Chapter 15 Training #3
He gasped, feeling as if he’d woken from a deep sleep. His body was relaxed, from his jaw to his toes, and he was still standing atop the pole, steady and straight as a tree with its roots anchored deep in the earth.
Luc stood ten paces away, watching him with a strange look on his face, his eyes intent and his mouth curled at one corner in a half smile. The rain had stopped and the sun was shining. When had that happened?
How long had Rolan been standing on that pole?
He let out a laugh and lost his balance at last, slipping sideways and landing on his hip. But he barely noticed the flash of pain that signaled a new bruise, as he scrambled up and laughed some more, hands on his knees.
“It’s an apple,” Rolan rasped, his voice hoarse. “The thing at the center of the world—it’s an apple, isn’t it?”
Luc tilted his head to one side, his eyes still gleaming strangely. “Is it?”
Rolan straightened, pushing the wet, muddy hair out his face. “Well, am I right?”
The Arcanist’s eyes shifted to the pole, then back to Rolan, who got the strange feeling the man was actually stunned.
“It is different for each of us,” he said at last, his voice very soft. “If you saw an apple, then it is an apple. The nature of the object is not what matters, but the ability to find it.”
“What do you see?” Rolan asked, thinking of all those mornings he’d found the Arcanist as still as a statue, balanced on the pole.
“A mug,” Luc replied with a little laugh. “A brown mug of blackberry tea.”
“Huh.” Rolan blinked as a wave of exhaustion suddenly swept through him. His knees shook, and he had to lean on the pole to simply stay on his feet. “So… what was the point of all this again?”
Luc started to reply—then stopped, putting out a hand to halt Rolan. The Arcanist tensed, his head turning to the woods.
“Hear that?” he whispered.
Rolan listened, and after a moment, he did.
Dread chilled his bones.
Click click click…
The sound was too near the house for his comfort.
In the past weeks he’d only ever seen a Cryptic three times.
Each one had been no bigger than Supper and had been caught in one of Luc’s pit or snare traps.
Luc had dispatched each one while Rolan had remained inside, frustrated to be locked away.
He wanted to see Luc defeat a monster. He needed to know how it was done.
But even with all the training he was doing, the Arcanist was still reluctant to let him go face-to-face with another Cryptic.
“Big one?” asked Rolan, as the low clicking continued. That day by the barn had stuck with him, the rustling of the trees like a promise that had yet to be fulfilled.
“No.” Luc glanced up at the sun, sinking toward the west. Long shadows stretched from the orchard trees. “It’ll be caught in one of the traps. I’ll deal with it later.”
“Maybe tomorrow you could teach me how to lay the traps?” Rolan asked hopefully.
For all the weaponry and fighting lessons Luc put him through, he had yet to teach Rolan anything directly related to hunting and slaying Cryptics.
All his knowledge had come from the books, but there were practical bits he still did not know.
How, for example, did you actually kill a Cryptic?
What was the blue magic that burned in Luc’s eyes when he fought?
“No,” Luc said. “We’re going to Crisanth tomorrow.”
That perked Rolan up. “We are? Why?”
“Supply run. We need salt, sugar, thread. Truth salve.”
Excitement and nervousness wrestled in Rolan’s mind. It would be his first trip back since the Arcanist had claimed him nearly two months ago.
Maybe he would finally see Anaya and get the chance to apologize for all the stupid things he’d said.
He would bring her some flowers and some berries from the blueberry patch.
Maybe he would even write down his apology on paper.
That would really impress her. His spelling wasn’t great and his penmanship was abominable, but he would take his time and make each letter as perfect as possible.
She would have to forgive him then.
“Are we done?” he asked Luc, pushing off the pole, panting from exertion.
Luc was still gazing at the woods, distracted, and Rolan had to repeat his question before the man heard him.
“Hm? No. One more lesson today. Something I’ve been putting off. Grab a shirt, get your daggers, and meet me at the woods’ edge.”
His curiosity piqued, Rolan ran to obey. He was still tugging his shirt over his head when he reached the woods, where Luc stood over a writhing Cryptic.
Rolan skidded to a halt, his heart pounding.
He stared at the juvenile monster, which was no bigger than a cat.
It must have only just escaped the city and gotten caught in one of Luc’s snare traps, ropes drawn taut around its legs.
It thrashed and hissed, but could not get free.
It twisted and hissed in the dirt, rabid with rage, its ten eyes glaring hatefully at the Arcanist and his apprentice.
“Draw your blade,” said Luc. “It’s time you learned what being an Arcanist truly means.”