“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.