The Grove Read online

  “The person who spoke just now, with the request to watch you pray? That was Teral, my Guide,” Aradin explained. “He and I can share control of my body, whenever I will it. We can also do more—if I may demonstrate?”

  Bemused, she glanced at Daranen, who looked equally intrigued. She gestured with a hand for the foreign priest to proceed. “Provided it harms none, you may.”

  He smiled wryly at her as he lifted the deep hood of his robe up over his head. Dropping it down past even his chin, he pulled the front edges closed, then tucked his hands up the opposite sleeves, and bowed slightly. A strange ripple passed through the flesh hidden beneath the beige folds, then he straightened up. Only . . . it wasn’t the lean, blond priest anymore.

  The now slightly taller, broad-shouldered figure lifted his hands to the hood, shifting it back out of the way. The face he revealed was older, with a dark, neatly trimmed, gray-streaked beard. His hair, also dark brown with faint threads of silver, fell to mid-chest, the same as Aradin’s, but that chest was broad and strong . . . and the tunic and trousers he wore were of a slightly different cut, dyed a somewhat faded forest green.

  “As you can see,” the new figure in the Witch-robes stated, his voice a smooth baritone instead of a deeper bass, “I have the ability to appear as myself, whenever my Host wills it.” One hand on his chest, the other sweeping to the side, he bowed to her. “Teral Aradin at your service, Holy Sister.”

  “Teral Aradin?” Daranen asked, brows lifting. “Not Aradin Teral? So . . . whoever holds the current appearance puts his name first?”

  “That is correct,” the new foreigner stated.

  Saleria blinked, trying to regather her wits. She was sensitive to the flow and twists of magic; it was part of her job as Guardian and Keeper of the Grove to be aware of such energies. Yet she had felt nothing. Frowning softly, she tried to make sense of it. “How is this trick managed? I sensed no spell at work. I can see no aura or hint of an illusion, either.”

  “It is holy magics. The robe is a part of it, though any sufficient amount of darkness will suffice,” Teral stated. He lifted a hand, rubbing at his bearded chin for a moment, then shrugged. “I suppose a dark enough shadow might do as well, provided no eyes lay upon the Witch making the transition. As for it being an illusion, this body is still physically that of my Host, though it is currently shaped like my own. When I was still alive and Host to Witch-priestess Alaya, she could take on her feminine form whenever I willed it as well, and be accounted in all ways a female, save that it was still my body at the end of the day.”

  Daranen let his jaw drop for a moment, then shut it, swallowed, and glanced at Saleria. “Begging pardon . . . and no insult meant, milord, but . . . I’m not sure I could agree to that, myself. Being turned into a woman? Thank you, but no.”

  Teral smirked at the younger man. “I found it to be an advantage in understanding the other gender. I have passed along some of that understanding to my Host, Aradin, as well. Our Order finds it very useful to have both genders understand the ways and thoughts of the other. Of course, it also depends on who is available to take up being the next Host when a previous Witch dies. But still, it is useful.”

  “I am sure it is,” Saleria murmured, at a loss for anything else to say. She shook her head to clear it. “As fascinating as this is, I am not sure it would be wise to allow you into the Grove. Not for fear of your bringing insult or disrespect,” she added quickly, firmly, as the older priest drew breath to speak, “but because the Grove is simply too dangerous for the unwary.

  “You are, however, most welcome to visit the Groveham Chapel,” Saleria allowed. “Prelate Lanneraun is elderly, but well-versed in tending the needs of both the local congregation and those Katani who travel here on pilgrimage for one reason or another.” She paused, eyed him warily, then added, “Erm . . . if you would kindly switch back, so that I could tell your, ah, Host of this?”

  Teral held up a hand in a gentle, graceful motion. “There is no need for that, Holy Sister. Unless one of us steps into the Dark to consult with the Knowing, or to help escort a soul to the gates of the Afterlife, we are always here, and always aware of what our other half experiences.”

