Rowan borrowed the least intimidating horse he could find, hid his basket in the grasses by the side of the stables, threw a perfunctory glance at the shrine where obedient disciples were supposed to make an offering before an official task, and set off toward the mess that awaited him. He'd already promised to help the novice from the stall, and now this. This trip was just getting longer and longer.
An hour or so later, his rear was already getting sore from the saddle, and he wanted nothing more than a nap. Just when he was going to tempt his fate by seeing if he could ride with his eyes closed, the sound of hoofbeats clattered on the road behind him. They grew louder and louder, until it was clear that the rider was trying to catch up to him.
He waved behind his shoulder without looking. "It's you. I'm so happy. But don't even think about a lasso this time."
Alaric brought his horse in line with Rowan's and looked down at him. Of course the horse was humongous and terrifying, as befitting the tastes of its rider. The animal's muscles rippled under its sleek brown coat, reminding Rowan of Alaric himself.
Alaric scowled at Rowan. "Why did you pick the smallest horse? What if one of the young women needed to go somewhere?"
"All the other horses looked like they wanted to eat me. This one seemed the least interested." Also, he fancied the way the animal's coat almost exactly matched his trousers. He patted the horse's dun-colored neck in a gesture of goodwill. The horse shook its head and gave a disapproving snicker. Rowan yanked his fingers out of reach of the horse's mouth, just to be safe.
"You are too scrawny to eat."
"Wait…was that a joke?"
Alaric stared straight ahead. "Why did you leave without me?"
"Master said go, so I went. Was I supposed to wait?"
"Who do you think is obligated to protect you while you are down there working with the dead? There's no way you had time to make an offering before you departed."
"I figured you'd do it for me, dear brother," Rowan said placidly.
They truly were like brothers once. Two boys, the same age, seemingly with the same potential. Trained side by side at the hand of the Master.
Then one day, Rowan fell ill, lost to a fever and unconsciousness for close to a month. When he awoke things were different. Alaric's importance grew, and Rowan was cast aside.
Soon after, the talent for harvesting souls that he'd only shown once as a boy emerged again, along with more he never knew he had. He was sent first to a different hut, then to the outskirts of the compound, then to the other side of the woods. His new home, in an alcove filled with birds and dragonflies, was meant to isolate him, but he felt only peace there, alone in his field of flowers.
As long as he remained obedient to Ciprian, he was left for the most part to his solitude.
"Why must you be so negligent? You're asking for trouble."
Rowan shrugged. In all his time as the Caretaker, with all the souls he'd harvested and planted, nurtured and released for another life on this plane, he'd never once felt a god guiding his voice or hand. It was him alone, though he'd never dare say that out loud. Giving voice to that observation was sure to ruin his somewhat forgotten existence.
"Ask for trouble, and it shall appear." He turned to arch his brows at Alaric.
They rode in silence for a long while, not exactly companionable, but not exactly the opposite. Finally, Rowan couldn't resist asking. "Why are you being so nice to me all of a sudden?"
"You are strange to your core. Why do you take me ignoring your presence and protecting you out of duty as being nice? It's pure responsibility."
"I find your silence quite enjoyable." Rowan stared straight ahead. The leaves sighed in the breeze on either side of them. Somewhere in the distance, an eagle cried. "Do I really need to be protected? I thought you said I am tending to the dead."
"Yes. I along with Lysander of Logic and Nicasi of Strength set up a defensive perimeter around the site of the massacre, but we are dealing with agents of Disorder. Who knows how they might be able to slip through."
"Can there really be more of them?"
"If there are, we will destroy them soon enough."
It always bothered Rowan that the Orderly Branches were so fast to distance themselves from the vileness of death once the deed was done, yet had no trouble inflicting it.
"And then you will wake the injured?"
"Of course."
The urge to taunt Alaric was suddenly overwhelming. Rowan wanted to ask how his dear brother was so certain he'd be able to recall the injured adherents when he wasn't even certain of his own ability to create a defensive perimeter, but he resisted.
Alaric seemed to be done with conversing, but Rowan had one more thing to ask. "How is Loma?"
Both young men loved Loma, Ciprian's only daughter. She was younger than the two of them by less than a year, and both of them had doted on her in their own way. After Rowan had been declared unclean and marked for his new role, she was the only one who didn't shy away from him, who never reviled him or looked down on him.
"Her health is always in flux, but she seems happy enough." After a few heartbeats, Alaric added, "I believe she must miss you."
She might be the only one. After that, Rowan didn't feel like speaking, either. Lost in his thoughts about Loma's weak constitution and multiple brushes with death because of it, a coolness crept into his heart. As much as he told others death was nothing to fear, and as much as he knew it to be true, he didn't know what he would do when the day came for him to tend to her.
That is, if Ciprian would allow his unclean hands anywhere near her.
They arrived at the village just before dusk. The bodies were less than a twenty minute walk from there, in the crook of the river just beyond the borders of the settlement. Lysander and Nicasi, the adepts of their respective Branches, were supposed to be waiting for them. Once the group had assembled, they and Alaric would do whatever it was that was supposed to protect him, and Rowan would scavenge the corpses for souls. Rowan knew well enough that none of them would walk amongst the corpses with him, preferring to steer clear of both the surplus of death and Rowan's talent in action.
The pure must remain pure.
Rowan watched as Alaric entered the tavern that had been designated as the meeting location. How much punishment would he suffer if he left now on his own? Some passersby in the street eyed him with curiosity, and he heard his title whispered more than once. Every set of eyes seemed to want to be on him and not on him at the same time. Of course word would have spread that he was coming. And of course no one came within ten feet of him.