The Grove Page 11

  So my God and Goddess would not object if I could dally with one of the two . . . but I think I’d balk at both at once. It is written that Kata and Jinga insist that pairings of two males or two females is not anathema, though male-and-female is more normal. Two of whatever is normal . . . but to put three into a relationship? Saleria shook her head and sighed.

  Daranen came back into the study at that moment. He had a fresh satchel of letters posted to the Grove Keeper from all over the empire balanced on his shoulder. Sidling behind his desk, he glanced her way. “Such a heavy sigh. Care to share?”

  She opened her mouth to refuse, then changed her mind. He, at least, is easier to talk to than Nannan about certain things. “I’m thinking of allowing Aradin Teral to reside here in the Keeper’s house with us. Would that bother you?”

  “Not really. You told me when you came in earlier that he freely oathbound his powers against stealing the might of the Grove out from under us, and against using its powers to cause serious, willful harm,” her scribe reminded her. “And he does seem sincerely interested in helping us—oh, speaking of the Darkhanan Witch, I saw him in the market, bartering with the mercantile shopkeeper for a series of glass flasks. Master Denisor looked rather taken aback at having the quality of his wares questioned so thoroughly.” Daranen chuckled at the memory.

  “Aradin . . . no, sorry, Teral did say his own father was a glassmaker,” Saleria pointed out, getting the two men straight. “And Aradin has apparently been trained in apothecary-style herbalism, as in the brewing of potions, powders, unguents, and salves. No doubt he’s trying to find suitable containers for his impending experiments.”

  “Experiments?” Daranen asked, raising one eyebrow at her.

  She envied his ability to do that; Saleria could raise or lower both simultaneously, but had yet to figure out how to arch just one. “Yes, experiments—I told you about the oath, but I forgot to mention the rest of it, sorry. Aradin is going to help me see if any of the magic-warped plants in the Grove have useful properties which can be extracted and preserved. If not . . . we’re going to figure out a way to remove them from existence.”

  Now he raised both brows. “No more attacks on the village from ambulatory masses of roses and marigolds?”

  “Nor from walking gladiolas, or flying bluebells,” she promised. “And no calf-sized foxes with seven tails and fish fins on their backs, either. If he can make progress on helping me unravel the troubles in the Grove, that is.”

  “Shall I just nip out and see if he needs help carrying any of his belongings over from the inn, then, to make sure he doesn’t waste any time walking every day from there to here and back?” Daranen asked, half-rising from his desk. He grinned and sat back down again, clearly only half joking. But still, somewhat serious about welcoming the other man. “. . . Right, then. If there’s anything I can do, ask me and I’ll try my best. But most of what I do best is sort correspondence and compose the exact wordings for prayers.”

  “And that is a task you do exceedingly well. I’ve never been a great speech-writer, but you know how to turn a phrase just right—I’m still surprised you haven’t taken up the priestly vows, you’re so good at it,” Saleria admitted, nodding her head at the mail satchel, fully as long as Daranen’s arm and as big around as either of them could clasp the cylindrical sack. Some days, the sack wasn’t quite so full, but other days, he brought in a sack and a half of letters and scrolls filled with petitions, requests, pleas, and prayers. “Have you the evening’s prayer list drawn up?”

  Daranen shook his head. “Almost. I had to rewrite the ‘lost pets’ prayer list a little bit. I’ll have the scroll ready to go by your evening walk. And I’m not taking holy vows. I much prefer my secular freedoms, thank you.”

  Nodding, Saleria lifted her chin at the bay window. “Then I’ll go visit the market. Do you need anything?”

  He smirked. “No, I’ve done my shopping, but you can say hi to the man when you see him.”

  She started to protest that the Witch wasn’t her reason for going, then sighed and let it go. She was curious about Aradin Teral, and what he was purchasing. Leaving the study, she headed out the front door.

