“Then why do you do it?” Rolan asked.
Luc blinked, as if the question surprised him. “I… do it for my family.”
“To get justice for them? Or because you’re punishing yourself?”
Luc’s lips parted, a startled look in his eyes. “What?”
“You are, aren’t you?” Rolan demanded. “It wasn’t just that you wanted to find the person who killed them. You blameyourselffor their deaths. And you kill monster after monster, hoping to somehow set it all right again. As if allthispain could erase that one.”
Luc said nothing. He shut his mouth and looked away, as haunted as Rolan had ever seen him. It reminded him of the first night he’d seen his master return from hunting Cryptics, when he’d been injured and weak. Vulnerable.
“At least I have a reason for fighting,” Luc grumbled. “Why doyoudo it?”
“Easy.” Rolan smiled. “I do it for the cool swords.”
Twirling his blade, Rolan stood and sidestepped as a stone came sailing from the mob across the square. Irritated, he spun to face the thrower. “Will you pack of weasels SHUT UP ALREADY?”
The people seemed startled by his shout. Even Red Beard hesitated, slightly lowering the brick in his hand.
“Let’s go,” Luc growled, scrambling to his feet. His eyes were on the Cryptic. “We’re wasting time here.”
The monster was clawing its way up the hill now, ripping out huge gouges of earth and flinging them up in a dark spray in its rush to the palace. With Arcana enhancing his vision, Rolan could see the guards stationed across the once-lush grounds, holding crossbows and gaping in shock at the abomination racing toward them.
“So it’swenow, is it?” Rolan snorted. “Not going to send me away to hide again?”
Luc glared at him out of the corner of his eye. “I would, if I thought it would do any good.”
“It’s your own fault you didn’t choose a better apprentice,” Rolansaid, grinning. “Race you there, old man! Last one to kill the Cryptic has to muck out Apple’s stall!”
Luc overtook him, but only by a hair. Side by side, they leaped over the ruined wall and pursued the Cryptic uphill, bare blades flashing, threads of Arcana streaming off the steel.
They caught up to the monster where the ground leveled off onto the grassy lawn in front of the palace. It wrecked a fountain, knocked over a few ornamental trees.
“FIRE!” cried a voice. “FIRE, YOU FOOLS!”
The duke stood on a balcony three floors up, screaming at his guards below. He leaned on the balustrade, his face pale.
At the sound of his voice, the Cryptic’s head lifted.
It looked straight at the duke.
Androared.
The cacophony of sound—like screeching bats, falling rock, cracking thunder, all at once—burst windows on the lower floor of the grand building. Shards of glass sparkled in the air. The duke cried out and flung himself backward, vanishing through the double doors behind him.
“It’s his,” Rolan whispered. “It really did come home to its maker. The Cryptic is theduke’ssecret.”
He glanced at Luc and saw the Arcanist’s knuckles blanch as his grip tightened around his sword hilt. A look came into his eyes that made Rolan’s heart skip a beat. Luc looked suddenly like a stranger, the way he had that first day Rolan had seen him in Verity Square.
As dark and wrathful as a nightmare made flesh.
“Yes,” Luc murmured. “I believe you’re right.”
As ordered, the guards began firing off their crossbows. The boltsdid little damage, most deflecting off the Cryptic’s scaled armor. But one man, either a rare shot or exceptionally lucky, managed to strike the creature in its eye.
That got its attention.
It roared again, this time at the guards. Several cut and fled, flinging their crossbows—and likely their jobs—to the ground. The rest at least made an effort to stand firm.
