When Rowan reached the main hall, instead of climbing the steps to the entry with its silver flags and wide archway, he skipped off the stone path and crossed through the grass along the side of the building. The sentries must have seen him but didn't budge or call out. He lowered his hand, palm down, and hummed quietly as he walked, brown boots swishing through the long, green blades. A trail of zaleas, sun drops, and snow petals shot up from the ground to kiss his fingertips, unafraid of his touch.
Rowan spied a little finch in the grass, ruffling its pink feathers. He paused and tossed it a berry before continuing around the back of the building to the Master's private entrance. He slid open the door and walked in. A breeze lifted the silver and gold curtains on the windows that lined the perimeter of the room.
Ciprian sat straight-backed on a dais at the head of the hall, prim behind his table, fingers curved around the arms of his chair. He wore a pure white robe embroidered with interlocking loops of gold and silver, truly befitting the locus of power at the center of the Order. Around his waist was a belt woven from the colors of the Branches, red for Strength, dark green for Matter, pale blue for Logic, and yellow for Words.
Alaric stood in the center of the hall, hands on hips, stiff as one of the stone columns that supported the hall's gently sloping roof. He also wore the white of the Core in the form of a tunic and jacket, both of which were trimmed in a subdued version of Ciprian's embroidery. His trousers were gray, and his high black boots came to the top of his knees. His wide, black belt sported braids in the colors of the Branches to denote his rank.
Alaric had yet to notice Rowan's presence in the shadows beside the dais, but Ciprian's head shifted slightly in his direction.
"It's a joke to him," Alaric spoke through gritted teeth. "You might not be offended, but I am offended on your behalf. Everything I've been through these last few days, and he can't even respond to your summons without me making sure he didn't get lost in the woods. It's an outrage."
"Come out. You've made me wait long enough." Ciprian motioned for Alaric to stop.
Alaric pressed his lips together obediently. His eyes flashed as Rowan crossed the hall to stand beside him.
"You requested my presence, Master? As always, I am here to serve." Rowan kept his face blank as a stone, his tone soft and compliant, as expected. The sooner he could get this over with, whatever it was, the sooner he could leave this place. He didn't belong with the market stalls and paved streets, the hot press of eyes and cold whispers behind hands.
Alaric snorted. "Truly? You say that wearing that face?"
"Brother." Rowan turned with a humble bow to Alaric as if he'd just noticed him. When he straightened, he'd painted on a detached smile to the face Alaric found so offensive. "My apologies for losing you on the way here. I thought it best to avoid attention."
Rowan had mastered smiles of many sorts, all of them pure illusion. He wasn't even sure he'd recognize a real smile if one happened to appear on his lips.
Another snort. "Is that why you're creeping through the Master's private door? And I suppose that's why you dressed like this today." Alaric waved his hand at Rowan's short sleeves and open collar. "You could have at least covered your skin where it was possible to do so. You certainly shouldn't have allowed yourself to bleed. And you shouldn't have spoken to Novice Mara if you didn't want to draw attention. I think you enjoy terrorizing people."
"It was not my intent to terrorize. I simply liked the flowers. My very presence is travesty enough. Is the sound of my voice somehow worse?"
Alaric fumed, but had no response. The sound of Rowan's voice was precisely one of the things that made him valuable.
"Enough." Ciprian had listened silently to the exchange, tired creases etched into the skin next to his eyes. Now his voice was cold. As usual, it allowed for no further argument.
Known as the True Core, Ciprian was the leader of Core Compound and most powerful of all the Branch elders. His power should have made him ageless. Yet he looked much older than the last time Rowan saw him. Silver to match the Core's flags had crept into the hair at his temples, and his eyes, while still an icy shade of blue, seemed to have a slight cloudiness that Rowan had never noticed before.
Rowan lost track of time easily because he spent most of it alone, but he thought it had only been a few months since Ciprian had last summoned him to stand before this dais. At that visit, Rowan had asked Ciprian to make good on his promise to return his sisters' souls, the ones he'd harvested as his first act of magic as a boy. He'd been rewarded with a lecture about duty and a night-long kneeling session on the stone floor.
