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.
The trick was to get them separated and herded away from the wall. Thankfully, they weren’t intelligent; once pointed in a particular direction, they just shuffled that way until nightfall. They did, however, have to be kept away from the sunflowers. Saleria didn’t know why the two flower species couldn’t get along. She wasn’t an herbalist, wasn’t a gardener, and frankly wasn’t certain if anyone would ever know enough about the oddities here in the Grove to control them. As it was, for two hundred years, the Grove Keepers had been forced to focus on the simple containment and magic-draining of the many plants and the sources of their warping.