  This section of Groveham featured walled residences with garden spaces. Not because the owners were wealthy and exclusive about whom they allowed into the privacy of their homes, but because they were located near enough to the Grove wall that an additional wall was considered helpful in slowing anything that escaped from the Grove. She could hear children shouting and playing some sort of chasing game in one garden, though the gate was closed. A trio of boys was drawing chalk designs on the cobblestones in front of another gate; happy domestic sights and sounds.

  Once children turned six, they were given basic education in reading and writing during the morning hours, but were often let go at midday so they could play in the afternoons. At twelve, they were often apprenticed into a craft, or if their parents or a sponsor could afford it, granted a higher level of education. Her parents had enrolled her in a higher school in their city, since she hadn’t made up her mind yet at the age of twelve if she wanted to be a mage-warrior in the Imperial Army, following more or less in her non-mage father’s footsteps, or a mage-for-hire like her mother technically was, or . . . well, at fifteen, she had felt called to serve the God and Goddess, and that was that. No time for play after that, when I had to catch up with all the acolytes who had been apprenticed three years earlier than me.

  The shrieks and the laughter were good sounds, though. They also sent a brief pulse of pity through her. At least Katani priests can marry and have children. I can’t imagine what Darkhanan Witch-priests could do, living their dual lives. Who’d want two men for their mate, and one of them dead at that?

  Or worse, she wondered as the thought occurred to her, what if a woman was married to one Witch-priest, only he died and ended up Guide to another man. Would her husband, now a Guide, expect to continue their marriage? Would she even want to, given it’s technically the body and life of another man? And the children—surely they’d be of the Host’s body and seed, not her late husband’s. I can’t imagine the kinds of headaches that must cause. Or . . . or if he ended up Guide to a female Host, or . . .

  A new thought crossed her mind. What would the children think, to find their mother or father suddenly dead, and yet not really dead? What would that do to a culture? Do those whose parents aren’t chosen to be Guides grieve all the harder for not seeing their parents again, even if it’s only secondhand?

  She didn’t know. She didn’t even know if these Witches were permitted children. Deep in thought, she navigated between the various townsfolk and visitors as she reached the edge of the market, until a familiar tenor broke through her thoughts.

  “Your Holiness! How nice to see you outside the Sacred Grove,” Deacon Shanno called out. “And such good timing, for there are many people here in town to see you.”

  Heads turned her way, most of them belonging to visitors. Several of them started toward her, while behind them, she could make out the pale, smirking face of Shanno, his blond hair pulled back into a braid and his brow banded by a polished copper circlet. A bit pretentious of him to wear a circlet when he wasn’t a nobleman, but it was copper, and it was unadorned with either design or gems.

  Annoyed, Saleria kept her expression calm and bland. “You know very well that all petitions must be presented in writing, and not in person, Deacon Shanno. I am to be allowed a normal life outside of my duties, which includes the politeness of not being pestered by unending petitions in person. Thus said Holy Kata and Holy Jinga.”

  A few hesitated. A few more of the men and women who had come to Groveham to be near the Sacred Grove pressed closer, drawing in breaths and opening their lips to speak. She cut them off, her gaze still on the apprentice priest.

  “I am in some ways considered Their closest servant next to the Arch Priest, but even so, I would not go against the will of the Gods,” Saleria added dryly. Expr
essions fell. She hadn’t meant to disappoint so many, but the deacon riled her with his assumptions and airs. Focusing her words on the men and women before her, she added politely, “Every petition is important, no matter what the request. If a person takes the time to organize their thoughts and put their wishes onto paper, then their request is made all the more clear. Every single letter and scroll is read, I assure you . . . and there are free writing supplies available at the Groveham cathedral, and a box which is cleared twice daily, with all petitions brought to me in an orderly fashion.

  “Being a mere mortal, I cannot guarantee what answers They might give,” she added, lifting her palms and her eyes upward to the sky, “but it is my sacred duty to read and pray on your behalf when I am in the Grove. When I am here in the market, however . . . I am merely looking for food.”

