The Grove Page 2

  The elderly man smiled a semi-toothy smile—several were missing from old age—and wobbled over to a spot on the bench next to the foreigner. With a few audible creaks from his joints, he sat down, sighed in relief, then turned toward Aradin.

  “Well, well, young man! To what do I owe this honor? It isn’t every day a priest of distant Darkhana comes to visit our far-flung land,” Tomaso stated without preamble. His voice was light and strong with energy, despite his deep age.

  Aradin raised his brows in surprise. He spoke quietly, not wanting his deep voice to echo off the walls now that there weren’t any other noises to muffle and mask it. “I wasn’t aware anyone in this region was familiar with my Order. Katan is very far from my home.”

  “I and not We?” the local chief priest asked, in turn surprised. He poked an arthritic, age-spotted hand at the broad-sleeved robe Aradin wore. On the outside, the robe looked to be a plain, sturdy, travel-worn shade of tan linen. The inside, however, was lined with a very tightly woven, stark shade of black. “Is this not the robe of a Darkhanan Witch-priest? The lining, I mean? It may have been sixty or so years, but I do distinctly remember meeting with one of your Order.”

  Aradin smiled wryly. “Forgive me. Yes, it would be we; and our home. I speak in the singular out of habit so as not to confuse the people in the far-flung lands where we travel. I am Witch Aradin Teral, a procurer of priestly paraphernalia and magical mundanities for the Church of Darkhana, and thus something of an emissary in foreign lands.” He offered his hand, palm up and mindful of the older male’s swollen joints. “You are Prelate Tomaso of the Holy House of Kata and Jinga, correct?”

  “That is correct,” the elderly priest agreed. He rested his fingers on Aradin’s palm for a moment, then squeezed with a bit of strength. “And a pleasure it is to meet with you. The last—and only other—one of your kind I met was a Witch named . . . Ora Niel?”

  “High Witch-priestess Orana Niel, yes; Ora is her nickname . . . and now that you mention her, I am not surprised you would remember her and her Guide after all these years,” Aradin chuckled wryly. He gestured at the study around them, and the land beyond. “I am actually in Katan on her behalf.”

  “Oh, indeed? How fares the young lady?” Tomaso asked.

  Considering the “young” lady in question was technically older than both of them combined, Aradin grinned ruefully at the label. “Still more than a match for any man or woman alive, and still as young-looking and lovely as ever. That is, the last I saw her, which was . . . two full turns of Brother Moon ago, if I remember right. As for the reason why I am here, I was—sorry, we—were wondering if you could help us with a little quest we’re on?”

  “Well, that would depend upon the nature of the request, of course,” the Prelate cautioned. He patted Aradin on the knee. “But I’m sure it will be something manageable, or at least not too unreasonable. What is your quest, young man?”

  Aradin cleared his throat, consulting silently with Teral on a good way to word their request. Finally, he sighed. “Well, we need to find a priest or priestess who would be the best possible emissary between your Gods and your people . . . without politics getting involved. Someone who has the holiness to speak with blessed Kata and Jinga on your people’s behalf,” he stated, nodding at the eight altars, “but also some level of authority with which to bring back the words of the Gods to your people, and have them be heeded. But again, without politics muddying the issues. The perspective of a . . . to put it politely, a bureaucrat, would only make the situation difficult to manage properly, and possibly make it prone to failure.”

  Tomaso wrinkled his brow in thought. He had plenty to spare, and the pouty look of his half-scowl was almost cute in a way. Brows working, he mulled it over, then asked, “Perhaps what you need is a Seer, not a priest?”

  “That would be more of a one-way form of communication, from the minds of the Gods to the mouth of Their chosen vessel, to the ears of us mere mortals,” Aradin corrected gently. “That is also a matter of simple warnings of the future. What we seek is a two-way communicator who can work with those things we mortals already know about. An arbiter and an advocate. Someone who is used to speaking with your God and Goddess, bringing the concerns of your people to Them, and bringing back whatever rulings or prayer-effects They may choose for Their replies.”

