The Grove(136)
“I hope the Gods can bring a solution to your nation’s problem,” Saleria offered. “The only turmoil I have to face at the moment involves ambulatory blackberries, and a young deacon in need of a lesson regarding his unwarranted hubris.”
“Sounds fascinating,” Serina said, giving her slumbering son one last gentle caress. “We’ve gone on and on about my problems. Let’s hear about yours—you said the rift-Fonts in your Grove actually get concentrated down into a sort of sap?”
“A concentrated sap? You mean, as in a magic-infused sap?” Daemon asked her. “That’s very odd-sounding, but I’d imagine it might be useful in various potions.”
“That’s what Aradin thought,” Saleria agreed. “Witch Aradin Teral; I think you’ve seen him on Kerric’s mirror-links? He’s a Hortimancer, so he deals more with the base ingredients than the end result, but he has some interesting ideas on what the original Keeper who created the Bower might’ve had in mind for the sap.”
“If you need help, I offer my services; I originally trained in Alchemy, though these days I have my hands full trying to keep the civil war from boiling over. With luck, my Gods will give me a solution to the problem so I can recapture all that wasted time with something I actually enjoy doing.” Daemon frowned for a moment, then sighed and shook it off. “But back to the sap. If there’s any chance I could get my hands on some samples of it, I could do some testing for you, maybe some experimentation, see if it’s actually viable as a potion ingredient.”
“Yes, it would be good to get a second trustworthy opinion,” she said, trying not to think too much about the amusing-yet-sad image of Deacon Shanno stumbling through her unprotected Grove. “I’m not an Alchemist or a Hortimancer myself, but here’s what Aradin told me about the Bower’s sap varieties, and from what he’s already tried, something of how they could be turned into potion bases . . .”
* * *
Aradin heard her coming. Though the exact words were muffled up until the point the stout wooden door was unlocked and pulled open, the stern alto scolding which the accompanying guardsman was receiving made the Witch grin to himself. Nannan in full fury was a force to be reckoned with, if one was constrained by laws regarding the safety and well-being of law-abiding citizens.
“—knows what you’ve been feeding the poor boy! I will not fail in my duties to the Holy Keeper’s household by letting you poison him just because that daft deacon says he’s guilty! And I will have that boy given a fair trial by Truth Stone, even if I have to drag Duke Finneg himself, Councillor for Conflict Resolution, all the way here from the capital!”
Levering himself up on one elbow, Aradin watched the pair stop by the guards’ table, halted by the hand her escort raised.
“Technically, that would be the job of either Lord Stotten, Councillor for the Law, or Lord Gregus, Councillor for Foreign Affairs, as he is a foreigner,” the guardsman stated. He wasn’t one of the ones that had grabbed the Darkhanan, and didn’t seem the kind to perpetuate a cruel misjustice. Then again, all Aradin had to go on was how the other man’s tone lay somewhere between firm and weary.
“I don’t care if he’s one of my baked salmon and cheese pies!” she retorted. “Locking him up when he’s only been doing Her Holiness’ orders is the real crime here. Now open up that door so I can serve him a real supper,” Nannan ordered, pointing her finger briefly at the bars serving as the fourth wall of Aradin’s temporary home, before poking it into the teal-clad guardsman’s chest. “None of that slop I wouldn’t feed to a pig!”
His eyes narrowed, but he sighed heavily and gestured at the table. “Let me examine the contents of your ‘supper pail’ and I will see if it is safe to pass to the prisoner.”
“You can examine it, but you haven’t earned the right to eat it,” Nannan bartered stoutly.
Amused, Aradin rubbed his chin. The housekeeper made a show of fussing and slapping the guard’s hands when he tried poking and prodding, chiding him for, “. . . not knowing where those fingers have been lately!” and in general making up for all the aggravation she had given Aradin in their earlier weeks. Mainly because she was giving it to his jailers.
Finally, with an exasperated sigh, the guardsman led her to the cell. Curtly ordering Aradin to stay back, he allowed Nannan to step inside. She sniffed, wrinkled her nose, and brought the bucket over to him, muttering about nasty fingerprints in her good food.