The Grove(133)
Glenna awaited him, as did her Guide, Josai. Glenna smiled and wiggled the strange implement in her hand. “Bet you didn’t know I could pick a lock . . .”
“You’d win that bet,” Aradin told her. He held up his wrists. “Anti-magic cuffs, wrongfully applied. The instigator will get his comeuppance shortly, if Teral and I have anything to do with assisting it along . . . and of course we will.”
The other Witch chuckled, then started poking and prodding at the cuffs. “Good thing these are more or less nullified by the Dark . . . ah, there we go. Simple enough mechanism. A twist, a push, another twist . . . huzzah!”
Josai swooped under Aradin’s wrist and caught the falling cuff in a quilted satchel before it could land on the not-ground of the Dark. She hovered, waited, and caught the second one as well. Pulling the drawstring tight, she wrapped the ends around the throat of the bag, knotted them, and held it out to Aradin with a bow.
“Thank you, ladies,” he praised both women. “Since I’ve only been borrowing them, I’ll make sure to return these to their proper owner. When everything has been cleared up, of course.”
“Just don’t touch those nasty things while you’re in the Dark,” Josai reminded him tartly. “Or you’ll be stuck in here again until someone can separate you.”
“You also owe us both a dance, next turning of Brother Moon,” Glenna added. “Be careful when cloak-swapping.”
“I will,” he promised. Bag in hand, Aradin turned to his right, took three steps, and arrived back at his Doorway. (Ready to go?) he asked Teral, stepping just far enough back to be out of the way, yet close enough to still hear.
(More than ready; this hard pallet is not good for my back.) Drawing in a deep breath to brace their body, Teral sank through the Doorway. Silently, the Witchcloak sank downward onto the cell cot. Unless the cloak remained exactly where it was, unnoticed and untouched, they would not be able to return to it.
Aradin kept his fingers on his Doorway while Teral pulled their flesh through. One short step, two—with their free hands clasped, the fingers of his other hand brushed the frame of the other, fuller Witchcloak, still hanging in Saleria’s dressing room. Then, with Teral to anchor him, he released the other cloak and pulled himself into the new opening. Thankfully, the room was dark, for the deep hood was how the cloak had been hung on its peg. A gentle tug released it from the wooden projection, allowing him to step away from the wall and cast about for the lightglobe.
Which should be . . . two steps to the left, about head-height . . . there. His fingers bumped into it, summoning a gentle glow. Once he had enough light to see by, Aradin set the bag with the cuffs on an empty patch of shelving. He made his way to the refreshing room, freshened up, rapped off all the lights, and worked his way downstairs. The moment his foot touched the ground floor, a board squeaked beneath it.
“—Back again, are you, you little snot? By the Gods, I think not!”
Aradin jumped back, tripped on the bottom step, and landed on his backside with a grunt. “Nannan!” he gasped. Or tried to. All that came out was a strangled wheeze. (Dammit—the spell’s still choking me from speaking?)
He flipped the cloak folds over his body and quickly swapped places with Teral—who hastily threw up an arm to block the smacking of whatever it was the housekeeper had in her hands. A broom, from the rustling thump of it.
“Enough, woman!” Teral ordered, grasping the shaft and wrestling it to a standstill. “This is Teral, not that little snot, as you so aptly named him.”
“T-Teral? Oh, Gods!” Dropping her end of the broom, the housekeeper tried to cuddle him in apology. The Darkhanan Guide put up with it for a few moments, then pushed her off. Gently, but firmly.
“Enough. Now is not the time nor place,” he added. “I take it the little snot isn’t here?”
“No—and I’ll thank you to put a stop to this nonsense! I would’ve stopped him before, if the guards hadn’t been here earlier. And I would have come up directly, if I hadn’t been, erm, indisposed,” she mumbled, blushing. “You know, in the refreshing room for a bit.”
Teral held up one hand, determined to regain some dignity. “Please, nothing more need be said of the matter. I’ll value the bruises you have given me as a sign of your devotion to your mistress’ household, but there’s no need to demonstrate more of your combat prowess. Your broom, milady.”
Blushing again, she took back her makeshift weapon. “So . . . what will you be doing now?”
“I shall be preparing the Grove for Deacon Shanno’s visit on the morrow. If he wants to handle the Grove, I say let him try . . . as in, try it at its worst.”