Jean Johnson - The Grove

“As you wish, Holiness. We look forward to speaking with you in a little while.” Bowing, Witch Teral pulled his hood back up over his head, tucked his hands up his sleeves, and . . . shrank slightly. Straightening, Witch Aradin revealed his face, bowed a second time to her, and allowed Daranen to escort him—them?—to the front door.

Bemused, Saleria moved over to her desk and dropped onto her padded leather chair, utterly at a loss on how to handle the weirdness of this foreigner. Two men in one body . . . one technically dead, but able to “live” again in his own form, thanks to the other? And they travel the world, studying other lands? How very bizarre . . .

The twittering of a bird outside reminded her that time would not stand still while she tried to make sense of outkingdom ways. Sitting up with a grunt, she sorted through the neat stacks of correspondence Daranen had placed on her desk and started reading the letters with the requests for drought management. Saleria pushed thoughts of Aradin-and-Teral out of her mind.

Strange two-in-one foreigners would have to wait while the Keeper of the Grove attended to her daily work.

Aradin fingered one of his translation pendants, his mind not really on the Aian book in his other hand. The pendant, a silver-wrapped stone strung on a long braided leather cord, was one of many he had made in his travels. When worn, it permitted him to read, write, hear, and speak in whatever language it was enchanted to translate.

The polished, flat disc of agate felt comfortable under his thumb, warmed where he had rubbed it, cooler where he hadn’t touched it all that much. He stroked its smooth surface, then rubbed his thumb over the little beads decorating the bezel, but his mind was more on the Keeper of the Grove than on the book of mirror-based magics he had fetched from his bags to kill time while they waited.

( You’re thinking of her again, ) Teral observed lightly. ( I think that’s the third time you’ve tried to read that paragraph. )

( Well, she is worth thinking about. Intelligent, a little innocent, strong-willed, and beautiful, ) Aradin admitted. ( Eyes that shift between blue and gray, depending on how the light reaches them . . . lovely blonde curls . . . rose lips . . . )

( Are you turning poet on me? ) Teral asked, mock-suspicion in his mind-voice.

( Well, how else would you describe her? ) Aradin retorted, snorting softly out loud. He tried to settle a little more comfortably onto the bench near the fountain for a fourth read, but gave up. ( And those curves . . . ! )

( Technically, she doesn’t have overly lush ones, ) Teral observed lightly.

( No, but what she has, she carries with confidence, and that makes her all the more appealing, ) his Host countered. ( Are you going to try to lie and say you do not find her attractive yourself? )

( I didn’t say that, ) the Guide snorted. ( Were I still the Host and our mission not a concern, I’d have flirted quite shamelessly with her. I was considered quite the catch even up to the day of my death, you know. )

( Catch-and-release, though, ) Aradin sighed. ( Hosts and Guides of the same gender have a hard enough time finding anyone to accept our dual lives. I cannot imagine many who would accept an opposite-gendered pair for long. )

( It is very rare, ) Teral agreed, sighing mentally as well. ( Still, no one makes love quite like a Witch. Or are you forgetting the fun we had with that Arbran sea-merchant two years ago? )

( What, the one we met on the Isle of Storms? Oh, she was quite the opportunist ,) Aradin thought, chuckling. ( “I’ve never made love with two men before,” ) he thought in a mental falsetto. (“ Or should this only count as one and a half?” )

Teral chuckled as well. Then cleared his throat. ( Blonde approaching to your left. I believe from the curls and white clothes it is our fellow priestess. )

Tucking the book’s attached ribbon between the pages, Aradin slipped it into one of his deep sleeves, letting Teral take the tome and stash it under the cover of the spell-enforced darkness deep inside his robe. Rising to his feet, he bowed to the Keeper as she approached.

She nodded, her eyes sweeping down over Aradin’s body. It was a look more assessing than appreciative, though he thought he saw a slight spark of the latter. He didn’t ask why she studied him. There was just something about the way the Witch-robes hung on his body that made him look deceptively frail. Until one took a second, deeper look. Teral, on the other hand, looked beefy upon first glance, like he should have been a blacksmith instead of a priest.

He had the strength for it, too; if the tree that had fallen on him had not pierced his chest and crushed his hips, he would have been fully capable of moving it aside. With effort, and perhaps a touch of magic, but still mostly by muscle. By comparison, Aradin’s slender frame and loose clothes hid lean muscles and whiplike reflexes. One did not travel the world without being proficient in self-defense, and both versions of Aradin Teral were capable men . . . but most underestimated the Host, based on superficial appearance alone. Still, some women liked the lean sort more than the muscular. Or at least Aradin could always hope they did.

“Holiness, it is a pleasure to see you again. I trust all went well?” he greeted her politely.

“Relatively well. There’s a spot of wild magic running around the Grove I cannot quite track down. It’s affecting the animals,” she added in an aside, frowning off into the distance. Shaking it off, she gave him a smile. Once again, Aradin was struck by how lovely she was. “But things are under control for the moment, Kata and Jinga willing.”

“Naturally,” he agreed. “Would you care to retire once more to your office?” Aradin offered, gesturing back at the large, two-story house at the end of the lane. “The things I would ask you are not the sort meant for open gossip and rampant speculation, though they aren’t a terrible secret.”

She eyed him again, then gestured gracefully back up the lane. “To my study, then. If you don’t mind my scribe listening in, that is.”

“I think that would be fine. He strikes me as a competent, trustworthy man,” Aradin said, falling into step at her side. She was a little taller than average for a Katani woman, if still shorter than him by about a finger-length. Their strides matched fairly well, something which pleased him. From the gossip he had gleaned by listening in the dining hall of the inn last night, the Keeper of the Grove did a lot of walking each day. So did he, since it was sometimes awkward for a Witch to have and keep track of a mount. More convenient to simply travel on foot, or hire some means of faster travel when needed.

“I, for one, am rather glad he is so competent,” Saleria admitted as they walked. A child skipped past, the young girl waving to Saleria before continuing on her way, an empty basket dangling from her other hand. On her way to market, no doubt. “I inherited him when I took over the position of Grove Keeper, and he has done an excellent job of managing my clerical needs.”

Her word choice made Aradin smile. At a curious glance from her, he explained. “The holy priests and priestesses of Mendhi, far to the west and north of here, are called clerics . That is where the word clerical comes from—and it is pronounced almost exactly the same in Darkhanan as it is in Mendhite and Katani. Then again, their Goddess is the Goddess of Writing, so it only makes sense for Her servants to be both scribe and priest.”