The Grove(132)
“This should be a true garden, filled with flowers, and trees, and bowers . . . ew, is that a bug?” He peered out between two of the interwoven, rough-barked roots forming the edge of the Bower’s dome, and made a face. “Far too nature-filled for my tastes. But still, I’ll have the prestige of tending it while the Keeper is away . . .”
Oh, Kata, Saleria thought in disgust. I think I’ve seen enough . . .
Apparently not, for her literal bird’s-eye view followed Shanno out of the Bower and down the paths. Sunset was only an hour or so away. By this point in time, all three of them—herself and Aradin Teral—would be channeling power directly from the Bower to the Grove walls. That slowed the sap-dripping as well as ensuring that the heart of each locus tree would not overfill and thus overflow with untapped magics. But it was clear Shanno had no clue what to do. He hadn’t even grabbed a pruning staff from the shed just inside the Grove.
Sure enough, something lunged out of the bushes, slapping at his ankles. Shanno shrieked when the thettis-vine attacked, stumbling back. By pure miracle, the thorns only snagged his white priest-robes. Yanking his hem free, he hopped back out of range of a second lash, his blue eyes wide.
“U-Unnatural place,” he stammered. Then muttered to himself, snapping his fingers. A faint shimmer bubbled around him in a protective ward. “. . . There. That should do it. I’ll come back and burn you out, see if I don’t!” he warned the bush. A blush stained his cheeks. “Listen to me; I’m talking to myself! Unnatural place. I’ll take great pleasure in casting several fire spells on that patch tomorrow morning. But you can wait until morning. I’m off to have myself a nice supper, and a bit of dessert for a job well done . . .”
Nothing else attacked him, which was a pity. Saleria watched him disappear into the Keeper’s house, where he received nothing but tight-lipped, dark glares from Nannan. From the unlit state of the kitchen, she would apparently rather let herself and Daranen starve than fix the deacon anything. Shanno gave her an arch look, the kind that said he would be back, and marched out of the house.
The skylark’s view swooped into the streets after him, but rather than following the deacon all the way to the cathedral, it detoured to the guard hall. Settling much like a bird on the sill of a glazed window, Saleria had a few moments to peer inside past the bars. She caught sight of a familiar, beloved dark blond head, of a well-known hand dipping a chunk of bread into a bowl of something unidentifiable, an unfamiliar bit of metal wrapped around Aradin’s wrist . . . and then the skylark took off, winging its way back to her body with breathless speed.
(Give it two more days, Keeper,) Kata advised her. (Then you may join your Witch-lover if you wish . . . though only briefly. You are needed to stand witness here as well as there.)
Saleria landed with a swaying jolt in her body, no longer a mental bird lofted by her Patron. She felt a feather-soft touch, as if Kata had brushed Her lips against Saleria’s brow, then nothing more. Alone with her thoughts, Saleria wondered if she should do anything about what she had seen. Not go to Aradin immediately—not against her Goddess’ advice—but if she should tell anyone what was happening. Hunger distracted her.
Her food was still warm, though not quite hot. Digging into her meal, she nibbled on some exotic reddish carrot-thing cooked into a sweet dish with bits of spice-dusted fruit. A yellow nubbly something that had been pickled and chilled hit her palate next. It reminded her of Aradin and Teral politely declining some of Nannan’s vinegar-based sauces . . . and that in turn reminded her that the Keeper of Katan wasn’t the only member of the priesthood involved.
I shall have to seek out the Witch-priest representing the people of Darkhana, she decided, dipping a bit of fresh-baked bread into the spicy-sweet dish’s sauce. Darkhan and Dark Ana would no doubt like a say in how Their priest has been treated by a deacon of my own Order . . . Lifting the bit of bread to her mouth, she hesitated. Oh. Oh, right . . . Poor Aradin. Who knows what he’s dipping his bread into at this very moment? Kata, Jinga, make sure he’s fed something healthy, at the very least! Or I shall have to have very cross words with the Guard Captain of Groveham.
* * *
While the night shift guards quietly played some sort of card game in the glow of a modestly rapped lightglobe, Aradin meticulously draped the folds of his Witchcloak over every inch of his body. Tugging the deeply cowled hood over his head, he fitted his wrists into the oversized sleeves, wriggled just a bit to make sure even the cuffs overlapped . . . and relaxed into his own Doorway. Teral took his place, anchoring their shared body in reality.