  She didn’t quite believe him, but she didn’t quite disbelieve him, either. It was all rather . . . fantastical, that was the word for it. Like some storyteller’s tale. “Well, erm . . . gentlemen,” Saleria managed politely, giving the foreigner a slight bow, “if you will excuse us, my scribe and I need to consult on the prayers at hand. Since it seems to be a lovely day budding outside, perhaps we could meet in the square up the lane from here? By the fountain with the entwined fishes? I shouldn’t be more than an hour at most, if not less.”

  “As you wish, Holiness. We look forward to speaking with you in a little while.” Bowing, Witch Teral pulled his hood back up over his head, tucked his hands up his sleeves, and . . . shrank slightly. Straightening, Witch Aradin revealed his face, bowed a second time to her, and allowed Daranen to escort him—them?—to the front door.

  Bemused, Saleria moved over to her desk and dropped onto her padded leather chair, utterly at a loss on how to handle the weirdness of this foreigner. Two men in one body . . . one technically dead, but able to “live” again in his own form, thanks to the other? And they travel the world, studying other lands? How very bizarre . . .

  The twittering of a bird outside reminded her that time would not stand still while she tried to make sense of outkingdom ways. Sitting up with a grunt, she sorted through the neat stacks of correspondence Daranen had placed on her desk and started reading the letters with the requests for drought management. Saleria pushed thoughts of Aradin-and-Teral out of her mind.

  Strange two-in-one foreigners would have to wait while the Keeper of the Grove attended to her daily work.

  TWO

  Aradin fingered one of his translation pendants, his mind not really on the Aian book in his other hand. The pendant, a silver-wrapped stone strung on a long braided leather cord, was one of many he had made in his travels. When worn, it permitted him to read, write, hear, and speak in whatever language it was enchanted to translate.

  The polished, flat disc of agate felt comfortable under his thumb, warmed where he had rubbed it, cooler where he hadn’t touched it all that much. He stroked its smooth surface, then rubbed his thumb over the little beads decorating the bezel, but his mind was more on the Keeper of the Grove than on the book of mirror-based magics he had fetched from his bags to kill time while they waited.

  (You’re thinking of her again,) Teral observed lightly. (I think that’s the third time you’ve tried to read that paragraph.)

  (Well, she is worth thinking about. Intelligent, a little innocent, strong-willed, and beautiful,) Aradin admitted. (Eyes that shift between blue and gray, depending on how the light reaches them . . . lovely blonde curls . . . rose lips . . .)

  (Are you turning poet on me?) Teral asked, mock-suspicion in his mind-voice.

  (Well, how else would you describe her?) Aradin retorted, snorting softly out loud. He tried to settle a little more comfortably onto the bench near the fountain for a fourth read, but gave up. (And those curves . . . !)

  (Technically, she doesn’t have overly lush ones,) Teral observed lightly.

  (No, but what she has, she carries with confidence, and that makes her all the more appealing,) his Host countered. (Are you going to try to lie and say you do not find her attractive yourself?)

  (I didn’t say that,) the Guide snorted. (Were I still the Host and our mission not a concern, I’d have flirted quite shamelessly with her. I was considered quite the catch even up to the day of my death, you know.)

  (Catch-and-release, though,) Aradin sighed. (Hosts and Guides of the same gender have a hard enough time finding anyone to accept our dual lives. I cannot imagine many who would accept an opposite-gendered pair for long.)

  (It is very rare,) Teral agreed, sighing mentally as well. (Still, no one makes love quite like a Witch. Or are you
forgetting the fun we had with that Arbran sea-merchant two years ago?)

  (What, the one we met on the Isle of Storms? Oh, she was quite the opportunist,) Aradin thought, chuckling. (“I’ve never made love with two men before,”) he thought in a mental falsetto. (“Or should this only count as one and a half?”)

  Teral chuckled as well. Then cleared his throat. (Blonde approaching to your left. I believe from the curls and white clothes it is our fellow priestess.)

  Tucking the book’s attached ribbon between the pages, Aradin slipped it into one of his deep sleeves, letting Teral take the tome and stash it under the cover of the spell-enforced darkness deep inside his robe. Rising to his feet, he bowed to the Keeper as she approached.

