Chapter 7 Secrets and Supper
Rolan shut his eyes and waited for death. Or a beating. Or at the very least, a scalding tongue-lashing.
But Luc did none of these things.
Instead, the big man strode across the room, his heavy boots thunderous, and sank into the armchair with a weary sigh. The fire crackled. The rain drummed on the roof. The goat’s hooves tip-tapped as it walked around the house.
After several shivering breaths, Rolan peeled his eyes open one at a time.
The Arcanist was staring at the fire, his cloak draped over the arm of the chair.
The wet cloth dripped onto the wood floor, but Luc didn’t seem to care.
Rain soaked his long, dark hair, which he wore in a knot at the back of his head, but wet, bedraggled locks had escaped to hang loose around his stony face.
His eyes were hooded as if he were falling asleep, but Rolan wasn’t fooled.
“If you’re going to hit me,” he mumbled, “can you just get it over with? The waiting is worse than the actual punishment.”
Luc blinked, turning to stare at him. He opened his mouth, then shut it. Then opened it again.
“I’m not going to hit you, boy.”
Rolan drew his knees under his chin, wrapping his arms around his legs. “But I opened your secret, creepy chest full of secret, creepy, magical monster bits.”
“So you did.” The Arcanist sighed and heaved forward to rest his elbows on his knees. His head hung down, giving off such an air of defeat and exhaustion that Rolan was momentarily struck speechless.
Rolan waited another long moment before asking, “What are they? The things in the chest?”
Luc lifted his head only slightly, staring at the fire. “Secrets.”
Rolan looked at the chest again. The light was fading, the mist melting away.
“Come here, boy.”
For a moment Rolan considered not obeying. It was instinctive, the urge to rebel, revolt, run. It had been a rare occasion indeed that an adult told him to come here and then rewarded him with anything other than a scolding or a cuff on the ear.
But where would Rolan run, in the dark, in the storm?
He walked to stand in front of Luc’s armchair. Thrusting his hands in his pockets, he rocked on his feet, his head cocked defiantly, daring the man to punish him.
“How is your head?” Luc asked.
Caught off guard by the question, Rolan lifted a hand to the bandage. “Better, I guess.”
“You were infected with Cryptic venom. That’s why you passed out.”
“Venom?” Rolan echoed. His stomach clenched, remembering how dizzy he’d been and the nausea he’d felt just before blacking out.
Luc nodded, settling back in his chair. His beard was damp with rain, droplets shining on the coarse black hairs.
“Any scratch or bite left by a Cryptic will most likely fester with venom. If the monster’s a small one, like that which harmed you, the venom is weaker.
That’s why you’re still alive. Still, if I hadn’t treated it, you’d have been plagued with fever, nightmares, and a nasty gut for days. ”
Rolan shivered. “And if the Cryptic is a big one?”
“Depends on the depth of the wound, and how many you took. But a mature Cryptic’s venom can kill within hours or even minutes.”
Inevitably, Rolan’s eyes traveled over Luc’s rough face, tracing the network of white scars. His skin resembled a butcher’s block, marked by years of scrapes and cuts.
Luc raised a hand to his cheekbone, to a particularly nasty scar that stretched from the corner of his eye down to his beard. “Yes, most of these were made by Cryptics. What about yours?”
He tapped his cheek, about the same spot where the scar was on Rolan’s face. Rolan touched it automatically, feeling the tight, smooth crescent of healed skin. It seemed to twinge in response, more from memory than true pain.
“I don’t remember,” he lied. “Not a Cryptic, though. How come you’re still alive, if you’ve been poisoned so many times?”
Luc’s lips twitched, as if he were biting back a question. But then he said, “There’s a salve that counters their venom. If you can apply it in time, you usually recover.”
Rolan stood up straighter, eyes wide. “Hoff had something like that! He put it on his hands after the Cryptic scratched them.”
“Hoff had truth salve and didn’t use it on your cut?” Luc’s eyebrows bunched together like a pair of fuzzy, furious caterpillars. “He neglected to heal a person harmed by a Cryptic, under his watch?”
Rolan shrugged. “Hoff ain’t ever seen me as a person.”
With a hiss, a dagger slithered out of Luc’s belt and into his hand. “Hoff hasn’t ever seen you as a person.” He twirled the knife with causal expertise, the menacing light in his eyes making Rolan go cold.
“Yeah, that too.” Rolan dropped to the floor, lounging on the bearskin rug by the fireplace.
The goat settled beside him. It seemed Luc wasn’t going to hit him after all, and Rolan began to relax.
A little. He glanced at the row of daggers in Luc’s belt, and the broadsword leaning against the wall in its embossed leather sheath, and then at the great longbow hung on the back of Luc’s armchair.
The man traveled with enough weapons to outfit a whole troop of guards.
What had he been doing out in the dark, with no lamp?
“Why’s it called truth salve?” asked Rolan. “Is it magic?”
Luc grunted but didn’t reply.
“You might as well tell me,” Rolan pressed. “Otherwise you’re keeping a secret. And secrets turn into Cryptics, which you’ll have to fight. So why not save yourself the trouble and just answer the question?”
