The Grove(103)
“Funny,” he said, eyeing Aradin, “but I hadn’t heard of anyone staying with the Keeper.”
“Well, I’ve just been assigned to Groveham, which means I’ll be here for a long while . . . so I suppose you’ll have plenty of time to get to know me,” Aradin offered, giving all three of them a smile. “If you’ll excuse me, milord, miladies, I need to get back to helping the Keeper now that my errands are done. Have a good day.”
(Not too badly done,) Teral observed. (You no doubt tweaked his pride, but you gave him a few options to save face along the way.)
(Well, I have had a few years’ practice with diplomacy,) Aradin thought back. (He probably bears some watching, though; a young man with ambitions like that—and I’m certain Saleria would have mentioned him being next in line—is someone who might put the wrong foot forward at the least opportune time.)
(Possibly yes, possibly no. We’ll wait and see how he takes your set-down,) Teral offered. (With luck, he’s a good young man who’ll gain a little wisdom from it.)
Aradin chuckled, turning right to head down a side street that connected to the avenue ending in the Keeper’s house. (Optimist.)
(Mage,) Teral corrected. (Our thoughts literally shape the world, so why not think happy ones?)
(Optimist,) Aradin concluded, teasing his Guide.
ELEVEN
Touring the Grove while in charge of one third of its energies was a new experience for Saleria. A mostly pleasant experience, since when she walked through it with Aradin Teral, the plants and animals actually behaved around them. Unnaturally so, which was ironic, considering nothing about the denizens of the Grove was natural anymore. But the thettis-vine did not attack them, though it had regrown since the last time it had been trimmed; the ambulatory marigolds swerved around them rather than just blundering forward blindly; and they were able to actually catch a not-rabbit for examination without it trying to bite anyone.
Saleria figured it out within an hour of Teral attuning himself to the last of the rifts, when they had retreated to the Bower to conduct more experiments. “We finally belong here.”
“Hm?” the Guide asked, still in control of their shared body. He was the one examining the not-rabbit on the middle table, since he knew more of diagnostic spells than either Aradin or her. “We finally belong here?”
“We’re no longer foreigners in the Grove. Our energies match the magics that have soaked into every living being within the Grove walls,” Saleria told him, standing at the left table, the one with the flasks and jars. “It just came to me. That’s why we’ve had a peaceful day, relatively speaking. That’s why most of the plants and animals are getting along, rather than trying to tear each other to leafy shreds.”
“That . . . makes sense,” Teral replied thoughtfully. “Hold on . . . Aradin’s going into the Dark to ask a few questions for us. . . .”
“Of course,” she said.
Her own task, the daily petitions, had gone quickly. Used to gauging how much power to push into each prayer, Saleria had discovered it took only a fraction of what she had done before. More of her concentration was required since the energies were now concentrated, but less power while applying it. That freed up more of her time to work as an assistant in turn to the two men. Her current task was the tedious chore of gently grinding up plant matter in a mortar and pestle and staining sheets of absorbent paper with the liquefied remains, so that the spells Aradin had scribed upon them would sort the various components into their individual categories: toxic to humans, not toxic, alkaline, acidic, nutritional, medicinal, and more.
From there, they would be tested on other spell-scribed papers, breaking down their components further into categories of usefulness. Enchanting the papers alone had taken Aradin and Teral two whole days. Tedious work, and boring enough to allow her mind to wander freely. It wandered now to this morning, and the surprise early round of lovemaking in her bed.
Rather than being woken up with the light of dawn filtering through her curtains and the yank of the covers being stolen by her housekeeper, she had awakened in the dim gray light of still-barely-night on her back, with Aradin buried deep under the covers. With his mouth buried between her legs. Just thinking about it, about those lips and that tongue, and the stroking of his fingers up into her depths, questing for that dear-Gods-in-Heaven spot . . .
“Blushing cheeks, far-off gaze . . . idle fingers on the pestle,” Teral teased her, his voice dipping almost as low as Aradin’s could get. “Did he do something this morning that you liked? Or is it just a general memory?”