  Most of the visitors to the town sighed and nodded and turned away; some headed for the cathedral, with its eight walls and high dome. One couple lingered, a pair with the medium brown skins of northern Katan. Holding hands, they approached Saleria. The young woman glanced at her swain, blushed, and gave the Grove Keeper a hopeful look. “Your Holiness . . . could we have your blessing on our impending wedding?”

  “And any advice you could give?” her betrothed added. They had good-quality clothes, the sort merchants might wear, and obviously had enough money and time to make the journey here, but they looked young to her. Young, and impressionable.

  Saleria composed her reply carefully, giving them a smile. “My blessing you may have: May you each know a long and good life filled with many more moments of happiness than sorrow. And the blessing of Sweet Kata and Joyful Jinga you shall have as well, when Prelate Lanneraun witnesses and blesses your walking of the eight altars. As for marital advice . . . I have not been married, myself. I am therefore not qualified to lend you any, other than that marriage between mortals is never perfect.

  “There will be times when you merely disagree, and times when you fight,” Saleria warned them gently. Sometimes young couples like this rushed into marriage, though there was hope they were wise despite their tender years. “The important thing is to remember that you choose to love each other. Every single day, when you wake up and face the new day, you have a choice. You can choose to love, and forgive, and seek to compromise and take turns. To share the day’s tasks, triumphs, and tragedies, to support each other through the difficult times and to help make your good times even better. You can choose to understand, to forgive, to set aside or peacefully discuss and listen to each other’s worries, needs, and requests . . . or you can choose differently, to tread some path other than love.

  “Each and every day, you can make that choice, and you make it every single time you interact with each other, in how you interact. I hope both of you choose wisely, and follow through on your decisions to the betterment of both yourself and your partner,” she finished. “That is the only advice I am qualified to give.”

  “Your words are most wise, Holy Keeper,” the young man stated, giving her a formal bow. “We will keep your advice in mind.”

  “Yes, we will,” his betrothed agreed, smiling warmly as she curtsied to Saleria. “May the Gods bless you with the kind of love we know, Your Holiness. The Keeper of the Sacred Marriage Grove should know a long and happy marriage, herself.”

  Saleria chuckled and blushed, and gave them a brief bow in return, since she still wore her mostly white Keeper’s trousers and jacket; curtsying was for skirts or long robes. “Thank you for your kind thoughts and blessings. I am obliged to remind you that the Grove is closed to visitors, but our Prelate is skilled in marital ceremonies, and the town itself is more than ready to assist you with any other of your needs. May the Gods bless you, and may you enjoy your stay in Groveham.”

  “And you,” they offered in parting.

  Saleria moved past them, angling toward the slender blond man with the copper band girding his forehead. She drew near just in time to hear him loftily proclaim, “. . . keep my doors open to all who come, should I ever become the Keeper of the Grove.”

  “Deacon Shanno,” Saleria stated, letting her tone in the use of his minor title show her reproof, “you have actual duties to attend to at the cathedral, do you not? Perhaps these kind people will allow you to do so.” Mindful of the watching eyes of visitors and townsfolk alike, she waited until most had drifted away, then spoke quietly, though kept her expression pleasant. “Shanno, why do you keep doing that?”

  “Doing what?” he asked innocently. Or rather, mock-innocently. She wasn’t fooled. Tossing his head, his golden, chest-length locks sliding over his white priest-robes, he shrugged. “I’d think you’d be happy to garner the attention of your fellow Katani. After all, they should have the right to bring their petitions to you directly, as the one priest in all of Katan who can speak directly to the Gods and be assured They will listen.”

  “It is forbidden because there are too many people who want to touch the divine. I am mortal, not divine, but if I do not keep that distinction clear, they could run the risk of worshipping me.” She watched him roll his eyes, and sighed impatiently. “Did not your instructors at the temple schools teach you anything about what happened to Keepers who were mobbed by crowds of pilgrims?” she asked him. “Keeper Bareias, whose ribs were broken? Keeper Shantan, whose knee was ruined so badly, even the best of Healers had trouble putting it to rights? And the post-Shattering panics that lead to the death of Keeper Patia?”

