aradin told them. “The longest case I know of would be Sir Niel, who wandered for almost a year and a half in the Dark before he found the Doorway of his Hostess, Orana.”
“Sir Niel?” Daranen asked. “He wasn’t a Witch?”
The emphasis her clerk put on that title made Saleria wonder what else she didn’t know about the rest of the world. Aradin drank from his cup, set it down, and glanced between Saleria and her scribe.
“It’s . . . a complicated story,” he said. “It involves a deep, hidden betrayal, the framing of someone for a most brutal murder, and one of the deepest miscarriages of justice I have ever known or heard about. But the telling of it would easily take all night, and then some,” he demurred, rising from his seat. Offering Saleria his hand, he added, “If I remember correctly, you requested my advice on what to pack for the Convocation once your work for the day was done, yes?”
Blushing, Saleria set down her spoon, scooted back her chair, and placed her hand in his. Covertly, she glanced at Daranen, only to see her scribe looking away, but not quite able to hide his smile. Her face warmed further, but at least he didn’t seem to object to the idea of her and her guest heading off to her bedchamber. “Yes, I should like your advice on what to pack. I haven’t traveled much in my career, while you have.”
“Good night, you two,” Daranen stated, picking up his wine cup to sip at the dregs. “Don’t wear yourselves out by ‘packing’ all night long. You’ll still have to work in the morning.”
Aradin choked. Coughing, he tried not to grin too much. Leaning over, Saleria picked up her own water glass with her free hand and offered it to him. He accepted it, but cleared his throat and spoke before sipping. “Careful, milady . . . In some cultures, drinking from the same cup is the same as an offer, and acceptance, of marriage.”
It was Daranen’s turn to choke. Saleria blushed again. Before she could speak, however, Aradin sipped from the cup, cleared his throat again, and returned it to her with a slight bow.
“But then, it also requires a special drink to be held in the cup, and not just plain water. So you’re safe from marriage.” Keeping her other hand tucked in his, he tugged her gently away from the table as soon as she set the glass down. He waited until they were at the foot of the stairs to the upper floor, then lifted her fingers to his lips for a brief kiss. “That is, for now.”
And I thought the ongoing frown was annoying, Saleria thought, following him up the steps. I’m surprised my hair hasn’t caught fire from the burning in my cheeks! She didn’t have to guide him to her bedroom; he went straight to the right doorway without prompting. He did, however, wait for her to step in front of him and open the door before following her inside.
Her bedchamber was just high enough that, in the daytime, she could see into the Grove over the top of its wall. She had plenty of windows, too—four pairs of sashes that could be swung outward, each one glazed with two dozen rectangular panes set in carefully leaded frames. But night had fallen while they ate their supper, leaving the pair with a greatly darkened view.
At night, only the two moons, the stars in the sky, the ward-stones on the wall, and little hints of those waxy, faintly glowing nodules could be seen through the gloom outside. There were lights in Groveham, lightglobes and oil lanterns and the like, but that was on the other side of the house; not much light reached the Grove itself, just whatever the stars and moons and the faintest traces of magic could provide.
The moment she rapped on the lightglobe by the door, even that much of a view vanished. It was replaced by awkward, if well-lit, reflections of the two of them entering her chamber. Saleria felt almost as disjointed as her gridwork-disrupted image did, as if there were several versions of herself competing for space in her room: The part of her that was the Keeper, knowing she had to get up before sunrise in the morning. The part of her that was a priestess, knowing she couldn’t lead Aradin into expectations of a romantic encounter without at least some sincerity of affection from her heart. The part of her that honestly did want help in packing for what had to be the single most monumental religious moment in two hundred years, the chance to stand before not just her own Patron God and Goddess, but the Patron Deities of hundreds of nations around the world. The part that wanted to take him in her arms, and somehow get them to her bed without any awkwardness, or pauses, or . . .