One of Luc’s eyebrows hoisted upward as he regarded Rolan.
“Truth salve isn’t magic. It’s just a name, probably chosen because Cryptic venom—like Cryptics themselves—is created from secrets.
And with truth theoretically being the antidote to secrets…
you get the idea. Anyway, as far as I know, the salve is just a mixture of vanilla, tansy, mint, and a few other herbs.
You’d have to ask an apothecary for more information. ”
Rolan thought of the sprig of rosemary on Hoff’s jar. “Does Evaine make your truth salve too?”
“I don’t know who makes it. I pick it up every month with my other supplies from the ducal palace. Which isn’t much. You’ll find I’m quite self-sufficient out here, growing my own food, keeping my own livestock, mending my own clothes.”
Rolan winced. That sounded a lot like chores. He hoped Luc hadn’t brought him out here to be some kind of servant. He might have rather gone to prison than do boring chores all day.
Not that he would stick around to find out. As soon as morning came, he would run away.
“By the way, your horrible goat ate my boots,” said Rolan. “What’s his name, anyhow?”
“He doesn’t have one. He’s just a goat.”
“Can I name him?”
Luc just stared at him, looking perplexed.
“Thanks,” said Rolan, choosing to interpret his silence as permission. “I’ll call him Supper.”
Supper blinked at him and maaed.
“Hear that? He likes it!” Rolan exclaimed. “Anyhow, I’m hungry. What’ve you got to eat? Besides blueberries. You’re out of those. Supper ate them all.”
Luc narrowed his eyes at the blue stains on Rolan’s collar.
“I tried to stop him,” Rolan explained, his eyes all sparkling innocence. Beside him, Supper maaed in his own defense, dirty little traitor that he was.
Grumbling, Luc went to the kitchen and began taking things out of jars.
He returned with a plate of pickled eggs, white cheese, and tomatoes, which Rolan took greedily.
He sat cross-legged by the fire and shoved handfuls of food into his mouth, watching eagerly as Luc spitted a slab of pork and set it over the fire.
Soon the meat was crackling, dropping tantalizing juices that sizzled in the flames.
Plate empty, Rolan looked mournfully up at the Arcanist until the man relented and filled it again, this time with twice as much food. Rolan practically snatched it from the man’s hand and went to work, sprawling on his stomach with his elbows propped on either side of the plate.
Luc sat and watched with an alarmed expression as the boy licked the plate clean.
“What?” Rolan said. “I’m a starved boy. I haven’t eaten in ages. Don’t judge.”
“I’ve seen wild animals with more manners.”
Rolan rolled his eyes and licked his fingers, then glanced at the pork browning over the fire.
With a sigh, Luc nodded, and Rolan leaped up to remove the meat.
He slid it eagerly onto his plate, and in minutes was licking it clean again.
Only after he’d finished the pork off did it occur to him that the meal had likely been meant to feed Luc, too.
Well. If the Arcanist had wanted some, he could have snatched it off Rolan’s plate like a civilized person.
“Are you done?” asked Luc, the question strained.
“For now.” Grinning, Rolan rolled onto his back to admire his considerably paunchier stomach. But that only reminded him of his pa, and the smile slowly melted off his face. He stared up at the rafters and the bundled herbs and skins hanging to dry.
“Why don’t you burn lamps outside?” Rolan asked. “Won’t Cryptics come?”
“That’s the point,” answered Luc, tapping the hilt of his dagger.
Rolan gulped.
“You’ll be fine if you stay inside. The biggest ones keep to the woods.” Luc paused a moment before adding, “Usually.”
“Oh.” Rolan’s voice was weak. He’d glimpsed the woods through the window in a particularly bright flash of lightning. They were no more than twenty steps from the house. “Well, that’s all right then. I feel much better now, thanks.”
Luc sank deeper into his chair. He looked exhausted, his eyelids heavy, his breaths deep and slow.
Rolan watched him from the corner of his eye, wanting to ask what he’d been doing out in the dark.
Why he’d claimed Rolan. What he was expected to do out here, outside the city with this strange man who’d plucked him off the street like a stray pup.
Not that he was staying. He wasn’t.
He’d need to steal a pair of boots in the morning. But maybe he’d wait until he’d had breakfast first. It was never a good idea to run away on an empty stomach.
Everything felt unreal, this place a dream, the man in the chair a ghost. Rolan shut and opened his eyes several times, hard, just to see if it all might disappear.
Would he wake up in his pile of blankets back home in his father’s hideout in the southern quarter?
Or in the warm hay behind the blacksmith’s place, where he liked to soak in the heat from the ever-burning forge?
Would he see Anaya standing over him, her hands on her hips and her lips pursed, disappointed in him for oversleeping again?
But none of those things happened.
Instead, every time he opened his eyes he only saw the Arcanist—who’d begun to snore in his chair—and the crackling fire, and the open chest of claws and teeth, which still glowed faintly blue.
Secrets, the Arcanist had called them.
Feeling cold despite the fire at his back and the goat snoozing against his leg, Rolan curled up on the rug and watched the flames until he fell asleep.