  She nodded, her eyes sweeping down over Aradin’s body. It was a look more assessing than appreciative, though he thought he saw a slight spark of the latter. He didn’t ask why she studied him. There was just something about the way the Witch-robes hung on his body that made him look deceptively frail. Until one took a second, deeper look. Teral, on the other hand, looked beefy upon first glance, like he should have been a blacksmith instead of a priest.

  He had the strength for it, too; if the tree that had fallen on him had not pierced his chest and crushed his hips, he would have been fully capable of moving it aside. With effort, and perhaps a touch of magic, but still mostly by muscle. By comparison, Aradin’s slender frame and loose clothes hid lean muscles and whiplike reflexes. One did not travel the world without being proficient in self-defense, and both versions of Aradin Teral were capable men . . . but most underestimated the Host, based on superficial appearance alone. Still, some women liked the lean sort more than the muscular. Or at least Aradin could always hope they did.

  “Holiness, it is a pleasure to see you again. I trust all went well?” he greeted her politely.

  “Relatively well. There’s a spot of wild magic running around the Grove I cannot quite track down. It’s affecting the animals,” she added in an aside, frowning off into the distance. Shaking it off, she gave him a smile. Once again, Aradin was struck by how lovely she was. “But things are under control for the moment, Kata and Jinga willing.”

  “Naturally,” he agreed. “Would you care to retire once more to your office?” Aradin offered, gesturing back at the large, two-story house at the end of the lane. “The things I would ask you are not the sort meant for open gossip and rampant speculation, though they aren’t a terrible secret.”

  She eyed him again, then gestured gracefully back up the lane. “To my study, then. If you don’t mind my scribe listening in, that is.”

  “I think that would be fine. He strikes me as a competent, trustworthy man,” Aradin said, falling into step at her side. She was a little taller than average for a Katani woman, if still shorter than him by about a finger-length. Their strides matched fairly well, something which pleased him. From the gossip he had gleaned by listening in the dining hall of the inn last night, the Keeper of the Grove did a lot of walking each day. So did he, since it was sometimes awkward for a Witch to have and keep track of a mount. More convenient to simply travel on foot, or hire some means of faster travel when needed.

  “I, for one, am rather glad he is so competent,” Saleria admitted as they walked. A child skipped past, the young girl waving to Saleria before continuing on her way, an empty basket dangling from her other hand. On her way to market, no doubt. “I inherited him when I took over the position of Grove Keeper, and he has done an excellent job of managing my clerical needs.”

  Her word choice made Aradin smile. At a curious glance from her, he explained. “The holy priests and priestesses of Mendhi, far to the west and north of here, are called clerics. That is where the word clerical comes from—and it is pronounced almost exactly the same in Darkhanan as it is in Mendhite and Katani. Then again, their Goddess is the Goddess of Writing, so it only makes sense for Her servants to be both scribe and priest.”

  “I see. I did not know the word was from Mendhi,” Saleria confessed. She blushed slightly and shrugged, gesturing at the street while they walked. “But then I honestly don’t know much about the world beyond the boundaries of Katan. I think it’s one of the advantages of living in an empire which spans an entire continent. You never have to worry about anyone else causing problems along your borders—that is, not to sound callous,” she added quickly, and gestured at the Grove beyond her home, “but I have enough to worry about.”

  “Are things really that bad in the Grove?” Aradin asked her, following her into her home.

  Saleria gestured for him to shut the front door behind them. Once it was closed, Saleria glanced out the window set next to the door. No one had been near enough to hear his question, not even the little girl who had gone off on her errand. She nodded, looking at Aradin. He had a face . . . they had faces which inspired confidence, since the older, bearded version had looked equally trustworthy. And it wasn’t a secret, exactly, but she didn’t want stray gossip spreading through the town, raising everyone’s fears needlessly.

  “Things are bad enough, yes,” she told him. “I keep asking the Arch Priest’s staff for an assistant, but they keep saying I’m doing fine. Yes, I’m doing fine, if all I’m supposed to do is contain the problem. But what I’d really like to do is figure out a way to solve the problem so that the Grove can be safe for visitors once more. That takes help. One to continue to contain everything while the other studies what’s wrong.”

