Jean Johnson - The Grove

Taking life-energy from the plants was normal and natural, a part of the cycle of magic. It could be used without harm or taint. But she didn’t take it from every plant she met, just the ones that were threatening the wall or the path. Taking all the plant life forces would have been just as bad as taking the life of an animal, a needless waste.

Not that she had to take many, for nothing else challenged her authority. Even the southern locus tree more or less behaved itself, allowing her to drain the magic with her crystal-tipped staff. No lashings, no writhing vines or thorns, no limbs trying to pick her up. Just a quiet draining with barely even a gnat to buzz by and threaten her nose with a tickling as it passed.

Wary, staff crystal glowing like a reddish, cabbage-sized sun, Saleria retreated back to her home. A relatively calm start to her day wasn’t the usual way things ran at the Grove. Still, it was with relief that she hung the staff with its now brightly glowing gem in the tool shed for the moment and retired to her study on the ground floor of her home.

Daranen, her appointed scribe, got to have the luxury of sleeping in an extra hour, compared to her. Sometimes he joined her at breakfast, but not today. That did not mean he had a light workload, though; the middle-aged man often stayed up later than her, reading the day’s mail. But he was always up and ready to work when she got back from her first set of rounds.

In the last three years, Saleria had grown to expect him sitting in his favorite green tunic and trews at his desk when she returned from the Grove. It was a nice desk, set at an angle to hers so that both could enjoy the view through the bay window at the front of the cottage. She could almost envy him getting to sit in such a comfortable, padded leather chair, too. She certainly didn’t sit all that much throughout her day.

This morning, Daranen was there as expected, clad in one of his many green outfits, but he was not seated at his desk. Instead, he had taken one of the cushioned chairs opposite it and was chatting companionably with a strange man. Their backs were to Saleria when she entered, but when Daranen heard her, he finished whatever he was saying in a murmur and politely stood, giving her a bow. “Good morning, Keeper Saleria.”

“Good morning, Daranen,” Saleria returned. Her gaze flicked between the middle-aged, brown-haired man and the younger, blond-haired male rising from the other chair. He, too, turned to bow to her. “And good morning to you, milord.”

“Keeper, this is the Witch-priest Aradin Teral of far-distant Darkhana, which is a land placed far to the north and east of the Sun’s Belt,” Daranen introduced. “Witch-priest, this is High Priestess Saleria, Guardian of the Grove and Keeper of the Holiest Garden of Katan.”

“Holiness,” the stranger murmured, bowing a little deeper in politeness at her rank. He was clad in a fine-spun brown tunic and trews cut along Katani lines, and a pair of sturdy walking boots that looked like they had seen some wear. But he also wore an open, floor-length, deep-sleeved, deep-hooded robe that was a light shade of brown on the outside, but lined with a linen so black, it made his lean-muscled frame stand out all the more whenever he moved.

“Holy Brother,” she replied politely, hoping that was the correct form of address for a foreign priest—it was for a fellow Katani priest, at any rate. It seemed to be acceptable, for the fellow nodded his head politely.

Saleria assessed him as her father had taught her, by seeking out the subtle clues to the man’s profession. Aradin seemed a rather handsome fellow, in a lean sort of way. He wasn’t nearly as thin or pale as the new Groveham Deacon, a young man by the name of Shanno, but he wasn’t at all pudgy, like the older Daranen was starting to turn. Then again, a man who traveled was generally a man who stayed fit. Still, he did more than just walk; his wrists were lean, the tendons well-defined, and there was no spare fat about his face; she guessed he was familiar with some form of self-defense, though she could see no blade or staff about him. Of course, Saleria had a similar level of fitness, and her staff had been left in the shed just inside the garden. His may have been left at one of the inns here in Groveham.

He did have a certain calmness, an aura of peace about him of a kind that few warriors held, but which was common in a priesthood. It was not completely unheard-of for foreign clergy to travel to far-flung lands, nor for them to want to visit a place where two Gods had been joined in marriage before Their chosen peoples, uniting their kingdoms as one, but it was not a common occurrence. Saleria couldn’t remember if she’d heard of a kingdom called Darkhana before, but it sounded like Daranen had a clear idea of where that was, and might even know if this fellow was a legitimate holy man. The Grove had its share of rare foreign priests, but it also bore the occasional visit from false would-be Seers and the like. Thank Kata and Jinga, not that often.

“Have you come hoping to see the Grove?” she asked their visitor, curious. For all that the Grove was the center of her world these days, she wasn’t so naive as to believe other lands would have heard of its troubles, even after two hundred years had passed. Some foreign visitors—priestly or otherwise—came simply because they had seen it mentioned in an old book and were curious. Those were the ones she had to forewarn with the truth. Not often, but once or twice a year. “If so, I’m afraid it’s a bit too dangerous for casual viewing these days.”

“Not exactly, though I do have a personal interest in magically enhanced gardening,” Priest Aradin said. At Saleria’s bemused look, the blond man waved it off with a graceful flick of his hand. “Mostly, I am here to discuss a potential need which I am hoping you, in your office as a formal go-between for your people and your Gods, would be interested in fulfilling. Do you have time for a discussion today?”

Saleria lifted her brows, then turned to Daranen. “Well? Do I?”

“Ah, yes, just a moment.” Hurrying over to his desk, her scribe picked up a book-sized chalkboard and a stack of folded parchments. “Fifty-three petitions for rain in the northlands interspersed with the usual requests for good sunlight in the southern regions listed on this slate, reworded in the usual way into the standard prayers to avoid both flooding and drought. They all vary in the original request, but that’s what it all boils down to in the end, and is an ideal mass prayer for today’s needs. The rest are minor requests for things like finding lost pet dogs and such, which can be put off for later in the day.”

“Drought prayers only take half an hour or so,” Saleria murmured, recalling similar requests. “So . . . yes, milord, I do have time to chat with you. Though I should get those drought prayers out of the way first.”

He nodded politely, a lock of his blond hair slipping forward. It was darker than her own, more of a sandy color, and rather thick. It was also long, following the current trend in Katani fashion. If his eyes had been a bit more slanted and his outer robe set aside, he might have been able to pass for a native, but there was just enough of an exotic air to the man to make him look intriguing.

His voice, a deep, smooth bass, pulled her attention back from her musings. It came with an odd shift in the way he stood and studied her, tipping and twisting his head slightly to the side before he straightened it and spoke. “I realize my next request may be a bit unusual, being a holy man of a completely different nation . . . but may I observe your prayer rituals? I ask in respect for your Order’s traditions,” Aradin added, an oddly mature look in his hazel eyes. “One of my jobs as I travel is to observe the rituals and rites of other faiths.”