The blond Witch shook his head, letting his hair slide over his shoulders. “No. It’d be impossible for Teral to get lost. For one, he has many decades of experience traversing the Dark. For another, his soul is literally bound to my Doorway by an unbreakable strand of his very self. Delayed, yes. But lost, never. Not while we are bound together, and not while I live.” He lifted his water glass, hesitated, then dipped his head. “Of course, if I were to die of a sudden shock, then his tether to my Doorway would snap. But he’d know it, and know to head for the Light, after reporting my death to the others in the Church . . . and probably not until after he’d gone looking for my soul, to steady it and prepare it for another Witch-acolyte to accept.”
“I thought someone had to be on hand for that,” Saleria said. “Like you were, for him.”
“There’s a small period of grace, a handful of days, where it’s easy to bind a soul into a Doorway. The longer a soul wanders in the Dark, however, the more difficult it becomes for them to find a potential Host, enter their Doorway, and bind themselves in place,” Aradin told them. “The longest case I know of would be Sir Niel, who wandered for almost a year and a half in the Dark before he found the Doorway of his Hostess, Orana.”
“Sir Niel?” Daranen asked. “He wasn’t a Witch?”
The emphasis her clerk put on that title made Saleria wonder what else she didn’t know about the rest of the world. Aradin drank from his cup, set it down, and glanced between Saleria and her scribe.
“It’s . . . a complicated story,” he said. “It involves a deep, hidden betrayal, the framing of someone for a most brutal murder, and one of the deepest miscarriages of justice I have ever known or heard about. But the telling of it would easily take all night, and then some,” he demurred, rising from his seat. Offering Saleria his hand, he added, “If I remember correctly, you requested my advice on what to pack for the Convocation once your work for the day was done, yes?”
Blushing, Saleria set down her spoon, scooted back her chair, and placed her hand in his. Covertly, she glanced at Daranen, only to see her scribe looking away, but not quite able to hide his smile. Her face warmed further, but at least he didn’t seem to object to the idea of her and her guest heading off to her bedchamber. “Yes, I should like your advice on what to pack. I haven’t traveled much in my career, while you have.”
“Good night, you two,” Daranen stated, picking up his wine cup to sip at the dregs. “Don’t wear yourselves out by ‘packing’ all night long. You’ll still have to work in the morning.”
Aradin choked. Coughing, he tried not to grin too much. Leaning over, Saleria picked up her own water glass with her free hand and offered it to him. He accepted it, but cleared his throat and spoke before sipping. “Careful, milady . . . In some cultures, drinking from the same cup is the same as an offer, and acceptance, of marriage.”
It was Daranen’s turn to choke. Saleria blushed again. Before she could speak, however, Aradin sipped from the cup, cleared his throat again, and returned it to her with a slight bow.
“But then, it also requires a special drink to be held in the cup, and not just plain water. So you’re safe from marriage.” Keeping her other hand tucked in his, he tugged her gently away from the table as soon as she set the glass down. He waited until they were at the foot of the stairs to the upper floor, then lifted her fingers to his lips for a brief kiss. “That is, for now.”
And I thought the ongoing frown was annoying, Saleria thought, following him up the steps. I’m surprised my hair hasn’t caught fire from the burning in my cheeks! She didn’t have to guide him to her bedroom; he went straight to the right doorway without prompting. He did, however, wait for her to step in front of him and open the door before following her inside.
Her bedchamber was just high enough that, in the daytime, she could see into the Grove over the top of its wall. She had plenty of windows, too—four pairs of sashes that could be swung outward, each one glazed with two dozen rectangular panes set in carefully leaded frames. But night had fallen while they ate their supper, leaving the pair with a greatly darkened view.
At night, only the two moons, the stars in the sky, the ward-stones on the wall, and little hints of those waxy, faintly glowing nodules could be seen through the gloom outside. There were lights in Groveham, lightglobes and oil lanterns and the like, but that was on the other side of the house; not much light reached the Grove itself, just whatever the stars and moons and the faintest traces of magic could provide.