The Grove(71)
At least, right here, right outside his Door. Just like the wielding of magic, willpower was what gave him light, strength, and direction in the faceless, placeless Dark. Tightening his focus as he would have tightened a fist, Aradin concentrated, willing himself toward the Meeting Tree. Four, five, six swift steps into the mist brought him through the swirling wall and into a slightly brighter patch of moonlight . . . and into a place where he was no longer alone.
The light of Elder Brother Moon shone down on the Meeting Tree, one of the few places where Darkhan’s light could shine anymore. It played down among the branches of the gnarled, graceful, flower-laden thing, each twig made out of metal, each blossom and leaf carved from precious stones. It sat in a large square planter carved from pale stone and ringed with redwood benches. The colors were dim but still discernible, jade and malachite leaves, mother-of-pearl petals, and little slivers of amber for the stamens and carpels. It also stood more than twice his height, which meant it rose up above the two dozen or so bodies gathered around its base, ensuring it remained visible and recognizable to all who used it as a waypoint in the directionless void of the Dark.
He had no idea who had first conjured this tree and its moonlit benches, nor how long ago, nor even what kept it here, a permanent fixture in a fixtureless place, but it was a most welcome sight. As were the smiles on the faces that turned to see who approached. Several of the men and women murmured his name, or simple greetings if they weren’t quite sure of who he was. Each reached out with hands that ranged from younger and stronger than his to older and more wrinkled than Alaya’s had been at her passing. He clasped them in turn with a stretch of his own, muttering a greeting here, a name there, enjoying the shock of living warmth against his skin in the intangible but still present chill of the void.
More approached as he settled into a spot near the edge of the group. Aradin turned to greet them, welcoming his brother and sister Witches. Each newcomer made the air warmer, the light a little brighter, until one of the eldest Sister Witches lifted both hands in the air, above her age-stooped back. “A place! A place! We need a place to meet and to worship! . . . Carradin Ruper, you choose the place!”
She asked it of one of the younger male Witches on the other side of the group. Aradin had arrived early enough to witness the night’s selection. Rising a little on his toes, he could just see the younger man opening and closing his mouth in indecision, before the short-haired blond finally shrugged and said, “The Garden Lake?”
“The Garden Lake it is!” the eldest agreed, hands tightening into brief fists. Dropping her arms from overhead, Witch Brenna held them out to either side. Her voice was still strong, if a little roughened with her advanced age. It echoed over the crowd as two score and more approached, pressing near. “You know the rules; three stay to guide the rest, and the rest of us on our way!”
It had been a while since he last volunteered to wait and guide the rest, but Aradin didn’t want to stay away from Teral, Saleria, or the Katani Holy Grove for long. Clasping hands with a middle-aged, dark-haired woman on his right, and a gray-bearded man on his left, he focused on the Garden Lake and followed the line of people as they snaked into the mists at the edge of the Meeting Tree space.
This garden was no twisted nightmare of a place—and he carefully kept the memories of the Grove locked down out of the way, to keep it safe. Within three, maybe four steps through the dark mists, he emerged with the rest on a long, sloping lawn bathed in silvery light. It led down to a vast lake that rippled with silvery streaks of moonlight—full moons, from both the larger Brother and the smaller Sister, despite it being the new of Brother Moon in the real world. Bushes lined the lawn, and benches provided resting places.
This was a vast area, larger than a village commons and filled with details as crisp as those found in real life, rather than blurred by uncertainty. They weren’t the only ones there, though; other spirits, a handful of lost souls, had made their way to the lake. Once fully onto the lawn and with a good four or five emerged behind him, Aradin released the hands on either side. He studied the blurred images, the fading senses of “self” that had once been living people, and counted the heads of the Witches who moved toward them.
They don’t need my help, he decided, as each lost spirit was flanked by a pair of his colleagues. This, too, was a task he had done before, though not recently. Witches were tasked with the guiding of the dead toward the Light, the Doorway into the Afterlife. Most of those who died found their own way, but a few strayed into the depths of the Dark, and a few got lost in their own thoughts, and a few, always a few, refused to believe they were dead. At least, at first. These stray souls were in good hands, though. Time to turn my attention to—whup!