Feeling awkward, she turned and backed up to the bed, with its feather-stuffed mattress shaken and patted and mounded until it was fluffy and high, and dropped onto its edge. Dented its perfection. Sat there feeling awkward, tired, and wanting without any getting.
“I have no idea how to do this . . .”
She didn’t realize she had spoken until the words were already out, filling the quiet between them. In three steps, he was close enough to kneel at her white-clad feet. In two heartbeats, he had her hands cradled in his. In one smile . . . lopsided and honest . . . he warmed her heart.
“If you’re talking about packing, I can help with that,” Aradin told her. He continued before she could correct him. “But if you’re talking about having a man at your bed, I have enough experience to know what to do . . . but I also know it’ll be different with you.”
She considered his words, then eyed him warily. “Different, because each woman is an unique individual when it comes to tumbling, and lovemaking, and all of that?”
Freeing one hand, he touched his finger to her lips. Content she would stay silent, Aradin explained. “Different, because if I could have stood before my God and Goddess—and before yours, too—and said to Them, ‘This is what I want with my life; this, and thus, and so, and these are the things I have always longed for’ . . . my youthful visions of turning my predilection for working with plants and my burgeoning magics into an outstanding, challenging Hortimancy career . . .
“Things like my yearnings to explore the vast world, and my longings for a wonderful place to settle down.” He shifted his hand, brushing the backs of his fingers lightly against the velvety-soft skin of her cheek. “My dreams of a brilliant, willing partner to work at my side and share my life . . . If I had gone to Them and stood before them, and a hundred and more Gods besides . . . then this is what They would have given me.” Hazel gaze earnest, he looked into her eyes and gave her the absolute truth. “I do not pray every day like you do, conducting empowered pleas capable of moving mountains, praying literally to make the world a better place . . . but I have faith, absolute faith, that They will grant these things to me, and grant similar things to you.”
Touched deeply by his words, Saleria covered his hand with her own, cradling it against her cheek. She turned her head to the side for a brief kiss, then lowered their shared touch to her lap, where their other hands were still clasped. “Considering I know you didn’t set out to be a priest originally, I am grateful you do feel a calling, now.”
Aradin smiled, ducking his head a little. “. . . If I admit I’m a little surprised by the strength of it, will that count against me?”
She snorted, scoffing at the idea. “Considering I’m smart enough to realize your desire to serve as a priest is tied up with your desire to work as a Hortimancer, no, I’m not that surprised. You do so in a slightly different way than I, but we both still serve.” Leaning close, she brushed her lips against his brow. “And that’s why I’m falling for you. All of you.”
Lifting his chin, he met her next forward sway lips to lips . . . and felt a jolt of sunshine within him, making him gasp. One strong enough that she gasped, too, from the touch of the Light carried in Teral’s grasp. Swaying back onto h
is heels, Aradin struggled to retain his physical senses. It was difficult, for the bowl that his Guide carried was large, and over-full, and spilled with every breath, filled past the brim with a great big bowl of “. . . Yes!”
(Yes, indeed,) Teral whispered, sharing his revelation with both his Host and their hostess. He spilled some of the divine answer into Saleria’s mind, sharing it in equal measure so that all three of them could manage what he had barely been able to carry home. (Great Darkhan and His Beloved Dark Ana have agreed. We may stay and assist you, Keeper Saleria, with the restoration of the peaceful and safe sanctity of the Holy Grove of Katan . . . provided Jinga and Kata agree.)
Aradin almost replied mentally, but knew Saleria would want to hear his own thoughts. He nodded and said aloud, “Yes, and I have faith They will agree, as I was explaining to Saleria just now.” He smiled at the blonde woman seated on the edge of the bed before him. “I have absolute faith.”
Saleria squeezed his hands. For the first time, it didn’t feel weird for Teral to whisper into her mind. It didn’t feel strange to know the older, deceased spirit was there inside this younger man’s body. Aradin looked only a few years older than her, in his early thirties at most to her twenty-six years, and she knew the older Witch had been cut down in the latter half of his prime, but . . . it felt right for both of them to be there, in her bedchamber with her. Looking into those hazel eyes, fancying she saw hints of Teral’s brown gaze amid the flecks of green, she smiled.