"We don't have time to waste on your petty bickering." Ciprian fixed them each in turn with a cold glare. "We are in need of your services, Caretaker. The Core, as well as the other Branches."
Great. Not only had Ciprian called him by his formal title, but he threw in those other Branches, too. Rowan had been part of the Core until his special powers fully manifested a few years ago. Then Ciprian had exiled him, though he'd never been completely excommunicated. As it was, Rowan was too filthy to live as a full member of the compound that was his home, yet he was called on like an errand boy whenever the Master couldn't do without him. And to presently add other Branches to the list of those he was good enough to work for but not good enough to touch…looked like he wasn't going to be home, working in the comfort of his garden by nightfall.
Rowan bowed his head in a sign of acquiescence, but really he was thinking about his berries. Hopefully he'd be able to get them home undamaged. "I'm honored to be of service to the man who raised me. What is the situation, Master."
"There has been an unfortunate incident. Some of ours have been killed. More have been injured. Adherents, from the Core and from the Branches of Logic and Strength as well."
At the head of each Branch was a single Acolyte, the most powerful practitioner of that Branch's specialty. Each Branch also had an Adept, a second in level of power and command. Adherents, those who had proven their magical skills, held various ranks and worked together under the guidance of those above them. Presiding over them all was Ciprian.
"Killed?" Rowan's gaze snapped from the floor to Ciprian's face. It was almost impossible to kill a member of the Order without using Disorder. And Disorder had been sealed off long ago by Ciprian's own hand. The Prince of Illusions himself couldn't get through the magic.
"Yes. And the injured are still unconscious. I have faith that Alaric will be able to bring them back as long as they still breathe."
Alaric's ability to work with pure spirit was second only the Master's own. Injuries were unfortunate, but Ciprian would never miss an opportunity to put his chosen successor's skill on display for the entire Order to admire.
Rowan glanced sideways at Alaric, who stood even straighter. Imagine that. Straighter than a stone column. Rowan never would have thought it possible
"Master, will you tell me what happened?" Rowan said.
Ciprian nodded once. "I will only tell you this because if I'm right…things could get much worse, and we need you."
Rowan waited silently for him to continue. He didn't like to be needed. In his experience, need was a one way street.
"Ciprian's face was grim. "A few days ago we sensed a disturbance by the fork in the Birch River. The Acolytes of Logic and Strength sensed it, too."
Rowan knew the exact spot Ciprian referred to. That part of the river touched the borders of those three territories, Core, Logic, and Strength. It made sense that those Branches would sense it but not the Branches of Material and Words.
Ciprian continued, "We expected to have to deal with a rogue practitioner on the wrong path or few stray creatures from the Disorder…the boundaries have been thinning so we occasionally have to dispatch the ones that dare cross through. Alaric has been reinforcing our protection, but we need to do more. After yesterday, that is certain. We discovered not a single rogue practitioner, but at least a dozen."
Rowan almost dropped his basket. Boundaries thinning? Impossible. "What do they want?"
Alaric answered for Ciprian. "To get their claws into the fabric of Order so they can rip it to shreds, I'm sure. And what else? They want to help him."
Rowan had never laid eyes on the man who was storied to be more powerful than all the Orderly Acolytes combined, relentless on his ruthless pursuit of the destruction of reality and his own secret ambitions. And he never cared to. The so called Prince of Illusions.
"How do you know that? It's impossible. He's gone."
"You look at flowers all day, yet you dare question me?" Alaric's words lashed the air.
"Come now, Rowan. You know more than any of us that what's gone is not always gone," Ciprian said.
"We killed all of them, but not before they managed to hurt us back." Alaric ran his hand over his brow. "I was distracted. I let them all down. This is all my fault…"
Ciprian held up his hand. "Caretaker. Go there and collect the souls of the good. Tend them, prepare them to rejoin this world. We cannot wait for the natural order of things to bring us more disciples in time. We need them all now, and then some. If there are any lingering traces of those who dared cross the line, dispatch them to the Aether."
"Yes, Master Ciprian."
"Report here with what you've found before you return to your home."
Rowan bowed again and departed without another word.
All he wanted to do was tend to his garden and sing to his birds. He didn't want to be thrust into the middle of this nonsense. If he was on the outside, leave him on the outside, dammit.