  “Well, I don’t know about rulings, exactly,” Tomaso mused, scratching at his wrinkled, stubbled chin, “but if there’s any priest or priestess in the Empire who speaks with the Gods on a daily basis about the concerns of their parishioners, and manages the sheer power of prayers on a daily basis, all without dabbling in politics . . . then it would be the Grove Keeper. That’s about as far as you’ll get from politics for a holy intermediary who also possesses a distinct level of authority.”

  “The Grove Keeper?” Aradin asked. He could feel Teral’s confusion and curiosity alongside his own. “I don’t think either of us have heard of that position before. At least, not outside of the land of Arbra, where their deity is the Goddess of Forests . . . and I’m not sure if that is one of the titles or not. What do they do?”

  “He . . . actually, I think it’s a she right now,” the elderly priest corrected himself. “She is the Guardian of the Grove, a place which used to be the Holy Gardens where Blessed Kata and Jinga were wed, uniting the two main kingdoms of this continent into a single empire ages ago. Unfortunately, when the Convocation of the Gods destroyed the Aian Empire two hundred years ago, give or take . . . the Grove became a place of untamed, uncontrolled magics. Energies too powerful to allow pilgrims to visit or betrotheds to wed.”

  “That sounds like yet another location in need of healing,” Aradin muttered dryly. (Which means it is all the more imperative Orana Niel speaks at the Convocation of Gods,) he added silently to his Guide.

  Tomaso continued, patting Aradin’s knee. “If there is anyone who is an expert on judging the merits and turning the petitions of the people into the quite literal power of prayer, it would be the current Grove Keeper. If you will indulge an old priest in the lengthy process of rising and retiring to my study, I will see if I can find a map showing you how to get to the Grove. That is, if you are prepared to travel that far, and to face the dangers which make it an ill-advised place to visit for the unprepared, never mind the unwary.”

  “I am a well-trained mage, and a cautious man by nature,” Aradin comforted him, clasping the older priest by the shoulder. Rising, he turned and offered his hand to assist the elderly clergyman to his feet. “And my Guide is even more careful than I. If it is not forbidden for a foreigner to visit such a holy place, then we will go.”

  “Forbidden? No, not at all,” Prelate Tomaso dismissed. “But difficult? Yes,” he grunted, struggling to his feet. “It is no longer the garden of delights it once was—one more tug, young man! Ahhh, there we go. This way . . .” Canes in his hands, the priest headed for one of the doors leading into the wings of the church. “My body may be getting old, but the Gods have given me a still-sharp mind. I remember your fellow Witch’s visit. She brought the most lovely, delicate tea from some place in Aiar. A mountainous land . . . Cor-something . . .”

  Aradin perked up at that. “Oh, yes, I’ve had a variety of Aian teas in our travels. And other things. Studying plants is one of my specialties. I’m always eager to find out what plants are being harvested and used in various ways locally for magical, medicinal, and culinary uses wherever I go.”

  “Heh! You’ll find the Grove a terrifying place, then,” Tomaso chuckled. “But before you go, I think I can find a tin of spell-preserved tea somewhere. Will you stay and have a cup, while I dig for those maps? And perhaps—could I have a chance to meet your, erm, Host? No, sorry, your Guide, was it? You would be the Host, yes?”

  “Yes, and we’d be delighted,” Aradin agreed, following him through the door. Privately, he wondered what the elderly priest meant by that quip about the Grove, but knew he’d either learn it in conversation or learn it w
hen he got there. The polite thing was to let his host dictate their conversation. “Teral would be happy to meet you in person as well, so to speak. At least with you, we won’t have to explain what to expect first.”

  Chuckling, the Prelate continued to lead the way, his pace slow but otherwise steady. “I suspect you’ll have to explain it to the Grove Keeper, if she has the time to meet with you to discuss your request. They’re usually wonderful people, the Grove Keepers, very trustworthy, but they’re often far too busy with their duties to bother with learning about foreign lands and exotic oddities.”

  Aradin smiled wryly. “That actually fits in with what we’re looking for. I can only hope she’ll suit our needs.”

  * * *

  Saleria, Guardian of the Grove, did not want to get up. In fact, a part of her was afraid to get up. To get up, face the unending labor and the burden of her day.