“I have faith, too, that both of you are destined to be here with me.” Seeing Aradin smile again, lopsided and rueful, she cupped his cheek. “Mind you, I’m still not entirely sure about Teral actually watching everything, when we, ah . . . get around to using this bed. But he is a part of you, and I accept both of you for who you are, and who you’ve become so far.”
“. . . Saleria?” Daranen’s voice echoed up the stairs. “Your Holiness!” Hurried footsteps and the swift creak of two floorboards preceded the scribe’s appearance at her door, which still stood open. Daranen held the forgotten petition in his hand, his voice a little breathless. “Holiness, I have just witnessed a miracle,” he said. Lifting the sheet of paper she had left on the dining table, he turned it to face her, to face both of them. “All four of Them signed it.”
Along with the plain black ink which Aradin had penned onto the page, beneath the neatly scribed lines, yet somehow intertwined with the words, lay two images. The outermost one was a glowing, silver octagon edged with the eight tetragrams representing the Eight Altars of Kata and Jinga, each one inked in the eight holy colors of brown, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet. In the center of the octagon lay a sigil unfamiliar to Saleria, of a doorway, just the posts, threshold, and lintel, marked in silvery white, and a small, glowing black disc cradled inside.
She looked at Aradin. “Is that the mark of your Patrons, in the center?”
He nodded, releasing her hands so he could rise. “Yes. The black circle is the long-lost Third Moon, representing Darkhan, which is carried inside the Light-filled Doorway of Dark Ana’s soul.”
“Well, holy or otherwise,” Daranen said, nodding at the page, “what I want to know is how They got the color black to glow like that.”
Aradin grinned and shrugged, spreading his hands. “They’re Gods. Anything is possible when They have the faith of their followers to support it.”
“Well, now it’s my headache to figure out where to put this, without offending four Gods if I just try to stuff it into a records cupboard or something . . . But I’ll bid you a formal welcome to the Grove, and to its service, Aradin Teral, holy Witch of Darkhana and Hortimancer of the Sacred Grove of Katan,” Daranen told Aradin. He bowed and started to turn away, then gave both Aradin and Saleria a stern look. “Celebrate however you’d like, but remember, you both have to go to work tomorrow. And try not to be too loud. I may be three doors down, but the walls of this house aren’t that thick.”
“Considering you always stay up far later than I do, and have the freedom to get up later, you’ve no cause to complain,” Saleria said somewhat tartly, feeling her cheeks warming once more. She softened her tone. “But we’ll keep in mind that dawn comes early in the summer. Good night, Daranen, and sleep well when you get there.”
“A good night to both of you, then,” Daranen returned, and pulled the door shut as he retreated down the hall.
“That was tactful of him,” Aradin murmured.
Unsure if he was trying to be sardonic or not, Saleria let it go. She still didn’t quite know how to get the handsome outlander into her bed, but she did know how to get him into her baggage. Namely, by crossing to it, carrying it back to the bed, and dumping out the contents.
“Right. Here is what I have. It’s not a very big pack, more of a knapsack than a full pack, but I have a toiletry kit of soap and toweling cloth, a comb for my hair, a tunic for sleeping in, two sets of, um, undergarments,” she said, pausing for a brief blush, “including socks and such, plus two formal priestly gowns, and two sets of Keeper’s garb—those are the trousers, tunic, and vest-robe you usually see me wear.
“Oh, and a belt, and a pouch with some money in it, and this outer pocket on the knapsack has some seedcakes in it, made from several fruits and grains and carefully wrapped in a stasis-enchanted packet so they’ll stay good for a long time.” She gestured at the set, and shrugged. “Am I missing anything? I keep thinking of things I want to add, but they add bulk and weight . . .”