  The young deacon snorted and looked away. Saleria stared at him. This was why she didn’t like him, or at least part of it. Too young, too arrogant, too self-convinced he knows everything and everyone else knows nothing. Kata, Jinga, I hope You give him a solid lesson in wisdom and humility someday . . .

  “When she died, Shanno, there wasn’t anyone on hand to contain the mutations in the Grove for weeks, and that led to the Vegetable Riots. Half the town wiped out because the crowds could not control themselves in their rush to ‘garner the attention’ of the Keeper!” Saleria asserted, lifting her hands toward him. “Think, Deacon, before you speak. There is no one here in Groveham, nor for a hundred miles around, who is strong enough to take care of the Grove should something happen to me.” Yet another reason why I keep asking for an assistant . . .

  “I could,” the young man boasted.

  She gave him a pitying look. “No, Shanno, you could not, or you would have been selected to be on the list of potential Keepers already. I have seen that list, and your name is not marked upon it. It took a manifestation of the Gods Themselves to get people to leave my predecessors alone. Please do not try to change the way things are. You have not that power, and you never will.”

  “Well, maybe that’s because I’m not fully into my powers yet,” he countered, chin still lifted in his arrogance.

  That wasn’t how she meant that last version of power, but she knew he wasn’t going to listen. For such a youthful stick, he was as stubborn and unyielding as steel sometimes. The deacon—appointed a bit too early to the rank, in her opinion—looked like a stiff breeze could knock him over, and Saleria couldn’t help but wonder if a bit of wind might catch the underside of his jaw like the sails on a fishing boat when he lifted it like that. If will alone were enough to manipulate magic, perhaps he could have been a possible candidate . . . but not before having that self-importance lurking in those blue eyes knocked out of him somehow.

  At her rough, weary sigh, Shanno continued stubbornly. “Everyone knows that a male mage’s strength in magics continues to bloom well into his early twenties, and I am just now twenty, as of last turning of Sister Moon. I could turn out to be even more powerful than you, Jinga willing.”

  Not knowing how to refute that politely—because it would take a miracle from Jinga, who might have the sense of humor for it, to give a weak mage like Shanno the sheer strength of both body and mind to withstand the needs of the Grove—Saleria gave up trying. Shanno was too young to believe anything she’d say about his phys
ical and magical strength not being up to the task.

  At twenty-six, she wasn’t that much older than him, but she, at least, had the sense to know her limitations. She also had the benefit of early combat training, thanks first to her warrior father, and then later to her combat-mage teachers. Shanno . . . she didn’t think he’d be able to win a wrestling match more than half the time with a non-ambulatory marigold, let alone a thettis/morning glory/bug vine.

  “Just . . . please refrain from trying to draw attention to me again like that, Shanno. Be respectful of your rank as a deacon, which includes the responsibilities it entails, which means toward your fellow priests as well as to your parishioners. Have a good day,” she finished politely, before moving on, deeper into the Groveham marketplace.

  Pushing him from her mind, Saleria moved toward one of the dairy farmer’s stalls. Maryam, the seller, offered her a sample from a platter of little brown-veined cubes, murmuring that they had been made with a locally brewed stout for extra flavor. Nibbling on the first piece, Saleria slowly nodded; the stout lent a nutty, sharp tang to the cheese. She reached for a second piece, debating how much to buy from the older woman . . . and heard a hushed exchange behind her.

  “The Holy Keeper likes that cheese!”

  “We should probably get some—the Gods must’ve blessed it!”

  Closing her eyes, she sent up a brief prayer for patience, then managed a smile and turned, eyes seeking out the pair of speakers. It wasn’t the young couple who had approached her for a blessing and some advice, but it was a pair of visitors from among those who had thought to approach her after Shanno revealed her identity. Clearing her throat, Saleria spoke.

  “I choose this cheese simply because I like the way Maryam, the maker, flavors it with stout. Other than that, it is just cheese—and like any other cheese, either you will like it, or you will not. There is nothing holy about it,” Saleria finished dryly.