  Earlier, she had woken under a nightmare of being bound in chains to forever wander the paths of an increasingly menacing, overgrown garden, one filled with shadows that moved and hissed in unnatural ways. The plants themselves seemed to have taken on a demonic twist, with the glowing red eyes, fangs, and claws of beasts from a Netherhell. As things stood right now, the Grove wasn’t that far off from the dream. Not yet fully malevolent, but . . . unsettling.

  She had finally relaxed after waking, taking stock of her normal surroundings, and had gradually drifted back to sleep, but now that it was daylight, she knew she had to get up. Duty demanded that she get up. She just didn’t want to comply.

  Her bed was soft, comfortable, and at this time of year kept cool by spell. The birds were chirping noisily outside the diamond-paned windows of her bedchamber, the morning light was bright and cheerful, and she could hear the faint creak of the plants growing fat on magic, warm sunshine, and yesterday’s brief but thorough rainfall. But mostly she heard the birds twittering cheerfully. Noisily.

  Groaning, she dragged the spare pillow over and plopped it on top of her head. That cut out the bright light and muffled the bird-twitterings, but did not disguise the sound of the door opening. Nor did it shield her from her housekeeper’s cheerful greeting.

  “Good morning, Keeper! It’s time for your breakfast.”

  The pillows sandwiching her head did muffle her impolite reply, but didn’t stop Nannan from tugging at the one atop her head. Saleria tugged back, clutching it in place. She got the covers ruthlessly stripped away instead. That let a bit of the early morning warmth wash over her lightly clothed body, a warning that the day would soon grow hot.

  “Oh come now, Your Holiness,” Nannan scolded, lightly swatting Saleria on the rump. The younger woman yelped, but the matron ignored it. “Time to get up and get to work. Those prayers aren’t going anywhere without you, you know . . . but those plants might!”

  Just once, Saleria thought grumpily. Just once I’d like to see her be silent when she comes into my bedchamber . . . or not come in at all. Unfortunately, she is right about the damned plants.

  Disgruntled, she allowed the housekeeper to drag her out of bed and into a lounging robe so she would be decent at the breakfasting table. The food was hot and filling, vegetables and meat with a bit of cheese-toasted bread. Saleria did appreciate that she didn’t have to cook it. She also liked how the bath was already drawn for her by the time she was done eating, and that she had a fresh set of clothes to slip into once she was dry—clothes which, like her bedding, were enspelled to keep her cool in the face of the day’s rising heat.

  It all made for a very nice change from her early days as an acolyte, and later an assistant, when all junior priests and priestesses had to do every little chore around a temple or a chapel.

  Of course, such luxuries freed her up for greater responsibilities. She didn’t have a traditional parish, nor a traditional congregation. So instead of heading to a chapel hall to begin the morning rituals—there were priests who handled that for her here at Groveham, on the edge of the Grove—she headed out the back door of her home, which abutted the wall guarding the sacred garden. Opening the tool shed, she grabbed one of the crystal-tipped cutting staves stored inside and surveyed the great wall ringing the Grove. Today, she chose to turn right.

  Originally, there had been a magnificent entry gate, opened every morning by the Grove Keeper for pilgrims and petitioners. The Grove had been quite popular with visitors, particularly those who wished to be wed on such hallowed ground. Now, however, the gates were shut, with enspelled chains fixing them in place. There were other modest entrances into the Grove, but only this one was used consistently, and the others could only be unsealed with permission from the Grove Keeper.

  Groveham itself handled the pilgrims who still came “. . . to at least be near the Grove” when seeking the blessings of Jinga and Kata. It stretched out to the west, down to the lake and the major trade river that permitted easy travel between the northern and southern halves of the land. The Grove occupied the center of a modest valley ringed by a wall made of costly imported stone, since the local hills were made of soil, not rock.

  Almost every building was made of wood and plaster, save for the building housing the city guard, with its barracks for the men, a courtroom for formal judgments, and the prison cells for the infrequent misbehavior of the town’s inhabitants and visitors. Even the Keeper’s House was wood, save for the wall it shared with the Grove.

