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.