Rowan was so exhausted by the time he crossed the hidden bridge to his garden home, he didn't even remember stripping out of his clothes, climbing under the blankets, and falling asleep with one leg still hanging off the mattress. When he awoke, the early morning sun tinted the room in amber. He thought he must have slept at least an entire day.
He stretched and gingerly reached his arms overhead to try to release the soreness, which seemed to have gotten worse rather than better. His shoulders felt like they were being crushed by spikes, and the joints in his arms had turned to rusty iron.
His house, which was more accurately described as a hut, had one large room with his bed, a table with two wobbly chairs, a hearth full of old ashes, and a wood stove. Bookshelves lined one wall, crammed with slanted rows of books, blue and red spines covered in a happy layer of dust. Several worn rugs in various shapes and sizes warmed the wooden floor in a patchwork of brown and green.
Rowan lived there alone, so he found the whole thing perfectly cozy. He preferred the hut with its many windows overlooking the garden on one side and the woods on the other to the lifeless rooms of the Core Compound.
Across from his bed, a set of sliding doors opened to a circular stone patio. He liked to throw open the doors and look out from his bed at the flowers encircling the patio and the birds who visited there when he bribed them with berries, seeds, and a quiet song. The sun would creep in through the opening beginning at midday, and by evening, his whole bed would be covered in a blanket of sunlight.
Simple as his existence was, he did have the luxury of a private washroom, complete with handpump to fill the tub. He pushed through the spikes and rusty iron destroying his comfort to draw water for his bath.
When the water was high enough that it would touch his chin if he sunk down in the tub, he held his hands flat over the surface. His strongest magical abilities drew directly from death energy and the soul, but he did have a few spirit tricks up his sleeve.
He hummed to himself and let some of the energy he held in reserve pour from his palms, funneling it into the water until steam rose from the surface.
Rowan put one leg in the tub, only then realizing that he'd stripped out of everything when he got home except for his locket. He pulled it over his head and placed it neatly on the floor. His thoughts danced around the contents.
One of the items inside clamored for his attention, while the others waited diligently.
He must have dreamt while he slept, because now misty visions of moonlight and blood red taunted him, just out of reach. As he soaked, allowing the hot water to work its own magic on his battered body, he couldn't let go of the feeling that he'd brought something into his house that was neither a human nor a pure creature of Disorder.
He shivered in the hot water as he remembered the way the soul had climbed up his arm to soothe his wounds, the warm throb of energy sliding over his skin in that strangely pleasurable way as if it had a mind of its own.
What was wrong with him that he'd liked it? Was he that unused to being touched?
Yesterday he'd felt nothing but an odd urge to keep the seed for himself. Today, his head had cleared, and the sun had chased away his moonlight dreams. He'd collected enough souls to know now that there was no as if about it. Normal souls didn't interact with him.
Perhaps he'd been wrong to keep the garnet-soul a secret. But perhaps he'd been more wrong to cling to it as if it belonged to him.
After his bath, he dressed in a fresh tunic and trousers, cinching a wide sash-belt around his waist. He tended to get cold easily and he'd learned his lesson with the short sleeves, so he also donned his favorite loose jacket in a soft shade of dove brown, a gift from Loma on the day of his exile.
It had wide sleeves that he could cuff on his forearms and hung open in the front like a robe. The hem, which was adorned with a band of embroidered flowers in yellow and white, fell almost to his knees. A matching band of embroidery flanked the front of the jacket and ran across the top of the pockets.
He braided his hair over his shoulder and tied the end with a leather thong. Almost immediately, a few strands of hair slid free to brush the side of his neck.
Out in his garden, Rowan walked through the irises and dahlias, past the daisies and roses of every color, to a small plot of land outlined with a haphazard row of smooth, brown stones. With his magic, he was able to hold the garden in the riotous bloom of early summer for all but the coldest months. But those flowers, though maintained by magic, were simply flowers.
Here within the perimeter of the stones was where he grew souls.
It was not an easy process, and it had been a long while since he'd been called upon to prepare a soul for rebirth, either of a member of the Order or of a regular person whose death spoke to him of the need for a longer journey.
Members of the Order died very rarely once they had attained the level of general adherent, and most people who were destined to live more than one lifetime were identified by the Order and brought into the fold. Ciprian had given Rowan direct orders to refrain from searching for humans to be reborn, and instead allow the Order to control the selection.
The Master of the True Core increasingly required true obedience, not just from Rowan, but from all who had taken vows.
Rowan removed the six soul seeds from his locket, trying not to look too long at the garnet seed as it tumbled into his hand alongside the others. Normally he found a soul seed to be breathtakingly beautiful, pearly white and smooth to the touch. Today they looked like pebbles next to the gleam of the strange, red jewel. Even now its heat pulsed in his hand and sent ripples of energy down his outstretched fingers and up the inside of his wrist.
He tucked the strange jewel-seed back out of sight out so it wouldn't distract him from his work, then pushed each of the other six seeds into the loose dirt, evenly spacing them along one side of the plot. After patting down the dirt over each seed, straightened and closed his eyes.
The song he sang now was different than the one he sang for extracting souls. No one had taught it to him. It had come from within, fully formed, just like all his magic. This tune was one of coaxing, of lighting a spark in each seed and reawakening the potential locked within. His voice rang out in the air, clear and sweet as a bell.
When he was done, he bowed in respect to his magic and the stirrings of spirit under the dirt. Like all of the flowers he grew with his magic, these seeds required different things to grow. His voice was their sunlight, his words their water.
As the Caretaker, he would love them and nurture them, until the day came when they could be released to a new body, ready to live again. He was sure Ciprian had plans for them, but he didn't care about that right now. All he cared about was the transformation.
Back inside his hut, he sighed sadly at the basket of berries on his table. He wanted nothing more than to spend the afternoon on his patio, singing to the little speckled wrens that would hop by his feet as he sat on his bench, lured in by the magic in his voice. He thought they were beginning to trust him.
Just last week he was almost able to tempt one to his hand with a sunflower seed. Imagine what might happen if he offered them a fresh berry along with his song.
But he'd made a promise. Resting in the sun with a book and a song would have to wait until later.
And of course, there was still the matter of the garnet-soul. He wanted to plant it just to see what he could make of it, but he knew that could be playing with Disorder. What he should do is toss it into the black pond and be done with it. Something as uncertain as this was probably best relegated to the Void.
Instead he passed by the pond, the window to nothingness right in his own back yard, its still, midnight surface studded by white lilies he'd managed to raise from the depths even though the waters were devoid of any spirit whatsoever. As he walked toward his bridge, he looked at the pond's surface, and couldn't imagine throwing the jewel-seed there, dangerous or not.