Aradin considered her words, consulting silently with Teral. The inner glow of their Patrons’ answer had faded a bit, enough to think clearly. Both men gave her selection careful consideration, then sighed. “It’s good, but you should add three more things. A knife, for eating or survival or whatever—you can add one of your distinctive staves if you must, but a knife is essential when traveling—a full waterskin for drinking . . . and a good weather-proof cloak, one big enough to use as a bedroll if needed.”
“Oh, right, the cloak is over there. I figured that out already,” she admitted. Saleria then frowned. “But I thought I was going straight to the Convocation and coming back via your Dark Portal trick.”
“Ideally, yes,” Aradin agreed. “But Teral and I both think you should be prepared for just about anything. We believe the Convocation will take place in a civilized place, but no one has seen it yet; we just know it has been foretold. Also, if you find you cannot stomach a return trip through the Dark, then you must be prepared for traveling until you can reach a mirror-Gate that can bring you back to Groveham. We can arrange to have more supplies sent across if there are still Witches around, but it’s best to be prepared for the worst.
“Oh, and Teral would like to remind you that as a competent, trained mage, you can start your own fires, warm and cool your clothes, and even create warding spheres to hold off weather and such . . . but there may be a point where you cannot rely completely on your magic. A good knife, a stout cloak,” Aradin told her, “and a waterskin to go with the food you’ve packed will be essential for just such a case. Teral says the knife doesn’t have to be big, so it should fit inside the pack. The waterskin can be tied to the outside of the pack, and the cloak can be stashed next to it, so you can grab both when it’s time to go.”
She considered his words—their words, and their reasoning—and sighed. “I guess you’re right. It would be better to be prepared than to find myself in need and have to do without. I thought about taking some jewelry, of doing my hair in some fancy way . . . but . . . They’re Gods. They’ve seen me naked,” Saleria said. “They’ve seen me when I’ve been red-eyed and runny-nosed with a bad cold, and trying to shape my prayers in the midst of a fit of sneezing—if I had more time to prepare, and could take proper baggage along, perhaps a few companions, then I’d go with more of the clothes and the means to represent the people of Katan the best I can in front of the others who will be there.
; “I’m tempted to add an extra pack as it is . . . but there is that uncertainty in where and when the Convocation will be held. I don’t want to be late for it, or burdened down by more than I can quickly grab and carry,” she said, putting her feelings on the matter into words. “Far better for me to be there, and garbed in what They see me praying in every day, than for me to be absent on the most important day of my life.” Saleria looked up at him, her expression earnest. “I may never be picked again for this task, but for this one time, I will do my absolute best for my people. I will not fail them.”
Aradin wrapped his arms around her, tucking her against his chest. When she rested her cheek on his shoulder, he gently stroked her hair. It felt right to hold her in that moment, and right to say the words that came unbidden into his mind.
“I believe you,” he murmured. “I believe in you, and I believe you will succeed. At anything you decide to do. Teral believes in you, too, you know,” he added, cuddling her close. She felt right in his arms, a perfect partner for a too-brief, yet eternal moment of contentment. Almost like hugging a mortal Goddess . . . with no blasphemy intended, he thought quickly, averting any possible ill consequences.
(And on that note, I shall retire to the Dark for a while,) Teral muttered in the back of his mind. (I won’t deny I’d like to stay and enjoy the moment secondhand, as she’s both quite lovable and quite lovely . . . but that, I think, isn’t something she’s prepared to understand.)
(No, she isn’t,) Aradin agreed. There were times when his Guide felt more like an extension of his own mind, a wiser, older, somewhat different version of himself, for all they were two distinct men. At times like those, it was easy to share every experience he had. But it wasn’t fair to expect others to comprehend. There might be a few jests made, but there was no real rivalry between the two: The Host was the living half, with all the rights that entailed; the Guide was there merely to aid, to ensure that a lifetime’s worth of wisdom was not lost to the Dark when that soul died. A lifetime, and more. (Any advice on how to treat her, before you go?)