Chapter 42 The Weight of a Secret
A fevered flame blazed in the Arcanist’s eye.
He cast about, the blue light finally draining from his gaze, the last of his Arcana depleted.
Rolan felt his own strength flicker away, leaving him to feel every bruise and wound as if they were freshly inflicted.
He gasped in pain, dragging himself to his feet.
They’d won. They’d won. The Cryptic was dust on the wind.
But for some reason it didn’t feel like the fight was over.
Dread slithered through Rolan’s weary bones.
“Arcanist.”
The familiar quiet voice came from behind Rolan.
He spun to see his pa standing there, his face twisted with fury, his hair and clothes disheveled with grime and sweat. He leaned heavily on his cane.
He wasn’t alone. Hoff and Cabbot flanked him, along with the rest of Rabb Strider’s gang, all thirty or so of them. They fanned out like wolves, hungry and snarling. They’d come, just as Rolan had feared they would. And the guards were too far distant to be any help.
In fact, Rolan suddenly noticed, the rest of them had fled entirely, withdrawing into the palace. As if they’d been ordered to retreat.
He and Luc were alone with his father’s murderous band.
“Strider,” Luc growled.
“You’re supposed to be dead,” said Rabb. He didn’t even acknowledge Rolan’s presence. He glared curiously at Luc. “How did you do it? What else are you hiding from us?”
Then his eyes dropped to the ground.
Rolan saw what his pa was looking at. Shining there, nestled in mud and as blue as the sky, lay one of the Cryptic’s tusks.
The relic.
“HOFF!” Rabb shouted. “NOW!”
The guard captain burst forward, his teeth bared in a snarl.
Luc was twenty paces behind Rolan. He’d never reach it before the former guard captain. Hoff knew the power relics held. Rolan had seen him use Arcana before. And a relic from a beast like that? With such power, he could cut down Rolan and Luc in seconds, and they’d be powerless to stop him.
Rolan broke into a sprint.
Seeing him, Hoff snarled and quickened his pace.
Rolan’s blood roared in his ears. He could hear Luc shouting, running far behind him, but he was too focused on the relic to make out the words. All he knew was that he could not let Hoff have that power.
The guard captain reached the relic first, stretching out his hand.
But Rolan threw himself through the air, leaping for all he was worth, tapping the very last reserves of his sword’s Arcana.
The moment seemed to drag over minutes instead of seconds: Rolan hurtling over the ground, stretching himself as long as he could, Hoff’s fingers straining for the tusk, his lips twisted to the side by the strange scales on his cheek…
Then the point of Rolan’s blade cracked the surface of the tusk a mere whisper before Hoff could snatch it up.
With a shriek of fury, Hoff grabbed Rolan about the neck and shook him, but it was too late.
Rolan sucked in power from the blade, and it roared through him like a breaking storm.
Threads of blue lightning danced over his skin and burrowed into his veins like vipers, coursing pathways to his heart and sinking teeth into the organ.
A mighty shudder went through him. His vision went pure blue, the world washed away by a wave of Arcana.
It blasted through his brain with the fury of a sun, painful in its intensity, its ruthlessness.
This wasn’t like the other times, when the Arcana he’d drawn in had brought relief from pain and gave him immediate strength.
Instead it was like he’d swallowed a Cryptic alive, and now it was trapped under his skin and trying to claw its way out.
Fangs sunk into his liver. Spikes scored his lungs.
Wiry tentacles corded about his spine. He fought to keep control of his own body, writhing in agony.
Rolan screamed.
But then his vision faded back to his eyes, the light relenting enough to let him see Hoff gaping at him in horror.
“Do… not… TOUCH ME!” Rolan’s voice came low and feral, like the snarl of a wolf.
He wrapped his hand around Hoff’s and peeled the fingers off his neck, one by one. The man’s bones felt as limp as noodles in Rolan’s grip, his strength pitiful. How had he ever been afraid of this puny man?
Hoff gave a strangled cry and retreated, eyes wide, cradling his hand.
“Fool!” Rabb Strider cursed. “Hoff, you craven, witless cur!”
Rolan’s pa took a step forward, as if he intended to clobber Hoff with his cane. But then a look of fear spread over his face, and he backed away.
Rolan turned to see the duke riding forth from his palace, dressed in armor, carrying a sword, as if he hadn’t just missed the entire fight. Behind him rode two dozen guards, also having mysteriously found their courage.
With a whimper, Hoff turned and fled. Cabbot and the others followed, with Rabb Strider last to go. His eyes fell on Rolan at last, and he pointed his cane.
“One day,” he rasped, “you’ll realize how big of a mistake you’ve made, boy.”
Then he turned and sped away, as fast as his limp would allow. In moments he and his men were gone, vanished like rats into the smoking, wrecked city.
With a sudden wave of exhaustion, Rolan fell to his knees, sucking in air. He felt Luc’s hand on his shoulder.
“Are you all right?” The Arcanist took Rolan’s face between his hands, studying it. “You mad, mad boy. That was too much Arcana, too much for anyone. What were you thinking?”
“Give me some credit, old man.” Rolan held up his blade, the motion making it flare with light. Far from empty. “Did you think I’d use it all? How many times do I have to tell you people, I am not an idiot.”
