The Grove(135)

A strange sound reached her ears. It resolved into the voice of a young man yelling, of heavy, frantic running, and the crackling of branches breaking and being shoved aside. As Saleria watched, Deacon Shanno stumbled into view, twisting and swiping at some sort of dark green vine that had wrapped itself around his head like the tendrils of a cuttlefish. His fine white robes were stained with mud and greenery, leaves were plastered to his skin—leech leaves, she realized with a touch of alarm—and he didn’t see the low rock in his way.

Tumbling to the ground with a yelp, he struggled with the cuttlefish-vine. The fall seemed to have stunned it, for its grip relaxed enough for the disheveled deacon to yank it off. Furious, he grabbed it by its tentacle-tendrils and bashed it against the rock several times, then flung it away. Shanno sat there panting for a few moments, then winced and started picking the leech-leaves off his skin.

“How could she make this look so easy . . . ? No, no,” he corrected himself. “The Keeper was not doing her job. Well, I’m not defeated yet! By Jinga, I swear you’ll learn to obey me! I’ll burn you all to the ground, if I have to!”

Saleria lifted both of her brows at that. Ah . . . Jinga? I really should intervene. Warped and mutated though they may be, the plants and animals of the Grove don’t all deserve to die.

(Hush, My child,) Jinga chided her, enveloping her in darkness once again. (He is salvageable, if he can learn humility. That, and I have a bet with Darkhan going.)

She came back to herself with a rush . . . and dropped her head into her palms. Oh, Jinga . . . Your sense of humor is unlike any other I know . . .

(You should speak with the priest-Exarch Melulose Filomen-Amon, who worships Tifrang, God of Mischief.)

There’s a God of Mischief? She lifted her head, blinking. And people worship Him? As their sole Patron?

(Yep.)

With that, she was alone again in her mind. Vaguely, she heard Serina asking if she was alright, and managed a weak nod. Maybe I don’t want that Ultra Tongue potion Orana promised to get; I’m not sure I’d want to understand a culture that worships a God of Mischief.

She refocused her attention on the conversation the others were having. Guardian Daemon was speaking now.

“. . . And I cannot do anything about the mid-latitude aether disturbances until the missing Guardian of Garama’s Fountain shows up. As much as it pains me, you’re going to have to leave Aiar out of your equations, Serina.”

“But if I don’t expand our efforts into Aiar, then I have to get Senod-Gra fixed!” the Arithmancer complained, tugging on her long, pale blonde braid. “You know what Keleseth is like.”

“Then the solution to your problem is to wait, young lady,” Daemon told her. “The prophecies are slowly coming true, which means the Garama problem will probably fix itself on its own. However, I should point out that Portals to various places in this world in theory can be seized and used to create Portals to other universes. Which includes the Netherhells.”

Serina rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Not if you shield them correctly! Honestly, am I the only one who reads all the pre-Shattering texts anymore?”

“You’re probably the only one with time, interest, and access to a library old enough, love,” Dominor told his wife. The ornate bracelet on his wrist chimed, startling Saleria. He winced. “Right. Time to go relieve Queen Kelly of her duties for the evening shift. I am very glad Rora volunteered to be the nighttime coordinator for the Convocation.”

Kissing his wife, he headed for the door. Not every room had them; some were stone instead of wood like this one. Not every room had furniture, though someone had scrounged up a set of benches and two chairs for this room. But no one could say the location for the new Convocation lacked enough rooms for it. Serina sighed, watching him go, then glanced down at her napping twins. Today, they were cuddled together in a floating, spell-rocked cradle.

Guardian Daemon eyed them, too. The wistful look in his blue eyes made Saleria wonder why such a handsome, commanding man hadn’t found a wife yet. Or even a husband, if such were the ways of his homeland. She ventured a question. “Do you like children, Guardian Daemon?”

“I do, though it’s hard to juggle being the Guardian and having a private life. I can’t wait until my sister Daria can speak to Pashon and Pashana about this stupid civil war tearing our country apart. The only bright side is that it’s winter, which means the fighting has slowed . . . if not the jockeying for power,” he muttered. “As much as I’d like to help you with your project, Serina, that, too, must be quelled and settled first, much like the aether. There are times when I could smack my cousins.”