  The Grove rated the same level of care as the Guard Hall; the original wall had first been a wooden fence, erected and carved with warding spells in an attempt to control the comings and goings of pilgrims. Prior Keepers had struggled to keep them out to be sure they didn’t denude the local plant life just to “bring home something touched by the Gods.” But wooden structures were easily destroyed, and that had made the Keepers import stone for a more stout barrier.

  That had happened around three hundred years ago, and a good thing, too. These days, the mortared stone barrier and its plethora of embedded warding crystals were kept well-maintained to make sure the plants didn’t go anywhere. Not because of pilgrims, which were not allowed in the Grove anymore, but because they might try to go somewhere else of their own volition.

  It looks like the blackberry vines are getting out of hand today, Saleria thought, tightening her grip on the pruning staff. Imbued at one end with a collecting crystal, and the other end with razor-sharp, heat-treated spells, it was designed to slice through and cauterize anything it touched when held and activated. Mostly it was the plants that were warped by the wild magics streaming out of the three rifts, but sometimes the small animals, insects and birds and such, were mutated, too.

  Extra-long, wickedly curved thorns flexed and curled as she approached, reminding her of her dream of clawed animal paws on the plants. One of the vines whipped away from its attempt to climb the wall, lashing at her. Saleria jumped out of the way and slashed when she landed. A second vine flailed between her legs, missing her ankle by an inch. She was grateful she wasn’t wearing a skirt, and that her knee-high boots were crafted from sturdy leather.

  Her clothes weren’t standard priestly wear. Most of the priests and priestesses across the empire wore long flowing robes or gowns in white, edged with swirling curls of whatever the current seasonal colors might be. In summer, those edging colors were often pink and purple, hues meant to represent flowers. Their shoes were low-cut, suitable for temple grounds where everything was tamed and tidy, and they rarely wielded weapons.

  Saleria’s clothes were white with pink and purple trim, yes, but she wore a set of tightly woven trousers, a tunic, stout leather boots, matching gloves that covered her to mid-forearm, and a sashed jacket. The jacket was cut to resemble the robes her contemporaries wore, but it only fell to mid-thigh, not to her ankles. Each item was embroidered or carved with protective runes, most to protect her from attack, others to keep her warm in winter and cool in summer.

  They could protect against, but not prevent, those attacks. She whirled and lashed again with the staff.
A third vine lopped off with a sizzle of scorched vegetation, and a fourth fell as well. The rest of the vines quivered and backed off a little, cowed by her forceful attack. She marched forward, slashing at a few more that dared to reach for the outer wall.

  Once they were cowed, she swung the staff around and touched the fallen vines with the crystal-knobbed end, siphoning off the extra energies. If she didn’t do that, the severed plants could very well use their excess energies to set down roots and grow more of their kind.

  Her job was part warrior, part groundskeeper, and part mage-priest. Not exactly something one trained for under the usual circumstances. Saleria was lucky; her father had served as a lieutenant in the Imperial Army as a young man. He had trained all three of his children to fight physically as well as magically. In contrast, her mother was a modestly powered mage who served the road-and-sewer crews for their home city to the south. Her sister served as an architect’s assistant, a fellow construction-mage like their mother, and their brother had gone into the army in their father’s footsteps.

  Saleria herself had felt the call to be a priestess in her mid-teens, a decision she had never regretted. Her family hadn’t, either; since she had chosen the priesthood, her magical education had been paid for by tithes and taxes, rather than out of their own pockets. Her deep belief in the God and Goddess had driven her to study hard, to ensure she would be a truly worthy holy servant. Of course, she had never quite outgrown the urge to stay in bed and sleep late in the mornings, but once she did get up, she did her job well.

  A good thing, too. The blackberry vines weren’t the only plants trying to escape the confines of the Grove walls. The marigolds were on the move. Rolling her eyes, she waded forward, swinging her staff with the enchanted end set to thump, not cut. Each oversized plant came up to just above her waist, with a blossom as broad as her torso and leafy limbs that didn’t do more than bruise individually. As a mass, though, they could batter cracks into the wall if she let them stray close.