  (Oh dear,) Teral murmured. (She’s not going to like our request, then. Or be able to fulfill it when the time comes.)

  (Unless we can get her an assistant, which might just as well be me.) The more tantalizing wisps of information he heard about the Grove behind this house, the more Aradin felt intrigued by what was really happening inside. (Everything we’ve heard so far suggests too much magic is warping the plants and animals in there. I may not be an expert on animals, but I do know how to control and manage the effects of magic on and in plants.)

  (What do you . . . ? Oh! I see your point,) Teral said, following Aradin’s thoughts. The long-standing prohibition of one living being reading another living being’s thoughts did not apply to him, as Teral was technically dead. After several years of living within the younger man’s Doorway, Teral could follow his sub-thoughts with some ease. (Yes, that could work. If you can actually prove your worth in such a task.)

  Aradin didn’t reply; Saleria had ushered him into her office and was gesturing at the seat he had occupied earlier. The green-clad cleric, Daranen, looked up briefly from his correspondence, but otherwise didn’t comment. Taking the seat across from Aradin, Saleria settled into the padded chair.

  “Now, I believe you were going to ask me some questions?” she prompted Aradin.

  “Yes . . . First, I should like to explain how I came to be here, why I am on this quest. It may help you to make up your mind,” Aradin told her. At her nod, he began. “Darkhanan Witches have a . . . hidden advantage over most priesthoods. As you may know, theologically, all religions agree that once a soul reaches the Afterlife, all questions shall be answered. Our greatest Witch calls it the ‘full knowing’ and says it occurs in an instantaneous flash of comprehension and understanding.”

  “Which who?” Saleria asked, distracted by the odd aside.

  “Forgive me. Not which as in to choose, but Witch as in a specific type of Darkhanan mage priest or priestess,” Aradin clarified, giving her a rueful, apologetic smile. “I wear a translation pendant which tells me what to say, but does not guarantee that I say it correctly. In your language, the word which,” he enunciated carefully, “is very similar to our word Witch. Forgive me for speaking sloppily.”

  “I don’t know anything about translation spells, I’m afraid,” Saleria confessed, wrinkling her own nose. “The more I speak with you, the more I feel my training is inadequate. I’m beginning to feel distinctly ignorant about a lot of things.”

  “Hardly that, I’m sure,” Aradin dismissed. “You’ve
simply focused on different things. I myself would be hard-pressed to carry out a Darkhanan wedding ceremony, if Teral hadn’t conducted several dozen in his life, and it’s been a few years even for him. I certainly haven’t conducted any myself beyond a few practice attempts while I was being trained. We all flounder in certain neglected areas of our life; that doesn’t make us any less wise in others.”

  That brought out a relieved smile on her face. Yes, he’s definitely a smart fellow. And a wise one, Saleria thought. Maybe there’s something to this legacy of accumulating wisdom through extended lifespans. Of a sort. She offered a bit of her own history, warming up to him. “Well, I have conducted a handful of marriage rites. Not in the last few years, either, so we have that much in common. You were saying something about a ‘knowing’ or whatever?”

  “Full knowing,” Aradin corrected. “Such a thing is only accessible to those who have achieved the Afterlife. The regular ‘knowing,’ of the sort which most Darkhanan Witch-priests have access to, comes from the Dark.”

  “The place between Life and the Afterlife?” Saleria asked, puzzled. “I thought there was nothing there but ghosts wandering through the darkness, seeking the Light of the Afterlife. That, and excess magic.”

  “I see you know your energy cycles,” he praised. “What most people outside of Darkhana do not know is that while the Dark does not contain the full knowing of the Afterlife, a properly trained Witch can go into the Dark, ask it simple yes-no questions, and receive a response. Or rather, a response of yes, no, or some degree of ambiguity.”

  That shocked her. Saleria stared at the handsome blond foreigner. “That’s . . . that’s the power of a Seer! The Gods separated Seers from mages, because the powers they deal with, the things they touch . . . !”