The Grove(10)

“In Darkhana, we have our own customs for daily life,” Aradin told her, gesturing at himself with both hands, then held one out toward her as well, “but in one thing, all lands are the same. We are born, we live, and we die. Your God and Goddess oversee the four seasons of life, from infancy through youth, maturity, and on into the elderly stages. Our God and Goddess oversee the transitions from Life to the Afterlife, and all that lies between.

“Although I am from Darkhana, which lies a very long distance from here, all cultures must deal with death and its transitions. All deaths, in all lands, go through the same stages: The deceased must make the passage through the Dark to the Afterlife where they will be judged and assigned their just punishments, rewards, and perhaps reincarnation chances by the Gods . . . and the living must be comforted and counseled through their grief.

“In that regard, our faith is a . . . a supplement to your own, in a way. We specialize in such things. Wherever we go, we need to be prepared to handle bereavement, to ensure souls are not lost as they make the journey toward the Afterlife. Yet we cannot really stand ready to help others in this, our holy task, without understanding the local system of faith,” he concluded, clasping his hands lightly in front of his torso. A light shrug accompanied his words. “One of the best ways to achieve understanding is to observe the local religion in action, which we would like to do. With your permission, and with great respect on our part.”

Saleria blinked at him. “‘We’?” she finally asked. “‘Our’? Who is this we you reference? Is there more than one of you in your delegation?”

“In a way, yes. In a way, no—one moment,” he added. Again, he closed his eyes and tipped his head, as if stretching a muscle in his neck. Blinking, he opened his eyes again. Giving her a rueful smile, the foreign priest spread his hands slightly. “We are a Darkhanan Witch. This body—my body—belongs to myself, the man named Aradin. I was raised an herbalist and a mage until my late teens, when I was sent to an academy with the intent to study more of the ways of Hortimancy—plant magics—than my family alone could teach me. In the middle of my trip, I was asked to go to the aid of a Witch-priest who had been caught under a storm-felled tree.”

“I don’t understand,” Saleria interjected, frowning. “What has this to do with using the plural for yourself?”

“It has everything to do with it,” Aradin told her. “Darkhanan Witches are twofold. Like our Goddess and God, there are a Host and a Guide. The Host is the living person. The Guide is a deceased former Witch, whose spirit is bound into the Host so that they may literally help guide the person hosting their soul. In this way, their lifetime of accumulated experience and wisdom can be preserved and passed down. Teral—the Witch pinned under the tree—was dying, and I was asked to become his Host, so that I could continue to preserve his experiences, and the memories he had from his Guide, Alaya . . . and when she was a Host, that of her Guide, and of his, and of his, stretching back for over a thousand years.

“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?”