Rowan didn't need to be lead through the streets of the Core Compound, considering he'd lived at the seat of power for the Order for most of his twenty six years. Ciprian had only banished him to his garden in the woods a little more than five years ago, once Rowan's death magic had made it impossible for him to live amongst the others without contaminating them.
Alaric knew all this, but he still cast a completely unnecessary energy rope around Rowan's waist before they'd crossed the gateway. Now he strutted ahead, not giving Rowan a second glance after their warm greeting in the woods. Rowan rather liked the view of the back of Alaric's head compared to the front.
He continued at his leisurely pace, basket swinging on his elbow. He could tell by the tug of Alaric's spirit lasso that the other man wanted him to hurry. What other option then but to pause to inspect some produce in one of the market stalls lining the main road. Perhaps there were some hazelnuts to go with the berries he'd collected to share with his birds back home.
"These flowers look lovely. Did you grow them yourself?" Rowan pointed a slender finger at a container of fresh cut blossoms and buds. The mixture of midnight zaleas, sun drops, and snow petals burst from the vase in a kaleidoscopic array of blue, yellow, and white.
The girl behind the table, a pretty thing who appeared to be no more than thirteen years old, opened her mouth to respond before she looked at him. She wore the uniform of a novice, a white tunic cinched by a wide, black belt, white trousers, and black slippers. Her short, straw colored hair curled about her ears.
When she realized who had asked the question, the smile slid from her face, and her eyes flitted over the freckles that dusted Rowan's cheeks and collarbones, down to his bare arms, and finally to the still-red scratches there.
Normal people had freckles, too. It made them unique and beautiful. But his were different. They were a physical manifestation of his particular brand of magic. He worked with death. Absorbed it. Transformed it. And it defiled him. His freckles could never be beautiful.
The dusting of light brown marks didn't start appearing until Rowan's true powers took root, right about the time he could start calling himself a man. First a smattering on his cheeks, then his chest, then his arms. Now there wasn't a part of his body that didn't have at least a few of them. He even had them on his ears and toes.
According to Ciprian, all those tiny spots were an undeniable sign of his work with the unclean, as useful and sacred as that work might be. A coloring of Disorder on his body for all to see. They grew more pronounced when he worked his magic, only fading back to something resembling normal once his body had processed whatever energy he'd absorbed.
He hated them.
The flower girl fidgeted as her large, hazel eyes darted again to the fresh scratches on Rowan's forearms. She looked like she was seriously considering running away. For another to touch a freckle or even an inch of his skin would require a hot cleansing and a day of kneeling in prayer to the gods. To touch his blood, that was a threat no one wanted to risk.
He was accustomed to this kind of reaction and tried to ignore the familiar pinprick of hurt and anger that needled his chest. People always seemed to recognize him even though he rarely left his garden. He stepped back from the girl, putting some distance between them.
Her features relaxed somewhat, but she still didn't answer. He sighed. It wasn't her fault. He was tainted by his work. There was no helping it.
"My apologies for startling you. I just wanted to compliment your flowers. Did you grow them?" He spoke gently and affixed his best reassuring smile to his face, his lips curving sweetly at the corners. Poor thing was probably planning on sprinting straight to the ritual baths for a good scrubbing as soon as he turned away.
Alaric gave the spirit lasso a good yank. Rowan rooted his own energy into the ground, refusing to budge. He craned his neck to see Alaric standing halfway down the street, hands on hips, a veritable storm cloud of magic swirling over his head.
He turned his attention to the girl again. She swallowed and nodded her head. "Yes, Sir."
"Well, they're just what I needed today. I'll take them all." He always wore a special locket on black thong around his neck, under the loose muslin of his shirt. He'd made it from a hollowed out walnut shell, reinforced with magic to protect whatever he put inside. He pulled it out and removed a small silver coin, which he placed on the table in front of the girl.
She stared at it as if he'd laid a rattlesnake there instead.
"Don't worry. I'll help myself, how's that?" He forced his well-practiced smile to stay in place while tucking his locket back under his shirt.
The girl jumped back as he swept the bundle of flowers from the container, then piled them across the top of his basket.
"Um…Sir Caretaker…"
Rowan blinked in surprise. What's this? Actual communication? "You can call me Rowan." No one ever did, with the exception of Alaric, Loma, and Ciprian, but he could always try.
Her gaze flitted over his face again to land on his hair, which was mostly bound in a short, loose braid over one shoulder. A few errant strands always managed to escape any attempt at restraint.
She shook her head. "Sir, my older sister. She had hair almost like yours. But yours has just a little more copper to it. I loved her hair."
"Oh." He couldn't help but glance sideways at his hair. "A terrible color on me, but I'm sure it looked beautiful on her." He could tell by the sadness in the girl's voice the sister was no more.
"She died the month before last. It was an accident with a cart."
"I'm sorry to hear it."
The girl twisted the hem of her tunic. "She is not a member of the Order, but…can you bring her back? I've heard you can do that. I don't care if she's a new person afterwards, I just want to know that…to know that she's somewhere. Alive. I will give you all the flowers I ever grow."
Rowan instinctively reached a hand out to comfort her, but caught himself and tucked the offending hand into his pocket instead. He knew too well the pain of losing a sister. He'd lost two himself. "I'm sorry, but I cannot. Too much time has passed, and my talent is not that great."
The girl's face crumpled. "But I've heard that you can do things like this."
"Yes, I can. But only under certain circumstances. I know it's hard to accept, but death is nothing to fear." He sighed inwardly. He was such a hypocrite, urging the girl to let go when he'd done nothing but dream of bringing his own sisters back for all these years. He was beginning to think Ciprian didn't even have their souls anymore, and his promises to return them one day were nothing but lies from the beginning. "Tell me. Where is she buried?"
She told him about her village and the cemetery there, her eyes glossy.
"I know it. It's on my way home." Not exactly, but that was unimportant. The location of his home was secret from all but Ciprian, Alaric, and a few other high ranking adepts of the Order. "I can stop there and make sure she has continued her journey without conflict, and I can send prayers for her peaceful rest."
"You'd do that?" The girl's voice caught in her throat.
"For a fellow gardener, naturally. Don't forget the coin."
With a slight nod of his head, he left her there, staring at the coin that was worth more than five bunches of flowers.
Alaric loomed ahead, motionless except for the slight twitch of his eyebrows. The tug, tug, tug on Rowan with the energy rope grew stronger with every step Rowan took. Completely over the whole I'm-clearly-the-superior-being game Alaric loved to play, Rowan adjusted his basket so the soft petals brushed against the underside of his forearm. Sweet perfume bathed his face as the basket bounced and swayed.
With a flick of his wrist, he severed the lasso with his magic and turned down a side street, whistling to himself as he imagined the expression on Alaric's face now.