Aradin almost replied mentally, but knew Saleria would want to hear his own thoughts. He nodded and said aloud, “Yes, and I have faith They will agree, as I was explaining to Saleria just now.” He smiled at the blonde woman seated on the edge of the bed before him. “I have absolute faith.”
Saleria squeezed his hands. For the first time, it didn’t feel weird for Teral to whisper into her mind. It didn’t feel strange to know the older, deceased spirit was there inside this younger man’s body. Aradin looked only a few years older than her, in his early thirties at most to her twenty-six years, and she knew the older Witch had been cut down in the latter half of his prime, but . . . it felt right for both of them to be there, in her bedchamber with her. Looking into those hazel eyes, fancying she saw hints of Teral’s brown gaze amid the flecks of green, she smiled.
“I have faith, too, that both of you are destined to be here with me.” Seeing Aradin smile again, lopsided and rueful, she cupped his cheek. “Mind you, I’m still not entirely sure about Teral actually watching everything, when we, ah . . . get around to using this bed. But he is a part of you, and I accept both of you for who you are, and who you’ve become so far.”
“. . . Saleria?” Daranen’s voice echoed up the stairs. “Your Holiness!” Hurried footsteps and the swift creak of two floorboards preceded the scribe’s appearance at her door, which still stood open. Daranen held the forgotten petition in his hand, his voice a little breathless. “Holiness, I have just witnessed a miracle,” he said. Lifting the sheet of paper she had left on the dining table, he turned it to face her, to face both of them. “All four of Them signed it.”
Along with the plain black ink which Aradin had penned onto the page, beneath the neatly scribed lines, yet somehow intertwined with the words, lay two images. The outermost one was a glowing, silver octagon edged with the eight tetragrams representing the Eight Altars of Kata and Jinga, each one inked in the eight holy colors of brown, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet. In the center of the octagon lay a sigil unfamiliar to Saleria, of a doorway, just the posts, threshold, and lintel, marked in silvery white, and a small, glowing black disc cradled inside.
She looked at Aradin. “Is that the mark of your Patrons, in the center?”
He nodded, releasing her hands so he could rise. “Yes. The black circle is the long-lost Third Moon, representing Darkhan, which is carried inside the Light-filled Doorway of Dark Ana’s soul.”
“Well, holy or otherwise,” Daranen said, nodding at the page, “what I want to know is how They got the color black to glow like that.”
Aradin grinned and shrugged, spreading his hands. “They’re Gods. Anything is possible when They have the faith of their followers to support it.”
“Well, now it’s my headache to figure out where to put this, without offending four Gods if I just try to stuff it into a records cupboard or something . . . But I’ll bid you a formal welcome to the Grove, and to its service, Aradin Teral, holy Witch of Darkhana and Hortimancer of the Sacred Grove of Katan,” Daranen told Aradin. He bowed and started to turn away, then gave both Aradin and Saleria a stern look. “Celebrate however you’d like, but remember, you both have to go to work tomorrow. And try not to be too loud. I may be three doors down, but the walls of this house aren’t that thick.”
“Considering you always stay up far later than I do, and have the freedom to get up later, you’ve no cause to complain,” Saleria said somewhat tartly, feeling her cheeks warming once more. She softened her tone. “But we’ll keep in mind that dawn comes early in the summer. Good night, Daranen, and sleep well when you get there.”
“A good night to both of you, then,” Daranen returned, and pulled the door shut as he retreated down the hall.
“That was tactful of him,” Aradin murmured.
Unsure if he was trying to be sardonic or not, Saleria let it go. She still didn’t quite know how to get the handsome outlander into her bed, but she did know how to get him into her baggage. Namely, by crossing to it, carrying it back to the bed, and dumping out the contents.
“Right. Here is what I have. It’s not a very big pack, more of a knapsack than a full pack, but I have a toiletry kit of soap and toweling cloth, a comb for my hair, a tunic for sleeping in, two sets of, um, undergarments,” she said, pausing for a brief blush, “including socks and such, plus two formal priestly gowns, and two sets of Keeper’s garb—those are the trousers, tunic, and vest-robe you usually see me wear.