Chapter 18 Apologies
Rolan sat tall on Apple’s back as he and the Arcanist entered Crisanth.
The day was still early; they’d ridden at first light, or rather, first gloom. The sky foamed with clouds, and a drizzling rain soon drenched both Luc and Rolan. The city lamps were still lit. They would burn through the day.
The guards at the gates did not acknowledge them as they rode through. They kept their faces expressionless, shoulders rigid, but Rolan saw their eyes following the gray horse as it plodded by. Was it his imagination, or did they grip their spears a little tighter?
Inside the city they were met with hostility.
He’d been expecting it, but even so, it set his temper to simmering.
The people’s fear had amused him the first time he’d ridden out with the Arcanist, but now he saw their hate.
Now he felt it for himself. He had never felt love from the people of Crisanth, not by any stretch.
He’d been the object of their annoyance, their pity, their anger, their indifference.
But never their hate.
It made Rolan want to snarl. He wanted to shout at them that they were being unfair. The Arcanist gave everything he had to protect them, and all they gave him were more terrible secrets to keep and more terrible monsters to fight.
Luc seemed to sense his tension. He turned in the saddle, eyeing him from beneath the shadow of his hood.
His new scar, the one he’d gotten from the massive Cryptic Rolan had stumbled across, twisted his right eye into a permanent scowl.
That, together with the hood, made him look as fearsome as the stories said.
“I told you it would change the way you see people,” Luc murmured. “But you have to remember—everyone has secrets. Everyone. It’s not their fault they’re human.”
“They don’t have to treat you like this!” Rolan hissed.
“And what would you do, if someone opened your heart and plucked out every secret you had? Every hidden desire, every shame, every humiliation, every stupid or malicious deed. Would you thank them?”
Rolan grumbled beneath his breath. That wasn’t the same thing at all, but he didn’t know how to put it into words.
He was glad when they finally reached Evaine’s apothecary shop.
The building was painted bright green, the same shade as its owner’s eyes.
Paned windows offered tantalizing glimpses of herbs and bottles, all the little things Rolan liked to pick up and shake when he visited.
But now the only thing he was interested in was finding Anaya.
Leaping off the horse before Apple could fully stop, he hit the ground running.
It was only when he burst through the door that he slowed, remembering how he’d left things with Anaya and Evaine.
Unsure of where they now stood, he hesitated, letting the chilly, early autumn breeze leak in around him.
It rustled the herbs hanging on their racks, sending fragrant scents wafting up Rolan’s nose. He savored the smells.
If he was truly honest, sometimes he’d felt a little jealous that Evaine had asked Anaya to be her apprentice, and not him.
“Shut the door!” called a voice from the back. “Come in or don’t, but keep out that draft!”
Evaine came through the doorway and stopped, her eyes widening when she saw him. She was grinding something with her mortar and pestle, the stone scraping away. “Rolan?”
He waited uncertainly as, behind him, Luc planted a hand on the door and pushed it all the way open. Evaine’s eyes lifted to the man, then narrowed.
“Arcanist,” she said thinly.
“Apothecary,” he grumbled back.
Whatever she was grinding up in her mortar, she began to grind harder. “Well, come in then! You’re letting in the damp. Wipe your boots and hang your cloaks. I won’t have you tracking mud all over my shop.”
Rolan glanced up at the Arcanist, expecting to see him puff out his chest and growl about not taking orders from a—what had he called Evaine? A fiendish, meddling woman.
But to Rolan’s surprise, the Arcanist wiped his boots. He hung his cloak on a peg by the door. He didn’t growl a word.
But he did glower a bit. Experimentally, Rolan tried out a glower of his own, lowering his brow and glancing darkly about in a menacing manner.
“Rolan Strider,” Anaya said, strolling through the beaded curtain dividing the shop front from the living quarters in the back, “what is wrong with your face? Are you constipated again? Been eating too much cheese, have you? I told you not to—”
“Anaya!” His cheeks hot, Rolan abandoned his attempt at intimidation and opted instead for a sunny smile. He started toward Anaya before again remembering where they’d last left things.
Him calling her ruined. Her calling him selfish.
He stopped short, his heart stuttering in his chest, his tongue a useless knot. A flush crept up his neck, and for a moment, he didn’t know what to do. What to say. Except, perhaps…
“Sorry,” he whispered. “I’m really sorry, Anaya. I was an idiot.”
She considered him a moment, her shoulders drawn up. But then she let out a breath, her easy, breezy smile flickering across her lips. “Yeah. You really were. And so was I.”
“Nah,” said Rolan with a wide grin. “You were probably right. I am selfish. It’s one of my best qualities.”
She punched him lightly on the shoulder. “Idiot.”
Behind Anaya, Evaine gazed at them thoughtfully. “If only all the world’s grievances could be so easily healed.” Her eyes shifted to Luc. “What are you doing here, Arcanist? If you’re after your monthly supply of truth salve, it’s at the ducal estate along with the rest of your things.”
Luc inclined his head, just barely, as if the effort of thanking her caused him physical pain. His eyes never strayed from Evaine’s, nor hers from his. They reminded Rolan of two alley cats staring each other down over a dead mouse. He wondered if he was the dead mouse.
“The boy wanted to set things right with his, uh, young acquaintance,” Luc said gruffly. “I had a few spare minutes to indulge him.”
Rolan blinked a few times. When had coming to the apothecary been his idea? He felt like he was being used, but how, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t like the feeling, and he gave Luc a hard look. The Arcanist gave him a look back, even harder.
“Uh… yeah,” Rolan said slowly. “I wanted to come apologize. That’s what a man does, when he’s offended a lady. Right, Luc? He lectured me about it all the way here.”
He turned a sunny smile on his master, and Luc’s gaze narrowed to a thunderous slit.
“Did he now?” Evaine said cooly. “And how, Arcanist, does a man apologize to a lady?”
Scrape, scrape, scrape went Evaine’s pestle. Or perhaps the sound was coming from Luc’s grinding molars.
“Well,” he said slowly, “he might start by conceding the lady may have had a point.”
“Might he?” Evaine arched a brow. “And then?”
Luc looked like he’d rather be trading blows with a twenty-foot Cryptic.
“And then he might assure the lady that everything is under control, and that her concerns, though merited, are not required, and that this was all a huge mistake. Now, boy, I have business to attend to elsewhere. Are you coming?”
The Arcanist was three steps toward the door, reaching for his cloak, before Rolan realized this was it: Luc wanted him to either go, or stay behind with the apothecary for good.
This was his way out.