He grinned.
Then his eyes rolled back and he flopped limply to the ground as the secret took hold of his brain.
The hour is late, and my wrist aches from penning letters. But I have one more to write, the one that will seal my fate and the fate of my family.
I can’t do this anymore. I can’t. I love my brother, but I am not fit for this life of fighting monsters and slogging through the wilderness and risking my neck for worthless fools who don’t even care.
I am no Arcanist. I am a duke’s son, and I deserve better than this wretched little hovel at the edge of the forest. It is a trick of chance that I was born second, and Luc first. A mere coincidence that he will inherit our father’s title and estate, while I inherit nothing but a sword and a duty I never asked for.
I love my brother, but I will do as I must.
I write quickly, hastily, with my left hand so that the script cannot be traced back to me.
I know my actions will result in some Cryptic stalking the world later, but that won’t be my problem anymore.
Not when I’m done. This is a secret I am willing to let grow teeth.
Let some other fool Arcanist put it to rest.
Once the ink is dry, I fold the paper and slide it into a little linen bag, heavy with gold coins.
A king’s ransom I’ve stuffed into this sack.
Or a duke’s. Its recipient will never know where it came from, nor will he care.
Once the job is done, the second half of the payment will be sent, and my assassin’s tongue—and curiosity—will be silenced.
Nobody cares where the money comes from, so long as there is plenty of it.
Hearing a knock at the door, I rush to open it.
A man stands there, scratching his large nose, his heart-shaped earring dangling in the light of the torch he carries.
It’s dark, and he’s afraid to be out here.
Because he’s not a fool. I still flinch at every cracking stick, every gust of wind.
But it’s easier to bear, knowing I will soon be home again, in my palace. MY palace.
“I don’t like being out here in the dark,” the messenger growls.
“Deliver this to a cutthroat named Rabb Strider,” I tell him.
“Arcanist business?” he asked.
“It decidedly isn’t yours,” I snap. “Just see it’s delivered, and maybe the Arcanist won’t find you in your sleep. Tell no one of its source.”
I put a silver coin in his hand and see the fear flash in his eyes. He will deliver the message and the gold, the fear of the Arcanist strong enough to discourage him from stealing the money for himself. These underworld scabs, you cannot trust them any further than you can spit.
Once he is gone, I go inside and sit at the little table, looking around at the Arcanist’s meager things. Truth, I hate it here. Guilt sours in my belly, but I think of the warmth of my family’s palace, the rich food and the soft beds and the total lack of monsters, and the sour eases somewhat.
I love my brother, and I will care for his family, but I cannot, I will not, be the next Arcanist of Crisanth.
I am so very much more suited to a crown.
The memory oozed from Rolan’s mind like oil, leaving a sickly residue that made him want to vomit. He sat up and found Luc gazing hard at him.
“What did you see?” the Arcanist asked.
Rolan just stared, his head still spinning from the revelation.
“What did you see?” Luc demanded again. His grip on Rolan’s shoulder tightened. “You’re not an Arcanist yet, boy. You can tell me without consequence. What did you see?”
Rolan’s tongue felt as heavy as a stone. He’d seen something terrible. He’d seen the words the secret bearer had written on that letter. They were forever penned onto his memory, the ink dripping like blood from a dagger.
A commotion drew his eye. The duke and his guards spilled around them, having closed the distance from the palace.
“Luc!” Benhald called. “Brother! Is it finished? I was coming to aid you, but it seems you did not need it. Are you hurt?”
“Was it his?” Luc whispered urgently to Rolan. “The secret. Was it his?”
Rolan met his master’s eyes and realized then: Luc already knew. Or he suspected, anyway. He thought of the conversation he’d heard between Luc and his brother weeks ago.
I know what secret you are hunting, Benhald had said. How do you know you will find what you are looking for?
And Luc’s reply: Secrets have a way of always returning to those who hatched them.
The duke drew nearer, flanked by his guards. So many guards, so many swords.
“Tell me, boy!” Luc demanded. “What did you see? Speak!”
The next moments played out in Rolan’s imagination.
Luc would shake the truth from him one way or another.
And Rolan would say the words: Your brother ordered your death.
He was the one who hired my father to set that fire.
He is the reason your wife and son are dead.
He was too cowardly to be an Arcanist, and he wanted you out of the way so he could be a duke instead.
And once he knew the truth, Luc would attack his brother. What else could he do? He would attack the duke, and even if he beat him, the guards would kill or arrest him. And even if he beat them or managed to escape, the Arcane Council would condemn him for breaking his oaths.
Arcanists were given the power of monsters, but they were denied justice.
Rolan would lose him. That would be the end of it all—his apprenticeship, his new life, the family he had found. The end of Luc.
The only father who had ever wanted him.
All of it lost for a taste of vengeance.
Luc had never forgiven himself for his family’s deaths, and he would do anything to erase that pain.
Rolan knew that now. He knew Luc would never be satisfied just fighting Cryptics.
He needed to make things right, and if he discovered his brother was the mastermind behind their murders, his anger and pain would drive him to doom himself.
“Speak!” Luc ordered, his voice strained, his eyes half mad.
So Rolan did.