Chapter 5 Rolan Rides a Horse
Rolan stumbled after the Arcanist in a state of shock. His head was spinning, his skin was crawling, and he could barely stay on his feet. The cut on his forehead, torn open by the Cryptic less than an hour ago, throbbed with pain.
The Arcanist led the way across Verity Square, his cloak flapping around him. Rolan glanced back at Hoff, who was watching them go with a stormy expression. The duke was watching too before leaning over to whisper something to Hoff.
“So what now?” Rolan asked. “Do I get a sword? Or a scary cloak? You know, I always thought I’d look good in a cloak.”
They stopped beside a big gray horse who stood at the square’s edge. Rolan looked at it uneasily.
The Arcanist studied him a moment, his hand resting on the horse’s shoulder. “Do you have people I can speak to? Parents?”
“I got a pa,” said Rolan, lifting his chin. “But I ain’t taking you to him.”
The Arcanist’s blue eyes, sharp with suspicion, scanned the streets around them. What did he expect to see? A Cryptic prancing out of the nearby shoe shop, sporting a jaunty new pair of sandals? “I can’t just take you, not without your father’s permission. I need to speak with him.”
“I ain’t ever done nothing with my pa’s permission or anyone else’s,” Rolan replied hotly. “I do what I like. If you want me to go with you, then let’s go.”
“Don’t you have things you want to bring with you?”
Rolan wrinkled his nose. “I don’t have things. Nothing worth packing, anyhow.”
He had possessions, of course, trinkets and baubles he’d collected over the years. Stuff anyone else would probably consider worthless. But he was eager to be away before Hoff changed his mind. Or before the Arcanist did. The sooner he got away from this square, the sooner he could bolt.
Because Rolan had absolutely no intention of being an Arcanist’s apprentice.
He just needed to get far enough away that he could give the man the slip. Then he’d run back to his pa and tell him how he’d outsmarted a duke, a guard captain, and an Arcanist all in one morning.
It would be even more impressive than stealing a lamp.
“Come on,” said Rolan. “Are we going or…?”
The Arcanist narrowed his eyes, and Rolan felt a chill. He’d been about to add an insult, probably comparing the man’s face to a rat’s behind or something clever like that, but he decided suddenly against it.
“Look,” he said instead. “You’re the Arcanist, right? Everyone in the city talks about you. By night there won’t be a pair of ears in Crisanth that ain’t heard you took me off as an apprentice. My pa will hear, and if he’s got a problem with it, he’ll come find me.”
It felt like a weak argument, even to Rolan, but to his surprise, the Arcanist seemed to consider. The man nodded his head slowly.
“Fair enough,” he said. “Let’s go, then. It’s a long ride.”
“Ride?” Rolan looked at the horse. “On that?”
“It’s an even longer walk, boy.”
“I ain’t never rode on a horse before.” He had seen them at a safe distance, but horses were uncommon inside the city walls. Most people used donkeys or mules to pull their carts around. Even the guards mostly went about on foot. Horses were for people going other places, like Sylvet or beyond.
“I have never ridden on a horse before,” said the Arcanist.
Rolan’s eyes popped. “You neither? This is going to be one interesting ride, then.”
The sigh that rumbled from the Arcanist was like a mountain shedding an avalanche. “No, the proper grammar is I have never ridden on a horse before. I, myself, have ridden a horse. But you—” He pressed his lips together. “Forget it.”
In one smooth motion he swung onto the horse’s back, and Rolan was surprised his massive weight didn’t snap the creature in two. He was even more surprised when the Arcanist reached down, plucked Rolan up like a puppy by its scruff, and plopped him onto the saddle behind him.
“Hey!” Rolan yelped, teetering this way and that as he tried to balance. The horse shifted fiendishly, as if it wanted to throw him off. “I ain’t comfortable with this!”
“I am not comfortable with this,” growled the Arcanist.
“Me neither!” Rolan’s voice was shrill with panic. “I would like to get down now!”
With a click of his tongue, the Arcanist goaded the horse forward. Rolan grabbed hold of the man’s cloak, his stomach lurching with every step the animal took. The cut on his head blazed like fire, as sharply as if the Cryptic had just torn it open.
But after a few minutes, he started to ease into the motion, finding his balance.
It wasn’t so bad. He liked how high up he was, and that he could look down on the people they passed with his nose in the air.
Most people, when they saw the big horse coming their way, gasped and scrambled for cover. He liked that too.
“Peasants,” Rolan sniffed. “Common people. Yes, yes, get a good look. Rolan Strider on a horse, that’s right! Out of the way, riffraff!”
“Shut up,” said the Arcanist.
Rolan leaned around him, to get a better look at his face. “Do you have a name, or is it just the Arcanist.” He drew the word out for full dramatic effect. “Did your ma hold you up on the day you was born and say, ‘Oh me, oh my, a lovely darling boy! I shall call him the Arcanist!’ ”
The Arcanist only grunted.
“So is it a first name, last name thing, then?” Rolan went on. “Is your first name The, last name Arcanist? I could call you The, I suppose, but it sounds ridiculous. No offense to your ma, but it does. What about Mr. Arcanist? That sounds better.”
“Luc,” said the Arcanist. “My name is Luc.”
“Ah! Luc. Boring, but better. Let’s go with that, Luc. My name’s Rolan. Rolan Strider. Not that you asked, which was rude of you, by the way.”
The Arcanist grunted again.
Rolan pressed a hand to his stomach. He was starting to feel oddly queasy. Maybe it was the motion of the horse, like some kind of seasickness. Horse-sickness? “Is it true you chop up kids and sprinkle their bits in the woods to lure Cryptics?”
“No,” the Arcanist replied. “Cryptics prefer their dinners alive and screaming.”
“R-really?”
The Arcanist craned his neck just enough for one cold blue eye to glint at Rolan. “I don’t feed children to monsters, boy.” Turning back around, he muttered under his breath, “But I find myself suddenly considering it.”
“Oh, you’re a funny Arcanist, are you? That’s unfortunate.
You shouldn’t tell jokes. You don’t have the face for it.
” Rolan’s head spun. He was starting to feel a bit delirious.
Horse-sickness seemed to be a more serious malady than he’d thought.
“You never did say whether I’ll get a sword.
Will I have to eat Cryptics? I don’t really want to, if I’m honest. Do you eat them raw, or do you cook them first? What does a Cryptic taste like?”
A muscle twitched in the Arcanist’s neck. “Do you ever stop talking?”
“You should know, I have fought Cryptics before.” Rolan massaged the cut on his head.
The bleeding had stopped but the stinging just wouldn’t go away.
In fact, it might be getting worse. And why did he feel so cold?
“Just this morning, in fact. Big, nasty one, with about a million legs. It cut my head—”
He yelped as the Arcanist suddenly turned, his eyes narrowing. “You were cut by a Cryptic?”
“Just a scratch.” Rolan pointed to his forehead. “Rude of Hoff not to patch me up, don’t you think? It hurts a lot. Like, a lot a lot. Is that normal? I’m a little dizzy too. Maybe got a fever. In fact, now that I think about it, my… my stomach…”
With a groan, Rolan pitched sideways, his body suddenly going numb all over. The last thing he remembered before everything went black was the Arcanist’s huge, scarred hand reaching for him, closing on his collar just moments before his head would have struck the ground.