The crackling, creaking sound it made as the elongated leaf-stalk grew from one finger-length to three and spilled out a couple extra leaves was clearly audible. Eerily familiar, in fact. Saleria paled, realizing that this was some of the same sort of rustling noises that had serenaded her all day and all night for each of the three years she had served as Keeper and Guardian of the Grove.
He speaks the truth . . . Sweet Jinga, this is the truth! Swallowing, she looked at the mage-priest, who ended the demonstration with a dismissive flick of his fingers. The cane-plant continued to grow another finger-length even though the flow of energy had ended, turning it into a stalk as long as his forearm. But it did eventually stop.
“See what I mean?” Aradin asked her. “But this magic differs from your ‘pure sap’ over there by one very important factor. The only thing I was focusing on was growing a large, healthy plant . . . but I was still focusing the magic.” His free hand pointed off to the side at the dripping vines. “That stuff is not being focused, other than that I believe it may have been separated from mixed kinds into purified types of magical energies. Copper for communication, silver for scrying, grass green for healing and growth, light purple for transport, pale blue for weather control, or who knows what the colors mean . . . but if all it’s doing is seeping back into the ground and isn’t being used properly . . . ?”
“The . . . the result would be . . . madness,” Saleria murmured, the horror of it shocking her senses. She turned in a slow circle, looking out beyond the sheltering wickerwork of the Bower dome. At the madness beyond their enspelled shelter.
“Exactly. Madness. A monstrous amalgamation of intents and purposes blended together by random chance, rather than by a guiding hand,” he stated flatly. Lifting the sugar cane stalk one last time in poignant reference, he carefully tucked it root-ball first up his sleeve, returning it to its place in the Dark. “In fact, I would think the very soil of the Grove is super-saturated with pure magic-sap, if it’s been dripping and dispersing through the ground for roughly two hundred years. No wonder this place is a mess!”
His words made her feel ashamed for never having realized it. For never having questioned it . . . since his words did make a horrible sort of sense. Saleria rested her staff next to his and folded her arms defensively across her chest. “Well, pardon me for not being a fancy Hortimancer. I am a mage-priestess of Kata and Jinga, and my lessons revolved around imbuing prayers with magic, not the imbuing of magic into plants!”
(Gently,) Teral cautioned his young Host. (She’s about to resist any idea you’d offer her, because your words sound like accusations of incompetence and idiocy.)
Aradin knew his Guide was right. It wasn’t how he wanted her to feel, either. Quickly switching to diplomacy, he held up his hands in a placating gesture. “I know that, and the fault isn’t yours, Saleria. It isn’t even likely to be that of your superiors; they, too, would be far more focused upon the spiritual needs of your people—too busy looking at prayers for the health of the forest, and not paying any attention to the needs of each individual bush and tree. Literally.
“The fault, if there is one, lies with whoever created this system and then did not explain it properly to their successors. You have been left a horrible mess through no fault of your own, you and your immediate predecessors,” he told her, sympathy in his gaze, “and you have been forced to deal with it for the last two hundred years with no instructions or clues about what is really happening.
“In fact, you are to be commended for managing it as well as you have, with all the knowledge of a priest plopped into a garden mangled by generations of ignorant management. But, ignorance can be enlightened with knowledge,” Aradin reminded her, raising a finger in caution as she drew in a breath to speak. “Whoever left your predecessors with no understanding of what should be done, that person was negligent, leaving their successors in ignorance. Ignorance can be turned into a chance for education and exploration, so there is a great deal of hope for both the safe managing and the eventual restoration of the Grove as a place where people can walk safely, without needing the disciplined will of a highly trained mage.”
Somewhat mollified, Saleria still tipped her head in puzzlement, then lifted her brows. “Ah. Because their thoughts could inadvertently focus the magic, literally soaking the ground underfoot. In fact, those thoughts have probably been wafting over the walls and their wardings for all I know. Even those with the least affinity for magic can still cast a potent curse if they put every ounce of thought and will and emotion behind it, and this place is saturated, so even a casual unshielded thought could cause problems. I suspect the wardings on the walls of the Grove hold out such things from the townsfolk as well as strive to contain the mutations living within . . . but no wall or ward is perfect.”