Instead the Cryptic shut its mouth and turned its head. It seemed to forget Rolan completely. Perhaps he looked more terrifying than he thought.
He blinked, unsure what to think as the Cryptic turned and scrabbled away, toward the palace on the hill. Meanwhile Luc dug another relic from his pocket and cracked it with his sword. The rush of Arcana burned in his veins, trails of blue fire beneath his skin. With a grunt, Luc heaved the column off his leg.
By then the Cryptic was across the square. Its tail—shorter now thanks to Rolan’s efforts—swung into the duke’s statue as it passed, knocking it to the ground with a crash.
Rolan helped Luc up, the pair of them watching the creature scurry away, tearing through the wall that separated the square from the ducal estate.
“What’s it doing?” Rolan shouted, trying to be heard over the crash of rubble as the Cryptic hauled its body over the crumbling wall.
“It’s caught a scent,” Luc said. Sweat beaded his forehead and soaked his shirt, and blood stained his clothes in several places. All of it had to be his own. Cryptics did not bleed.
“A scent?” echoed Rolan. “Of what?”
“Remember what I told you, about what Cryptics do when they get big enough?”
They found their makers. Rolan remembered. He was about to open his mouth to say as much, when a stone struck him on the shoulder.
“What the—” Rolan whirled to see a man clutching a rock in his fist. He vaguely recognized the red beard, and he realized it was the man who’d spat at Luc last time they’d been in Crisanth.
“You brought it here, Arcanist!” the man roared, hefting another rock.
Luc gave a frustrated growl deep in his throat. “We don’t have time for this.”
Other city folk joined Red Beard, picking up their own bits of rock and rubble, eyeing Luc and Rolan angrily. With a jolt, Rolan recognized one of the faces.
Hoff.
His face mostly hidden by his hood, the former guard captain was slinking away from the crowd, a murderous glint to his eye. Was he going to get Rolan’s pa and his gang? Would they wait until Luc was busy fighting the Cryptic, then strike at his back?
Rolan gritted his teeth. He wouldnotlet that happen.
“He steals our secrets and spills them for all to hear!” Red Beard roared, emboldened by the gathering crowd. “Then lures his monsters here to destroy us!”
“No!” Rolan called. “You’re wrong!”
Red Beard hurled his rock. Luc batted it aside with his sword. But more followed, flung by the people drawing near. Some fled, probably fearing Luc’s wrath, while others hid behind ruined walls and threw whatever they could reach. A hail of rocks and bricks battered Luc, who put himself in front of Rolan, shielding him with his broad form.
“Go!” Luc said.
“But—”
“Go!”
Rolan ran and heard his master’s heavy steps behind him. They raced around the duke’s fallen statue and took shelter behind it.
One hand braced on the duke’s granite nose, the other still around his sword, Rolan seethed. “What are theythinking! Can’t they see we’re fighting the blasted thing to keepthemsafe?”
“This is what it means to be an Arcanist,” Luc sighed.
“It’sstupid! Why don’t we just go home then, and letthemdeal with the Cryptic? We’ll see how they feel without us between them and its claws!”
“This is the life I lead, Rolan,” Luc said, his hard mask of battle slipping just enough for Rolan to see the sadness behind it.
A stone pinged off the statue, taking a chunk out of the duke’s left ear. Red Beard’s mob hadn’t given up, but they didn’t seem willing to give chase.
“You will rarely be thanked,” Luc said. “You will seldom be liked. You will have few allies and even fewer friends. You’ll be alone most of the time, suffering pain you cannot imagine, carrying other people’s secrets like wounds in your soul. Bearing the cost of their darkest sins, so they don’t have to.Thisis what it means to be an Arcanist. This is the miserable and thankless life I would give you, if you stay with me.”
A band of iron seemed to tighten around Rolan’s chest. Luc’s blazing, Arcana-filled eyes bored into him, otherworldly and fierce.
